Epic Author's Note is Epic: Alright, so I have a lot to cover, but I'll try to move through it quickly so that I can keep the ANs to a minimum during the actual story. First of all, yes, this is a rewrite. For those of you who are joining me for the first time, you're not missing much; this is an infinitely richer text. For those of you who are joining me from the original, please be aware that ALL MAJOR PLOT POINTS REMAIN INTACT. Sorry if this bothers a few of you. More about this controversy later on.
Conception: The first time I was faced with the idea of ftm!Quinn, my kneejerk response was, "That's absurd." And then I thought about it and said, "Eh, maybe not." However, most of what I've seen has either not been written particularly well, or lacked the exploration that I really would have liked to see. For this reason, this fic can largely be seen as my response to the question, "How could someone like Quinn Fabray suffer gender dysphoria?" The answer to this question is a complicated one, and that is reflected in the writing of this. This means that I spend quite a bit of time laying down the necessary groundwork to make a gender transition believable and justifiable. For this reason, this is necessarily going to be a long one; settle in, we're going to be here a while. Act one is almost as long as the original fic in its entirety. Structurally speaking, you've seen most of these plot devices before (abusive Fabray family, Quinn's pregnancy drama, Rachel as safe house), but I'm putting them together to create something completely different. In this way, this can largely be seen as a Found Male Quest Narrative, and while it won't necessarily read this way all of the time, it is, in fact, AU. Chapters will be as long as necessary. If my outline is anything to go by, they'll vary pretty dramatically.
Writing Style: There are three major writing styles: physical, emotional, and mental. Most fanfiction is written to appeal to your emotions, though the most popular usually tend to be written by the most visceral of physical writers. I am neither of these things, though I do not mean to imply that I am in any way better – just different. I am a mental writer, which means that this fic is going to challenge you; both in structure and in theme. I largely avoid spelling things out and assume my readers are willing to do the work of unpacking the very deliberate language that I use. Furthermore, since this is largely a "protagonist vs patriarchy" narrative, I will necessarily be attempting to denaturalize popular yet problematic ideology, which will undoubtedly offend at least some of you some of the time. When this happens, I kindly ask that you take a look at the internalized ideas that govern how you think about these things and open your mind to a new perspective. Which leads me to…
Philosophy on Reviews: I shouldn't have to say this, but due to the inherently sensitive and controversial nature of some of the themes of this narrative, I'd like to take a moment to discuss the difference between reviewing and abusing. Constructive criticism is always welcome; constructive is the operative word here. This usually follows a formula similar to, "Hey, I really liked x, but y feels weak. Have you considered z?" Complaining because I have offended you, on the other hand, only tells me that you've taken time out of your day to leave a rude comment on a story that no one is forcing you to read, which basically means you're an asshole. In short, politeness will be met in kind; rudeness will be met with public mockery. You've been warned.
This Narrative is Informed By: Ferdinand de Saussure, Jacques Derrida, Michel Foucault, Helene Cixous, Sigmund Freud, Jacques Lacan, Judith Butler, Jack Halberstam, Eve Sedgwick, Adrienne Rich, and Jessica Valenti.
Last, but so very far from least, I'd like to take a moment to send one major epic shout out to the insightful and talented dgronison for acting as both a sounding board and guinea pig. This fic would be a shadow of itself without her input.
Building Fences Out of Tense Moments
Chapter 01
Plasticine
Lucy swung her legs freely off the edge of the top bunk as the corner of the dorm room slowly filled with boxes containing her sister's belongings. Lucy had done her part by bringing in the smaller and lighter items, but what remained was far too heavy for any eight-year-old. Since being useful was no longer an option, she knew her best course of action was to stay out of the way, and it seemed to be working pretty well.
She found Chocolate-a dark brown teddy bear just small enough to fit in her hands that she only remembered every living on Frannie's bed-in one of the first few boxes she carried in, and when it became apparent that she was no longer going to be useful to the moving endeavor, she tucked him under her arm and climbed up to the top bunk to keep her company while she waited until it was time to go home.
