The Bench Chapter 2 - School is for Losers, a glee fanfic

Sorry this is taking so long guys, this is a very personal story to me, sort of like my own theoropy and i fear rushing it will make it sloppy. this is my main project at the moment however, so updates will be semi frequent. Thanks.

"What, did you learn at school today?" That's what the teachers used to say, but they don't care, don't understand, do they? Why, do they always give advice, saying "just be nice, always think twice", it's been a long time since they've had teenager life.

Wade Adams:

Two wooden doors stand side by side in the hallways of my school, both of which are untidily tagged with graffiti and are in constant use throughout the day, people generally paying small mind to them. They are simply doors, not mystic items that divulge knowledge or fortune, nor do they lead to a land far from here, yet everyday they stop me in my tracks.

"How was the show last night?" my one true friend, Marley Rose asks from beside me and although I realize it is supposed to be a distraction from staring, it only semi works as I watch a cheerleader exit one door and a jock enter the other. "Wade?"

"Fabulous, as usual." I answer automatically in a bored tone before I remember that last night's show wasn't as usual as the others. This gives me pause and actually allows me to turn my attention away from the wooden obstacles and onto my dark haired, pale skinned friend, who is leaning against the metal, dented lockers, not unlike myself. She looks genuinely interested in my life outside Lima and for that, I will be forever grateful to have found her. Marley Rose is one of the few people who knows every part of me and hasn't shielded away. "Actually, Ryder approached me."

It takes a moment to computer with Marley it seems before memory pinpoints who Ryder is. Marley has accompanied me on a few occasions out to Dayton to watch me perform. She says watching me on stage is inspiring and provides her with hope, and sometimes she says it with such conviction, I lose myself for a second and sincerely believe her. She and Ryder have bumped into each other a couple of times during my set and although Marley is tall, slim, beauty and the epitome of virtue, their conversations have only ever consisted of me. It's completely flattering and extremely dangerous. In hindsight, I should have known Ryder's approach would only be a matter of time. Marley's sparkling eyes widen with her smile and she nods eagerly for me to elaborate.

"Long story short, I opened up and he shut me down." I sigh as I lean back against the cold lockers. The cool metal seeps through the thin fabric of my grey polo shirt and the thought of my clothes makes me turn my attention back towards the doors on the other side of the hallway. Marley's face is no doubt sympathetic, she is a rare gem that holds the power of empathy, but I fear looking at her will crumble my resolve. I'm not heartbroken, I barely know the man, but it has left me feeling dejected. I guess it's my own fault; the boys in this world go for the Marley's of the world, not me. I sometimes feel jealous of my best friend and her image, how oblivious she is to how easy she has it, and I hate myself for feeling that way. I find myself looking at my one true friend the majority of time with either envy blazing in my eyes or guilt flooding them. I feel I'm a horrible friend to her for feeling those emotions, but I can't cut her loose. She doesn't deserve that, for she has done nothing wrong. Plus, she is the only friend I have in Lima.

"You really like this guy, don't you?" Marley asks in a voice so heartbroken that I can't help but flicker my dark eyes towards her direction. She has her cell in her hand and she is tapping away at it furiously with a look of deep concentration on her face. The more I watch, the less it looks like concentration though, and instead, more determination. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a slender teenage boy get shoulder checked by a jock as they pass each other in the doorway of one of the doors. It grabs my attention for a moment, because the slender teen has a face as he walks through the door I know all too well; the face of resignation. It gives me pause long enough to distract me from Marley, which is why I startle so much when she begins to talk again. "Lynn. His name is Ryder Lynn and he is 16 like us. He likes sports, music, superheroes and plays several instruments." She screws her face up slightly, squinting her eyes as she looks down at her thumbs controlling her cell screen. "I can't find anything that tells us what he is attracted to, though."

"How did you-" I begin, but Marley just smiles widely at me and waves her phone in front of my face. It's definitely Ryder on the image, all chestnut hair and dark friendly eyes staring right into the lens of the camera. My stomach gets assaulted by butterflies and I don't particularly find the feeling welcoming. Attraction to the unobtainable is a dangerous game that never ends well, I know this from experience.

"I checked out the Dayton Club Facebook page, scrolled through the people who had checked in recently and his name popped up." Marley says triumphantly and I have to give it to her, she really does go beyond the call of duty as a friend sometimes. "You should add him as a friend." I begin to object at such a ludicrous idea because Ryder has made his feelings blatantly obvious, but it seems Marley isn't done. "What's the worst that can happen? But first things first, go to the bathroom Wade, break is nearly over."

My stomach tightens and all thought of Ryder fade from my mind, because Marley is right, I have to tackle this obstacle first before I do anything else. I look up at the clock on the magnolia wall down the hallway and she is right, break is almost over and the bell will sound any moment. I look back at the wooden doors with sadness in my eyes. A task that requires no thought from everyone else is a challenge to me. I know what door I'm expected to enter, know which one would ultimately cause the least trouble, but it's not the one I want.

Still, I inhale a large breath of air through my noise, kick off from the locker with my well-worn sneakers and walk over to my selected door. Although I don't wish to think about it, my eye catches the stenciled word BOYS in dusty white paint as I push open the door and enter the lavatory. It smells strongly of musk, lingering Axe and urine in here and I have to make a conscious effect to keep my bottom lip from trembling.

I don't belong here, my brain feels the need to scream at me and it actually provides quite a useful distraction from the heavy set senior who is looking at me funnily. It seems like he shares the same attitude as everyone else in this school. I'm too girly for the boys room but own an appendage not welcome in the girls. The heavy set senior is looking at me with eyes that read he doesn't want me in here and just as he turns around, sniggering, and leaves, I tell myself he is right.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror as I see the only cubicle in the room is locked and what reflects back at me is sadness. I see dark skin, dull eyes, a shaven scalp and an excess amount of body weight. It's not the weight that I have a problem with, I'm healthy and active regardless of the 60 pounds I have on the average student. It's the body I have my demons with. Underneath these baggy pants, something nobody but me gets to see is what defines me and demands I use this room. No matter how invisible or obstructed my penis is, everyone knows it's there; I know it's there. And the knowledge of it demands I live I life I am unhappy with.

