Please keep in mind that, I'm, in fact, not an North-American citizen. The title is taken from Donny Osmond's song 'Hey, lonely girl'.

"Some girls they don't forget it,

love is their only happiness."

- Try a little tenderness by Otis Redding

Wednesday April 3rd, 1974, 4:35 PM

Route 75, OH, the United States

...

Tired, she leaned her head on his shoulder. She let out a yawn and his free hand shifted over to cover hers. She looked at their hands, her fingers gently tracing over his scars from the war, faded but to her they felt new, fresh, present. She adjusted her head a little, so she could look at him. The sound from the rain outside almost blended out the low sound of his radio.

"If I had a day that I could give you, I'd give to you a day just like today," she heard him sing along softly and it hurt her like a knife in the chest. He used to sing with pleasure, without fear. Now he felt like he had to hide.

There was a flash of lightening for the sixth time in fifty minutes, the time they'd been on the road since they left his house and they were getting more frequent. It was unlikely dark for an April afternoon.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, grasping his hand tightly and he turned his head to look at her, his grip on the steering wheel tightening.

"Why?" A frown appeared on his face and he glanced over at the abandoned road for a moment before looking back at her.

"For everything."

He looked back at the road and that was that. A silent agreement that they wouldn't talk about it anymore.

She turned her head to kiss his shoulder, resting her head there for a moment before turning back to look at the barely visible highway. By now they're was lightening and thunder and she quickly did a prayer, cursing herself for not having taken her rosary.

"Shit," he mutters as his windscreen wipers stop working and everything goes by so fast. He leans forward and lets go of her hand, resting it on the steering wheel instead as he tries yanking on the handle to make the wipers work again and next thing she's knows she's screaming his name and she can feel rain on her skin.

Monday January 18th, 1971, 10:21 AM

The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States

She dug and dug and dug until she could feel the sand surround her hands, her fingers, her nails. She picked up a small green plant from next to her, yanking off her necklace before planting the plant on top of it.

"Miss Fabray?" She recognized the voice in an instant, it being her help since she was eleven.

"Yes?" She sniffed as she wiped her tears with her wrist. She didn't turn around, didn't hesitate, didn't stop.

For a sixteen year she could be quite dramatic, Santana Lopez knew this, but this time it was different. The young girl was barely twenty herself, but she was older in a much different way than age. Growing up as a Hispanic girl in republican North-America hadn't always been easy.

"It's almost time for lunch. You need to get ready." She folded her old dress behind her butt and sat down on her knees next to the blonde, wiping her hair from her face. "Look at you, you're a mess," she laughed silently as she wiped the dirt from the younger girl's cheek.

Quinn pushed her hands away, "Don't ridicule me," she spat as she started shoving dirt into the self created hole with both hands.

Santana stopped her, fishing the necklace out of the hole with ease and holding it up. It was a small silver hart, the initials S and Q on the back. "It's pretty, Miss Fabray, why are you burying it?"

"It has no value to me," she bit as she yanked it from her grip and threw it back into the dirty sand, continuing her task of closing it.

Santana stopped her once again, holding on to both of her hands, "Miss Fabray, burying won't change anything."

"It's Sam," Quinn said, not looking at her. "He broke up with me." Tears formed in her eyes and her voice broke, "He left me for some stupid middle class girl." Her lips quivered but she didn't break, didn't let a single tear fall. She refused to cry in front of people. Santana admired the way she was so strong sometimes. "He said he was under too much pressure, that he didn't like being watched every time we went somewhere."

"He's a fool, miss, I told you so," Santana smiled, recalling the way she had told Quinn that, Sam Evans wasn't good enough for her, and, besides his good looks he had nothin' goin' for him, as she nudged Quinn with her elbow playfully. She didn't break out in a smile, let alone let out a small laugh like Santana had hoped she would.

"You just gotta keep on truckin'," Santana told her wisely as she helped her up and dusted off the girl's dress. "C'mon, we need to get you cleaned up for lunch. Your father would kill me if you're late, miss Fabray."

Quinn nodded, giving in as Santana lead her inside, pushed her inside the bathroom to the already filled bath smelling of roses, rinsed out her hair, handed her a pretty dress, positioned her in front of the vanity, put on her make-up and combed her hair.

Santana knew her like the back of her hand, and when she saw Quinn working in the garden while preparing food in the kitchen, she knew something was wrong.

