"God Put a Smile Upon Your Face" (Part II of III) Quinn (PG-13)
Title: “God Put a Smile Upon Your Face (Or Eight Times Someone in Glee was a Friend to Quinn Fabray and One Time Someone Was a Little Bit More)”
Author: Lila
Rating: PG-13
Character/Pairing: Quinn, assorted members of Glee
Spoiler: “The Rhodes Not Taken”
Length: Part II of III
Summary: It’s the people Quinn least expects that keep her afloat.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing them for a few paragraphs.
Part I is here:
Author’s Note: Thank you *so* much for the support for this fic. I really appreciate all the feedback. I upped the spoiler a teeny bit for the last episode so if you missed it, consider yourself warned. Otherwise, enjoy.
~ * ~
IV. Rachel
---
Your parents ignore you and the growing bump lurking under your sweater. You live in their house and eat their food and sometimes exchange pleasantries over laundry or polishing the good silver, but it’s like you stopped being their child the day you acquired one of your own.
You go clothes shopping with Brittany because your mother won’t be seen with you in public and carpool with Mercedes for rides to and from school because your father would rather you take the bus with the other fallen sinners than sully his car with your mistakes. Finn sometimes carries your books between classes, when you’re stretching your back and the slight bump of baby presses out, and an expression halfway between guilty and relieved clouds his face. He’s too much of a gentleman to let a pregnant girl heft three binders all morning but too human not to feel grateful that your baby is someone else’s problem. Mostly, you spend your time alone. It’s enough that you carry the stain of a ruined life; you don’t blame others for avoiding bringing it on themselves.
You’re past things surprising you all that much - you bypassed that hurdle the morning that stick turned pink and your future imploded before your eyes - but you can’t hide the shocked expression on your face when you walk into your gynecologist’s waiting room and Rachel Berry is sitting in a chair, reading an ancient edition of “US Weekly” and jiggling her right knee in time to the Carrie Underwood playing softly over the speakers.
“Rachel?”
“Hi!” she says, too loud and too high, nervous and out of place in this land of sex and babies, and jumps to her feet.
You can do little more than stare at her, remembering all the times you fought with her over Finn, over Glee, over your place on the hierarchy. You remember insulting her and hurting her and fearing her because you thought she was ruining everything that mattered to you. You rest one hand on your back, another on your belly; turns out, you did that all by yourself. “What are you doing here?” you ask because while you might have returned her solo in “Don’t Stop Believin’” (the song’s fantasy is too much of a hard sell in your condition), Rachel Berry is still the last person you’d expect to see here.
“I did a google search,” she says and he might not be yours anymore but you can’t help but wonder how much time she’s spending with Finn. “You can find out the baby’s sex in the fifth month.”
“I know. But what does any of that have to do with you?” Finn is definitely not yours anymore; you smooth your voice to an even purr.
She looks unsure of herself, the first time in all the months you’ve known her. “Please don’t be angry with her but Mercedes told me that your parents make you come to these appointments alone. That they said if you’re old enough to have a baby, you’re old enough to take care of it. I thought you might like some company.”
Your cheeks flame red, because the entire world already knows one of your dirty secrets but you hoped it would never learn the other. “I’m fine, Rachel. I appreciate the support but you can go home.”
Her jaw tightens in a way that only means she’s more determined than before. You don’t know Rachel well, but you know she’s not a quitter, not really. She’s a survivor, and she bends and molds and rebuilds with every step towards living her dream. Now all that resolve is locked on you and you’re not sure you have the energy to put up a fight. You’re tired these days, exhausted, and not from the weight you’re carrying or the hormones sapping your strength. You’re tired of the stares and you’re tired of the taunts and you’re tired of remembering how your life used to be, just four months ago, close enough to touch. Rachel will see her name in lights one day but you’ll always be that girl who pledged chastity but still got knocked up during her senior year. It’s not fair, but neither is life; it’s a lesson you’ve learned too well.
