Written for a prompt at the glee_angst_meme on LiveJournal-
"2010-11 Junior Year; Thunderclap
Berry, Rachel: Not Pictured.
It's funny how four words can hurt like a knife to the chest."
Summary: Rachel always intended to become a star and forget her horrible years in Lima. Until she realizes that maybe Lima wants to forget her, too.
Spoilers: Through 2x01, to be safe.
Warnings: Language.
Disclaimer: I do not own Glee, or any music from Moulin Rouge or by Sarah McLachlan.
Author's Notes: This is technically set in season two, but for the purpose of this fic, the new characters don't exist. I'm not caught up and I don't think I can write them with as little as I've seen of them so far. It's also my first Glee fic ever, so please feel free to rip it apart and tell me what I can do better next time =) And thank you to my lovely friend panpipe/proudfoot on LJ for being an awesome beta!
The Glee club members were sprawled out across the choir room after school, waiting for practice to begin. The end of the school year was drawing near, as evidenced by the yearbooks that were presently being enthusiastically exchanged for recording embarrassing memories as proof of their teenage friendships.
"Santana Lopez," Puck announced, standing on a chair in front of the rest of the group, scribbling on a page of the annual McKinley Thunderclap as he spoke. "Most likely to poke your eye out with her artificially enhanced boobage." Santana swatted at him angrily as he tossed the book to Artie.
Artie opened it back up and flipped through the pages before deciding on a Glee kid to focus on. "Mike Chang. Most likely to get filthy rich dancing on TV." He finished writing and looked up. "Assuming Brittany doesn't do it first."
"I tried that once," Brittany informed them sadly, "but it broke."
Kurt rolled his eyes, smiling, as he took the yearbook from Artie. He glanced around the room to see who hadn't yet been targeted for their future predictions. His eyes landed on Rachel, who was sitting off to the side with a textbook in her lap, working out math problems while the rest of the club joked around. Leave it to Rachel to refrain from joining in on the fun in favor of aiming for greatness.
"Rachel Berry." Kurt skimmed through the pages to find the "B" section. Rachel looked up at the mention of her name, but didn't speak. "Most likely to spend all day singing her ass off while life passes her by..." Kurt's finger trailed along the page before stopping and looking up questioningly at his fellow diva. "Rachel Berry, Not Pictured."
"The fuck, Berry?" Puck inquired. "You're like, completely mental about making sure shit's perfect for your yearbook pictures."
"I am not mental," Rachel protested. "Yearbook photos do not reflect kindly on those who fail to prepare appropriately." She swallowed hesitantly before continuing: "Unfortunately, this year I was the victim of an unforgiving facial blemish that didn't heal in time for picture day, and I was unable to rearrange my busy schedule for reshoots."
"If you're talking about your nose, I'm pretty sure you'll be skipping picture day for the rest of high school," Santana mocked.
"Well, perhaps I will." She returned her attention to her homework.
"Whatever," Kurt said, waving his hand dismissively before turning back to their game. "Mercedes Jones!"
Rachel's brows turned inwards as she willed herself not to look up. She wanted this day to be over, for everyone to pack away their silly yearbooks and not even mention the word again until next year's prints. She'd deal with that then, but she didn't want to deal with this now. It was bad enough she'd have to come up with an excuse to explain to her fathers why she wasn't bringing a yearbook home to add to their shelves of past editions and singing trophies she'd won at competitions year after year, but it was even worse to have to think about the real reason why. She'd tried her best to forget, and she'd been successful for the most part, but today was the one day she just couldn't pretend nothing had happened.
Rachel Berry was always prepared. For everything, really, but particularly for the annual yearbook picture day. In this case, prepared meant packing three extra changes of clothes, her best shampoo & conditioner, a hair dryer, and at least a quarter of the makeup she owned.
Yes, Rachel Berry was absolutely and unequivocally prepared for picture day. And more specifically, for the possibility of being slushied on picture day.
She went directly to the choir room before school to hang up her extra outfits. It didn't offer the most protection, but it would keep them more wrinkle-free than they would be folded in her locker. Besides, everyone knew where her locker was, but not everyone was willing to set foot in the choir room. And she felt certain her fellow Glee club members would leave her backup wardrobe alone.
As she finished smoothing out the slight creases that had burrowed their way into one of her skirts on the ride to school, the three girls who claimed dual membership to both Glee and the Cheerios sauntered into the room, carrying stark poster boards and laughing about something Rachel hadn't heard. They stopped when they saw her, not caring to let her in on the joke they shared.
