Good Times Never Seem So
T for language
Puckleberry
I do not own Glee, or much of anything. This is not an attempt to infringe upon anyone's copyrights.
Please enjoy, and if you do, review.
Chapter One of Six
Rachel has never had a nightmare about losing her voice, before, but she's pretty sure that's what this is. A nightmare.
Because without her voice, she's nothing. There's no Broadway for just another pretty face, no Hollywood hot spot for wordless actresses. And she's not ready to be just another pretty face on a billboard somewhere, just a silent photograph in a magazine.
And even if she's loath to admit it, Rachel Berry is too short to model, anyway.
She has no back-up dream, no just-in-case desire. Broadway or nothing, failure is not an option. Being who she is, Rachel wants to work hard and overcome her missing voice. To shine despite adversity. But for the first time in her life, Rachel can feel her dream slipping away.
It's worse than a nightmare, and she wants to call Jesse, ask him what his back-up dream is, have him re-assure her that she'll get better, that she'll be okay, that she'll be stronger for having experienced what it's like to be just a pretty face.
She's half way through dialing his number when she remembers that he's not speaking to her. That nobody is.
She's lost her voice, and anyone who would want to hear it.
#
Rachel heads to school with a bright smile and a bounce in her step. She looks so happy, even she almost buys the act. She's wearing a pink plaid skirt, a warm, cheery sweater. They're all part of the costume, part of the act.
She's not the biggest talent in the school for nothing.
Rachel clutches her notebooks close as she walks directly to the Spanish room, too quick for the football player with the slushy, too quick for anyone to ignore her.
Mr. Schuester is teaching a class first period. Students are already at their desks, already waiting for class to begin.
Rachel doesn't see a single one of them. All she sees is Mr. Schue, and
"Mr. Schuester? I quit." She draws in a breath. "Glee club," she adds, as though there were anything else she might be involved in.
"It's just a little laryngitis," Mr. Schuester says, barely looking up from his lecture notes. "You'll get better. And the other team members are working hard to meet your admittedly high standards."
"You still have twelve members in Glee Club without me and I think it might be good to take a break, to allow myself to reassess my goals and evaluate how, precisely, Glee Club has improved or diminished my chances of attaining them. As you know, Jesse and I recently suffered a tragic schism. While I do hope he and I can be friends again in the near future, I believe separation is—"
"Rachel," Mr. Scheuster interrupts, "it's time for class to start. You're going to be late. We can discuss this during Glee Club."
Rachel looks around the classroom at the twenty-some-odd students seated in their desks, each staring at her. Her mouth opens, as she tries to find something to say, and then she turns and walks out of the classroom, right into a tall senior in a letterman's jacket. He dumps a slushy on her head, tosses the cup onto the ground, and walks into the class, not hesitating once. A practiced sort of dance, as though he's memorized the motions.
The ice and syrup sting her eyes, drip down her neck as a frozen humiliation. It's the perfect combination. It goes so well with her breaking heart and the empty hall.
Rachel reaches up to push the ice out off her face, to reclaim some small piece of dignity, but the ice flows down, a sticky, melting stubbornness that coats her hands. And if she felt something warm dripping down her cheek, it was just because of the sugar in her eyes. Certainly it wasn't tears.
#
She skips Glee Club.
Nobody calls to ask why. It's like they all know: she's lost her voice, her confidence, her reason d'être. She's nothing without it, and they don't need her. Not now. Not so long as they have other talent.
They have Jesse, and Finn, and Kurt, and Mercedes, Tina and Artie. Matt, Mike, Santana, Brittany. Quinn, and Noah, who aren't exactly talentless, either.
A perfect dozen, and she's the Judas Iscariot, the unlucky thirteen. Rachel can almost hear Noah's argument against that--what a stupid comparison for a Jew to make—but he's probably not talking to her, either.
When Rachel gets home, she wants to sing, to shout out the unhappiness with an upbeat song. But without her voice, all she can do is turn the music up, until she can feel it echoing her heartbeat. It's not the same, but she dances.
Rachel Berry may not have her voice, may not be able to sing along to the music, but she can still feel it. She can still be a part of it. And besides, she refuses to be just another pretty face.
Glee Club without Rachel is quiet, and not just because she isn't there to talk the whole time.
It's like everyone has been thrown in the dumpster, and slushied, and knocked up their best friend's girlfriend, all at once. It's fucked up, and even Noah Puckerman knows it.
"We can't win without Rachel," Stutters says, holding hands with Wheels. The two of them have joined forces, because he nods in agreement. Pussy-whipped or just agreeing, Puck can't tell.
"You'll do fine," Mr. Schue says, handing out a new song. "We have a lot of talents here. Rachel isn't the only one who can sing or dance, here."
Puck picks through the notes to the new song, on his guitar, and then the makes the mistake of looking up at Mr. Schue .
Noah Puckerman, McKinley High badass and extreme stud, is getting that look from Mr. Schuester. Re-evaluating, like he's grown an extra head or some shit.
The Puckster does not like that look, does not like the way Mr. Schue is smiling at him.
It's not faggy or gay or however Kurt wants him to say it. It's nice. Apologetic.
Which meant Mr. Schue knows who made the Glist, and doesn't think he's done it, anymore.
"Who was it?" Puck asks Mr. Schue, ignoring the way Quinn tightens her grip on his leg.
"Who was what?" Mr. Schue asks.
"Who wrote the glist?"
"It doesn't matter," Mr. Schue says. "It's done with. It won't happen again."
Puck turns to look at Quinn, to grumble about secrets and bad reputations, but she's got this look in her eye, like she's about to douse him in kerosene.
"What?"
"Nothing," she says. "Play that again." And she smiles, and leans forward, and all the hairs on Puck's arm stand up.
"You wrote the Glist."
Her mouth forms a small o, and she class her hands together, "I don't know what you mean." It's too stiff, though, and too quick.
"You wrote the Glist?"
"It wasn't her," Mr. Schue says. "And that's enough talk about it. Are we going to practice, or just talk the whole time?"
Puck isn't about to drop it. Quinn knows something. Mr. Schue knows something. Everyone thought he'd done it, and he wants his name cleared. He also wants to know who would put him in third, because he knows he should have been higher on the list.
"Did Rachel do it?"
"Rachel did not do it."
"I took the Glist off her locker, so she wouldn't have to look at it all day. If she wrote the Glist—"
"Rachel didn't write the Glist," Mr. Schue said, louder. "If I hear one more word about the Glist, I'm going to cancel practice for today, and trust me, you all need it."
Puck stands up, puts his guitar away. "This is bullshit," he says. "Either Rachel wrote it, and used us all, and dumped us because she got all she wanted out of us and we're sitting here like used tampons, or one of you wrote it and I'm working with someone who doesn't realize I should have been a lot higher on that list I'm a stud."
Puck walked out. Because he was a stud. Because he was a man. Because he felt like he was being lied to, and he didn't like it.
A/N: Reviews are always good.