A/N: So, yeah. I've been writing Fanfiction for, like, five million years, and I'm pretty sure I've had at least ten accounts here at various periods. I really just made this one to put a few stories on alert, because I seriously lack the time to write, and I'm a shitty writer anyway. But I was looking over something I had written for myself a few weeks ago, and I was like, "Meh. I might as well upload it." So here we are. I welcome all reviews, though I'll admit that I was flamed once and I totally cried. I CRIED. FOR REAL. So don't flame me, people.

I have plans for this to be multi-chapter, obviously, but here's the thing: I've finished exactly ONE story in the whole time I've written fanfiction. I'm a serial project starter/abandoner. So don't get attached. I'm also a college student, so sometimes updates will be few and far between. Hopefully I'll churn a few chapters out after the 7th of December and before the 25th of January (AKA the small period of time during which I DON'T have nightmares about deadlines and finals and crazy professors).

So basically, this idea started back when Quinn said the line about her torturing Rachel if the roles were reversed, and it just seemed like such an interesting idea to explore, and looking through the site this week (seriously the first time I've come by here in a year -- the first time I'd EVER looked at Glee fic), I see it's a popular idea. Hopefully mine won't be a complete disgrace to the other AMAZING stories I've read on this subject.

The way it's working out in my brain, Rachel doesn't stop Puck during their little make-out session in Mash-Up, and that's when this whole mess begins. I've thought a lot about this, and Quinn can't be pregnant. I mean, I guess she could, but it's just not jiving with my story, which blows, because I love Pregnant!Quinn (and Quinn in general, really, that bitch), but it just doesn't work for me here. So I guess it's slightly AU.

So, anyway. Thanks for reading.

It was an accident. Obviously. No one plans to get pregnant in their sophomore year of high school, and no one plans to get pregnant by Noah Puckerman ever. How could this have happened? How could she have been so stupid? She couldn't stop replaying that it in her mind, the day she got pregnant. Puck was in her room, and he was being almost not an asshole, and then they were making out, and then they were doing it, and now there's two lines on that stupid stick and it's over, it's all over. If they don't run her out of school completely, the Cheerios will make the next seven months complete hell, and even once this awful pregnancy is over, she'll have a kid, and no one who has a kid at sixteen gets out of this stupid town. Her life is over and it hasn't even started.

She should have said no. Part of her wanted to, when it was happening. She knew it wasn't right. She didn't love him, he didn't love her. But the way he said her name...it hung in the air after every whisper, and it made her feel dizzy and giddy and alive, and she couldn't bring herself to stop, because what if it never happened again? She couldn't take the chance. And the irony of this is that if she had said no, there was a least a slight chance that she would eventually have relations again, when the time was right. And now she's going have a baby, and no one will ever want to be anywhere near her ever again. She's just a stupid girl, like everyone else in this school. She thought she was so much more.

Oh, God, she feels sick. They're right in the middle of Don't Stop Believing, and it's all she can do to keep from vomiting all over Finn every time she opens her mouth. She keeps forgetting words and messing up the choreography and everyone's staring at her, and she swears to God, if one more person asks if she's feeling alright, she'll stomp out of this room for the fifth time today and she won't be dragged back.

She misses another line. The music stops, and Mr. Schue clears his throat, his face fixed in a confused frown.

"Let's take a break, guys," he says. "Can you hang back for a minute, Rachel?"

A few suspicious glances are tossed throughout the group as they make their way off the stage, and Rachel's cheeks flush bright red. Kurt attempts to hang by the doorway, but Mercedes pulls him away. She kind of hopes that Puck will show some sort of concern, but as per usual, he doesn't seem to even notice. He's more or less ignored her since that night. When they are alone, Mr. Schuester takes a seat and pats the chair next to him. Rachel sits reluctantly.

"Rachel," he begins slowly. "Is there something going on with you? I mean, I'm not a professional or anything, but it seems like there's something bothering you. It's usually the rest of the group that has trouble keeping up with you, not the other way around."

Rachel tries her best to keep her voice steady as she speaks. "I appreciate your concern, Mr. Schue, but I am...fine."

Her voice goes up an octave as she spits out the last word, and it's done. She's blown her cover. She was not fine. She flinches as Mr. Schuester places a hand on her should awkwardly.

"Would you like me to get Ms. Pillsbury? I'm sure she'd be happy to talk to you."