I turn from the mirror, sick of seeing myself so vulnerable, bare and ugly, just in time for the cubicle to open. The slender boy, who was shoulder checked on his way in, comes out and we catch each other's eyes for a brief second. His blue irises are sparkling in comparison to the redness around them and I can tell he has been crying. I've seen the boy around school and around the town but don't know him on a personal level, but something within me makes me smile sadly at him in hopes to convey a message to him. Even I am unsure what message I'm trying to impart. I understand? It gets better? I feel your pain? I'm unsure, but I feel this boy needs it just as much as I do right now. He holds eye contact for just a moment more before going on with his life and leaving the room as I take up refuge in his previous jail cell and do what I expect he was just doing.

I cry.

Blaine Anderson:

Right punch. Left punch. Right punch. Left punch. Uppercut.

I'm vaguely aware that I am scaring Tina with the ferocity of my punches, or maybe it's the tears spilling down my focused face that causes her to gently lay a cautious hand on my bare shoulder. It causes all fight I have inside me to quickly ebb away and I cling to the leather covered foam bag when it swings back my way and I weep heavily against its cold and battered material.

The icy brown leather of the punching bag is a stark contrast to the heat I'm emitting from my naked torso and it only makes me grip to the apparatus harder as chocked sobs rack my small body. I feel vulnerable, incredibly so, like this. Not just because I'm crying in the locker rooms of my school, half naked with my best friend watching on in concern, but because I'm exposing my weakness. The blows my father delivered to me mar my abdomen, the purpling bruise beneath my right eye creates the illusion of tiredness and hollowness, but what is clear to see than any of that, is my rage. And that is my weakness.

I hate this very present side of me and I try extremely hard to keep this ugly part of me hidden. When I'm consumed with rage, which is frighteningly becoming a frequent occurrence, I tend to find release in my guitar. I would strum for hours until my fingers bleed; hard, angry melodies. But after taking the brutal beating from last night, the thought of my guitar, my father's gift to me, makes me sick. In times like this, I just need to lash out and hit something, beat it and break it, just like my father so easily does to me. And it works for a while, discharging my anguish onto an inanimate object hung randomly in the far corner of the grey, dusky room. But it's physically exhausting and it doesn't bode well with an already tired mind. In many ways, this is worse than any beating my father could give me, making me feel like this. This person, this resentment driven angry monster is ugly and it scares me.

And if it scares me, than Tina must be petrified.

"I'm sorry." I breathe weakly into the pelt material and turn my miserable looking face over to my friend. Tina gives a feeble smile as her tiny grip on my shoulder tightens slight in reassurance. I'm aware that through my excursion that my back is slick with sweat and for Tina to keep her hand on me is as much a testament of our friendship as words. "I'm sorry you had to witness that." I repeat as with unsteady arms, I push my way off the punch bag and roughly wipe me face. It's excessively wet from tears and sweat and I'm under no delusion that Tina can tell the difference in moisture.

"Blaine, it's fine." Tina assures and finally takes her hand off of me. I watch to see if she'll wipe my sweat off onto her black and white go-go dress, but she doesn't and for some reason, it helps calm me down somewhat. She looks at me earnestly, her soft bangs pulling each time she blinks up at me. She doesn't look as scared as I thought she would, which gives me peace of mind, but she does look concerned. I feel bad for putting that look on her face. "Help me understand, Blaine. Talk to me." She says softly, not unlike the way a mother would talk to her saddened child. "Is it your father?" her eyes flicker over my marked torso.

"No. Yes. I don't know." I mumbled out, exhaustion replacing adrenaline at an alarming rate. Tina must tell I'm drained because she takes my hand in hers and slowly maneuvers us over to the nearby benches. It feels good to sit but my body starts to ache from yesterday's battery and the torment I've just put it through. "My dad didn't hurt me, I got these from a sparring buddy gone rogue over the weekend." I lie effortlessly. Tina knows my father is a spiteful horrible man, she has heard his vile tongue herself, but I'm trying to shield her away from the physical aspects of things, even though I'm not sure why I do so. I know she has suspected things get violent at home, but for some reason, I feel that admitting so would impart badly on my dad's reputation. I am very fond of Tina, but she has a hard time keeping things secret and I fear that if I told her the truth, my dad would somehow lose his job at the law firm. And if the recession has turned him into the violent beast he is now, than I shudder to think what unemployment would do to him; to me. "He just keeps going on about this marriage nonsense."

Tina goes quiet, as I expected she would. I hate bringing this up with her because it puts us in awkward territory, but it is the only way I can explain away my rage. We have only spoken about it a handful of times before and every conversation, both parties seem to leave feeling emptier than when it started.

I've suspected for a while that Tina's feelings for me go beyond that of a platonic friendship, but I try to play oblivious as much as possible for her sake, as well as mine. She knows I'm gay and says she accepts that, but I feel it sometimes, the way she watches me from afar, the look of longing ever present in her eye. This is why I hate bringing up the topic of discussion; it cruelly gives my friend hope.

"Would it really be that bad?" Tina asks quietly and I notice she has turned her attention back toward the now stationed punching bag. In some ways I'm grateful she has opted out of looking directly at me, because it makes things so much harder otherwise. "I know you're gay, Blaine and I would never try to change who you are." She sighs heavily and looks down at her lap, where her thumbs seem to be dancing around each other. She's nervous and it makes me feel guilty. "But we could always be in a sexless marriage. I'd be OK with that, you know."