You want her to go, walk out of your life so it doesn’t taint hers because someone has to get out of this place with hope still intact. But she surprises you even though she’s the most predictable person you’ve ever known. She takes your hands in hers, like Finn that last day, and you no longer care how much time she’s spending with him because it’s the first time anyone but your doctor has touched you in two months.
“You don’t even like me,” you whisper. “I was mean to you.”
“Mr. Schue says Glee is about more than me,” she says softly. “He says it’s more than just singing. We’re a part of something, a part of something together, and it doesn’t end just because we’re not at school. If I let you down when you needed me the most I’d never forgive myself.” You feel the phantom splash of a slushie against your face, hear the taunting laugh of jeers and jokes, and lock eyes on the nasty messages posted on MySpace for the world to see. You think about how Rachel came to school every single day knowing what she was facing; you think about the way she never, ever gave up. If she could do it, maybe you can too.
The receptionist calls your name and you look up sharply, blink once, expecting Rachel to be gone when you open your eyes.
She’s still there, a smile on her face. “We’ll do this together, okay?”
You can’t do more than nod as she helps you to your feet; it’s only when you’re following her down the hall that you realize you haven’t let go of her hand.
---
Rachel’s at your side as the tech rubs jelly on your belly and you both laugh when a soft curse hisses through your lips because you weren’t expecting it to be so cold. Your baby is in perfect health: ten finger and ten toes and a heart and lungs developing just right. You let out a sigh of relief that your baby isn’t suffering for the way you created it.
“Would you like to know the sex?” your doctor asks and you’re terrified to know the truth. You have four months until you face the consequences of your actions; you’re not sure you’re ready for a preview now.
“Quinn, do you want to know?” Rachel asks. “I hope you do. If I’m going to throw your baby shower, I need to know what color to use.”
You look up at her, ever present tears welling in your eyes, but she’s smiling, this girl you tortured for two years, silently telling you that she’ll be there to the end. You don’t deserve her friendship, but right now you’re not sure you can go on without it. You always thought your mom would be here the first time you did this, eyes locking together on the child, grandchild, that would soon be a part of your world. Your mom isn’t here, won’t even acknowledge that this day is happening, but Rachel still hasn’t left your side. You’re not sure why she’s doing this but you no longer care; you don’t want to be alone right now. “Okay,” you say. “Is it a boy or girl?”
It’s a girl, just the barest outline of her on the monitor, but you can’t take your eyes from the flailing arms and legs and pulsing beat of her heart.
They give you a print out of the sonogram and you can’t stop staring at it, not while you’re waiting for Rachel to pull the car around (you don’t call you mom to pick you up and don’t care what the reaction will be) or the ride home while she chatters on end beside you.
“Quinn,” she breaks into your thoughts at a red light a mile from your parents’ house. Why wasn’t Puck with you at the doctor’s?”
Your fingers still on the photo of your daughter (his daughter too) and you grip the edges of your parka so tight your knuckles hurt. “What do you mean?” you ask but you’ve never been a good enough actress to keep the surprise out of your voice.
Rachel glances at you, sympathy in her eyes. It makes your insides turn, Rachel Berry feeling sorry for you, but it’s better than the usual mocking laughter so you don’t look away. “Last week at Glee practice, Puck punched Jacob Ben Israel in the face.”
“Why?”
“He was interviewing us for the school paper and made a joke about how you don’t need to sing with Finn anymore because every time you get on stage you’re already doing a duet. Puck…he didn’t react well.” You vaguely remember seeing Jacob with tape on his nose, but weren’t present for the incident. Despite your hatred for your weekly sessions with Ms. Pillsbury, you’re glad you didn’t witness your own humiliation. “We’re slow on the uptake sometimes, but even Mercedes put two and two together.”
The light changes and she looks away, your cheeks flushing with humiliation in the darkness. Your last dirty secret and the entire world knows. “Are they going to tell?”
Rachel smiles, you know she does even in the darkness, and you think it has little to do with you. “Finn kind of put the fear of god in him. Puck too.” She looks away from the road, just for a moment, just long enough to smile for you. “You’re one of us. We’ll keep your secret.”
