Kurt sat cross-legged on his bed, elbows propped on his knees, head in his hands. He felt like crying, and not just a calm, rejuvenating sob, but an all-out, throw-yourself-on-the-floor-kicking-your-legs-and-flailing-your-arms-while-you-wail-like-a-skewered-seal tantrum. He looked around at the worn cardboard boxes piled high in his room, each labeled accordingly - clothes, books, music, Vogue magazines, misc. - all waiting patiently to be unpacked and put away, but Kurt wanted none of it. Unpacking his things and settling in felt so permanent. It felt like giving in. Once he put his clothes in his closet and his books in the bookcase, it would all be real.

Setting his room up would mean he was staying.

It had only been a week since they moved to Ohio from California, and he knew, with every fiber of his being, that he didn't want to live here.

"Give it a chance," his dad had pleaded. "I'm sure everything will work out."

Kurt highly doubted it, but he couldn't really blame his dad - not for his heart attack that caused the hospital bills, which in turn zapped all their savings, or for the recession that started to drag them under so far there was no way for them to recover. No, he couldn’t blame his dad for any of that, but in the end, because of his dad's unwillingness to franchise out, they had lost the shop and had to move to Lima, of all places. What kind of name was Lima for a city, anyway? Lima wasn’t the name of a city. It was a type of bean - a curled, sickly pale, ugly bean that most normal and rational people pushed to the side of their plate and forgot about long after their steak was gone.

That's what Kurt's life in California had been for him. Steak - rich and flavorful, and extremely fulfilling. Kurt sighed with longing when he thought about it. Even for a boy who didn't believe in a God, he had felt incredibly blessed. He had a good life in California. He had friends. He had a future. He was on his way.

Now, here he sat, aging Texas Instruments calculator in hand, trying to figure out how he was ever going to make it out to New York and his dream school NYADA when he was resigned to making ten dollars an hour at his dad's new shop. His dad had already dropped the bomb that with settling the hospital bills, the move, and all their other numerous expenses (which seemed to crop up out of nowhere on a daily basis) he would most likely not be able to help Kurt afford the college of his dreams.

Kurt's only dream.

With a frustrated groan, Kurt tossed the calculator violently to the floor, but the horrid 1960s green shag carpet mocked him by shielding the tiny machine from shattering into a thousand satisfying pieces.

Kurt felt trapped; trapped like some animal that's meant to be free, too big for its cage and dying inside because it will never be allowed to roam. Kurt hated feeling trapped. Trapped was not a life. It almost felt like not living at all.

Two weeks before the start of school, the start of his senior year, supposedly the best year of his young life, and Kurt sat on a metal stool in his dad's shop, begging silently for business to pick up. I'd better get used to it, Kurt thought. With his dad's poor health, Kurt would be spending most of his free time before and after school right here…on this stool…the minutes of his life slowly dripping away. At his last school, Kurt had taken mostly accelerated and AP classes, so he managed to swing getting first period off. Kurt and his dad, Burt, had only one other employee – Mark. To be honest, the man wasn’t really much help around the shop, but he was doing Burt a favor, and he came cheap.

Mark was a friend of Kurt's parents from back in the day, when Burt and Kurt's mother Elizabeth had lived in Lima. When everything had first started crashing down around them and his father was still trying frantically to keep their heads above water, Mark had been the one to suggest that they move back to Lima and start over. He volunteered to do all the grunt work. He found them the shop, acted as liaison to the leasing agent, found them a house they could afford, he even helped negotiate the move.

Yup, Mark was a stand-up guy.

Kurt hated Mark. He hated him with a burning passion. Mark seemed to know it, too, because he kept to the far corner of the shop and barely said anything other than ‘hi’ and ‘bye’ to the livid young man.

Kurt would never tell his father, but he resented wasting what remained of the summer rotating tires and doing oil changes; not that there seemed to be anything more interesting to do in that Podunk town. It's not that Kurt didn't like working in his dad's shop. He actually quite enjoyed it. He wasn't very fond of getting dirty, but he liked working on cars. If his dreams of New York and NYADA didn't pan out, being a custom tuner wouldn't be so bad. His dad disagreed. Burt Hummel definitely did not appreciate the street racing culture the way Kurt did. Far from it. It had been mortifying back home when his dad would turn away boy racers, especially in California where custom tuners made all the money and little shops like Hummel Tires and Lube were steadily going out of business.