"Tina." I say with as much passion as my tired soul will allow and it grabs her attention as she turns watery eyes onto me. "I wouldn't be OK with that." The skin around Tina's chin tightens as if she is about to full on sob, so I turn my whole person towards her and grab her hands to stop her dancing thumbs from twiddling. "You are my best friend in the world. I smile at your happiness." I smile as brightly as I can to her and she sniffles in response. "I want to cry with you as we graduate, I want to be front row at your first film screening, I want to be the weeping best man at your wedding and be that gay uncle to your children. I want all of those things for you Tina, but you can't have them if you're with me." She stares at me now, deep into my soul and an uneasy feeling sits in my stomach and makes my shoulders tense. I'm unsure what she is thinking because I've never let her down like this before. Usually this conversation begins and ends abruptly and rapidly, but I feel this time, I need to let her know why, because if I'm honest with myself, I'm tired of hurting her. "If we were to wed, we would both end up resenting each other because neither of us would be getting what we truly want. We would ruin the friendship we have and when we are old and dying and we look back on the regrets we have in life, the marriage will be the starring feature. And I don't want to look back on regret and see your face, because you are the only thing getting me through this place right now."

It takes a while before Tina's reactions and just as I assume she had died on me mid speech, she flings her arms around me, taking me off guard and chuckles wetly into my bare shoulder. I hug her back and the tension in my body goes and I cautiously start to believe that she has finally gotten it. Nothing I have said has been a lie and I hope she uses my words to find peace with that.

We stay hugging until the football team come in, all padded out and smelling of body odor, wolf whistling and advising us to get a room. Secretly I'm thankful of their arrival though, because Tina's body weight was not something my broken body could have endured for much longer.

Although, I suspect it's not just Tina's departure that has left me feeling lighter.

Noah Puckerman:

The best thing about being a runner on the football team is running. Or more accurately, as this case may be; running away.

Finn is trying to play the role of best friend and it's becoming increasingly fucking annoying. I knew telling him about my most recent arrest would be a topic to slip into conversation, but Finn seems to be trying to have an entire conversation about it. Whilst on the field.

Me and Finn share hardly any of the same classes seeing as I'm at the bottom of the intelligence pile and he seems to be wavering somewhere in the middle. This is the first time I've run into him today and the second I saw him in the locker room whilst putting on our pads, I knew he wanted to talk about our feelings like the little girl he has turned into since he mom got remarried. I kept myself busy whilst changing by talking to the other team members and pretending to be engrossed in their lame ass conversations but out here on the field, the ball is my only distraction. And Finn seems unperturbed by it. This sucks because I don't want to talk.

I feel a sudden trashing and shooting pain flood my chest and all the air inside my hard body is whacked out of me. I blink a couple of times and see the blurry image of the bars of my helmet float in front of my face with a blue backdrop and it's only that familiar visual confirming I've been hit by a ninja player. I'd been so focused on escaping Finn that I failed to see Karofsky fly for me. As I lay on my back on the muddy grass, trying to find my bearings, my attacker looms over me with furrowed brows.

"You alright, Puckerman?" Dave Karofsky asks in worry, but the mischievous glimmer in his eyes makes me believe he is less than sincere. I've never liked Dave very much, he always seems to be angry at the world and yet expecting favors from it. Dude's like that piss me off. I give him a thumbs up once I remember how to use my limbs and he scoffs before bouncing away with a roar of triumph for catching the fastest man on the team.

I do an awkward roll from my back to my front because although the padding around my red uniform helps protect my body from breaking, it doesn't do particularly well for maneuvering. I feel a crushing sensation around me rib cage that almost takes the wind out of me again and I grimace as I right myself because I know they are gonna ache like a bitch for a long time. It's all part of the beautiful game though and it's pretty much the only thing I'm decent at and I have decided long ago that I can deal with the occasional aches and pains if it proves to the world that I serve purpose.

"Dude." I grimace once again as Finn's voice reaches my ears from a distance I know I can't avoid. I pull off my now muddied red helmet just as Coach Beiste blows her whistle to signal end of practice and I turn towards my best friend turned stalker and give him the most reassuring shit eating grin I can muster. He falls for it, obviously, as his worried little face mimics mine and he wraps one arm around me tightly yet briefly. I ignore the pain around my chest as I mentally prepare for the headache Finn will no doubt give me. "I've been trying to talk to you all practice." Finn says in an exasperated tone that comes off a little too dramatic for my taste but I give him a confused look as if to say I had no idea. "You didn't say too much on the phone last night."

"There's not much to tell." I reply with a shrug that's barely visible under the padding as we slowly approach our Coach at a much more leisurely pace than my teammates. If this conversation is really going to happen, I'd rather it not be in front of the whole team.

Finn doesn't know everything, but he knows more than most. He came over to my house about a year ago and I was out doing god knows what when my ma answered the door to him. Usually when Finn came over, I used to answer the door and practically throw him up to my room telling him my ma was asleep and didn't want to be disturbed. However on that day, Finn got a front row seat to Heroin addict Norah Puckerman, equipped in hand with a brown stained sheet of tin foil and a pencil thin tube of the same material hanging from her mouth. Finn in all his naivety told his own mother what he saw and the rest is history. Now Carole bans her son from coming over to mine but has made it perfectly clear I will always be welcome in her new marital home, no matter how many times I lie and say my ma is now clean.

"Listen, if its money you need I can ask Burt if he has a job going at the garage." Finn say casually but his eyes give him away. He hates bring up money around me because he knows I don't have a lot of it. I screw up my face and shake my head at him again, just like the last time he offered me a job at the garage. The first time he asked, I had laughed and pointed towards my shit show jeep, telling him that the contraption is proof of how little I care about cars and a job involving them would bore me to death. That was only half the truth, although fixing cars really doesn't give me a hard-on, I deny to job opportunity because that would mean more time out of the house; away from Sarah. "I just don't want you going to Juvie, Dude."

"Relax, Princess." I scoff at Finn because he is definitely being dramatic now. Louis would never let his cousin go down and besides, the state doesn't lock up every petty thief they find. I have standards and rules and moral codes and shit. I never steal from the elder on the streets –it's hard to judge someone's age when you break into their vacant home-, I would never physically hurt someone to take they shit, I'm not a thug and I would never steal from women in the street –April Rhodes doesn't count, because I'm pretty convinced that broad is a murderer. I go to tell Finn some fabricated story about how I was innocent, just in the wrong place at the wrong time but when I look towards him, I see him gazing dreamily into the distance.

