This story stands a 97.6% chance of being incoherent. Sorry for that (and all the typos).
Rachel does things spectacularly, Quinn thinks, and not just in the dull concept of the word.
Everyone else might notice the way her dark eyes cast over her audience with every song, and the way they scan over each and every head as if to memorize every single face. A few might notice the way she spins on her toes when she turns for a number or the way she smiles at certain lyrics as if they mean something more to her than the rest.
But Quinn doubts they take in the things that her own eyes draw to, the things that she catches without intent.
Like the way Rachel's eyes close for a micro fraction of a second longer than usual whenever she sings the word "you." Or how she always picks a spot on the wall as a focal point if the motive behind her selection is in revealing her irritation toward something.
Quinn knows it's easy enough to perform—with a little practice—but she knows that Rachel does much more than that. Rachel is the embodiment of art, a literal lullaby as she stands above everyone else while she's on stage. Even without a spotlight, there's a radiance in her that's immune to the shadows of others.
People might notice the way she struts around the school, her regulation skirt several inches shy of regulation standards. They might notice the way she walks with a sway to her hips, the black pleats sashaying against her toned thighs, and the way she smiles flirtatiously when someone calls after her. There's also the way her equally black socks hint at tight calf muscles and a startling span of leg that Quinn knows she's not the only one to notice.
However, she has yet to remark anyone else capturing the way Rachel's cheeks burn after those catcalls, the way her steps become more solid as if she ever doubted she was worthy of the attention. As if she needed to hear it to believe it.
Then there's the way Rachel laughs.
What most people would offer as a description would be that Rachel laughs loudly. She laughs with purpose, a full, boisterous laugh programmed to a single setting, and she always means it. Her head falls back as her throat bobs and a deep, throaty sound passes by her lips. It's easy to stop there and overlook what makes her special, but Quinn has never been successful in neglecting the little things.
There's an awareness only Quinn can claim, such as the way Rachel simply giggles whenever something funny to her actually holds value, along with the way she hums with a smile if she finds something endearing. Her neck even straightens out and her nose crinkles if she's caught off guard by something particularly entertaining.
And maybe Quinn is too poetic in her own thoughts, too willing to believe that someone other than herself demonstrates various ways of coping with the uncertainties of life around her. It doesn't change the fact that anything Rachel does snares her in and begs for her attention—which she gives.
Rachel is something of an enigma to Quinn because, where the blonde struggles, Rachel glides. If Quinn was to submerse herself in water and choke on it, Rachel was to jump in the sky and coincide effortlessly with it.
It's a misguided initiative on Quinn's part to see if Rachel can take a knock and fly.
They've been at odds with each other the entire year, Quinn always prodding at Rachel only for the brunette to bounce back from whatever onslaught is thrown at her. What started as small attempts to get Rachel to reveal her secret—whatever it is that feeds her determination—had long since morphed into admittedly disgraceful attacks on Quinn's part.
Be that as is may, any negligible guilt she feels fails to stop her from ramming her shoulder into the brunette's as she passes by her in the hallway.
It turns out that Rachel can't fly as well as she can fall.
Normally, Quinn puts a disinterested mask up and walks the rest of the way to her class as she ignores any response to her actions. Today, Rachel changes their unspoken arrangement. Quinn can hear the upset in the other girl's voice as she pushes up from the hallway floor and calls her name.
"Lucy Quinn Fabray," she yells, and Quinn swears the entirety of the student body comes to a shrieking halt. She suppresses a wince at the use of her actual first name, the one she thought she'd kept hidden from even the most attentive of inquirers.
A petty voice whines in her mind and tells her to just keep walking and ignore the stupid dwarf.
The rest of her has her hackles risen as dozens of heads are turned in her direction.
"Well, shit," she mumbles under her breath, pointedly regretting her impromptu decision to try to knock Rachel down a peg or two. Absolutely no part of her wants to have some kind of showdown in the school hallway—not with so many witnesses, at the very least.