"Shouldn't you be in class, man hands?" Santana smirked at the smaller girl.
"Shouldn't you?" Rachel questioned in return.
"Coach Sylvester got us out of class to make posters for the pepper rally," explained Brittany.
"Pep rally," Quinn corrected automatically. "They're prepping the gym now, so we're working in here. No one can see our signs before the rally, so..." Quinn trailed off pointedly, clearly indicating it was time for Rachel to leave.
"Even though I'm sure the slogans you'll come up with to attempt to inject some cheer into the school body would be the highlight of Jacob Israel's gossip blog, I can assure you that I have no intention of stealing your thunder," Rachel asserted. "And yes, I was just leaving anyway." She scooped up her duffel bag of hair products and makeup off the floor and started towards the door.
"What's with the closet overspill?" Quinn pointed at the clothes she was leaving behind. "You know you can only get your picture taken for the yearbook once, right?"
"If our peers decide to refrain from gracing me with any slushy facials today, I will collect my emergency outfits at the end of the day after Glee practice," she responded.
Brittany looked to Santana, confused. "How come her emergency outfits just look like her regular clothes? Whenever we play doctor, all you wear is-" Santana elbowed her sharply, resulting in a dull "ow" from Brittany as she rubbed her arm.
Quinn winced. "Gross. Keep it in your pants, Britt."
"I'm usually not wearing them when we do that," Brittany whispered to herself, hoping to avoid another jab from her sort of-girlfriend.
Santana rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to the non-Cheerio in the room. "You're such a drama queen, Berry."
"I just prefer to be prepared for any potential adversity, there's nothing wrong with that," Rachel concluded, adjusting the strap on her shoulder and continuing past the girls to the exit.
"I prefer not to be a freak, but whatever gets your rocks off," Santana muttered.
Rachel faltered in her steps briefly, but didn't let it show. It was just another day of high school. She wouldn't let Santana get to her. There was nothing different. Never anything different.
By the time the lunch bell rang, Rachel had managed to avoid any potential slushy attacks from her more popular classmates, though she had almost become the victim of a hostile ink leak from her own pen. It briefly occurred to her how ironic it would be if she wound up unintentionally sabotaging her own clothes on one of the few days the other students mysteriously decided to leave her alone. But she pushed the thought aside, determined not to let any negativity, even harmless thoughts like that one, creep into her mind on a day when vigilance was even more important than usual.
As she flung open the door to the choir room, she was greeted immediately by the startled face of Will Schuester, on his way out to the hallway Rachel was leaving.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Schue," she greeted cheerily, failing to notice his surprise quickly fade into an unanticipated shade of pity as he realized who was standing in front of him.
"Rachel..." he started.
Her eyebrows creased with worry as she finally took note of her choir teacher's demeanor. "Is everything alright, Mr. Schue?"
"I was just on my way to Principal Figgins' office..." He paused, shifting ever so slightly.
But it was enough.
Before he could form his next words, Rachel's eyes glided over his shoulder to the freshly ironed clothes she had left behind earlier that morning.
The clothes that were now spattered irredeemably with red paint.
Will stepped aside as Rachel silently moved past him, farther into the choir room and closer to the site of the vandalism, her mouth open slightly with the faintest hint of shock.
"Rachel, I'm so sorry," he offered lamely. Rachel clamped her mouth shut and squeezed her eyes closed, willing herself to find something, anything positive in this new development. When she failed to provide any response, Will continued. "I don't know who would do this, but we're going to find out, okay?"
Rachel forced her eyes open and turned back around to face her teacher. "It's okay, Mr. Schue," she started softly. "My yearbook picture is scheduled for next period, and I still have the outfit I'm wearing, which was my first choice after all, so..."
Will smiled at his young ingenue, altogether missing the quiver in her voice as she attempted to reassure herself more than him that everything would be just fine. "That's a good attitude. I'm sure you'll still get a great photo."
She smiled weakly and nodded in return.
"I'm still going to talk to Figgins, and I'll check with the Glee club during rehearsal. Maybe one of them saw someone come in here between classes," he suggested.
"Don't." Her voice was still just as soft, but more authoritative than it had been in the previous moment. Will looked at her curiously. "I'm sure if anyone had seen something they'd have already come forward. I just..." she faltered. "I'd rather them not know. If you can understand."
He nodded his agreement. "If that's what you want."
"It is."
