Waking up to Rachel's screech through his door was even worse than a hangover, Blaine decided. Blindly, he felt around the nightstand for his phone. A groan escaped his lips when he saw it was only six thirty.

He rolled over and pulled his blanket over his head. It was entirely too early to get up.

"Blaine! Mom says to get up! Now!" Rachel screeched again, not even five minutes later.

"I'm up!" Blaine growled, his voice scratchy with sleep.

He roughly shoved the blankets off and shivered as the cool air hit his skin. Ignoring the urge to burrow back into the warmth of his bed, Blaine stumbled out his door and down the stairs. Melissa and her husband were seated at the bar when he made his way into the kitchen.

"Oh, good, you're up," Melissa said when she saw him. "You can have whatever you find for breakfast. Rachel usually cereal or a bagel."

He only caught half of her words; everything was too fuzzy from sleep.

"Coffee?" he mumbled.

"We don't drink coffee," Rachel said brightly as she came into the room.

Blaine groaned and let his head drop to the counter. The noise echoed across the room, but he was too tired to notice the sharp pain. Coffee was necessarily for him to function, especially if it was before noon.

"Why don't you go get dressed," Melissa said, "and we can stop and get some coffee before school." She laid a soft hand on his back. Blaine hadn't even realized she moved.

He lifted his head to glare at her, then slowly made his way back up the stairs. The warm water from the shower helped clear the fog from his mind.

Fifteen minutes later, he towel dries his messy curls and pulled on a simple black t-shirt and a pair of jeans. If there was one aspect about this whole public school thing he was going to like, it would be the not having to wear uniforms, Blaine decided. That and his father wouldn't be around to bitch about his unruly hair. He shoved his feet into his shoes before heading back down the stairs.

Normally, he wasn't a breakfast person. He was also used to waking up five minutes before classes started (which at Dalton was nine AM).

Melissa herded Rachel and him out the door barely a quarter after seven. They stopped at a quaint little coffee shop halfway between the school and the neighborhood. The coffee was barely drinkable; not surprising since it came from a backwoods coffee shop.

Rachel barely waited for the car to stop before saying a quick goodbye and taking off into the school.

"Let's get this done, I still have to get ready for work," Melissa said.

Blaine followed her across the parking lot and into the school. It was smaller, and much more modern than Dalton, even without counting the dorms. The interior of the school was concrete and glass and shinny metals. The entire front office, which was just to the left of the entrance, had a glass wall as did the principals office beyond.

The secretary directed them around the corner to the guidance councilors office. The office had the same glass windows.

"I'm Ms. Pillsbury," the redheaded woman said welcoming Blaine and Melissa into her office. "We're excited for you to join us here…Blaine."

Her voice was overly cheerful and made him want to punch her. As she spoke to Melissa, he slouched in the chair, arms crossed over his chest, and looked around the room.

It was immaculately clean, cleaner than even hospitals. There weren't even dust specs floating in the air. Pamphlets lined a white counter top on the left side of the room in two neat rows. Behind Ms. Pillsbury was a large book shelf. All of the books were arranged alphabetically. Her desk had little knick-knacks arranged neatly on it.

The only mess in the room currently sat on her desk in the form of his records from Dalton. This included the massive amount of discipline records.

"Seems you were quite the troublemaker," the guidance councilor said.

Blaine grunted at her.

"If he causes any trouble here, feel free to contact me," Melissa said.

"Well hopefully we wont have any problems, right Blaine?" Miss Pillsbury asked him.

"Whatever," he said.

"We won't have any. You're in enough trouble as it is. You really don't want to add to it," Melissa said with an air of finality in her voice.

He grunted again in response.

The councilor didn't seem to notice the tension between the other two people in her office. "That's good to hear." She grabbed a few sheets of paper off the printer next to her and handed them across the table to him. "This is your schedule, a map of the school, and locker information. And this," she passed another, smaller sheet of paper to him, "is a late pass for your first period. If you get lost, I'm sure one of the other students will help you, and you can always come see me if you need anything."

With that, she dismissed both him and Melissa.

"Behave yourself, Blaine." Melissa said.

He watched her turn the corner and walk out of the school, and then went in search of the nearest exit. The cool fall air hit him the moment the doors closed. Fishing his cigarettes out of his bag, he lit one before making his way towards the student parking lot. He planned to hide behind some cars and figure out his schedule before second period began.

"If you don't want to get caught, you should head to the football field," a voice said behind him.

Blaine turned to see a boy with a short mohawk wearing a letterman jacket walking towards him.

"Excuse me?"

"People smoke under the bleachers. Coach Sylvester likes to check the parking lots for 'miscreants'," the boy said.

Blaine simply stared at him, slightly confused.

