Quinn picked up her phone when she saw Rachel's name flash across the screen. She hadn't spoken to her girlfriend in almost 54 hours, and had received only one text in that time: "College is overrated. Moving to Africa. Learning to play the bongos. Jambo." Quinn was concerned, but not unduly so — it wasn't unheard of for Rachel to respond to stress with mild histrionics. Before the SAT, Rachel had decided to move to New Orleans and become the "witch queen of New Orleans." She was still looking up plane fares fifteen minutes before the proctor began the exam.

"Hey, baby!" Quinn said, brightly. "How are you?"

"The pizza was cold, Quinn!" Rachel was sobbing into the phone. "Co — " she hiccupped " — old!"

"What, Rach?" asked Quinn, confusion clear in her voice. "What pizza?"

"My pizza, Quinn! My favorite vegan soy-cheese, gluten-free, veggie-supreme pizza and it was co-o-old." Rachel dissolved once more into tears.

"Sweetie," said Quinn, calmly. "I don't know what you're talking about. Can you tell me what's going on?"

Rachel blew her nose. She took a deep breath. She sniffed. She exhaled, long and shuddering.

"Well, as you know, Quinn," she began, "with the stress of college applications and conservatory auditions and admitting that I, too, need a back-up school, and that Indiana University does, in fact, have a very competent musical theater program, I've been waking up at 5 instead of my normal 6, in order to get in the necessary cardio workout, and there was no hot water in the shower this morning, and I got to school at 7.20 instead of my usual 7.15, which deprived me of a full five minutes of precious rehearsal time, and we had a pop quiz in Calc, and I know the AP exam is a full six months away but I'm so unprepared, and I was slushied after fourth period, and I forgot my back-up shirt so I was sticky and wet and cold all afternoon, and I missed lunch for Glee, and in my hip-hop dance class I twisted my ankle, and then in fencing lessons I broke my favorite epee and got a huge bruise on my leg, and then I finally got home and all I wanted was my left-over vegan soy-cheese, gluten-free, veggie-supreme pizza from last night and I microwaved it, but when I bit into it the pizza was still co-o-o-old." She dissolved into sobs again.

Quinn paused. That was a lot to absorb. She hadn't counted, exactly, but she guessed that Rachel had just spent three minutes on a single, enormous, run-on sentence. All without a single pause for breath. One thing in particular stood out to her.

"You take… fencing lessons?"

Rachel sighed. "Yes, Quinn," she said. "As you know, I believe in the importance of presenting a well-rounded applicant package to the colleges of my choice. I've been fencing since I was eleven in order to help build that package."

"You fight… with swords?" Quinn was picturing a scantily-clad Rachel on the deck of a pirate ship, complete with a jaunty three-cornered hat and Johnny Depp as her opponent.

"No, Quinn. Swords are what they use in the movies. I fence epee, which is one of three weapons and — " Quinn heard a beeping noise through the phone and Rachel abruptly stopped in the middle of her — no-doubt riveting — explanation.

"What was that noise, babe?"

"I put the pizza back in the microwave. I think it's done, now."

There was silence for a moment, and then Quinn heard Rachel moan into the phone.

"Yep, it's done!" she exclaimed, ecstatically.

Quinn laughed. "Go eat your pizza, love. I'll see you tomorrow. Are we still on for a sleepover at your place?"

"Mmhmm," Rachel moaned into the phone. "Bye, sweetie!"

Five minutes later, Quinn was still picturing Rachel as a pirate — now fighting the Kraken from the second Pirates of the Caribbean movie, her shirt torn and revealing her tan stomach.

She was interrupted by her phone buzzing. It was a text from Rachel: "I love you, babe, thanks for putting up with me. If I move to Africa, I want you to come. You can dance to my sensuous drum beats. xoxo."