“Daniel, get out of here!”

“Leave Blaine alone!”

            Slap. Crack. “Better run, homo…”

            “Blaine, I’m so sorry… Blaine! Blaine!”

            “Blaine? Blaine!”

            Blaine’s head snapped up. The Warblers were all staring at him, tapping their feet and crossing their arms. Wes was in front of Blaine, waving a hand in his face. Blaine batted it away.

            “What?”

            “You missed your cue,” Wes said, biting back the irritation in his voice. “You’ve been staring off into space. Are you okay?”

            Blaine blinked a few times and straightened his blazer. “Yeah, yeah. Sorry. I was distracted.”

            Wes stepped closer to Blaine, putting a hand on his shoulder and speaking in a low voice. “Look, Blaine, I’m not trying to be an asshole, but you’ve got to pull it together. You’ve got incredible talent and we all want you to succeed, but you have to be on the top of your game during rehearsal. Show choir is a big deal at Dalton. We need a lead vocalist we can depend on. A leader. Are you up for that?”

            Blaine exhaled slowly. He’d been a Warbler for a week; they gave him the official Warbler patch to put on his blazer and he joined them every day for lunch meetings. They were all a little dramatic—typical performers—but they were accepting, and welcoming, and they were eager to thrust Blaine center stage. It was kind of nice, being in the spotlight. He could hide all his anxieties and fears and nightmares behind a show face and choreography.

            But sometimes, like today, he got distracted. He started letting himself think too hard and suddenly he was frozen, verging on a panic attack, and everyone was scowling at him for missing his cues or fumbling a dance move. Days like today, Blaine worried that he was screwing up his brief chance at happiness, and that he would be deemed unfit and would have to go back to being friendless and alone.

            He couldn’t let that happen. So he straightened his shoulders, relaxed his face into what he hoped was a convincing smile, and said, “Yeah, I can handle it. I’m good.”

            Wes grinned and slapped his back. “That’s more like it. All right boys, from the top!”

            Mrs. Anderson pulled into a parking space outside Dr. Halling’s office building. She didn’t bother to shut off the ignition. “I’ll see you in an hour, then.”

            Blaine nodded, unbuckling his seatbelt. “Yeah. Oh, and Mom? The Warblers are performing for the school tomorrow night. It’s my first performance. Will you and Dad come?”

            His mother drummed her fingers on the steering wheel. “We’ll try our best, sweetheart. Have you thought about joining one of the Dalton sports teams like we suggested?”

            Blaine shrugged. “They all kind of conflict with Warblers practice.”

            His mother said nothing, but her lips were pressed together in a thin line. Blaine opened the car door and got out, poking his head back in for a moment to say goodbye.

            Blaine signed in and went into the waiting room. Sitting in the same chair as last week, skimming Facebook on his iPhone, was Kurt. He was wearing the same thigh-high boots, this time with grey leggings and a black pea coat. Blaine swallowed the sudden dryness in his throat and sat down in a chair beside Kurt.

            Kurt looked up from his phone, and when he saw who was beside him, he smiled. “Oh, hi! Blaine, right?”

            Blaine smiled back, nodding. “Yeah. Hi, Kurt.”

            “Back for another visit, eh?” Kurt said. Blaine shrugged.

            “Yeah. You here with your friend again?”

            “Quinn? Yes, she’s in there now. Should be done any minute though.” Kurt nodded to himself, staring across the room at Dr. Halling’s closed office door. “So, how are you?” he said, turning back to Blaine.

            “Uh, good. I mean, yeah. I have a performance tomorrow night that I’m really excited for… how about you?” Blaine couldn’t stop fidgeting, twisting his hands together.

            “A performance? How exciting! What do you do? Sing, act, dance?” Kurt leaned in a little, looking genuinely intrigued. Blaine blushed.

            “Show choir. I’m singing lead. It’s my first time, so I’m a little nervous.”

            “How fun! I’m in the show choir at my school, too. Where do you go to school, if you don’t mind me asking?”

            “Dalton Academy.”

            “Ooh, the private all-boys boarding school?” Kurt laughed. “So you’re a prep, huh? Interesting.”

            “Good interesting or bad interesting?” Blaine asked, trying not to meet Kurt’s eyes.

            “Unexpected, that’s all. Aren’t you Dalton boys a bit more polished?” Kurt looked Blaine up and down, taking in his two-day-old jeans and faded green polo. Blaine blushed again, feeling like a slob compared to Kurt’s designer attire.

            Kurt saw his cheeks redden and bumped Blaine with his elbow. “I’m kidding, I’m kidding. You’re better-dressed than ninety percent of the boys at my school.” He shuddered a little in disgust at the thought.