Kurt had built his own car almost from scratch – a 1999 Mitsubishi Eclipse. A friend had helped him buy the body at auction. After that, he scoured junk yards for the parts he needed, putting the car together practically one piece at a time. Once it was completely constructed, he traded some transmission work with a local painter who taught him the fine art of detailing. It took an extreme amount of patience, but in the end it paid off in spades. Kurt loved his car, and with the exception of his voice, he had never been prouder of anything else in his life. As much as his father hated the thing, Kurt had spent his own money on it, and his dad couldn't really complain much. His son had done an excellent job putting it together. Besides, Kurt didn't race. He just liked cars...and the guys who drove the cars.

Ding, ding.

Kurt looked up, a little surprised by what was rolling into the shop. Four boys, about his age, in white tank tops and blue jeans, pushed a silver 300ZX through the bay doors. Kurt smiled. 'Now that's what I'm talking about,' he thought. Hot guys and a hot car. Maybe today wouldn't suck so hardcore after all.

Kurt quickly made his way over to the group before they could realize their mistake and split.

"Hello, and welcome to Hummel Tires and Lube," Kurt recited cheerfully.

Ugh. That sounded lame, even to his own ears.

His father demanded that he greet every customer the same way. Personally, Kurt didn't know what was wrong with just saying, 'Hello,' or maybe, 'How may I help you?'

"Hello," a tall, Asian-looking boy said, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "I wonder if you could help us."

"Okay," Kurt said, eyeing each of the boys in turn. They all smiled warmly at him.

"We've been trying to get this guy up and running for the last month or so," a blond boy said, patting the hood of the silver car fondly with his hand. "I've got big plans for her."

"Yeah," a slightly shorter, dark haired boy, with light skin and bright eyes, agreed, "but the problem is it's making some strange noises, and it doesn't seem to have the pick-up it should."

Kurt nodded his head thoughtfully as he took in the information, trying his utmost to appear calm and professional while at the same time praying to anyone who might be listening, whether Kurt believed in them or not, that his dad didn't come back from his break before he had the chance to get this baby on the lift and put his hands on it.

"Just out of curiosity," Kurt said when the boys had finished, eying the car from top to bottom, "why did you stop in here? I mean, we're not really a custom car shop."

"Well," the last boy spoke up, "our regular mechanic sort of bugged out on us, and we saw the Eclipse out front..." The boy motioned over his shoulder to Kurt's car parked out front. Kurt had forgotten to bring the cover he normally kept on it, so it sat outside in the shade. Parked beside his dad's pick up, it kind of stood out with its crystal blue paint job and silver lightning vinyl graphics down the side. "We thought someone in here might be able to help us."

"Yup," Kurt said with a nod. "That's my baby. Took close to a year to get her up and running."

"That's hot," the Asian boy, evidently the leader of the group, commented. "Are you rolling NOS?"

Kurt smirked.

"Not if my dad's asking."

"Gotcha," the boy said with a wink.

"So, can you help us?" the blond boy said, eyes wide and hopeful.

"This is a '96, right?" Kurt asked, and the boys nodded. Kurt crossed his arms and tapped his chin with his right index finger, going over what he remembered of the schematics of the ZX engine in his head, scrolling through several possibilities, and troubleshooting the problem mentally. "Well, your variable cam timing's probably dropped, so that's most likely where you're losing horsepower. And the ZX always makes a lot of interesting noises. I'd have to take it around the block to see for myself..."

The sound of a door slamming shut and heavy shuffling footsteps caused Kurt's mouth to go dry, his heart to sinking into his stomach.

"Hey, dad," Kurt called, already feeling defeated.

"Hey, kiddo," Burt said, walking over slowly. "What's going on here?"

"I'm with some customers," Kurt said, turning his head and fixing his father with a tense smile, willing him with his eyes to turn around and walk back into the office so Kurt could fix this car. His dad didn't seem to understand facial cues. Burt circled the car and the group of kids slowly, examining them uncomfortably.

"300ZX?" his dad asked thoughtfully. "What's the problem?"

"Possible cam timing problem and a couple of odd noises," Kurt rushed out. "I was just about to take her around the block to make sure."

His dad nodded. Kurt had seen this dance before, and he didn’t hold out much hope that the outcome would be different this time. On the other hand, his dad didn't look overly concerned with the presence of four boys surrounding an obvious racer car in his shop. Kurt might just be in the clear.

