My first fanfic! This took a while to write, but now I'm pretty proud of it. :D I watched the movie School of Rock and noticed the similarities between it and Glee. It's kind of awesome, actually. So I thought, "What if School of Rock was Glee's childhood?" And this is what came of it! On my profile, you'll find a picture of the club and how they're supposed to look in the story. For Finn, Rachel, Puck, Artie, Tina, Mercedes, Santana, Brittany, and Mike, I was lazy and used their casted Tinies in the episode The Substitute. :) For Quinn and Sam, I used pictures of the actors when they were kids. And for Kurt, I used a picture of the boy that was casted as a younger Kurt in Grilled Cheesus. Everything you really need to know is described in the story, so . . . enjoy!
William Schuester was the best guitarist out there.
At least, in his perspective.
From the point of view of his band, however, he was only making them sound terrible. They needed to get rid of him. But the band was basically Will's only chance at surviving. He had no other job. He was already living with his buddy Bryan Ryan and Bryan's snooty bitch of a girlfriend Terri Del Monaco; he couldn't help pay the rent as it was.
Will walked into his band practice to see the other members of his band—Sandy Ryerson, Howard Bamboo, Ken Tanaka, and Henri St. Pierre—sitting up straight, arms folded across their chests. Will sighed, knowing that something was about to come his way.
"We're taking the Battle of the Bands seriously this year," Sandy said, standing up.
Will shrugged. "Good, 'cause I need the money!"
Honestly, the other guys could get on Will's nerves sometimes. They were just so dumb. And none of them were even moderately close to the level of talent Will was at.
Ken stepped forward, throwing his hands in the air. "You're out!" he exclaimed right in Will's face, his rancid breath making Will jump back at least a foot.
Then it hit him. He had just been kicked out of his own band! He was about to protest, but it wasn't worth it. He slung his guitar over his back. "You know what? I'm gonna form my own band, and we are gonna start a revolution!"
His former band mates all exchanged strange glances. Will childishly stuck his tongue out at them and stormed out of the room. Little did Will know, this was going to be an experience that he would never forget.
"Come on, man!" Will yelled, slamming his hands against the table in front of Bryan, making the lean man jump backward. "One show, twenty-thousand dollar prize . . . I mean, don't you miss rocking out?"
"Maybe it's time to give up those dreams," Bryan suggested. "I did, and things are going really great for me."
Will sighed. He needed Bryan to start playing again, or he'd never form a band and win the Battle of the Bands. Thus, he would never get any money and he would end up homeless on the street. He rubbed his face with both hands. Bryan wasn't a difficult man to persuade into things, but Will wasn't one to win many arguments. In fact, he was mostly known for giving up when the going got tough.
"Temping," Will mumbled, poking fun at Bryan's job.
"I'm not a temp! I'm a substitute," Bryan corrected, rolling his eyes at his friend. "Soon, I'll be a certified teacher."
Will shook his head, grabbing a can of Coke and exiting the room.
The shrill ring of the telephone woke Will from his three o'clock nap. He noticed he had slept for two hours; it was now five. He wiped the drool that slowly dribbled down his chin and stretched out his tired limbs. He was shirtless, clad only in a pair of old gray sweatpants with stains all over. He could taste his own terrible breath as he let out a yawn. He blinked hard, lifting the phone up to his ear.
"Hello?" he answered hoarsely.
"Is this Mr. Ryan?" the voice on the other line asked.
Will yawned again.
The voice spoke again, "I'm the principal here at William McKinley Preparatory Academy—quite the mouthful, isn't it?—and we need somebody to start immediately."
Tired as he was, Will knew that this chick was talking about substituting; she was looking for Bryan, and he was a substitute teacher, after all. Will looked around, realizing that Bryan and Terri had gone out somewhere. He was about to hang up on the woman on the other line, but then realized that that might be too rude and that he might be ruining any chance Bryan had at getting another job.
Then it hit Will. Substituting was Bryan's job. Jobs paid money. And that was all Will needed. He looked around again, just to make sure.
"So how much we talkin'?" he asked curiously.
"Six-fifty a week," the woman replied.
"I'll go get Bryan." Will grinned deviously, scratching the back of his neck as he pulled the phone away from his ear and pressed the speaker to his chest so the woman wouldn't hear him. He cleared his throat, swallowed hard, and said into the phone in his deepest, best impersonation of Bryan, "Hello, this is Bryan Ryan."
"Hello, Mr. Ryan. This is Sue Sylvester, the principal at William McKinley Prep," the principal said. "One of our fourth grade teachers has broken her leg; she'll be out for a few weeks. I was wondering if you could come in tomorrow and substitute for her until she gets back. Your pay will be six-fifty a week, and everything will be provided when you arrive."
"I'll take it."
