Chapter 1:
It was the first day of senior year and there was a new kid.
There was never a new kid.
The last time there had been a new kid had probably been in the second grade, when that girl with the lazy eye and the crooked teeth had transferred from... somewhere. Mickey didn't remember, in fact, he wasn't sure he had ever even known to begin with. He didn't really bother to find out the minor details about everyone at McKinley High. He didn't need to. He was the one that everyone wanted to know, he was the one everyone wanted to be, even if, at times, he didn't really want to be himself.
Nevertheless, there was a new kid now. Mickey saw him from down the hall. He appeared to be having a brawl with his new locker. It looked as if he was muttering obscenities under his breath as he twisted the dial anti-clockwise with a lot of force. He would be acquainted with it soon enough, Mickey thought, he would probably end up inside it before the day was out.
He was interesting, this boy, in a strange way. He wasn't like any of the other boys who attended McKinley. At least, it didn't appear that way. Nobody dressed like that around here. Sure, some of the boys in Mickey's circle were quite well-off and wore designer clothing, but not like that. Mickey had designer sweaters, polo shirts, jeans, shoes, but he didn't own anything that even closely resembled what this boy was adorned in. His sequined vest, long-sleeved, tight-fitted white shirt and skinny, skinny jeans were only going to worsen matters for him. Soon enough the poor kid would be quaking in his patent leather, violet Doc Martins. Mickey almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
Mickey watched the boy, curiously. He had his locker opened now and was pulling books from his over-the-shoulder bag, before placing them inside the locker. It all seemed terribly awkward and like a huge struggle. That was going to go against him, too, Mickey conceded, frowning a little.
"What's up, Milkovich?" Noah Iggyerman said, appearing out of nowhere, knocking Mickey from his reverie. He raised a muscled arm, waiting for Mickey to greet him in their usual fashion. Mickey bumped his fist against Iggy's and gave him a smile.
"New kid," Mickey felt the need to point out, as he gestured towards the boy with the perfectly coiffed hair, as he studied what appeared to be his schedule with great interest.
Iggy strained to see over the crowds, then grinned, his dark eyes flashing briefly, when he spotted the boy.
"Sweet," Iggy chuckled, drawing out the 'e' sound in the word 'sweet'. "Once the guys are here, we can give him a proper McKinley High welcome!"
Mickey forced a laugh and straightened up, drawing his red letterman jacket over his chest. He knew what a 'proper McKinley High welcome' entailed. He had participated in enough of them. He watched as Iggy began gathering the rest of the football team, as they passed by in the hallway. It wasn't long before at least eight guys were standing by Mickey's locker talking loudly and laughing boisterously, some of them holding cups filled to the brim with slushie.
Mickey peered across the hallway at the new boy again, still studying his schedule, his thin eyebrows furrowed, eyes narrowed, bottom lip caught between his teeth. Mickey felt himself shiver as he thought about what was about to happen to the boy, a strange emptiness forming in the pit of his stomach. If he had been a good person, he would have told them not to do it. If he had been a good person, he wouldn't even be friends with them in the first place. If he had been a good person, he would have walked away and left them to their machiavellian devices.
"Hey," Iggy said, thumping Mickey on the shoulder, playfully. "Here ya go, man."
Mickey looked down at the cup of flavoured ice that Iggy was holding out for him to take. He eyed the purplish slush and thought about how the ice would seep through the boy's clothing, soaking and staining his white shirt, destroying a hairstyle that appeared to have taken a long time to complete, to get just right. Mickey felt his stomach sinking a little, then mentally scolded himself for even thinking about this. What did some random new kid matter to Mickey Milkovich? He had never cared before, why should he start now? Consciences were for wimps, that's what he'd told himself for so long, that was what he had to believe.
Mickey grinned, from ear to ear and took the cup, because Mickey wasn't a good person.
"Hey, new kid," Iggyerman said in a sing-song manner.
Mickey watched as the boy swung around to face the gang of boys all clad in red jackets, holding cups overspilling with coloured ice. He saw the horror on his face when he realised what was happening, saw the way his eyes—which appeared to be blue, Mickey couldn't really tell from where he was standing—widening, as round as saucers, saw his jaw go slack, his pale lips parting, saw the blood draining from his already-pale face. He saw his breath hitching in his chest, saw the terror in his eyes, saw how his schedule fell from his grasp and flitted to-and-fro until it hit the cold, hard ground. Mickey had seen kids panic in this situation before, but the terror in this boy's eyes was new and a little surprising to him.
