Quinn fell in love when she was six years old. Back when her parents were still having sex (and not just to make babies for Jesus) and sitters were indispensable fixtures in the Fabray household. Between church socials, shuffles to and from soccer, choir, gymnastics, cello, aikido, and ballet, and Mr. Fabray's seemingly eternal climb to the cutthroat upper echelon of his father-in-law's firm, affection was one of the commodities Quinn sought from the steady rotation of shallowly wholesome teenage girls Mrs. Fabray enlisted from venues she referred to as "halo havens," mostly church and organic grocery stores.
She had been six and Rachel 16. The crush outlasted Quinn's first baby tooth, two tumultuous imaginary relationships with equally imaginary friends, an orange phase, a tutu phase and even Quinn's pet guinea pig Lazarus. Rachel was different—Quinn's grandparents called it Jewish, whatever that meant. Quinn didn't care if Rachel was Jewish, even if it made her grandpa scrunch his nose like a whiff of something sour because Rachel always made her feel special.
Rachel never cushioned answers with Biblical references when Quinn asked innocuous questions like the other girls had. Rachel never spoke to her in confusing condescending tones that managed to sound both counterproductively clipped and syrupy at the same time and Rachel definitely never invited sweaty boys over to gnash teeth with when Quinn simply wanted to play Chutes & Ladders. No, Rachel coached her on form, helped her with math, science, finger placements and notes, vocal warm-ups and dance numbers and beaded sequins when her guinea pig replacement, a Labradoodle named Moe, ate half of her winter recital gown.
Rachel peeled on gold star stickers when she behaved and really listened when Quinn spoke, even if it was only to share some whimsical if entirely paltry observation about ladybugs. Best of all, Rachel always sang her to sleep and Quinn thought she sounded prettier than the people on the radio. When Quinn suffered a mild scrape or niggling bump of misfortune, she'd make herself cry harder, sometimes to the point of physical illness just so Rachel would rock her tight and croon.
Quinn didn't understand why Rachel had to leave Lima after graduation. Looking back, sure, she wanted Rachel to actualize her potential and all that, but why did she have to fulfill her dreams at the expense of geographical convenience? She'd been at Rachel's graduation ceremony, traced the trajectory of her graduation cap as it was heaved into the stodgy pre-summer air. The last time she'd seen Rachel, a couple days before her New York departure, she'd ripped off the star-shaped brooch Rachel had pinned to her blouse and hurled it at the ground. She remembered yelling, "I hate you!" and her eight-year-old voice had been shrilly and contemptuous and heartbroken. She'd later sent Rachel an apology gram that was more glitter than anything else. Gold, blue, and red flecks had christened Rachel's studio apartment when the brunette pried the priority mail envelope open the Thursday afternoon she'd received it.
Mutual correspondence between them had lasted another year before Rachel's replies dawdled into trickles or plugged up bursts and then one Frankenstein sort of conglomeration of holidays before simply fizzling dead. Quinn rationalized that Rachel's life had gotten too busy and glamorous to bother with artless niceties. After all, who had time to placate stupid inelegant Midwestern girls when they were trying to be famous? Rachel didn't need her, heck, Rachel didn't even want her in her life. Not when she had glitz and the New York City skyline.
So Quinn grew up. She sold out, traded Rachel's gold brooch for make-up and after school gossip, for the footings of a prosperous adolescent social life and later, the holy grail of status symbols: a glossy Cheerios uniform. Meanwhile, Rachel bussed tables and shared a one bedroom flat with five people and was fired and mugged and evicted in one breadth. She slept on friends' couches and subway cars for a whole week. And then there was a stretch where Rachel served fro-yo and moved into a two bedroom flat with seven people and hooked up with a theater troupe and starred in non-profit dramas and one musical. She starved and scarcely subsisted on Ramen, hope and sheer determination for weeks, months, more. She hocked cell phones and bootleg purses and sang at weddings on weekends. And one night, one hungry, desperate night that bled into all the others, a wild thing happened… Rachel was discovered.
The skeletal production proved to be a bombshell breakthrough hit for both Rachel and the local theater company, garnering buzz and more importantly, the critical acclaim that granted Rachel access to the silver screen.
So Rachel grew up. She sold out, traded stage directions for camera directions and artistic integrity for six figure paychecks, the East Coast for the West Coast. She accepted statuettes and raised funds for charities and spoke at galas and rustled up her first seven figure paycheck. She smoked pot out of Swarovski crystal encrusted Roor bongs with movie moguls and drank more booze than she ate and had cigarettes for breakfast and dessert and railed coke, but only sometimes. And then she got a DUI and some sponsors got spooked and production on her next projected blockbuster was halted until the studio deep-pockets were convinced she'd been absolved by the public. So Rachel's agent shipped her back to Lima in a cumbersome pair of Oakley sunglasses where she was to stay with her dads and complete outpatient treatment at an obscure rehabilitation facility "until further notice."
Naturally, Rachel was mortified. Rehab was for rich baseheads, not impulsive Hollywood starlets in-the-making. She drew comfort from the notion that she'd clawed her way out of Lima once and presented with an ultimatum, she'd do it again.
Upon entering her childhood bedroom, Rachel couldn't help but cringe at the noxious levels of placenta pink that greeted her, outright swarmed her senses and screamed. Rachel felt like she was inside of a womb. She sank onto her mattress and sighed. Below, her dads were fussing over the details of a proper homecoming dinner, above hung a painfully overstated motivational poster she'd trussed up when she was an annoyingly ambitious teenager.
God, Rachel rationalized, tucking her arms behind her head, coming back to Lima is like getting demoted, but despite her feelings of shame, dread and deprecation, Rachel shut her eyes and did something she hadn't done since before she was discovered, drifted off into a fitless sleep.