Cheerio

On Monday, after school, I walked into Glee Club hesitantly. From the weird glances that people were giving me, I knew that my expression must have looked like I was on my way to my execution. And I might as well have been. It was my social execution, anyway.

Everyone else in the club was already there, all radiating anger. Whether or not that was directed at me, I had no idea. Until Santana spoke, anyway.

“Well, if it isn’t The Wannabe,” she snapped.

“I am not a wannabe,” I retorted, not moving a step closer to the chairs that were set up on the risers. “I’m quite happy with where I am. But we all know that you’re not.”

“Okay, both of you, cut it out,” Mr. Schuester intervened, stepping between the two of us. “Everyone, this is our newest member, Evelyn.”

“Aw, hell to the no, Mr. Schue,” a black girl spoke up. I didn’t remember her name, probably because it wasn’t nearly important enough. “There’s no way we’re getting another Cheerio in here.”

Quinn, Brittany, and Santana all shot her venomous glares at the same time, just letting their anger travel through the air like sunlight.

“Well, Evie’s here because she needs extra credit for Spanish.” Mr. Schue shot a look at me that showed he was sorry for unveiling my secret to the club (like I cared), but also revealed that he found the whole thing hilarious.

How wonderful.

I sat down next to Puck, who seemed to take that as an invitation to put the moves on me. “You just had to find a way to spend more time with me, huh?” he whispered.

Not being as subtle as him, I moved my chair over so I was closer to some gay kid wearing an ascot. “Fuck off, Puckerman,” I snapped at him.

“Alright, so, ideas for Sectionals!” Mr. Schue clapped his hands together and slapped this disgustingly fake and cheerful grin on his face. “Anyone?”

“Maybe It’s a Small World After All?” I joked, crossing my legs. “And we could all dress up as little Earths and spin around like we’re orbiting the sun.”

“I totally call being the sun,” Brittany spoke up in her high voice, keeping her face completely emotionless.

“Um, that’s not really the direction we’re going towards…” Mr. Schue trailed off, trying not to be mean.

“But I thought you guys were the New Directions,” I voiced, feigning shock. “So doesn’t that mean you should try innovating show choirs?”

“Shut up, Evie,” Santana snapped. “Just because you’re here in order to stay on the Cheerios doesn’t mean that you can sit there and wisecrack the whole time. That’s totally my job.”

“Well, excuse me for intruding on your snotty territory,” I fired back.

Mr. Schuester massaged his temples and took a step forward. “Okay, this isn’t working that well. Evelyn and Santana, you guys aren’t allowed to talk to each other.”

“Why not? We love each other.” I shot a look at Santana, and she nodded.

“Totally, Mr. Schue. We’re like sisters.”

And we didn’t sound like rich starlets who were forced to lie to the press in order to clear up rumors that we were feuding at all. Heavy on the sarcasm.

But the truth was, I didn’t hate Santana. Sure, we argued quite a bit, but being on the Cheerios together, there was always a little bit of competition, a little bit of jealousy. However, at the end of the day, we were acquaintances.

We understood that perfectly, but, apparently, Mr. Schuester didn’t. Instead of pursuing the subject further, he just shook his head, his curly hair staying firmly in place, as if he went just a little overboard on the product. “So any real suggestions for Sectionals?”

“Wait, does that mean I can't be the sun?” Brittany pouted. Santana patted her hand sympathetically a couple of times.

“Personally,” Berry spoke up, sitting up straighter in her chair, if such a thing was possible, “I think we should do a…” she paused for dramatic effect, “Broadway medley. Preferably from Les Mis and Funny Girl.”

“Seconded!” Gay Kid next to me exclaimed, throwing up his hand and almost falling out of his seat in anticipation.

“What the hell is Lame Is?” I scrunched up my nose. “Sounds like a sucky musical.”

Gay Kid, Berry, and Mr. Schue (surprisingly) all drew in shocked breaths. “I can’t believe you just said that,” Gay Kid muttered.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” Berry shouted at me, getting to her feet. “Have you no concept of Broadway culture?”

“I know, like, three musicals,” I told her, “because they’re not important for real life.”

She looked like she was going to tackle me, but Mike (another football player-he was Asian) pulled her back onto her seat.

Smirking to myself, I sat back and let the insults fire over my head a couple more times before the students got bored and moved on, coming up with some valid suggestions.

Shockingly, I was actually starting to like the Glee Club thing. It was like I was getting credit for Spanish class just by sitting in a chair and insulting people. That was way better than those fucking worksheets any day.

Later, at Cheerios practice, my performance was totally flawless, despite the fact that I hadn’t been able to rehearse as much as I had wanted over the weekend. I knew that Coach Sylvester was pretty stingy with compliments when it came to anyone who wasn’t apart of her favorite trio, but I genuinely expected her to give me some public recognition.

Of course, she did no such thing, yelling at us as a collective group at the end of practice through the blow-horn she carried everywhere, saying that if we didn’t pull our granny panties out of our asses and start dancing better, we might as well kiss Sectionals good-bye, never mind Nationals.

That made me nervous. As far as I was concerned, my whole life hinged on Nationals. Since I was a junior, I would be filling out college applications the following year. It was my last chance to add a final championship to my résumé to make me a VIP for colleges.

Garrett was idling in front of the school as usual. This time, he had a car magazine on his lap, looking through a bunch of the antique ones. He had a total love for old cars. It was almost like he was born in the wrong decade sometimes.

“How was practice?” he asked absent-mindedly, flipping a page in his magazine.

“Fine. I was fabulous.” I looked at the page he was on. “That one’s cool,” I laughed, pointing to a really old car that had been re-painted to a God-awful shade of puke green.

“Give it a paint job, and she’d be a beauty.” Garrett sighed before throwing the magazine in the backseat and putting the car in drive. “Oh, wait, did you start Glee Club today?”

Garrett was the only one I’d told about failing Spanish and having to join Glee Club to make up the credits because I didn’t want my mom to be disappointed. Plus, she’d pull my ass out of Cheerios immediately, since she’d think that I didn’t have enough time to study because of the long practices. Too bad that it was actually because of Cheerios that I was slacking.

“Yeah. That was a blast.”

“Really? I thought you hated singing.”

“I don’t hate it,” I objected. Frankly, I loved singing when I was up in my room, home alone. It was just singing in front of people that got me irritated. “I’m just not very good at it.”

Garrett laughed. “I can’t believe that Glee Club members are okay now. That was total social suicide when I went to school there.”

“It still is,” I told him. “I’m just trying to break the mold. As usual.”

“Aw, my little trendsetting sister.” He leaned over and pinched my cheeks, making those little cutesy noises that my Aunt Margie did to the younger cousins at family gatherings.

Giggling, I slapped his hand away. “You’re such an ass sometimes,” I informed him.

“Thanks,” he responded, sticking his tongue out at me.