"That's fantastic!" Sue exclaimed. "I'll see you bright and early tomorrow morning, at six o'clock sharp."
"Awesome," Will breathed with a smile. He hung up the phone and mock-punched the air in triumph. He was just going to have to pretend to be his best friend for a few weeks. That wouldn't be too hard. And he'd get paid for it.
"Everyone, I'd like to introduce Mr. Ryan," Sue announced to the class of ten-year-olds, Will standing by her side. "He's going to be your substitute teacher until Mrs. Howell gets back. I want you all to be on your best behaviors; this will be like any other time in school, okay?"
"Yes, Principal Sylvester," the students said in unison.
"All right." Sue patted Will on the back and exited the classroom. Will stood behind the teacher desk and stared out at the faces of the innocent little fourth graders.
"Who's got food in here?" Will asked.
Nobody said a word.
Will rolled his eyes. "Come on, you're not gonna get in trouble," he assured them. "I'm just starving. It's seven-thirty, and I haven't eaten anything today."
Suddenly, a tiny African-American girl with afro-puffs on her round head raised her hand. Will approached her desk and asked, "What'cha got?" The girl opened up her desk and handed Will a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich with the crust cut off. It was wrapped up in a plastic Ziploc bag.
"I don't even like strawberry jelly," she said as Will took the sandwich into his hands, "so you can have this."
Will took the sandwich out of the plastic baggy, threw the bag away, and took a large bite. "All right," he said while chewing. "I've got a hangover. Who knows what that means?"
A few of the kids raised their hands. Will was about to call on one, but a small boy in the back of the room with his hair styled in a Mohawk called out, "Doesn't it mean you're drunk?"
"No," Will told the kid with one eyebrow cocked. The little one sighed, rolling his eyes. He looked sort of out of place in his mandatory school uniform—black pants, dress shoes, a white shirt, and a red-and-black-striped tie—while having a Mohawk. "It means I was drunk yesterday."
The kid threw his hands in the air. "It still means you're an alcoholic."
Will's eyes narrowed. "What's your name, kid?"
"Puck."
"His name is Noah," a short brunette in the front row corrected. "Noah Puckerman. He just likes to go by Puck because he's, for some reason, ashamed of his real name. I think it's stupid; that's why I call him by his real name, which is Noah."
"Shut it, Berry!" Puck exclaimed.
Bigmouth rolled her eyes.
"Your name is Berry?" Will asked Bigmouth. He had to swallow back a laugh.
"Rachel Berry, actually. My name is going to be up in lights someday! For now, I'm just the class factotum in Mrs. Howell's fourth grade class, but I'll be the most well-known actress on Broadway in the future!" she explained.
"That's great. Good luck with that." Will ate the last of his sandwich and sat down behind the desk. He began spinning around in the chair. He swallowed the rest of the food in his mouth, staring out at the kids. They looked back at him. Puck was leaning toward the kid's desk to his right, and the two were talking. Will didn't even scold them; he truly didn't care. He tossed his hands up in the air and announced, "Okay, time for recess."
"Recess isn't until after lunch," Rachel told Will.
"Fine, then. Time for lunch."
"But Mr. Ryan, it's only seven-thirty. We don't have lunch until after—"
Will cut her off. "Well, what do you have now, Rachel?"
"Music class until nine," she said. Will dismissed the class, and they all filed out of the room. Will ran his hand through his curly hair. He couldn't believe he'd roped himself into this. He would be here for at least two weeks. It had barely been ten minutes, and he already couldn't stand it. He leaned his head back against the chair and, before he knew it, was out cold.
He awoke again at eight. He wished he'd just slept through the day. He exhaled heavily and lifted himself out of the chair, dragging his feet across the floor. He'd at least find something to do for another hour somewhere in the building. He made his way through the hallway and started to hear something. It was soft at first, but got louder as he kept walking. It was music. The kids were in their music class, Will knew, and they were playing a song. It was one that Will didn't recognize; it sure as hell wasn't the rock music he knew. But he had to admit; the kids were good. He went to the room he heard the song coming from and looked through the door.
The first kid he saw was that Puckerman kid on the guitar, strumming away. Then there was the boy Puck had been talking to during class. He was really small; he looked like he should be in a lower grade. His brown hair was disheveled, and he looked super tiny behind the pair of cymbals he was holding. Rachel was in the front row of the class, playing a clarinet. Afro-Puffs was playing a xylophone thing next to the tiny kid, but not very well. A little blond girl with green eyes and a cross necklace was playing a violin. Instead of wearing a uniform like the rest of the girls, this particular girl was wearing a cheerleading uniform that sported the school's colors, red and white, and also its abbreviation — WMPA. Then there was a lean boy with long pale blond hair and a wide mouth playing some type of giant violin that Will didn't know the name of. A petite Asian girl held up a triangle; she stood on the other side of the really small kid. A boy with thick-framed glasses and shaggy dark hair was seated in a wheelchair and was tapping away on a cowbell. A highly effeminate boy—he had very rosy cheeks, and his hair was sculpted perfectly and loaded with more product than even Will's brown curls—was playing the keyboard. A pint-sized Latina and an equally short blond girl with freckles lining the brim of her nose both wore cheerleading outfits—the same one that the girl with the cross necklace had on—and sat in close proximity in the front row near Rachel. They were both playing the flute. Lastly, there was a little Asian boy blowing on a trumpet, eagerly tapping his foot and bobbing his head to the beat.