"Do me a solid," Santana said as she finished braiding Quinn's shiny blond hair and looked at her in the mirror, "Smile. Girls with a pretty face like you shouldn't be frowning."

"I feel stuck," she whispered in response, staring at herself in the mirror.

Santana helped Quinn up from the chair and patted her cheek, "C'mon cariño, today is tomorrow's yesterday." Quinn nodded her head before descending down the stairs slowly, Santana following her, only a few feet behind her as they entered the dining room.

Tuesday January 19th, 1971, 08:02 PM

The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States

"You can cry if you want to," Santana doesn't look at her, instead focuses on sewing Quinn's dress. She had ripped it earlier today, on a walk with her father in the garden.

"Why would I?"

"I'm not dumb, I'm not blind and I'm certainly not deaf, miss Fabray. You've cried yourself to sleep the past nights."

Quinn doesn't say anything, just swallows, pinches her arm so hard she has to bite her lip to keep herself from crying out in pain.

"Damnit," Santana curses as she puts her finger in her mouth. Making sure Quinn wouldn't see, she would've have fainted if she had.

Quinn sits up, admires the way Santana goes on after seconds, her hands working swiftly. Her black hair is loosely hanging on her shoulders, just a few strays tucked back her ears, the way she only wears it when no ones around, except for Quinn sometimes.

It shows Quinn that she trusts her, so she should trust her, too, right? She has known Santana for years. She helped her with her algebra homework, made sure she didn't stay up late, made her favorite dinner on her birthday, played with her when she was bored, kept her excited for tomorrow in a world like this. In some way Santana was her mother, maybe her sister. She was family. She could trust her. She should trust her.

"I really thought I loved him," she tells her, biting her lip as she plays with her blanket. She picks at the fabric.

Santana sighs, puts the dress down, smooths it, "You're sixteen, querida, this may seem like the end of the world right now, but you out of all people should understand. You're dad is the president."

Quinn tightened her jaw, she hated that, she hated all of that. Her father, yes, not her. She is not her father nor will she ever be him.

"There's a war going on, people are dying, people are homeless, children are hungry,- you have a lot of blessings, miss. There will be other boys. In time."

"You sound like my grandmother," Quinn tells her after a moment and Santana continues to sew.

"Don't make a fool out of me, miss Fabray. You'll regret it when you know what I know."

...

Wednesday January 18th, 1971, 09:25 PM

The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States

"It'll be alright, miss Fabray," Santana tells her as she closes the curtains and turns off the lights except for the small one next to Quinn's bed.

"You're on to speak. Every Sunday at church you sulk about some boy you haven't seen in forever," Quinn tells her as she absentmindedly turns the pages of her book. She didn't know what it was about. The title just said something about Hitler, and pink rabbits and she thought it'd distract her. It didn't.

"Who says it's about a boy?" Santana says as she sits down on the edge of Quinn's bed.

Quinn looks up at Santana, asking herself if she heard it right, "Are you saying... But that's a sin."

"Is it really? Is it a sin to love?" Santana takes the book from her, puts it down on her nightstand, tucks her in. "I don't blame you, miss Fabray. It's how you were raised, it's what you were taught to believe is right."

"What's her name?" Quinn whispers, her mind racing as Santana turns off the light next to her bed.

"It's just my family I miss," she says, knowing it would put her mind to ease. It was better this way, lying. Quinn knew what she had meant, but she didn't really know because she wasn't told explicitly. Now she could always deny it, tell people she hadn't known, if people were to ever find out.

It was better that way, lying.

Thursday January 21rd, 1971, 11:46 PM

The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States

"You should be asleep," the Latina hisses as she opens the door to Quinn's room, quickly turning off the light before one of the guard would see and tell her father.

"I'm sixteen, I'm old enough to decide these things for myself, damnit," Quinn snapped and Santana shushed her once again.

"That's no way for a lady like you to talk," she whispers, throwing her hair over her shoulder, pulling her nightgown over her knees as she sits down on the chair by the vanity set.

"You curse all the time, don't treat me like a child," she bites back, raising her voice even louder. She wanted someone to hear her, damnit. She wanted someone to yell at her and to punish her. She must've done something wrong.

Why else would Sam leave her? Why else would he want to hurt her so much?

"I'm not a pretty lady like you, miss Fabray," Santana doesn't raise her voice, doesn't talk to her in a degrading way, just irritates Quinn even more.

"Just go away."

"Go to sleep."

"Go away!" She screams and Santana shakes her head.