Finn's been making love heart eyes towards a girl that doesn't even know he exists for the past year now and he is like a damn love sick puppy whenever he sees her. She never looks his way though, in fact she never looks anyone's way. She walks through the school kinda like a zombie, with her head down and her long brunet hair covering her face. It's kinda weird and kinda creepy how she does it, but the majority of the time I barely notice her. Finn however, is obsessed with her ever since seeing her singing videos online. I've seen a video or two and yeah she is talented, but in real life she throws out this weird energy where no-one wants to be near her and she always looks at the floor. If she were to ever look up, she would see Finn, but judging from the dopey gormless look he is sporting now, that probably wouldn't be a selling point.

"Listen up fellas." Coach Beiste says in a booming voice, full of grit that sounds like it should never come from a chicks throat, no matter how burly the broad. "Next weekend, Cooter Menken's will be in Dayton running his annual Football bootcamp, hoping to find new recruits for his scholarship programme." Even Finn snaps out of his weirdo loner induced coma to look over at Beiste with that hopefully look in his eyes the rest of the team seem to be displaying, myself included. This is as big of an opportunity I'll get to get out of Lima. Sarah dancing across my mind briefly at the thought of leaving her for the weekend with our ma, but I file it away to think about later as I hang onto every word our Coach is saying. "There are members of this team that I think would fit his requirements perfectly." Her eyes linger on her star runner and quarter back a few seconds longer. Me and Finn grin at each other respectively. "All you need is a permission slip from a parent or guardian and a $50 contribution which covers your lodgings, travel, food and the entrance fee."

I think Coach keeps talking but it all turns into white noise after that. $50? I don't have that kind of money; I have no money at all. I refuse the urge within me to roar in anguish, fall to the floor and beat the ground for how fucking unjust my life is. I just stand there in a numb sort of way whilst the other players cheer and celebrate. Finn pats me hard on the back, which aggravates my persistent aches but not even that snaps me back to reality. I need this scholarship. I need to leave Lima. I need that $50.

Santana Lopez:

The food in the canteen today seems particularly awful. The chicken fillet seems undercooked, the fries are cremated and I'm pretty sure there is a pubic hair in my salad. I'm not an idiot. I push my atrocious food to one side and replace its space with my handbag. Brittany and Quinn seem to have forgone their food too, letting it grow stale as they rabbit on about boys and rating their hotness. I roll my eyes and begin rummaging through my bag. I don't know if it's a thing for girls to do, to empty out their bags regularly to maintain order, but that is not how I roll. Upon looking for my eyebrow pencil and mirror, I happen by a receipt from Breadstix dated about three months ago. I mentally chastise myself for being a sloppy, unorganized bitch and vow to myself that I would clean my bag out tonight.

"Vampire with the big lips?" Brittany asks Quinn pointing somewhere into the distance. I peak over my shoulder into that direction for a second before turning back and re-penciling in my eye brows. I can still see the blonde boy they are rating in the reflection of my compact mirror. They have rated this boy's hotness several times before, like all the boys in this school, and once again, I fail to see the appeal. He isn't a vampire as Brittany suggests, she seems to have just made that assumption after seeing him stalk through the town at night sometimes. He does have that trouty mouth thing going on for him though. Poor kid is homeless is what he is. I've spoken to him before, on the bench, in the past and the delightful kid just seems to be down on his luck. He never shows it though, always smiling and chatting away to people happily. I'm slightly envious of that smile to be honest, not that I would ever tell him that. In fact, I've never spoken to him off the bench before.

"Noah Puckerman?" Quinn asks after rating the homeless kid a solid eight. Brittany goes into a monologue about her experience with Noah in the bedroom and I start to feel bile gather in my throat. I do every time Brittany talks about her intimate relationship with Noah, which is a frequent thing. Those two together just do not bode well with me for some reason, and I can't figure out why. I've slept with Noah a handful of times myself, but I don't think it's a jealousy issue that makes me uncomfortable to hear Brittany's tale. I'm pretty sure Noah is gay or at the very least bisexual because he asks me to put my fingers in places no other man has suggested. And alas, there have been numerous men. That thought also makes my skin crawl so I push it to the back of my mind and concentrate on reapplying my make up.

My stomach rumbles after a moment and I close my mirror and look over at my untouched soiled food and frown. I really am quite hungry seeing as the last time I ate was yesterday lunchtime and the contents of that ended up in the toilet bowl. I always throw up after turning a trick. Most of the time it comes naturally, like my body is trying to protect me and cleans me from the inside out, sometimes I force myself. It's become sort of a tradition and happens so often that my mama –during a brief moment of clarity from her breakdown- once asked me if I was suffering from bulimia. I remember thinking to myself that I wish it was that simple. Does that make me a sick bitch, for wishing a disorder upon myself rather than continue to search for companionship; for love?

I rummage through my beige and black handbag once more and find a rolled up pile of cash, secured with a rubber band and a short-lived smile tugs on my glossed lips at the thought of ordering pizza with it when I get home, until I remember where the money came from.

The nameless trick from last night. I shudder violently and drop the money back into my bag. Usually I store the money when I get home under my bed, hardly touching it and saving it for my escape from the Heights, but it must of slipped my mind last night. I definitely need to empty out my bag tonight.

"You Ok, Tana?" Brittany asks in concern and I realize she must have spotted my shudder, or perhaps my face holds my self-disgust as my closest friend searches it hoping to find answers I will never reveal. "What happened to your hand?" she asks and oh so very gently strokes her delicate fingers across my battered knuckles. Once again, like all the times we touch, I retreat my skin from hers as the tingling burning sensation takes over. Brittany looks at me with sad eyes and extracts her own hand.

