"Dammit - I knew I should've just met you two at the theater!" Quinn groans as she dodges around the throngs of evening rush hour pedestrians clogging the sidewalks of Times Square.
Santana rolls her eyes at Quinn's impatience as Brittany happily bounces and twirls between the grumpy pedestrians, making a magical dance-break out of the mundane jostling crowd. "Not our fault, Q-Tip. What kind of air marshal has no respect for two smokin' hot women joining the mile high club? The repressed kind, that's what! And who the hell even knew there was such a thing as fucking "airport jail"?! Or, you know, airport jail for -"
Quinn tosses a pleading hand up. "Please stop trying to give me visuals, I beg you."
Brittany hops up behind Santana."Ooh! Next time we should totally just fly cargo, sweetie! Remember that time when Lord Tubbington picked the lock on his carrier and hooked up with that toy poodle flying to the Beatles dog show?"
Honestly Santana thinks the priceless look of confusion on Quinn's face is worth every Brittanyism in the world...
"What? Abbey Road...Westminster Abbey...Westminster Dog Show. Who the hell can't follow that logic? I thought you Yalie's were supposed to be quick on the uptake," Santana answers Quinn's unspoken question without missing a beat.
"San, don't be mean. It's not Quinn's fault she could only get into Yale. Even some of the professors at MIT have trouble following me sometimes. I try speaking really slowly, but it usually doesn't help. Anyway, back to my point. Nobody cared about Tubbs and Nunsoe Duc de le Terrace of Blakeen - except for her owners who still write me the nicest letters threatening to sue - and now there's a beautiful new breed of Tabipoos to prove that love knows no bounds," Brittany smiles effusively as a few pedestrians who had caught her comment nearly trip into traffic while doing double takes.
"Yeah, maybe that love should've remained bound...and gagged…" notes Santana with a cringe, ignoring Quinn's dry "wanky" comment about the binding and the gagging. "But I think you just managed to traumatize three native New Yorkers with one comment, baby, so - bonus!" As Santana and Brittany high-five each other and laugh Quinn shakes her head and charges forward.
"Oh thank God - we're here. That means we have go inside and shut-up now before I hurl myself in front of traffic too." Quinn pushes Santana and Brittany toward the door of the Eugene O'Neill Theater, but suddenly stops in her tracks to stare in awe at the theater marquee and the billboard featuring Rachel and the leading man in a passionate embrace. For a moment, everything stops and the background noise of the bustling crowd recedes. Rachel looks beautiful. And right where she belongs - in the lights of Broadway. Quinn blinks away a few tears of pride.
"Yeah-yeah-yeah. Take a picture to masterbate to later, Fabray. We're late, we're late!" Santana says, having a little too much fun mocking Quinn's nervous impatience and pushing her toward the theater doors. Quinn notices that even her iciest HBIC glare only earns her a smirk from Santana and an unfortunately loud question from Brittany about when she and Rachel will be "joining the mile high club." Quinn wonders again why she ever thought meeting Santana and Brittany in New York to see Rachel in her first Broadway show was a good idea.
As the three of them make their way to their on-stage seating Quinn again questions the sanity - or lack thereof - of this idea. As soon as she had heard that some of the audience actually sat on the stage for Rachel's show, she knew she wouldn't be able to resist. Just as she knew she wouldn't be able to resist just showing up and surprising Rachel. But now she was beginning to doubt the wisdom of both those decisions.
"Ok, you two - we're kind of on display up here, so just show a little decorum please? I really don't want to find out if there's a Broadway jail."
"It's so great that you're finally opening up about your special unicorness, Q, but maybe we should wait until after the show to have anal sex on the stage," Brittany whispers as though she were speaking - very inappropriately - to a small child, and just loud enough to open up a couple of surrounding seats as people begin slowly migrating away from the three of them.
Quinn cocks a mystified eyebrow at a smirking Santana for a second before realization dawns and she mouths "Santorum" with an almost proud smile at having deciphered Brittany-speak without any interpretation from Santana for once. Of course that smile almost immediately shifts into a repulsed grimace at the image that Brittany has now planted like a landmine in Quinn's subconscious. Luckily she doesn't have any more time to dwell on those 50 shades of disturbing as the house lights go down.
As the lovely mournful opening strains of "Mama Who Bore Me" engulf the air the spotlight falls on Rachel, standing alone on a chair center stage, eliciting a subtle gasp from Quinn, who literally clutches her pearls.
Rachel is mesmerizing.
And Quinn is suddenly very aware that it's not just her who thinks so anymore.
