“What are you doing here, Finn?”
Quinn’s icy voice cut through the room. She stood in the doorway, wearing her Cheerios hooded sweatshirt over her short practice skirt. Her eyes shot daggers at Rachel. “I thought you wanted to come to Celibacy Club with me.”
“I did,” Finn said, his face flushing pink. “I mean, I do.” He glanced at Rachel. How much had Quinn overheard? Suddenly, he was embarrassed that he’d come in here in the first place.
“Let’s go, then.” Quinn strode up to Finn and placed her hand calmly on his forearm. He stared at her pale pink fingernails. They looked kind of alien to him. “I don’t waÑ€. “I don’t taÑ€. “nt to be late.”
She pulled him toward the door just as Puck stepped in. Quinn crashed into Puck, her head bumping into his chest. They quickly jumped away from each other as if they’d been burned.
“I thought you were catching a ride with Merino?” Finn asked, embarrassed for Puck to see him here as well. Puck was his friend, but if he knew that Finn liked singing, he’d staple a tutu to the quarterback’s forehead.
Puck cleared his throat. He’d been following Quinn, hoping for a chance to talk to her again, but now Finn was looking at him suspiciously. Did he have Quinn’s lip gloss all over his face or something? To cover, he quickly retorted, “What are you doing in this dog kennel? Community service?”
Quinn burst into giggles as Rachel pretended to look at a piece of sheet music from her backpack. With her straight blond hair, long eyelashes, and tiny ski-jump nose, Quinn Fabray made Rachel feel like a schnauzer. “Seriously, Finn.” Quinn’s voice was ice. “What are you doing here?”
“Nothing,” Finn replied, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He glanced back at Rachel, giving her an apologetic smile but not saying anything else. “Let’s just go.”
Rachel watched as the three of them disappeared out the door. Her heart sank. Quinn Fabray had absolutely everything, including Finn. Did she really need to insult everyone else, too? And Puck was just a jerk; everyone knew it. He’d punched a kid in the nose just because he was wearing a University of Michigan T-shirt. Normally, insults from the stupid popular kids bounced right off her. After all, when she was a famous Broadway singer, she might get a bad review or two by a clueless critic, and she had to remain unfazed.
She would have taken it all in stride if she hadn’t felt as though she and Finn were having… a moment. They really were. She knew it. She hadn’t imagined it. Something about him was opening up to her. Maybe Finn was bored with his perfect yet predictable life.
As hurt as she was, she couldn’t blame him too much for...
seven
Mercedes’s house, Tuesday night
Dinner at the Joneses’ house was always a noisy affair. Besides Mercedes’s immediate family members, there always seemed to be at least one family friend and a couple of her cousins over, too. Mercedes’s mom was a firm believer in the old saying “the more, the merrier.” Her father owned his own dental practice and slapped his wife playfully on the butt when he came in every night, to Mercedes’s eternal embarrassment. After everyone else’s daily dramas, there was rarely time for Mercedes to talk about her own.
Dinner usually meant a mixture of leftovers, last-minute casseroles with daring combinations of vegetables and cheeses, or takeout from one of the local Chinese, Indian, or pizza restaurants, all of which were on the speed-dial of the Joneses’ kitchen phone. That night, it had been deep-dish double-cheese pizza from LaPaloma’s, and the guests included two women from her mom’s hip-hop aerobics class and Mercedes’s second cousin.
It felt good to be back in her room, alone. Her family believed everyone had the right to say something, and so all of them ended up talking at the same time. Her room was quiet and peaceful, with its pale gray walls, chocolate-brown comforter, and thick magenta rug and curtains. Rhinestone-encrusted letters spelling DIVA hung on the wall, above her dresser and next to a brilliant blue lava lamp that Mercedes liked to watch when she was trying to fall asleep. At that moment, though, the only thing that would make her feel better was singing. She stood in front of her full-length mirror and turned to look at herself from different angles. She was what her mother called a “full-figured girl,” and she liked her curves. Most of the time. All the great African-American singers had some booty. Aretha. Ella Fitzgerald. Beyoncé. Mercedes looked over her shoulder at her behind. It was definitely star quality.
