He unlocked the door slowly; cautious of how the sound could echo through the house sometimes. Once he was in he breathed a sigh of relief and shut the door behind him.

He skipped the first, squeaky stair (a stair he solely blamed for getting caught several times in the past) when,

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

He winced. Dammit. As he turned to face the living room he saw, that sure enough, there was Burt Hummel, his father, peering at him over that mornings newspaper (he was a little affronted that there on the front page was Rachel Berry holding up her award beaming towards the camera, and he was nowhere to be seen).

“I'm not impressed right now.”

“Dad, I'm seventeen,” he said. “This is normal.”

“Not under my roof it isn’t. We had an agreement Kurt. You can pursue your career as long as you abide by the curfew I set, and do all your chores. So explain to me why this morning Carole was doing the dishes?”

“Yeah, ok, I get it, I stuffed up. But Dad, you wanted me home by midnight. It was the MTV movie awards. Do you know how lame it would have looked if I had left early?”

“You must be mistaking me for someone who cares. We agreed on midnight Kurt.”

“Yeah, alright. It won't happen again,” he started to go back up the stairs, aiming to crash onto his bed and fall asleep. He was so tired. He had managed to crash on his friends couch for a couple of hours, but it wasn't great sleep. Not when all he could keep thinking about was how the Marc Jacob shirt he was wearing was going to get so wrinkled, and that wasn't a look he could rock.

“Kurt Hummel, I didn't say we were done with this conversation.”

Kurt sighed and stomped back down the few stairs he'd climbed, giving his father an exasperated look.

“What are you going to do? Ground me? Because I'd really like to see you try.” He knew he was giving attitude, probably a little too much. But he didn’t really care. He was tired and his Dad insisted on continuing what was a stupid conversation to begin with.

“No I'm giving you your second warning. Three strikes and you're out buddy.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Boarding school.”

Kurt's jaw dropped.

“You... you wouldn't.”

“Oh I would. If you don't clean your act up it's boarding school until you graduate.”

“But... my career! How am I supposed to film if I'm at some stupid, stuffy boarding school?” he gasped. “You wouldn’t make me wear a uniform would you?”

Burt just shrugged.

“Better not step out of line again.”

“What was the first strike?”

Burt held up one finger. “One strike for being out all night,” he held up another.
A second strike for that attitude of yours, and for not doing the dishes. You're on thin ice Kurt.”

“You can't do this!” Kurt knew he was seconds away from stomping his foot like a child.

“Kurt, we've reached the end of our discussion. I believe you have a geometry assignment that needs to be sent in today. So you should go along and do that.”

Kurt was furious. He couldn't believe his dad was threatening him with boarding school. What was this? Some Enid Blyton novel? Who did that? There was no way in hell it was going to happen. Surely his dad wouldn’t… not really. It was just an empty threat because he’d been out all night, wasn’t it? It had to be. He’d just have to not accidentally break any rules for the next few weeks and it would all be forgotten.

But…

The look on his dad’s face. The tight jaw, the hard eyes that said ‘I’m really disappointed in you right now’, the stiff posture he’d had. He couldn’t help but wonder if maybe…

Boarding school?