"No, please don't do that," she cries, a little too fast. "It's just teenager stuff. Girl stuff, you know. It's stupid. I'll be fine. I am fine."

"Rachel, listen to me."

Mr. Schuester is not giving up. Of course. Why does he have to be so damn caring? Anyone else would have dropped this. As it is, he's dangerously close to bringing her to tears. That's not exactly difficult at this point -- all those hormones she's read about are finally rearing their ugly heads, and that coupled with her constant nausea and extreme exhaustion have made her a complete wreck. Last night, she watched Deal or No Deal and then cried for three hours.

"I'm concerned for you. I've noticed a change in you in the past few weeks, and worries me. You don't seem okay. I get that you don't want to talk about it, and that's okay. It's not my business. I just hope you know that if you ever need to discuss something, I'm here for you. Everyone in Glee is here for you. Well. Almost everyone."

Rachel tries to smile at his attempt at humor, but a single tear has formed in the corner of her eye, and as soon as it spills down her cheek, the floodgates opens. She's suddenly sobbing so hard that she can't catch her breath, and Mr. Schuester is watching in horror, wondering what in the world he's done to this poor girl. He was only trying to be nice.

"Rachel, Rachel, stop," he says, putting his hands on her shoulders. "It's okay. It's going to be okay."

"No, it's not," she chokes. "You have no idea how not okay it's going to be."

Rachel opens her mouth to speak, but between sobbing and gasping for breath, she can't form anything close to real words. She's not even sure what she's trying to say. Should she tell him? At this point, would there be any use in denying it? Mr. Schue obviously knows that something is wrong, and it will only be a matter of time before she's all fat and stuff. In fact, she already feels like her clothes don't fit right, but that's probably just her mind playing tricks on her, and also maybe because she's been eating a shit load of carbs because it's the only thing she can keep down. It will either make her feel better or worse, and she doesn't think she could feel worse than she already does, so it's a win-win situation. Or something like that.

Mr. Schuester is quiet now, presumably because he's afraid that whatever he says is going to upset her more than she already is, because teenage girls are crazy. He gives her a supportive pat on the back and shifts awkwardly in his seat. "You're okay," he whispers.

"Mr. Schue," she says quietly, her voice trembling, "I...I'm pregnant."


Things are getting weird.

Rachel is exactly ten weeks pregnant today, and the baby is the size of a orange, according to a website she's been clandestinely visiting several times a day. She spies one of the small fruits in the refrigerator as she grabs the milk (so she can pour a bowl of cereal that she will only take two bites of before she feels sick), and really, really wants to hug it or something. She doesn't, because her dads are in the kitchen and they would find that really, really odd, but the desire is there. She glances at it longingly before shutting the door. Maternal instincts are creepy as hell.

"Rachel," her Daddy says, pulling a bagel from the toaster.

She spins around quickly. "Yes, Daddy?"

"I scheduled a doctor's appointment for you this afternoon. Don't make any plans after school."

Rachel's blood turns to ice.

"Why would you do that? I'm fine."

"You've been fighting a stomach bug for weeks, dear."

"It's just a virus. You can't do anything for a virus. It will just run it's course."

"Thank you, Dr. Berry, but I'd like a second opinion," her Daddy says. "I'll pick you up at 3:15."

Rachel has to think fast. She cannot go to the doctor right now. Not with her dads there (and they will want to be there -- her Daddy, at least. He's so overprotective). She knows she actually should be making plans to see an OB/GYN, but she's read that most don't see you until you're twelve weeks, so she doesn't feel guilty just yet.

"But I have Glee practice this afternoon!" she blurts. A lie. She's doing a lot of lying lately. She hasn't really ever lied to her dads before. Not about anything major, anyway (but then, she's never really had anything major to lie about). She doesn't like it. She wishes she could bury herself in their embrace and tell them all about what's been going on and ask them what she should do, and she asks herself briefly why she can't, and then she pictures the disappointment and the sadness and the anger, and she realizes exactly why she can't. It will ruin them. They're obviously not the most traditional family, but they have aspirations for Rachel. There is so much they want her to accomplish, and they have sacrificed so much to give her the opportunities she needs. So they can't know about this. For now.

"I thought you only had late rehearsals on Thursday?" Her Dad looks up from his newspaper.

