Stop Loss: Chapter 30, Part 1
Chapter 30/33. I can count now.
I have spent so many hours typing this (multitasking is hard when there's a multi-hour video countdown on VH1, amirite?) that I am pretty much out of words. You're all handsome and good, and I'm in possession of nothing but a laptop and a dream.
Sarita Jackson, despite having a larger than life reputation, was a relatively diminutive woman; barely taller than Dakota Stanley even in her sharp black heels. Slim and graceful, with olive skin and jet black hair that fell to her shoulders, she looked nowhere near her true age, which Kurt knew from his in-depth online stalking was not quite fifty-three. A pair of rings glittering on her left hand automatically drew Kurt's attention at first, but it didn't remain there-like Shelby's, Sarita's speaking voice was a rich alto that easily commanded respect, though Sarita had the slight hint of a foreign accent that suggested that her English was learned abroad, possibly as a second language.
Still, she spoke with eloquence. "It's good to see you again, Mr. Hummel," she said kindly, watching him with dark eyes that reminded him eerily of Blaine's. "I trust, from your somewhat terrified expression, that you remember who I am?"
Kurt hadn't realized that his face was giving him away, and he quickly made an effort to compose himself. "I'm sorry," he apologized courteously, breathlessly, nodding in what he hoped would come across as a deferential manner. "I wasn't expecting-it's nice to see you again, too, Mrs. Jackson."
Sarita smiled indulgently. "Just Sarita, please," she requested, "I only stand on formality with directors that are particularly difficult to work with. And your surprise is understandable; I don't make it to the Nationals competition every year. But my schedule was fairly permissive this weekend, and with four of my twelve potential summer students performing, not to mention the first two girls on the waiting list, I thought I'd make the effort."
Kurt nodded, intrigued in spite of himself-somehow, even while preparing for his audition, he hadn't given much thought to the other eleven people who would be getting their acceptance letters along with him.
He wondered, if he sat through every performance out in the audience, if he'd be able to pick them out.
Sarita was watching him again. "I would have passed along my congratulations through Shelby, in any case," she acknowledged, sitting regally in one of the dressing room chairs and gesturing distractedly for Kurt to do the same. "When I ran into her earlier, though, she mentioned that you were having some difficulties at home that might prevent you from studying with me this summer."
She frowned slightly. "Although she was maddeningly unspecific about what those difficulties might be," she admitted petulantly.
If the situation was any less serious, Kurt might have cracked a smile at the idea of Shelby Corcoran and Sarita Jackson, two of the most influential names in performing arts education, trying to get the better of each other in a conversation about him.
But it wasn't, and Sarita was still talking.
"If you're having financial troubles, I'm sorry to say that our scholarships are mostly given out by now," Sarita was saying, "but if you were to call the office on Monday, there might be some aid money left. And even if there isn't, one of our secretaries can give you a list of organizations to solicit that many of our students have found very helpful in the past."
She paused. "And…I understand that you're from the Midwest, and that you live with your father," she said delicately, not quite meeting Kurt's eye. "If you're experiencing a lack of support at home, or you're worried that there might be…repercussions, for choosing to go..."
Kurt caught on quickly. "No, n-no, it's nothing like that at all," he said spluttered, eyes widening. "My dad is amazing. He'd never do anything to-he's an incredible father, and I'm so lucky to have him."
Sarita clasped her hands in her lap. "Of course," she said gently. "I'd certainly never accuse him of anything, Kurt. I'm just aware by now that not every one of my students is quite that fortunate. I wouldn't be doing my job if I didn't at least ask."
Kurt swallowed painfully, nodding. "No, I know," he agreed breathlessly, looking down at his feet. "It's just that-my dad had a heart attack recently, a bad one. He doesn't like to admit how bad it was, but he'd have died if he hadn't gotten to the hospital as quickly as he did. And he isgetting better, but it's a process-he needs daily care, still, and he's having some trouble adjusting to his new diet and medications and not overdoing it. It's just the two of us, and I've been taking care of him, but we can't afford anything long term, especially on top of him working part time and the tuition payments for The Academy."
He glanced up at Sarita. She was looking at him with sympathetic eyes, but she didn't interrupt, gesturing silently instead for him to continue.
