Disclaimer : Glee does not belong to me and neither do I wish to own it. Leave it to the delightful production team, they're doing well enough with it, yeah?
You can trace it back to a seemingly idle conversation at the dinner table with your parents, your older brother and his girlfriend (soon to be fiancée but that doesn't happen for another two weeks).
It's the first Tuesday since school has begun and you've pretty much settled back into academia, though all things considered, it's not like you were doing the whole 'party/crash/repeat' thing in the summer anyhow.
You had band camp (and what happens in band camp, stays in band camp) but it's not even comparable to the tales of Noah Puckerman's summer. You'd overheard him boasting about it as the jocks stranded you teetering dangerously on the bleachers after you wheeled out of a jazz band meeting just as they were heading in from football tryouts. Bad timing, that, but it had to happen sometime. Ringing in the new school year and all.
You're a sophomore now and it doesn't feel like much has changed other than attending slightly more difficult classes and having to crane your neck a little more to meet people's eyes as all your classmates seemed to have shot up a foot or so in the past two months. Your mom says you've grown taller as well but when you're stuck in a chair amidst a sea of teenage boys going through massive growth spurts and leggy cheerleaders who're growing in even more interesting places, those inches your mother mentioned really don't matter that much.
You're still just the kid in the wheelchair to the rest of them.
"Mr. Ryerson was fired today. Apparently he was getting frisky with one of the male Glee students."
Your family's reactions range from sputtering to saucer eyes to a resounding 'ew' and you can't help but smile as your brother just looks you dead in the eye with an 'I told you so' smirk on his lips. He's only five years older so he'd totally witnessed the tyranny (and other unfavourable traits) of Sandy Ryerson, ex-music director of the school. You know for a fact that your mother wasn't expecting that as a response to the normally innocent query of 'so how was school today?' and your thankful that the genes that make her so flustered over the littlest things have skipped you. You manage to keep your tone non-chalant as you continue (thanks, Dad!).
"Word around the halls is that Mr. Schuester, who teaches Spanish, is taking over Glee Club now."
The women latch onto this statement instantaneously and you're secretly pleased by this turn of conversation but you don't say anything. They insist that you have a great voice, you should totally join, Art and extracurriculars look good on a college application. Your father shrugs, your brother snorts and you laugh it off and volunteer to set up Rock Band 2 in the den as you pick up your plate and wheel towards the kitchen, flashing a charming smile at your bro's girl as you pass.
Shameless flirt, what?
That night as you lay in bed, you seriously consider the idea. Join Glee club. There's absolutely no way you can sink further in the social heap since a) you're in a wheelchair b) you wear argyle sweater vests and c) you're in jazz band, the A/V club and you've got AP classes this year. Aka you're a complete geek. Represent. On the other hand, you love singing (you know you can carry a tune) and the only reason you hadn't done it last year was because Mr. Ryerson insisted on being a stool choir. Maybe Mr. Schue will be a little more, um, open-minded about accommodating your constant companion for the last seven years. He seems cool, even if you have no intention of taking Spanish in this lifetime.
In any case, and this is your final thought on the subject as you turn off your laptop which promptly causes the frantic guitar solo on Black Magic Woman to fade out, it's not like the jocks can pick on you anymore than they already have for joining, right?
[///]
You're wheeling into History class when you remember the sign-up sheet tacked on the bulletin board just outside the room and seeing as you're a bit early anyway, decide that you may as well get it out of the way. Seems as though someone's already beat you to the punch however. You see Kurt Hummel, who's in your History class as well, making furtive glances along each side of the hallway before scrawling his name on the second line of the sheet and you choose this moment to roll up beside him and toss him a grin.
"I didn't know you were interested in Glee," you remark politely but he didn't notice you like you thought he had and he jumps back like a frightened rabbit which isn't exactly the reaction you were expecting but he relaxes somewhat when he realizes it's (just?) you.
"Suppose I'm a bit of a masochist," he retorts in Kurt fashion (something you'll familiarize yourself with soon enough), before he's tipping his pen towards you. "Are you as well?"
