Stop Loss: Chapter 28
Head. Ache.
Chapter 28/3? Getting close, for sure.
This took forever! My apologies-I wanted to post it yesterday, but my internet connection has been awful all week (which is also my explanation for the lack of review/message responses so far-I'm getting to them this weekend, I promise).
This chapter, while still well over 5,000 words, originally had two more scenes that didn't make it to the final cut, including a chat with Grandma Anderson. I'll rewrite them and work them in later, since they're of some importance, but they didn't quite gel with the rest of the chapter for whatever reason. So this chapter should take less than an hour to read, for once :)
I don't own anything, as usual. Sad.
Calling the Admissions Office and accepting his place at Dalton Academy ended up setting off a flurry of activity, enough to keep Blaine impossibly busy for nearly three days.
There were mountains of paperwork to fill out and sign, medical records to be authorized and faxed, a withdrawal form to complete and a locker to empty at Carmel, and meetings with the Dean and several counselors at his new school-the former to officially welcome him to Dalton and assure his mother that the dorms were well supervised during the week; the others to make sure he received the necessities (school ID, Student Handbook, Code of Conduct, etc.) and to get him placed in the appropriate classes. Everyone seemed weirdly happy to meet with him. The Student Life Counselor, in particular, was thrilled to learn that Blaine already had some friends at the school, and promised to have a word with the fencing coaches about getting Blaine started in an after-school Basics class. He also had to get fitted for his new uniform, which actually came in a number of different options besides the official blazer that Blaine had always seen Wes and the other Warblers wearing.
His initial reaction to seeing the sweaters and vests, neatly hung on wooden hangers to avoid stretching and wrinkles, was that Kurt would have grudgingly approved. His second was to spend five minutes anxiously worrying about whether or not he was…allowed to think of Kurt so casually, anymore.
"I didn't think we'd be doing this until you were ready to leave for college," his mother mentioned with a sigh as she handed Blaine their shopping bags to load into the trunk of the car, their red plastic cart piled high with linens and extra pillows and all of the other supplies he'd need to live comfortably in his new dorm room four days a week. "You're just growing up so fast, Darling. It's hard to think about sometimes."
When the bags were secure, Blaine returned the cart and climbed into the passenger seat of his mom's sedan in silence, unwilling to confess to her that, rather than growing up, all he had done was find a more grown up method of running away.
Because Blaine had missed his appointment with Dr. Ramirez the week before-and would likely miss his next one as well, since Thursday would be his first full day of classes at Dalton-his mother had arranged an emergency session for him on Tuesday night. Blaine had spent most of the afternoon and evening packing, and was already exhausted by the time he made it onto Dr. Ramirez's soft, white couch, but he dutifully outlined everything of importance that had happened since the last time they'd seen each other.
It took him awhile.
By the time he finished, Dr. Ramirez had quit taking notes and was staring at him, eyebrows raised. "So-an eventful two weeks for you, then," she said finally, drastically underestimating the situation.
Blaine tried not to roll his eyes. "Yeah," he agreed quietly, "something like that."
Dr. Ramirez nodded, adjusting her glasses. "Really, though, that's quite a lot of stress to handle all at once," she pointed out. "How have you been handling it?"
Blaine shrugged. "Not very well," he admitted. "It sort of feels like…it's like I haven't really accepted that everything's really happening, because if I did, I'd probably stop functioning." He pulled absentmindedly at a tassel on the pillow that had somehow ended up in his lap, socked feet burrowing themselves further into the couch cushions. "I don't want to be how I was in the fall," he confessed. "I felt like a zombie. If it wasn't for Kurt-"
Blaine broke off sharply. Even if Kurt was on his mind in some capacity most of the time, talking about him-outside of the brief overview he'd had to give Dr. Ramirez of the past couple of weeks-was…different, somehow. Harder.
Dr. Ramirez looked knowingly at him, but didn't press the subject. Which Blaine was initially thankful for, until her mouth twisted into the slight frown that she always wore whenever she was about to say something that she knew Blaine wouldn't like.
Blaine's stomach dropped.
If Dr. Ramirez noticed his unease, which Blaine was sure she had, she ignored it, looking at him evenly. "Part of the reason I ask is that I have other students who go to Dalton," she explained, "so I'm aware of their prescription medication policies. When your mother called to make tonight's appointment and tell me about your transfer, I was able to talk to her directly, and informed her that she'd have to secure a supply of your pills with the school nurse, who would lock them up and give them to you at whatever time you schedule with her."
Blaine's breathing had sped up without him noticing; his heart fluttering in his chest as his palms began to sweat uncomfortably. He couldn't look at Dr. Ramirez, who was still talking:
"This isn't an accusation, or any sort of judgment, Blaine-but it is a serious safety concern," she was saying, her neutral tone burning in his ears nonetheless. "When she said she'd tried to pack it for you but that you were nearly out of the alprazolam, I asked her to count the number of pills in each bottle, and I checked my notes to see when I last wrote a prescription for you."
Blaine was numb. "I don't have the right amount," he heard himself confessing, his fingers tightening around the pillow in his hands.
"You're a couple of weeks' short," Dr. Ramirez confirmed, setting her notes aside completely and folding her own hands in her lap. "Can you tell me why, Blaine?"
Blaine tried to shake his head. "My mom…" he began, before stopping, unable to concentrate on the question, only vaguely aware that he was in trouble and should be feeling something, anything.
Why don't I feel anything?
"I didn't say anything to your mother," Dr. Ramirez was saying, her voice barely breaking through the buzzing in Blaine's head. "I wasn't entirely sure what it was that I was looking at and, given that some of the possibilities are protected by patient confidentiality law, I thought it would be best to talk to you first."
Blaine nodded shakily.
Dr. Ramirez was still gazing steadily at him. "My first concern right now is your well-being," she stressed quietly, "not getting you in any sort of trouble. If you've been selling your pills"-Blaine's eyes widened; he hadn't even considered that she might think that-"it's obviously not ideal, but you'd hardly be the first person to do it, and we'll deal with it together."
Blaine shook his head before she could continue. "That's not-I haven't been doing that," he promised, swallowing painfully. "I haven't."
Dr. Ramirez nodded. "I didn't think you were," she agreed. "I'm more worried that maybe you've been taking your medication too often or in too large a dose, or that you might be stockpiling it somewhere. If either of those is the case, Blaine, I need you to understand that I'm not here to be angry or disappointed with you, and that it's much more important that you tell me the truth so that I can get you any immediate medical help that you might need. Do you understand that?"