"You're a little girl, miss Fabray, a little stupid girl."

Quinn breaks out in tears this time, the first time Santana has seen her cry since she broke her arm when she was twelve.

"He didn't want me," she sobs, her voice breaking and Santana caresses her hair with her hand, lays her down on the bed. "He didn't," she shook her eyes, squeezing her eyes shot as tears flew from her pure green eyes Santana envied so much.

"Hey Quinn," she sung softly, changing the lyrics, voice cracking a little from the years of lack of singing, stroking Quinn's hair, "Don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better, remember to let her into your heart then you can start to make it better."

...

Friday January 22rd, 1971, 08:17 PM

The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States

"I wish to speak to Mr. Fabray."

Santana's posture didn't falter as one of the guards asked her to spread her arms and legs, and it didn't falter when his hands lingered on her chest, either, nor when he shared a laugh and a cheeky smile with the other guard. She was used to it. They knew that if she said anything to anyone she wouldn't be believed, she'd get fired even, so she never did. She just wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her distraught.

She held her head up high as they told her the familiar, "Keep it short, Miss Lopez." She opened the doors to the oval office, not once she'd been here without getting this weird sense of pride, of awestruck, and immediately spotted Russel Fabray behind his desk. She cleared her throat. He didn't bother to look up.

"Yes?" He asked her, signing a piece of paper.

"I'm here about Miss Fabray, sir," she tightened her jaw, her hands behind her straightened back.

He leaned back on his chair, sighing as he looked at her. He took of his reading glasses, nodding for her to continue.

"I was wondering if I could take her out," she fastened her speech as she saw his interest already decreasing.

"That's out of the question. I won't let my little angel out of this safe haven under your supervision. You can barely handle her in this house,-" she cut him off, even though she knew it was disrespectful.

"She's cried herself to sleep for the past four days. Ever since she and that kid, Sam, broke up," she paused, looking down before looking into his eyes again, "I'll take two bodyguards and we won't go to far, just a nice, little restaurant with a small band playing. It'd be good for her. She's been feeling imprisoned and this will make her last for at least two full years at this place."

She'd never been good at pleading, begging. She had self respect, pride,- but Quinn, she was like her little sister. "She'd really appreciate it, sir."

She saw the hesitation on his face so she leaned forward putting her hands on his desk, lowering her voice as she bit her lip, "I'd really, really, appreciate it, sir."

"Four bodyguards, two hours top."

"Thank you, sir," she stepped back, nodding her head at him before making her way back to the kitchen. She breathed heavily even though she hadn't ran and rested her back against the fridge, hoping non of the other helps decided to do some dish-washing at this time of day. She felt dirty, disgusted, like she was betraying little miss Lucy Quinn Fabray and her sister Fran, the sophisticated Fran with her degrees and diplomas and her racist husband. And their mother, Judy, sweet, distant Judy with the pretty eyes that had been nothing but good to her.

She shook her head as she wiped some sweat from her forehead with her white apron.

Miss Fabray was going to be the dead of her.

Friday January 29rd, 1971, 06:17 AM

The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States

"Time to wake up, Miss Fabray. Today is a special day," Santana told her as she opened the curtains in Quinn's room, it was twice as big as Santana's entire house had been back in time when she still lived in the southern part of America.

Quinn yawned, wiping her eyes, half awake while Santana took the blankets from her, putting a white dress on the bed.

"What's today?" She let out another yawn as she swung her legs over the bed.

"Me and you get to go out tonight, somewhere else, not this goddamn place. Everything is so white," she snickered to herself at her ironic choice of words as she shooed Quinn of the bed, quickly making it.

"Please don't use God's name in vain, Sant,- Wait? I get to go out?" Her downcast behaviour turned into excited, in a split second as she pulled her sleeping gown over her head.

Santana puts a pair of flats next to the bed, tells her, "Two hours, Miss Fabray, but you have to be on your best behaviour the entire day. No frowning, just smiling and nodding."

Friday January 29rd, 1971, 14:17 PM

The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States

"You can borrow one of my new dresses," Fran tells her, a sweet smile on her face but Quinn knows she means little of it.

"Thank you," she tells her, even though she doesn't want to borrow one of her dresses. They're different, sometimes maybe even too different and Quinn doesn't like the way she dresses. She takes a sip of her hot tea as quickly as she can, burning her tongue but she doesn't hiss, doesn't curse herself, doesn't beg for a cold glass of water.