"Well, we really need to practice for Sectionals. Mr. Schuester wants us there on today, and I have to be there. They can't manage without me."

"Well, okay," her Daddy says. "When should I pick you up?"

Oh, crap. Rachel hadn't thought of that. She'll have to find something to do around the school for awhile. Whatever. She'll sit in an empty classroom for hours if it means she has a few more days to keep her secret, well, a secret.

"Um, you know, don't worry about it. It could go really late. I'll get a ride home with Kurt or something. He's picking me up, he might as well drop me off, too. He lives just a few blocks away."

"Are you sure? We could pick you up and then we could go to dinner. Red Lobster, maybe?"

Rachel can't even begin to mask her disgust. Seafood makes her sick. Most food does that, really, but food of the sea persuasion is high on the list of Things That Taste Like Hobo Vomit.

"It's your favorite!"

"I'm, uh, thinking of becoming a vegetarian. Trying to be more ecologically friendly, you know, decreasing my carbon footprint. Think green!" She pumps her fist in the air and gives a half-hearted woo-hoo!, which on second thought, she realizes might be too enthusiastic.

Her parents exchange a glance. They're on to her. Damn it, she's awful that this. Of all the people to get knocked up at sixteen, couldn't the universe have picked someone more well-versed in the art of deceiving people? One would think her extensive experience in the arts would make her a better actress. Just as her father opens his mouth to speak, a horn beeps outside. Thank. God.

"Oh, that's my ride! Bye, Dad! Bye, Daddy!" She gives them each a quick peck on the cheek. "Love you! Don't wait up!"

She bounds out of the house quickly, before any more questions can be asked. That was a close one.


Ten minutes later, Rachel is climbing out of Kurt's SUV. She surveys the parking lot and spies Cheerios at 10 o'clock, so she quickly changes her route. She's trying even harder than normal to avoid those girls – she knows that they won't leave her alone once her news breaks out. She hopes to keep it under wraps for at least another month, but who knows what will happen? One whiff of a scandal and the whole school will be buzzing with rumors within the hour.

She enters the crowded hallways of McKinley High and makes a beeline for her locker. On the way, she passes Mr. Schuester, who casually asks how she's doing.

"Quite well, Mr. Schue," she says, putting on her best smile. "Thank you for asking."

This is a lie, and she's pretty sure he knows it from the way he smiles empathetically, but obviously she can't just say that the reason she's practically running to her locker is because she has a package of Saltines in there and it's all she can keep down.

If you're going to confide your deepest, darkest secret in someone, Mr. Schuester is not a bad choice. She was worried at first, because he's a boy, and he's a teacher, and both of those are strikes against him in the stealthiness department. But he's been alright. She can tell he's trying really hard to look out for her without drawing attention toward her, and Rachel thinks that's sweet, even though she's generally opposed to the idea of being looked out for -- she's a very capable person, you know. Under her poised, ladylike exterior lies the strength and determination of a warrior, or ninja, or something equally badass. She's like Catwoman. Michelle Pfeiffer's Catwoman. Okay, that's stupid. But she can count on one hand the hours of consecutive sleep she's gotten in the past month, so cut her some slack.

But back to Mr. Schue. He's a good guy, and he's not being totally weird about it. He's not treating her like an awful person or an invalid, though she does notice that he's calling for more breaks during rehearsals (not that she's complaining – even basic choreography is taxing when you're exhausted, starving, and nauseous all that the same time). It's not like they're best friends or anything – come on, he's a teacher, and he's like 32 or something – but sometimes she just needs to talk about it, and he listens without being judgmental. He thinks she needs to tell her parents and the baby's father (she hasn't quite worked up the courage to tell him who it is), but he's not really bugging Rachel about it. She appreciates that. He's a good guy.

Certainly a better guy than Noah freaking Puckerman, whose voice is currently floating through the corridor. He and his ilk are carrying on in their typical teenage boy manner, no surprise there. She can't believe she ever even thought about dating someone so juvenile. Not that it was ever really an option – she knew he was just using her for carnal pleasures. But she's a girl and she'd be lying if she said she didn't get slightly carried away in fantasies about their relationship. She thought about how they'd become McKinley's darling couple, and how they'd move to New York together, where Rachel would be a Broadway sensation and Puck would…well, she didn't really care what Puck did, as long as it was fabulous, and whenever they'd come home to visit family, everyone who was ever awful to her would feel like complete shit, because Rachel was rich and famous and had a totally hot boyfriend, and they were all still Lima losers.

