Title: "Make It Happen"
Author: Lila
Rating: PG-13
Character/Pairing: Mercedes
Spoiler: "The Pilot"
Length: one-shot
Summary: Mercedes is gonna get out of this town, but she's not stepping on the little people on her way to the top.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing them for a few minutes
Author's Note: Yes, yes, *yes,* I owe another chapter of "Go Sadness" and it's probably coming next week, but I was cleaning out my hard drive today and found this fic and figured, what the hell? It was originally part of a larger story that's incidentally going to be a part of "Go Sadness," but still stands on its own. It was written ages ago, around the time of "Wheels," yet has been hanging out without a home and it seemed time to give it one. Title and cut courtesy of Mariah Carey. Enjoy
She's four when she realizes her name isn't like anyone else's. She's the youngest, the baby, and her brothers have names like John and Thomas, strong, normal names they share with important people like presidents and CEOs.
She's named after a car. An expensive, car, but a car nonetheless. She lives in middle of nowhere Ohio and her dad's a dentist, but her mom's from Newark. She thinks you can take the girl out of the ghetto but maybe you can't take the ghetto out of the girl.
She's four when it starts making sense.
They're driving somewhere, she doesn't remember where but she does remember the ride because the leaves were just beginning to turn and all the different shades of red and orange and gold were the most beautiful things she'd ever seen.
They're in the mini-van because there are five of them and a BMW like the one their neighbors the Fabrays drive isn't practical for three kids, but the car straight ahead is a Mercedes. She can tell by the little metal thing on the hood, because once she annoyed her brother John so bad he threatened to brand it on her forehead if she didn't leave him alone. He got grounded for a week after that, but she's been leery of Mercedes ever since.
"Mom," she remembers asking. "Why do I have a funny name?" In reality she didn't think it was funny, just kind of embarrassing, but the other kids at preschool teased because she wasn't a Caitlin or a Jennifer like the rest of them, and eventually she learned to follow the crowd.
She was in the backseat, still buckled in a carseat, and her mom never turned away from the road even as their eyes met in the rearview mirror. "Your name is special, baby," she'd said, and something fierce and proud had burned in her eyes. "A special name for a special girl."
She tried to remember the lesson, because she got older and the teasing didn't stop; it wasn't okay, but also wasn't exactly a shock when she was the only black girl in her elementary school and she was named after a car. An expensive car, but still – it's no Jessica or Lindsey.
---
It's another year before she realizes the power of names.
They're in the car and Thomas has the Top 40 station on and the leaves are a sad, sick green, because it's the middle of August and about a zillion degrees outside, but she doesn't notice and not because she's worn out from the chlorine at the pool.
A voice breaks through her brothers' chatter and she runs the risk of retaliation by elbowing John in the side and yelling at him to be quiet. This girl can sing, and her voice is the most beautiful thing she's ever heard.
"Say my name, say my name…"
The DJ says her name at the end of the song – Beyonce – and it sounds strange and foreign on her tongue, but it stays with her. It never leaves her. Ten years later, when the original group is no more, it's the only name anyone remembers.
Her name is Mercedes and it's unlike anyone else's.
She's five and her dreams still seem real and she sees flashing lights and photos in those magazines her mom reads at the hair salon and maybe a cover shoot for "Jet."
She's five and all she knows is one day, when she's famous, the only name anyone's gonna scream is hers.
---
She's six the first time she realizes she weighs more than other little girls and her baby fat isn't fading with age.
She sits in the waiting room, an ancient edition of "Highlights" in her lap while the doctor gives her mom the lowdown: she's too fat, she eats too much, she needs to go to one of those special camps.
She keeps her eyes glued to the floor as the door opens and the "Highlights" rustles against her legs as her mom grabs her hand and pulls her towards the door. She's mumbling under her breath, her mom, and she doesn't catch much but she hears something about fried chicken and home cooking and "just because I'm black doesn't mean I can't feed my baby good food."
Her mom is still dragging her down the hall and her arm is starting to hurt but her mom doesn't let up until they're at the elevator and she jams a finger into the button so hard her nail actually breaks.
