Chapter 2: Who are you, Blaine Warbler?

Blaine rubs his eyes. The clock on the car stereo blinks 12:00 in hazy red flashing numbers, but Blaine knows 7:15 AM when he zombie walks though it. Dalton started at 8:30, and that extra hour sleep always gave him a boost of energy to start the day.

I’m going to need so much more coffee to get through this every day.

He reaches for the cooling coffee in the cup holder on the dashboard, pops the lid and brings it close to his face, willing the warm steam to absorb into his cheeks. The icy chill of November permeates through the windows of Blaine’s car, drawing from him a hostile shiver.

The clock continues to blink. Blaine returns the coffee to its holder and huffs as he pulls back his glove and shifts his sleeve up to check the time on his watch. In ten minutes, he will be walking the halls of McKinley for the first time. He will be back in public school after over a year hiding away in the safe confines of Dalton.

Across from the student parking lot, Blaine watches his future classmates gather.

He estimates at least 50 kids are standing around waiting for the first bell, forcing them to take those final steps toward homeroom. Students trickle in, some from the student parking lot, some from their parents’ cars or the buses in the drop zones, and others from the nearby neighborhood.

Three large guys in puffy red jackets are lifting a kid with curly red hair into a dumpster. Blaine turns his cheek briefly as they drop the boy into the garbage. He scans the grounds some more, biding his time before he would take that first step out of his car and onto the pavement.

By the front of a small blue car, he spots a girl with long brown hair and a large nose pointedly talking to an older man with brillo-pad hair wearing an argyle sweater vest. The girl throws her arms in the air as she talks, leaning forward slightly as though to intimidate, regardless of her petite frame. The man passionately leans into the conversation (argument?) as well, and Blaine imagines a slew of inappropriate scenarios. He looks away quickly. 

Across the courtyard, three girls in cheerleader uniforms stand around with their hands on their hips. Three jocks stand with them, one lanky, gorgeous, and Asian—and not vaguely like me, he muses—one obviously-from-a-bottle blonde with fantastic lips, and one muscular, sporting a short Mohawk and attempting to chat with one of the blonde cheerleaders (the angry looking one).

Popular kids, Blaine firmly decides, rubbing a hand through his mess of curls. He decided to go un-gelled for his first day. I have to be as naturally me as possible, he told his reflection in his bathroom mirror, recapping the gel bottle and setting it down beside the oft-used fine tooth comb. That’s the only way this will work. Blaine regrets that fatigue-induced, hasty decision. He looks in the rear view mirror briefly, then back at the “popular kids.”

Two more girls make their way solemnly over to the group, and the “popular kids” turn towards them. Blaine examines in the Asian girl dressed like a gothic-vampire and the heavy-set black girl in bright purple skinny jeans and a bedazzled coordinating top.

The girl wearing a corset and spider web tights wraps her arm around the other girl, rubbing her back as she blows her nose and dabs her eyes with her sleeve. The pair doesn’t seem to be watching where they are going, Blaine blanches, expecting the girls to walk right into the “popular kids.”

He’d seen this happen before. A small, kind boy named Dillon from Blaine’s eighth grade English class accidentally bumped into one of the “pom-pom girls,” while dashing for the bathroom during lunch period. The girl’s boyfriend, the captain of the soccer team and the largest boy in the eighth grade—thanks to his birthday being just after the cut off and thus being nearly a year older than the rest of the class—grabbed Dillon by the back of the shirt collar. He threw him to the ground, right in the middle of the cafeteria, and pummeled the shit out of Dillon, spitting “dirty fag” with every blow. When he finally stood up, the boy’s face was bloody, his nose broken, and his pants drenched in piss.

Blaine had come out just two days prior to that incident. Dillon was Blaine best friend.

That was the first time Blaine changed schools, and not the last.

Blaine’s memories fade back and his focus returns to the two awkward girls approaching the larger group of pretty people. Blaine wants to dash across the courtyard, throw himself against the girls and pull them quickly away from any impending danger.

Surely, they won’t beat the crap out of two girls. Two girls who are clearly depressed about something, he attempts to assure his mind, fear getting the better of him, as he huddles back into his seat and watches. Blaine isn’t so sure life works like that. No, they’ll probably just spit insults at them. ‘Cause that’s SO much better.

The girls stop right beside the six teenagers in McKinley High-issued uniforms and varsity jackets and turn toward the group. Blaine holds his breath. The Mohawk guy drops his eyes and even seems to rub a tear from the corner of one. The beautiful, lanky Asian one wraps his arms around the two girls. Blaine’s eyes widen, his mouth slightly agape. One of the cheerleaders, the brunette one, joins the group hug followed quickly by one of the blond ones (the happy looking one). They stand there for several minutes, swaying together.

