This will get less angsty as time goes on, I swear. Tell me what you think, I suppose.
Just once, I'd like for everything to turn out the way I see it in my head. Just once, I'd like all of my planning to actually be warranted. I'd love to just hand people scripts of what I want them to say, "Hello," I'd say, "just follow along and say everything like you really mean it. Don't improvise and we'll be fine," and then I'd say all the things I'd rehearsed so many times before, and instead of everything going to shit, the people I'm talking to would just read what I wrote for them and that would be that. But no... if I've learned anything, it's that people don't like to be so clearly manipulated and also that Brittany has miraculously undiagnosed severe dyslexia.
So when I walked up to Brittany, my heart in my throat, prepared to bare my soul to her after years of fooling around, I had learned to expect the conversation to go somewhat differently than I'd practiced it in my head. I had not, however, expected her to a) seem unphased by my confession or b) love Artie more than me, or at least enough to turn me down. God, this was the kid who had asked if he could use the 'ostrich eggs I was smuggling in my bra'. I had stomped away after she completely went off script, nearly stumbling drunk on anger, and only seeing red. Red and tears. I contemplated how I had gotten where I currently was. How had this happened to me? How did I end up like this? It was only a kiss.
Four years previous
I had met Brittany four years before everything went down. It was the end of our eighth grade year in April, hot and stuffy, but still April nonetheless. I had been lying in the grass in front of my house, which was never comfortable no matter how much I wanted it to be or how many towels I put down to try to but some distance between me and the blades. I had just seen a movie about some surfer girls and was consequentially trying to get a tan like them when a shadow appeared, blocking the sun.
"Move, mom," I mumbled, half asleep from the heat and far too lazy to be bothered to actually look at who was standing over me.
"Not your mom, sweetie." Even back then Quinn had been bitchy. Not anywhere near my level, but she had shown serious potential in those days, before the whole baby debacle made her placate and passive aggressive, rather than outright bitchy.
I pried one of my eyes open to look at my only friend, who was really more of a frenemy than anything at that point. I was only friends with her because she was the only person I could stand, and even that was only about 60% of the time.
"What do you want, egg?" I snapped at her, though my voice had come out lazy and husky, like thick molasses dripping off a spoon.
"Egg?" she questioned, cocking her head to the side.
I groaned, sitting up reluctantly and pushing my sunglasses back, "Faberge eggs. It sounds like Fabray...They were given by Russian royalty to each other in the early 1900's... no? Okay." She looked confused, so I just waved my hand dismissively, intending to move on.
"I ate a Faberge egg once, but I didn't know you needed to take the foil off. It tasted like pennies," an oddly monotone voice sounded behind Quinn, one that I didn't recognize.
"What? No, they're made of gold... Q, who's with you?" I stood up, brushing the imaginary grass off me, wondering who was crazy enough to eat a chocolate egg with the foil still on.
"This is Brittany Pierce. She's in my ballet class. She's the key to our plan for next year," Quinn stepped aside, revealing Vanna White-style a blonde girl, taller than either of us, with a vaguely lost look on her face and a smile that could kill. In that moment, I was sure it had.
"Hi," I said curtly, nodding my head and then turning towards Quinn, not wanting to stare at Brittany, who looked like she could use a hug for no real reason.
"How is she going to help us get on the cheer squad next year? Or make us popular?" I glanced at Brittany, who was now sitting happily on the grass playing with a stray cat that was missing an ear and was notorious for trying to kill people who got too close to it.
"You need to see her dance. She's amazing. We'll get on the cheerios for sure if she teaches us," Quinn said in a conspiratorial tone.
"Q..." I began. Brittany was so hot, I didn't want to ruin it by getting to know her. I hated 99% of the population, so there was very little chance that the foil-eater would be someone I enjoyed.