"Damn," her mom says and it's the about the only time she's ever heard her mom curse so she kind of widens her eyes and silently rubs her arm.
It seems to shake her mom up, that nail shattering, and her smile is guilty as she gets down on her knees, so they're eye to eye, and her mom's burn fierce and proud. "You are beautiful, baby," she says and blinks a few times but not so much that she misses the tears there. "You are beautiful just the way you are. Don't ever let anyone tell you otherwise."
---
There are lots of people who tell her otherwise. She's picked last in gym class and no one wants to be her seatmate on the bus and one time in the third grade she sits down and her chair actually breaks, not because she weighs too much but because the leg is broken, but no one lets her live it down.
School becomes hell but she doesn't stop trying. Her mom might be from Newark, but she has a degree from Howard. She knows high school isn't the end of the line for her daughter.
Her mom also has a degree in elementary school politics and figures out early that her daughter needs a hobby beyond cheerleading or soccer or gymnastics.
Their church has a choir and Pastor Jim finds an opening and before she really understands what's happening she's singing a solo at the Christmas concert.
The lights hurt her eyes and her dress scratches her neck and it's scary, scarier than her first day of school without her brothers or that day during dodgeball when every single shot seemed aimed at her face, but she thinks back to that day in the car and how much she wants out of this life, and she opens her mouth and everything falls into place.
"Do your hear what I hear?
A song, a song
High above the trees
With a voice as big as the sea
With a voice as big as the sea…"
The lights come on and everyone, every single person in the room, is on their feet clapping and whooping and it's all for her.
She's sweaty, because it's hot under those lights, and she later realizes her dress has given her a rash (she's allergic to wool) but she doesn't care because she looks into the smiling faces, those smiles she created, and she feels beautiful.
---
She keeps singing.
Her mom recognizes talent when she sees it and talks her dad into singing lessons. Her voice gets better, stronger, richer, and by middle school she's hitting certain notes on such a regular basis that her vocal coach starts whispering "young Mariah" under his breath.
She knows she's no Mariah. She's no Beyonce either. She's proud of her curves, but she's too dark and too loud and too heavy. She's seen "Dreamgirls" – she knows how this story ends.
She sits in back and she doesn't talk much in class and she wears baggy clothes; when people look at her she always wonders if they see her or the extra large t-shirts she owns in every color of the rainbow.
She tells herself to remember the pot of gold waiting for her when graduation is a distant memory, but a spitball gets caught in her braids and the resulting laughter hurts her ears, and she's strong and she's smart but it doesn't sting any less.
---
She does well in English and okay in math and she mostly finds history boring but it's not hard to pass. It's gym that she hates, gym where she struggles, gym that might be the death of her. Sometimes, literally, after the laps they run on alternate Fridays and the period ends and she's wheezing and gasping for air on the track's edge and pretending her cheeks are burning red from the exercise and not the humiliation.
One morning she's working on her laps, still in last place but fighting to finish, when one of the girls (blonde, skinny, pale as snow) calls out to her. "Hey, Mercedes!"
She stops, because she's fat, but she always thought she was invisible too. They're popular and she's not, and they know her name. She can't help but respond. "Hi," she says shyly, her voice quiet and nothing like when she lets loose in the privacy of her bedroom or onstage at church.
They smile at her, these girls, reclining against the bleachers because they're already (always) three steps ahead of her, and hold up a hand to shield their eyes. "It's really bright," one of them says to her. "Do you think you could stand over there?" she asks and points to a spot in the middle of the field. "It would really help us if you could block out the sun."
She's serious. Mercedes can tell from the calm set of her smile and the laughter in her eyes, and she wants nothing more than the track to open up and swallow her whole. These things are supposed to happen on TV; they're not actually supposed to happen in real life.
She smiles, the way she practices in the mirror every night before bed, and clutches at the hem of her sweaty t-shirt so they can't see her hands are shaking. "Thanks, but I'm going to finish my laps," she says and trots off, holds her head high the way her mom taught her.