He did. "I love performing," he admitted, willing his voice not to tremble or crack. "I know how hard I'd have to work and how much rejection I'd face, and that the odds of succeeding in New York or LA are terrifyingly slim." He swallowed again. "But I still can't imagine wanting to do anything else," he continued. "It's who I am."
He paused, not sure how to continue.
"But with your father's situation…" Sarita prompted, seeming to understand what he was trying to say even though he was doing a poor job of communicating it.
Kurt nodded wearily. "I can't see any other way," he admitted. "I want to come work with you this summer, so badly…but not at the expense of my family. It can't be more important than the people I love. Maybe that-I know it'll make things harder, in some ways," he explained, feeling as though he was making a confession. "But I'll have to live with it."
It was the truth, even if it wasn't the whole story. But how could he explain to Sarita how he was afraid of turning into Jesse, who destroyed relationships like they didn't matter; or how bothered he was by the way that Jesse and Shelby had treated Rachel, who for all her self-involvement was a nice girl who had been kind to Blaine and didn't deserve any of the pain they'd put her through; or how, so often, his single-mindedness and ambition had led him to steamroll right over Blaine's feelings, only realizing the harm he'd caused when the damage had already been done?
Maybe she'd understand him, if he tried to explain it. But if she didn't, and tried to talk him out of his decision…
If he wasn't strong enough to say no, Kurt didn't want to know it.
While Kurt had been ruminating, Sarita had raised an eyebrow. "You know, Mr. Hummel, that if you turn down your spot, you'd be the first person in seventeen years to do so?" she mentioned casually. "Nineteen, if you only count the musical theatre program."
Kurt gripped the edge of his chair, his reflection in the mirror next to him paling dramatically. "I-I didn't know that, no," he managed to stammer. "Not exactly the legacy I was hoping for."
Sarita didn't react. "Is there any chance that you'd reconsider, in light of that?" she pressed, leaning forward slightly in her chair, making her hair spill over her shoulders.
Kurt closed his eyes briefly. The answer was still no; he knew that. Still, knowing that it was the right thing to do didn't make actually doing it any easier. "No," he breathed, "there isn't. I'm sorry."
There was an awful silence.
Kurt opened his eyes.
Sarita was studying him, an expression on her face that was almost…satisfied; curiously so.
"I see a remarkable amount of talent every year, Mr. Hummel," she told Kurt evenly, her gaze unwavering. "Students, actors looking for their first break, established performers. Some of them have gone on, or will go on, to incredibly successful industry careers. I imagine, though, that your grandchildren will only know two or three of them by name."
She blinked at Kurt, who was watching her quietly, fiercely attentive.
"Talent, beauty, drive, opportunity," she rattled off, "they help, certainly, but I'm personally inclined to believe that character is what separates those whose marks on the world are brilliant, but ephemeral, from the few who achieve a…timeless sort of grace.
"It's possible that I'm wrong," she added. "It's been known to happen a few times each decade. Still, it's an interesting thought. And it's worth noting that you, Mr. Hummel, have a great deal of character."
Kurt straightened up in his seat, eyes wide in surprise.
Sarita smiled gently at him as she stood. "You'll be hearing from me again, Mr. Hummel; I'm sure of that. Enjoy the rest of your trip."
She was out the door before Kurt could say anything.
At 6:13 on Sunday evening, Vocal Adrenaline was pronounced the winner of the 2010 National Show Choir Competition.
The sheer amount of sound in the room was explosive, clapping and shouting and whistling and shrieking, and Kurt felt his cheeks stretch with the widest smile he'd worn in weeks as he was hugged and kissed and manhandled up to the front of the group to have his turn at holding the trophy, a glittering, golden, ostentatiously oversized piece of hardware that was almost as tall as he was. It took most of his strength, but he managed to lift it a few inches off of the ground before passing it off to someone presumably stronger, laughter and cheering and applause ringing in his ears.
The bus was already loaded with bags and waiting outside the convention center to pick them up when the Awards Ceremony finally ended, ready to take the team out to dinner before bringing them back to LAX for their redeye flight back to Ohio. A few bottles of champagne were unearthed and passed around, and Kurt drank deeply when his turn came, the bubbles fizzing pleasantly all the way down his throat.
