AN: Aw shucks, you reviewers are too kind! Thanks for giving my lil' story a chance.
Next up, Mercedes! She wasn't the easiest to write, but I hope you enjoy her story! Reviews are love :)
Mercedes stood in front of her full-length mirror, hairbrush in hand. She'd die if anyone else found out about this nightly habit of hers…but then again, she doubted anyone would. She didn't put it all up on the Internet for all to mock, like Rachel. Mercedes was helluva lot smarter than that.
Mercedes closed her eyes, and pictured all of her Glee-clubbers cheering her on, just like it was yesterday.
"And…I am telling you…I'm not going. You're the best man I'll ever know, there's no way I can ever go…"
"Mercedes, honey. Keep it down! You're going to bust out everyone's ear drums – we're trying to watch TV down here. Have you even finished all your homework?" Mercedes heard her mother holler from the den.
Mercedes sighed, and ran her brush through her hair a few times before setting it back down on her table. She flopped on her bed, putting on the headphones to her iPod and hit "play."
So much for ever getting to sing her song – her showstopper ballad that was going to blow all of the competition away. She'd lost her chance at Sectionals, and it had never even come up for Regionals. But Mercedes had been so sure that they would at least place, giving her the chance to badger Mr. Schue about letting her sing it for Sectionals next year.
But they hadn't placed, and Mercedes was never going to get her chance at the spotlight now. She was relegated back to singing in her room with the door closed, not even being able to belt the notes as loud as she wanted, as loud as she knew she could, without her parents yelling at her to pipe down.
Before Glee, Mercedes was nobody to anybody at McKinley. She was the very definition of a misfit – too colorful clothing, too big jewelry, too loud voice. She didn't fit in, and no one wanted to be friends with a sometimes sarcastic, black girl that spoke her mind, and frankly, she didn't need to be friends with the airheads and bimbos of McKinley to know she was better than all of them. And she didn't care if she let them know it once in awhile – loudly and sassily. So what if she got slushied for her efforts? Those things stung like a bitch, but Mercedes wasn't going to let any stick-skinny Cheerio or an icy beverage put her in a corner.
And forget boys – no guy wanted to be seen with the big girl. No, boys wanted skinny blonde Barbie doll-types with waists they could circle with one arm. Mercedes was well-aware of how the ecosystem of high school worked, and she was a bottom-feeder.
None of this really mattered though (even if, admittedly, she would get lonely every so often). Because Mercedes Jones was bigger than McKinley, bigger than Lima. Hell, she was bigger than Ohio. Even if only in her mind, and in the confines of her room.
When Mercedes closed her eyes and pictured the roaring crowds, stardom felt attainable. In more ways than she'd care to admit, she was like Rachel Berry – constantly dreaming, and reaching, and wishing for fame. She was a bit more of a team-player, and she didn't have the oh-so-grating whiny tinge to her voice that Rachel did. But Mercedes, just like Rachel, came alive when the spotlight was on her, singing, no – belting every note as if her life depended on it.
Mercedes was harsh on Rachel the first few months of Glee – but she quickly softened when she realized that there was a lot of herself in Rachel. They had the same hungry look in their eyes, the same self-satisfied smile after hitting that high note. Understanding Rachel, understanding what was at the root of her "take no prisoners" attitude made Mercedes like her a whole lot more. And frankly, taught her to keep her own diva-like tendencies under control. Because Glee Club really doesn't need two Rachel Berrys.
Her parents would constantly tell her to pull her head out of the clouds. They'd say fame happens to one in a million people, and the chances of it being Mercedes Jones from Lima, Ohio was slim to none. They would remind her that they had worked too hard, fought too hard to earn people's respect to let her sit around daydreaming about nothing. Mercedes and her brother were supposed to get good grades in high school, go to a good college, get a decent, respectable 9-to-5 job, and be model citizens. Her parents weren't about to watch her piss all that away just so she could wait tables in Hollywood while praying for her big break.
If she was being realistic, Mercedes knew that her parents were probably right. But two times a week, Mercedes got to not care about what her parents thought. Two times a week, Mercedes got to throw all their cautionary tales of friends' daughters who had run off to New York City or Hollywood and ended up living in sin and getting pregnant out the window. Two times a week, Mercedes got to just sing.
Not anymore. Glee Club was over, which meant no more stage, no more lights, no more action. Rachel had tearily voiced the idea of having singing sessions at her house – but let's face it, only the original five Glee-clubbers would ever be caught dead at Rachel's house – and maybe Quinn if Mercedes cajoled hard enough. They'd be an incomplete group again, struggling to find more people to round them out. It would be like starting over from scratch, and Mercedes couldn't bear the thought of that.
Mercedes sighed, stopped the music on her iPod, and hoisted herself off the bed. She walked over to her desk, sat down and flipped open her Biology textbook. But somewhere between reading about chlorophyll and stamen, Mercedes gives up.
She starts humming, just a little, under her breath. "Dun, dun, dun, dun…" Mercedes sings the first line, quietly, under her breath. "Just a small town girl…livin' in a lonely world…" Opening her mouth a little wider, Mercedes lets her voice get just a little louder. "She took the midnight train, goin' an-y-where…"
Mercedes pushes her chair back, and leaps up, pumping her fist in the air. She belts, letting her full voice take over. "Just a city boy…born and raised in South Detroi-oi-t. He took the midnight train goin' anywhere."
Mercedes spins around and grabs her trusty hairbrush. Skipping past the rest of the song, she launches straight into her favorite part. "DON'T STOP, BELI-EE-VIN', HOLD ON TO THAT FEE-E-E-LIN' –
"Mercedes Jones! What did I say about volume?" Mercedes stops mid-high note at the sound of her mother's demanding voice.
"Sorry, Mama. But you just can't hold a force like me back. I can't sing under my breath! I physically can't. I don't know how." Mercedes smiled sheepishly at the sight of her mother's crossed arms. She feels the tiniest pangs of guilt, but the pure adrenaline rush she gets from singing far outweighs it.
Her mom just rolls her eyes, and throws her arms up in exasperation. "Well, your Dad and I are going to need earplugs for Friday when all your friends stay over, aren't we? I guess we should consider ourselves warned."
Mercedes grins at her mom and shuts the door. She walks over to her closet, and slips on the black heels from Regionals. Mercedes turns to face her mirror again, hairbrush perfectly poised. "Hold on to that fee-e-li-in'…Street light, peo-p-uh-uh-uhle! Don't. Stop."
I was a closeted diva.