Will placed his hand on her shoulder reassuringly. "High school only lasts four years, Rachel. When you're off at college, and out in the real world, it will be like none of this ever happened. Everyone will look back at this yearbook and see a wonderfully talented girl with a smile on her face, and so will you. Nothing more."
Rachel drew herself up, regaining her usual air of confidence and forcing the smile Will was talking about onto her face. "Thanks, Mr. Schue. You're absolutely right. At best, I'll be able to draw upon times like these for my leading roles, and at worst, it will all seem like nothing but a bad dream."
Convinced that Rachel was back to her usual perky self, Will opened the door for a second attempt at an exit. "Are you going to stay here during lunch?"
"Yes, please," she replied.
"I'll leave the door unlocked," he said. "See you at practice?" She gave a sharp nod and Will allowed the door to close gently behind him.
The metallic click of the door slipping back into place signaled Rachel to walk over and place the few possessions she had brought with her in the front row of chairs, sitting down next to them. She began to hum absentmindedly as she opened her purse and brought her brush up to her hair. She was still determined to look her best for the picture. After all, as she had told Mr. Schuester, she still had one outfit in tact. Whoever had tried to sabotage her wardrobe hadn't fully succeeded, and her yearbook memory would not suffer for their attempt.
Her humming faded off as she called to mind a song to rehearse, a song appropriate for her determination not to let her vandals get past the defenses she'd become so skilled at keeping in place.
"I follow the night,
Can't stand the light."
Rachel laid the brush down next to her purse, continuing on:
"When will I begin
To live again?"
She rose slowly from her seat, allowing the emotion the music brought to overtake her as she sang to the empty room.
"One day I'll fly away,
Leave all this to yesterday."
Isn't that what Mr. Schue had said? Tomorrow would make this day Rachel's yesterday, and the days after that would keep passing by until all of this was nothing but a distant memory, a remnant of a past she would rise above, spreading her wings and leaving all of this heartache behind.
"What more could your love do for me?
When will love be through with me?"
The tormenting of her peers would mean less than nothing when she was out of this town. Nothing could stop her. They could never hold her back, no matter how determined they were to try. Her entire life was still waiting to be lived, and she was going to fulfill her dreams, every last one of them. No one could take that from her.
"Why live life from dream to dream?
And dread the day when dreaming ends?"
The music Rachel heard solely in her head swelled with the break in lyrics. She closed her eyes, dizzy with the rush of excitement as she imagined herself years from now, her picture on a billboard mingling with the bright lights of Times Square while an adoring crowd waited in hushed anticipation for her melodies to reach out to them in one of the intimate theaters brushing up against Broadway.
She couldn't stop the broad smile that broke out across her face as she passionately rejoined the orchestra playing between her ears.
"One day I'll fly away,
Leave all this to yesterday."
Everything would be better then. She would be appreciated, finally. She wouldn't be Rachel Berry, Glee club loser and social pariah. She would be Rachel Berry, the sweetheart of contemporary musical theater, on top of the world. Her world. Everyone would love her, and everyone would know her. Things would be different.
"Why live life from dream to dream?"
Rachel opened her eyes instinctively, knowing that if an audience was here, she would need to finish the song with an emotional connection, giving them an intimate view into her soul.
The fantasy world she had conjured up in those few precious moments she'd let herself get lost in the music disintegrated mercilessly as Rachel's eyes fluttered open, landing immediately on the ruined clothing she had completely forgotten was even there.
Her voice wavered. Rachel's voice, the one thing in her life that never failed her, wavered as her eyes remained fixated on the massacre staring her down with a feverish intensity.
"And dread the day..."
She reached out a hand she didn't even realize had started to tremble, trailing her fingers down the glaringly red stains, long dried since their inception.
"...when dreaming ends."
She drew in her breath, trying to prepare for the soft, heartfelt ending the song required.
"One day..."
She didn't blink. She couldn't. Even as she felt tears pricking at the insides of her lashes, her eyes wouldn't close again, forcing her to remain utterly incapacitated and grounded in reality.
Vaguelyaware that her vocal training had taught her better techniques at breath control than she was presently exhibiting, she drew in another short breath, clutching at the soft fabric with a sudden ferocity that unrepentantly stole all the blood from her knuckles.
"'I'll fly away..."
She faltered again.
And as she prepared for yet another breath, her hands gripped the hanging skirt even tighter, and she felt herself pitch forward, unintentionally tugging the skirt off its hanger. She reached out to the wall, catching herself with her still shaking hand.