The car slows in front of your house and the familiar dread tightens through your chest. Out here, you can breathe; in there you always feel like you’re suffocating under the weight of your parents’ disapproval.
Rachel must sense your hesitation because she takes your hand again and squeezes tight. “You’re not alone, Quinn. I saw the way you looked at her. You love your daughter and she’s going to love you in return.”
You appreciate her concern but still don’t understand. “Rachel, why are you doing this?”
She looks at you, really looks at you, shows you how there’s so much strength in that pint-sized body. “I’m lucky,” she says softly. “And not just because of my talent. I don’t have a mom, but I have two dads. I was created out of love. Every one of us should feel the same.”
You glance towards your house. It’s late and the lights are dimmed and you’ll be lucky if your mother has left food out rather than leaving you to your own devices. Your fingers curl around the photo of your daughter. You can do things differently. It doesn’t have to be the same.
“Thank you,” you say. “Thank you so much.”
She promises to come to your next appointment and the one after that and makes another comment about your shower. There’s four months to go; they suddenly seem a lot easier.
You fall asleep that night with your daughter’s photo tucked under you pillow; when you wake in the morning, it’s pressed tight against your heart.
---
V. Artie
---
Your back aches. No, it doesn’t ache, it aches. Like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders (or just its collective disappointment), and you can’t contain the wince or hiss of pain that whistles through your teeth when you pick up a fallen physics book.
You press a hand to the small of your back, belly pushing against the empire waist of your maternity shirt, and knead the strained muscles as the student body looks on with barely concealed laughter in their eyes.
You ignore the looks (you’re good, so very good at that now) and try to straighten. It doesn’t work as well as you planned; you cry out as pain shoots through your back like a flash of lightning breaking in a stormy sky.
You hear a snicker or two, but most of the crowd turns away because some things are too pathetic to mock.
There’s a squeak as wheels grind against the linoleum floor and Artie grins up at you. There’s nothing mocking in his eyes and it hurts a little less knowing someone, even a person you barely know, is one your side. “Wanna ride?” he asks and pats the shrunken thigh of his right leg.
He’s sweet but you live in reality. “Artie, I’m carrying forty pounds of extra weight. I’d crush you on a good day, kill you on a bad one. Thanks but no thanks.” You’re firm, direct; it’s a skill you’ve mastered in the past six months. Nothing like living through a scandal to coat your spine in steel.
He laughs and holds out a hand. “Quinn, I haven’t used my legs my entire life. There’s nothing you can do that doctors haven’t spent sixteen years trying to undo.” He pats his thighs again, smiles wider. “Come on. You deserve to put your feet up every now and then.”
You don’t hesitate this time. If you’ve learned anything since your tumble from the pedestal, it’s to accept help any way it comes. You slip into his lap as gracefully as possible, difficult with the weight of baby and blubber dragging you down, but manage to slide into his lap. You’re rather proud. You won’t be able to tie your shoes in another month but you can still sit in a boy’s lap. It’s the small victories that you cherish.
“Where to, m’lady?” he asks and looks up at you, his eyes so kind and earnest that tears pool in yours (and it mostly has nothing to do with the hormones).
“Physics,” you whisper and lean back, rest your aching back against the flat surface of his chest.
You ignore the stares and tune out the jokes but he’s less willing to let go, and when Mark Bowen calls out, “wide load coming through,” he responds by crushing the toe of Mark’s pristine white Jordans under his front wheel (and your collective weight). Mark starts screaming and everyone wonders if the basketball season is lost, but you calmly lay one hand over Artie’s and keep moving.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you say when he deposits you in front of your classroom. “You could be suspended. Or kicked out of Glee.” The first will go on his permanent record, but the second involves an angry Rachel Berry; you know you’d both take your chances with the superintendent.
But he smiles at you, big and wide and proud; you’ve only see the same happiness on his face when one of his guitar solos is wailing through the auditorium. “It’s not very often I get to slay dragons for the princess,” he says and you can barely eke out a thank you.