"You're new," the boy said after a moment of Blaine staring at him blankly.

"What gave it away?"

"Name's Puck," the boy said. "You let me bum one from ya, and I'll lead the way."

Blaine fished out another cigarette and handed it to Puck.

"So what's you're name, new kid?" the boy asked.

"Blaine," he said.

Puck led him around the school and out to the football field. A few people were already hanging out underneath them, sitting on either and old picnic table and a bench. One of the girls made room for him to sit on the table. The table was covered in graffiti and cigarette burns.

"So, Blaine," Puck said, "what brings you to this hell hole?"

"I was kicked out of my last school."

"For what?"

"Long story," Blaine said. He then pulled out the schedule Ms. Pillsbury gave him.

"Damn," Puck said over his shoulder. "You're taking all AP classes? That's some tough shit."

"It's not really that hard," Blaine shrugged.

The other boy (and several of the girls) stared at him slack-jawed.

"You must be pretty fuckin' smart," a red haired girl said.

Blaine shrugged. Having straight As was the only thing he got right, according to his father. Plus, at Dalton where the students were children of powerful names, failing wasn't an option. Blaine had the highest GPA at Dalton.

"Smart or not, Mrs. Castle is brutal towards people that skip her class," Puck said.

"Mind showing me where it is then? I'm supposed to be on my 'best behavior' today," Blaine said.

Puck agreed, then led him back to the school.

As they walked, the boy with the mohawk explained each of the teachers to him, and a brief description of where the classes were.

Mrs. Castle was his AP Physics teacher. Her class was in a separate, smaller building just to the right of the main building. Puck called it the Science Building. She glared at him suspiciously when he stepped through the door moments after the late bell rang.

"Can I help you with something?" the woman he assumed to be the teacher said.

"New student," Blaine said.

"Right. Heard I was getting you. Take a seat," she said.

The seating was at lab tables and the only free seat was next a tall Asian boy dressed in a blue and green plaid button-up.

"Mike Chang," the boy said holding his hand out to Blaine as he took his seat.

"Blaine," he responded. Telling people his name was getting old, he decided.

Mrs. Castle placed a text book on the table in front of him as she started her lesson for the day. He thanked every god he didn't believe in that the woman hadn't made him introduce himself to the class.

Class went surprisingly fast. Unsurprisingly, McKinley was two chapters behind Dalton, so he spent most of the period doodling.

Mike took a look at his schedule and offered to walk with him to his next class, since they had it together.

Calculus was on the third floor of the main building. An older, very severe woman taught the class. She shoved a book in his hands when he walked into the class. Once again, he sat next to Mike.

A few minutes later, a boy walked into the class and caught his eye. He had smooth pale skin and perfectly styled chestnut hair with strawberry blond streaks. Thick lashes framed a pair of mesmerizing blue-green eyes.

The boy was tall, but had high cheekbones that made him look delicate. He wore a red and white cheerleading uniform that make his skin appear even paler.

Blaine closed his eyes to banish the thoughts from his head. It didn't do anything though. He spent the entire class period staring at the boy out of the corner of his eye.

When class ended, Blaine was in desperate need of a cigarette. Luckily, it was lunch time, and Blaine headed back out to the stadium where he met up with Puck.

His day had been absolutely miserable. First Finn nearly made him late, so he had to forfeit his morning Latte. Then someone had parked in his spot.

Plus there was the fact that he had a small hangover, which amplified the noise in the crowded hallways.

He couldn't even enjoy sleeping through his first period European History class because, not even ten minutes after his it started, Coach Sylvester called him to her office. She then spent the next half hour reprimanding him. Sue Sylvester did not yell at her Cheerios when she wanted to punish them, that was reserved for practice, instead she used words that bit to their very core.

"So, Porcelain," she said. "I would find myself hurt, if I were capable of feeling. Do you know why that is?"

"Coach…" Kurt started to say.

"I don't want to hear your excuses. One would think, after the way fought for this position, that you would do everything to keep it. Do you want your job to go to Stretch-Marks or the other one?"

"No, Coach." Quinn would never let him live it down if he lost his spot as co-captain, especially to her. Or Brittany. That would be a disaster in the making.

"Then why is it, you felt it would be okay to skip practice, and for a party?"

"Because I wasn't thinking, Coach," Kurt said. Really, he had no reason other than letting Santana talk him into it. Of course, he wasn't stupid enough to tell that to her.

"Obviously you weren't. You should use that pretty little head of yours sometimes."

On and on she went about how much of a disappointment he was, and how he would never make it as anything.

"You're on probation from here until I decide to forgive you," she said finally. "Be prepared for you punishment during practice today."

He hung his head in resignation.

"Now, get out so I can yell at Sandbags," she said.

Kurt fled her office.

