Cheerio

“Whoa. You look terrible.”

Those were the first words out of Kurt’s mouth on Monday morning when he saw me in the hallway. I had just stepped through the front door after a particularly uncomfortable morning with my father. He decided it would be in his best interests to get up at five freakin’ thirty, just to make pancakes for Garrett and me before we had to head off to school. Of course, I had to fabricate a stomach ache to keep from having to eat them. When he left us, he didn’t even know how to make pancakes. And suddenly, he was some kind of expert, making two or three different kinds because he wasn’t sure which our favorite was.

Not to mention the night before and how horrible that was. Of course, I fell asleep around eleven, only to wake up at one thirty, my stomach growling and my mind racing. But it was only racing with one thought: the urge to binge and purge again.

I really tried to fight it, and I succeeded for about forty-five minutes before the eating disorder won. Stuffing my face and puking it up (repeat twice) took up a huge chunk of time when I should have been sleeping. In total, I got about four hours of sleep, which is why I had huge bags under my eyes. I thought I’d covered them sufficiently enough, but, apparently, I didn’t do as hot as I thought I did.

So, after the kind of shit I went through in the past twenty-four hours, Kurt’s statement was probably among the things I wanted to hear least in the world.

I let him know that by narrowing my eyes and hissing, “Thanks a lot.”

He seemed to review his words in his head as we started making our way down the hallway. “Sorry,” he expressed. “But did something happen? It’s not like you to look this…not put together.”

I looked down at my outfit, which definitely screamed put together, but my face must have given more away than I thought it did. “No, I’m fine.”

He gave me a look which clearly showed he believed me just as much as he believed that cows could bark. “Fine. If you don’t want to tell me, you don’t have to. Just know that I’ll listen.”

“Thanks.”

When he realized I wasn’t going to elaborate, he sighed loudly and departed, going the complete opposite way. I laughed for a second when I realized that he only went the same way as me to try to weasel my story out of me.

School was long and dragged on for what seemed like an eternity and a half. Maybe it was because in every class, I felt like falling asleep. But, with how well I started to do in school now that I actually semi-cared (all A’s and B’s, from my last tally), I didn’t want to risk missing something important by sleeping.

I know, how scholarly of me.

When school finally did end, I had to make my way to Glee Club. The whole way, I dragged my feet and huffed, trying to come up with some kind of legitimate-sounding excuse to leave early. But when I got there, I saw that Mr. Schue was just going to have us learn some lyrics to the songs.

Breathing a sigh of relief, I settled down in one of the chairs in the back and crossed my legs, dropping my bag next to my feet. Right when I got settled, Mr. Schue handed me a lyrics sheet.

I suppressed a groan as I looked at the sheet. Of course, I had never seen the damn song in my life, and it looked old. Perfect.

Kurt arrived about a minute later, and he was given a sheet as well. He did a mini-squeal. “Love this song. Don’t you?” He turned to me for a second as saw my face. “Right. You don’t know 80’s.”

“Is this really another 80’s song?” I complained. “What is his sick obsession with the 80’s? What’s wrong with right now?”

“Nothing,” Kurt answered. “Not really, anyway. But this is the music of Mr. Schue’s childhood. Give him a break.”

I let out another huff, but didn’t say anything else.

Soon, everyone entered the room and was settled, lyric sheet in hand. “Alright, does everyone know this song?”

“Evie doesn’t!” Kurt spoke up, making sure that I was placed perfectly under the bus for maximum maiming.

“Thanks a lot,” I grumbled, elbowing him in the side.

He just smiled innocently and shrugged.

“It’s okay, Evie,” Mr. Schue assured me. “It’s easy enough to learn. Just try to follow along.”

“Mr. Schuester,” Rachel started, getting to her feet to make sure that her voice traveled into every possible nook and cranny of the room, “I’d like to suggest that I take the solo on this song, even if it’s just for practice. I mean, I really am the one that has the best vocal talent here, especially among the girls. No offense, Finn.”

He looked up from the paper, confused, and it was obvious he hadn’t paid any attention until his name was said. “Uh, none taken?”

She smiled, probably feeling accomplished.

But Mercedes clearly had an objection. “Rachel, sit down. Mr. Schue can pick the solos for himself. And it better not be you.”

Rachel was offended as she sat down in her seat, all huffy that someone stood up to her. I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes for a second, just waiting for the music to start.

“Alright,” Mr. Schue started, walking around the front of the seats like the manic person he was, “I know that the chorus of this song is vocally challenging, but I really think that if you guys work out at it, you can hit it. Ready to start?”

“I’d just like to say that I can hit the note with ease,” Rachel bragged.

“Shut up,” the rest of us snapped at the same time.

She crossed her arms like a three-year-old and pouted while the dude behind the piano started to play the beginning of the song, the rest of the band soon following suit.

I sang along to the song, but Mr. Schue was right about the chorus. Every line started kind of low and ended high, and then the final note of the chorus shot so high, it almost reached the moon. Nearly every voice cracked disgustingly, and I fought the urge I had to laugh out loud.

“Okay,” Mr. Schue started when we finished. “Not bad for a first try.”

“This song is going to make us lose,” I whined out loud before I could censor myself.

A few people looked back at me, apparently surprised that I cared about winning at all. I just shrugged back at them. “What? I’m right.”

“Actually,” Quinn voiced, smoothing down her Cheerio skirt, “I think Evie has a point. Even though some of us,” we all stared at Rachel, “can hit these notes, most of us can’t. And we should sing songs that make us sound good, not that we have to work forever at in order to sing decently.”

“Ditto, Mr. Schue,” Puck agreed. He shot a look back at me and furrowed his eyebrows. I shot him an irritated look, figuring that he was doing was Kurt was doing this morning and judging my appearance.

Mr. Schue sighed for a long time before rubbing his forehead a couple times. “Fine. Do you guys have any ideas as to what we should sing?”

“Why don’t we brainstorm tonight and regroup tomorrow?” I offered.

“Actually, I still think we should sing Don’t Cry for Me Argentina. I’ve been practicing in case something like this happened,” Rachel suggested.

“Oh my God, if you talk one more time, I swear to God that I’m going to kill you,” I told her, my tone serious as a heart attack.

“That sounds like a good idea,” Mr. Schue pondered aloud. Immediately, the club burst into hysterical laughter. “No, no! Not killing Rachel! I meant brainstorming tonight and regrouping tomorrow. We can come to a consensus then. But remember, we do need to pick the songs soon because Sectionals is in three weeks from Friday.”

Then, we were dismissed. I threw my bag on my shoulder and started to make my way down the steps when I felt a strong grip clasp around my arm.

Annoyed, I turned to find Puck looking at me with big, pathetic brown eyes.

“Evie, can I talk to you for a second?”