Lightly buzzed by the time they reached the Italian restaurant that had won by two votes-Shelby might turn a blind eye to a little celebrating, but she definitely wouldn't have tolerated anyone getting drunk on the shuttle bus, of all places-family-style platters of food were brought out, and the team sat down to the largest meal that most of them had eaten in months. Kurt, tired and exhilarated and, somehow, both stressed out and relieved at the same time, managed to put away an entire plateful of eggplant parmesan.
He sent a picture of his scraped dish to Burt with the simple, explanatory message We won! :), receiving a garbled string of words in return (indicating that his dad was both happy for him and had accidently turned the autocorrect feature on his phone back on).
He saved the message anyway.
The trip to the airport and through security was largely uneventful, although Shelby had a difficult time convincing the baggage handlers to take their trophy, causing a slight delay. She managed it in the end, however, and Kurt barely had time to buy a new magazine and swallow a dose of sleeping pills at the water fountain-tired as he was, he was no stranger to overnight flights, and airplane seats were almost deliberatelyuncomfortable-before they were being herded onto the plane.
He fell asleep halfway through the flight attendant's safety instructions, and didn't wake back up until the plane touched down in Ohio the next morning.
Kurt, like the rest of Vocal Adrenaline, had been given permission from Carmel's principal to skip school on Monday and recover from the trip. He took advantage of the free pass, retreating to his basement almost as soon as he got home and sleeping until nearly dinnertime, when his dad excitedly grilled him about his trip-and, more importantly, his Nationals solo and promotion to lead singer. Kurt tiredly obliged him, skipping details such as Blaine's phone call and Sarita's visit, and swapping sparkling cider in as the team's celebratory beverage of choice. It was nice just to sit and talk with his dad after such an exciting-and harrowing-weekend, and Kurt found himself smiling more and more as Burt laughed at each anecdote and specifically asked about the friends of Kurt's that he knew ("And what about that girl whose dad is in the CIA or Black Ops, or whatever it was; did she have a Secret Service team following her around, or is that just for politicians' kids?").
It was…easy. Comfortable.
Until, very suddenly, it wasn't.
"Look, I know you're probably not up to making any big decisions tonight," Burt transitioned awkwardly after a moment of peaceful silence, halfway through the meal. "But I think we should probably talk about your summer program, and what you're gonna do about it."
Slowly, Kurt put his fork down. "Can it wait until tomorrow?" he stalled quietly, staring down at his grilled chicken salad rather than look at Burt. "I'm still really tired, Dad."
He heard Burt's water glass clink as he set it down on the table. "We don't have to discuss everything tonight, no," Burt acquiesced, "but maybe you can tell me what you're thinking now, just so I know where your head's at when we talk tomorrow."
Kurt exhaled quietly. He'd known that he was going to have to tell Burt about his conversation with Sarita eventually, but he knew his dad wasn't going to like it, and he'd been hoping for another night's sleep before the storm, at least.
Shit.
He squirmed a little in his seat. "I thought about it, while I was away," he admitted softly, still looking at the table instead of meeting his dad's eyes. "If there was any way that I could go without compromising your health, or feeling like…"
He paused, not wanting to get into the rest of his reasoning, or even begin to explain the whole Shelby/Rachel/Jesse situation. "But there's not," he said instead. "I'm not going this summer, Dad."
There was a heavy silence.
Kurt wasn't sure how, exactly, he'd expected Burt to react to his announcement-disbelief, maybe, or potentially with some yelling. Instead, when he finally looked up, Kurt found his dad staring at him like he wasn't quite sure what to say to him.
"So that's it, then?" he wanted to know, dropping his fork onto the table with a clatter that made Kurt wince involuntarily. "You've made up your mind, and we're not even going to talk about this?"
Kurt bit his lip. "We can still talk about it," he promised quietly, his fingers twisting nervously into the napkin in his lap, "but I've already decided, yes."
His dad let out a frustrated sigh. "You wanted this for months," he reminded Kurt, pushing his plate to the side and leaning forward, his elbows on the table. "You kept saying what a great opportunity this was for you, and it is. And now you're just gonna throw it away?"
Kurt blinked. "There will be other opportunities, Dad," he countered. "And I can apply again, and to other programs, next year. Maybe it won't even be as terrifying, since I've already done it once, and now that I'm going to be the lead in Vocal Adrenaline, I'll be even better prepared."