You want to say more. You want to say you’re not a princess, haven’t been since the day your belly swelled too big to hide under your sweaters and Coach Sylvester tried to get you kicked out of school and Mr. Schuester narrowly saved your graduation by exchanging expulsion for meetings with Ms. Pillsbury. You don’t say any of those things, and not just because the bell rings, but because it’s true.
You might not be a princess but the story ends the same: when you fall, there are people there to catch you.
---
VI. Tina
---
By the time your seventh month rolls around you can no longer see your feet. Your back hurts and you have to pee every ten minutes and Brittany’s on retainer for your Glee costumes because you no longer fit into the ones Principal Figgins orders.
You stare at yourself in the mirror during a bathroom break at Glee practice (your third in twenty minutes) and frown at the beach ball your face is beginning to resemble. Your hair is lank and has a weird curl (thanks, hormones!) and your skin keeps breaking out and there’s puffiness to your limbs that your free weight reps can’t seem to shed.
You want to cry.
You know you have bigger worries and more pressing concerns, but you’re still seventeen years old and you miss your old face. You miss your old body. You miss your old life.
A stall door opens and Tina appears, a blur of blue eye-shadow and magenta-streaked hair.
You dab at your eyes, force a smile over your face while she washes her hands, and run a brush through your hair in a feeble attempt to give it some body. Tina watches the entire scene.
You barely know her. Mercedes drives you to school and Rachel attends every doctor’s appointment and Artie carries your books now that the administration has forbidden him from carting you around, but Tina has always lurked in the shadows.
She’s wearing a University of Michigan t-shirt, bleach-stained and torn at the neckline, but you’d recognize it anywhere; Michigan is sacrilege in Buckeye territory. It’s ironic to her, but means the world to you. “I’m going to Michigan in the fall,” you burst out and she doesn’t say anything but her eyes round slightly.
She’s the only person you’ve told.
You still think she’s a bit of a stalker but you kept seeing Ms. Pillsbury and somewhere in your fifth month (the month Rachel started coming to doctor’s appointments) you stopped talking about feelings and started talking about the future. She filled your head with scholarships and work study. She helped you research daycare and preschools and whispered in your ear, “you can do it!,” so many times that you actually start believing her.
You applied to OSU and Ohio University and just to spite your dad, you mailed in a Michigan application the day before it was due.
You don’t get into OSU or OU or Bowling Green or University of Akron or even Case, but Michigan wanted you; it wasn’t supposed to be what you wanted but it wanted you. You couldn’t say no.
“C-c-con-congratulations,” she stutters and pauses by the paper towel dispenser. “It’s a great school.”
It is a great school and you think you can make it there. Ms. Pillsbury helped you find a scholarship and apply for workstudy. Money will be tight but you’ll be able to pay your bills. You’ll be able to do this on your own.
You follow Tina’s eyes and catch your reflection in the mirror, the bloated face and greasy hair, and it makes you catch your breath.
This isn’t how you anticipated college; this isn’t the future you wanted. College was supposed to be football games and Rush and Homecoming Queen. College wasn’t supposed to be changing diapers and swiping ids at the student gym.
You don’t recognize the girl staring back at you.
Tina still doesn’t say anything but she doesn’t leave, stands behind you, watching you watching her. You know she likes girls more than boys but you also know even the most desperate lesbian doesn’t go after the pregnant former cheerleader. Especially one with kinky hair and terrible skin and a rear end the size of a mack truck. Still, she doesn’t look away. “Y-Yo-You look really pretty today,” she says and her cheeks blush scarlet but she doesn’t take the statement back.
You don’t believe her, but know better than to turn down a compliment. “Thank you,” you say even though your hair looks terrible and your skin is rivaling a puberty-ridden twelve-year-old's. “My hair has seen better days.”
“It’s not that,” she says and doesn’t stumble over the words once. “You have this glow. It gives you something no one else has.”
She mumbles something indecipherable about getting back to practice but your eyes don’t leave your reflection even after she leaves. Pregnancy glows are something of myth, or the first three months, but there is something different about you. Your back is straighter, your shoulders stronger, and there’s a light in your eyes usually reserved for Rachel Berry.
You’re going to make it; you’re going to get out of this place and make something of yourself.