Blaine's vision was beginning to swim, and he blinked several times before nodding.
Dr. Ramirez nodded back. "Good," she praised gently. "Thank you. Now, can you tell me what's been going on?"
Slowly, achingly, the whole story spilled out-how he'd taken an extra pill every once in a while at first, when his anxiety or depression became too much to handle. How switching his dosage when they had had helped for a little while, but that the nightmares after the Winter Ball had kept him from really sleeping and made everything harder to deal with.
How, over the last week and a half, he'd stopped caring what or how much he was taking, because it was the only thing that was helping. As long as he didn't have to feel.
"It sounds so stupid and self-destructive when I say it now," Blaine admitted, pressing his closed eyes with the palms of his hands. "Like I should have known better, or been smarter than that."
Dr. Ramirez looked up from her notepad, where she had been scribbling in time with Blaine's pathetic explanation. "Do you feel as though you should have known better?" she wanted to know.
Blaine opened his mouth to answer-and paused.
After determining that Blaine hadn't done enough damage to necessitate an immediate trip to the hospital, Dr. Ramirez explained that she was going to have to slowly adjust all of his dosages over the next several weeks. "Drugs interact in your system," she noted. "If you change the amount you're taking of one prescription, you have to calculate the effect it'll have on the others, and compensate."
Blaine agreed to whatever changes she needed to make, agreed to her discussing his case with the school nurse who'd be responsible for doling out his medication-"She's absolutely not allowed to talk about you with any of the other students," she'd promised-agreed to an additional therapy session over Skype each week while he was adjusting to everything, agreed that he'd definitely call her or 911 if he was feeling even the tiniest bit suicidal.
"And Blaine?" Dr. Ramirez added, voice carefully neutral, "I think that this is something that your parents should be aware of."
Blaine sat up so quickly that his lower back spasmed. "Please don't," he begged, the awful potential scenarios of what would happen if his parents knew everything-his mother crying, undoing all of the progress he'd finally started making with his dad, them shipping him off to rehab in a misguided attempt to help him-unfolding in his mind. "I'm not going to…"
He swallowed. "I just really want to do everything right this time," he promised. "I just want to get better, and be normal. I won't do something like this again, I swear. Just, please don't tell them."
Dr. Ramirez looked at him. "You're certain that this won't happen again?" she asked.
Blaine nodded, eyes wide.
"And what happens when you do something else wrong?" she wanted to know.
Blaine frowned, confused. "…what?" he asked stupidly.
Dr. Ramirez shrugged. "Doing everything right, getting better-they're elusive concepts, Blaine," she explained. "And what's more, they're not always possible, depending on how you choose to define them. You might always experience some degree of anxiety or anger or depression, or you might not. I can tell you, you will always screw up sometimes, because you're human."
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Whether or not you tell your parents about what happened so that they can support you while you work through it, and so they're prepared for any symptoms you present with while you're readjusting, isn't the point," she stressed. "The point is, how do you cope when things don't turn out the way that you thought they were going to, and it feels like everything is falling apart?"
She was talking about Blaine's screw-up; he knew that. But it was still obvious to Blaine that that wasn't all she was saying. "You think I'm making a mistake, going to Dalton," he said flatly, looking down at his feet.
If Dr. Ramirez reacted, Blaine didn't see it. "I think that you've given me a lot of good reasons for transferring schools," she responded evenly, "and from what I know about Dalton, I think it'll be a good fit for you. But I am a little concerned that you maybe haven't been completely honest with yourself about all the reasons that you want this."
This time, it was even clearer what Dr. Ramirez meant. "Kurt," Blaine exhaled, slumping uselessly into the couch.
Dr. Ramirez nodded seriously. "Kurt," she confirmed. "What about him?"
Blaine's eyes started to itch. He blinked ruthlessly to clear them. "I don't know," he admitted. "I just-I…"
He paused, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "I don't want to be the kind of person who runs away when things get hard, anymore," he explained slowly. "And right now, things are hard. I want him so much, and…but-"
Blaine sighed again, frustrated this time.
"I don't think I can be what he needs right now," he said finally. "I don't even know what he needs right now. And there are just so many things in the way, with his dad, and Jesse, and me leaving but not leaving, and…I don't even know if-"
Agitated, Blaine cut himself off abruptly before he could finish his thought.
I don't even know if he wants to be with me anymore.
Something of what he was thinking must have shown on his face, though, because Dr. Ramirez's expression softened. "It's been a while since you've talked to him, hasn't it," she said gently, uncrossing and recrossing her legs.
She was wearing a red pencil skirt, and Blaine sniffed, subdued; Kurt would have loved the color.
When he didn't answer, Dr. Ramirez leaned forward slightly in her chair. "Blaine, let me ask you something, and take a minute to think about it, if you'd like," she requested. "Are you still in love with him?"
Something in Blaine's chest snapped at the question. "Yes," he answered immediately, completely sure. "That's not even-yes, of course I do."
Dr. Ramirez nodded. "Okay," she said, sitting back. "And in spite of all your recent difficulties, together and separately, is what the two of you have worth trying to fix?"
Blaine's grip on the pillow tightened again. "It is," he affirmed slowly, watching the tendons in the back of his hand as they shifted. "He's…"
Blaine swallowed. "He's not perfect," he confessed, glancing back up at Dr. Ramirez. "We're not perfect. But I love him. He makes me want to be better, and I know that I do the same for him. And maybe things won't work out between us, but they definitely won't if I don't try. I have to try, right?"
He sniffed, and Dr. Ramirez reached out and grabbed the box of tissues sitting on her desk. "You don't have to do anything," she corrected him gently, passing him the box. "But it sounds like you have a lot of compelling reasons to talk to him."
Blaine dabbed at his eyes with a tissue. "This is probably all really stupid to you, isn't it?" he commented with a hollow laugh. "Me thinking that I've found the love of my life in high school."
To his surprise, Dr. Ramirez raised an eyebrow. "Why would I think that?" she wanted to know. "Because you're sixteen, you're automatically disqualified?"
She tilted her head. "Blaine, maybe you and Kurt will get married right after graduating from college and stay together for the rest of your lives, or maybe you'll break up tomorrow," she pointed out. "But just because it might not last forever doesn't mean that it's not real love. And even if I don't subscribe to the notion that there's only one perfect match out in the universe for everyone, I will say that anyone who isn't willing to put in a little bit of work and patience, now and then, in order to keep a relationship healthy…"
Blaine sighed. "Probably isn't worth it," he finished. "He is. I just…don't know what to say. Or what to ask him. How to do any of this."
