The girl who helped you through your first disappointment is also the first person you ever slushied. How awkward.
One of your first experiences with disappointment comes as Lucy at a softball game of Frannie's. You're sitting with who you think is her coach, biting nervously at your nails, a worn paperback resting on your knees. It's hot, but you carry a sweatshirt to shield your flawed body.
The ground is particularly fascinating to you right now, but then there's a blur and all you register is something coming toward your face, fast, and you frantically jump back. A clang echoes, the ball never leaving the batting cage, and several people look at you with amused little smiles (you see pity).
It's the coach that stops you.
Of course he caught it, the breathed 'shit' you let escape. You can't really blame yourself; as much as you dislike your nose it's not quite at the level of wanting it hit by a speeding softball.
Frannie's laughing out an apology as she fixes her batting helmet, but you can't look away from the coach. He doesn't seem mad or anything, actually grinning a little crazily.
A blonde mom whose name you're not sure of (but who you think is gorgeous, all gently tousled hair and slim curves) chooses then to come over, still chuckling a little, and the coach leaps at the opportunity for an audience.
"I'm guessing you've never played softball, Lucy." His eyes shine and his tongue is laced with condescendence and you really don't want to think this is going to turn out badly, but you're Lucy Fabray, and this is a social situation, no explanation necessary.
The mom smiles then (pityingly, you think), sitting down next to you.
"I was actually coming over to make sure you're okay. That seemed like quite the shock."
You decide you like her.
"Thank you, I'm fine though. Just day dreaming a bit too much." You want to look at the coach, look at him and beg him to leave it at that, stay away from tarnishing reactions and just keep your slip to himself.
"Oh, but you wouldn't believe what she let slip. Quite the potty mouth, this one."
Just like that, it's out there and you're slipping over explanations crossed with apologies as you burn.
"What, did she drop the F-bomb?" And then there were two as the woman's husband joins in, one more to witness yet another humiliation, another exposed mistake.
"No, the S word!"
The guys are grinning as if it's cute you're so mortified but then the woman turns to you and you know this is going to hurt the worst.
"That's kind of funny, because John and I," she twists to smile up at her husband and your heart hurts in need for someone to look at you and be happy about it, "were just talking, seriously just the other day, about how you never swear and how great it is, given your age and the influences."
She isn't frowning or smiling or anything but you're paralyzed and suddenly want to be far away and alone because you feel like welded metal, the way everything burns and throbs with repeated blows and everything starts to coil and compact, crushing you-
You might make some noise, you might not, but you do hang your head and hide behind your gross, frizzy, unmanageable hair until they move away to watch the game.
This is disappointment; you let down the Fabray name, your self-respect, well that's non-existent, and even some beautiful mom you don't even know but apparently thought well of you. And that's so rare.
Crying is at the forefront of you rind but you're in public and still a Fabray.
Daddy shows up, proud and beaming when Frannie hits a triple before turning around and striking out three consecutive batters.
(No, you're never played softball, or any sport because comparatively you're going to fail. Every. Time.)
He doesn't acknowledge you but once, but that doesn't say if he knows or not; it's fairly common for him to act as though he doesn't have another daughter.
And maybe one day you'll convince yourself it doesn't hurt anymore.
Yet, another little girl somehow notices you. You see shined Mary Janes just beyond your hair and imagine ramrod posture and hands on hips.
"Hello, I would like to introduce myself. My name is Rachel Barbra Berry, future Broadway star. May I inquire as to why you're sitting alone and the name of your surely enthralling book?"
Your head flies up (you didn't expect to be addressed), and, coupled with a mega-watt smile showcasing plenty of missing teeth, your picture was dead-on.
You can't help but smile back and blushingly hand her your book. You don't trust yourself to speak and you certainly don't want her to know what a disappointment you are, so you twine your fingers together and try not to look too hopeful.
She, Rachel, timidly opens the book and her eyes bug out.
"There's so many words! And you're really reading this?"
Anyone else's tone would carry more than a little disbelief, but hers is so full of awe you, again, can't help blushing and clearing your throat.
You chance it.
"Yeah, it's actually one of my favorites." And maybe it's just you but her smile becomes a little more real and she doesn't say anything so you continue.
"I love reading. It's like friends you can take with you and there are always more words so you never really run out; there's always someone or something there," you trail off.
"You must be so smart," Rachel gushes, before looking down with pink-tinted cheeks.
You open your mouth almost reflexively to negate the idea, but then she blurts out, "and you're pretty too."
That shuts you up. You want to laugh. And then cry a little, but again, not really an option.
"What?" you settle for instead. "You're the pretty one. And," you feel the need to say something else, because pretty doesn't seem enough, because she seems so much more, "Broadway must mean you sing. Well, I mean, sing really well."
"You've never heard me," and you're surprised because her voice is so small and that does not sit right with you.
"Maybe, b-but you're confident enough, and you have a nice smile," now you just want to crawl under a rock," it's, it's kind."
A beat.
"You're kind."
You think her middle name should be Straw, her face turns so red (even though you want to continue because she sat next to you and that means so much) before you're pulled into the truest hug you've ever had.
"My dads say beauty is objective," she whispers near your ear, not letting go, "so, maybe, we can just remember we'll always be pretty to each other."
You stiffen at always, want to say nothing lasts that long especially once they get to know you. But Rachel's holding out her pinky finger and you couldn't refuse if you tried.
"And more," you say quietly.
"And more," she agrees.
Her deep brown eyes shine with something you've never seen directed at you before:
Happiness.
And then it all comes rushing back to reality like another softball was hit towards you when you just sense your Daddy approaching. You desperately lock your pinkies and say, "My name's Quinn," because Lucy turned into someone else, someone pretty (and more), someone who knew happiness.
You're still staring into each other's eyes when Daddy yanks you away.
You refuse to meet them years later when you toss the first (hers and yours) slushie and wonder how a promise so pretty and kind ended up another (self) disappointment.