For the first time in seven months you feel beautiful.
~ * ~
Writers live for feedback - please leave some if you have the time.
Author: Lila
Rating: PG-13
Character/Pairing: Quinn, assorted members of Glee
Spoiler: “The Rhodes Not Taken”
Length: Part II of III
Summary: It’s the people Quinn least expects that keep her afloat.
Disclaimer: Not mine, just borrowing them for a few paragraphs.
Part I is here:
Author’s Note: Thank you *so* much for the support for this fic. I really appreciate all the feedback. I upped the spoiler a teeny bit for the last episode so if you missed it, consider yourself warned. Otherwise, enjoy.
~ * ~
IV. Rachel
---
Your parents ignore you and the growing bump lurking under your sweater. You live in their house and eat their food and sometimes exchange pleasantries over laundry or polishing the good silver, but it’s like you stopped being their child the day you acquired one of your own.
You go clothes shopping with Brittany because your mother won’t be seen with you in public and carpool with Mercedes for rides to and from school because your father would rather you take the bus with the other fallen sinners than sully his car with your mistakes. Finn sometimes carries your books between classes, when you’re stretching your back and the slight bump of baby presses out, and an expression halfway between guilty and relieved clouds his face. He’s too much of a gentleman to let a pregnant girl heft three binders all morning but too human not to feel grateful that your baby is someone else’s problem. Mostly, you spend your time alone. It’s enough that you carry the stain of a ruined life; you don’t blame others for avoiding bringing it on themselves.
You’re past things surprising you all that much - you bypassed that hurdle the morning that stick turned pink and your future imploded before your eyes - but you can’t hide the shocked expression on your face when you walk into your gynecologist’s waiting room and Rachel Berry is sitting in a chair, reading an ancient edition of “US Weekly” and jiggling her right knee in time to the Carrie Underwood playing softly over the speakers.
“Rachel?”
“Hi!” she says, too loud and too high, nervous and out of place in this land of sex and babies, and jumps to her feet.
You can do little more than stare at her, remembering all the times you fought with her over Finn, over Glee, over your place on the hierarchy. You remember insulting her and hurting her and fearing her because you thought she was ruining everything that mattered to you. You rest one hand on your back, another on your belly; turns out, you did that all by yourself. “What are you doing here?” you ask because while you might have returned her solo in “Don’t Stop Believin’” (the song’s fantasy is too much of a hard sell in your condition), Rachel Berry is still the last person you’d expect to see here.
“I did a google search,” she says and he might not be yours anymore but you can’t help but wonder how much time she’s spending with Finn. “You can find out the baby’s sex in the fifth month.”
“I know. But what does any of that have to do with you?” Finn is definitely not yours anymore; you smooth your voice to an even purr.
She looks unsure of herself, the first time in all the months you’ve known her. “Please don’t be angry with her but Mercedes told me that your parents make you come to these appointments alone. That they said if you’re old enough to have a baby, you’re old enough to take care of it. I thought you might like some company.”
Your cheeks flame red, because the entire world already knows one of your dirty secrets but you hoped it would never learn the other. “I’m fine, Rachel. I appreciate the support but you can go home.”
Her jaw tightens in a way that only means she’s more determined than before. You don’t know Rachel well, but you know she’s not a quitter, not really. She’s a survivor, and she bends and molds and rebuilds with every step towards living her dream. Now all that resolve is locked on you and you’re not sure you have the energy to put up a fight. You’re tired these days, exhausted, and not from the weight you’re carrying or the hormones sapping your strength. You’re tired of the stares and you’re tired of the taunts and you’re tired of remembering how your life used to be, just four months ago, close enough to touch. Rachel will see her name in lights one day but you’ll always be that girl who pledged chastity but still got knocked up during her senior year. It’s not fair, but neither is life; it’s a lesson you’ve learned too well.
You want her to go, walk out of your life so it doesn’t taint hers because someone has to get out of this place with hope still intact. But she surprises you even though she’s the most predictable person you’ve ever known. She takes your hands in hers, like Finn that last day, and you no longer care how much time she’s spending with him because it’s the first time anyone but your doctor has touched you in two months.