Dr. Ramirez studied him for a moment. "Can you ask him for some time to figure it out?" she wanted to know.
At 4:37 am, Blaine tucked the eleventh draft of his letter into the pocket of Kurt's hoodie. It was a cowardly, inefficient way of making sure that Kurt got it, but at least when Kurt came over-and he would come over eventually, Blaine knew-he'd be alone. The idea that Jesse might still be staying with the Hummels, and might be the one to get the mail the day that Blaine's letter arrived, had been responsible for the accidental destruction of Draft #3.
After two weeks in Blaine's possession, only the faintest trace of Kurt's scent clung to the fabric of the sweatshirt. Blaine wrapped it around his pillow and cradled it while he slept anyway, his head resting right above the heart.
Seven hours and two minutes later, Blaine was moved into his new dorm room, and was walking into his first class at Dalton Academy.
Blaine's first month at Dalton was incredibly difficult, for reasons that had nothing to do with the school.
For days, he drifted. Like Dr. Ramirez had predicted, Blaine felt the effects of his medication misuse as his body slowly adjusted to his usual, smaller dosages, but she was also right that his symptoms weren't too severe-headaches, tiredness, a heaviness in his arms and legs that he couldn't remember feeling before. His moods swelled and dipped like waves, exhausting in their ceaselessness, but mild in intensity and soothing in their rolling consistency, at least.
He missed Kurt like a limb. It probably wasn't related to the medication.
Blaine's Thursday night appointment with Dr. Ramirez was held over Skype, so that he wouldn't have to leave school so quickly after arriving, and the promised phone call took place on Friday afternoon, once Blaine was done with his first week of classes and had locked himself into his pocket-sized dorm room for privacy; the speakers of his iPod dock aimed at the door to deter eavesdroppers. True to her word, Dr. Ramirez kept her tone even and the tale matter-of-fact, gently explaining to Blaine's mother that Blaine had been undergoing more stress over the previous few weeks than even he had realized, and had been unthinkingly taking his medication a little too often in order to compensate. That he might be a bit more anxious or volatile than usual for a couple of weeks, but that treating him normally and keeping the lines of communication open between them (and the extra appointments) were the best ways to support Blaine while he adjusted to all of the changes going on in his life.
His mother had tried to hide it, but her voice had gotten scratchy and high-pitched as she agreed to anything that Dr. Ramirez thought that Blaine might need, the way it always did when she was trying not to cry. It wasn't the worst that Blaine had ever felt, but neither was it the first time that he felt like his mother deserved a better son than him.
When Blaine hung up the phone after the mercifully short conference call, there was a message from Kurt waiting for him.
I love you so much. Please call me whenever you're ready. I love you.
After shakily typing a response and crying for half an hour out of sheer relief, Blaine changed out of his uniform, brushed his teeth, and slept for fourteen hours in a row. If he dreamed at all, he didn't remember it.
It took Blaine two weeks to get used to the more difficult coursework at Dalton.
It took him significantly longer to get used to how abnormally polite everyone there was.
Unlike at Carmel, where Blaine spent his first month feeling like a specimen under a microscope, nobody at Dalton whispered about him behind his back, or pointed at him from across the cafeteria (the "dining hall", according to his Dalton Academy Student Handbook), or openly stared at him when he walked into the room. If Blaine did catch someone looking at him, it was always accompanied by a smile or a friendly nod, and he had lost track of the number of people who had cordially shaken his hand and introduced themselves by the end of his second day.
It was weird. But a good kind of weird, at least.
The worst offenders-if kindness could be considered an offense, and Blaine didn't count it as one-were the vaguely familiar-looking boys who approached him in pairs or trios in the hall, eager to help him find the math wing or the student lounge or wherever it was he was trying to get to with his awkwardly large, printed map. In his haze, it took Blaine an embarrassingly long time to recognize them all as Warblers, most of whom he'd previously met at least once or twice.
Strangely enough, and probably contributing to Blaine's confusion, not a single one of them mentioned anything about show choir or music in Blaine's presence, choosing instead to tell him all about the fencing and soccer teams (both popular choices), the debating club and student council (even more popular), or their classes (a necessary evil to get into Harvard or Yale). Blaine was alternately confused and grateful-he didn't want to talk about Vocal Adrenaline-or the Warblers yet, really-but he found it bizarre how everyone seemed to be avoiding the topic, especially given how he'd met most of them in the first place.
It occurred to him at one point that Kurt would have been thrilled by the prospect of an elite boarding school filled with Stepford-boys and shrouded in intrigue.
The thought almost made him smile.
The first weekend that Blaine went home, his father took him out for ice cream.
"Has Grandma ever brought you to that ice cream parlor near Kew Gardens?" he asked Blaine while they were waiting in line for their cones. "I can't remember if I ever told you this or not, but you had your first ice cream there when you were three."
Blaine looked at him curiously; he hadn't known that. "What flavor did I get?" he wanted to know.
His dad grimaced. "Chocolate Birthday Cake," he answered. "It looked disgusting. Your mom wanted to get you vanilla, since she was afraid that the chocolate flakes might be a choking hazard, but you were dead set on getting it because it was the brightest ice cream."
Blaine nodded absently, trying to picture his parents thirteen years younger and with a bossy, self-assured toddler in tow.
"Did I like it?" he wondered.
His dad smiled. "You did," he confirmed. "You liked it so much that you almost knocked over a table trying to share it with a baby sitting on the other side of the shop-you didn't think it was fair that she was the only one there who didn't get an ice cream."
"That sounds like something I would have done," Blaine admitted ruefully.
His father reached over and ruffled his hair. "I'm not so sure that you wouldn't do it again now, given the chance," he corrected gently.
Three weeks after his arrival at Dalton, Blaine's headaches were nearly gone, but he was still constantly tired; a thorough, bone-deep weariness that was only partially alleviated by massive amounts of caffeine. Luckily, almost as if someone had anticipated his problem, there were coffee trays all over campus-in the dining hall, the student lounges, outside the faculty room, etc.
The blend wasn't as delicious as Jesse's Columbian roast, but Blaine firmly blocked out that thought whenever it crept up on him unexpectedly.
The student lounge coffee was always the freshest, and Blaine was pouring his second cup of the morning-it was 8:00am-when Wes walked in and spotted him.