His second period European History class passed in a blur. The only thing he could focus on was the dread coiling at the pit of his stomach. He knew Coach was going to make practice a torturous affair, and his muscles were already screaming in agony.

Trying to put thoughts of his impending doom out of his mind, Kurt slowly walked to his third period class.

Eyes. Breath taking honey colored eyes. That was the first thing he noticed on the unfamiliar boy in the classroom. They were bright and something about them just drew him in. Kurt had to force himself to look away and not get lost in them.

Ducking his head to avoid embarrassment, Kurt made his way to his seat.

It wasn't unusual for him to lose focus easily in Mrs. Bleithem's class. Even after six weeks, he could barely understand the subject. Between the nearly uncontrollable urge to turn to look at the boy and the eyes he could feel boring into the back of his head, he had more trouble than usual. Relief flooded through him when the bell rang, and Kurt wasted no time with leaving the classroom.

He met up with the Unholy Trinity at the bottom of the amphitheater, where they were sitting on the steps. Quinn was leaning against one of the polls braiding Brittany's hair while Santana picked at some dirt on the ground. The girls were unusually quiet.

"Coach?" he asked as he took a seat next to Santana.

"I don't want to talk about it," Quinn said.

"It was scary," Brittany said.

Kurt had to agree with her.

"Why did we ever think skipping practice was a good plan?" he asked.

"Because we apparently have a death wish," Santana said.

Death wish was an understatement. Kurt sighed and leaned his head on Santana's shoulder.

"Those there's a gorgeous new student," he told them changing the subject. Practice was inevitable, there was no sense in dwelling on it.

"Really?" Santana asked.

"Yep. He's in my Calculus class," Kurt said.

"Tell us about him!" Quinn demanded.

"I don't know much. He's got gorgeous eyes and dark, curly hair," Kurt said. Then he added, "His clothes are designer."

"That's it?" Quinn asked.

"For now. I'll find out more later," he promised the girls.

"You better," Santana said.

Getting more information on the new student was surprisingly easy. Mostly because the boy nearly knocked Kurt over as he entered his French class.

Soft callused hands reached out to steady him.

"Sorry," the boy said.

"It's fine," Kurt said. Then he held out his hand and said, "Kurt Hummel."

"Blaine Anderson," the boy said as he shook the outstretched hand.

Kurt nodded and walked to his desk as Blaine spoke with the French teacher. While he did so, Kurt stared at his ass. He was slightly ashamed of himself, but it was too good to look away from. Blaine was too hot to look away from.

When Blaine turned around and caught his eye with a slight smirk, a slight blush colored the Cheerio's cheeks.

"S-so where did you transfer from?" he stuttered out embarrassed.

"Dalton," Blaine shrugged.

"Isn't that the boarding school in Westerville?"

"Yes," he said.

Kurt got the feeling that Blaine was slightly reluctant to talk about the transfer.

"Well, I'm sorry to tell you the teachers here will be a disappointment after a school like that," Kurt told him.

"How so?"

"They're all pretty much idiots."

Blaine laughed. "Then I won't have to study as hard anymore."

"Probably not," Kurt smiled. If only I were so lucky, he thought.

Every minute he wasn't at Cheerio practice, Kurt spent studying. Mostly it was for Chemistry and Calculus that he had to study. He was already close to having a failing grade in both of those classes.

At least he didn't have that problem with French. Kurt's mother had begun teaching him the language when he was a young child, and now he took the classes for an easy A. Of course, the AP class he was in now was difficult because it involved reading and essays.

Halfway through the lecture a folded piece of paper was placed on Kurt's desk.

The teacher's accent is awful, was scrawled across it in a messy script.

Kurt giggled silently. He had to agree, it was truly awful.

Yes, it is. But sadly, you get used to it.

Kurt quickly passed the note back to Blaine.

Well that sucks. I don't know how much longer I can listen to it.

I don't know how to help you with that.

How do you deal with it?

I don't listen. Haven't since freshman year.

Why not?

I'm fluent. It's an easy A.

Back and forth they went the entire period, causing Kurt to nearly miss the homework assignment.

As they left the room, Blaine handed the paper back to Kurt then with a quick goodbye disappeared down the corridor.

Kurt unfolded it to find what he assumed to be Blaine's phone number.

A smile spread across his face and stayed there for the rest of the afternoon. Or until Cheerio practice started.

"Laps!" Coach yelled the moment he stepped onto the field.

And the ten laps he had to do weren't even the worst part. She gave him and the Unholy Trinity a verbal assault in front of the entire squad. Once that was done, practice proceeded as normal, with every mistake being either his or Santana's fault.

Then when that was done, there were more laps for the four of them to do. By the time he got home, Kurt was exhausted and drenched in sweat.