Her dad and her sister were carrying a sizable mini-fridge into the room while her mother pretended to direct them, though she at least fulfilled her "useful" requirement by opening and closing doors. Her dad said something about boys, but Lucy only caught the end of it and couldn't find the context.
"I know, Dad, I know," Fran said and set her end of the fridge down on the floor so her dad could lean his forward and stand it up. "I promise I won't get distracted."
"Just remember what you're here for," her father said before he walked around the appliance between them and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
"I'm here to study," Fran said like it was a familiar mantra with a firm nod of her head.
"And be careful about the kind of people you associate with," her dad added. "This is Los Angeles. It's not like Elizabeth."
Lucy grinned as she watched Frannie suppress an eye-roll.
"I know," Fran said. "The wrong network could wreck my future. Dad, you raised me well. Just trust me."
The appeal to his paternal brilliance was the magic key, because he just smiled widely at her and wrapped her in a rare hug.
"I'm proud of you," he said when he pulled away. They were words that Lucy heard a lot directed toward Fran, but the most Lucy ever got was an occasional, "good job."
"Thanks," Fran said and stepped around her father and into her mother's waiting arms.
"I love you," her mom said as she held her first daughter. "Please be careful."
"I love you, too, Mom. And I will."
"Well," Russell said roughly with a clap of his hands, effectively killing the mood. "We've got a plane to catch," he reminded them, glancing at his watch. "Walk us back to the car?"
"Of course, Dad."
He finally turned his attention to his youngest daughter on top of the bunk beds. "Come on, Lucy; it's time to go."
"Okay," she said quietly and started making her way toward the foot of the bed where the ladder was.
"What was that?"
"Yes, sir," she said more clearly, stepping down onto the floor.
"Actually, Dad, do you think Lucy and I could meet you guys out there?" Fran asked, catching Lucy's eye.
"We don't have time for that," Russell said as he tapped his watch in frustration.
"Oh, come on," Judy said, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Let them have their sister goodbye."
Russell made an unpleasant sound in the back of his throat and stormed out, but they all knew that was as flexible as he was willing to be.
"Be quick," Judy said to Fran, and then stepped outside, closing the door behind her.
"Hey, Luce," Fran said when they were left alone. She sat on the edge of the bed so she was closer to eye level with her younger sister. "I see you found Chocolate," she said, pointing to the bear still in Lucy's hands.
"Yeah," Lucy said with a nod and thrust the bear back toward her sister.
Fran took the bear from Lucy and held it delicately by its arms in her fingertips. She looked at it contemplatively for a few short moments before focusing again on her sister.
"I know you don't get along very well with Dad," Fran said finally, and Lucy dropped her eyes to the dull grey carpet beneath her feet. "And I'm not going to be there, anymore."
"I know," Lucy said, her eyes meeting Fran's blue ones.
"So," Fran started, and she seemed to be struggling with her next words. "You might have to try a little harder from now on, to do what he wants," she finally said. "Do you think you could do that?"
Lucy blinked thoughtfully and then nodded.
"Good," Fran said, smiling. She held Chocolate out to Lucy and asked, "Do you think you could look after him while I'm busy studying?"
Lucy nodded again, with more enthusiasm as a smile spread across her lips. "I could do that," she said as she took the bear back from her sister.
"Thanks. You're doing me a big favor," Fran said conspiratorially as she leaned toward Lucy, who just rolled her eyes.
Fran's smile grew and she wrapped her arms around her sister, hugging her tightly before standing up from the bed.
"Alright, Squirt," she said, heading to the door. "Better get going before Dad has a heart attack."
Lucy purposefully walked slower than usual as the two made their way to the parking lot to meet their parents.
"Quinn."
She tests out the name in her mouth, savoring the way it rolls over her tongue. It's heavy and thick, and the harsh sound of the Q contrasts so deliciously against the liquidity that follows and gives it that biting edge so necessary that without it, her name would feel like pudding.