"BDSM isn't really my thing but I do want to join Glee."
Kurt gets this funny look on his face like he wants to laugh but then he just turns and quickly pens your name in the space underneath his own. His lips form into a tight smile then he veers back towards History class and you nod a thanks to him as he passes before peering up at the sheet to see who else had signed up. You remark Mercedes Jones at the top of the list and how Kurt spelt your name with a 'y' rather than an 'ie'. You're not sure whether that bugs you or not but you suppose it doesn't really matter, it's not like he'd know that since you guys have never really spoken prior to this incident, save the occasional small talk from sharing classes in the last four years. After a few minutes, you follow suite and head back to the classroom in time for the bell and once again, Glee has taken a momentary lapse out of your thoughts.
[///]
Third period marks the end of lunch and you find yourself passing through the Social Sciences hallway again to get to your locker. Once more, there's someone standing at the bulletin board, much like this morning but it takes you completely off guard when you realize who it is.
From what you know, Tina Cohen-Chang went through some sort of wardrobe makeover in the summertime because she never used to dress so… alternatively until this school year. Her clothes were normal enough - a term you use loosely considering your own choice of apparel - though you remember seeing the blue streaks last year during one of the choir performances where jazz band was asked to provide some back-up.
You'd bet your favorite sweater vest she's a fox under all those clothespins and ripped tights (which are kinda hot in their own right).
"Need a pen?" You ask, leaning against the arm rest of your chair as you hold one out for her to take, which to your dismay, she doesn't. Because there's already a pen hanging on a string right beside the tacked piece of paper. Well then. Nice going, Abrams.
No, no panicking, you're still cool.
You play it smooth and you stick the pen back in your pocket protector with a non-chalant shrug. She keeps her darkly shadowed eyes fixed on the floor despite the way that you sort of twist your head to catch her gaze and - hey, turns out she's cute from that angle too. If only she didn't look like she wanted to start sobbing or tearing your face off with her metallic blue nails.
"Th-thanks anyway," she finally says, shallow dimples forming on her cheeks which - wow - just softens her whole face up but you only get a glimpse of them as she chooses that moment to turn towards the sign-up sheet and jot down her name in a very unique manner.
Huh, she stutters even in her writing.
It's odd because you don't remember the stutter so much in freshman year. You shared two classes last year, two this year (so far) and now that you really think about it, you've never heard her speak more than three sentences in any of them. Collectively. And that gets you thinking, being in a wheelchair can be hard even on the best days but not being able to make straight phrases must've been a downer too.
Your focus returns to her when her streaks of blue whish around so she's facing you again and you're still sitting there and she seems surprised but she's definitely less angry-looking. You clear your throat gently, trying to push away any awkward in the air and then you give her a lopsided smile.
"See you in English?"
No more words leave her lips but she does respond with a nod and - lordy - the way she beams at you makes you wish you had the class sooner rather than later. She walks away and you decide that smiling looks good on her and you unwittingly make a promise to yourself to get her to do it more often.
[///]
That night, you're softly plucking out the solo to Layla (since it's late and your mom has a 'no wailing after 9 pm' rule) and you find yourself unusually excited for auditions tomorrow. You've yet to pick a song to go in with; asking Tina via note during English had given you a reply of 'Secret! Find out tomorrow…' so you really have no idea what type of song is appropriate. The Smiths? Maybe some Idol? Beatles is probably the safest bet.
… Or maybe he can show Mr. Schue you've got a lil somethin-somethin' up your sleeves and break it down with a little bit of R Kelly, some Mario or Usher.
Boyz II Men.
Yeah, you've got this Glee thing in the bag.
AN : Unbeta'd, can you tell? Okay. This fic came into fruition after re-watching the uncut pilot and I noticed how Artie's name was spelled Arty and everyone assumes that T-T-Tina C! had written his name for him based on the next scene but I think otherwise. Am I obsessive about the weird little details like that? Yes, immensely. There's so many factors to play with in this fandom, it's pretty awesome.