Blaine becomes aware of his heart beating rapidly, his breath heavy. What the fuck?! Who’s the writer of this school and where has he been my whole life?

Blaine continues to watch the group comforting one another—something serious went down with these people—until the brunette with the nose comes storming up, still flailing her arms. The group breaks apart to stare at the girl, the brunette cheerleader throwing her hands in the air in an exasperated response.

Blaine starts to become concerned that he might be too voyeuristic and his quiet intrusion into this strange group is terribly rude. He turns the key in his ignition, the warm air cutting out. He opens the door and steps out into the cold morning breeze. He gathers his bag from the passenger seat and turns back toward the school, his eyes drifting right back to the “popular?” kids.

Another tall, brown-haired boy in a letterman jacket walks slowly up to the group. The boy’s head stays down and his feet shuffle along the sidewalk as he pushes something in front of him. Blaine moves forward a few steps, getting another angle on the boy, eyes falling to a small kid in a wheelchair. The big nosed girl runs up to the tall boy, wraps her arms around his middle. He rests his chin on her head, and strokes her long hair with his hand.

The Mohawk guy bumps his fist with the boy in the wheelchair and Blaine catches him mouth the words “how is he?” The wheelchair bound boy just shakes his head.

Blaine begins to wonder what could possibly have happened in this group that is so distressing. Did someone die? Blaine realizes he does not want to know the answer. Instead, has a desire to run over and comfort this distraught group, to make them laugh and ease their suffering somehow. As he begins approaching the school, he brainstorms potential songs with which to serenade the group. Not that I would actually sing in public like that. What would the Warblers say?!

He follows far behind the group as they begin to head towards the double doors leading into the school, but Blaine suddenly stops dead in his tracks.

The three jocks who were tossing the red haired boy in the dumpster are caravanning toward the amalgamated group. Flanking them on either side are three more guys, each carrying a large red plastic cup. There is something in their eyes that makes Blaine shudder; a menacing anger that Blaine has faced head on and lost. He stands in horror, potential acts of violence flooding his mind, watching the scene play out.

Connections begin to click, he starts to work out something about this group, something he can’t pinpoint clearly. He senses jealousy, hatred, and bitterness. He notes resentment in several pairs of eyes and glances. More than anything, he witnesses love between these sad people, a deep, abiding adoration and respect. They’re a family!

He looks back toward the mob of jocks and their cup and can see exactly what is coming.

Although both groups are flush with the red, white and black of McKinley’s spirit colors, these two sets of students have no further unifying note, and Blaine is painfully aware of the hatred the two groups feel for one another.

He begins to shiver, the cold piercing through his coat and scarf, whipping at his nose and ears. Just when the cold is so intense that his body begs him to move, willing him to walk and generate warmth, just when the chill is unbearable, Blaine witnesses each of the eleven members of the depressing little group—the family—take a big cup of icy slush to the face.

Blaine’s heart sinks to its lowest point when he realizes, each and every member of that family takes their slushy without even a twinge of surprise.

Welcome to McKinley, Blaine Anderson.

Fifteen minutes later, Blaine takes his seat in Biology. Mr. Harris instructs him to take the empty table front and center. He sits alone at the large black counter top, feeling on display to the unfamiliar faces. Every whisper, he just knows, has his name on it.

“Alright, class. We have a new student. Blaine Anderson. Welcome Blaine. I won’t make you introduce yourself, don’t worry. Let’s let you get to that in your own time, on your own terms, okay?”

Oh, thank you, Jesus! Blaine nods, a smile twinkling at the corner of his mouth. Mr. Harris nods back.

“So, then. Everyone pull out your lab manual. On Friday, we learned about the life cycle of animal cells.” Mr. Harris slides a fresh lab booklet in front of Blaine, and flips it open to the correct page, never taking his eyes off the rest of the room. “I would like you to work in your groups, as per the usual, and begin work on lab #14.” He pauses to scan for questioning hands or confused glares. “Okay, you know the drill, get to work.”

Mr. Harris walks to his desk at the front of the room, taking a seat and flipping open a worn out copy of On the Origin of Species by Charles Darwin. “Mr. Harris…”

“Read the lab, Blaine. Your partners will be joining you shortly.”

Blaine looks around at the groups of four scattered about the room. Several people read through the lab, many talk animatedly about the previous weekend, and a few put their heads down on the counter and nap. Blaine turns back to the book in front of him and tries to focus on the words. He can help but watch the door, waiting for his mysterious partners. Why would they not be here? Who are they? Why does Mr. Harris seem expectant of their late arrival?

“Sorry, we are late again, Mr. Harris” a small female voice chimes.

“Yes, yes. Understandable. Lab #14, kids. You have a new addition,” Mr. Harris says in a flat voice, never looking up from his book.

Blaine tries to look up from his booklet nonchalantly, as though he is so engrossed in the science that the sudden presence of the new people could go unnoticed.