"Blaine, good morning," he greeted him, taking one of the stiff paper cups and filling it with hot water. "I haven't seen you since Monday; how has your week been?"
Blaine wasn't quite awake enough for conversation yet, but he shrugged politely anyway, deeply aware of Wes's seeming fondness for manners. "Fine," he answered, voice a bit hoarse from disuse. "How about you?"
Wes neatly tore open a teabag and dunked it into his steaming cup. "There was a slight mishap with the bus scheduled to take the Warblers to our performance at the Greater Oaks Nursing Home yesterday, but luckily it was sorted out in time. Besides that, nothing terribly exciting; thank you for asking."
Blaine started a bit at Wes's casual mention of the Warblers-and it must have shown, because Wes frowned slightly. "I hope none of them have been pestering you about auditioning," he said in an apologetic tone. "If the group had its way, you would have been ambushed with sheet music the minute you drove through the gate. They're under strict orders from the Council not to bother you about anything until you've had the opportunity to get settled in."
Only the fact that Wes was looking straight at him kept Blaine from rolling his eyes in amusement-mystery solved, apparently.
"They've been extremely non-bothersome," he assured Wes, who smiled proudly. Blaine didn't quite smile back. "Does you telling me this mean that my grace period is up?" he wondered out loud.
Wes's expression remained mild. "Only if you'd like," he promised. "But we'd be thrilled to have you audition, you know that-really, with your talent, it would be more of a formality than anything."
He looked hopefully at Blaine, who bit his lip nervously. "Wes, I don't know…" he trailed off, not certain what to say.
He missed singing, but the last time he had jumped into his new school's show choir without seriously thinking about it, it hadn't gone over spectacularly, in the end.
Wes was watching him sympathetically. "You don't have to give me an answer right away," he assured Blaine. "In fact, I'd encourage you to take a few days to think about it. If you're worried about the time commitment, though, I can promise you that we're certainly less ambitious than Vocal Adrenaline-we only practice three days a week, and we're quite lenient about attendance during exam weeks."
Blaine sighed. "I'm not…it's not that," he admitted slowly, wishing that he was back in bed instead of having that particular conversation. "It's…"
He shook his head.
"Vocal Adrenaline?" Wes suggested gently.
Blaine nodded.
Wed nodded back. "If it helps," he offered sagely, "the Warblers, while steeped in school pride and tradition, lack the national prestige that Vocal Adrenaline has. We have more room to be supportive and empathetic to each other, as individuals and as a group.
"And, if I may say so?" he added with a smile. "We're rather well-liked around the school, and not because of how we affect anyone's college application."
He added a spoonful of sugar to his tea. "I have first period physics, so I'd better be on my way," he told Blaine with a small, regretful smile. "Why don't you sleep on your decision? Let me know on Sunday what you think."
He waited patiently for Blaine to nod in agreement before leaving the room.
Blaine's coffee had gone lukewarm.
Blaine had dialed the number fifteen times already, hanging up each time before it could ring. This time, however, he was determined to stay on the line. It's only 2:15, he reassured himself as he held the ringing phone up to his ear with sweating hands. It's only 2:15, he's still in school; he won't answer.
Right before Blaine was about to give up and hang up, maybe try again some other time (preferably a time that was far, far off in the future), the phone clicked.
"Hummel Tires & Lube," a rough baritone voice answered. "This is Jason, how can I help you?"
Blaine almost dropped the phone.
"Uh, hello," he managed after a couple of seconds, remembering to lower his vocal pitch enough to make him sound older. "My name's David; I talked to Burt Hummel a few weeks ago about an old Chevy I needed help finding parts for. Is he available today?"
Jason hissed softly in his ear. "He's not, actually," he said in a regretful tone. "Burt had a bad health scare recently, and he's been at home recovering for a couple of weeks now."
Blaine was prepared for a similar answer-Kurt would have told him if the unthinkable had happened, Blaine knew it-but hearing it still caused a lump to form in his throat. "I'm so sorry to hear that," Blaine replied seriously, trying to sound appropriately sympathetic without betraying how much Burt's heart attack had actually affected him. "How is he doing?"
"Well, he's not 100%, but he's getting better," Jason shared. "He'll probably be back in the shop part time in another week, if the doctor okays it."
Blaine covered the receiver with his hand in order to hide his relieved sigh, the rigid tension in his frame relaxing at the good news.
On the other end of the phone line, Jason was still talking. "If you want, I can check on those parts for you. Burt's kid'll be in in about half an hour, and he's actually faster than Burt at things like inventory."
Blaine's mouth went dry at the mention of Kurt. "Y-yeah, he did say something about having a son," he stammered, trying to keep his tone even.
If Jason noticed his vocal tremor, he didn't comment on it. "Yeah, he's in high school," he continued instead, "smartest kid alive. He's been bending over backwards since Burt got sick, trying to balance school and activities and the shop, all on top of taking care of his old man. Want me to have him call you about the parts?"
A tear slipped down Blaine's cheek. He didn't wipe it away. "That's okay," he said, his voice a little rougher than before. "We hadn't talked specifics yet, so I'm still not sure what I need. I'll stop in sometime next month, when he's feeling better-give him my best."
Jason coughed. "Sure thing, David," he confirmed. "Take care."
Wes was studying calculus in the student lounge when Blaine tracked him down on Sunday night.
"Here's the thing," Blaine explained quickly, before Wes could say anything too convincing. "I haven't sung anything in almost a month, not since Regionals. And by the time I left Carmel, I wasn't sure I wanted to."
Wes remained quiet, while Blaine stared at his feet, swallowing.
"But I miss performing," he admitted, "and I think the last time I sang with anyone but my boyfriend and actually had fun was when I sang with the Warblers at Christmas. And I don't want to hold back from doing the things I like just because I'm afraid that they won't work out. If I audition and get in-"
"You will," Wes promised.
"If I audition and get in," Blaine repeated, determined, "can I just…try it for a few weeks and see if I like it? Without committing to the rest of the year?"
Wes was smiling. "We have a month-long trial period for new members, to make sure that anyone who passes the audition is a good fit for the group," he told Blaine. "I don't see why it can't go both ways. How does tomorrow after school sound?"
When they had worked out a specific time and place, Wes clapped Blaine on the shoulder. "For what it's worth," he told Blaine, "I think you're going to be just fine."
For the first time since he'd walked into the lounge, Blaine smiled.