Every person in the theatre is transfixed, even the ones who are surreptitiously aiming their camera phones to try and bottle the magic in bootleg videos that will be tossed into the wilds of Youtube for all those unlucky souls who'll never sit in the Eugene O'Neill and marvel at this miracle of modern musical theatre. Quinn shakes her head at her own breathless (and overly-alliterative) inner monologue, but she just can't help herself. It really is that good.
And Rachel...dammit, Rachel Berry is a revelation.
Fuck Funny Girl.
This is the role Rachel Berry was born to play.
Well, Quinn thinks with a satisfied smirk, the first of many. Quinn had seen Rachel Berry sing the hell out Fanny Brice and Sally Bowles and Eponine; seen her rearrange countless pop songs and make them her own; and the Celine...ugh, always with the Celine.
But forget about all that now.
Nothing could have prepared her for the sheer fucking heartbreaking beauty of this. The whole cast is amazing and their harmonies are achingly perfect and perfectly tight.
Rachel has finally found her harmonic home.
Quinn suddenly realizes she's never before heard Rachel sing with a whole group that was playing at her level. It's a thing to behold, and Quinn can't help but wonder how Rachel didn't lose her patience with the New Directions' loose pitchy high school attempts much more often than she did.
"Oh, I'm gonna bruise you...oh, you're gonna be my bruise…"
I always knew that my ability to cry on cue would serve me well once I made it to Broadway. Mind you I obviously had no idea I'd be begging to be beaten and then collapsing to the floor sobbing eight times a week, but given my natural faculty for dramatic moments it's not as challenging as you might think. So much so that I occasionally find myself getting lost in my own thoughts during performances and just soaking in the moment.
I am on Broadway.
I, Rachel Barbra Berry, am actually on Broadway.
For just one second a tortured cry of existential pain morphs into a jubilant giggle, but I think I cover it well as I lift myself up from the stage floor and pick up Melchior's book.
Heading off the stage my eyes quickly scan over some of the audience sitting on the stage. Clearly a grandmother has come with her teenage granddaughter to see the show and is currently finding her shoes very interesting. Two tourists gaping like they took a wrong turn on the way to Aladdin. The excited young drama students - we recognize our own - who look like they want to jump up from their seats and take our roles right now. The three former cheerleaders who look like they're in shock from this unexpectedly avant garde-
I damn near give myself whiplash with the double-take I execute.
What the Fu -
"Rachel! Move it or lose it!"
The stage manager has to virtually manhandle me out of the way as my castmates rush the stage for the next scene, but I can barely process that - or remember my own name - right now.
"Rach - are you alright? You look like you just saw a ghost."
"Three, actually…"
Santana could barely contain the guffaw working its way up her throat. Rachel's face when she saw the three of them sitting just a few feet away mirrored Quinn's "deer in the headlights" expression when Rachel had raised her skirt and demanded to be spanked just moments before. And then she actually tripped over her own feet rushing off the stage. God almighty, I love "the theatre"!
Quinn smiles but stops herself from actually waving the second her eyes lock with Rachel's. Seeing how impossibly wide those famously expressive doe eyes are, she feels a little guilty about springing this visit on her like this. OK, seeing Santana shaking with silent laughter next to her after Rachel nearly face plants coming off the stage she feels a lot guilty.
At least they had gotten through the most awkward scene though. With that beating scene done the rest of the show should be smooth sailing, surely…
"I can hear your heart beat, Wendla…"
Yes, I'd imagine so, thought Rachel. Considering I'm basically having a panic attack on stage right now!
Rachel was grateful that Quinn and Santana and Brittany were at least sitting behind her so she couldn't actually see them during this scene.
Uhm…
Shit!
Rachel was now picturing exactly what angle they would be viewing things from in just a few moments as…
Double-shit!
Quinn Fabray, her tormentor turned rival turned grudgingly friendly teammate turned close friend, turned…
Well, nothing. They'd hit the 'close personal friends who always seem to share almost inappropriately intimate emotional moments in public restrooms' stage and kind of plateaued. With a couple of exceptions those rail passes had been gathering dust on their respective shelves. Of course one of those exceptions had brought Quinn and Santana to New York to talk Rachel out of baring her breasts in a student film.
Hilarious.
Hysterical even, which is the state Rachel is fast-approaching as the inevitable simulated sex looms ever more near.
Really though, Rachel has to congratulate herself on continuing to hit every cue and mark and remember every line and emote like hell even as she suffers a psychotic break on the stage of the Eugene O'FreakingNeill Theater.
Exactly.
Professional.
I am a professional.
And an adult.
And I'll have actual sex on the stage of the Eugene O'FreakingNeill if I want and there's not a damn thing Quinn Fabray can do about it, so there. Rachel mentally stomps her foot….
Uhm…
Yeah, where did that come from?
