Disclaimer: I don't own Glee or White Houses.

Note: Thanks for the kind reviews! Things are going to be a little more sporadic in terms of updates to this and "Triggers" as class is back in session and I have a ton of campus events to attend and work at, but I will certainly try my hardest.

With pretty eyed boys girls die to trust

Okay, so I knew I have a boyfriend back home in Maine, but Noah was really, really cute.

Judge me all you want, but a girl's gotta have her options, you know? This is especially more so when she's going to be on the red carpet someday, attending opening night parties and the Tony Awards. (By the way, I plan on having my first Tony by the age of 25, which is coming up in a few years for me.) There's nothing I loved more than being a star, except maybe watching a Streisand marathon while curled up with a mug of steaming hot tea during a menstrual cycle.

But I digress.

Noah was very, very cute, and I wanted to know what his intentions in the house were. I went upstairs to talk to him. "Hello, Noah," I said breezily.

"Whatever," he grunted.

I pulled my hair back behind my ear. "So how are you doing today?"

He shrugged. "Alright."

I nodded. "That's good." I cleared my throat. "So…where are you from."

He continued to stare at the wall. "Nowhere near here, and that's all you need to know."

Why was he being so secretive, so strange? "I'm from Maine," I said, trying to prompt somewhat of a conversation. "I do really like it here. It's the city of dreams."

He snorted. "Yeah. You and eight million other people have that dream." I looked at him in confusion. "That big city you-can-do-anything-you-want-and-be-famous dream," he supplied. "And don't try to tell me that that's not you. You straight-up said you're gonna be a big Broadway star. Well, you know what? Lots of people want that same dream. So what makes you so special? You're just one of them. One of millions, Rachel, not one in a million."

I tried to blink back my tears. "Why are you so pessimistic?"

"You don't know what real shit is, kid. You've had everything handed to you on a silver platter, am I right? Well, this is the real world. You don't always get what you want."

I ran out of the room, tears spilling from my eyes. How could he be so harsh? I'm a star! I have genuine talent! Who does he think he is?

And yet, his dark brown eyes held so much sadness in them, so much sorrow. He'd been through a lot, I could tell, but what? What had caused him to be so utterly jaded and bitter?

He hadn't mentioned his family yet. Was that it?

Did his heart get stomped on by some horrible girl, and that's why he was so pained?

I didn't know, but I wanted to, oh so badly.

I set off on my first round of castings the next day. Oh, how I wanted to be in the new revival of Evita! I prayed for a miracle as I anxiously awaited for them to see me. I knew what song I wanted to sing, and I knew it forwards and backwards.

"Number…23?"

"That would be me," I jumped up, smoothing out my skirt and heading into the audition room. "Hi, my name is Rachel Berry. I'm 21 years old, and I have a bachelor's degree in theatre from Carnegie-Mellon." I handed them my resume. "Today, I will be singing Eva's cry to her people, 'Don't Cry For Me, Argentina'." I cleared my throat, nodding to the pianist to begin. "It won't be easy, you'll think it strange when I try to explain how I feel…"

I don't want to brag, but I nailed that song with a hammer.

They said thanks and sent me on my way. I thanked them for their time, and left the audition with a smile on my face, sure that I was the next Eva. I hummed 'Buenos Aires' on my way back to the apartment. "Hello? I'm back!"

I heard Puck groan from his and Kurt's bedroom. "Oh joy for us, Rachel Berry has graced the apartment with her presence once again."

"Excuse me, what is your problem with me?" I asked as I ascended the stairs.

"You're a spoiled little girl with this view of the world that's, excuse my language, total bullshit. You think everything and everyone revolves around you. News flash: it doesn't."

I was indignant. "I do not think…"

"Yes, you do," he said heatedly. "And for your information, Princess, I don't dig chicks like that. Why can't you be more like Tina or Quinn? Then I wouldn't mind living with you so much. It's a shame that you're like, this semi-hot girl but your head is so full with these crap dreams that will never come true."

Had he just called me hot? I turned red. "You think I'm hot?" I mumbled.

"You'd be hotter if you weren't so conceited," he shot my way.

God, he was the kind of boy girls would die to trust. Why was he like this, though? Were Tina and Quinn really that much better than I was? Quinn, the ex-beauty queen with her scarred face? Tina, the shy, quiet girl who typically faded into the background?

Quinn was the type of girl who hated me in high school.

And in middle school.

And even in kindergarten.

But oh, how the mighty had fallen.

I'd prove to Noah that I was a star, that I could make it out in the world.

So what if I had a boyfriend?

What happens in New York stays in New York.

Or at least, that's what they say.

To be continued.