The more you juggle your predicament around in your brain, the more ironic it becomes. Your whole life you've been taught what it takes to stand out. What it takes to stand on a crowded stage and have someone point at you and say, "She's the best. I want her."
Or say, "She's the worst. I hate her."
It never really mattered much. Either way they had picked you. Loved you for what you were or hated you for what they couldn't be. You never really saw any difference between the two. Never cared to.
But now you find yourself staring at the ceiling most nights, wondering how you're supposed to compete with a creature whose sole feature is the fact that it has nothing to offer? Something that takes and takes and doesn't give anything back. When all you know how to do is give back.
Tabula rasa. You vaguely remember the first time your freshman history teacher had mentioned the phrase in class. You had shaken it off at the time, dismissing the fact that any person could be a blank slate. You are where you come from. And you are the mistakes the people who come before you have made. Whether it's a strike against you or a gold star, it doesn't matter. Your life is pretty much written for you, and there's not a lot you can do about it. You've been told how your story will turn out for about as long as you can remember. It's just your job to show up and make it happen.
Now it's the one phrase that keeps running circles around your brain and tastes bitter on your tongue as you think about how she chose her over you. How she didn't care about your own story unless she was the one who had written it.
"Okay, so I was in the grocery story the other day with my dads and they told me to go pick up some bread. And I was standing in the bread aisle just checking the dates on the loaves and I started thinking. You know how there's the bread that's going to go bad in two days, and you just push it aside and reach for the newer bread in the back. But the bread in the front is still good Miss Pillsbury. It's still good. So why doesn't anybody want it?"
She blinks at you in confusion. "Because it's old?"
You look up at her, feeling your contacts burn as you burst into another fit of tears and ignore the fact that she's nudging the tissue box towards you like you're some sort of wild animal.
"Exactly," you sniff, "Because it's old and nobody wants it. And so I just stood there crying in the middle of the grocery store and I forgot to get any."
"Crying for the bread."
"No!" you wail, sliding the sleeve of your sweater underneath your nose to catch what's leaking. "You're not listening."
She sighs again, and you notice her head crane a little to the side to check the time on her watch.
"This is all your fault you know," you mumble at the ground.
"It's my fault about the bread?"
"No, if you had done a better job preparing students for preventing unplanned pregnancies then none of this would have ever happened and I wouldn't be-"
"Rachel," she interrupts, a little more sternly than before. "I honestly have absolutely no idea what you're talking about. When you're ready to start telling me what's really bothering you and stop telling me about my vast incompetence then maybe we can get somewhere next time."
"Next time?" You frown, turning around you to see Quinn Fabray, of all people, sitting in the hallway, her knees tucked against her chest as she examines her fingernails.
"Yes, next time," she answers coldly, looking down as she aligns her notepad with the edge of her desk. "I have another student I have to meet with."
You grab your backpack, trying your best not to guard your emotions against the relieved look on Miss Pillsbury's face as you finally leave her office. It's the look most adults have when you finally give up and leave them alone.
You stop for a second in front of Quinn's feet, offering her a hand. She promptly ignores it as she pulls herself up from the floor on her own.
"Aren't you supposed to be resting at home?" you ask politely as she sidesteps you and opens the glass door to the office.
"Thanks for ruining my life," you mumble after her, feeling your insides twist a little in disappointment as you watch your guidance counselor offer her the warm, sympathetic smile that she never seems to be able to summon for you.
It's easy to find the distractions you need when you're competing against everyone. But the school year is winding down and so is everyone's resolve. So none of the smart kids seems to care much that you're outscoring them with your elaborate end of the year projects your dads have always pushed you to do. And no one in Glee Club seems to mind you volunteering for all the solos for the pointless songs you're practicing now that competition season is over. Even the dirty string of sentences about you that wrap their tails around the walls of the girls bathroom are starting to become less creative.
You thought Finn would be a convenient distraction, but as you climb on top of him in your bedroom, you notice that his kisses are starting to seem a little absentminded. He's probably thinking about the same thing that you are. For different reasons of course. You know he loves you, but you can't help but let it tug at your nerves so that it feels like he's choosing a baby over you too.
Beth Corcoran. It really is a stupid name the more you think about it. It sounds like the name of a tax attorney or a home-ec teacher. Not a name you're ever going to see at the top of a page on a play bill. Against your better judgment, you let yourself wonder a little what she would have named you. What upsets you more is the sneaking suspicion that she probably wouldn't remember if you asked her.
The familiar look of Rachel Berry reprieve flashes across Mr. Schuester's face when a guidance aide hands him the slip of paper requesting that you go down to her office the next day. You try not to get your hopes up too much, convincing yourself that it's probably a scheduling issue or some other technicality that can't be avoided rather than her actually wanting to talk to the girl who cried about a loaf of bread yesterday.
When you tap on the glass, she turns around from her computer screen, smiling weakly as she motions you in. And when she moves to sit in the chair across from you for the very first time that you can remember, visions of your dads' Toyota Hybrid careening off of the closest bridge flash through your mind.
"Just tell me what it is," you sputter as you stare at your shoes, always assuming the worst. "Just tell me and get it over with and I'll get my stuff. Is it one of them or both of them?"
"What? Oh no, nothing's wrong," she replies, a little more gently than when she usually corrects you. "Is that what you thought? Oh gosh I'm so sorry, Rachel. Nothing's happened. No emergencies."
You let out the breath you've been holding, looking up to search for the hint of annoyance in her eyes. You find none. "Well then what is it? Because if it's about Mr. Schuester kissing you in the hallway then I really don't-"
"No! No." She waves her hands in front of her to stop your rambling before it incriminates her even more. "I, um...was sort of hoping we could start where we left yesterday, Rachel."
"Where would that be?"
Her nervous cough tells you that you've startled her a little by not jumping into your usual rambling. "Um, that would be with me apologizing for not listening to what you were trying to tell me."
Her honesty catches you off guard. You normal don't hear people offering it to you unless you've backed them up against a locker with hounding accusations and lecturing. "What was I trying to tell you?"
"About the baby." Her accent gives the slightest lilt to the word and find yourself wondering where she's from. She waits for you to acknowledge her accuracy but you say nothing, suddenly feeling small as you scoot back a little in the chair so that your short legs are dangling just an inch or two off the ground. She continues without you.
"Rachel, I had...no idea...that your...that Mrs. Corcoran had decided to adopt Quinn's baby until yesterday and-"
"You're not suppose to say that," you chirp as you feel her encroaching on the boundaries you've set for this particular conversation. "You're breaking confidentiality and that's against the rules." You wait for her to sigh like she usually does in response to your thinly veiled criticisms of her job, but instead she leans forward and touches your arm.
"Rachel. You know your fathers love you very much. And although it may seem that way, nobody has pushed you aside for something new. It's...more complicated then that. But that doesn't mean the emotions you're experiencing aren't valid. I just hope that you-"
"I don't need you to validate my emotions," you snap, jerking your arm away.
"Fair enough. But can you tell me what you do need?"
You turn your head away before the look in her eyes almost lures the words out of your mouth. "I need to get back to the choir room so I can rehearse. Is that a problem?" The words sting you as much as they do her.
"Okay Rachel. But I'm here if you need me."
"You have to say that. It's your job," you mutter as you stand up.
"Also true," she nods, not taking the bait of your argument. "But that doesn't mean I don't mean it."
As you walk back to the choir room, you toss around her question in your head, realizing that she's the first person in a long time to ask you what you do need. The answer is painfully obvious, but you tuck it as far away as you can in your mind. Because sometimes it's just easier to feel pushed aside.