You're a bitch.
By now, it's a common fact. The sky is blue, the grass is green, Berry's a loser, and Santana Lopez is a bitch. It's the reputation you've strived to have at McKinley, because you learned a long time ago when your Mami died that life was full of disappointment, and you learned shortly after that from your drunken Papi that feelings were weakness, and the worst thing you can do in this world is show your weakness. So you wipe any emotion besides sarcasm from your face and act the part of a cut-throat bitch. It didn't take too long for it to become first nature, and not long after that for you to start believing your façade. You're a bitch, and you know it.
(But just because its fact doesn't mean that it's the truth.)
You sleep around with guys; and the occasional girl.
The first time was when you were fourteen. It was the one year anniversary of Mami's death, and you had spent the whole day pretending that you didn't want to burst into tears. When the sixteen-year-old Davy Robertson said you were 'sexy as hell', it made you feel special and wanted for the first time since that jackass drunk driver hit your mom's Cavalier and your dad started drowning his sorrows in bottles of whiskey. You'd been alone for far too long, and his lips were warm when they touched yours. It wasn't your first kiss by a long shot, and he wasn't the best, but he was there and you remembered all too clearly the last time you said 'no' to Papi and how much your cheek stung afterwards. So when Davy reached for the zipper on your jeans, you swallowed the awkward feeling in your gut and let him pull them and your panties down and away from your body. It hurt and he felt wrong inside of you. But afterwards, once he'd disposed of the condom, he'd held you for a few minutes and if you squeezed your eyes shut tight you could almost pretend it was Papi's arms around you, the way they had been at the funeral as you'd cried for the last time. Ever since you haven't said 'no' to a guy (or girl), if only on the off chance of having someone, anyone, hold you for just a little while.
You joined the Cheerios, and met Quinn and Brittany.
You did it to try and feel like a part of something; and in a way you do. But it's not safe, because Coach is crazy (crazier-than-Rachel-freaking-Berry crazy), and you're in constant fear, just like you have been for the longest time, that one day you won't be good enough. But on the outside you're still an ice cold bitch, and beyond cruel to anyone beneath you in the social hierarchy. You climbed the ranks quickly, and soon you were second from the top (and still are). Just below Quinn, and just above your best friend, Brittany.
You're a good actress.
You always have been, with the whole 'bitch' thing. But now that's feeling more and more like what you are and less like an act, so you don't count it as acting anymore. No, you're a good actress for other reason. You're good at acting like you enjoy being 'easy'; as one might kindly call the slutty way you act. You're good at acting like you don't care about school or your marks, even though you stay up into the early hours of the morning in order to remain just below the honor roll level (because any higher would ruin your rep) so you can get into a school far, far away from Lima, Ohio. You're good at pretending you like Quinn Fabray. You're good at pretending that you don't secretly loathe her, and aren't completely jealous of everything she has: a seat atop the social pyramid, a boyfriend who loves her instead of a long line of meaningless screws, a mother, and – surprisingly enough – belief. You lost all belief in a higher power a long time ago while you sat in a hospital waiting room with unanswered prayers all around you. You're good at pretending that you aren't secretly smug when she falls from grace; first with a pregnancy and the loss of her Cheerio's uniform, then with the loss of her boyfriend because her baby daddy was really her boyfriend's best friend.
You're good at pretending that you don't love Glee.
But secretly, so secretly that you haven't even told Brittany (though she may have guessed, because for all of your acting you never have been good at fooling her about anything), it's the best part of your day. You go through your day, are a bitch, poise yourself perfectly at Cheerios practice, fake not caring about your work, and do it all with the goal of Glee rehearsal ahead of you. You don't know when you went from looking forward to those restless minutes before sleep (when the day is behind you and you don't have to worry about how it all repeats the next day) to looking forward to Glee, but it happened; and you know, deep in your heart, that you've never loved anything more.
It scares you, though.
You think it's actually kind of pathetic; the fact that you've been so alone for so long that the feeling of family Glee gives you is enough to make you want to run for the hills. But you aren't dumb, so you don't. It's actually one of the best things you've done for yourself in a long time; sticking around.
Sometimes, you'll notice Mr. Schue sending you a small smile during rehearsal and you'll wonder if maybe you aren't as good at pretending as you think you are. But you don't really mind.
Because you think that, maybe, one day, you'll be able to admit what New Directions (and everyone in it – yeah, even RuP- um, Rachel) means to you.
You're not there yet, though. You still act like a bitch to the majority of McKinley's population, and you aren't gonna start wearing your heart on your sleeve anytime soon. You still sleep around, to get that feeling of closeness that not even Glee gives you. You still keep your grades perfectly balanced and hidden.
But you don't post terrible comments of Berry's MySpace videos anymore, and you almost gave Kurt a compliment on his shoes the other day (almost).
And that's progress, isn't it?