She could do this. She had to do this. Singing was her life. It was all she was. All she had.
Her mouth opened again, and her lips began to move, almost imperceptibly.
"Fly, fly a-"
As a shudder ripped unexpectedly, violently, through her small frame, she choked.
And in the mere second it took for her choke to turn into a gasp, she was blindsided by a dam bursting inside her mind. Overcome by a wave of thoughts she'd been pushing back and hoping never to let herself know, the truth hit her then, and it hit her hard.
She'd brought four outfits to school that day. Even her fellow unpopular Glee clubbers had all come to school prepared only with the outfits they had on. And not because they didn't care what they looked like, but because they weren't worried about getting slushied on picture day. They never were. Because they never had been. It was the one day of the school year slushying was unofficially put on hold, because no one wanted to risk accidentally getting the drink on their own clothing.
But Rachel knew some of her peers would take that gamble for her, because they'd done it before. Somehow, she was the one person in the entire school that was loathed enough to warrant that kind of daring. A perpetual outcast to the extent that she had automatically prepared, not for what would normally be considered the worst, but beyond that.
And she had been proven right.
Rachel slid down the wall as her body continued to fight for air. Her gasps turned into dry heaves, and she buried her face into the skirt she still clutched in her hands, no longer trying to regain control of herself or her voice, but wishing only to disappear back into her fantasy world.
She couldn't, though. It was already gone. Her realization started a chain reaction, and though she felt as if her entire being was crying out in a desperate plea to shut itself down and carry her away from reality, her mind was racing with thoughts too overwhelming and sinister to let her escape into the darkness she suddenly yearned for.
When she made it big on Broadway (and even now - especially now - she refused to let herself think of it as an "if" instead of a "when," for the sake of what little sanity she was managing to hold onto in the moment), her biographers would look back to her days at McKinley. Just as she and Mr. Schuester had discussed. And yes, they would see a smiling girl staring up at them from the pages of the yearbook, a younger version of her future famous self. They wouldn't see how she had bravely roamed through the halls before having her picture taken, in spite of being so incredibly afraid of getting an ice cold slushy thrown in her face. They wouldn't see how she had shaken off the vicious attack against her belongings that had taken place earlier that same day. They wouldn't see how she held her head high as she was tormented and picked on by almost all of her classmates, and even the kids who, from all outward appearances, were her friends, on a near-daily basis.
But if she was lucky, and they were scouring the official copy of the McKinley High Thunderclap, filed away annually in the school library, they would see a naive girl smiling ignorantly back up at them from the pages, pathetically blind to the menacing graffiti her classmates would undoubtedly scribble across her face under the guise of childish humor, secretly masking an underlying malice Rachel had never truly been able to comprehend. That's what had been done to all of her yearbook photos since she was in grade school, and if she thought anything would be different this year, she would be just as foolish as her grinning photo would suggest.
And if she was unlucky, and her biographers decided to go straight to her fathers to procure her own personal copy of the Thunderclap, they would find a beautiful, shining face peering back at them from perfectly untouched pages. No graffiti, no hateful words scrawled when authority figures' heads were turned the other way. And no friends, writing to tell her they hoped to see her during the summer, or at the very least, during the next school year. No one had ever signed Rachel's yearbook, not since she started high school. Her pages were as pristine and flawless as her photo might still be in spite of the attempts against her, and if she thought anything would be different this year...well, she didn't. Nothing ever was. Even her Glee "friends" wouldn't sign her yearbook unless she directly asked, and even then she knew their comments would merely be generic well-wishing, not thoughtful, or representing anything remotely resembling true friendship.
This knowledge, which had previously merely been a nagging worry that she'd fought to keep buried in the back of her mind, had now become an inescapable fact. Rachel wasn't denying any of these negative thoughts anymore, but even if she was, she couldn't deny that, in spite of Mr. Schuester's suggestion that some formidable enemy had snuck into the choir room with the intent of vandalizing her property, the attack had come from much closer to home. For a random jock to have come to the choir room to ruin her outfits, they would have had to have known they were there. No one saw her walk into school that morning. And no one outside of Glee ever came to the choir room just for the hell of it.
Whoever did this, whoever was wishing for her humiliation and grief, was in Glee.
