Fic: How I Spent My Summer Vacation
Title: How I Spent My Summer Vacation
Author: Harikari
Pairing: Puck/Kurt
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, strong language, AU, etc.
Word Count: This part is approx. 3447 words.
AN: Written for kurt_disney. This fic is based on the Holes movie but no knowledge of the movie (or the book) is necessary to understand it. This is part one, the second and final part will posted on April 27th. I apologize for the wait, this fic ended up being a lot longer than I originally intended and I wasn't able to edit it all in time.
Disclaimer: The movie Holes belongs to Disney. The Holes universe/book belongs to Louis Sachar. Some of the wording in the summary for this fic was taken from the summary of the book. This was written for fun, not profit.
Summary: Kurt is sentenced to an entire summer of imprisonment at a boy's juvenile detention center known as Camp Green Lake. There he encounters a deranged warden, venomous lizards, a frightening bully and an attractive jerk who goes by the ridiculous nickname "Puck".
Part One
"So," said the large guard sitting directly across the aisle. His uniform was an ugly, dull brown color -- the name K. TANAKA was displayed in bold across its shirt pocket. He was holding a large gun almost casually across his lap and had what looked like a taser, a billy club and a large can of mace secured to his belt. "What exactly did you do, kid?"
Kurt turned away from the window and shifted in his seat. He considered not answering. But the weapons made him nervous. And Tanaka didn't seem to be mocking him, hadn't been hostile or rude to him the entire trip so far. The man seemed genuinely curious. "I didn't..." He started and then trailed off abruptly; chewed nervously at his bottom lip for a few seconds before starting again. "I stole something."
Slowly, Tanaka nodded. "Right, okay. Stole something." He went quiet and turned to squint out his own window.
Kurt sighed and shifted again. It was stifling and hot and the sun was too bright and the faux leather of the old school bus seat was incredibly uncomfortable. He was almost looking forward to the long, dusty drive being over. Was almost looking forward to reaching Camp Green Lake.
But only almost, he thought as the cluster of small buildings in the distance began to steadily become clearer. Sharper and more real.
"Listen," broke in Tanaka. He was still staring out the window. "I haven't always done this. Before I was a juvie officer I was a beat cop. I saw a lot of bad stuff, kid. A lot of crap and a whole lot of scumbags. And now that I do do this? I see a lot of underage scumbags. Real bad kids with bad attitudes who have done a lot of crap."
He stopped and a few moments beat by. Kurt's throat felt tight -- he wasn't sure how to respond to that. Or even if he was supposed to respond to that. Then Tanaka turned to face him again. He was frowning. "You? You look different, kid. You don't look like an underage scumbag to me. You don't even look like one of those punk teenagers that made a stupid, one time in a lifetime mistake. You just look like you don't belong here."
Kurt swallowed and stayed quiet. The camp was fast approaching and the bus was gradually slowing.
"So I'm going to give you some advice. I never do this and I was debating the entire ride here if I should but..." He cleared his throat before going on. "Don't piss off the warden, she's a crazy bitch. Don't trust the other boys. Even if they aren't all scumbags at heart juvie's a shitty place and they'll be out for themselves. Just be careful. And most importantly stay away from-"
The bus came to a stop with a loud whine of its breaks, cutting the man short. The driver pulled up in front of a somewhat dilapidated looking building. A thirty-something man with a clipboard emerged from the building and stood waiting.
The driver had grabbed a bottle of purified water from the cooler next to his seat and was taking occasional drinks of it while eyeing the camp around them with what looked to Kurt like distaste.
Tanaka stood with a deep sigh and motioned for Kurt to do the same. When he did the large man started for the now gaping door.
"Wait," said Kurt suddenly and the man looked back. "That last thing. What were you going to say? That I should stay away from?"
Tanaka nodded. He looked grim. "Yellow spotted lizards, kid. If you listen to any of my advice at all listen to this: stay away from the damn yellow spotted lizards. Those things will kill you."
What? thought Kurt. Lizards?
He turned again for the door and Kurt stared after him, unsure if the guard had been completely bullshitting him with all of his so-called advice or if he was serious.
He sounded serious.
-----
The man with the clipboard was Will Schuester. He was Camp Green Lake's designated counselor. He promptly introduced himself to Kurt with a stiff nod and a firm handshake before turning to Tanaka.
Kurt took in the camp around him while they talked.