For the last few years this freak occurrence has been happening and ever since it started, I've made a conscious effort not to touch my best friend, which is easier said than done. I told Brittany a long time ago about the feeling of electric she exudes and she retold me a story of her birth in a barn during a lightning storm. I'm unaware how much of that tale holds truth nor if it has any connection, but she has promised me to keep the touching to a minimum. Which is sad, for both of us, because Brittany is an extremely affectionate person and it's super grating to see her hugging Quinn without a care in the world and then tensing up myself when she makes a move towards me. Maybe my Uncle Carlos left me with a fear of affection. I think that's what Brittany thinks too and she thinks I've made up this whole electric feeling as an excuse not to touch people. Which isn't half wrong, to be honest. I was a lot more tactile before my father's arrest.

"Sports injury." I put my injured knuckle down to and Brittany, bless her simple mind, eats it right up. Quinn, however, has that judging look marring her pretty little face. Me, Brittany and Quinn are all on the cheerleading squad and our Coach has often referred to us as 'The Unholy Trinity' the three beings that represent the bad stereotyping in the Cheer World. Brittany is the idiot with way more beauty than brains, I'm a slut who has sleep with the entire football team. (the sad truth is, I'm well on my way to proving that stereotype correct) and Quinn is the judgy little bitch head cheerleader with is eerily accurate. I think Quinn plays the role though, like it's a character, because there are times, when we are alone that she becomes sort of human. It's those rare times that restore my patience in her. Besides, we all have flaws; I'd be a fucking hypocrite to judge someone on their outermost layer. The layer they present to the world.

"I suggest a sleepover." Quinn says, her eyes still narrow in judgement and I honestly have no idea where she is going with this. Brittany cheers though, so I smile and nod my head. "Girls night, it's been forever don't you think?" She's right of course; it has been a long time ago since we all caught up outside of school. Life just gets complicated sometimes. "We can't have it at mine though because my parents are working from home at the moment." It's a big fat lie and a transparent one at that. Ever since my father went to prison for murdering the uncle who molested me, I've seen the way Quinn's parents look at me. One part pity, three parts disgust. I've not been in Quinn's home since because they are constantly 'working' even though it's no secret that her father flies out on business trips every month and her mother is a kept woman.

I don't bring it up though because I don't want my suspicions confirmed and plus, I lie about why we can't go to mine either. I say my room is being redecorated and is not fit for the living at the moment when in truth, my mama doesn't do well with people. She sits in her armchair watching nature programs and documentaries on the paranormal for 18 hours a day, most of the time sleeping in it overnight. She barely speaks, nor eats or even washes and although I can sympathize and understand how her breakdown happened, I'm sort of embarrassed by her now. She is literally a shell of the Maribel Lopez who raised me.

"My house is cool." Brittany shrugs casually as she starts picking away at her stone cold school food. Quinn and I smile falsely at each other as I rack my brains for the perfect excuse as to why I have damaged knuckles. Busting up a girl's face for being a bitch probably wouldn't sit well for right wing conservative Quinn Fabray.

Rachel Berry:

OK, so maybe throwing my cell phone out of my window was a bit dramatic and highly detrimental to my day to day life.

In my haste, I had forgotten that although no-one apart from my dads call me, my cell also doubles up as a music player, and as it turns out, silence is a scary sound. Throughout school and my hometown I often tend to drown out the world with the Broadway classics booming through my headphones. This helps block out what I thought were whispers and jibes, insults and taunts thrown my way. As it turns out, what I learnt from my tuneless day was there were none of those things, all there was was silence. I wasn't acknowledged by anyone at school, nobody spoke good or bad about me, no-one pardoned themselves when they bumped into me throughout the halls, and somehow it made everything worse. It was like I was invisible.

I'm not silly, I know my headphones give off the illusion that I'm unapproachable, and to a degree, I think it's a conscious decision on my part, but for nobody, not a single student to mutter a single word to me is kind of soul destroying. Especially in the wake of Jesse's abandonment.

Even during gym class, when the team captains were choosing their lineups, nobody uttered my name. Can it be called 'being picked last' if you weren't actually picked at all? The gym teacher had to tell one team I was -by default- in their group, an ensemble that didn't even acknowledge me when I tried to integrate. I walked out after 10 minutes of silence and the teacher didn't even summon me back as I walked across the hall and out of the metal double doors. I didn't cry though, I'm too exhausted to cry anymore.

I went to Miss Pillsbury, the school's guidance counselor, instead and sat with her well into her lunch break trying to grasp onto my rapidly deteriorating future. Miss Pillsbury didn't mind advising me for so long, at least that is what she said, but her tired and distracted stare made me think otherwise. We spoke about my other options for colleges and didn't come up with a single thing, nothing acceptable anyway. I realize that if I'm desperate to leave my town, than beggars simply cannot be choosers, but I've had my heart set on New York ever since I was 7 months old and discovered my voice. I just feel that if I settle for another state, that I wouldn't be leaving my problems, just relocating them and only New York, my dream, will fulfil the void in my heart. A void my mother created 18 years ago when she abandoned me. She seems to have set a trend ever since.

I can't remember the last friend I had, I don't think Jesse counted, because no friend hurts another the way he did to me. Angie, an elderly waitress at Breadstix used to smile at me often when bringing the used dishes to the sink, but the more I think about it, she was the only person in the establishment that I had contact with and someone must have reported back to the manager that I was worth firing. Was it her? The more I think about it, the more I hope it was her, for if not and I had thought badly upon an innocent woman, that guilt would probably consume my very fragile and delicate mind. I decide to blame my dismissal on my own merits, ignoring my mind which screams that I'm a perfectionist, because thinking otherwise makes me feel slightly numb.

And I don't want to feel numb, I refuse to. Everyone and everything has abandoned me so far, I refuse to let my feelings do the same. I need to feel, because no matter the emotion, I can change it into drive and ambition and determination and at the moment, those are the only things shining a sliver of light in a very dark hole I've found myself in.

Even my fellow benchers, the only people outside of teachers, parents and betraying boyfriends that I speak to, can't be considered friends. I've only ever spoken to two people whilst on the bench and one was a creepy old man talking about his dilemma of being attracted to the teenagers he sells pot to. The other, Evan if memory serves, hardly got to speak because I rambled on and on and then fled the scene distraught, so I doubt he counts either.