"I —you..." the boy trailed off, words betraying him, as his bright eyes darted from each of the guys, grinning wildly at him. His eyes met Mickey's briefly, but quickly moved to meet the next person's.
"We thought we'd welcome you to McKinley with a nice," Iggy said, taking a step closer. "Refreshing," the others moved forward, too, including Mickey, because that was what he was supposed to do. "Slushie facial," Iggy finished, his eyes wide with amusement, his mouth twisted into a broad smile.
The boy took a small step back, but there was nowhere to go. He was cornered and no one was going to come to his rescue, no one ever came to anyone's rescue at this school, because no one dared face down Mickey and the football team. They got away with a lot of things, the teachers dismissing their actions because they came from money, or because they were needed on the team in order to help McKinley retain it's good name. This kid was going to experience a freeing, cold shower right in the middle of the crowded hallway and nothing and no one was going to prevent it from happening.
"And because you're brand, spankin' new," Iggy continued, moving closer still. "I'm going to introduce you to our number one guy."
Oh, no, Mickey thought, briefly and then Iggy was tugging him into the centre of the circle, by the arm. Mickey felt his stomach twisiting again, painfully this time.
"New kid," Iggy grinned, as he swung an arm around Mickey's shoulders, causing Mickey to flinch very slightly. "Meet my main man, Mr. Mickey Milkovich. He's going to give you your first McKinley High welcoming party!"
Iggy was looking at Mickey now, waiting for him to dump the slushie over the boy's head. Mickey felt eight sets of eyes on him, watching him expectantly, all clearly wondering why he hadn't done it yet. Which made perfect sense, because Mickey wasn't exactly sure why he hadn't done it yet, either. He was mean, he was rude to most people, he was a bully, really, even if he didn't like that term. He ate kids like this for breakfast. He would have to suck it up—whatever it was—and just do what he was supposed to do.
He looked from Iggy to the guys, giving him encouraging nods, some of them letting out loud whooping sounds. Mickey looked back to the boy, his grey-blue eyes—Mickey could see the colour of his eyes quite vividly now and they really were a brilliant blue—watching him, pleadingly, almost begging him not to do it. But he had to, he didn't have a choice and if he did, he would choose to do it anyway, wouldn't he?
Mickey grinned, tearing his gaze from the boy's terror-filled eyes, then raised the cup high above his head.
"Welcome to McKinley," he said, with a cruel laugh. "I hope you'll find the temperature here to your liking."
And with that he emptied the contents of the cup over the boy's head. The others exploded with laughter and proceeded to pour the slushies they held over the boy, too. He squirmed and gasped as he slid to the ground, face buried in his hands, the freezing cold ice dripping down his fingers, his hair stuck to his head, his outfit stained all over.
"There'll be plenty more where that came from! " Iggy whooped as he strolled away, high-fiving one of the other guys.
Mickey walked away with his crowd of friends, then made an excuse that he'd left something in his locker. He hurried back to it and opened it, pretending to rummage inside, as he watched the new boy out of the corner of his eye. The boy stood, cautiously, his entire body shivering with the cold. He watched as he slammed his locker shut with a loud groan, then walked slowly away.
Mickey waited until he was out of sight completely, before returning to the boy's locker. He bent and picked up the soaking schedule from the ground and studied it. As did all schedules at McKinley, this one had a small, square photograph of the boy in the left hand corner. It was difficult to see past the purple stains and the dampness, but his features could be made out; Those unmistakeable blue eyes, his thin, pale lips, downturned into a slight frown, the coiffed hair style. Mickey looked to the right, seeking out a name.
Ian Gallagher.
He lowered his eyes to study the boy's classes, when he heard a voice behind him.
"Mickey, sweetie!"
He folded the paper quickly, careful not to tear it and shoved it in his jacket pocket, before swinging round to find his girlfriend standing there, smiling at him. Quinn Fabray was the captain of the cheerleading squad and the girl everyone wanted. She was your regular pretty, blonde, popular girl, like the ones in the movies. Of course, it was a given that she and Mickey would be an item. They had been just that for almost a year, now and were the 'It' couple at McKinley, now that they were seniors.
"What are you doing standing in that puddle?" she smiled, sweetly as she slipped an arm through Mickey's. "Well, come on, silly. We're going to be late for class!"
