I got thinking about "writing what you know" after starting one of the famous!Blaine fics. I went to an art magnet academy for middle school, and it kept pestering me to write something. So here you have it. I don't know where this is going to go...and I don't have a beta, either! So if anyone is up to it, I would be more than glad. I'm still a little rough on writing, too, so constructive criticism is welcome! Send me ideas, grammar issues, continuity problems, whatever.
Disclaimer: If I owned anything, would I be writing fanfiction?
Prologue: Viewpoint
The template with which he was working allowed him precise strokes, but the texture was far harsher than he intended. He scrapped it again, dissatisfied. Perfection. It stuck the soul of many an artist: singer, dancer, or actor. To be successful, one had to be proud of their work, but a true professional's piece was never just right. He set the paintbrush down on the easel, the image of a contemplating painter. There was a snap of a camera, but recognition of the sound didn't appear on his face. Squeaky tennis-shoes scurried off in the mostly empty hallways of the post-curricular hours. That wasn't for a lack of students on campus; many were working away on graphic design projects in the computer lab or dancing tirelessly for the school's own dance company. Many of the students did not return home until the evening hours, where the core education came second to memorizing a song for choir.
It wasn't a lieu of seriousness about the program that the students pushed studies aside; the school was basically a public-funded preparatory. McKinley Arts and Communications Magnet Academy - "MACMA," or "McKinley," as it was called by the students - was often persecuted when in participating in competitions, as if the school intentionally sought out prodigies, making it unfair for them to participate against regular high schools. Despite their claims of being one and the same, it was so strenuous to get into any competitive event that they gave up. It wasn't their fault in any manner of speaking that families moved to that district so their children could apply. In the end, they let the fights over state rules go to rest.
This is where William Schuester's story begins.
Will's rusty, blue car rolled into the staff lot, the tailpipe dragging against the asphalt. It made a sound close to nails on a chalkboard in the friction, and shot up small, sporadic sparks. He stepped out of his humble vehicle with a bright smile, pulling off his sunglasses, brown paper-bag lunch in hand and briefcase slung over his shoulder.
"¡Hola, Kurt! Making some new friends?" He waved at a flamboyantly, and well-dressed, boy, standing next to Finn, one of the alternative learning students at MACMA. Finn, along with his friend Noah (who was standing nearby), were attending the school in attempts that some kind of outlet might help bring their grades up. At a school like McKinley, they were the ones that stuck out: tall, broad-shouldered, and football players. Noah seemed to be doing a bit better, according to staff room gossip, since being allowed to passionately play his guitar all day. Finn, however, was still stumbling.
"Oh, no, Mr. Schuester, just addressing the issue of whether the holes in Finn's denims were an intentional style choice or the fact they were worn to the point of falling apart." Kurt declared, almost with noticeable disdain. He pulled back a strand of his light brown hair and sauntered off. Finn was left looking confused.
Will carried on through the cement and grass courtyard, passing some already-stretching dancers, as well as some gossiping drama students as he pulled some graded papers out of his briefcase. "If they don't do Cabaret, I'm going to cut myself off from the world!" "Oh relax, Rachel, Les Mis would make you just as happy and you know it." He chuckled a little to himself as he entered a set of doors, almost immediately bumping into someone.
"I'm so sorry, oh, goodness, Will!" A woman's voice cried out as she looked at the papers that had scattered over the linoleum floor when they had collided. He laughed again.
"Oh, really, Emma, it's fine," he replied, leaning down to get them with her scurrying to help him. They bumped noses as they stood back up.
"Oh, what is wrong with me? Why am I so clumsy?" She cried, flushing brightly, her wide doe eyes looking anywhere but his face. "I've...got...to go, have a good day, Will!" He watched her retreating figured race off towards the counseling office, her ginger hair a-flurry and perfectly pieced outfit askew.
A group of girls cartwheeled and leaped down the hallway in front him before he could make it up the stairs, already in their leotards. One giggled towards him, "¡Bienvenidos para escuela esta dio!" He rubbed his forehead, trying to keep his optimistic outlook at his student's incredibly poor Spanish. His wife was on her annual harping at him how he could somewhere that paid more, and where he wasn't surrounded by beautiful, talented, practicallyhalf-naked girls all day; so they could better support a child when they had one...
...And it was only September.