If that wasn't out of reach before, it definitely is now.

She yanks her locker open and starts unloading the contents of her ridiculously heavy backpack, when suddenly she can smell him. The strange combination of chewing tobacco, old leather, and aftershave is nearly overpowering, and it brings her right back to the night she'd rather forget, and then she hears him whispering her name, and his warm breath tickles her neck, and she wonders if this is some sort of pregnancy-induced mental break, because it seems so real. And then his hand his on the small of her back and she realizes that it is real, and she's flabbergasted. What is happening here? They have barely spoken in months, exchanging only barbed insults and death glares from across the room, and she was pretty sure he had moved onto Santana – and the rest of the Cheerios, but mostly Santana.

She spins around quickly and is about to give him a piece of her mind, because really, it's been nearly three months and he's been an asshole and how dare he touch her, because she did not give him permission to touch her, and she could press charges if she felt so inclined? And then before she gets a word out, her face is so cold that it burns, and a wet, sticky substance is trailing down her shirt. She gasps and sputters, spitting orange slush from her mouth. Orange, really? All she can think of is her little orange-shaped bastard baby and the fact that it's worthless father just Slushied her, and she wants to scream and she probably will in a few minutes, but first, an all too familiar feeling is gnawing at her stomach. She tries to suppress it, she really does, but there's no use. The entire contents of her stomach rise up her throat and, in a moment that cements her belief in karma, land directly on a certain mohawk-sporting, leather jacket-clad teenage misfit.

Which would be awesome if it wasn't so gross.

Everything is still. No one moves, vomit-covered Puck included. Quinn eventually breaks the silence by glaring hatefully at Rachel while loudly proclaiming that she has never been more disgusted in her entire life, and then the hallway comes alive again. The jocks rally around Puck as he makes his way to the locker rooms, pausing to gag every few seconds, and Mercedes and Tina grab Rachel's arm and lead her through the jeering crowd, toward the female restroom.

On the bright side, Rachel thinks to herself, this day can probably only get better.


They found her a shirt to wear – some piece of a costume from the choir room's closet – and her face has almost regained full feeling. Everyone keeps telling her that the whole incident is nearly forgotten already, but people keep dramatically shielding themselves whenever they pass by, and from the way people are laughing, she thinks that joke probably has a lot of life left in it.

Normally, she would simply rise above it. Celebrities must be capable of overlooking ridicule if they want to survive the business. This is good practice. Unfortunately, nothing about this is normal, and she can't rise above shit right now.

All she can do is cry. And cry and cry and cry.

She cried throughout Spanish class, and English class, and math class, and she cried while eating lunch, and she cried while throwing up lunch, and now she's crying in the choir room while the rest of the group tries to rehearse, which isn't going well because every time they try to sing above than her sobs, she just cries louder, which she is honestly not doing on purpose. Honestly.

When the song ends, Kurt turns to her and says, "I'm not trying to minimize your feelings, really, but it was just a Slushie."

It was not just a Slushie, she wants to scream. It's so much more than a fucking Slushie.

But she tries not to curse in polite company, so instead she just cries harder.

"You made her cry," she hears Finn say to Puck, who has been sitting in the corner with his arms crossed the whole time, like a scolded child. "She's a girl. That's not cool."

"Oh, come on. It's Berry. And besides, how many times have I slushied her before? How was I supposed to know that she would freak?"

"I'm just sayin'. It's too far, bro."

"Well, what do you want me to do?"

"Say you're sorry or whatever."

"That wouldn't help."

"Of course it would."

Puck turns to Rachel. "I'm sorry for Slushing you today, Berry. Now chill out, or I'll do it again."

Rachel stops crying for a moment and stares at him with wide eyes. Then her face crumples and she's at it again. "You're a monster," she wails.

Puck rolls his eyes. Girls.


Rachel looks briefly at her cell phone. It's 4:37 and she's bored. She did homework for awhile, and she played the piano in the choir room for awhile, and now she's sitting on the steps in front of the school, waiting for a decent time to call her parents to come pick her up. No one wanted to wait around with her, so she's kind of stuck here. She wants to hold out until at least 5, when the doctor's office closes, because otherwise she's pretty sure her daddy would drag her there and somehow convince the doctor to see her immediately. He's like that.