I can see the bench in the distance, almost swallowed up by the looming darkness of the clear night sky. It's not particularly late in the evening, but the bitter winds remind me that the night materializes earlier this time of year. The geese that usually inhabit the lake I'm currently walking around have long flown south and once again, thanks to my impulsive behavior, I have nothing but silence for company.

I'm not ready to go home just yet, my dads are probably worried sick with my absence and lack of availability to contact me, but that thought lingers far in the back of my mind. They will sooth me and pander to me and that will only make me cry more and like I said, I'm too tired for tears. I don't need to cry anymore, I need to find direction.

As I keep walking, the bench becomes more clear and its vacancy seems inviting to the point that I actually pause in my footing and decided to myself if its company will benefit me tonight. Well, the silence doesn't hold much companionship so I make my way over towards the piece of furniture.

I stand in front of it, staring down at the golden plaque on the worn wood as I wrap my coat around me tighter. In Memory Of Victor Wilson. I shiver slightly; the plaque always makes me slightly apprehensive when I see it. Victor Wilson was a great man but his demise was bleak and if history was to be believed, this was his final visiting place before ending his own life. I would never be so selfish as to leave my dads with that grief, but surely Victor must have had same mentality as me at some point in his life. Did the bench convince him of suicide or was it a long list of things leading up to that point. Either way, it gives me the heebie-jeebies when I think of the bad spells of rotten luck I've had throughout my life.

I sit down nonetheless and it is only when I do I realize how much my legs ache from walking. I must have travel miles since school's been out, judging by the darkness and had barely realized up until now. My fathers really must be quite distraught by now as I have never been out this late, for never having reason to. My tendency to over react and become melodramatic have nothing on theirs and I know I should run home and heal them of their heart ache, but selfishly my mind whispers 'But what about your own aching heart?'

I must lose myself to the comfort of the wood beneath me and the dancing reflection of the moon upon the ripples of the black lake because I'm soon startled by a soft voice.

"May I?"

I look up and standing beside me is a pale, tired looking man who couldn't be far from my age looking down at me with a soft smile as if he were approaching a wounded animal. I suppose my self-pity does give off that sort of illusion. I'm so caught up in the fact that someone my own age has spoken to me today that I don't realize I'm nodding until after I have done so.

"I'm Porcelain." The sad looking man informs me as he too wraps himself up in a warm looking, white coat before taking residence next to me. He opts to look out at the lake instead of at me in which I'm grateful for. Not only do I not do well in social settings, but I fear I'm not currently a sight for sore eyes. I briefly take in his profile; face covered in skin so pale that the moon light seems to illuminate it somewhat. He has a slightly upturned nose and his features are far softer than that of the average newly adult men. He doesn't look threatening in the slightest, if anything, he looks about as nervous and vulnerable as I assume I must look.

"I'm Fanny." I tell Porcelain because I decide to trust him enough to give him my bench alias. Porcelain's lips ticks upwards slightly before turning to look at my face, his pale blue eyes zeroing in on my nose. His smile widens into one more carefree before turning back to look at the lake. I'm assuming by the knowing smile and the look towards my nose that he gets the reference to my alias and it's that bit of knowledge that has me liking Porcelain.

Kurt Hummel:

I've never approached a Searcher before nor have I had much desire to ever do so until now.

I call them Searchers, people who come to the bench in need of guidance, direction and answers. Hijackers are the people who join the Searcher on the bench giving both parties the opportunity to Share. The rare times I have Shared, I have been the Searcher, being joined by another after I have taken my seat. I've seen other Searchers on the bench before and I've had the chance to Hijack but fear has always stopped me. Maybe the Searcher wishes simply to be left to think, maybe they wouldn't appreciate a Hijacker like me or maybe I feel too uncomfortable Sharing with a Searcher sitting on the lakeside bench.

Until today it seems.

"Rough day?" I ask Fanny after silence had descended between us. It's not a heavy silence though, one that has you fidgeting in discomfort, but instead one in which the bench is notorious for; thought provoking silence. I however, don't particularly wish to think anymore this evening, and instead wish to be distracted from such action by listening to another's woes. Hence the Hijacking.

I know it seems selfish, asking somebody else to air out their grief just so I don't have to think about mine, but I don't think Fanny would mind. If anything, she looks as though she craves conversation as much as I need distraction.

I turn my head to look at her and her face reads confusion loud and clear. She seems stunned that someone would give her the time of day and create dialogue with her. I'm suddenly hit with a wave of jealousy. I wish people wouldn't give me the time of day and that the words would stop.

"I'm invisible." Fanny says sadly with a shrug and I get the feeling she isn't used to people looking directly at her because she seems to shy away and refocus on the lake in front of us. The flood of envy doesn't cease. What I would do to be invisible, to not have people in my face, staring me down all day. I continue watching her watch the lake and my eyes are drawn back to her nose and I smile again. Her nose seems slightly too large for her face and I can't help but assume that her alias 'Fanny' stems from the character in Funny Girl portrayed by Barbara Streisand who has a similar problem. "Also, I can't find a suitable college and deadlines are looming."

This is a problem I can't really relate to for I have not applied for any colleges, despite what I have told my family. They think that I spend my whole entire time locked up in my room researching and applying for colleges when little do they know… my wrist tingling just thinking about it and I pull the sleeves of my coat over my entire hands. Fanny's eyes flicker to them momentarily before returning to the water. I wanted to go to college, escape this town and better myself, but I've been distracted by far more present things as of late. Plus I know no college would want a scarred and disfigured person like me on their enrollment.

"What is it you want to study?" I ask, my eyes still on her, silently willing her to drop her guard for a moment and connect with me. I get the sense that her problem with invisibility is, at least to some extent, her own doing. She seems closed off and reserved as if willing herself to blend into the background and to flee focus. I must confess that it seems to work, because I can't recall seeing her around town before. I wonder what that says about me as a person.

