The Beginning
Prologue: Tina Cohen-Chang
I was absorbed and determined to get my homework done before last period Study Hall got out, when my phone vibrated. I clicked the screen to reveal a text from Artie, my boyfriend. I smiled.
Artie: Tina, we have to talk. Choir room?
Tina: Be there in 5 :)
I couldn't doubt my excitement.
A few months ago, Artie had amped up as a founder of the music wing at the McKinley rec-center, which was biding up all of his time, and we hadn't gotten to see much of each other since. I tried texting him, but there was a strict no-phones policy, which he'd stuck to, a stickler for the rules. Mr. Cohn was asleep at his desk, a bottle of water in hand. Trying not to think of the type of alcohol in that plastic container, I tear a hall pass off his pad and race toward the first floor.
Rachel sends me a text, but I'm too excited to see Artie that I flick ignore and jog to the choir room. I take a deep breath before cranking the door open.
"Hey Art-" I stop short, my voice panting a deep gasp.
Quinn Fabray was perched on Artie's lap, arms around his neck. She jumped at the sudden sound of my voice.
"Tina." She chokes. Artie pats her leg affectionately, before turning his suddenly-evil, beady gaze on me. He strokes his glasses up his nose before speaking.
"Tina," he sighs, muttering something like damn, this is going to be hard under his breath, before raising his voice, "I wasn't lying when I said I was at the rec-center. Mr. Schue asked Quinn and I to co-found the music program." he ends the sentence, as if that explains everything. A twinge of emotion passes through his eyes, but that emotion is hard to define.
I blinked. I could feel the waterworks brewing behind my eyelids, but I attempted to hold my ground. They could not see me cry. Screw the fact that Quinn was turning over a new leaf, screw the fact that Artie looked genuinely sad. He broke my heart, not vice-versa.
I stepped back several steps until I was out the door. Artie went to say something, and Quinn was wiping the tears from her eyes, and I just couldn't handle it. I ran out.
Makeup and tears snaked my face as I ran into the nearest bathroom. I raced to the basin sink and turned the water on, missing the faint sound of a flush! and scrubbed at my face, trying to rid everything of it- the doughy amount of makeup, the emotion, all of it.
"Tina? What are you doing in the boys' bathroom?" A voice asked, and I immediately reached for a paper towel to dry my swampy face. The voice sounded familiar. He sounded genuine. It sounded like one of the Glee guys. Another helpful clue was that there was no 7-11 corn-syrupy ice cutting my skin. I feel along the wall for the paper towel dispenser.
And suddenly, I'm gently pushed against the sink. I'm too drained -both physically and emotionally- to fight back, so I oblige. I can hear the circumvolve of the paper towel container feeding out sandpaper-esqe material, and suddenly, my face is being scrubbed at.
When the heavy coating of product is removed, my eyes crack open to reveal the filmy figure, who wore a football practice jersey marked 28. None other than the tall dancer, Other Asian Mike Chang.
"Hey," he whispers, a soft smile coating his face, as a warm hand reached up and palmed my cheek. I can feel the tears leaking out of my eyes, through the crusty residue of chapping makeup.
"Was it Artie?" He croaked, and I pulled back slowly. Noting the alarmed expression that masked my face, he slammed his hand on the cheap-marble counter, cursing under his breath. He looks like he's about to go into a panic attack, so I slowly reach up and touch his cheek like he had me, and whisper soothingly, "I'm fine, really."
"Tina." His voice is thick with emotion, reprimanding, "Last time I checked, he's the freak who cheated on you and broke your heart." He sounded so sure, so sincere, that I almost believed him. But it was obvious he just hated Artie, because he was a great, ambitious singer who was slowly making it into the media, what with his help in the music wing at the rec-center, and singing for local charities and so on.
Mike just wanted the confidence Artie had.
We walk out in the hallway toward my locker after he helped me clean up. When we arrive, someone scribbled something in thick black permanent marker. Deceiving bitch.
The lump in my throat rises and I try swallowing it. With my need for Artie along with it. I choke it down. A large, bony hand curves onto my shoulder, and I turn to see Mike smiling sadly at me.
"High school is a bitch." he offers. I just shake my head, feeling a fresh gallon of tears brewing my eyes.