Camp Green Lake was a small grouping of worn down, wooden buildings and large army style tents in the middle of a vast sea of dust and sun and nothingness. There was a vaguely shower-stall shaped structure off to the side of a mid-size building with the words CAFETERIA painted above its doorway and directly across from where he was standing was the recreation room.
Kurt was staring at the flimsy structure, his heart beating faster and his muscles tensing at the thought of having to shower practically out in the open air when a handful of teenagers burst out from under the doorway labeled REC ROOM. They were clad in ill fitting orange jumpsuits and were snorting and laughing and cussing loudly. The teenager at the very head of the group, a tall boy with wide shoulders and dark hair, spotted the hand-me-down school bus the camp used as transportation first and froze.
The tall boy's gaze slowly shifted until he was staring straight at Kurt. He smiled, but the smile looked anything but friendly. It looked dark. Malicious. "Hey!" he shouted and his companions all fell silent. "Look. Fresh meat!"
The other teenagers all turned to Kurt and started hooting loudly, laughing and pointing and grinning.
Kurt took a step back and was contemplating hiding behind Tanaka or Will Schuester (he knew it wasn't a good idea, knew it would undoubtedly only lead to something much worse than mocking and angry shouts but he was freaked out and afraid) when there was movement to the right of the rowdy group.
It was another delinquent. He had been lounging in the far corner of the recreation room's raised, wraparound porch on a cheap looking lawn chair set up so it was bathed in the shade provided by the nearest squat building (a storage structure, judging by the painted letters above its door).
The delinquent had left his chair and was lifting his arms above his head in a stretch. Kurt blinked, surprised and a little unnerved he hadn't noticed the teenager lurking in the shade.
The teenager with the malicious looking smile noticed his fellow delinquent and frowned. "What the hell are you doing out here all alone, Puckerman? Shouldn't you be huddled around the tv or a pool table with your little group of losers? Or are you asking for a beating?"
The boy who had risen from the cover of the shade rolled his shoulders, snorted and ran a large hand over his mohawk as if to smooth it. (And Kurt inwardly cringed at that because, really, a mohawk.)
"As if you could best my badass self in a fight, Karofsky. You're nothing but a pussy." Then the mohawk sporting teenager glanced over at Kurt, slowly eyed him up and down. His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes blank. "And they're not my losers."
With that he turned away from Kurt -- who in turn let out a deep breath he wasn't aware he had been holding -- and moved across the porch toward the rec room's entrance.
"Mr. Hummel?" came Will Schuester's voice and Kurt spun to face him. "If you'll come with me now, please. First we'll find you a uniform to wear and then I'll show you around. Now, if you have any questions..."
The man went on as he started walking. Kurt followed him, quickly glanced back at the rec room.
Karofsky was still standing there, glaring.
The boy with the mohawk was nowhere in sight.
-----
Kurt didn't get a room. He didn't get half of a room -- a space that he was expected to share with some other boy who was serving time. He didn't even get a nice cell.
He got a cot.
After a quick tour of the camp (which looked entirely worn down and depressing except for a large and neat looking house that stood bright and sturdy behind the counselor's office) Schuester had ushered him into one of the six huge tents Kurt had spotted shortly after his arrival. He had informed Kurt that the tent would be his new home, that he would sleep in the aforementioned cot and use a small two-drawer night table for his clothes (the one change he was wearing, the extra change and several packages of brand new boxers and socks and the two orange jumpsuits he had been given) and toiletries.
A cot, Kurt had thought as he frowned down at his new bed. However, he hadn't had time to feel properly sorry for himself or to dwell on the five other empty beds and cluttered night stands inside of the tent.
Schuester had declared it was time for dinner; quickly showed him to the cafeteria and then to his table. The man had mumbled out the names (none of which Kurt really caught) of the five boys who would be his tent and table mates for the duration of his stay -- one of whom Kurt recognized as Puckerman -- before grabbing him a tray, practically shoving him into the only spare space on the bench and leaving with a half hearted and not at all encouraging thumbs up.
So here he was, sitting at a bench-style table and being stared at by an intimidating group of incarcerated teenage boys.
"Kurt," started the good looking teenager sitting across from him as he attempted to pick the slices of onion out of his excuse for a side salad. "That's your name, right?" Kurt looked up from his tray and nodded.
