A/N: I wasn't going to add a new story anytime soon, considering I have six other WIPs, but the idea for this rooted inside of me and could not be brushed aside.
This fanfiction certainly is a love story, but I like to think of it as something deeper than just two characters beating the odds and falling in love. To me, this story is really about what it means to find yourself, how big of a part your sexuality is in relation to your life (especially when you are bred with a strictly religious upbringing telling you it's wrong to be who you are), and, perhaps most prevalent here, how family is oftentimes not blood related, but is the people who love you unconditionally and are there for you no matter what.
Note: This is slightly AU, in that Quinn never got pregnant so she still lives with both of her parents; Rachel is dating Finn but the event at the end of last night's episode never happened (I won't specify so that I won't spoil someone who hasn't had the chance to watch it yet); Quinn is dating Sam, who never moved away. It takes place in their senior year of high school, and most of the events of the show do match up with this story, but if you have any questions, feel free to ask and I will be more than happy to answer! :)
I genuinely lovelovelove reviews so much and getting feedback to know what you like or don't like, what you think I could improve on, etc. XD Please leave feedback, for it truly does encourage me to continue updating. Your opinion matters! Thank you for giving this story a chance, and I really hope you love it.
One more thing: *The studio audience groans comically at this ridiculously long Author's Note.* This will be told from Quinn's first person POV, just to avoid any confusion. :)
CHAPTER ONE
When you grow up and your parents tell you bedtime stories and fairy tales, the lead female character always gets a prince. Whether a figurative or literal prince depends on the story, but it is always a very pleasing, very wholesome, very "romantic" relationship between a naïve young girl and her dashing prince charming.
And ever since I can remember, I wasn't interested.
Hearing fabulous tales of dragons and royalty and pretty girls wearing pretty dresses? Hell yeah, count me in!
Hearing about those pretty girls always ending up with stereotypically dashing men? Even from a young age, I just didn't connect with that.
And when I became a bit older, like elementary school age, I would find myself thinking, How come the pretty girl can't marry the princess? Why does she have to be with the prince?
I asked this question once, posed to my mom over sugar cookies and milk after school. To this day, I still vividly recall the look on her face: sharp inhalation through puckered lips; eyes popping to twice their normal size; the color and previous joyfulness on her face draining away.
She told me, very firmly, "Because that isn't how it works, Quinnie. Girls go with princes, and boys go with princesses. Any other way is wrong." And then this small, self-assured smile crept across her cherry-colored lips and she ruffled my pale blonde hair before returning to her snack.
Thankfully, I've grown out of those troubling thoughts. Seriously, I was a weird little kid, huh?
Now I am seventeen years old. I am in my senior year of high school and am dating the cutest boy in the entire history of the world! His name is Sam Evans, and he is the epitome of what they mean when they say 'prince charming.'
Blond hair like cornsilk, denim blue eyes, a gigantic smile that lights up a room; he's tall, broad-shouldered, co-captain of the football team. Just overall gorgeous. And best of all? He's totally into me and treats me like the princess I am.
I couldn't ask for anything better.
It's Friday after school, which means: Glee Club practice.
If you repeat this to anyone, you will seriously regret it, but here you go: IactuallyreallydolikeGleeClub,okay? I used to hate it, resented Coach Sylvester for making me infiltrate the nerd herd for her. But now I'm not even on the Cheerios anymore, and here I am, still steadily attending every Glee meeting.
I dunno, it's just kind of fun sometimes. Like when Sam and I share flirty duets, or those rare occasions where I actually have my own solo. It's…empowering.
I am on my way to the choir room when a familiar voice calls out: "Hey, Quinn, wait up!"
The voice is distinctively female: peppier than an over-caffeinated cheerleader, full of sunbeams and rainbows and childishly optimistic happiness. And irritating as hell, grating against my last nerve, as if determined to rub my patience raw.
I halt in my tracks, slowly turn around to face my doom.
Yep.
None other than Rachel Berry.
Her long chestnut hair is set in loose curls today; her thick bangs are fluffy, framing her dark eyebrows. She's smiling her cheeky smile, displaying perfect pearl teeth and round pinchable baby-apple cheeks.
Abruptly, my heart lurches forward, picks up speed; it's because I was walking really fast, and I just stopped all of a sudden – you know what I'm talking about?
"Hello, Rachel," I say coolly. Why does she always try to act like we're best friends? She suffers from sporadic memory loss, apparently, because sometimes she just entirely forgets that I – oh, I don't know – that I can't stand to be around her! UGH!
"I like your outfit today," she says, no trace of sarcasm or hidden meaning. Her compliments are always genuine, and perhaps that's why I resent receiving them so much. What is she, a total kiss-ass?
I glance down at my apparel.
I wear a pale yellow sundress with tiny white polka dots all over it, trimmed with this really awesome square neckline made of white lace. A delicate white silk cardigan is thrown over it, and my feet sport a pair of new wooden clogs with big yellow faux-daisies on top of each.
My lips tighten into a forced, closed smile. "Thanks. Um, yours is…interesting."
I, however, am not genuine. Because she doesn't look 'interesting;' 'interesting' is the word you use when something is actually kooky and unpleasant, but you don't know how to say that non-offensively.
No, she looks...okay…actually really pretty…like, I guess, super pretty….
Like, seriously, her style has improved so much over the years. This is a far cry from the dowdy-librarian-assistant wardrobe of yore.
She's wearing a pomegranate-colored puff-sleeved dress made of velvet with these big round golden buttons vertically lining the middle to make her short body appear longer. Black tights peek out, appearing from mid-thigh to ankles; then, her dainty feet are covered by golden ballet flats that bring out the buttons of her dress.