And just like that, Rachel knew that she wasn't safe anywhere. If she couldn't find solace and comfort here, where her talents were on display to their highest potential, who's to say she would ever find a home in Broadway? She knew the Glee club didn't appreciate her the way she felt they should. She knew they didn't always get along, with fault falling on her shoulders as often as theirs, in spite of her misguided attempts to win their friendships. She knew they didn't love her or care about her the way she secretly wished they would. But she didn't realize that after all this time they had spent together, all this time she had felt they'd maybe, just maybe gotten to know her a little, there were people frequenting this room after school who still flat out hated her.
And if they knew her, and they still hated her, how could she ever expect anything to be different in the future?
Rachel's body shuddered noiselessly with the aftershocks of both her lack of air and the mental anguish she was unable to keep herself from indulging in. She realized faintly that one of her hands had become tangled in her hair, as if clawing the unwelcome thoughts from her very brain with her fingernails was somehow an option.
Her breathing slowed back to normal as she willed herself to calm down. This wasn't the type of behavior exhibited by a star. Then again, Rachel Berry didn't really feel very much like a star right now. She felt...alone.
Logically, if she allowed herself to think it, which she rarely did, she knew she was almost always alone. But somehow, she had managed to never let herself feel it it as profoundly as she did in this implausibly infinite moment.
She pulled back from the skirt still grasped firmly in her left hand, allowing her eyes to refocus as the darkness gave way to brightly colored spots, dancing across her vision before gradually fading away. Her grip loosened, and the ruined piece of clothing rested lifelessly on the pads of her fingertips, creases where she had held on so tightly now a seemingly permanent flaw in the fabric. She rubbed her thumb against the dips, just as she had traced the paint stains only moments earlier, and idly tucked away a mental note to iron them out when she got home, before realizing how stupid that train of thought was. There was no point in trying to patch together something that was already intrinsically and irreversibly destroyed.
A laugh escaped her mouth at the ridiculous parallel drawn between that thought and not only her currently fragile state of mind, but her entire high school existence. She was that naively smiling girl in all her yearbook photos, always thinking everything would be better. Hang in there baby, one day you'll be a star, and nothing will be able to touch you.
She snorted again, exhaling through her nose. Santana was right, she was so damn overdramatic. Maybe that's why no one liked her. Maybe it wasn't about knocking her off her pedestal of Rachel Berry, future star. Maybe she was just another Lima loser after all. Maybe whoever did this just didn't want to remember her alongside the rest of their real friends. If they didn't want to remember her now, why would they want to remember her later? Maybe they shouldn't have to.
It didn't matter either way, she thought. Not right here, not right now. For once, her optimistically high opinion of herself and her life plans just weren't enough to overcome the self-doubt this calculated harassment had forced her to confront head on.
Balling the skirt up in her fist, Rachel pressed a shaky arm down onto the floor to push herself up. Her other hand pawed at the wall as she slid back up the same way she had collapsed, unsure of her own ability to stand on two legs. She twisted around as she stood, drawing in one breath at a time, not to sing, but just to survive. Her hands scraped recklessly at the watery trails her hot tears had blazed down her face, subsequently wiping them against the skirt she was wearing, erasing the existence of her breakdown to the best of her abilities.
Rachel allowed her forehead to knock lightly against the wall, screwing her eyes shut one more time as she counted to five in her head, giving herself time to regain control of at least her movements, if not her emotions.
Biting her lip, she turned back to her still-hanging clothes. She pulled them down, all at the same time, discarding the hangers she'd so carefully arranged them on. Walking over to the duffel bag she'd left with the rest of her things, she tugged the zipper open and folded the clothing into the bag. She zipped it shut once more, the faint sound mingling with the blood rushing through her head to compose a dissonant symphony, a bitter contrast to the smooth melody she'd been humming before.
Hiking the duffel bag up onto her shoulder, she gathered the remainder of her possessions into her arms. She swallowed hard and thrust her chin out, the action forcing her head to tilt upwards, mimicking the air of confidence and pride she always conveyed. She took strong, deliberate strides towards the choir room door, flung it open, and marched down the hallway.
But despite the facade on display, Rachel's confidence was gone. Her naivety was shattered, and she couldn't undo the things she had seen, or thought, or felt. So instead of rising above adversity, and knowing it was far too late to convince herself that the actions of her peers hadn't affected her, she continued through the hallway, past the cafeteria, past Miss Pillsbury's office, past the principal's office.
Past the line of students waiting to have their own pictures taken, and out the front doors of McKinley High School.
Broken and defeated, she forfeited picture day altogether, and Rachel Berry went home.