“Hi, I’m Artie,” a small hand clad in a black driving glove appeared by his hip. Blaine looked down to the hand then out to the face, a wide grin and a pair of large eyeglasses looked back. Blaine realized only seconds later that the boy was in a wheelchair. Artie has as much presence as strong, tall man, standing beside him. Blaine immediately liked Artie and his kind face. Blaine took Artie’s hand firmly and shook.

“I’m Tina,” the small voice from a moment earlier jingled in his right ear, “and this is Mercedes.” She indicates across the table from Blaine to a girl in a red McKinley sweater. That red is so not going to work with those purple skinny jeans is Blaine’s first thought. His second is to throw up.

“I’m Blaine,” he nearly whispered. What is wrong with me? Speak up!

Mercedes slumped down on her stool, dropped her back to the ground, and put her forehead against her folded arms on the table. “Nice to meet you,” she mumbles.

“Sorry about her. This is the first day of school without our friend,” Artie tries to explain.

“BEST friend!” Mercedes adds, without looking up.

“I’m sorry. I’m taking his place, aren’t I? Maybe I can ask to join another group or something. I don’t want to intrude on your group dynamic,” Blaine states hopefully. He’s increasingly uncomfortable with these three sad members of the slushy family. He doesn’t want to intrude and he certainly doesn’t want any trouble. Not on his first day. These people seem to be dragging trouble behind them where ever they go. On the other hand, Blaine thinks, it would be nice to find a new family. His eyes drop to the center of the table, and his nose crinkles as he thinks about Jeff and Trent back at Dalton. He thinks about his family, the Warblers and the Holyrood crew, most of which are Warblers.

“No, it’s fine. Kurt’s in junior chem. You wouldn’t be taking his place even if he was still here.” Blaine looks up, his hazel eyes connecting with the dark ones across from him. “Welcome to our group,” she attempts an enthusiastic smile. Blaine returns her attempted gesture with an honest grin. Mercedes takes in a sharp breath. “Boy, if you weren’t as gay as the day is long, I’d be inclined to kiss your gorgeous face.”

“He is pretty dreamy, right,” Tina says, leaning over to Mercedes.

“How can you tell?” Blaine mutters.

“That you’re gorgeous? Well, you go around flaunting it like that, it’s bound to get noticed,” Tina says, pulling a binder from her bag and plopping it on the table.

“No, the gay thing. No one’s ever guessed it before.”

“You are a really heterosexual looking homosexual,” Mercedes says very matter of factly, as Tina moves to take a seat next to her.

“I don’t think I could have guessed it. Although, I’m shocked Mercedes got it at all, especially after last year’s Kurt debacle,” Tina adds

“That’s precisely why I could tell. Kurt lessons. The best kind of crash course in spotting the gays.” Mercedes, Tina, and Artie laugh. “I wouldn’t have gotten this one right if it wasn’t for his horrified expression at my red sweater and purple pants combo. It was the same exact expression Kurt gave when I wore that blue jumpsuit. He actually made me go home to change, remember that? I missed the first two periods.”

“You know, that’s really rude,” Blaine says, cutting into Mercedes’ diatribe about ‘spotting the gays.’ You can’t just ‘spot’ us. There are no ‘lessons.’ Is this girl really that ignorant? “You can’t just assume someone is gay because they have an interest in fashion. I like football, you know.”

“Way to break the stereotype,” Artie says, raising a palm in the air. Blaine glances at him suspiciously from the corner of his eye.

“What if I wasn’t out? What if I was trying to keep it quiet?” Blaine says, turning his eyes back to the girls.

“He’s got a point, Mercedes. It was kind of not really your place,” Tina says.

Mercedes slumps down in her seat, folding her arms across her chest. “I miss Kurt. My beautiful, out-and-proud, Kurt. I miss his fashion tips and his perfect voice and his snarky comebacks.”

They sit silently for several minutes. Mercedes stares at the table, her face twisting, as though conversing with herself, and the conversation isn’t going smoothly. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles, finally breaking the silence.

Blaine nods, pushing the issue aside. “So, this lab, we did something similar last week at Dalton, so we could just start the work and I can answer any…” Blaine slows to a pause, feeling three pairs of eyes searching his face. “What? Am I intruding again?”

“You were at Dalton?” Mercedes’ mouth hangs open at the end of the sentence, as though she wants to add more, but can’t find the words.

“Yeah, I went there for about a year, since a few months into my freshman year until now, so yeah, a year.”

“And you came here? Instead?” Blaine looked down to Artie, the same expression on his face as is on Mercedes. Tina, on the other hand, offers him a small smile, her eyes twinkling.