The teenager continued, "I don't know if you caught anything Schue said but...I'm Mike." He gestured at the blond boy next to him, then at Puckerman. "That's Sam and that's Puck." He moved to point across the table at the very tall boy next to Kurt and the boy with thick glasses. "That's Finn you're sitting by and, finally, that's Artie."
"Why do I gotta' be last?" complained Artie.
Mike snorted and shrugged and both Sam and Finn grunted out greetings.
Kurt nodded his own greetings and picked up his fork. He wasn't hungry. He took a bite of his now onion free salad before setting the utensil down again and eyeing the teens sharing the table with him. Then he shot a quick look at the hulking and slightly ominous form of Karofsky, surrounded by the same four delinquents he had been earlier, sitting at a nearby table.
Kurt's stomach was suddenly hurting. He was gripping the edge of the table hard. He felt nervous and sick and sad all at once.
I don't want to be here, he thought. They're going to hate me here. His eyes slid to Karofsky and his followers. They already hate me here. And they're going to figure out the truth about me soon -- if they haven't already -- and hate me even more. I want to go home.
His grip on the table edge tightened. He was panicking, he knew he was panicking. The reality of the situation -- the fact that he was actually, really at Camp Green Lake now and the fact that he had been greeted upon his arrival there by violent neanderthals and the fact that he was looking at months and months of dealing with being in the juvenile detention center with said neanderthals was finally hitting him.
I want to go home, he thought again. But then the image of Brittany's face flashed in his mind. His father's face.
He cleared his throat and let go of the table edge. "Puck? Is that a nickname or something?" He asked it without thinking, asked the first question that came to mind to shift his thoughts away from his home and friend and family.
And almost immediately he regretted asking. Because Puckerman (or "Puck" as he apparently liked to be called) hadn't so much as glanced up from his tray during Kurt's arrival or the introductions but now his dark eyes were set on him with the same intensity they had been set on Karofsky with earlier.
"Yeah," he said after a pause. "That's right. Why?"
The table got still and quiet. Mike seemed to be holding his breath and Sam was gripping his fork and shooting looks between Kurt and the mohawk sporting delinquent.
Kurt swallowed, lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I was just wondering. I mean...do all of you have nicknames?"
When Puck smirked he resembled a shark. "Sure," he said. "Finn's is Frankenteen and Sam's is Trouty Mouth and Mike's is Other A-"
"No!" shouted the four other boys at the table suddenly and in unison.
Puck snorted and stabbed at a soggy looking tomato with his plastic fork. "Whiny bitches. You didn't let me finish. I still have to tell him Artie's nickname and his. I just thought it up, man. It's perfect."
Mike shook his head and addressed Kurt. "No. Don't listen to him. The only one with a nickname here is Noah." When he said the name he looked pointedly at Puck with narrowed eyes. The teenager gave up on the tomato and mumbled something under his breath but didn't persist with the taunting.
"Oh," nodded Kurt, not entirely sure what had just happened. "Okay. Um...sorry."
Another awkward silence.
Then Artie said, "Emma must have cooked this time. The food was actually edible." There were unenthusiastic grunts of agreement.
Kurt looked over at the kitchen staff; noticed they were all, in fact, staff and that no juvenile delinquents were readying the large pans of food for washing or wiping down the two now vacated tables. "When Schue gave me the tour I didn't notice any of the...campers helping with the laundry or cleaning or anything. I thought maybe we would have to do stuff like that?"
He turned back to the table and saw that all eyes were on him.
"No," said Artie. "We don't have to do stuff like that."
Kurt frowned. "Then what exactly am I going to be doing here? What do you guys do all day?"
Mike shifted and opened his mouth but it was Puck who finally answered.
"You'll see," was all he said.
-----
And Kurt did see.
The next morning he and the rest of the juvenile delinquents were wrenched from sleep by the sound of trumpets booming out of the practically ancient loudspeakers that were situated around the Camp. As the others started to stir around him Kurt groaned, shifted around a little and pressed his face into his pillow.
He felt horrible. The night before -- for the first time in literally years -- he had been forced to forgo his skincare routine. His face felt weird. And despite the fact that he had yet to open his eyes he knew it was outrageously early, entirely too early for anyone who was sane to be up.
He felt a hand nudge his shoulder and sat up immediately, barely managed to bite back a yelp.