Burt closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he was trying to stave off the headache that Kurt was clearly giving him. "This is your lifewe're talking about, Kurt," he said seriously, his left hand clenching and unclenching over and over again on the table. "You can't just put it on hold like this."
Kurt ignored the knotted feeling in his stomach and leaned forward, unconsciously mirroring Burt's posture. "Exactly," he stressed, "it's my life, Dad. I have to be the one to make this decision, not anyone else. You know that."
Burt scoffed. "And what-I'm supposed to sit back and let you make what I think is the wrong decision?" he asked, voice louder than before. "You're still a kid, Buddy; you should be spending your summer being a kid, not missing out on doing what you love because you think you have to take care of me."
Kurt's lip was starting to sting from chewing on it, a slight coppery taste pooling on the edge of his tongue. "I'm not a kid anymore," he disagreed flatly. "Not the way that you think I am. I have a job, I take care of the house; I filed our taxes this year when you were in the hospital."
Burt shook his head violently before he could continue. "You're still my son," he argued, "and it's my job to be the parent and take care of you, not the other way around." He looked straight at Kurt, more intensely that he'd done in months. "Tell me you're not doing this because of me," he challenged solemnly.
Kurt inhaled sharply.
"I'll always be your son," he answered shortly, a sudden tightness in his chest and stomach making it hard for him to breathe. "But I'm not a little boy anymore, Dad. I'm doing this for me."
The knotted sensation in his abdomen worsened, and before Burt could reply, Kurt balled up his napkin and dropped it onto the table next to his plate. "I don't-excuse me," he managed to choke out, before rushing out of the room and down the hall.
Kurt wasn't sure whether it was the inordinate amount of stress he'd been under, worsened by the argument with his dad; his body's reaction to having eaten a large, heavy meal and then flying across the country and sleeping for nearly fourteen hours; or his immune system finally crashing, the way it had in January-perhaps some combination of the three. But he barely made it to the bathroom before he was on his knees in front of the toilet, emptying the contents of his stomach with a tremendous slosh.
The next half an hour was a blur. His dad had found him in the dark room, slumped against the white, floral wallpaper with tears rolling absently down his sweaty cheeks, too nauseated to try to move on his own. He'd helped Kurt shakily get to his feet and had guided him over to the sink, leaving momentarily while Kurt washed his face and hands, before returning from the kitchen with a glass of saltwater for him to rinse his mouth out with.
Once Kurt was settled on the couch a few minutes later ("Lay down on your left side, Buddy; that First Aid book you gave me last month says that's better"), Burt disappeared again, and Kurt was vaguely aware of his low, murmuring voice moving around the kitchen as he spoke to someone over the phone.
When he came back into the room a little while later, he had a mug of cinnamon-ginger tea for Kurt that he set down carefully on the coffee table, even remembering to use a coaster when Kurt blearily pointed at the stack a few feet away. Gesturing for Kurt to scoot over, he sat down on the end of the couch and grabbed a pillow for his lap, then gently guided Kurt until his head was resting on his pillow-covered thigh.
Kurt closed his eyes again, exhausted, as Burt's fingers carded soothingly through his hair.
And maybe it was simply his imagination desperately searching for a connection but, just for a second, Kurt thought that he could remember his mother stroking his hair in the same way when he was little, when they would cuddle on the couch in their pajamas on weekends or holidays or days that Kurt, sick and unhappy, had stayed home from school.
They were quiet for a long, long time.
After an indeterminate amount of peaceful silence, Kurt felt his dad's fingers slow in his hair. "Buddy," Burt wanted to know, "what's going on with you lately?"
It was a simple question, but it didn't have a simple answer, and Kurt temporarily avoided it. "Tell me about Mom," he requested instead, not moving from his curled up position on the couch.
The hand in his hair stopped moving completely, resting on the nape of Kurt's neck.
"Your mom," his dad repeated softly, his voice taking on the faraway quality it often did whenever he talked about his late wife. "God, Kurt, she was beautiful. Not just on the outside, either, even though she really was; but everything about her was beautiful. She was nice to everyone, even when they didn't deserve it, and she just had this…way about her, that made you want to listen to every word that she said. Even if she was lying and you both knew it." He laughed suddenly. "I don't think I ever won an argument with her the entire time that we were married," he told Kurt, "not once."