It's perfect, really. It's uncommon enough to raise intrigue without tipping over into absurd and off-putting territory, and it's exactly the kind of name that the someone she is now would have.
She's Quinn Fabray-new student at McKinley High, home of the nation's top ranking cheerleading squad, which she'll be a part of if this day goes even slightly according to plan-and she has every intention of running the school by the time she graduates. She'll be a legend.
She knows this won't be easy. She has no delusions of grandeur. She knows she'll have to hang back for a while; she'll have to prove herself before she can begin her climb to the top-it's what she took an extra year after the surgery to prepare herself for. She'll keep her head down and play by the rules this first year. Then she'll compete for captaincy her junior year. She'll be on the prom court-a boyfriend will help with that; it has to be an athlete, though, preferably football-though she'll save queen for her senior year.
In short, she's going to have the high school experience befitting a Fabray. She doesn't care what she has to do to get it.
She looks hard at her reflection in the mirror, and searches for any imperfections in her face. She knows she won't find one, but she looks anyway. Her eyes scan her hairline and neck for any trace of foundation line, and find none. They move to her eyes, which are delicately lined in a dark brown shade that brings out the green flakes in the hazel of her iris, and she's thankful for small favors when it comes to the length and curl of her lashes. She turns her head slightly to the side, and the soft line of her nose sets the angles of her cheekbones in sharp relief. And her lips are painted just a shade dark enough to define them against the fairness of her face.
Natural is what it all comes down to.
Satisfied with the state of her face, she allows her eyes to trace over her own body. She tries to consider herself as a whole, but it's hard not to linger on the hips that still fill out her jeans more than they should. She makes an active decision to focus on the good things and turns to the side, sliding her hand over a flat stomach she never thought she'd have. And then her eyes glide over her arms-ever-so-slightly defined and on full display in her sleeveless shirt; she might as well show the cheerleading coach she's strong enough to lift other human bodies-and she smiles at the promise of power in her own body.
Despite this, she still feels off somehow. She knows she's as close to perfect as she can get, but sometimes, looking in the mirror like this, it just feels...
...uncanny.
She shakes the thought from her head and gets back to the task at hand. She cycles through her various expressions: a confident lift of her chin that elongates her neck, a carefully arched brow and a glare down her nose that's sure to intimidate, and a tiny quirk at the corner of her mouth that softens her just enough that she remains approachable.
It's a careful balancing act of maintaining the illusion of attainability, and it's one she's spent the past year perfecting.
She doesn't have time to run through the more nuanced masks in her repertoire, though, because her mother is calling her from down the stairs, yelling something about how they're going to be late unless they leave right now.
She's right, though, and so Quinn takes a deep breath and performs a final quick sweep of her eyes across the mirror before leaving. She takes the stairs two at a time, only to be greeted by her mother's disapproving stare. She pulls her shoulders back almost instinctively as she walks past the older blonde and out of the house.
They're mostly silent as they climb into Judy's car, and it's not until they've left the cul-de-sac that her mother purses her lips and says, "I'll pick you up in about an hour."
"Yes, ma'am," Quinn says, and keeps her eyes trained outside the window at the passing scenery. She doesn't think this meeting is going to last that long, but she learned a long time ago to pick her battles wisely. If nothing else, she can take the time to familiarize herself with the campus.
"And remember to thank her for the opportunity," her mother says as they pull into the school parking lot.
"I will, Mom," Quinn says, and unbuckles her seatbelt. Her hand hovers over the door handle momentarily before she turns back to her mother. "Thanks," she says, her voice soft, and she's referring to so much more than the ride.
She can't tell if it's lost on Judy, though, who just smiles tightly and says, "You're welcome, sweetheart," before placing a quick kiss to Quinn's cheek.
So Quinn just nods once, and gets out of the car, grimacing when she hears her mother call out, "And pull your shoulders back," from somewhere behind her.
Santana has keen eyesight. It's how she manages to get a read on Barbie as soon as she walks into Coach Sylvester's office without ever having to look at her directly.