Artie was standing next to his cot. He looked as sleepy as Kurt felt. "You won't be able to get a shower if you don't get up right now," he prodded. "And believe me, with the day you have ahead of you -- you want that shower."
Kurt could feel slick sweat at the small of his back (making his thin shirt stick to his skin) and the back of his knees. Yes, he thought. Yes I do.
He nodded, mumbled a thanks to the bespectacled boy and got up.
Kurt's shower was one of the quickest he had ever taken. He just washed and rinsed and made sure to keep his eyes down while he changed -- reluctantly and with a frown marring his face -- into one of the unfashionable orange jumpsuits he had been given the day before.
"You'll be digging," said Mr. Schue as Kurt was nibbling at the dry toast he and the rest of the boys had been hastily given for breakfast.
Kurt swallowed down the last bite of his toast. "What?" he asked. And then suddenly the counselor was handing him a shovel almost as tall as Kurt himself. A shovel.
Looking around, Kurt realized the other boys were also holding shovels and hopping into the beds of the several different large, white pickup trucks parked in a cluster in front of the counselor's office.
"Digging?" asked Kurt. "Digging what?"
Schue studied him for a moment too long before patting him on the shoulder in what the teenager assumed was supposed to be a comforting move. "I grouped you with D-Tent because they're the fastest...it should take some of the pressure off of you. Just try your best, keep your head down and don't complain. You'll...be okay."
Schuester didn't sound sure, though. Suddenly the man pulled a slightly rumpled hat from his pocket. He reached over and placed the hat -- a floppy, khaki sun hat that a soldier or hunter might wear -- on Kurt's head.
Kurt blinked.
"I forgot to give you one yesterday," related Schue. "You'll need that. Now go on, get in the truck with your tent mates and do what the driver tells you to when you get there."
Get where?
The man turned around, started to move for the door of his office. "What will we be digging, exactly?" asked Kurt before the counselor could disappear.
"Holes," he answered without slowing his stride or turning around and then Kurt was hurrying toward the truck the rest of his tent mates were already sitting in because engines were rumbling to a start around him.
Kurt dropped his shovel into the haphazard pile of digging tools in the center of D-Tent's truck bed and then hesitated. He was about to grip the tailgate when a large hand reached down from above him and gripped his forearm, lifted him seemingly effortlessly up and over the tailgate and into the truck bed.
The hand belonged to Puck. "Gotta' hurry," he said. "The sooner we start the sooner we can finish, Princess."
Princess. Great, apparently that was the nickname the trouble maker had dubbed Kurt with.
The large hand released him and he stumbled back a little, caught his balance by grabbing Finn's shoulder. Kurt pulled away almost as soon as he had touched the tall boy but Finn still tensed and gave him a strange look before glancing around at the other teams, at Karofsky and his group of hissing and whispering and laughing followers.
"Sit," said Puck and then he pulled Kurt down next to him. He was glaring Karofsky's way, too. And as Kurt watched him he mouthed the word "pussy" at the furious looking boy.
As Karofsky's truck jerked into a start and pulled away Kurt looked around and noticed everyone in his group -- every teenager he could see, in fact -- was wearing a baseball cap style hat rather than the floppy monstrosity Schue had gifted him with. With a sigh he pulled his off only to have Puck -- who seemed to be in a pushy mood -- grab the hat and place it back on his head.
"Yeah," came Mike's voice. "You're gonna' need that, man."
Their own truck jerked to a start and Artie groaned loudly. Sam sighed. Finn was still tense in his seat and seemed to be studying his shoes intently.
Kurt sighed too and thought about his dad. He had just started his stupid sentence at this stupid place and he already missed his dad. And Brittany. He missed poor, naive Brittany too.
Kurt thought about writing his dad or calling him and reporting the poor conditions of the camp, the fact that they were supposed to dig holes for whatever reason in the hot sun every day instead of doing average chores like average juvenile delinquents. The teenager was pretty sure the digging was at least a little bit illegal or immoral and was definitely sure his father would attempt to do something about it -- would attempt to bring the entire camp to its knees or to at least get Kurt moved.
But...he couldn't do that to his father. Couldn't worry the man any more than he already was.
"So...how long are we supposed to dig?" asked Kurt and all eyes snapped to him.
Kurt fidgeted a little. The sun hadn't even risen completely yet and the air was already thick, hot.
Puck snorted beside him.
Sam's mouth curved into a smile. "Well. How long are you in for, Kurt?"