Will stared at the kids in awe. He wondered why none of the kids had mentioned their amazing talents as musicians (though some of them seemed to just be playing the wrong instruments).
Suddenly, an idea popped into his head. He needed a band to compete in the Battle of the Bands, and these kids were damn awesome. They could be his band! He had to think of a plan, quickly. Then he remembered that he had his band equipment in the back of his van — guitars, a drum set, amps, microphones, and a keyboard. He grinned deviously and sprinted down the hallway toward the parking lot. As he started unloading the equipment, he tried to remember which kid had been playing which instrument. Puck had been playing the guitar; the arrogant Mohawk-ed spazz had been the first one Will saw in the music class. Rachel had a clarinet, which would be totally useless. Will didn't even know the name of the instrument the blond boy had been playing. He sighed as he rushed some of the instruments into the school; this would be a bit harder than he'd thought.
When everything he needed was in the classroom, Will smoothed out his black vest and admired his work. He checked the clock and saw that it was nine o'clock on the dot. He smiled conceitedly and waited for the kids to reenter the room. When they did, they looked at the band equipment with wide, wondering eyes. Once they were all in their seats, they stared at Will for answers.
"I heard you guys in music class. You guys can really play!" Will flailed his arms for emphasis and yelled, "Why didn't anyone tell me?"
The kids looked around at each other.
"I think we've just found our new class project," Will told the class with a smile. "It's called Rock Band."
The little clearly-Christian cheerleader with the cross necklace asked, "Is this a school project?"
"Well, Christ Crusader, it will go on your permanent record. Hello, Harvard, yo!" Will sang.
"Can we tell our parents?" the blond, freckled flutist asked.
"No!" Will yelled. "Don't tell anyone, all right? This will be our little secret. A fun project, just for us. Cool?"
The kids nodded.
Will pointed to Puck in the back of the room. "Get up here, Mohawk."
Puck stood up and loped toward the front of the room. He stood lazily in front of Will, looking up at the older man with tired eyes, waiting. Will narrowed his eyes and handed Puck a guitar. Then he got his own guitar and slung it over his shoulder.
"Can you play the electric guitar?" Will questioned.
"My mom won't let me," Puck sighed. "Don't ask me why. I think she doesn't want me to wake my little sister when she's napping. I don't know. Something dumb like that."
"Well, I saw you playing the acoustic guitar in music class. It's the same, but the electric guitar is more badass."
The ten-year-old smiled. He loved being badass more than anything. He owned badassness. He was scolded by his mother when he used the word in his home, however; she did not tolerate vulgar language from her fourth-grade son with a four-year-old running around the house. Still, Puck knew that he was the biggest badass in his grade, and he would forever hold the title throughout his life. Because his guns were, without question, fully loaded.
"Try this," Will suggested. He played a tune on the guitar, a very simple one that Puck should be able to mimic with no problems. As expected, the little one played the tune exactly how Will did. Impressed, the older man played one that was more difficult than the first. Puck played it easily. Will then played one that he was sure a ten-year-old wouldn't be able to handle. However, Puck's fingers slid along the neck of the guitar and strummed away at the strings. Although a very impressed Will would never admit it, his thoughts matched those of the other children in the room; Puck sounded even better than Will. But only by a little bit.
"Nice!" Will commented. "Stay right here. Don't move." He turned to the rest of the class and pointed to the teeny-tiny boy in the back. "You. What's your name?"
"Finn Hudson," he said in a small voice.
"I saw you playing those cymbals in music class like a little spazz. Think you can play the drums?"
"I dunno. I've never tried the drums. But I play percussion."
"You're small," Will suddenly commented. "You are really small, Finn Hudson. Seriously. You look like you're five. Why are you so tiny?"
Finn shrugged. "My mom said that kids who are real small get real big when they're older."
"Well, we'll see about that." Will handed Finn and pair of drumsticks and sat him down on the drum stool. He told Finn to wait there. He then turned and pointed to the blond boy and the feminine one. Both boys approached Will.
"Okay, Wide-Mouth, name, please."
"Sam Evans."
"Well, Sam, you have a wide mouth," Will said.
Sam nodded. "I know, Mr. Ryan."