I sigh, reaching into my pocket and texting Artie: someone wrote on my locker, that i was a decieving bitch. was that you?
I get an instant reply: maybe someone told me about your little kiss at Asian Camp.
I can feel a gasp bubble in my throat. Mercedes? Kurt? Rachel?
Then I realize. Quinn.
She may've been nicer, but no one really can change that drastically.
"Mike," I whispered as I felt the lump in my throat grow and tears started to drip, " I really think I'm going to kill myself."
"Over Artie? Really?" He hugged me and kissed my cheek, "You deserve way better." I remove myself from his grasp.
"No," I sigh. "Over the pain."
I was heading to Glee the next day, when I felt someone take hold of my shoulder. I turn slightly to see Mike Chang as he leaned over to whisper, "You okay?"
I nod silently, pain flaming inside me. He held hold of my shoulder until we were safe in Science lab. I sat next to Mercedes, who was picking at the dead frog laying on the metal tray in front of her with a scalpel; she looked disgusted.
Mr. Gregory was trying to convince her to tear the frog open, when he saw me. I roll my eyes before taking the scalpel from a grateful Mercedes. Her smile faded when she saw my facial expression.
"What's wrong?" I asked, trying to sound oblivious. But I obviously failed.
"Not to be rude, honey, but your face is all blotchy." Mercedes swiped a tear from my face, "Come on, girl. What's wrong?" I smiled. Mercedes was always someone to soothe a broken heart.
"Artie," I choked, trying to sound at least a bit civil at the boy's name, "has been dating Quinn behind my back for months, and decided to just tell me yesterday." I tried not to mope. Mercedes put a comforting hand on my shoulder. I smile at her when I feel my phone vibrate. I open the text whilst laughing as we recieved a death glare from Mr. Greg, because we hadn't started our project. I pocket my phone, text open, as I draw a long slit through the perished frog's stomach content.
Mercedes turns away, gagging. Mr. Greg sits back, pleased. I pull out my cell phone, to read the dimly-lit text.
Under the desk, I read the message several times before smiling. Mercedes looks over my shoulder and her facial expression changed from sympathetic to interested.
"Tee, did you sign up for that dating poll again?" She sounds intrigued, leaning forward on her hand as if she were waiting for a long story.
I laugh.
Figgins had the A/V club set up a poll on the school website to help McKinley students find "their match" for eternal life. He thought it would help brighten the students' days to know that someone was thinking of them. The first time I tried it, I got one of the many A/V nerds.
"Not even close." I tell her vaguely, turning back to our pruny autopsy. I write my name on top of my work sheet to hide the flushing to my cheeks.
"Oh my God, Tee! Tellmetellmetellme!" Mercedes almost wailed in anticipation. I laughed at her desperation.
"Mike Chang helped me clean up yesterday, after I had my breakdown." I admit quietly, and Mercedes gasped. Hiding my giggle, I turned away and started answering questions, ignoring the way her eyes went back and forth between Mike and I. He was laughing with Matt Rutherford as they watched Karofsky and Azimio in amusement. The duo was pelting frog guts at Mr. Greg, who was moving out of harm's way with ease each time.
"No way!" She whispered, as the thoughts finally dawned on her, "Mike Chang and you. Friends or more?" I rolled my eyes. She sounded like a gossip column in some teen magazine. Trying to drop the subject, I slice carefully at the frog, so Mr. Greg would stop shooting his own glares at us. I grab my water bottle from my purse, and take a hearty gulp. Before I can swallow though, Mercedes asks the question I've been dreading:
"So, have you kissed yet?"
I spit.
The water sailed a short distance through the air and landed on someone who was about to make by, after coming in late.
It was none other than Artie Abrams. His top of his white button-up shirt stained cloudy white. He turned to me and narrowed his keen eyes- a kaleidoscope of blue, humiliation and anger.
"A-A-Artie, I-" I stutter, humiliated and horrified.
"You know that person who wrote on your locker? They were right. You are a deceiving bitch." His voice is controlled and quiet, but the rest of the room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
I try gulping the salty lump in my throat. Everyone was staring at me.
Slowly, I stand, shaking.
Some people reach for me. I can hear one distinct voice.
"Tina-"
Then I fell to the floor, and everything went black.
A/N: Edited, and I'm hoping to re-invent this story, like all of my others!