Quinn is popular for one reason: she's feared. She's beautiful, rich, and her parents were voted at six on the rankings of the most influential people of New York as of last year.
Rachel is popular for a multitude of reasons. She's pretty, talented, helpful, intelligent, caring, and just egotistical enough that it comes off as charming rather than conceited. Her classmates genuinely like Rachel, and that's something Quinn can't say for herself.
Which brings Quinn back to her current dilemma.
Individuals rarely stand up to her, the threat of her power too intimidating. In the off chance anyone is ill-advised enough to stand against her, he or she quickly comes to anguish over the decision.
But Rachel is an exception. She doesn't fear Quinn in the slightest, and the blonde knows it. She just doesn't know why.
Quinn swivels around, an eyebrow already raised in place.
"Yes?" she finally asks through the quiet of all her peers holding their breath.
"What is your problem with me?" Rachel's foot stomps as her fists shake at her sides. The left corner of Quinn's lips twitch at the sight—of the brunette's many talents, being scary is not such a one.
It's so incredibly still in the hallway that Quinn swears she hears someone swallow and the urge to question, "Seriously?" bubbles lowly in her throat. Shoving the feeling away, she just shrugs and gives Rachel a onceover.
Her books are strewn across the floor, her black tie is obviously disheveled, her right sock is slightly lower than her left, and her eyes are on fire. There's a prickle at the base of Quinn's ear and she wants to scratch at it, only she knows what it means.
She's always kind of known.
"I don't have a problem with you," she says truthfully. "You were just in my way."
There's no possible way Rachel can understand what she really means by that, yet the brunette's shoulders relax as she stares back and it's like watching a thread go through the eye of a needle when her eyes widen. The reaction lasts all of one second, and then Rachel's face returns back to normal, but Quinn knows she didn't just make it up.
Before anything can come of it, Quinn turns back around and starts walking. She steps through the door of her dorm room just as the announcement that "Dinner will be ready to be served in an hour" sounds over the announcement system.
There's nothing for Quinn to do for the next ten minutes except wait, and so she does. She sits on her bed and waits, taking the time to run her palms over the silky material of her blankets.
She'd gotten the set when her parents dropped her off with a credit card and a quick goodbye—they hadn't even told her they'd enrolled her in boarding school until she was quite literally standing on the steps of Mount Henry Academy with a questioning look on her face.
She got a quick explanation about how they were going to be in and out of New York for the next few years, and how they didn't want her to live alone or have to keep moving. What happened after was history, as far as Quinn is concerned, and she discards all her thoughts about the matter the moment her roommate walks through the door.
"So," she chirps, hopping off the bed to grab the ID card she'd left on her dresser. "Want to get dinner?"
Rachel drops her school bag and rolls her eyes at the blonde, not actually answering her question. Quinn tucks her ID in the singular pocket of her own black skirt while she awaits an actual response. When one doesn't come quick enough for her liking, she leans back against her dresser and watches as Rachel unpacks all her books.
"Well?"
She doesn't like putting herself out there, but she knows that Rachel is undoubtedly still sore over the whole hallway incident. Really, she should be used to it by now. The only thing consistent with Quinn is her ability to be in a completely unpredictable mood at all times in the day.
Of course, she suspects that she isn't quite as unpredictable to Rachel as she'd like.
"And why," the brunette begins, "Would I wish to go to dinner with you after that childish stunt back there?"
Quinn pushes off her dresser and walks to the threshold of their doorway.
"Because I'm buying," she offers over her shoulder.
Something between a sigh and an exasperated puff of air sounds from the brunette, and Quinn accepts the light shove she feels as Rachel's side meets her shoulder.
"You're damn right you're paying for it," she quips, walking ahead of Quinn in her storm-out and leaving her in the dust. As she absorbs the shock, there's a faint question in the blonde's mind wondering if there's anything Rachel does that doesn't tell a different story depending on how she looks at it.