"It's not a bad thing. It's cool. Just remember that if I ever call you Wide-Mouth. I don't know the name of whatever you were playing in music class, but it's not a rock band instrument. I can tell you that much." He grabbed a bass guitar and helped Sam get the strap around his neck. "Put your finger right there, and strum here." Sam did as he was told. "You just played a G on the bass! Great job. Stay right there."
Will inquired the other boy's name.
"My name is Kurt Hummel," the boy said, "and I'll be auditioning for the job of stylist."
"Actually, I want you to play the keyboard."
Kurt sighed. "Do I look like I'm incapable of doing both?"
"All right, then." Will faced the rest of the class and jerked his thumb toward Kurt. "Judy Attitudey over here."
Kurt took it upon himself to retrieve the keyboard sheet music from the teacher desk. He positioned it in front of his face and played it perfectly, not missing one note. Will applauded him and turned to the class again.
"Who in here can sing?" he asked.
Rachel's hand shot in the air, resulting in the little Latina huffing, "Oh, boy." Rachel ignored her. Without Will telling her to, she stood up at her desk and belted out Taking Chances excitedly. She smiled obnoxiously; that is, until Will declared her a backup singer.
"Just a backup singer?" Rachel frowned. "I deserve and demand lead vocals!"
"Listen, Little Miss Conceited, that's my job. You're a backup singer for now. See me after class." Will raised his eyebrows. "Anyone else?"
Christ Crusader raised her hand. "I can sing," she proclaimed, her full lips curling into a small smile.
"So can I," the Latina added.
"Christ Crusader—"
"It's Quinn. Quinn Fabray."
"Right. Quinn, sing me something."
Without hesitation, Quinn sang Tomorrow from Annie. Will cut her off midway through with clapping. He told her she would be a backup singer as well. Quinn smiled a genuinely happy smile, her green eyes glistening.
The tan-skinned, dark-haired Grumpy McGee who seemed to hate Rachel suddenly stood up. She sang Amazing Grace. Will declared her a backup singer, also. She smirked and sat back down, arms folded across her chest.
"That was very good, Grumpy McGee."
"My name is Santana Lopez, you jackass," she muttered.
"Whoa! Language!" Will scolded. "You kids are ten; where do you even learn these words?" He shook his head. "Whatever."
Suddenly, Sam played a soft tune on the bass, proud of his new skill. Puck, being conceited, began playing a guitar riff, one longer than Sam's. He flashed Sam an arrogant smirk, high-fived a giggling Finn, and winked at Quinn, who rolled her eyes.
"Hey." Will pointed his finger accusingly at Puck. "Knock it off, you cocky little bastard."
Puck cocked an eyebrow.
"Now let's take care of our remaining five." Will snapped his fingers at the quiet Asian girl. Her black hair was sleek and fell over her shoulders with blue streaks running down each side. She was wearing her uniform—a black skirt, a white shirt, and a black jacket—but, instead of wearing Mary Jane shoes with it like the other girls, she had on a pair of combat boots. Will wondered how much persuasion it took to get Sue to agree to that. "Name, please."
"Tina Cohen-Chang." She blushed sheepishly.
"You can be a roadie, Tina. And you, too, Afro-Puffs," Will proclaimed.
"I'm Mercedes Jones, actually."
"Oh. Well, you two have an important job," Will explained. "Making t-shirts, designing the band's logo, and, most importantly, naming the band."
Tina and Mercedes smiled at each other.
"Wheels," Will called, pointing to the wheelchair boy. "What's your name?"
"Artie Abrams," he said, showing that he was missing two of his baby teeth.
"What can you do?"
"Um . . . I'm good with computers."
"Stereotypical for a kid with glasses and suspenders." Will nodded. "I like that typecast. You'll handle lights and hooking up amps. Stuff like that. Cool?"
Artie nodded.
"Awesome." Will gestured toward the only remaining cheerleader. "Who are you?"
"Brittany Susan Pierce," she replied simply.
Will smiled. "Got any special talents?"
Brittany took on a dazed expression. "What's a talent?" she asked dreamily.
Will cleared his throat. He looked to Santana for answers.
The Latina shrugged. "Let her be security or somethin'. She's real good at soundproofin' rooms and knowin' when someone's comin'."
"All right, then. Brittany, we'll have Artie set up a monitor and you've just got to let us know when Principal Sylvester is coming. Until then, your first task is totally soundproofing this room. People on the other side of the door shouldn't even hear Finn Hudson wailing on the drums, okay?"
Brittany nodded.
"And then there was one."
The short Asian boy that looked pretty young for his age—but not as young as Finn—announced, "I'm Mike Chang. I just wanna dance."
"Sweet," Will breathed. "We've got ourselves a background dancer. Now everyone's got a job, right?"
"Yes," the class said in unison.
"Excellent." Will grinned. "Let's do this!"