"Yeah," he said. "I think so, too."
Chapter 28/3? Getting close, for sure.
This took forever! My apologies-I wanted to post it yesterday, but my internet connection has been awful all week (which is also my explanation for the lack of review/message responses so far-I'm getting to them this weekend, I promise).
This chapter, while still well over 5,000 words, originally had two more scenes that didn't make it to the final cut, including a chat with Grandma Anderson. I'll rewrite them and work them in later, since they're of some importance, but they didn't quite gel with the rest of the chapter for whatever reason. So this chapter should take less than an hour to read, for once :)
I don't own anything, as usual. Sad.
Calling the Admissions Office and accepting his place at Dalton Academy ended up setting off a flurry of activity, enough to keep Blaine impossibly busy for nearly three days.
There were mountains of paperwork to fill out and sign, medical records to be authorized and faxed, a withdrawal form to complete and a locker to empty at Carmel, and meetings with the Dean and several counselors at his new school-the former to officially welcome him to Dalton and assure his mother that the dorms were well supervised during the week; the others to make sure he received the necessities (school ID, Student Handbook, Code of Conduct, etc.) and to get him placed in the appropriate classes. Everyone seemed weirdly happy to meet with him. The Student Life Counselor, in particular, was thrilled to learn that Blaine already had some friends at the school, and promised to have a word with the fencing coaches about getting Blaine started in an after-school Basics class. He also had to get fitted for his new uniform, which actually came in a number of different options besides the official blazer that Blaine had always seen Wes and the other Warblers wearing.
His initial reaction to seeing the sweaters and vests, neatly hung on wooden hangers to avoid stretching and wrinkles, was that Kurt would have grudgingly approved. His second was to spend five minutes anxiously worrying about whether or not he was…allowed to think of Kurt so casually, anymore.
"I didn't think we'd be doing this until you were ready to leave for college," his mother mentioned with a sigh as she handed Blaine their shopping bags to load into the trunk of the car, their red plastic cart piled high with linens and extra pillows and all of the other supplies he'd need to live comfortably in his new dorm room four days a week. "You're just growing up so fast, Darling. It's hard to think about sometimes."
When the bags were secure, Blaine returned the cart and climbed into the passenger seat of his mom's sedan in silence, unwilling to confess to her that, rather than growing up, all he had done was find a more grown up method of running away.
Because Blaine had missed his appointment with Dr. Ramirez the week before-and would likely miss his next one as well, since Thursday would be his first full day of classes at Dalton-his mother had arranged an emergency session for him on Tuesday night. Blaine had spent most of the afternoon and evening packing, and was already exhausted by the time he made it onto Dr. Ramirez's soft, white couch, but he dutifully outlined everything of importance that had happened since the last time they'd seen each other.
It took him awhile.
By the time he finished, Dr. Ramirez had quit taking notes and was staring at him, eyebrows raised. "So-an eventful two weeks for you, then," she said finally, drastically underestimating the situation.
Blaine tried not to roll his eyes. "Yeah," he agreed quietly, "something like that."
Dr. Ramirez nodded, adjusting her glasses. "Really, though, that's quite a lot of stress to handle all at once," she pointed out. "How have you been handling it?"
Blaine shrugged. "Not very well," he admitted. "It sort of feels like…it's like I haven't really accepted that everything's really happening, because if I did, I'd probably stop functioning." He pulled absentmindedly at a tassel on the pillow that had somehow ended up in his lap, socked feet burrowing themselves further into the couch cushions. "I don't want to be how I was in the fall," he confessed. "I felt like a zombie. If it wasn't for Kurt-"
Blaine broke off sharply. Even if Kurt was on his mind in some capacity most of the time, talking about him-outside of the brief overview he'd had to give Dr. Ramirez of the past couple of weeks-was…different, somehow. Harder.
Dr. Ramirez looked knowingly at him, but didn't press the subject. Which Blaine was initially thankful for, until her mouth twisted into the slight frown that she always wore whenever she was about to say something that she knew Blaine wouldn't like.
Blaine's stomach dropped.
If Dr. Ramirez noticed his unease, which Blaine was sure she had, she ignored it, looking at him evenly. "Part of the reason I ask is that I have other students who go to Dalton," she explained, "so I'm aware of their prescription medication policies. When your mother called to make tonight's appointment and tell me about your transfer, I was able to talk to her directly, and informed her that she'd have to secure a supply of your pills with the school nurse, who would lock them up and give them to you at whatever time you schedule with her."
Blaine's breathing had sped up without him noticing; his heart fluttering in his chest as his palms began to sweat uncomfortably. He couldn't look at Dr. Ramirez, who was still talking:
"This isn't an accusation, or any sort of judgment, Blaine-but it is a serious safety concern," she was saying, her neutral tone burning in his ears nonetheless. "When she said she'd tried to pack it for you but that you were nearly out of the alprazolam, I asked her to count the number of pills in each bottle, and I checked my notes to see when I last wrote a prescription for you."
Blaine was numb. "I don't have the right amount," he heard himself confessing, his fingers tightening around the pillow in his hands.
"You're a couple of weeks' short," Dr. Ramirez confirmed, setting her notes aside completely and folding her own hands in her lap. "Can you tell me why, Blaine?"
Blaine tried to shake his head. "My mom…" he began, before stopping, unable to concentrate on the question, only vaguely aware that he was in trouble and should be feeling something, anything.
Why don't I feel anything?
"I didn't say anything to your mother," Dr. Ramirez was saying, her voice barely breaking through the buzzing in Blaine's head. "I wasn't entirely sure what it was that I was looking at and, given that some of the possibilities are protected by patient confidentiality law, I thought it would be best to talk to you first."
Blaine nodded shakily.
Dr. Ramirez was still gazing steadily at him. "My first concern right now is your well-being," she stressed quietly, "not getting you in any sort of trouble. If you've been selling your pills"-Blaine's eyes widened; he hadn't even considered that she might think that-"it's obviously not ideal, but you'd hardly be the first person to do it, and we'll deal with it together."
Blaine shook his head before she could continue. "That's not-I haven't been doing that," he promised, swallowing painfully. "I haven't."
Dr. Ramirez nodded. "I didn't think you were," she agreed. "I'm more worried that maybe you've been taking your medication too often or in too large a dose, or that you might be stockpiling it somewhere. If either of those is the case, Blaine, I need you to understand that I'm not here to be angry or disappointed with you, and that it's much more important that you tell me the truth so that I can get you any immediate medical help that you might need. Do you understand that?"
