It can be stated, without risk of hyperbole, that I rather much dislike the language of Spain. It can be stated, with some risk of hyperbole, that I abhor Spanish. I've no vendetta against the Spanish speaking population of the world, don't get me wrong, something about the language just doesn't sit right with me.

I adore Latin, and most of the Latinate languages by means of extension, particularly Italian. French, then Romanian, then Portuguese. I even prefer German, Dutch, Sesotho, Swahili, Tajik and Bengali to Spanish. I know next to nothing about most of them(French and Latin, itself, being exceptions, for I know some of both.), but of the little I know of all of those, I still can place it above the little I know of Spanish.

This having been said, it's understandable that I would be upset to discover that I was placed in Spanish when enrolling for classes at the next school I'll attend, just because I did so in the middle of the year when Spanish was the only language with space left. Allow me to now wallow in self-pity.

So now I'm sitting in Spanish class and am incredibly itchy. Clearly I'm allergic to Spanish, it's the only logical explanation. I am in desperate need of music, too. I doubt the teacher will appreciate it if I burst into song, like I fear I'll do at any second. It's a generally prohibited behavior in most classroom settings, and I don't think Spanish is an exception.

***

If Mr. Shuester had known, during class, that the new kid was simply restraining an urge to release a chorus of "Run Bobby Run", he wouldn't have been nearly as concerned as he currently was. As it is, he didn't know, which prompted the request for her to stay behind a moment after class. Seeing as she didn't know this, said new student was panicking and under the impression that her aversion to Spanish was evident enough for the teacher to discharge her from his class. She may detest Spanish, but didn't want to go through the hassle of switching classes just because of it.

"Miss…"

"Pamela. That's my name."

"Pamela, then. Are you feeling okay? You were very spacey in class, and if you aren't feeling well, then I suggest you go to the nurse." Will looked at the flustered girl walking beside him. He realized that she was covered from the neck down in doing so. Ankle length skirt, winter jacket, and a thick scarf. "Were you overheating? Do you need water?"

"What?" She squeaked. She looked a great deal more alert now. And a bit indignant. "Nonsense! I'll have you know that I'm on the verge of chilly, at the moment. There was nothing wrong. I just ha… had to sing very badly, and was about ready to kill someone if class didn't end soon. Now I have to prolong my lack of song because I'm explaining to you that I need to do so. And I've got no clue where English is."

He would have offered to look at her schedule and give her directions, but she had already plodded off, scarcely avoiding ramming into people, most of whom looked startled when she shot past them.

He decided that he'll have to question Miss Pamela Anise immediately.

***

Puck had never been slammed against a locker before, and decided that it was not a very pleasant sensation. Some pale chick had bore into his side and pinned him against the wall. He looked down. "What the…"

"Where is room 17?" She growled. He decided that she was crazy.

"That way."

Psycho-Chick immediately released him and pulled a snicker doodle from a bag slung across her shoulder. "Thank you!" she squeaked, shoving the cookie into his hand before rushing off in the direction indicated, bearing a broad grin and humming. Guess she's bipolar, too.

Puck wondered briefly whether the cookie was poisoned, then ate it, because food is food. Whether you get it from a violent psycho or not. Turns out that it was pretty good.

***

The night after my first day at the high school, my Mommy decided that I should join a club. Partially to make some friends other than the lunch ladies, custodial staff, teachers and the guidance counselor, and partially so I wouldn't be underfoot while Mommy was "setting up camp" at my aunt's house. Unlikely Little Sister, Most Adored, I'd be no help unpacking, being the unorganized creature I am. Besides, my den in the basement had already been set up. All I needed was a couch, some blankets and my things and I was set. We didn't even need to move many of the boxes and there were all sorts of old heirlooms and things my ratpacking aunt never had the heart to throw away. In fact, the fact that there were so many old things down there made me quite happy. As did the lack of windows. I adore the old, and I am made incredibly sleepy by sunlight. A basement, aside from the fact that they tend to be cooler than the rest of the house, is my ideal environment. Especially since this one managed to be so dry. I would be out of the way down there, but Mommy feels that I'm antisocial and wants me out of the basement.

My aunt is not really my aunt, she's actually one of Mommy's cousins, but I've always called her an aunt anyways. Mommy was the baby of the family, the youngest of all her siblings, and her parents were in the younger end of their generation, too. Which meant that Mommy ended up with thirty year old cousins, of which Aunt Coleen was one. Aunt Coleen moved to Ohio after she got married, when Mommy was about seven. They sent each other letters for years. Which, I guess, is part of the reason she volunteered to station herself with Aunt Coleen. Another is that everyone else was in Florida with Grandma, who is in poor health, or the great aunts and uncles running about in New York, who will probably be dying soon, too.

A little while ago, Aunt Coleen's husband died. And recently she's been ill. She never had children, so there was nobody to watch her. Mommy wouldn't stand for this, so here I am until Coleen dies. Since we don't have a precise date for that, Mommy enrolled us in the school here, and we'll be staying until the end of the semester in which Coleen dies.

