Kurt Hummel closed the top of the last box and stood up, wiped his hands off of his faded black slacks and looked around. The corner of his cousin’s barn that he had been allowed to store his few remaining possessions looked about as sad and forlorn as he felt, not that many people would be able to see that without knowing his situation.

After his mother passed away when he was eight years old, it had just been him and his father, until three weeks before, when he had suffered an unexpected heart attack and passed away before he could reach any medical attention. Or before he could see his son graduate from high school, which would have happened the following morning.

Now it was just him.

And after the funeral expenses and paying that last month’s rent, his father’s savings were nearly exhausted. During his final year in school, Kurt had worked a few nights a week bagging groceries at the local supermarket, but most of his spending money went towards new plaid shirts and that radio that he constantly played rock music. Often times when his father would work late nights he would turn the radio up as long as it would play and dance around his room, practicing moves that the kids talked about at school, but that he knew he would never be able to do in public without fear of insult.

But more than anything else, these secret dance sessions kept him tone, and strengthened his arms and legs beyond what anyone would suspect from the young man, whose soft, delicate hands and almost feminine facial features also provided material for ridicule.

He walked backward, away from the reminders of the life he once had - the family that once supported him. He grabbed his duffle bag and wandered into his cousin’s house, simply nodding in response her salutation and shuffled into the guest room where he was staying.

One week, he thought to himself. One more week and I’ll be out of here. He laid down on the bed without undoing the blankets and closed his eyes. Not that it will be any better there than where I am now.

----

Blaine Anderson waived goodbye to the family as they walked out the door, shouting their promise to return the following week, just as they always did. He cleared the table quickly, using the skills that he had gained over the past years to stack the plates that were still sticky with ketchup and cups that were still partially full of ice.

He scooped up the change that had been left for a tip and ducked it into his waist apron before walking behind the counter to deposit the dirty dishes into the wash bin. On slow days like this, he was responsible for washing his own dishes. He didn’t mind though. It was nearly closing time and he was the only one there other than his uncle, who in addition to being the owner and being responsible for most of the book keeping, also did most of the cooking himself.

He had started working there when he was twelve years old, hardly old enough to work legally, but since it was his uncle’s place, no one said anything about the amount of time that he spent there. At first, it was just a get away. A place that that wasn’t his house - where he would have to deal with his parents - his father especially.

And when his uncle gave him a couple of dollars at the end of the week after he had spent his afternoon sweeping and running food out to families when the waitresses got too busy - he had realized that he had got a job.

And at twelve years old there was nothing that he really needed to buy that his parents wouldn’t buy for himself. So he put his money into a tin can, and when that was full he moved it to a shoe box, and then a suitcase. And by the time he was 16, he went to the bank with his suitcase of savings and started his own account, which he now contributed to regularly.

His parents, not being able to tell the difference between the spending money that they gave their son and the money that he raised on his own, knew nothing of this secret account, or what Blaine’s plans were to do with it once he finished school.

He wanted to go to New York. He wanted to run away and sing. He sang in church choir, and although the director praised his voice and his mother smiled politely after his performances, he knew that neither of his parents thought that it would be a suitable career, especially for a young man with so many resources. Meaning money. And his father’s good reputation.

No - his parents thought that it would be good if he went into law school, since there was a family practice to inherit, after all. And if law wasn’t in his interests - perhaps he could go to school to be a professor. Or a banker. Or frankly anything that wasn’t in the arts.

So Blaine kept his savings a secret.

One more year, he thought to himself. One more year and I’ll be out of here. He finished up the dishes, bid goodbye to his uncle and left the restaurant to walk home. And it is going to be so much better than where I am now.