            “Where do you go to school?” Blaine asked. Dr. Halling’s door opened, and the blonde girl—Quinn—stepped out, giving Dr. Halling a quick smile as she left. Kurt stood up to greet her.

            “Ready to go?” he asked. She nodded, and looked over at Blaine. Blaine gave her a halfhearted wave.

            “I’m ready,” Quinn said. She smiled politely at Blaine, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Kurt turned back to Blaine again.

            “Well, nice talking to you again,” he said. “Good luck with your performance!”

            “Thanks,” Blaine said, watching as Kurt linked arms with Quinn and led her out the door.

            The Anderson family ate dinner in relative silence that evening, all clinking silverware and quiet sips of wine. Blaine poked at his broccoli with his fork.

            “Blaine, dear, stop playing with your food. You’re sixteen years old, stop acting like a child,” his mother chided. Blaine set down his fork.

            “So my performance tomorrow,” he said. His father looked up from his plate, raising an eyebrow.

            “What about it, son?” Mr. Anderson asked.

            “Are you guys coming?”

            Blaine’s mother dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and set it down, smoothing it on her lap. “Darling, don’t you think your time would be better spent in some kind of sport? Physical activity is a good anti-depressant…”

            “I like being in the Warblers,” Blaine said, frowning. “They’re nice to me. I like singing. It’s my first performance; I really want you to be there.”

            Blaine’s father sighed loudly. “Blaine, I don’t like the idea of you being in show choir. We moved you to Dalton in the hopes that you would blend in, keep your head down, avoid another fiasco like what happened at the dance.”

            Blaine flushed, as he always did when the dance was mentioned. “What’s your point?” he mumbled.

            “Show choir isn’t something a heterosexual man does, Blaine.”

            “Well I’m not a heterosexual man!” Blaine snapped. “God, Dad, I came out three years ago. Accept it already.”

            “I am not denying your…sexual preference,” Mr. Anderson said delicately. “I am merely suggesting that you quit flaunting it quite so flamboyantly!”

            “Dalton has a no-tolerance policy for bullying,” Blaine said. “That’s why I wanted to go there. Show choir is cool at Dalton.”

            Mr. Anderson snorted, and Blaine stood up. His parents looked affronted.

            “Blaine Anderson! You were not excused from the table, sit down!” his mother said.

            “I’m going to go do my homework,” Blaine said, breathing heavily through his nose.

            “We’re very disappointed in you, son,” Mr. Anderson said, frowning.

            “Yeah, well, what else is new?” Blaine turned away and took the stairs two at a time until he got to his room, slamming his door and throwing himself onto the bed. He punched his pillow a few times, gritting his teeth and biting back a scream. This was all so stupid. He kept punching his pillow, and the rhythm of his fist felt almost soothing. After a while, Blaine rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling, breathing ragged. He felt a panic attack coming on, but he tried to suppress it, clenching and unclenching his fists and willing himself to stop, just stop, just don’t think about that night.

            “Daniel, get out of here!”

            “No, leave him alone, please, leave Blaine alone…”

            “Better run, homo…”

            “Blaine, I’m so sorry, Blaine!”

            Slap. Crack. Blood in his mouth. Blood everywhere, trickling down his scalp, in his eyes, everywhere all at once…

            “Blaine? Are you crying?”

            Blaine looked up from his sheet music. Wes was staring at him, concerned. They were sitting in Wes’s room, on the tiny couch, looking over the music for their performance that night. Blaine swiped at his eyes, hardly surprised when he felt the dampness there. He’d been spacing out, which was always a bad idea. His mind always wandered to the same night, the same moment.

            “Yeah, sorry.”

            Wes set down his music. “Nervous about tonight?”

            Blaine shrugged. “I guess.”

            “You’ll be fine. You’ve been doing great in rehearsals. You’re a natural at this.” Wes bumped Blaine with his shoulder, grinning. Blaine couldn’t quite manage to grin back. Wes sighed. “Come on, Blaine, what’s wrong? You look like someone just killed your puppy.”

            Blaine huffed out a quick laugh. “I’ll be fine.” He paused. “My parents aren’t coming.”

            “What? Why not?”

            “Too busy, or something,” Blaine lied. Wes raised an eyebrow.

            “That’s bullshit. This is your debut! They should be in the front row!”

            “My parents aren’t exactly the show choir type,” Blaine said bitterly. Wes frowned.

            “Blaine, I hope you don’t mind me asking this, but… are you gay?”

            Blaine turned a little pink. His heart was hammering—what if Wes was homophobic? Sure, Dalton had a zero-tolerance policy about bullying, but that didn’t mean Wes couldn’t hate him and never want to be his friend again. He swallowed dryly. “Uh, yeah, I am.”