“You don’t even like me,” you whisper. “I was mean to you.”
“Mr. Schue says Glee is about more than me,” she says softly. “He says it’s more than just singing. We’re a part of something, a part of something together, and it doesn’t end just because we’re not at school. If I let you down when you needed me the most I’d never forgive myself.” You feel the phantom splash of a slushie against your face, hear the taunting laugh of jeers and jokes, and lock eyes on the nasty messages posted on MySpace for the world to see. You think about how Rachel came to school every single day knowing what she was facing; you think about the way she never, ever gave up. If she could do it, maybe you can too.
The receptionist calls your name and you look up sharply, blink once, expecting Rachel to be gone when you open your eyes.
She’s still there, a smile on her face. “We’ll do this together, okay?”
You can’t do more than nod as she helps you to your feet; it’s only when you’re following her down the hall that you realize you haven’t let go of her hand.
---
Rachel’s at your side as the tech rubs jelly on your belly and you both laugh when a soft curse hisses through your lips because you weren’t expecting it to be so cold. Your baby is in perfect health: ten finger and ten toes and a heart and lungs developing just right. You let out a sigh of relief that your baby isn’t suffering for the way you created it.
“Would you like to know the sex?” your doctor asks and you’re terrified to know the truth. You have four months until you face the consequences of your actions; you’re not sure you’re ready for a preview now.
“Quinn, do you want to know?” Rachel asks. “I hope you do. If I’m going to throw your baby shower, I need to know what color to use.”
You look up at her, ever present tears welling in your eyes, but she’s smiling, this girl you tortured for two years, silently telling you that she’ll be there to the end. You don’t deserve her friendship, but right now you’re not sure you can go on without it. You always thought your mom would be here the first time you did this, eyes locking together on the child, grandchild, that would soon be a part of your world. Your mom isn’t here, won’t even acknowledge that this day is happening, but Rachel still hasn’t left your side. You’re not sure why she’s doing this but you no longer care; you don’t want to be alone right now. “Okay,” you say. “Is it a boy or girl?”
It’s a girl, just the barest outline of her on the monitor, but you can’t take your eyes from the flailing arms and legs and pulsing beat of her heart.
They give you a print out of the sonogram and you can’t stop staring at it, not while you’re waiting for Rachel to pull the car around (you don’t call you mom to pick you up and don’t care what the reaction will be) or the ride home while she chatters on end beside you.
“Quinn,” she breaks into your thoughts at a red light a mile from your parents’ house. Why wasn’t Puck with you at the doctor’s?”
Your fingers still on the photo of your daughter (his daughter too) and you grip the edges of your parka so tight your knuckles hurt. “What do you mean?” you ask but you’ve never been a good enough actress to keep the surprise out of your voice.
Rachel glances at you, sympathy in her eyes. It makes your insides turn, Rachel Berry feeling sorry for you, but it’s better than the usual mocking laughter so you don’t look away. “Last week at Glee practice, Puck punched Jacob Ben Israel in the face.”
“Why?”
“He was interviewing us for the school paper and made a joke about how you don’t need to sing with Finn anymore because every time you get on stage you’re already doing a duet. Puck…he didn’t react well.” You vaguely remember seeing Jacob with tape on his nose, but weren’t present for the incident. Despite your hatred for your weekly sessions with Ms. Pillsbury, you’re glad you didn’t witness your own humiliation. “We’re slow on the uptake sometimes, but even Mercedes put two and two together.”
The light changes and she looks away, your cheeks flushing with humiliation in the darkness. Your last dirty secret and the entire world knows. “Are they going to tell?”
Rachel smiles, you know she does even in the darkness, and you think it has little to do with you. “Finn kind of put the fear of god in him. Puck too.” She looks away from the road, just for a moment, just long enough to smile for you. “You’re one of us. We’ll keep your secret.”
The car slows in front of your house and the familiar dread tightens through your chest. Out here, you can breathe; in there you always feel like you’re suffocating under the weight of your parents’ disapproval.