Blaine's vision was beginning to swim, and he blinked several times before nodding.
Dr. Ramirez nodded back. "Good," she praised gently. "Thank you. Now, can you tell me what's been going on?"
Slowly, achingly, the whole story spilled out-how he'd taken an extra pill every once in a while at first, when his anxiety or depression became too much to handle. How switching his dosage when they had had helped for a little while, but that the nightmares after the Winter Ball had kept him from really sleeping and made everything harder to deal with.
How, over the last week and a half, he'd stopped caring what or how much he was taking, because it was the only thing that was helping. As long as he didn't have to feel.
"It sounds so stupid and self-destructive when I say it now," Blaine admitted, pressing his closed eyes with the palms of his hands. "Like I should have known better, or been smarter than that."
Dr. Ramirez looked up from her notepad, where she had been scribbling in time with Blaine's pathetic explanation. "Do you feel as though you should have known better?" she wanted to know.
Blaine opened his mouth to answer-and paused.
After determining that Blaine hadn't done enough damage to necessitate an immediate trip to the hospital, Dr. Ramirez explained that she was going to have to slowly adjust all of his dosages over the next several weeks. "Drugs interact in your system," she noted. "If you change the amount you're taking of one prescription, you have to calculate the effect it'll have on the others, and compensate."
Blaine agreed to whatever changes she needed to make, agreed to her discussing his case with the school nurse who'd be responsible for doling out his medication-"She's absolutely not allowed to talk about you with any of the other students," she'd promised-agreed to an additional therapy session over Skype each week while he was adjusting to everything, agreed that he'd definitely call her or 911 if he was feeling even the tiniest bit suicidal.
"And Blaine?" Dr. Ramirez added, voice carefully neutral, "I think that this is something that your parents should be aware of."
Blaine sat up so quickly that his lower back spasmed. "Please don't," he begged, the awful potential scenarios of what would happen if his parents knew everything-his mother crying, undoing all of the progress he'd finally started making with his dad, them shipping him off to rehab in a misguided attempt to help him-unfolding in his mind. "I'm not going to…"
He swallowed. "I just really want to do everything right this time," he promised. "I just want to get better, and be normal. I won't do something like this again, I swear. Just, please don't tell them."
Dr. Ramirez looked at him. "You're certain that this won't happen again?" she asked.
Blaine nodded, eyes wide.
"And what happens when you do something else wrong?" she wanted to know.
Blaine frowned, confused. "…what?" he asked stupidly.
Dr. Ramirez shrugged. "Doing everything right, getting better-they're elusive concepts, Blaine," she explained. "And what's more, they're not always possible, depending on how you choose to define them. You might always experience some degree of anxiety or anger or depression, or you might not. I can tell you, you will always screw up sometimes, because you're human."
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Whether or not you tell your parents about what happened so that they can support you while you work through it, and so they're prepared for any symptoms you present with while you're readjusting, isn't the point," she stressed. "The point is, how do you cope when things don't turn out the way that you thought they were going to, and it feels like everything is falling apart?"
She was talking about Blaine's screw-up; he knew that. But it was still obvious to Blaine that that wasn't all she was saying. "You think I'm making a mistake, going to Dalton," he said flatly, looking down at his feet.
If Dr. Ramirez reacted, Blaine didn't see it. "I think that you've given me a lot of good reasons for transferring schools," she responded evenly, "and from what I know about Dalton, I think it'll be a good fit for you. But I am a little concerned that you maybe haven't been completely honest with yourself about all the reasons that you want this."
This time, it was even clearer what Dr. Ramirez meant. "Kurt," Blaine exhaled, slumping uselessly into the couch.
Dr. Ramirez nodded seriously. "Kurt," she confirmed. "What about him?"
Blaine's eyes started to itch. He blinked ruthlessly to clear them. "I don't know," he admitted. "I just-I…"
He paused, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "I don't want to be the kind of person who runs away when things get hard, anymore," he explained slowly. "And right now, things are hard. I want him so much, and…but-"
Blaine sighed again, frustrated this time.
"I don't think I can be what he needs right now," he said finally. "I don't even know what he needs right now. And there are just so many things in the way, with his dad, and Jesse, and me leaving but not leaving, and…I don't even know if-"
Agitated, Blaine cut himself off abruptly before he could finish his thought.
I don't even know if he wants to be with me anymore.
Something of what he was thinking must have shown on his face, though, because Dr. Ramirez's expression softened. "It's been a while since you've talked to him, hasn't it," she said gently, uncrossing and recrossing her legs.
She was wearing a red pencil skirt, and Blaine sniffed, subdued; Kurt would have loved the color.
When he didn't answer, Dr. Ramirez leaned forward slightly in her chair. "Blaine, let me ask you something, and take a minute to think about it, if you'd like," she requested. "Are you still in love with him?"
Something in Blaine's chest snapped at the question. "Yes," he answered immediately, completely sure. "That's not even-yes, of course I do."
Dr. Ramirez nodded. "Okay," she said, sitting back. "And in spite of all your recent difficulties, together and separately, is what the two of you have worth trying to fix?"
Blaine's grip on the pillow tightened again. "It is," he affirmed slowly, watching the tendons in the back of his hand as they shifted. "He's…"
Blaine swallowed. "He's not perfect," he confessed, glancing back up at Dr. Ramirez. "We're not perfect. But I love him. He makes me want to be better, and I know that I do the same for him. And maybe things won't work out between us, but they definitely won't if I don't try. I have to try, right?"
He sniffed, and Dr. Ramirez reached out and grabbed the box of tissues sitting on her desk. "You don't have to do anything," she corrected him gently, passing him the box. "But it sounds like you have a lot of compelling reasons to talk to him."
Blaine dabbed at his eyes with a tissue. "This is probably all really stupid to you, isn't it?" he commented with a hollow laugh. "Me thinking that I've found the love of my life in high school."
To his surprise, Dr. Ramirez raised an eyebrow. "Why would I think that?" she wanted to know. "Because you're sixteen, you're automatically disqualified?"
She tilted her head. "Blaine, maybe you and Kurt will get married right after graduating from college and stay together for the rest of your lives, or maybe you'll break up tomorrow," she pointed out. "But just because it might not last forever doesn't mean that it's not real love. And even if I don't subscribe to the notion that there's only one perfect match out in the universe for everyone, I will say that anyone who isn't willing to put in a little bit of work and patience, now and then, in order to keep a relationship healthy…"
Blaine sighed. "Probably isn't worth it," he finished. "He is. I just…don't know what to say. Or what to ask him. How to do any of this."