“Uhhh… well, Dalton is great, but I was hiding there, I guess. I needed to confront my past… but my parents wouldn’t let me go back to my old school, not after certain things went down last year, so they got me a variance to come here.” Blaine had recited the same words many times in the last couple weeks, to his friends at Dalton, to his teachers, to his neighbors when they wondered why he was home from boarding school so soon before the holiday. They had all nodded and accepted Blaine’s reasons for transferring, although the Warblers hadn’t been as happy for him as he would have liked. Not that I can blame them.

“This probably wasn’t the best pick,” Mercedes quietly adds. Blaine’s eyes narrow, his brow creasing. She really doesn’t want me here. Mercedes senses Blaine’s misunderstanding, “No, ugh, Blaine, I’m sorry, I just mean, this school isn’t really the most… accepting. You might not be able to ‘confront your past’ here… the way you want to that is.”

Blaine looks to Tina then Artie for clarification, but they both just stare at their hands. “Why is that?” Blaine finally asks Mercedes directly.

“Because of Kurt,” Tina blurts out. Mercedes gives here a death glare, but Tina nudges her head as though to say, just tell him.

“He tried the ‘I’m here, I’m queer, deal with it’ thing and it didn’t work. The hatred of certain people pushed him over the edge and crushed his spirit. Eventually, there were some bad confrontations and death threats. Then his parents were pulling him from school, and we were down a family member.”

“And a soloist,” Tina adds. Blaine’s ears perk up at the off-the-cuff mention of singing, and then it hits him.

“You guys are New Directions.” He states it. There is no question. His mind flits to the videos the Warblers watched when they heard they would be going up against a public school in Lima and a group of elderly people. They only bothered to look up New Directions.

Suddenly, Blaine could place each and every member of the group. Mercedes belting out those final notes of Somebody To Love at Sectionals. The angry blonde cheerleader that Jeff speculated was pregnant. The small girl with the big nose and the even bigger voice making Barbra herself proud. All the members of New Directions are there at the forefront of his mind. He witnessed each of them get slushied this morning. All but one, that is.

And then, Kurt is there, right before his eyes, floating around the stage in his memory.

He’d watched the videos of Sectionals and Regionals with Jeff, Trent, and the other boys dozens of times. They scrutinized each and every person in the group, picking apart their strength and weaknesses. Kurt, he remembered, they had decided wasn’t much of a threat. He didn’t get any of the solos or leads, and he mostly swayed in the background. But Blaine could pick him out of the line up every time without fail. There was always something about Kurt that jumped off the screen whenever the camera captured his face. He had that quality about his that can’t be taught or learned. Star quality. Now, Tina is telling him that Kurt was going to have a solo at this year’s sectionals. If he can sing, the Warblers would have been doomed. And now the Warblers have him!

“Yeah, we are in New Directions,” Mercedes starts, a quizzical inflection to her voice, as Blaine reaches into his backpack and pulls out a notebook, flipping open to the back page and turning it upside down. “How did you kn—,“ she attempts to finish as Blaine shoves the notebook across the table in front of her.

Tina leans over her shoulder to study the page. Artie wheels himself around to their side of the table, and Mercedes lowers the notebook to her lap so Artie can read along with them.

The page is titled “Our Competition” and it’s full of notes and breakdowns of each member of New Directions. Mercedes turns the page and flips through three more pages, each one covered in scribbles in various handwritings and inks. Tina points at each instance where it notes the date and the viewing number. Blaine cringes as she covers her mouth in shock. Blaine knew the Warblers had been a bit obsessive in watching the videos, but he hadn’t really realized how overboard they had gone until he witnesses the horror on the face across from him. And then it hits him that those faces were never meant to see this information. Shit, is this, like, betrayal? Can you betray a team you are no longer on?

“You’re like a stalker,” Tina laughs.

“More like a really big fan,” Blaine says.

“So wait, you were a Warbler?” Blaine looks over at Artie and shrugs.

“No,” Mercedes says, as she flips a few more pages in the notebook, “he’s the Warbler!”

Blaine’s eyes widen, and he leans across the desk to snatch the book back. He looks down at the page Mercedes had found, a long list of potential song selections for the Warbler’s set list. Next to nearly every song it says “Lead: Blaine Anderson.”

Blaine remembers how Thad needed something to write on at their meeting a couple weeks back because he left his personal notebook in his room. Blaine had offered his up to keep the meeting’s minutes. The council left Blaine with the songs, asking him to look through them and select the one he would most like to sing, but Blaine had forgotten to give Thad the notes back before he transferred. Well, if I wasn’t a traitor then, I sure am one now.

“And you transferred?” He hears Tina ask him pointedly. He looks up from the notebook, and realizes Mercedes had filled them in on what she found. “You don’t just transfer at the last minute from an exclusive prep school like Dalton, where you are the lead vocalist of a swoon worthy acapella singing group, to ‘confront your past.’ Why the hell are you really here, Blaine Warbler?”