Today my dad tells me, "I hope you know I'm not paying for you to go to gay school this year, Blaine. You need to spend more time around women."
My dad is some kind of accountant or banker or something. He's one of those very handsome and very masculine men who wear suits every day, makes women swoon just by smiling, and has absolutely no sense of humour or human decency.
I wonder why I didn't see this coming. "Dad…" I don't really know what to say that won't start a fight I don't want to start. "It's not a gay school. Dalton's the best school in the state. Come on. I got straight A's last year."
Dalton is my sanctuary from all of the things I hate and fear. It's an all-boys boarding school utopia that probably saved my life and I want to go back. I don't like living in my dad's house.
Dad scowls. "You spent the year singing and dancing with a bunch of dudes, Blaine. I don't think you know uncomfortable that makes me."
This guy forced me through twelve years of violin lessons and now he's pissed that I joined a glee club.
I say, "I'm a musician. That shouldn't make you uncomfortable."
We're eating breakfast in our kitchen and it's about a million degrees out already so it's impossible not to be uncomfortable right now.
Dad shakes his head. "When you played violin, you were a musician. The song and dance thing isn't music."
I can't play violin anymore because of nerve damage in my hand from being assaulted by my homophobic best friends at the last public school I went to.
I say, "Dad, I can't go back to Bellville. I can't."
He stares at me with that calculating, unfeeling gaze that always puts me on edge. I feel my heart starting to pound. "There are other schools in Lima, Blaine," he says, "The important thing is that you spend some time around girls."
"Why?" I ask, "Why is that so important to you? It's not going to change anything."
Sometimes I think things would be a lot easier if I hadn't inherited my dad's tendency to get angry and argue. My dad isn't the type of person who ever changes his mind or likes to put up with his 16-year-old son talking back.
He says, "Blaine, this is not up for debate. I need you at home this year, and I need you to stop pretending that what happened to you at Bellville was anyone's fault but your own. End of discussion!"
What happened to me at Bellville was a bunch of people I thought I could trust putting me in intensive care because I asked a boy to a dance, but yeah, I guess that was my fault.
"Fine!" I say, "You know what, dad? I'll pay my own way at Dalton."
Dad laughs. "You will, will you? Be my fucking guest. All I'm saying is I'm not paying."
"Fine," I say, "Fine."