Author: Harikari
Pairing: Puck/Kurt
Rating: R
Warnings: Violence, strong language, AU, etc.
Word Count: This part is approx. 3447 words.
AN: Written for kurt_disney. This fic is based on the Holes movie but no knowledge of the movie (or the book) is necessary to understand it. This is part one, the second and final part will posted on April 27th. I apologize for the wait, this fic ended up being a lot longer than I originally intended and I wasn't able to edit it all in time.
Disclaimer: The movie Holes belongs to Disney. The Holes universe/book belongs to Louis Sachar. Some of the wording in the summary for this fic was taken from the summary of the book. This was written for fun, not profit.
Summary: Kurt is sentenced to an entire summer of imprisonment at a boy's juvenile detention center known as Camp Green Lake. There he encounters a deranged warden, venomous lizards, a frightening bully and an attractive jerk who goes by the ridiculous nickname "Puck".
Part One
"So," said the large guard sitting directly across the aisle. His uniform was an ugly, dull brown color -- the name K. TANAKA was displayed in bold across its shirt pocket. He was holding a large gun almost casually across his lap and had what looked like a taser, a billy club and a large can of mace secured to his belt. "What exactly did you do, kid?"
Kurt turned away from the window and shifted in his seat. He considered not answering. But the weapons made him nervous. And Tanaka didn't seem to be mocking him, hadn't been hostile or rude to him the entire trip so far. The man seemed genuinely curious. "I didn't..." He started and then trailed off abruptly; chewed nervously at his bottom lip for a few seconds before starting again. "I stole something."
Slowly, Tanaka nodded. "Right, okay. Stole something." He went quiet and turned to squint out his own window.
Kurt sighed and shifted again. It was stifling and hot and the sun was too bright and the faux leather of the old school bus seat was incredibly uncomfortable. He was almost looking forward to the long, dusty drive being over. Was almost looking forward to reaching Camp Green Lake.
But only almost, he thought as the cluster of small buildings in the distance began to steadily become clearer. Sharper and more real.
"Listen," broke in Tanaka. He was still staring out the window. "I haven't always done this. Before I was a juvie officer I was a beat cop. I saw a lot of bad stuff, kid. A lot of crap and a whole lot of scumbags. And now that I do do this? I see a lot of underage scumbags. Real bad kids with bad attitudes who have done a lot of crap."
He stopped and a few moments beat by. Kurt's throat felt tight -- he wasn't sure how to respond to that. Or even if he was supposed to respond to that. Then Tanaka turned to face him again. He was frowning. "You? You look different, kid. You don't look like an underage scumbag to me. You don't even look like one of those punk teenagers that made a stupid, one time in a lifetime mistake. You just look like you don't belong here."
Kurt swallowed and stayed quiet. The camp was fast approaching and the bus was gradually slowing.
"So I'm going to give you some advice. I never do this and I was debating the entire ride here if I should but..." He cleared his throat before going on. "Don't piss off the warden, she's a crazy bitch. Don't trust the other boys. Even if they aren't all scumbags at heart juvie's a shitty place and they'll be out for themselves. Just be careful. And most importantly stay away from-"
The bus came to a stop with a loud whine of its breaks, cutting the man short. The driver pulled up in front of a somewhat dilapidated looking building. A thirty-something man with a clipboard emerged from the building and stood waiting.
The driver had grabbed a bottle of purified water from the cooler next to his seat and was taking occasional drinks of it while eyeing the camp around them with what looked to Kurt like distaste.
Tanaka stood with a deep sigh and motioned for Kurt to do the same. When he did the large man started for the now gaping door.
"Wait," said Kurt suddenly and the man looked back. "That last thing. What were you going to say? That I should stay away from?"
Tanaka nodded. He looked grim. "Yellow spotted lizards, kid. If you listen to any of my advice at all listen to this: stay away from the damn yellow spotted lizards. Those things will kill you."
What? thought Kurt. Lizards?
He turned again for the door and Kurt stared after him, unsure if the guard had been completely bullshitting him with all of his so-called advice or if he was serious.
He sounded serious.
-----
The man with the clipboard was Will Schuester. He was Camp Green Lake's designated counselor. He promptly introduced himself to Kurt with a stiff nod and a firm handshake before turning to Tanaka.
Kurt took in the camp around him while they talked.