For once, she's grateful that she's big and slow. It takes her almost ten minutes to finish rounding the track. They don't get to see her cry.
---
It's a Friday and there's a concert at her church. She's supposed to sing lead on "Amazing Grace," but at the last minute she asks her pastor to make a change. He's all about working together, so she's surprised when he agrees.
"You're sure about this, Mercedes?" he asks. "You're choosing a song that means something to people. It's a big responsibility."
"I understand," she says because it's a lot to take on but she knows she can do it. Singing is the only thing she's ever truly wanted; singing is the only thing she has; when she sings, it's the only time she matters.
The spotlight is still hot but she's wearing cotton this time and she's used to the pressure.
The audience is surprised by her choice, because this is church and hymns are the norm, but this song means something: to her pastor, to them, but mostly to her. She knows this song, believes in it, finds a future there she doesn't feel when she walks the halls of McKinley High or runs laps on its track.
"There have been times I couldn't last for long
But now I think I'm able to carry on
It's been a long, long time coming
But I know a change gonna come
Yes, it will"
When she finishes there's an audible pause in the room, a shocked intake of breath, before the crowd leaps to its feet and applause fills every nook and cranny of auditorium.
She doesn't curtsey and she doesn't bow. She doesn't even wave. She simply smiles and all the heaviness leaves her heart.
She has the gift; she just has to use it right.
---
She doesn't want to try out for Glee Club. She already has her singing lessons and her church and she doesn't need more. She doesn't want more. She likes being a star and there's no "I" in glee.
As usual, her mom is the voice of reason. "You need a challenge, honey," she says one night while they're folding laundry and her hands still over a pile of rainbow colored t-shirts. "You're the best singer at church, but you're never going to get better unless there are people who push you to work harder."
She knows her mom is right even if she wants to disagree. She's never backed down from a challenge before; she had, she'd be a fifteen-year-old high school dropout.
Singing is what she does well. Singing is the only thing she does well. Singing is the way she's gonna buy her ticket out of this place.
"Okay," she says even though her heart clutches in her chest. If someone else tries out, if someone else is better than her…she'll have to work harder because nothing is coming between her and her dreams.
---
There's no spotlight when she tries out for the Glee Club. There's not much of an audience either, but there's a stage and it makes her feel right at home.
She hands her music to the band and waits a few minutes while they organize themselves before taking her place.
It's just Mr. Schuester in front of her, the Spanish teacher, and she takes French so she doesn't know him but she's heard he's nice and he's fair and she can see with her own two eyes that he's the best looking teacher at McKinley High and it makes her more nervous than she wants to be.
He reminds her of the football players who throw slushies in her face before first period or the cheerleaders who still tease her about her weight and her hair and all the things she can't change about herself. He smiles like it's all easy and it's not.
She glances at the four people waiting for her debut and she's not in a wheelchair and she doesn't have a stutter and she doesn't wear tiaras to second period or knee socks like she's still five-years-old, but she's just as much an outcast as any of them.
She still eats lunch alone; she still hears hockey players mumble "Madea" under their breath as she passes them in the hallway; she's still biding her time until she gets out of this place.
She takes a deep breath and steps forward to where the spotlight should be. Where it will be, one day, just for her.
"Hi," she says. "My name is Mercedes Jones and I'm going to sing for you today."
Mr. Schuester nods and he still makes her nervous but she recognizes the kindness in his eyes and it gives her the courage to do what she's never done before. Even without a spotlight, she knows this is her moment to shine.
"R-E-S-P-E-C-T – find out what it means to me!"
She finishes the verse and takes a step back, looks into the eyes of the five people watching her. They're smiling, but then again people always do when she sings.
It's more than that. Their smiles are wide and their eyes are kind but there's something else there, and it's not how much they all love to sing.
She can smell the sticky-sweet of frozen ice on their skin and see the loneliness in their eyes and the feel the determination in their hearts and she realizes she's not the only one.
They get it. They understand. They want out as much as she does.
When she takes her seat, she can't keep the smile from her face, because she knows she's going to make it but she doesn't have to do it alone.
Writers live for feedback – please leave some if you have the time.