Kurt nodded, listening hungrily.
His dad looked down at him. "She loved your laugh," he said, stroking Kurt's hair again. "Especially when you were a baby, and you'd laugh and laugh for no reason, at least not one that we could figure out." He nudged Kurt's cheek with his calloused hand. "She'd be so proud of you, Kiddo," he promised, meeting Kurt's eyes. "Probably knock you upside the head over this performance camp business, but she'd still be proud of the way you turned out."
And it was that, the image in his head of his mother holding him as a baby, never knowing that she wouldn't have the chance to see him grow up, that broke the dam.
Taking a deep, rattling breath, Kurt's eyes filled with tears again. "No, she wouldn't be," he admitted quietly, more ashamed of himself than he could ever remember feeling before. "Dad, I have something that I need to tell you."
Over the next hour, Kurt told his dad the whole story from start to finish-about Jesse, about Rachel and Shelby, and especially about Blaine. What he had and hadn't done, the mistakes he'd made and the lengths he'd gone to to try and hold everything together. Burt let him speak without interrupting, only prodding Kurt with questions when his voice faltered.
By the time Kurt had finished explaining the details he'd left out in his earlier summary of his trip to Nationals-Blaine's phone call and Sarita's appearance in the dressing room-he was sitting up on the couch, his mostly empty mug of tea in his hands as he leaned into Burt's shoulder, waiting.
He didn't have to wait long-after a minute of silence, probably to make sure that Kurt was actually done, Burt let out a heavy sigh. "Well, I'm not going to sugarcoat it," he said dryly, curling an arm around Kurt's thin shoulders and giving them a light squeeze. "Kid, you screwed up."
Kurt groaned in agreement, closing his eyes and turning his face into Burt's sleeve.
His dad ran his hand soothingly up and down Kurt's arm. "Don't beat yourself up yet," he advised. "I don't know if this is good news or bad news, but even though you definitely stepped in it a few times, so did Blaine. And I think you know that."
Kurt nodded. Burt nodded back.
"Avoiding each other like you have been clearly isn't doing you any favors," he pointed out. "You've got a couple of days off from rehearsal this week; go out to his school and talk to him in person. If you ask me, the two of you are long overdue."
Kurt looked up hopefully-the idea of seeing Blaine again, of finally beginning to settle everything between them, was almost too much to hope for.
But. "But he said-" Kurt started to say.
"I know what he said," his dad interrupted with a dismissive wave. "And I wish I'd known it over a month ago, when you first started moping. But he called you, didn't he? Said that he wanted to see you, too?"
Kurt remembered the conversation with almost eidetic clarity. "Yeah," he confirmed, smiling a little in spite of himself.
Burt nudged his shoulder gently. "Yeah," he agreed. "I don't know-just, take it slow, and be honest with him, okay?"
"Okay," Kurt replied, feeling lighter than he had all day. "Should I call first, do you think?"
Burt made a show of rolling his eyes. "Oh, now he wants my advice," he complained, smiling anyway. "Yes, call first, this isn't an ambush. Go call him, and go take a shower, Kiddo; you still smell like hairspray."
Kurt dodged a light swat, climbing off the couch and picking up his mug of tea to take back to the kitchen. "I will," he promised, mind already on his cell phone on his bed downstairs. "Thanks, Dad. I love you."
Burt grunted. "Love you too, you little wingnut," he shot back, stretching out on the couch and filling the space that Kurt had left behind. "Remember that next time, before you start leading another double life, all right?"
That night, after finishing his homework and packing his book bag and getting ready for bed and answering his email and text messages and taking the commanded shower (even if his dad was clearly hallucinating, because there wasn't a trace of hairspray left in his hair even before shampooing), Kurt ran out of excuses to avoid picking up the phone and calling Blaine. The screen glowing under his fingertips, he shakily typed out a message, rechecking the spelling three times before tapping the send button:
Can I come see you tomorrow after school?
Ten minutes later, the phone lit up in his hand:
Call me when you get here and I'll come find you; my room is a little hard to find if you don't know where you're going.
While Kurt was debating what, if anything, to text back, another message came through:
Can't wait to see you, Kurt. Really.
For the first time in a long time, Kurt fell asleep smiling.