Ok, just get a grip on yourself, Rachel. Your parents have seen this scene for Barbra's sake. It's no big deal.
Of course my parents were four rows back so they couldn't really see that much. And sure, they'd wanted to literally be sitting front row center on opening night to support their baby girl, but when I'd explained what would be transpiring between Wendla and Melchior in the hayloft scene everyone's faces had turned an interesting shade of pink and they'd decided it was best to acquiesce to my demand, or rather urgent request, without further debate.
They certainly hadn't just decided to surprise me by showing up without warning and sitting 12 feet away on. the. stage.
Freaking Santana Lopez. This has to have been her doing. It has "Snix" scrawled all over it in bold serial killer print...
Rachel briefly wonders if theater security checked them for slushies…
Honestly, this is just silly. She and Santana had made their peace...kinda-sorta... She and Brittany had never really had a problem. And she and Quinn had long since moved on, and were in a good healthy place now. They'd even been Skyping regularly to stay up to date on each others' lives while Quinn took that half-semester trip to Paris to immerse herself in French culture.
They were friends. Like best friends almost.
"Yes, you've totally been friend-zoned," her unwelcome inner voice pointedly chimed in.
"Shut the fuck up, Ray! No one needs your kind of help right now," Rachel's more reasonable inner voice hissed.
Ray chuckled, then grabbed some popcorn and sat back to enjoy the show...
The voices in my head are arguing amongst themselves. This is gonna be perfect, Rachel thought with a mental eyeroll. I hope Seth Rudetsky will remember me well on 'Chatterbox' after I pull a Cassie July and end up being institutionalized for "indefinite exhaustion..."
OK, enough of this! Let's face it, your breasts are all over Youtube already. Anyone and everyone could've seen them by now. Your kindergarten vocal coach and your mailman could've seen them. Quinn could've seen them already.
Quinn could've seen them already.
Quinn could've seen them and then Skyped with me and never let on and just sat there discussing French cafes and Voltaire and everything else that wasn't "yeah, and I saw your tits, Rachel - nice!" she pictures controlled, cultured Quinn giving her a thumbs up and a wink like she'd just body switched with Noah Puckerman.
Where the hell did that come from?
"Me," answers Ray helpfully as he tosses another kernel of popcorn into the air and catches it in his mouth with a gleeful grin.
"You are 12."
"I am also you," he answers with a smirk.
"Ok, I need you to stop making words now," Rachel's inner adult replied.
She mentally steels herself and begins unbuttoning her top.
'Okay, Thelma and Louise. Looks like it's showtime...'
What? Everyone names their breasts. Stop looking at me that way. Everybody just go about your business…
"I can hear your heart beat, Wendla…"
Quinn wonders if everyone on stage and in the audience can hear her heart beat, which has become increasingly erratic as this scene has progressed.
Dear sweet mother of all things holy and sacred! Their stage seats are affording Quinn an unprecedented view of Rachel Berry's breasts, even as they're currently being motorboated by her supposedly gay leading man. Quinn arches a skeptical eyebrow at that. Yes, yes - he's an actor, but he just seems a little too good at his job for Quinn's liking at the moment.
He also looks waaay too familiar. Rachel had mentioned he bore a passing resemblance to Jesse St. Jerk, but…
"Passing resemblance" my Ivy League ass - he's his damn doppelganger!
And according to Rachel a ridiculously sweet guy and most definitely totally gay. So there. Nothing to worry about. I'm trusting my Rachel on this.
Uhm…
Shut-up.
No, seriously though.
Please stop.
Why does it matter so very much to you whether St. James' non-evil twin over there is getting tingly feelings in unmentionable places whilst he mounts and motorboats Rachel, and since when the hell did she become "Our Rachel"?
Not that I owe the peanut gallery of voices in my head any explanations, but...since somewhere sophomore year, though I'm not sure if that counts since it was all repressed in a haze of Leviticus and wine coolers and slushies and self-loathing.
Whatever.
We're all grown-ups now. Time to stop lying. To myself, and to Rachel. I'm not lying to Santana because her freaking 'Psychotic Mexican Third Eye' sees all and Brittany's a damn sexual savant so that ship's long since sailed.
It's probably somewhere around Fiji by now.
How I wish I were on it...
"Actually, I think you really wish you were on-"
"Shut the Fuck up, Ray!" barks Quinn's inner HBIC to her mischievous inner voice.
"And put that popcorn down. That better be low fat, bitch!"
Ray laughs until he cries...
I feel like joining him…
In the world outside her head, Quinn jerks back as a smirking Santana reaches into her personal space to dab a tissue at the corner of her lips.
"You just had a little drool there," smirks Satan with a knowing grin.
Quinn bats her hand away with a warning glare.