Rachel can already tell she's going to be bored in this class. There are only three books on the syllabus( all of which she's already read), and their teacher seems to be made of bubblegum, positive attitude, and not much else.
She's all for being sparkly (her Bedazzler can attest to that), but she likes there being some substance there, too. Talent. Intelligence. Not a blonde gesticulating wildly and taking 10 minutes to explain the honor code.
Maybe she shouldn't have taken AP English as a junior. She thought having English her senior year would be nice, an easy class. Something of a break, a breather in between her lessons and other advanced classes.
Breaks make her bored. She should've realized this.
This is only the first day.
Rachel looks up the row next to her to Sam. His blonde hair is no longer hanging in his eyes (thank GOD- that was getting rather tiresome. Maybe Mercedes made him cut it), even though he's leaning over to something on his lap…
It's a comic book. He takes a long time to turn the pages.
Rachel spies Catwoman on the lower right corner of the page.
A memory of her sliding up her doorway in that ridiculous leather suit flashes through her mind, unbidden.
You look like a sad clown hooker!
She's never been good at letting go of unpleasant memories, and they always seem to come up at the worst times.
Imagine something better that could happen instead…that's what her therapist tells her all the time, so she decides to try it.
Sam would probably love her catsuit, if he appreciates them in cartoon form. He'd cover her lips with his big mouth, though he may be uncertain about what to do with his hands (according to Quinn when no one could sleep in their New York hotel room, he always was).
Jesse would've never called her a name, either. He might've laughed at her, softly, and cupped her face in his hands. He probably would've told her that she doesn't have to dress up for him, that she's lovely as the stunning young ingénue she is, and kissed her forehead. Perhaps he would've suggested a duet of Point of No Return instead, saying that it was a far more sensual choice than that 50s drivel.
Rachel chews at the end of her pen contemplatively. This is actually rather fun. Who else…
Her eyes fall on Puck, flicking the underside of his desk with a lighter (she should scold him about that later…it's not lit, at least, but still)
Hmmm….what would Puck have done?
Noah Puckerman, connoisseur of hickeys and Sex God of McKinley (this position was, apparently, reinstated over the summer after Lauren dumped him), would've reacted to her catsuit with far more boldness than the previous two.
At the sight of her, he would probably have emitted a low growl (similar to the one she had heard when she nipped at his lips), circled her hips with his absolutely magnificent hands (big, musician's hands, callused in spots and gloriously smooth in others) and pressed her onto her bed and…
Oh.
Rachel crosses her legs primly, tugging down her skirt a bit (why did September in Ohio have to be so hot? Surely she would've worn something of a longer if weather permitted) and licking her lips.
Puck definitely wouldn't have called her a sad clown hooker in that situation. Hot as hell, maybe. And he would've eaten up a Tell me about it, Stud (though he probably wouldn't understand the reference), not cringed from it.
That particular outfit was strapless, wasn't it? How would he work with that? He'd probably pull down the sleeves with his teeth, and…and…and…
"Rachel?"
"What?"
She breaks out of her reverie to see the majority of the class shuffling out.
"Are you ok? I had to say your name like five times-"
The green eyes that were, in her mind, blazing are now concerned.
"Fine! I'm fine!" she practically shouts, feeling her neck flush.
She really does mean to sweep up her binder, but she ends up knocking it, and a few folders, to the ground.
Puck leans over to pick them up (oh, she is a bad, bad girl), but she rushes to get all of them first, grabbing her backpack and hurriedly hoisting it over her shoulder.
"Jesus, Rach. Chill out."
"Are you alright, dear?" her English teacher calls from the whiteboard.
"I'm fi-"
"Because you look a little flushed. Are you sure you're not sick?"
"I'm FINE. REALLY. I PROMISE."
She pushes past Puck and sprints out of the room.
Well.
Her therapist's advice may have worked a little too well.