Camp Green Lake was a small grouping of worn down, wooden buildings and large army style tents in the middle of a vast sea of dust and sun and nothingness. There was a vaguely shower-stall shaped structure off to the side of a mid-size building with the words CAFETERIA painted above its doorway and directly across from where he was standing was the recreation room.
Kurt was staring at the flimsy structure, his heart beating faster and his muscles tensing at the thought of having to shower practically out in the open air when a handful of teenagers burst out from under the doorway labeled REC ROOM. They were clad in ill fitting orange jumpsuits and were snorting and laughing and cussing loudly. The teenager at the very head of the group, a tall boy with wide shoulders and dark hair, spotted the hand-me-down school bus the camp used as transportation first and froze.
The tall boy's gaze slowly shifted until he was staring straight at Kurt. He smiled, but the smile looked anything but friendly. It looked dark. Malicious. "Hey!" he shouted and his companions all fell silent. "Look. Fresh meat!"
The other teenagers all turned to Kurt and started hooting loudly, laughing and pointing and grinning.
Kurt took a step back and was contemplating hiding behind Tanaka or Will Schuester (he knew it wasn't a good idea, knew it would undoubtedly only lead to something much worse than mocking and angry shouts but he was freaked out and afraid) when there was movement to the right of the rowdy group.
It was another delinquent. He had been lounging in the far corner of the recreation room's raised, wraparound porch on a cheap looking lawn chair set up so it was bathed in the shade provided by the nearest squat building (a storage structure, judging by the painted letters above its door).
The delinquent had left his chair and was lifting his arms above his head in a stretch. Kurt blinked, surprised and a little unnerved he hadn't noticed the teenager lurking in the shade.
The teenager with the malicious looking smile noticed his fellow delinquent and frowned. "What the hell are you doing out here all alone, Puckerman? Shouldn't you be huddled around the tv or a pool table with your little group of losers? Or are you asking for a beating?"
The boy who had risen from the cover of the shade rolled his shoulders, snorted and ran a large hand over his mohawk as if to smooth it. (And Kurt inwardly cringed at that because, really, a mohawk.)
"As if you could best my badass self in a fight, Karofsky. You're nothing but a pussy." Then the mohawk sporting teenager glanced over at Kurt, slowly eyed him up and down. His expression was unreadable, his dark eyes blank. "And they're not my losers."
With that he turned away from Kurt -- who in turn let out a deep breath he wasn't aware he had been holding -- and moved across the porch toward the rec room's entrance.
"Mr. Hummel?" came Will Schuester's voice and Kurt spun to face him. "If you'll come with me now, please. First we'll find you a uniform to wear and then I'll show you around. Now, if you have any questions..."
The man went on as he started walking. Kurt followed him, quickly glanced back at the rec room.
Karofsky was still standing there, glaring.
The boy with the mohawk was nowhere in sight.
-----
Kurt didn't get a room. He didn't get half of a room -- a space that he was expected to share with some other boy who was serving time. He didn't even get a nice cell.
He got a cot.
After a quick tour of the camp (which looked entirely worn down and depressing except for a large and neat looking house that stood bright and sturdy behind the counselor's office) Schuester had ushered him into one of the six huge tents Kurt had spotted shortly after his arrival. He had informed Kurt that the tent would be his new home, that he would sleep in the aforementioned cot and use a small two-drawer night table for his clothes (the one change he was wearing, the extra change and several packages of brand new boxers and socks and the two orange jumpsuits he had been given) and toiletries.
A cot, Kurt had thought as he frowned down at his new bed. However, he hadn't had time to feel properly sorry for himself or to dwell on the five other empty beds and cluttered night stands inside of the tent.
Schuester had declared it was time for dinner; quickly showed him to the cafeteria and then to his table. The man had mumbled out the names (none of which Kurt really caught) of the five boys who would be his tent and table mates for the duration of his stay -- one of whom Kurt recognized as Puckerman -- before grabbing him a tray, practically shoving him into the only spare space on the bench and leaving with a half hearted and not at all encouraging thumbs up.
So here he was, sitting at a bench-style table and being stared at by an intimidating group of incarcerated teenage boys.
"Kurt," started the good looking teenager sitting across from him as he attempted to pick the slices of onion out of his excuse for a side salad. "That's your name, right?" Kurt looked up from his tray and nodded.