            Wes patted his arm. “Calm down, man, I don’t care. I was only asking because—and you don’t have to answer if you feel like I’m prying—but how do your parents feel about you being gay?”

 Blaine felt light and airy. Wes didn’t care. “They… I mean, they accept it, I guess, but they want me to act like I’m straight.”

            “That’s stupid. I’m sorry, Blaine.” Wes stood up. “Well whether or not they’re here tonight, you’re going to kill it. I know it. So don’t worry, okay?”

            Blaine smiled. “Okay. Thanks, Wes. You’re really cool.”

            Wes laughed. “Oh, I know.”

            Blaine peered out at the auditorium from the wings, breath shallow. The place was packed, mostly with boys in Dalton blazers, but also with a good number of parents and grandparents. Blaine didn’t see his own parents in the audience, but he wasn’t surprised by that.

            “Blaine,” said David, one of the Warblers, grabbing Blaine’s arm. “Come on, it’s almost showtime.”

            Blaine nodded, reluctantly tearing his gaze away from the crowd and following David back to the greenroom, where the Warblers were standing in a circle, some bouncing on the balls of their feet, some clasping their hands in what looked almost like prayer. Wes grinned at Blaine and David when they walked in.

            “Join the circle, boys,” he said. David took his place next to Wes, and Blaine sidled in between Nick and Trent. “All right,” Wes said. “First performance of the year, and our first ever performance with our new lead, Blaine Anderson. I think Blaine deserves a round of applause, yeah?” The Warblers made jumbled sounds of agreement, clapping as Blaine flushed and looked at the floor, smiling.

            “Let’s do this!” David said, and the Warblers cheered, running onstage behind the curtain, finding their places in the formation in the dark. Blaine stood center-stage, back to the audience. His heart was hammering somewhere in his throat, and the curtain rose behind him and the lights hit his back, hot and bright, and the Warblers started humming and beatboxing and tapping their feet, weaving through each other as Blaine turned around. The lights were so bright he couldn’t really see the crowd in front of him. He fell into step between two other Warblers, and any anxiety he felt melted away as he started to sing.

            “If you want my body, and you think I’m sexy, come on won’t you tell me so?”

            People were cheering and catcalling and when the song ended and the Warblers clasped their hands together and bowed their heads, back in formation, the auditorium exploded with cheers. The house lights came up, and Blaine could see the hundreds of smiling faces looking up at him. The Warblers were all clapping him on the back, and Wes hugged him, beaming.

            The Warblers all exited the stage, laughing and pushing each other as they went out into the audience. Friends and family met the boys, giving them hugs and snapping photos. Blaine hung back, standing by the edge of the stage. His cheeks hurt from smiling, but his smile was fading as he watched his friends receiving praise and congratulations, while he stood alone. Wes pulled away from his mother, a tiny Asian woman who kept kissing his cheek, and joined Blaine by the side of the stage.

            “So? How do you feel?” he asked, nudging Blaine’s side. “You’re a superstar. They all loved you.”

            Blaine smiled slightly. “It was amazing. I’ve never done anything like that before. It was like—like I was someone else. Someone cool.”

            Wes laughed. “Blaine, you are cool. Look at you!”

            Blaine shrugged. “I guess.”

            Wes rolled his eyes and dragged Blaine over to where the rest of the Warblers were standing, chatting with some other Dalton boys. Everyone grinned when Blaine walked over, whistling and cheering.

            “Here comes the man of the evening!” David said, slinging an arm around Blaine. “Blaine Anderson, Warbler extraordinaire!” Everyone laughed and murmured their agreement.

            “You’ve got a nice set of pipes on you, kid,” said a boy Blaine had never talked to before in his life.

            “Thanks,” Blaine said. Other boys started complimenting him, asking him how long he’d been performing, praising his dance moves. Blaine was grinning again, and he glanced over at Wes, who was watching him. Wes gave him a thumbs-up. Blaine returned it, flushed with a kind of joy he’d never felt before. 

            Blaine was nearly forty-five minutes early to his therapist’s appointment. His mother had an appointment of her own—at the salon, not a therapist—and had to drop him off early. She hadn’t said much on the drive over. Blaine hadn’t talked to his parents much at all, to be honest. They hadn’t asked about his performance, and no one mentioned the argument at the dinner table the previous week.

            Blaine was pleased to see Kurt in the waiting room again, sipping coffee from a to-go cup with the logo for some place called the Lima Bean. Blaine sat down next to him. “Hi, Kurt!”