"No," she said quickly, cutting me off, "she stays. And we're spending the night so that we can start practicing ASAP," she snapped at me. She was one of those people who pronounced ASAP "ay-sap", which drove me insane, so I was pretty much focusing on not yelling at her for that, and by the time I noticed she was gone, she had picked up her bag and strode into my house. I looked down at Brittany, who in turn was squinting up at me, one hand trying to shield her eyes, legs crossed, and a blank look on her face.
"You look like jesus," she said. I didn't know how to respond. "It's okay if you don't like me," she continued, not in a hurt way, just in an honest way that I would come to realize was just how Brittany thought and communicated.
"Stay away from my shit and we'll be even stevens," I said, offering a hand and helping pull her up before leading her into the house.
After a few hours of her trying to show Quinn and I dance moves and then us trying to teach her left and right, we finally went upstairs to get ready for bed. Quinn had already claimed my bed, which normally would have made me furious, since it was my house to which she had invited herself and my mother who was going to drive her to church in the morning, but since it meant I would be sleeping on the floor next to Brittany, who had quickly captured my imagination (and woken up a maternal instinct that I didn't know even existed with in me), I was alright with the arrangement.
My parents were fighting. This was a common practice when I had friends over, it was like clockwork. The instant I bring friends in the door, they're at each other's throats. Quinn had already pulled some stupid eye mask over her face and jammed ear plugs into her ears, decreeing that she didn't care what we did, but "do not try to wake me up before 8:30", so it was just me, Brittany, and the screaming below. We sat on the plethora of blankets we had covered my floor with, facing one another but not quite looking at each other, trying to pretend we weren't listening to the hateful sounds. Just like every time they fought, I squeezed my eyes shut, wrapped my arms around my legs, tucked my chin against my chest, and prayed for it to go away. Brittany just sat calmly, her legs crossed and her hands sitting limply in her lap, never moving her gaze from a spot on the floor. When my mom finally slammed their bedroom door, I flinched, clenching my fists and willing myself to shut my eyes tighter.
"My parents fight too," Brittany said quietly, finally tearing her gaze form the floor and looking at me.
"Mine don't fight much," I lied, keeping me eyes shut, hoping we could just drop the subject there.
"Sometimes they throw things too," she continued. I opened my eyes at this. "Once, my dad broke his hand punching a wall. He didn't even apologize to it," she mumbled, a sad expression coming over her face. She had already said so many weird things that day, I had figured out that she just saw the world a little differently than the rest of us and decided it was best to stop questioning her comments.
The house had grown quiet and I began to think the fight was over. I sighed deeply and began unclenching my fists, glad it was over for so many reasons. But then the bedroom door slammed open (who knew that was even physically possible?) and my mother began berating my father with renewed fervor. This time, I could hear what they were saying. She was screeching about leaving, about never coming back, and about how, if he was going to sleep around, so was she. He just kept screaming "You don't tell me what to do" over and over again. Luckily, it was all in Spanish, so the intricacies of my family's dysfunction remained unknown to Brittany, but anger is an emotion that transcends language barriers, and fury was something everyone understood. This time, the front door slammed, and with it, my father screamed, "Then go, you whore!". I waited, holding my breath, hoping I wouldn't hear the car pull out of the driveway, but sure enough, the wheels squealed as she began driving away from our house as quickly as possible. Driving away from me. With that, I broke down sobbing. It wasn't the first time she had left, but it was the first time I'd been home when she departed, and it was the first time I was afraid she wouldn't be back. I tried to close my eyes even tighter and attempted to strangle the sobs.
I remember feeling hopeless for an instant, but then Brittany put her arms around me and pulled me close, letting me rest my head on her lap while I bawled. She didn't say anything. I think she knew that there was nothing to say. She hummed and she stroked my hair, which was more than enough for me. Somewhere between her humming some cartoon theme and me realizing I felt safe for the first time in a long time, I fell asleep. I woke up the next morning, her arms still wrapped tightly around me and my eyes puffy from crying. I barely knew her, and already she had seen more of the real me than anyone else. I should have known what was coming at that point, but hey, hindsight is 20/20.