She started practicing the Glee song “Tonight.” But now all she could hear was Rachel’s bossy voice drowning out her own—something that was pretty hard to do, since Mercedes had a set of lungs on her. Rachel probably expected to sing lead, as if that weren’t Mercedes’s God-given right. It was crazy the way Rachel had flounced into practice in her little kindergartener outfit and started critiquing everyone as if she were some kind of expert. In the hour that they practiced, she’d managed to insult everyone’s pitch, posture, moves, and outfits. Who the hell did she think she was?
Mercedes glanced at the clock on her computer. It was Tuesday night, and every Tuesday night she and Kurt would text back and forth during American Idol, commenting on who sucked and who rocked. It was a tradition dating back to eighth grade, when the music teacher had the two of them sing “I’ll Be There for You” at their graduation ceremony. She loved Kurt for being catty and critical and making her laugh so hard she almost peed her pants. And she felt that Kurt understood her in a way no one else did. Mercedes dreamed about someone fancy signing her to some ginormous record deal, big enough to get her out of Lima, out of Ohio, and out of her boring life. She had star potential, and he knew it.
But Kurt was the one who had brought Rachel to Glee in the first place—as if he didn’t have enough faith in Mercedes’s ability to bring them together. It was downright insulting. The nerve of him, bringing in a stranger without even thinking to ask anyone else about it.
There was a knock on her door. “Baby girl,” her mom called, “you have a visitor.”
Mercedes narrowed her eyes. She didn’t get visitors. She didn’t really have many friends, and none of them were the type to drop by unannounced. Tina lived on the other side of town, and her mom worked nights, so there was no way she could have gotten to the Joneses’ house, and Artie was usually studying on a school night. That left one. She flung open the door.
It was Kurt. Standing in her house, in his pale blue button-down, a snug-fit cashmere V-neck, and navy cashmere socks with yellow toes. HÕ€ellow toeizeHÕ€eller mother made everyone leave their shoes at the door since having new Brazilian cherry floors installed last summer. Kurt was always so fastidious that the sight of him in stocking feet made Mercedes want to giggle.
Then she remembered Rachel. “Nice socks,” she said pointedly, planting her hand firmly on her hip and giving him a glare. She wished she was wearing something less schlumpy than her fuchsia velour tracksuit. “But I don’t remember inviting you over. Not that that would stop you.”
Kurt brushed his hair off his forehead. “Cute picture of you in the Mickey Mouse ears, by the way.” He pointed to the wall of photographs in the hallway. “Is that Cinderella with you?”
“Sleeping Beauty.” Mercedes cleared her throat. “Seriously, though, if you haven’t come to apologize, you can back yourself right out that front door.”
Kurt sighed and fidgeted with the metal clips on his jacket. Mercedes thought it looked like part of a marching-band uniform, yet he insisted it was vintage. “May I come in? Otherwise I might get roped into performing hip-hop moves with those ladies downstairs.”
“Fine. Come in.” Mercedes stepped back to let him into her room.
“Nice color palette.” Kurt gazed around the room in approval. He’d been at Mercedes’s house for pizza a couple of times after mall trips to try out expensive clothes at Bloomingdale’s, but he’d never been in her room before. “Very sophisticated yet fun. And little touches of the diva extraordinaire.” He ran his fingers over a framed photograph
of Madonna and gave it a slight bow.
“The apology?” Mercedes refused to back down. Kurt needed to know how insulting it was to have Rachel come in and stomp all over everyone like that. All over her.
“Look, I’m sorry if inviting Rachel to Glee Club hurt your feelings, but I’m tired of us getting laughed at all the time.” He fingered the brown fringe on Mercedes’s bedside lamp. “We’re good performers, especially you. You’re amazing. But we haven’t really had the chance to come together. And I feel like Rachel can do that.”
Mercedes’s cheeks flushed. Okay, it was sweet of him to call her amazing, even though it was just the truth. “You really think Miss Pink Kneesocks is going to make that much of a difference?” She might not agree with him, but she always respected Kurt’s opinion. He had totally called the Adam Lambert thing.
“I swear I do.” Kurt glanced at his watch. He sat down on the edge of Mercedes’s bed, sinking slightly into the soft mattress.
“I guess you can consider your apology accepted, then.”
“What does the poster signify?” Kurt was staring at the giant poster of a roaring tiger that stretched over Mercedes’s white iMac.