Burt leaned in closer to the car’s roof and peered at the paint, green eyes narrowing suspiciously.

"Is that an aftermarket silver flake?"

Oh crap...

Kurt sighed and dropped down onto his stool. He knew where this was headed...right out the door with the rest of his hopes, his dreams, any chance of making some decent money, and the possibility of a social life.

"So, you kids running NOS?" Burt asked, looking the car over. Three of the boys looked at each other, exchanging nervous looks, but the boy that Kurt made out to be the leader didn't seem at all intimidated by Kurt's dad.

"Yes, sir," he answered, smiling politely.

Burt maintained a roughly unreadable expression, but Kurt knew his dad, and he knew the grim look in his eyes. This whole deal was about to go sour.

"You guys street racing around here?"

"Yes, sir,” the boy admitted. “And may I say that your son here seems to really know his stuff. We were kind of hoping he could help us out. We have quite a few cars, and we're in the market for a new mechanic.”

Kurt perked up immediately. Did this guy just compliment him? And he was offering to bring them business? His dad couldn't say no to that, right? Kurt side-eyed his father shrewdly. He knew how his dad felt about street racing; that it was dangerous and illegal. He also knew that these kids could give them business, good steady business. Heck, the profit they could feasibly make on some of the import parts alone could pay for his first semester. Kurt sat straight as a rod, bouncing slightly, pleading with his father, but only in his head. Here it was, Kurt going to New York and living the dream, as long as his dad made the right decision.

"I'm sorry boys,” Burt said finally with a determined shake of his head, “but I don't think we can help you."

"Dad..." Kurt hissed.

"No, Kurt.” Burt turned to his son with a look on his face that emphasized that his decision was final. “Now you know how I feel about racing." Burt turned his attention back to the boys with the car. "It's dangerous, and I will not promote it here in my shop. Besides, I don't think we offer the kind of services you guys are going to be needing anyhow."

"But, dad!" Kurt argued, desperately trying to give it one last go, to make his dad see reason.

“No, Kurt. Now I've said my piece. Why don't you gentlemen take your car and run along?”

The blond boy deflated almost as much as Kurt. The Asian boy nodded to his crew, and they started to push the car back out of the garage. Kurt’s cheeks flushed with anger and embarrassment. He glared, shooting daggers at his dad as the man, without a single other acknowledgement to his son, turned and headed for his office. After he locked himself away, Kurt watched the four boys maneuver the 300ZX carefully out of the bay. There it went; another opportunity rolling its way right out the door. Another time his dad could have made things right for them, but instead he chose to let his stubbornness and inability to change get in the way. If his dad thought they were going to get anywhere doing tune-ups and oil changes at a paltry $30 a pop for the rest of their lives, he was sadly mistaken. Kurt couldn’t take it anymore. His dad had told him to give it a chance; that everything would work out, but from where Kurt sat everything looked exactly the same.

This couldn’t continue to be his life. It just couldn’t.

He decided then and there that he was sick of watching his future be decided without him even getting to have his say. Kurt watched as his dad rounded to the office, heading to the back of the shop, then sprinted out of the bay and ran after the boys.

"Hey!" Kurt called. “Wait up!”

The Asian boy turned around, a knowing smirk on his face.

"What's up?"

"I can do it." Kurt glanced over his shoulder to make sure his dad didn't notice his absence and come looking for him. "I can fix your car, and any other one you want to toss my way."

"Really?" The boy looked him up and down. "And what about pops?"

"Let me worry about him." The words came out before Kurt could stop them. He felt guilty about disrespecting his dad, but not enough to give up on his dream. "Can you come back later? Maybe after we close?"

The four boys looked at each other, the blond one’s face lighting up with unbridled joy. Then the three boys looked back at their leader. After a silent moment, he nodded.

“We can do that.”

Kurt exhaled with relief.

“Bring it by tonight. I can have it done for you in an hour. Two tops."

"We'll bring it by at around 7. The races start at 10. And if I like the job you do, you can come with me and my crew. You can be our mechanic."

"Great," Kurt said.

He watched the group limp their silver car away, and while he did he weighed his options - the chance of his ultimate success over his father’s inevitable disappointment.

He shoved aside the bitterness that came with considering his dad’s point of view and returned to the shop, trying not to look too overjoyed.