            Kurt set down his coffee, looking surprised. “Hi, Blaine. You’re here early today, aren’t you?”

            “Yeah, my mom had to drop me off early,” Blaine said. “How are you?”

            “Good, good,” Kurt said absently. He took a long swig of coffee. “Hey, how’d your performance go?”

            “It was phenomenal! The Warblers are like, rock stars. We’re already working on our next performance, I can hardly wait.” Blaine grinned, the rush of joy flooding him once again as he recalled the night of the performance. Kurt smiled.

            “That’s wonderful. Congratulations.”  He took a breath, as if he were about to speak, paused, and then said, “Blaine? Is there bullying at your school?”

            “Dalton actually has a no-tolerance policy for bullying. I’ve never seen anyone getting bullied.”

            Kurt nodded. “And what do people think about…being gay? At your school?”

            Blaine saw the color rise in Kurt’s cheeks. He’d suspected, of course—Kurt’s lilting voice, his fashion sense, the fact that he was reading Vogue—but he hadn’t wanted to assume. Blaine patted Kurt’s leg. “Like I said, there’s no bullying. I haven’t proclaimed my sexuality to the entire student body, but everyone who knows is really cool about it. It’s not like I’m hiding it, either.”

            Kurt raised his eyebrows. “Oh, are you--?”

            Blaine laughed a little. “Oh yeah. Are you?”

            “Yes.” Kurt side-eyed Blaine, looking nervous. “So are you, you know, out?”

            “Yeah, I came out when I was thirteen,” Blaine said, nodding.

            “Wow. That’s impressive. I just came out last year. But everyone already called me ladyface and homo before that…” Kurt’s hands gripped his knees, his knuckles white.

            Blaine felt a stab of sympathy. “Kurt? Why’d you ask me about the bullying and all that? Are you being bullied?”

            Kurt laughed humorlessly. “It’s fine. I’m dealing with it. It’s not like it’s a big deal.”

            Blaine knew he was lying, because he’d said the same thing to himself every day, as he was shoved into lockers, as boys much bigger than him walked past him hissing homophobic slurs, as his books were knocked to the floor, as he was tossed into dumpsters—it’s not a big deal. I’m fine.

            “Kurt.” Blaine paused, unsure if he was overstepping his boundaries. “Have you talked to anyone about this?”

            “No one seems to notice. Either they’re turning a blind eye or they’re completely oblivious.” Kurt’s voice rose a little, and he sounded dangerously close to tears. He stared up at the ceiling for a second and then turned to Blaine with a none-too-convincing smile. “But really, it’s nothing serious.”

            “Forgive me, but that’s the biggest lie I’ve ever heard,” Blaine said. “Kurt, you need to talk to somebody about this, stand up for yourself. Something could happen to you.”

            “Look, Blaine, I appreciate your concern. I really do.” Kurt’s mouth was a thin, hard line. “But you go to a school where bullying isn’t allowed, and where no one cares that you’re gay. I’m sorry, but you have no idea what it’s like.”

            Blaine felt stung. If anyone understood what Kurt was going through, it was him. But when Blaine thought about telling Kurt what had happened to him at his old school, he felt sick to his stomach. Here was someone who saw him as a confident, well-adjusted person. Sure, he was going to a therapist, but Kurt didn’t know why. Blaine could pretend, with Kurt, that the dance had never happened. That he had always been Warbler Blaine, Dalton Blaine, Superstar Blaine.

            “You’re right, I’m sorry,” Blaine said finally. “I was out of line. I’m sure you’ve got a handle on it.”

            Kurt deflated a little, but at least he wasn’t glaring at Blaine anymore. “Thank you,” he said.

            They sat in silence for a while, Kurt sipping at his coffee.

            “What kind of coffee is that?” Blaine asked. “It smells good.”

            Kurt glanced at the cup. “Oh. Grande nonfat mocha.”

            “Where’s the Lima Bean?”

            “In Lima,” Kurt said with a wry grin. “It’s like five minutes away from my house. Quinn and I go there every week before we come here. I’m kind of addicted.”

            “Do you guys live in Lima?” Blaine asked. “That’s quite a drive from here, isn’t it?”

            “Yes, but Dr. Halling had spectacular reviews. It’s worth the drive,” Kurt said.

            “You’re a really good friend, driving her up here every week,” Blaine said. “She’s lucky.”

            Kurt smiled. “She pays me in coffee.”

            Blaine laughed. “No better payment than that!”

            Blaine’s name was called, and Kurt stood up to meet Quinn. He turned back to Blaine. “I’m glad I got to see you again, Blaine,” he said.

            Blaine grinned. “Me too. See you around, Kurt.”