Rachel must sense your hesitation because she takes your hand again and squeezes tight. “You’re not alone, Quinn. I saw the way you looked at her. You love your daughter and she’s going to love you in return.”
You appreciate her concern but still don’t understand. “Rachel, why are you doing this?”
She looks at you, really looks at you, shows you how there’s so much strength in that pint-sized body. “I’m lucky,” she says softly. “And not just because of my talent. I don’t have a mom, but I have two dads. I was created out of love. Every one of us should feel the same.”
You glance towards your house. It’s late and the lights are dimmed and you’ll be lucky if your mother has left food out rather than leaving you to your own devices. Your fingers curl around the photo of your daughter. You can do things differently. It doesn’t have to be the same.
“Thank you,” you say. “Thank you so much.”
She promises to come to your next appointment and the one after that and makes another comment about your shower. There’s four months to go; they suddenly seem a lot easier.
You fall asleep that night with your daughter’s photo tucked under you pillow; when you wake in the morning, it’s pressed tight against your heart.
---
V. Artie
---
Your back aches. No, it doesn’t ache, it aches. Like you’re carrying the weight of the world on your shoulders (or just its collective disappointment), and you can’t contain the wince or hiss of pain that whistles through your teeth when you pick up a fallen physics book.
You press a hand to the small of your back, belly pushing against the empire waist of your maternity shirt, and knead the strained muscles as the student body looks on with barely concealed laughter in their eyes.
You ignore the looks (you’re good, so very good at that now) and try to straighten. It doesn’t work as well as you planned; you cry out as pain shoots through your back like a flash of lightning breaking in a stormy sky.
You hear a snicker or two, but most of the crowd turns away because some things are too pathetic to mock.
There’s a squeak as wheels grind against the linoleum floor and Artie grins up at you. There’s nothing mocking in his eyes and it hurts a little less knowing someone, even a person you barely know, is one your side. “Wanna ride?” he asks and pats the shrunken thigh of his right leg.
He’s sweet but you live in reality. “Artie, I’m carrying forty pounds of extra weight. I’d crush you on a good day, kill you on a bad one. Thanks but no thanks.” You’re firm, direct; it’s a skill you’ve mastered in the past six months. Nothing like living through a scandal to coat your spine in steel.
He laughs and holds out a hand. “Quinn, I haven’t used my legs my entire life. There’s nothing you can do that doctors haven’t spent sixteen years trying to undo.” He pats his thighs again, smiles wider. “Come on. You deserve to put your feet up every now and then.”
You don’t hesitate this time. If you’ve learned anything since your tumble from the pedestal, it’s to accept help any way it comes. You slip into his lap as gracefully as possible, difficult with the weight of baby and blubber dragging you down, but manage to slide into his lap. You’re rather proud. You won’t be able to tie your shoes in another month but you can still sit in a boy’s lap. It’s the small victories that you cherish.
“Where to, m’lady?” he asks and looks up at you, his eyes so kind and earnest that tears pool in yours (and it mostly has nothing to do with the hormones).
“Physics,” you whisper and lean back, rest your aching back against the flat surface of his chest.
You ignore the stares and tune out the jokes but he’s less willing to let go, and when Mark Bowen calls out, “wide load coming through,” he responds by crushing the toe of Mark’s pristine white Jordans under his front wheel (and your collective weight). Mark starts screaming and everyone wonders if the basketball season is lost, but you calmly lay one hand over Artie’s and keep moving.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you say when he deposits you in front of your classroom. “You could be suspended. Or kicked out of Glee.” The first will go on his permanent record, but the second involves an angry Rachel Berry; you know you’d both take your chances with the superintendent.
But he smiles at you, big and wide and proud; you’ve only see the same happiness on his face when one of his guitar solos is wailing through the auditorium. “It’s not very often I get to slay dragons for the princess,” he says and you can barely eke out a thank you.
You want to say more. You want to say you’re not a princess, haven’t been since the day your belly swelled too big to hide under your sweaters and Coach Sylvester tried to get you kicked out of school and Mr. Schuester narrowly saved your graduation by exchanging expulsion for meetings with Ms. Pillsbury. You don’t say any of those things, and not just because the bell rings, but because it’s true.