Mercedes smiled sweetly. “It reminds me that life is a jungle, and if you don’t defend yourself, someone bigger than you is just going to take you down.”
“So you’re an optimist,” Kurt said, nodding thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”
Meã€nt size="omeMeã€nt rcedes laughed. She loved Kurt—he was her boy—but lately she’d been thinking about him a little differently. He was opinionated and confident, and he always managed to compliment her on something—her new gold hoops, her color of lip gloss—each day. Maybe…
Before she could finish the thought, Kurt spoke up. “Listen, do you want to get milk shakes or something?” He tossed his head, but his hair, neatly styled, didn’t move. “My dad caught me watching the Style Network’s makeover marathon—and it did not go over well.”
Mercedes giggled. Kurt’s dad had his own car repair shop, and he was the kind of manly man who liked to take apart engines for kicks and didn’t get anything that involved singing, dancing, or fashion, Kurt’s passions. “How did you manage to get out?”
Kurt laughed and grabbed a platinum-framed photograph from Mercedes’s desk—it was the two of them singing at eighth-grade graduation. “I can’t believe you have this on display. I look like Macaulay Culkin here.” He set down the picture. “I told him I had a date… with a girl.” His dad had been unreasonably excited by the idea, so much so that Kurt had felt a little bad lying to him. His dad meant well, and deep inside, if he really thought of all the times Kurt had asked for dress-up clothes and Pottery Barn tea sets instead of trucks, he probably knew that Kurt was not interested in girls as anything other than singing partners. But still, he had lent Kurt the keys to his SUV and told him not to stay out too late.
“I can always go for a milk shake,” Mercedes answered. “Let me change first.” She expected Kurt to leave the room, but instead he just turned his back to Mercedes and examined the clippings stapled to the corkboard next to her door.
“I love how you’ve saved all of these,” Kurt said, touching the concert ticket stubs that filled the board. Some of them had papers with autographs on them.
Mercedes slipped out of her velour pants and into a pair of...
For the first time since Rachel Berry had stepped into the Glee practice room, Mercedes started to feel a teeny bit better.
eight
Lima Freeze, Tuesday night
The Lima Freeze, in addition to the Lima Galleria Cineplex 8, the Olive Garden at the mall, and the benches at the entrance of the nature trail in MacArthur City Park, was one of the few, and consequently the most popular, of the Lima date night venues. It had been a Friendly’s ice cream parlor that folded years ago and was bought by a local couple and slightly improved. The Freeze was located along a strip of Route 17 between the farms at the outskirts of Lima and the downtown area, which had several historic buildings in various states of disrepair. Along the way, Mercedes watched as they passed the Wegmans, the local grocery chain, a karate place, a Pizza Hut, the senior citizens’ center, three banks, and a handful ofŠd adings in other businesses that always appeared to be on the brink of going under. Kurt had cranked the stereo, which was hooked into his iPod, and Kanye West was thumping through the car speakers.
“I could get used to these darkened windows.” Mercedes touched up her curly hair in the sun visor mirror. “I feel like a rock star.”
“Someday, my dear.” Kurt pulled into the parking lot. Nearly all the spots were taken by minivans or beat-up Buicks. Families with squirming kids were ordering from the take-out window and sitting at the sticky wooden picnic tables on the little concrete patio outside. Through the slightly fogged-up windows, the booths all looked filled.
“Damn the masses.” Kurt thumped his fist against the steering wheel in mock anger as he pulled in next to a shiny BMW. “They had the same brilliant idea we did.”
Mercedes didn’t mind the crowd. She liked the idea of being seen on a date with Kurt. She even liked just riding around with him in his dad’s SUV. It felt good to drive through the streets of Lima perched so high, looking through tinted-glass windows at the town she’d lived in her whole life. It seemed much prettier. “Let’s go. I’m dying for my sugar rush.”
Inside, the Lima Freeze was packed, and the windows were fogged with the warmth of so many bodies. Kurt glanced around for any of the football players who harassed him, but he didn’t see any. A lucky break. It was bad enough to be slushied at school, but the last thing he needed was a milk shake thrown in his face in public. He had a hard time explaining to his father why so many of his shirts came home stained blue and purple and red.
