Broken Bird

This year has not gone at all according to plan. I realize this when Mercedes comes over, and we don't really know what to talk about.

"Oh my God, Kurt!" As greetings go, I would have preferred a simple "hello". She rushes over and hugs me.

"Yeah," I say struggling out of it, "hugs hurt actually." I don't mean to sound so blunt, but it's true, and it's not like I can help it.

"Sorry," she says. I can tell she isn't just referring to awkward, painful hugs. She has that look in her eyes, that look that I hate. "I'm so sorry, Kurt."

"It's okay." If she's over here just to be sorry, then she should just leave. Before she can argue, I change the subject. "So, what's up?"

She isn't sure how to respond because our common ground has been eroded. Considering all her options, she finally replies, "School sucks. I miss hanging out with you. The Troubletones need more members so we can compete in sectionals, and I'm thinking about killing Sugar." We both laugh at that, although bringing up a major contributing factor to the reason things are weird lately was probably not the best move. Then, it hits her. "This weird ass year, I guess."

"You know, we had all these big plans for senior year," I respond with a dry laugh.

"I know, right!" she agrees, "What the hell happened?"

I don't know what to say, so I shake my head and almost laugh. "Life, I guess." I have no idea where that came from, and I'm not entirely comfortable with it. "No, that can't be it. That makes us sound old, and everything that's happened lately sound too normal."

And it's not been at all normal. Nothing about any of this year has been. Frankly, I'm not sure I know what normal even is anymore.

"Kurt," she says, resuming that tone that sets me on edge, "are you sure you're okay?"

That tells me something in my carefully constructed manner had betrayed me somehow. Damn it. I've always been so good at this. The fact that anyone can see through me right now when I don't want them to is unsettling to say the least.

Then, I realize I still haven't answered. "Yeah," I say finally, "of course." Right, because it is so obvious that I am. Because I always am, right?

Mercedes knows better; I don't know why I'm treating her like an idiot. She shoots me a skeptical look. "Uh-huh."

"Look," I say, "it's fine really, and I don't want to talk about it, okay?"

She begrudgingly accepts this, and it only takes us a few more minutes of awkward before we end up finally conversing like normal friends.

Well, y'know, "normal", right?