Mickey returned her smile and allowed her to pull him to their first class. He glanced back at the purple puddle near the boy's locker, now spreading down the hallway, along the small cracks in the tiles. He shook his head. What did he care about some stupid new kid? He was Mickey Milkovich, the quarterback of the football team, the guy everyone wanted to be. He had Quinn Fabray, for God's sake! He needed to be that guy, the guy everyone looked up to, the guy everyone feared. No one feared a good person. And Mickey Milkovich was most definitely not a good person.
"I'll see you at lunch, baby," Quinn said, giving Mickey a small peck on the cheek, before rushing out of the classroom.
Mickey grabbed his bag and stood up. That strange feeling was still in the pit of his stomach and it was making him feel sick. The urge to vomit had remained with him all through class, but he knew that if he left class and went to the bathroom that he wouldn't quite manage actually vomiting. It was an odd feeling, a feeling he couldn't quite put a name to. He sighed and walked out of the room and into the crowded hallways, eyes searching for someone in particular. He peered around, eyes straining, looking for the hair, because there really was no missing that hair. He saw him then, standing by the bathroom, his head buried in a book.
Mickey sauntered across the hall, people stepping back to allow him through, no one making eye contact with him. He had reached his destination now. He raised a hand and knocked the book from the other boy's hand. It hit the floor with a quiet thud. Dark eyes looked up at him through thick, dark spectacle frames.
"Lip," Mickey spoke over the crowds, grinning down at the other boy. "Let's have a little chat."
Mickey gestured for Lip to follow him, as he pushed the bathroom door open and went inside. He made sure it was empty, then turned to look at Lip standing there, the book back in his grasp, his wild hair like a frizzy cloud surrounding his face. He looked alarmed.
"You're aware of a new student in the senior class, I take it," Mickey stated, because Lip knew everyone. He was like a little weasel, constantly getting into everyone's business.
Lip nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but Mickey held up a hand, halting him and he stopped.
"What do you know about him?"
"Why?"
"Why?" Mickey said, angrily, stepping closer to Lip, who cowered back a little, his hands fidgeting with the book. It was always easy to treat Lip like a lesser person than he was, in fact, it was easy for Mickey to treat everyone in this manner, mostly because most people at McKinley were lesser people than Mickey. He wondered what it was about this new boy that made him feel less confident in this. If he could boss Lip Ben Israel around now, then that meant he hadn't lost his touch, or whatever it was. It meant that this boy was some form of exception and he didn't like that one little bit.
"I'm j-just wondering w-why you're so interested i-in a nobody like th-that," Lip responded nervously, in his squeaky voice, his gaze on everything but Mickey.
It was a good question, but it was also a question Mickey could not answer.
"Because I want to know who's at my school, that's why," Mickey replied, eyes narrowed. "Now, tell me what you know."
Lip swallowed hard and started talking.
"I d-don't know much, just that he lives with h-his dad. His n-name is Ian and h-he's gay, I mean, at least I think he is," he stammered, blinking uncontrollably.
Mickey's eyebrows furrowed, taking in this new information. The kid's sexuality hadn't even crossed his mind. There were no gay students at McKinley, at least none that Mickey was aware of.
"Okay," Mickey said, calmly. "I want you to find everything you can on him and report back to me before lunch. You got that?"
He stepped closer to Lip and took a handful of his shirt. Lip gasped and nodded quickly.
"Good," he said, releasing the boy. Lip turned and began walking to the door. "Oh, and Lip?" Mickey called after him.
Lip turned and looked at him again, face stiff with fright.
"Y-yes?"
"I'm going to need a copy of his schedule, you think you can get me that?" Mickey knew he could. Lip was in the newspaper department, which meant he had access to most of the student information files Principal Figgins kept in his office. Lip nodded, once. "Tell anyone about this and I'll shave your head, though God knows I would be doing you a favour."
This time Lip asked no questions, he simply nodded again before disappearing out the door, leaving Mickey standing there alone.
Mickey told his friends that he had to see his history teacher about a paper during lunch. He sat in the back corner of the school library, breathing in the scent of the dusty, old books surrounding him on the thick, wooden shelves, with two sheets of paper on the desk in front of him. He had no idea why, but his heart was beating painfully in his chest, his hands shaking. He looked down at the first sheet, which Lip had handed to him as he passed him by in the hallway. He studied Lip's uneven handwriting, trying to make it out.
