Title: In The Mirror

Summary: She's perfect. She's pretty. Why doesn't her reflection agree?

Wordcount: 1,349 words

Notes: Well, here goes nothing. First Glee fanfiction. This is just a little character study on Rachel and Quinn, pre-Season 1. I imagine it takes place somewhere in freshman year (though apparently Finn and Quinn weren't together yet?) The idea struck me during "I Feel Pretty/Unpretty" and suddenly, I was up at 2 am typing this little fic. It's taken me a while to get the courage to post this, so I hope you enjoy it. And I apologize in advance for the formatting - I did rather frequent switches between characters.

Disclaimer: I do not own Glee or "I Feel Pretty" or "Unpretty."

Every time I think I'm through, it's because of you.

She brushes her hair in long strokes and stares in the mirror. Her golden locks are smooth, light, airy, shining.

Her roots will be showing soon.

She puts her hair in a high ponytail and tries to forget.

Her hand lingers a few inches above her dresser. It's a second before she decides and drops it over the yellow headband. She tucks it behind her ears and pushes back her hair.

It matches her bumblebee ensemble, even if it pops too brightly against her dark hair.

The reflection is her. It has to be.

Sometimes, though, it takes convincing to believe it.

This is her. Skinny and blonde with a delicate nose and a Cheerios uniform. She's perfect. She's pretty.

Why doesn't her reflection agree?

She frowns at her reflection.

It's her, all right. Short, brunette, and big nosed in plaid and a sweater with a bumblebee.

Of course, there's little she can do. Growth is beyond her control, dyes ruin the hair and brain, and surgery would risk her outstanding voice and why would she want to possibly damage her sort of flourishing career?

Her reflection hates her. So does everyone else.

The first thing she does when she gets to school is get a slushie.

Finn brings it to her with that goofy grin he always wears. He's liked her for ages – that much is obvious. He's always offering to carry her books walk her to class. He's dumb as a doornail, but he's as sweet as Puck is an asshole.

And after the last football game, when he made a touchdown for her, well, why wouldn't she date him? The quarterback and the cheerleader. Even he can figure out that it's a flawless couple.

She sips her cherry slushie and smiles when the Red Sea of students parts for them.

The first thing she does when she gets to school is get slushied.

There's a distinct difference from the one that Quinn gets, and she watches the blonde laugh at her misfortune. It was the largest size possible. It's cold, sticky, and dripping down her face, her clothes, even her arms and legs. Her yellow bumblebee is stained pink.

She's too frozen to even try to escape.

Puck grabs a permanent marker from his pocket and scribbles something on the now upside down cup. It's dripping its little remains on the tile. In big, black letters it now reads DORK.

He places it atop her head and walks away without another word.

She wipes the cherry slushie out of her eyes and walks as calmly as she can down the hall. She holds her head high and smiles at the staring bystanders. There's no such thing as bad publicity, and one day, this will be fantastic for her autobiography! Facing adversity in high school is good practice for showbiz.

The crowd parts immediately – nobody wants to bump into the ugly loser.

She's done.

She brushes powder over her nose and straightens her posture. The bathroom mirror is blurry and of cheap glass, but it will do. It takes effort to be this popular. She has to look confident, she has to look perfect and pretty all the time.

What they don't realize is that she never is.

She wishes she could be finished, she wishes she could drop off the face of the Earth. She wonders what would happen if she were to try – if she were steal her mother's sleeping pills and overdose tonight. She'd never have to act perfect again. The weight would be lifted.

But there is a drawback – she's perfect. She's popular. She's dating Finn Hudson, quarterback. They would notice. They would never forgive her. Her entire family's reputation would be marred.

If only she was like Rachel Berry – a thought so atrocious that she shudders. She doesn't know where it came from. She just knows that Rachel walks tall and proud with red dye dripping down her face.

She's a Barbie doll. Just one of millions of girls who have been tweaked to perfection.

Rachel is a handmade figurine. One of few. Maybe a little chipped, maybe the paint is smudged. The kind of antique that is so old and unloved that nobody even remembers it exists.

Even the most ignorant of people know which one is more beautiful.

She's done.

She wipes a damp paper towel over her nose and stands taller in an attempt to see more clearly in the mirror. It's hard work to clean up after a slushie attack. The drink dries and hardens in a sticky mess every time. She has to scrub until her skin is pink and raw, sometimes peeling from the rough school bought paper towels.

She places the dork cup on the edge of the sink lightly and turns on the warm water. She's practiced in many arts, like dancing, singing, acting, drawing, fashion, writing, cooking, and more since a star must be well rounded, but washing the slushie out of long hair was the one she mastered the most quickly. She squeezes some travel shampoo in her palm and works it through the now stiff locks.

She slips into a stall to change and wipe up some of the slushie that landed in less desirable places (how in the world did it end up in her underwear?). A plain black t-shirt and a black skirt. The yellow knee socks are out of place in her dark mournful outfit, especially with the new stains that run down the sides, but she doesn't have another pair.

She wonders if anyone else will wear black if she dies. If the school will have a moment of silence. If it will be in the newspapers. If people will notice or care. If she will just fade away without a word.

She comes out of the stall and observes her new look in the mirror. She looks ghostlike in the dark clothes. Her wet hair is tied up in a ponytail. Her socks attract attention like a missed note during "One Song Glory" from Rent.

She's not like Quinn Fabray, but this isn't the first time she's wished that she was. Quinn is the epitome of perfection, of stardom, and they're not even sophomores yet.

She's a starving artist on the streets, struggling to make her life. She fights to survive in this world.

Quinn is a star. One of those people who has it easy. Who doesn't even have to ask to get her way. Who has everything and more.

Everyone knows which one will make it out of Lima.

Quinn walks out of the bathroom by the cafeteria and is embraced by the crowd. She plasters on a smile and nods when Finns asks her if she's okay, because she took a long time and he got worried that she drowned in the sink like Brittany almost did last week.

She tells him that she just had to fix her makeup. Comprehension dawns on him and he bobs his head. He gets that, he says. She looks really good, he promises. Totally pretty, he swears.

She feels loved. She feels pretty, too.

Rachel leaves the bathroom by the choir room cautiously. The hallway is empty, much to her relief. Nobody asks her if she's all right, nobody comes over to offer tips on getting slushie stains out of sweaters.

She slips into the choir room, glad to find that Sandy Ryerson isn't there, and plops into the piano seat. She has ten minutes before class. That's enough time for a warm up and a song. She plays and sings clearly. She knows the sound will travel, but she hopes nobody hears. Getting slushied is one thing. Getting slushied by the piano is another.

If there's anything about her that's pretty, it's her voice.

And when she sings, she feels pretty, too.

I feel pretty.

Oh, so pretty.

I feel pretty, and witty, and bright.

And I pity any girl who isn't me tonight.

Note: Thank you so much for reading! Feedback would be greatly appreciated. I always like to hear what people like, what they don't like, their favorite part, etc.