"Musical theatre." She mutters and in a lot of ways it takes me by surprise and yet it seems so obvious. On one hand, Fanny obviously owns at least some knowledge of the Broadway catalogue given her alias, but for someone so inverted to dream of a spotlight is something I'm having trouble comprehending. "But everywhere in New York has rejected me and I don't want to go anywhere else because New York is the home of- "

"Broadway." I finish for her and finally she turns to look at me with eyes that aren't consumed with despair. My heart strings tug for this girl and I realize my overflow of jealousy has drained away and compassion is taking its place. Maybe invisibility isn't something to be yearned for when you're battling it like Fanny is. "I'm a bit of a Broadway geek. I own the bootleg of like, dozens of the classics. My ringtone is Defying Gravity from Wicked."

Fanny smiles brightly at me if only a little watery and I smile back at her. We have a common ground it seems, a foundation for something to grow and it warms my heart a damn sight better than my coat currently does. It feels good to smile after the day I've had.

Asides from the usually stick from the football team, hockey team and cheerleaders, I had to deal with the taunts and cascade of red foam balls at dodgeball. I hate dodgeball on the best of days, let alone when the opposing team makes me their prime target and then my own team turns on me for losing them the game. It doesn't help either that when the teacher tells his students to calm down and they remind him that 'Kurt loves handling balls though, sir' that the teacher laughs hysterically. I cried in the loo today because of it, something I thought I had gotten over.

"During elementary school I used to enter singing contests." Fanny laughs sadly and it in turns saddens me that she starts losing that dim light in her dark eyes. "My dads were so proud and turned our basement into a trophy room for all of my memorabilia. They even built a stage for me to sing on. They have high dreams for me, the same dreams I have for myself, and I fear I can't achieve them anymore." I catch the plural of the word dads but decide not to mention it because it seems insignificant at the moment.

"You're talented then?" I ask Fanny and she shrugs a shoulder and a sudden bolt of recognition hits me. I've seen this girl before, I have. Finn had locked himself in his room one evening for hours on end and nobody could figure out why as his games console remained in the living area. I had assumed he was doing what most teenage boys would be doing but when I heard music playing I had entered to find him staring vividly at his computer screen, watching a girl sing her heart out. Fanny is that girl. I remember because not only was she talented but she sang with such passion, emotion, pain and anguish that it had left me shaken for a while. At least I now know where that torment steams from now. "How have NYADA rejected you already when they are still accepting applicants?" I ask her in wonder.

"NYADA?" she replies in a confused tone as she looks at me with furrowed brows and I can't help but mimic her for seemingly having no acknowledgement of what I'm talking about.

"New York's Academy for Dramatic Arts? You've never heard of it?" I question her and Fanny shakes her head vehemently as if she is outraged with herself for never hearing of it. It makes me smile for some reason. "Sweet Gaga, you have to apply for it, you would be a shoo in." I tell her because I truly believe it. Her eyes go wide and many different emotions seem to flicker across her face at once. The one I notice and cling onto though, is hope. "There are still a couple of weeks left until the deadline and I have the application forms sitting on my desk gathering dust. You should totally have them."

"Wait, what?" Fanny frowns again and leans back and it is only then I realize she must have been leaning in with intrigue as I was speaking. "Why do you have them on your desk? Were you going to apply or something?"

I hesitate before answering because I hadn't even noticed that I told Fanny I had the forms so readily available. I know the reason I haven't applied but can I really tell another person, a relative stranger? I sit back further to look out at the moon reflecting on the water and hear the creaking of wood underneath me that reminds me where I am. Where I'm sitting.

"I was going to apply myself, but life got complicated and I forgot and when I did finally remember I thought I wasn't worthy enough." I tell Fanny honestly. She remains silent for a while, longer than she has been since opening up and I'm too afraid to look at her for some reason so I stay very still and keep my eyes ahead.

"Because that's what the bullies have told you." Fanny says quietly and I frown at that because it's not something I've mentioned. "I've seen you around Porcelain; I've seen what they do to you. I can't imagine it being very pleasant and I can tell that their words have cut you deep." My arm twitches involuntary and I don't turn to see if Fanny notices. The air just became very restricted all of a sudden and I have to fight my desperate urge to flee. Fanny doesn't deserve that. "I think we should apply Porcelain, I really do."

I turn to look at her and she is smiling encouragingly at me, like she believes with her whole heart that this is the right thing for us both to do. Her belief is almost infectious and I placate her by telling her that I will at least do further research into the academy before making a decision. She smiles and nods and I believe she accepts that. We bond after that, over trivial things like Broadway shows and movie adaptations and it's only when Finn phones me hours later in a panic for my safety that we part ways with a better understanding of each other and a possible direction out of Lima.

Sam Evans:

The constricting pain in my stomach is tolerable tonight. However, I'm not sure how long that will last.

The bakery hasn't thrown any of their produce away this evening so I'm to go hungry tonight. This wouldn't really be too much of a problem, the bakery often manages to sell all their fresh produce and they rarely discard items in the garbage cans behind the store, but at the moment, that is all I'm relying on as I've run out of perishables.

Millie Rose is a dinner lady at McKinley High and ever since I ended up on the streets, she has been sneaking me supplies from the kitchen at school. Just little bits here and there, not enough for a person to notice but enough to keep me going. I'm forever grateful to Millie and her generosity because without her handouts, I have no idea what I would do. Millie however, is off sick and has been for the last few days and with the bakery selling all their goods, my stomach is starting to protest from the minimum food I shovel down me at lunch to sustain 24 hours.

At least I'm clean, so there are small victories and that in itself makes me content. I love football training days because those days mean I get to shower properly as opposed to wiping myself down in the service station loos. That's a thing I struggle with a lot, the paranoia that people can tell by my stench that I don't clean too often and haven't had the luxury of deodorant for a while now. Nobody has said anything out right to me, but I can smell myself and usually by the fourth day without a proper clean, I can tell that the other students are mindfully keeping their distance from me. That humiliation is worse than any hunger pains my stomach is enduring.

But I am very hungry and logic tells me to just retreat under the bridge for the night and sleep until school comes back around. I can't however because I'm not tried and I have a problem with staying still for too long, it makes me restless. So I continue to burn off the little energy my body has left by once again, roaming the dark, quiet streets of Lima.