Dr. Ramirez studied him for a moment. "Can you ask him for some time to figure it out?" she wanted to know.
At 4:37 am, Blaine tucked the eleventh draft of his letter into the pocket of Kurt's hoodie. It was a cowardly, inefficient way of making sure that Kurt got it, but at least when Kurt came over-and he would come over eventually, Blaine knew-he'd be alone. The idea that Jesse might still be staying with the Hummels, and might be the one to get the mail the day that Blaine's letter arrived, had been responsible for the accidental destruction of Draft #3.
After two weeks in Blaine's possession, only the faintest trace of Kurt's scent clung to the fabric of the sweatshirt. Blaine wrapped it around his pillow and cradled it while he slept anyway, his head resting right above the heart.
Seven hours and two minutes later, Blaine was moved into his new dorm room, and was walking into his first class at Dalton Academy.
Blaine's first month at Dalton was incredibly difficult, for reasons that had nothing to do with the school.
For days, he drifted. Like Dr. Ramirez had predicted, Blaine felt the effects of his medication misuse as his body slowly adjusted to his usual, smaller dosages, but she was also right that his symptoms weren't too severe-headaches, tiredness, a heaviness in his arms and legs that he couldn't remember feeling before. His moods swelled and dipped like waves, exhausting in their ceaselessness, but mild in intensity and soothing in their rolling consistency, at least.
He missed Kurt like a limb. It probably wasn't related to the medication.
Blaine's Thursday night appointment with Dr. Ramirez was held over Skype, so that he wouldn't have to leave school so quickly after arriving, and the promised phone call took place on Friday afternoon, once Blaine was done with his first week of classes and had locked himself into his pocket-sized dorm room for privacy; the speakers of his iPod dock aimed at the door to deter eavesdroppers. True to her word, Dr. Ramirez kept her tone even and the tale matter-of-fact, gently explaining to Blaine's mother that Blaine had been undergoing more stress over the previous few weeks than even he had realized, and had been unthinkingly taking his medication a little too often in order to compensate. That he might be a bit more anxious or volatile than usual for a couple of weeks, but that treating him normally and keeping the lines of communication open between them (and the extra appointments) were the best ways to support Blaine while he adjusted to all of the changes going on in his life.
His mother had tried to hide it, but her voice had gotten scratchy and high-pitched as she agreed to anything that Dr. Ramirez thought that Blaine might need, the way it always did when she was trying not to cry. It wasn't the worst that Blaine had ever felt, but neither was it the first time that he felt like his mother deserved a better son than him.
When Blaine hung up the phone after the mercifully short conference call, there was a message from Kurt waiting for him.
I love you so much. Please call me whenever you're ready. I love you.
After shakily typing a response and crying for half an hour out of sheer relief, Blaine changed out of his uniform, brushed his teeth, and slept for fourteen hours in a row. If he dreamed at all, he didn't remember it.
It took Blaine two weeks to get used to the more difficult coursework at Dalton.
It took him significantly longer to get used to how abnormally polite everyone there was.
Unlike at Carmel, where Blaine spent his first month feeling like a specimen under a microscope, nobody at Dalton whispered about him behind his back, or pointed at him from across the cafeteria (the "dining hall", according to his Dalton Academy Student Handbook), or openly stared at him when he walked into the room. If Blaine did catch someone looking at him, it was always accompanied by a smile or a friendly nod, and he had lost track of the number of people who had cordially shaken his hand and introduced themselves by the end of his second day.
It was weird. But a good kind of weird, at least.
The worst offenders-if kindness could be considered an offense, and Blaine didn't count it as one-were the vaguely familiar-looking boys who approached him in pairs or trios in the hall, eager to help him find the math wing or the student lounge or wherever it was he was trying to get to with his awkwardly large, printed map. In his haze, it took Blaine an embarrassingly long time to recognize them all as Warblers, most of whom he'd previously met at least once or twice.
Strangely enough, and probably contributing to Blaine's confusion, not a single one of them mentioned anything about show choir or music in Blaine's presence, choosing instead to tell him all about the fencing and soccer teams (both popular choices), the debating club and student council (even more popular), or their classes (a necessary evil to get into Harvard or Yale). Blaine was alternately confused and grateful-he didn't want to talk about Vocal Adrenaline-or the Warblers yet, really-but he found it bizarre how everyone seemed to be avoiding the topic, especially given how he'd met most of them in the first place.
It occurred to him at one point that Kurt would have been thrilled by the prospect of an elite boarding school filled with Stepford-boys and shrouded in intrigue.
The thought almost made him smile.
The first weekend that Blaine went home, his father took him out for ice cream.
"Has Grandma ever brought you to that ice cream parlor near Kew Gardens?" he asked Blaine while they were waiting in line for their cones. "I can't remember if I ever told you this or not, but you had your first ice cream there when you were three."
Blaine looked at him curiously; he hadn't known that. "What flavor did I get?" he wanted to know.
His dad grimaced. "Chocolate Birthday Cake," he answered. "It looked disgusting. Your mom wanted to get you vanilla, since she was afraid that the chocolate flakes might be a choking hazard, but you were dead set on getting it because it was the brightest ice cream."
Blaine nodded absently, trying to picture his parents thirteen years younger and with a bossy, self-assured toddler in tow.
"Did I like it?" he wondered.
His dad smiled. "You did," he confirmed. "You liked it so much that you almost knocked over a table trying to share it with a baby sitting on the other side of the shop-you didn't think it was fair that she was the only one there who didn't get an ice cream."
"That sounds like something I would have done," Blaine admitted ruefully.
His father reached over and ruffled his hair. "I'm not so sure that you wouldn't do it again now, given the chance," he corrected gently.
Three weeks after his arrival at Dalton, Blaine's headaches were nearly gone, but he was still constantly tired; a thorough, bone-deep weariness that was only partially alleviated by massive amounts of caffeine. Luckily, almost as if someone had anticipated his problem, there were coffee trays all over campus-in the dining hall, the student lounges, outside the faculty room, etc.
The blend wasn't as delicious as Jesse's Columbian roast, but Blaine firmly blocked out that thought whenever it crept up on him unexpectedly.
The student lounge coffee was always the freshest, and Blaine was pouring his second cup of the morning-it was 8:00am-when Wes walked in and spotted him.