The teenager continued, "I don't know if you caught anything Schue said but...I'm Mike." He gestured at the blond boy next to him, then at Puckerman. "That's Sam and that's Puck." He moved to point across the table at the very tall boy next to Kurt and the boy with thick glasses. "That's Finn you're sitting by and, finally, that's Artie."
"Why do I gotta' be last?" complained Artie.
Mike snorted and shrugged and both Sam and Finn grunted out greetings.
Kurt nodded his own greetings and picked up his fork. He wasn't hungry. He took a bite of his now onion free salad before setting the utensil down again and eyeing the teens sharing the table with him. Then he shot a quick look at the hulking and slightly ominous form of Karofsky, surrounded by the same four delinquents he had been earlier, sitting at a nearby table.
Kurt's stomach was suddenly hurting. He was gripping the edge of the table hard. He felt nervous and sick and sad all at once.
I don't want to be here, he thought. They're going to hate me here. His eyes slid to Karofsky and his followers. They already hate me here. And they're going to figure out the truth about me soon -- if they haven't already -- and hate me even more. I want to go home.
His grip on the table edge tightened. He was panicking, he knew he was panicking. The reality of the situation -- the fact that he was actually, really at Camp Green Lake now and the fact that he had been greeted upon his arrival there by violent neanderthals and the fact that he was looking at months and months of dealing with being in the juvenile detention center with said neanderthals was finally hitting him.
I want to go home, he thought again. But then the image of Brittany's face flashed in his mind. His father's face.
He cleared his throat and let go of the table edge. "Puck? Is that a nickname or something?" He asked it without thinking, asked the first question that came to mind to shift his thoughts away from his home and friend and family.
And almost immediately he regretted asking. Because Puckerman (or "Puck" as he apparently liked to be called) hadn't so much as glanced up from his tray during Kurt's arrival or the introductions but now his dark eyes were set on him with the same intensity they had been set on Karofsky with earlier.
"Yeah," he said after a pause. "That's right. Why?"
The table got still and quiet. Mike seemed to be holding his breath and Sam was gripping his fork and shooting looks between Kurt and the mohawk sporting delinquent.
Kurt swallowed, lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I was just wondering. I mean...do all of you have nicknames?"
When Puck smirked he resembled a shark. "Sure," he said. "Finn's is Frankenteen and Sam's is Trouty Mouth and Mike's is Other A-"
"No!" shouted the four other boys at the table suddenly and in unison.
Puck snorted and stabbed at a soggy looking tomato with his plastic fork. "Whiny bitches. You didn't let me finish. I still have to tell him Artie's nickname and his. I just thought it up, man. It's perfect."
Mike shook his head and addressed Kurt. "No. Don't listen to him. The only one with a nickname here is Noah." When he said the name he looked pointedly at Puck with narrowed eyes. The teenager gave up on the tomato and mumbled something under his breath but didn't persist with the taunting.
"Oh," nodded Kurt, not entirely sure what had just happened. "Okay. Um...sorry."
Another awkward silence.
Then Artie said, "Emma must have cooked this time. The food was actually edible." There were unenthusiastic grunts of agreement.
Kurt looked over at the kitchen staff; noticed they were all, in fact, staff and that no juvenile delinquents were readying the large pans of food for washing or wiping down the two now vacated tables. "When Schue gave me the tour I didn't notice any of the...campers helping with the laundry or cleaning or anything. I thought maybe we would have to do stuff like that?"
He turned back to the table and saw that all eyes were on him.
"No," said Artie. "We don't have to do stuff like that."
Kurt frowned. "Then what exactly am I going to be doing here? What do you guys do all day?"
Mike shifted and opened his mouth but it was Puck who finally answered.
"You'll see," was all he said.
-----
And Kurt did see.
The next morning he and the rest of the juvenile delinquents were wrenched from sleep by the sound of trumpets booming out of the practically ancient loudspeakers that were situated around the Camp. As the others started to stir around him Kurt groaned, shifted around a little and pressed his face into his pillow.
He felt horrible. The night before -- for the first time in literally years -- he had been forced to forgo his skincare routine. His face felt weird. And despite the fact that he had yet to open his eyes he knew it was outrageously early, entirely too early for anyone who was sane to be up.
He felt a hand nudge his shoulder and sat up immediately, barely managed to bite back a yelp.