Most of Lima goes dead past 9pm, everyone's finished with their days and snuggled up on the couch with their loved ones watching whatever latest show has gripped the nation. The only place that really has any nighttime activity is the Heights and that is never for a good reason. Drug deals, robberies and solicitation happen when the sun goes down and the occasional cop car driving through has no effect on the area. Every night, like clockwork, when the sun goes down, the Heights come to life.

I'm too weak too skulk around the nefarious area though as I feel I don't have the energy to protect myself if needs be, so instead I end up lurking in the shadows of Upper Lima where all the rich residents live. Completely opposite to the Heights, the streets are deserted, cold and silent. Every top of the range car is sitting in their drives, surrounded by up kept gardens and mailboxes that even glimmer by night.

I'm not sure I would want to live in a place like this if I ever had the good fortune to live under a roof, it all seems a bit segregated to me; like there's an obvious class divide. I mean, obviously if I had the money I would want a nice house but I wouldn't want it located in a place where those less fortunate would feel uncomfortable; like I do now. I know I don't belong here; the residents and scenery make that very clear, hence me hiding in the shadows.

In a lot of ways, I kind of admire the Heights as opposed to here. Yes, it's a lot more dangerous and sirens are the neighborhood lullaby, but there is a sense of community there which this place is sorely lacking. People in the Heights talk to each other about their families and situations whilst the conversations in Upper Lima sound like competitions, subtle digs at one another to prove they are richer, more powerful. I've heard money can do that to people.

Not me though, at least I like to think.

My family, once upon a time, was financially comfortable. We couldn't afford Upper Lima but we could afford better than the Heights, we floated somewhere right in the middle, at working class. Even than I would have friends from both ends of the scale and wouldn't see them any differently from each other. Even now, as I live on the streets independently, looking at the Heights as a pipe dream, I still feel the same. I don't envy the rich and I don't pity the poor and I never have. I just don't bode well with negative emotions, it sits funny within me. Besides, happiness has no price tag and even as I sit in the shadows with no food in my stomach, I truly believe that I am happier than many people that live in this area. I'm healthy, have good friends and have a dream, staying focused on that makes me rich, I think.

After my stomach constricts uncomfortably for the 40th time this evening, I'm just about to call it a night when I see life. Walking pass me and up the long vertical road is a man in a well fitted suit shouting on the phone. I push myself against a wall to hide further from focus although it's pointless as the business man has already passed me and seems too preoccupied calling whoever is on the other end of the call a variety of colorful words.

I watch him storm up the road, his heavy angry breaths and spouts of abuse fading away in the otherwise dead of night, I can still vaguely make out his voice. I thank my lucky stars for not getting caught by him, because I doubt he would find me welcome, skulking in the shadows in an area I clearly don't belong.

As I go to turn away, I see another figure in the far distance walking towards the angry man. I can't make out what this new man looks like from this distance or where he came from and that strikes me as odd. Surely someone from Upper Lima wouldn't be out this time of evening and if they were, they would be driving. The angry man is different because he is obviously arriving home from work but the new guy must be leaving his home, wherever that may be. I fear I'm overthinking things. My ADHD sends my brain into overdrive sometimes.

I see the newcomer walk pass the angry man with a forceful bump to the shoulders. Again I find this odd too as the sidewalk is clearly big enough for the both of them. Angry man says something which is lost in the distance and Mr. Bump holds his hands up in surrender before continuing on his way. His route looks like he will be passing where I'm standing at any moment so once again, I try to blend into the shadows.

It doesn't work though.

Mr. Bang stops short not 10 meters away from me and looks in my direction. With his face illuminated by the lamp above, I finally get a look at the man to realize he isn't quite a man after all, but Noah Puckerman the delinquent teenager from the Heights. I frown because I don't understand why he is in the area so casually, dressed in a suit that simultaneously hangs from him and clings to him in different areas.

I can't even get my bearings as Noah looks straight at me with dark eyes and for a moment I'm slightly frightened he is going to attack but then something bizarre happens. Noah drops his gaze and reaches into his pocket to reveal a round object of some sorts. It's hard to tell with the distance between us. Whatever it is, it can be assembled as Noah picks it apart slightly and re-pockets a small part of it before looking at me again.

I'm standing here extremely confused when the suited teenager begins moving again, eyes now off me like I don't exist and maybe never have while he walks pass me. Before I know it, Noah reaches into his pocket again and throws something towards me feet. I flinch and duck for cover for reasons I don't know and when nothing hits me, I feel foolish. My only consolation is that when I look up again, Noah is nowhere to be seen.

I look at the ground, by my feet and my heart does this funny thing which makes me think I'm about to have a heart attack as I set eyes on the gift bestowed to me. Money. Rolled up cash.

I pick it up with haste and I undo the rubber band keeping in together as I count out the dollar bills. $450 rest in my hand and dread and guilt automatically flood me. Noah stole this money from the angry man during the shoulder bump, that's why Noah was in Upper Lima, to steal money. My empty stomach drops as I look down at the bills and think to myself that I'm holding hard earned cash that doesn't belong to me. I look up and angry man has also disappeared from view and I have no idea which home he entered so my chances of returning it are slim. I wouldn't snitch on Noah for taking it, I would say it fell on the floor, hopefully that would wash away my guilt, but I can't see him anywhere.

I look down at the cash again and furrow my blonde brows when I see a business card also included in Noah's stolen gift. I smile to myself for having information in which to put this wrong right but when I read the card, I pause.

Mr. Anderson

Defense Attorney.

That angry man was Blaine Anderson's father, the same man who gets drunk and beats his son. Suddenly I'm filled with an emotion other than guilt, I'm filled with something I can't explain.

I feel bless that for whatever reason, Noah gave me a lifeline in which I can spend the night in a motel, waking up to breakfast and I don't feel bad that Mr. Anderson is out of pocket. I bury the money into my hoody as I finally take my leave from Upper Lima thanking the heart of a convict and hoping a son doesn't get punished.