"That's so nice of your sister, isn't it?" Her mother says as she wets her napkin with her salvia and wipes Quinn's eyelid with it. She doesn't wince, but it takes everything in her. She can feel Santana's eyes bore into her back as she watches from afar, ready to answer any request she or her family makes.

Sometimes she feels sorry for her. She left her family in an other country at a young age to provide for them and here she has to whatever they say, no matter how degrading it was they asked of her, she'd do it. Quinn wasn't a fool, she knew Santana was one of the more lucky ones, working in the White House. She promised herself she wouldn't think about things like this, they were too real, to unguarded unlike her life here.

She lived in a big, plastic bubble, guarded from real sounds, real smells, real colors, real people because of who her father was, except for rare occasions.

Rare occasions like tonight. She can't believe her father would let her out of the house.

"It is, mother," Quinn nodded her head mindlessly as she took another sip, ignoring the stinging feeling in her tongue.

"Richard bought it for me a while back," Fran wraps her hands around her warm glass. "It's a size two," she adds, her eyes boring into Quinn's in a way that makes her stare back.

Judy nods, a tight smile forming on her lips, "Great, you can keep it then, Frannie could never fit into a two. She has her grandma's hips."

Quinn knows Judy isn't trying to be mean, just honest. She also knows her sister blames her. Not so much for being skinnier or prettier, but being her parent's favorite. God knows that if she could change it, she would. Not because she loves her sister so much, but because she doesn't like to get treated any different from others.

It's a joke, really, a joke she tells herself, the president's daughter.

"Misses Fabray," one of the other helps, an older woman with brown curls erupting from the pile of hair on top of her hair, says, "President Fabray wishes to speak to you."

Judy nods and raises from her seat, "I'll be right back girls."

Quinn catches Fran's eyes again. She looks away, coughs, plays with the hem of her dress. Her hands turn sweaty and she feel uncomfortable under her gaze. She's about to start a conversation, say something but Santana clears her throat.

"Miss Quinn, Brittany's on the telephone."

Brittany was one of her friends from middle school, before she was home schooled. A nice Christian girl with the right parents. She was nice, sweet, had a pretty face. She was a bit of a ditz but she had always treated Quinn as she treated anyone else.

Quinn feels Fran's eyes on her back as she leaves the table, hears the crunching of cookies, before she enters the living room.

"Hello?" Quinn asks as she puts the phone against her ear, twirling the white cord around her fingers.

Santana takes the phone from Quinn's hands and puts it back down.

"She's not on the phone."

"What?" Quinn asked her head snapping up, a confused look on her face.

A small smirk forms on the Latina's face, "What would you do without me, cariño?"

Friday January 29rd, 1971, 06:36 PM

The White House, Washington, D.C., the United States

Quinn stares at herself in the mirror. Fixes her hair, reapplies her lipstick, makes sure the dress sits right in every place, takes off the lipstick, puts her hair down, puts on another color of lipstick, changes her shoes, takes of the white necklace she's wearing, puts her hair up, puts on another ring.

Santana stops her hands once again, takes the pins out of her hair and makes a nice braid in the front of her hair, something she used to call a 'princess crown' even though Quinn had been too old to be so oblivious.

She takes off the lipstick, claims it makes her skin looks pale and applies some lighter color instead. She sprays some perfume on her wrists and on her collarbones, tells her she should put some behind her ears too before she tells her they have to leave in ten.

Santana throws her a smile, tells her not to be nervous, calls her a cariño, leaves to change herself.

Quinn let out a breath she didn't know she'd been holding, looks at herself in the mirror again and holds her stomach. She feels nauseaous. At first she had hated the dress, but Santana had given her a cute belt and a nice sweater and it had improved the outfit in tenfold.

"You look beautiful," she hears her mother from behind and she turns her head abruptly. She winces, reaching for her neck. Her mother never came to approve of how she looked, not even before she went on dates with Sam.

"Thank you," she blushed, not because of the compliment, she was used to people telling her she looked beautiful, but because it was a compliment from her mother.

Her mother stepped closer, cupping her daughter's face in her hands. "You watch out, okay? Don't try to do anything stupid and don't part ways from the help or any of the bodyguards, do you understand?" It was like her mother knew then, this was the night that her life would change. It intrigued her, knowing one night could have so much impact. She longed for something different, something fun.

"Ready to go?" Santana knocked on the door and Quinn nodded, hastily placing a kiss on her mother's cold cheek.

"I'll see you in two hours."

...