Artie was standing next to his cot. He looked as sleepy as Kurt felt. "You won't be able to get a shower if you don't get up right now," he prodded. "And believe me, with the day you have ahead of you -- you want that shower."
Kurt could feel slick sweat at the small of his back (making his thin shirt stick to his skin) and the back of his knees. Yes, he thought. Yes I do.
He nodded, mumbled a thanks to the bespectacled boy and got up.
Kurt's shower was one of the quickest he had ever taken. He just washed and rinsed and made sure to keep his eyes down while he changed -- reluctantly and with a frown marring his face -- into one of the unfashionable orange jumpsuits he had been given the day before.
"You'll be digging," said Mr. Schue as Kurt was nibbling at the dry toast he and the rest of the boys had been hastily given for breakfast.
Kurt swallowed down the last bite of his toast. "What?" he asked. And then suddenly the counselor was handing him a shovel almost as tall as Kurt himself. A shovel.
Looking around, Kurt realized the other boys were also holding shovels and hopping into the beds of the several different large, white pickup trucks parked in a cluster in front of the counselor's office.
"Digging?" asked Kurt. "Digging what?"
Schue studied him for a moment too long before patting him on the shoulder in what the teenager assumed was supposed to be a comforting move. "I grouped you with D-Tent because they're the fastest...it should take some of the pressure off of you. Just try your best, keep your head down and don't complain. You'll...be okay."
Schuester didn't sound sure, though. Suddenly the man pulled a slightly rumpled hat from his pocket. He reached over and placed the hat -- a floppy, khaki sun hat that a soldier or hunter might wear -- on Kurt's head.
Kurt blinked.
"I forgot to give you one yesterday," related Schue. "You'll need that. Now go on, get in the truck with your tent mates and do what the driver tells you to when you get there."
Get where?
The man turned around, started to move for the door of his office. "What will we be digging, exactly?" asked Kurt before the counselor could disappear.
"Holes," he answered without slowing his stride or turning around and then Kurt was hurrying toward the truck the rest of his tent mates were already sitting in because engines were rumbling to a start around him.
Kurt dropped his shovel into the haphazard pile of digging tools in the center of D-Tent's truck bed and then hesitated. He was about to grip the tailgate when a large hand reached down from above him and gripped his forearm, lifted him seemingly effortlessly up and over the tailgate and into the truck bed.
The hand belonged to Puck. "Gotta' hurry," he said. "The sooner we start the sooner we can finish, Princess."
Princess. Great, apparently that was the nickname the trouble maker had dubbed Kurt with.
The large hand released him and he stumbled back a little, caught his balance by grabbing Finn's shoulder. Kurt pulled away almost as soon as he had touched the tall boy but Finn still tensed and gave him a strange look before glancing around at the other teams, at Karofsky and his group of hissing and whispering and laughing followers.
"Sit," said Puck and then he pulled Kurt down next to him. He was glaring Karofsky's way, too. And as Kurt watched him he mouthed the word "pussy" at the furious looking boy.
As Karofsky's truck jerked into a start and pulled away Kurt looked around and noticed everyone in his group -- every teenager he could see, in fact -- was wearing a baseball cap style hat rather than the floppy monstrosity Schue had gifted him with. With a sigh he pulled his off only to have Puck -- who seemed to be in a pushy mood -- grab the hat and place it back on his head.
"Yeah," came Mike's voice. "You're gonna' need that, man."
Their own truck jerked to a start and Artie groaned loudly. Sam sighed. Finn was still tense in his seat and seemed to be studying his shoes intently.
Kurt sighed too and thought about his dad. He had just started his stupid sentence at this stupid place and he already missed his dad. And Brittany. He missed poor, naive Brittany too.
Kurt thought about writing his dad or calling him and reporting the poor conditions of the camp, the fact that they were supposed to dig holes for whatever reason in the hot sun every day instead of doing average chores like average juvenile delinquents. The teenager was pretty sure the digging was at least a little bit illegal or immoral and was definitely sure his father would attempt to do something about it -- would attempt to bring the entire camp to its knees or to at least get Kurt moved.
But...he couldn't do that to his father. Couldn't worry the man any more than he already was.
"So...how long are we supposed to dig?" asked Kurt and all eyes snapped to him.
Kurt fidgeted a little. The sun hadn't even risen completely yet and the air was already thick, hot.
Puck snorted beside him.
Sam's mouth curved into a smile. "Well. How long are you in for, Kurt?"