"Blaine, good morning," he greeted him, taking one of the stiff paper cups and filling it with hot water. "I haven't seen you since Monday; how has your week been?"
Blaine wasn't quite awake enough for conversation yet, but he shrugged politely anyway, deeply aware of Wes's seeming fondness for manners. "Fine," he answered, voice a bit hoarse from disuse. "How about you?"
Wes neatly tore open a teabag and dunked it into his steaming cup. "There was a slight mishap with the bus scheduled to take the Warblers to our performance at the Greater Oaks Nursing Home yesterday, but luckily it was sorted out in time. Besides that, nothing terribly exciting; thank you for asking."
Blaine started a bit at Wes's casual mention of the Warblers-and it must have shown, because Wes frowned slightly. "I hope none of them have been pestering you about auditioning," he said in an apologetic tone. "If the group had its way, you would have been ambushed with sheet music the minute you drove through the gate. They're under strict orders from the Council not to bother you about anything until you've had the opportunity to get settled in."
Only the fact that Wes was looking straight at him kept Blaine from rolling his eyes in amusement-mystery solved, apparently.
"They've been extremely non-bothersome," he assured Wes, who smiled proudly. Blaine didn't quite smile back. "Does you telling me this mean that my grace period is up?" he wondered out loud.
Wes's expression remained mild. "Only if you'd like," he promised. "But we'd be thrilled to have you audition, you know that-really, with your talent, it would be more of a formality than anything."
He looked hopefully at Blaine, who bit his lip nervously. "Wes, I don't know…" he trailed off, not certain what to say.
He missed singing, but the last time he had jumped into his new school's show choir without seriously thinking about it, it hadn't gone over spectacularly, in the end.
Wes was watching him sympathetically. "You don't have to give me an answer right away," he assured Blaine. "In fact, I'd encourage you to take a few days to think about it. If you're worried about the time commitment, though, I can promise you that we're certainly less ambitious than Vocal Adrenaline-we only practice three days a week, and we're quite lenient about attendance during exam weeks."
Blaine sighed. "I'm not…it's not that," he admitted slowly, wishing that he was back in bed instead of having that particular conversation. "It's…"
He shook his head.
"Vocal Adrenaline?" Wes suggested gently.
Blaine nodded.
Wed nodded back. "If it helps," he offered sagely, "the Warblers, while steeped in school pride and tradition, lack the national prestige that Vocal Adrenaline has. We have more room to be supportive and empathetic to each other, as individuals and as a group.
"And, if I may say so?" he added with a smile. "We're rather well-liked around the school, and not because of how we affect anyone's college application."
He added a spoonful of sugar to his tea. "I have first period physics, so I'd better be on my way," he told Blaine with a small, regretful smile. "Why don't you sleep on your decision? Let me know on Sunday what you think."
He waited patiently for Blaine to nod in agreement before leaving the room.
Blaine's coffee had gone lukewarm.
Blaine had dialed the number fifteen times already, hanging up each time before it could ring. This time, however, he was determined to stay on the line. It's only 2:15, he reassured himself as he held the ringing phone up to his ear with sweating hands. It's only 2:15, he's still in school; he won't answer.
Right before Blaine was about to give up and hang up, maybe try again some other time (preferably a time that was far, far off in the future), the phone clicked.
"Hummel Tires & Lube," a rough baritone voice answered. "This is Jason, how can I help you?"
Blaine almost dropped the phone.
"Uh, hello," he managed after a couple of seconds, remembering to lower his vocal pitch enough to make him sound older. "My name's David; I talked to Burt Hummel a few weeks ago about an old Chevy I needed help finding parts for. Is he available today?"
Jason hissed softly in his ear. "He's not, actually," he said in a regretful tone. "Burt had a bad health scare recently, and he's been at home recovering for a couple of weeks now."
Blaine was prepared for a similar answer-Kurt would have told him if the unthinkable had happened, Blaine knew it-but hearing it still caused a lump to form in his throat. "I'm so sorry to hear that," Blaine replied seriously, trying to sound appropriately sympathetic without betraying how much Burt's heart attack had actually affected him. "How is he doing?"
"Well, he's not 100%, but he's getting better," Jason shared. "He'll probably be back in the shop part time in another week, if the doctor okays it."
Blaine covered the receiver with his hand in order to hide his relieved sigh, the rigid tension in his frame relaxing at the good news.
On the other end of the phone line, Jason was still talking. "If you want, I can check on those parts for you. Burt's kid'll be in in about half an hour, and he's actually faster than Burt at things like inventory."
Blaine's mouth went dry at the mention of Kurt. "Y-yeah, he did say something about having a son," he stammered, trying to keep his tone even.
If Jason noticed his vocal tremor, he didn't comment on it. "Yeah, he's in high school," he continued instead, "smartest kid alive. He's been bending over backwards since Burt got sick, trying to balance school and activities and the shop, all on top of taking care of his old man. Want me to have him call you about the parts?"
A tear slipped down Blaine's cheek. He didn't wipe it away. "That's okay," he said, his voice a little rougher than before. "We hadn't talked specifics yet, so I'm still not sure what I need. I'll stop in sometime next month, when he's feeling better-give him my best."
Jason coughed. "Sure thing, David," he confirmed. "Take care."
Wes was studying calculus in the student lounge when Blaine tracked him down on Sunday night.
"Here's the thing," Blaine explained quickly, before Wes could say anything too convincing. "I haven't sung anything in almost a month, not since Regionals. And by the time I left Carmel, I wasn't sure I wanted to."
Wes remained quiet, while Blaine stared at his feet, swallowing.
"But I miss performing," he admitted, "and I think the last time I sang with anyone but my boyfriend and actually had fun was when I sang with the Warblers at Christmas. And I don't want to hold back from doing the things I like just because I'm afraid that they won't work out. If I audition and get in-"
"You will," Wes promised.
"If I audition and get in," Blaine repeated, determined, "can I just…try it for a few weeks and see if I like it? Without committing to the rest of the year?"
Wes was smiling. "We have a month-long trial period for new members, to make sure that anyone who passes the audition is a good fit for the group," he told Blaine. "I don't see why it can't go both ways. How does tomorrow after school sound?"
When they had worked out a specific time and place, Wes clapped Blaine on the shoulder. "For what it's worth," he told Blaine, "I think you're going to be just fine."
For the first time since he'd walked into the lounge, Blaine smiled.
"Yeah," he said. "I think so, too."