Her lips, painted a shade that somehow perfectly matches the purplish-red of her dress, pull back into a smile that is positively radiant. She always appears to glow from inside out, as if she drinks a glass of sunshine for breakfast each morning. I notice that the lipstick makes her teeth look even whiter than usual, but it's not like I notice her teeth or her smile that much anyway, so what do I know?
"Thank you!" she exclaims. "It took me fifteen whole minutes to put this ensemble together. I bet you just threw yours together, huh?"
My eyebrows skyrocket at this; I plant one of my French-manicured hands onto my hip.
She notices this and quickly backtracks. "Oh, no, no! I didn't mean it like that; I just meant, you know, I'm saying I'm jealous that you're, uhm, so skilled with clothes that you can effortlessly put something together in the blink of the eye, but it takes me a while to, um, get the perfect look together. Seriously, Quinn, you should be a wardrobe consultant on Broadway or something; I would totally hire you, and – "
While she babbles, rather than grow increasingly irritated, I actually feel my incredulous expression morphing into a tiny but sincere smile. Something inside of my stomach, something deep down, gets all fluttery and warm; I tell myself that it's because I'm nauseated from her obnoxious rambling, or maybe I'm just hungry.
Finally, I have to interrupt her: "All right, it's okay; I get it." Without consulting my brain first, the hand on my hip transfers to the soft velvet of the petite girl's shoulder.
I look into her eyes so she'll know I'm not mad at her, and she looks back, relieved; I dart my gaze over her shoulder, ignore the quickening of my pulse, and yank my hand away as if she is a burning stovetop.
I don't like it when she looks at me.
Looks back at me, into my eyes like that.
'Cause, you know, it's just so stalkerish-loser-creepy of her.
I swallow and choke on nothing. "What did you want, Rachel?" I try to sound as unaffected, as careless and I'm-too-busy-for-you-to-waste-my-precious-time, as possible.
"Oh, I was just going to ask what you have planned for the weekend," she says, still ever-so chipper.
Of course, she is completely unaware of the awkwardness that swirls between us like a cloud of discount perfume; she is blissfully ignorant to the people passing by, to our fellow classmates, these all-seeing and all-knowing gossipmongers who sniff out scandal like sharks circling bloodied water for dinner.
Not that there's anything scandalous about us talking. We're just two girlfriends chatting in the hallway. Girl friends, space between the two words, I mean. You know what, just scratch the 'friends' part altogether, 'cause we're not even that.
"I'm going on a date with Sam." I start walking forward, away from her, making it clear that this conversation is over. My tone heavily implies the 'not that it's any of your business' that is invisibly tagged onto the end of my answer.
She, of course, is as clueless as ever. "Oh, okay!" She starts walking at my side, somehow matching me stride-for-stride despite her short legs and my long ones. "That sounds like fun. Finn is taking me to Breadsticks tomorrow. Hey, maybe we could double-date?"
I pick up my pace, my heart threatening to burst from my chest, and my stomach is churning, and all I want to do is get the hell away.
I think: God, Rachel, just leave me ALONE!
I say: "No." The word is too abrupt: too loud and too final. It's an echo, a fist, a thousand thoughts within one syllable.
Rachel, perhaps more attentive than I give her credit for, notices the heaviness; suddenly, her arms are swinging at her sides and her already prim-as-a-princess posture somehow manages to straighten even more. Uh-oh…this means Determined Rachel Mode.
"You know, Quinn, I don't know why you dislike me so much," she says, "but considering our boyfriends are such good friends, I think you refusing to give me a chance is rather selfish."
My stomach twists; I stare straight ahead, marching left foot, right foot.
"I think it would be in their best interests if we became actual friends," she continues in that purposeful voice of hers, "and then we could do fun couple-y things like double dating and maybe we could even have a Couples Night with board game tournaments at my house or something." By the too-casual way she proposes this, I can tell she has actually been planning for a Quinn&Sam and Rachel&Finn friendship merge for a while.
"Look, I'm just not into that," I snap, refusing to look at her, even though I can feel her gaze probing my profile, dissecting my reaction with those sharp eyes of hers. She's a hawk, waiting to swoop in and claim her prize. Which, in this case, would be me bending to her will and giving in just so she can make her boyfriend happy. Pathetic.
"Into what?" she inquires, barking the question like a relentless reporter grilling a criminal.
"Into you," I hiss, and then my face burns from the way that can be taken, and ohGodohGodohGod, I'm an idiot; why did I word it that way?
So I quickly rephrase: "Like, I mean, I'm not into being your friend." I try to put as much acid into my tone as possible, but rather than sizzle, my words barely produce a pop. I just sound tired, defensive.
"Okay?" I ask. It's not a rhetorical question tagged on the end; it's a plea for her to understand, shut up, and leave me alone.
But instead of getting all angry and offended or sad or whatever, Rachel grabs my arm, pulling me to a stop. I've always been maybe two, three inches taller than her, but the wedges I wear today give me another inch and I feel like I am positively towering over the short girl. And yet, she's the one who holds the power right now.
"Quinn Fabray, I accept your challenge!" she says, flashing another brilliant smile. "I'm going to make it impossible for you to dislike me." She releases my arm and leaves me standing here, stunned, as she flounces off to Glee Club, her hips sashaying back and forth in a way that makes my throat dry out.
Her words reverberate inside my skull, like stones pitched into a cave.
"I'm going to make it impossible for you to dislike me."
And I feel cold, a damp chill all through my bones, as I think: That's exactly what I'm afraid of.