Ian Gallagher, 17, from Westerville, Ohio. DOB: Dec. 15th 1994. Lives with his dad in Lima, is definitely gay (I asked him). Straight A student, left previous school for personal reasons-reasons not listed. Schedule attached. Please don't beat me up-Lip.
Mickey rolled his eyes. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting. Maybe the kid's phone number, or something. What Lip had given him didn't really feel like enough. Enough for what, though? he wondered, briefly, as he lifted the other sheet of paper and laid it down in front of him.
It was a replica of the stained, now stiff schedule in his pocket. He could see the photograph more clearly now. The kid—Ian—looked like someone had just told him his pet goldfish had been killed by the neighbour's cat. He had looked much the same when Mickey had laid eyes on him for the first time in the hallway, as he fought with the combination on his locker. His eyes were sad and the colour of the sky in the summer time.
He was frowning, too. He looked miserable. Mickey wondered why he looked so sad. He lived with his dad, maybe his mom had died recently? Perhaps she'd run off with another guy? Mickey's mind was filled with ideas, his imagination running wild. He had no clue what had happened to this boy, but there was something behind those baby blues, something Mickey could see even in this small photograph, something that compelled him to want to know more about him.
His head snapped up when he heard the first bell chiming, the one that reminded the students that class started in fifteen minutes. He looked around the empty library, only the librarian chatting quietly to somebody on the phone was present. He stood up and picked up his belongings, before heading out the door, heart racing from the shock the sound of the bell had given him just moments before. He walked upstairs to where the lockers were. The hallway was completely empty, not a soul in sight. He stopped at the new boy, Ian's, locker and looked around again, making sure no one was around, before pulling the clean, dry schedule from his pocket. He stood still for a moment, heart thumping loudly in his chest, then slipped the page through the small slit in the locker door.
He walked away before anyone saw him there, his heart still beating wildly against his rib cage, that emptiness still present in his belly. Only when he had reached the end of the hallway did he breathe a sigh of relief, but there was still something nagging at some part inside of him, something, somewhere that he could not quite place, but he hoped it would go away soon, because he couldn't afford to have to deal with the consequences that it might entail if it didn't.
Mickey turned the corner, the sound of students coming towards him in the distance, and painted a smile across his face, because that was what he had been programmed to do, every single day since before he could remember.
Ian Gallagher had spent his entire lunch hour sitting by himself in an empty classroom, picking at the sandwich his dad had packed into a small paper bag for him, not willing to risk bumping into that bunch of Neanderthals that had attacked his face with flavoured ice earlier that morning.
He had been hopeful coming to McKinley High, coming to Lima, in general. He thought that once he was away from Westerville, that he would be leaving all of the bad things behind, but apparently this was not the case. He wondered if he should just accept the fact that he was going to spend the rest of his existence a victim, the target of all snide remarks and angry fists and now, cups of freezing cold iced beverages.
He left the empty class room when he heard a bell clamouring from the intercom over by the door, assuming that it meant he had to get to class pretty soon. He had been struggling all morning, asking random people what class they had next and trying to figure out where he needed to be, he'd even missed two classes. He had dropped his schedule earlier, when the jocks had surrounded him and when he'd come back from drying himself off, the schedule had disappeared. Initially, he figured that the cleaners must have discarded of it, but then he saw that the pool of purple liquid was still very much covering the path from his locker to the lockers across the way.
When he arrived in the hallway in which his locker stood, he saw that no one was here yet. He was early. He cursed under his breath, because he was always getting himself into awkward situations like this. What in the name of all that was holy had that bell been for?
Ian sighed as he fought to turn the dial on his locker. It was ridiculous. It shouldn't have been as difficult as it was, but he simply could not get the combination right the first, or second, or even third time. After whispering several unmentionable words beneath his breath, the lock finally clicked and he pulled the door open. He stepped back, suddenly, when something fell from his locker. He was over-the-top fidgety today. His day hadn't exactly gotten off to a good start and he kept expecting more awful things to happen to him as the day went on.
However, when Ian looked down at the now-spotless tiles under his feet, he saw that what had fallen from his locker had been a sheet of white paper. His stomach twisted slightly, as thoughts of what this page could be ran through his mind, his brain imagining that it could only be something negative.