The sun goes behind a cloud, and the warm cement turns cold. She checks her phone again. 4:38. She watches as the few remaining cars pull out of the parking lot. From behind her, someone coughs. She looks over her shoulder, and her whole body grows tense when she sees his stupid face.

He waves his empty hands in the air. "I'm unarmed."

Rachel purses her lips. She has nothing to say.

Okay, actually, she does.

"You're a really awful person. Did you know that? Because you really are. You're just…bad. You're like the bad boy with a heart of gold except you don't have a heart of gold. You have no redeeming qualities whatsoever. You're arrogant and shallow and your hair is ridiculous and you can't even sing, and I don't know what anyone sees in you, not even those bobble head cheerleaders, because you are awful."

The part about his singing is a lie, because his voice actually makes her swoon a little inside, and his hair…well, it works for him. But otherwise, it's all true. For the most part. So, okay, he has some redeeming qualities. But not very many. Definitely not enough for her to forgive him for the Slushie thing. Or the getting her pregnant thing.

"What are you doing out here?" he asks, and Rachel wonders if he heard a single word she said, or if he's just ignoring her because he knows she hates being ignored.

"Waiting for my parents."

"Why?"

"Because I live five miles away."

"Why don't you just drive yourself?"

"Because I don't know how."

Puck looks confused, and slightly panicked. "You're not, like, some 12-year-old genius kid, right?"

"I'm sixteen and a half, thankyouverymuch. My dads just won't teach me. It makes them nervous."

Puck laughs, and then continues down the stairs. "That blows." He gets halfway to his car before turning around.

"I think the gentlemanly thing to do here is offer you a ride."

Which is why you're not going to?

He stares at her expectantly. She stares back.

"Berry, are you coming, or what?"

"I can't accept or a reject a proposition until it is actually proposed to me, Noah."

Puck's jaw tightens. "Would you like a ride, Rachel?" God, this chick is crazy.

Rachel weighs her options. If she gets in a car with Puck, she'll be in a car with Puck. Alone. There would be no witnesses if he murdered her. But then again, there would be no witnesses if she murdered him, and she feels like that might be a possibility, so that's a plus. It would also lend a bit more credibility to her story about Glee practice – her dads might wonder why no one would give her a ride home if they all left the school at the same time.

"Berry." Puck taps his foot impatiently. "Yes or no?"

Oh, what the hell?

"Yes."

"This isn't the way."

"I know where I'm going."

"If you knew where you were going, you would have turned left on Elizabeth Street, like I told you to."

"I have to stop at the gas station."

Rachel peers to her left and eyes the fuel gauge. "You have plenty of gas."

"I didn't say I needed gas, did I?" Puck snaps, annoyed.

"Then what are you getting that can't wait until after you drop me off?"

"Dip. And taquitos."

Rachel narrows her eyes. "Are you serious?"

"They put the last fresh batch out at 5, and those little fuckers go fast."

Rachel suddenly feels very, very hopeless. The father of her baby is racing through town to get gas station taquitos before they run out. Could someone just kill her? Please?

Fifteen minutes and one ridiculously trashy detour later, they slow to a stop in front of Rachel's house. She hesitates for a moment, then grabs her bag and opens the door.

"Thanks for the ride," she says, "And the taquito, I guess." She gestures to the greasy, fried shell, which she plans to throw away as soon as she gets inside, because no way is she going to eat it, but he offered it and she didn't want to seem rude, so she took it anyway. She would rather have him buying her gross convenience store food than throwing gross convenience store Slushies in her face.

He gives a quick nod of acknowledgement, and the truck roars back to life. As she walks up the driveway, she is startled by the sound of a car horn. She turns around to see that Puck's truck hasn't moved.

"Sorry for slushing you today," He mumbles. "I can't make any promises – I mean, I've got a reputation to uphold here, you know. But I'll try not to get you in the face next time."

Rachel smiles. "Thanks, Puck."

A/N: Well? I know, it wasn't great. In fact, I know it was really just a giant clusterfudge of crapfic. But if you somehow enjoyed it, or didn't hate it, or even if you did hate, please feel free to review. The one thing I really, really miss about publishing fanfiction is the reviews. Because they were awesome.