I don't mean to sound malicious, but that's how things stand. We'll be going back to New England the moment her funeral is taken care of, her house is sold and we get report cards. It's a pity, too. I seem to always make friends with old ladies, and it always seems that I'll go to see one and a grandchild or nursing home attendant will be there telling me that my friend has died since my last visit. It's already happened four times. And now I've gone and found myself greatly attached to a dying aunt.

I blame the fact that I usually end up having more in common with them, and some of the quieter old men, than I do people my own age. It's really rather pathetic. It was a bit of a joke among some of my classmates, apparently I'm already an old cat lady. Pity there isn't a club for that. I'd fit right in. And, according to Mommy, there doesn't seem to be a knitting club either. I guess my best option is Glee club. It won't be anything like the Chorale I was in before, which, as you may have guessed, was riddled with people in their 50's and up. There were young members, yes, but none of them were teenagers. All of the Glee club will be teenagers. And, although I dread it, I'm going to have to at least try to join to please Mommy. And I guess it'll give me a greater variety of songs to burst into. Maybe something other people might actually know. Because singing a duet from the sixties, once a hit, now in oblivion, by yourself is not only difficult, but it gets lonely.

***

The new guidance counselor was amused when the girl curtsied to him, lifting the skirt high enough for the length of a pair of dinged-up boots and a bit of some sort of leggings on a bent knee to be exposed, before seating herself across the desk from the him.

"So, Pam, how was your first day? Any problems, questions, concerns?" he asked, a standard set of questions to kids enrolled mid-year.

"It was lovely. My teachers seem very nice. I got lost a few times, but I'm always lost, so it was nothing to be bothered by. I got there though. Only lost a few cookies in the process."

"You threw up?" He asked.

"What? Oh. No, I mean that I gave a cookie to everybody I asked for directions. I gave away a good eight cookies. Want one?" Pamela, reached into the Bag of Endless Sugar Coma. And pulled out a cookie. To be polite, the guidance counselor grabbed it with a tissue. He wrapped it up in the tissue and put it on the edge of his desk.

Pamela was standing up to leave when she gasped and plopped back down. "What's wrong?"

"I just remembered to ask you something. Who runs the Glee club?"

The guidance counselor answered, "Mr. Shuester. He…"

"Oh, he's my Spanish teacher." The girl then laughed hysterically.

He was alarmed. What about Shuester could possibly be so funny? "What is it?"

"It's just, ha, yesterday I expressed the, hehehe, need to bu-u-u-urst into song… To the GLEE CLUB TEACHER! That's irony, right there." Pamela giggled.

The laughter subsided. "Well, thank you for seeing me before school, I'd hate for it to have inconvenienced you, but I'm paranoid that if I miss class it'll be something important." She got up again.

"It's not a problem." He replied, almost perfunctorily. Pamela smiled, as sweet as that cookie on his desk probably was.

"Well, thanks anyway. Have a nice day." The girl said, curtsying again before swinging her backpack up onto her shoulders and walking out of the room.

The guidance counselor was left with the impression that the girl would probably end up slushied soon.

***

After what happened yesterday, he expected to have to chase her down, but his new student came to him after class without prompting.

"Are you feeling any better?"

"Yes, I'm fine. That was just that I was afraid I was going to be late for class. I've got paranoid tendencies, don't mind me. May I join Glee Club?"

"What?" Will was slightly taken aback. Where did that come from?

"May. I. Join. Glee club?"

"You'll need to audition." Will said.

"When?"

"The next practice is Thursday, sometime before that, then." Pamela nodded.

***

I auditioned during lunch the next day. Nothing of consequence, I sang a song about wilting roses and Cupid, using words like "impetuous" and "pall", it was fun. I sang it a couple more times, in various accents and voice parts. Mostly because I get a kick out of stuff like that. Tenor-me was quite proud of himself(until Soprano ripped out his moustache in a fit of rage. He hid in the Corner of Shame after that). And I guess Mr. Shuester liked some of it, so I'm in the club. Sounds like fun.

***Author's note:***

Sorry about the fact this is so heavily about Pamela right now. It won't be soon enough, it won't be long until she is reduced to a plot device. Originally I had Suzy Pepper in that particular role, but a couple of planned scenes weren't working out, so I had to make someone up. She is supposed to be crazy, if Pepper is the school loony, then I needed an ex-school loony for this to work and stay as close to the original idea as possible. So, right now I'm just trying to make her a believable loony character, with a believable reason to have suddenly materialized in the world of Glee, because the show didn't already do it for me. For the most part, the things I've written about her are to aid in explanation to later bits Expect a Suzy meets Pamela scene later. And slamming Puck into a locker? I figured he deserved a taste of his own medicine. Kurt and Finn will both be in the next chapter. Be glad.