Finally, he bent to pick up the sheet of paper, aware of the students now filing into the hall, talking and laughing and pushing their way towards their own lockers. He took comfort in the large crowds because he could hide amongst them. He turned his attention back to the page and flipped it over and was surprised to find that it was his schedule. Or at least a copy of it, since he was sure his original one would not be legible any more and was probably sitting in some recycling bin at that very moment.
He furrowed his eyebrows, wondering who on earth would take the time to slip a clean schedule into his locker. Perhaps it had been a teacher who had seen the soiled one and felt it was his or her duty to replace it. That was the only sane explanation he could come up with. It wasn't as if anyone had gone out of their way to behave even remotely friendly towards him all day. People had barely noticed him and the ones who did, either chuckled with their friends, obviously cracking some kind of joke, or stared at him like he had six heads and was wearing a dusty pink ballgown. Nothing new, he supposed, but that didn't take away from the fact that it still hurt every time it happened.
Ian looked down at the classes printed on the page; English was next. At least he had a schedule now, instead of having to worry about where he had to go next. He shrugged, pressed his locker shut and turned around. He lowered his head and hurried off to find his next class.
Mickey stood by his own locker and watched as the new boy jumped backwards slightly, when the schedule he had placed there fell out and landed by his feet. His hair was dry now, but not as carefully styled as it had been that morning. It looked sort of stiff and sticky and his clothes were terribly stained.
No one approached the boy, or even glanced in his direction as he bent to pick up the schedule from the ground. Mickey watched as his cyan eyes widened upon realising what was on the page. It was stupid, but Mickey took pleasure in this sight, in knowing that the boy was so pleasantly surprised because of something he had done. He straightened the smile he hadn't known he'd been sporting into a stiff line and tilted his head, so that he could see the boy over the cheerleader who had chosen to stand right in his line of sight.
The boy, Ian, he reminded himself, was closing his locker now and pulling the strap of his white bag up onto his broad shoulder. He was walking away now, his head bowed, pushing gently through the crowds, in an endeavour to get to class. Mickey wondered how he had managed to make it through the first half of the day without a class schedule, then shoved the thought into the back of his head, reminding himself that he did not care. Mickey kept his eyes on the boy's red until it disappeared down the hallway and out of sight.
He had to do something. He didn't know what, exactly, just that he had to do something and fast. He turned back to his open locker and pulled the boy—Ian's— schedule from his pocket, carefully and placed it inside his locker. He glanced around, quickly, before pulling his own schedule out of the back pocket of his jeans. He laid them side by side and studied them.
They both had English next.
Mickey shoved both schedules into his open back pack, zipped it up, then slammed his locker shut, before rushing away to the boy's bathroom, where he would remain until everyone else was safely in class.
"Mr Milkovich, how nice of you to join us."
Ian's head shot up from his book when his teacher, Mrs Flynn spoke out loud. She had assigned them some reading, from 'Jane Eyre' and the class had been relatively silent until she had spoken.
Ian saw him then, the boy who had been introduced to him as Mickey Milkovich, by the guy who had what appeared to be some species of roadkill on his head. Ian didn't think he was going to forget that name anytime soon and he was sure that everytime it was mentioned, he would experience some form of painful flashback to the boy's hand twisting until his cup was tipped over Ian's head, the purple ice hitting him like shards of broken glass.
"Sorry, Mrs Flynn," the dark haired boy said, politely. "I wasn't feeling very well."
"Take a seat," Mrs Flynn simply instructed, turning back to her own book.
Ian glanced around quickly and was mortifed when he realised the only empty seat in the entire classroom was the one next to him, in the very back right hand corner. He quickly bowed his head, pretending to be terribly invested in the happenings between the covers of his book, aware that this Mickey Milkovich was now walking towards him. His heart was beating irrationally and violently against his chest.
Mickey pulled out the seat, slowly, trying to be quiet about the whole affair. He sat down eventually and unzipped his bag, also slowly, the sound of the zipper filling the entire room. He pulled his own book out and opened it, as he sat back in the chair, a small smile on his face. Ian kept his eyes locked on his book, but was finding it difficult to process the words with the guy who had covered him in slushie just hours before sitting so close by. Ian spent the next ten minutes concentrating on ignoring the presence of Mickey Milkovich, who actually seemed to be pretty ensconsed in the book. Ian flipped the pages of his own book every so often for good measure.
After ten minutes, Mrs Flynn cleared her throat.
"For this class, you will have a paper due on this book," she held up her own copy of 'Jane Eyre'. "You will be working in pairs," she went on. "With the person sitting next to you."