“I’ll have a Death by Chocolate frappe, please,” Mercedes told the bored-looking teen behind the counter. “Extra thick.”
“A hot fudge sundae. Whipped cream. Don’t forget the cherry.” Kurt eyed the group of soccer boys in a corner booth. One of them got up to refill his water glass, and Kurt watched as his calves flexed with each step.
As they scanned the ice cream parlor in vain for a table, the door opened and in walked Finn Hudson with Quinn Fabray, still in her Cheerios practice hoodie, on his arm. “Barbie and Ken just showed up,” Mercedes announced.
“Mmm.” Kurt eyed the couple, trying to ignore the patter of his heart at the sight of Finn Hudson. “Looks like the Celibacy Club got out early.”
“That table over there’s going to open up. Let’s move over.” Mercedes grabbed Kurt’s sleeve and tugged him aside. She stared at the three girls who were slurping the last of their milk shakes through straws. Table service was first come, first served; at rush hour, that meant you had to be ready to pounce.
Finn and Quinn got to the front counter.
“She’s cute, but did you ever notice how her ears are kind of pointy, like an elf’s?” Kurt whispered in Mercedes’s ear. She giggled. She hadn’t noticed, but now that Kurt had pointed them out, she could totally picture Quinn running around with a quiver of arrows in those Lord of the Rings movies.
“Excuse me,” Quinn muttered, casually letting her purse bump into Kurt’s back so that he΀ack so th C he’d take a step away. She liked coming to the Lima Freeze, but it was always so overrun by losers. “Finn, I’ll take a root beer float, with frozen yogurt and diet root beer.” She smoothed the sides of her practice skirt. Usually she was careful about the number of calories she took in every day, but what with her good genes—her mother was still a size four—and her Cheerios workout, she figured she deserved a treat. But she knew not to go too crazy or she’d be sluggish on her flips. “I’ll find a table. Those girls are almost done.”
“I’m sorry. We’re actually waiting for that table.” Kurt handed the girl at the counter a crisp ten-dollar bill.
Quinn stared at Kurt as if he were a cockroach. “I didn’t see your name on it.” She spun on
the heel of her cheerleading sneakers, and her blond ponytail whirled through the air behind her. He and Mercedes watched as Quinn sashayed up to the table where the three girls were sitting, still sipping from their milk shakes. They watched in awe as Quinn said a few words to the girls, who quickly stuffed their napkins into their almost-empty glasses and scooted out of the booth happily, with smiles on their faces.
Quinn slipped into the booth, wiped the table with a napkin, and then waved at Finn, pointedly looking past Kurt and Mercedes.
“Oh no, she didn’t.” Mercedes wiped a trickle of ice cream off the rim of her milk shake glass. She glanced around the crowded restaurant. None of the other people looked even remotely interested in giving up their seats.
“I’m, uh, sorry about that.” Finn glanced nervously over his shoulder at Quinn, who was already leaning back in the booth talking to the soccer guys sitting behind her. A tiny strip of skin showed as her shirt crawled up her perfectly flat stomach. “Were you waiting for that table?”
Kurt’s mouth opened, but no words came out. Finn. Hudson. Was talking to him. Sure, he wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but Kurt wasn’t interested in his mind. Finn was gorgeous. He was the only guy on the football team who always offered to hold Kurt’s designer jacket before the players slammed Kurt into the Dumpster. Besides that, Finn’s hair was always perfectly mussed. His cheekbones looked like they could cut ice, and his brown eyes were like the pools of chocolate in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. Kurt had admired him from afar since that day freshman year when Puck Puckerman and Jack Kurpatwinski had tried to throw Kurt into a vat of grease in the cafeteria kitchen after fried-chicken day. Finn told them to knock it off, and they did. He was like Superman.
“Yeah, we were,” Mercedes answered as she kicked Kurt in the foot. Why was he acting like such a tool in front of Finn Hudson? Just because Finn was popular didn’t mean Kurt had to act like such a moron. It reminded her of their family’s golden retriever, who would flop down on the ground and roll around on her back whenever a bigger dog showed up—“classic submissive behavior,” her dad said. Kurt wasn’t exactly on his back but, man, he could show a little more backbone. “Don’t worry about it. We’ll just stand here at the counter. Who needs a seat?” Mercedes said with a fake smile.
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