You might not be a princess but the story ends the same: when you fall, there are people there to catch you.
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VI. Tina
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By the time your seventh month rolls around you can no longer see your feet. Your back hurts and you have to pee every ten minutes and Brittany’s on retainer for your Glee costumes because you no longer fit into the ones Principal Figgins orders.
You stare at yourself in the mirror during a bathroom break at Glee practice (your third in twenty minutes) and frown at the beach ball your face is beginning to resemble. Your hair is lank and has a weird curl (thanks, hormones!) and your skin keeps breaking out and there’s puffiness to your limbs that your free weight reps can’t seem to shed.
You want to cry.
You know you have bigger worries and more pressing concerns, but you’re still seventeen years old and you miss your old face. You miss your old body. You miss your old life.
A stall door opens and Tina appears, a blur of blue eye-shadow and magenta-streaked hair.
You dab at your eyes, force a smile over your face while she washes her hands, and run a brush through your hair in a feeble attempt to give it some body. Tina watches the entire scene.
You barely know her. Mercedes drives you to school and Rachel attends every doctor’s appointment and Artie carries your books now that the administration has forbidden him from carting you around, but Tina has always lurked in the shadows.
She’s wearing a University of Michigan t-shirt, bleach-stained and torn at the neckline, but you’d recognize it anywhere; Michigan is sacrilege in Buckeye territory. It’s ironic to her, but means the world to you. “I’m going to Michigan in the fall,” you burst out and she doesn’t say anything but her eyes round slightly.
She’s the only person you’ve told.
You still think she’s a bit of a stalker but you kept seeing Ms. Pillsbury and somewhere in your fifth month (the month Rachel started coming to doctor’s appointments) you stopped talking about feelings and started talking about the future. She filled your head with scholarships and work study. She helped you research daycare and preschools and whispered in your ear, “you can do it!,” so many times that you actually start believing her.
You applied to OSU and Ohio University and just to spite your dad, you mailed in a Michigan application the day before it was due.
You don’t get into OSU or OU or Bowling Green or University of Akron or even Case, but Michigan wanted you; it wasn’t supposed to be what you wanted but it wanted you. You couldn’t say no.
“C-c-con-congratulations,” she stutters and pauses by the paper towel dispenser. “It’s a great school.”
It is a great school and you think you can make it there. Ms. Pillsbury helped you find a scholarship and apply for workstudy. Money will be tight but you’ll be able to pay your bills. You’ll be able to do this on your own.
You follow Tina’s eyes and catch your reflection in the mirror, the bloated face and greasy hair, and it makes you catch your breath.
This isn’t how you anticipated college; this isn’t the future you wanted. College was supposed to be football games and Rush and Homecoming Queen. College wasn’t supposed to be changing diapers and swiping ids at the student gym.
You don’t recognize the girl staring back at you.
Tina still doesn’t say anything but she doesn’t leave, stands behind you, watching you watching her. You know she likes girls more than boys but you also know even the most desperate lesbian doesn’t go after the pregnant former cheerleader. Especially one with kinky hair and terrible skin and a rear end the size of a mack truck. Still, she doesn’t look away. “Y-Yo-You look really pretty today,” she says and her cheeks blush scarlet but she doesn’t take the statement back.
You don’t believe her, but know better than to turn down a compliment. “Thank you,” you say even though your hair looks terrible and your skin is rivaling a puberty-ridden twelve-year-old's. “My hair has seen better days.”
“It’s not that,” she says and doesn’t stumble over the words once. “You have this glow. It gives you something no one else has.”
She mumbles something indecipherable about getting back to practice but your eyes don’t leave your reflection even after she leaves. Pregnancy glows are something of myth, or the first three months, but there is something different about you. Your back is straighter, your shoulders stronger, and there’s a light in your eyes usually reserved for Rachel Berry.
You’re going to make it; you’re going to get out of this place and make something of yourself.
For the first time in seven months you feel beautiful.
~ * ~
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