Ep. 02 – Showmance

"We have a special treat for you today. Mr. Schuester."

I don't even look up until I hear that annoying-as-hell ginger counselor-in-need-of-counseling start clapping in a way that tells everyone that either she loves glee club way more than is humanly possible or totally wants to bed Mr. Schue (who's currently blabbering on about Glee club and how they're "making a comeback"…psh, as if). I'm guessing the second one because nobody likes glee club and, let's face it, who wouldn't do the nasty with Señor Schuester? Sure, his hair could use work (though that might be Coach Sylvester's influence talking) but I would totally lick whipped cream out of those dimples any day.

But anyways, it's Nude Erection's performance time and I can't wait for it to be start so that it can be over. Quinn's already so pissed it's like electricity is crackling from her skin and I can practically see everyone else's hair around her standing on end. I glance over at that creepy Jewfro kid and I have a feeling there's another part of his body that's standing on end, considering he's got the hots for the tranny and she's about to start singing—

Oh.

My.

God.

It takes me a second to register what the fuck is exactly happening onstage. The glee club is apparently trying really hard to be edgy, but since they're all about as badass as Care Bears it's just really tragic and disgusting. The whole experience is kinda like watching a car crash: it's probably going to make me sick but I still can't help but watch. It's so traumatic, I can only manage the briefest of thoughts.

Blue suspenders and kneepads? Not hot, Berry. B-t-dubs, those pigtails make you look like jailbait.

What the hell are you doing, wheelchair kid? Does your junk even work?

Um, no. Earth to the ethnic Britney Spears wannabes: ovary slaps are not risqué.

Whoa, panty flash. At least now we know that either Berry's a girl or just really confused.

Finn Hudson, you may be able to sing, but you officially fail at rapping. Hope you enjoyed that spanking you just got from McKinley's biggest butt pirate.

I realize that my mouth has been hanging open in shock and disgust and I glance at Quinn, who looks like she would claw Berry's eyes out if she wouldn't have to repent for it later. Brittany, who's sitting on my other side, leans over and whispers in my ear as Berry and Finn basically start doing it onstage.

"That looks like it hurts."

"That's cause they're doing it wrong," I scoff, my horrified eyes still glued to Berry as she mounts Finn from the front. "See, look," I explain, gesturing to the center pair. "You don't just have the guy hold your legs for you—you wrap them around his waist. And hanging on his neck like that is just asking for him to fall on top of you."

"Oh." Brittany sits back up, but leans over again a few seconds later. "Is that why we don't do it like that?"

When Quinn asks me to audition for Glee with her at lunch a few days later, I almost spit out the gulp of Sue Sylvester Master Cleanse© that I'm forcing down. Her suggestion only makes the mixture harder to swallow.

"Excuse me?" I snap in disbelief. "Did all those highlights seep through your scalp and infect your brain?"

"Not unless all those trips to the tanning salon have finally fried yours," Quinn shoots back.

"I think my bangs did that for me," Brittany comments vaguely, staring off into space and twirling a strand of said bangs around her finger.

"Look," Quinn explains hastily in a low voice, "I talked to RuPaul earlier this week and she said she wasn't going to try and 'steal my man.' But you saw her during that assembly. She just as easily could've paired herself up with another guy in that song."

"Well, yeah," I reply in a tired voice, "except that one of the guys can't use his junk and the other one is about as straight as one of the polka dots on Elton John's hideous pants."

Quinn huffs and frowns, but keeps talking. "Anyways, you saw the way those two were looking at each other. I need to join that club so I can keep an eye on Finn and make sure he doesn't screw himself over…because if he stops being popular, then my rep goes down too."

"So?" I say with a shrug. "Just break up with him."

Quinn looks shocked. "But I love Finn!" she scoffs, sounding almost insulted at my suggestion. "And he loves me."

"Then I'm sure you don't have to worry about him and…Rachel Berry." I shudder as I say the name; it's like in Harry Potter when nobody will say that dude's name. Except he has no nose and Rachel Berry has way too much. "Brit and I are NOT letting you join that club. I swear, if you do, your reputation will go down harder than George Bush's approval ratings."

Quinn, fuming (probably because her crazy-ass WASP father still supports good old George W.), looks to Brittany for support. She simply shrugs and says, "I like dancing."

Then, after a moment of reflection, I realize…I like dancing too. And singing. And plus, since all three of us are so popular, it'd be like we're doing a good thing by joining this club and boosting the little freaks' reps in the process…right?

I shake my head. I'm not actually considering joining Nude Erections, am I?

Shit. Maybe I should stop tanning so much.

The song we (and by "we," I mean Quinn) choose is called "I Say a Little Prayer." It sounds like it should be playing in an elevator at JC Penny, and plus since the karaoke track we use already has backup singers on it, when Brittany and I sing along we sound like black women. Of course Quinn insists on singing lead because "it was her idea" and "she's captain of the Cheerios" so "she's showing both initiative and leadership."

I personally think all that's a load of bull, but Brit and I don't argue. Brit mostly because she's way too sweet to argue with anyone, but I bite my own tongue because my time dealing with Coach Sylvester has taught me that you'll never get anywhere by pissing off people above you. Hence why Quinn and Sylvester are the only two people I can really be civil around. The rest of the cow-town spawn that crawls the halls of McKinley just isn't worth my time.

Anyways, the three of us audition and Mr. Schue tells us right then and there that we're in. I actually feel pretty good, because the minute long performance we did was way more fun than it should be. I'm walking out of the room with Brit and Quinn, thinking that maybe being able to sing and dance won't be so bad, when we spot none other than Coach Sylvester. Her furious eyes stare us down, like a viper about to strike (and, frankly, I wouldn't be surprised if she could produce venom, because she told us once that she lived off snake venom for seventy-two hours when she was in the Falklands).

Sylvester doesn't say anything—she just points to her office door, and we all scurry in there, taking seats in front of her desk. I sit down slowly, carefully. I pray that the chair's aren't electrocuted.

Luckily they aren't. And after Quinn explains our situation, Coach Sylvester gives us an assignment: feed her information from Glee rehearsals so that we can take down the club. I high-five Brit triumphantly, and Quinn's eager smile tells Coach that we're all on board.

We all want different things out of this: Coach wants her full budget restored (because being parachuted onto a field from a rented helicopter is way cooler than doing some dinky song-and-dance routine to elevator music), Quinn wants her boyfriend back, Brittany just wants her friends to be happy.

And me? Well, these freaks are trying to destroy the status quo people like Quinn and I have dedicated our entire high school lives to upholding. And I can't let that happen. There's no way I'm losing my reputation to an ambiguously ethnic Barbra Streisand wannabe who owns the entire San Diego Zoo in sweater form and dresses like she could be the offspring of Betty White and Strawberry Shortcake.

Not that I'm worried, of course.