She's nothing to write home about-just another conventional beauty to round out a squad full of conventional beauties. Santana guesses she's probably a virgin, if the cross around her neck is anything to go by. Then again, the cross is an easy distraction from all sorts of debauchery when worn ironically, but Santana doubts this girl's investment in irony.
According to her preliminary inspection, Quinn Fabray is one of two things; she's either the generic blonde who just wants to belong and will thus fall nicely in line and follow orders, or this obvious attempt at inoffensive perfection is a carefully and deliberately constructed vie for Santana's position as top dog.
Either way, Quinn Fabray is not a real person. She needs to get a closer look to know exactly which kind of monster she's dealing with, though. Unfortunately, Coach is currently performing her own inspection, and Santana knows that her own opinion comes second to Sue Sylvester's. Bonus points certainly go to Barbie for standing at attention without being told, though; Coach loves a show of discipline and self-restraint, and Santana suspects this girl goes home to some fairly strict parents.
It's probably a blessing, considering her obvious goals.
"Well, Santana, what do you think?" she hears Coach Sylvester ask from somewhere off to her right.
Slowly and meticulously, Santana lowers the nail file in her hands onto the small table next to the chair in which she's currently lounging. She makes it a point not to raise her eyes to the new girl until she's standing and moving in front of her.
She finally makes eye contact and waits; waits to see how long it'll take Blondie here to flinch under the pressure. When she doesn't, Santana steps forward, pushing her way into Quinn's personal space, and still she doesn't flinch. Santana almost writes her off as an empty vessel, until she catches the flash of contempt flash behind the hazel eyes in front of her. It's small, and she almost doesn't catch it, but it's there, and it makes Santana pull the corner of her mouth back in an amused smirk.
"Yeah, this one will be fun to break," Santana announces, turning dismissively away from the blonde in front of her and back to the Coach.
"Well, that's just about the best compliment I've ever heard Santana give anyone," Coach Sylvester says, and Santana resumes her post in the chair in the corner of the room. Coach Sylvester is about to go over the basic logistics and expectations of the squad, and Santana's not actually needed for that.
She cringes-inwardly, of course; never outwardly-when Coach mentions the lifestyle clause. It's really the only thing keeping her locked in the position she's in. For whatever reason, Coach Sylvester allows the members of the school board to decide the kind of students they want representing their school-which Santana is certain is at least three kinds of illegal, but there's little she can do about it-which means the squad is entirely populated by straight, celibate, A/B students who would never dream of trying alcohol or illicit drugs. Santana goes against all of these things-except the grades, there's no way of faking those-but puts on a good show of adhering to the guidelines.
Puck's at least useful for that.
And it's not like she can just quit. She needs the squad and its reputation too much. She has three schools that have already expressed interest in her based solely on the fact that she's captain of the best squad in the country as a sophomore.
She's not really sure she can get to college without it.
And that's not even considering the radical act of social suicide it would be.
"So what do you really think?" Coach asks her after Quinn leaves the office.
"I think we've probably got a lot in common," Santana says, still not looking up from her manicure. She saves that gesture to add to the intensity of her next statement. "We'll need to keep an eye on her."
"Ah, so we've got a feisty one on our hands, huh?" Coach Sylvester says with a smile as she shuffles through a few papers on her desk. "Well, that might spell trouble for you, but it'll be good for the squad, and what's good for the squad is good for me. So figure out a way to make it work."
Santana smiles and just about manages to keep the derision out of her face. "I always do."
She recognizes him almost immediately.
Not literally, of course. She doesn't actually know this person. But she recognizes the incongruence between their external appearance and the inherently male way in which they move.
She can't quite put her finger on it, though. Is it the wide strides they take as they walk into the room? Is it the way their hips direct the rest of their body as opposed to their chest? Is it the way they seem to be surprised that their hands can't fit into the tiny pockets typically found in women's pants? Is it the almost imperceptible hunch playing around their shoulders? Or is it the way they lean against the wall, pressing their foot against the brick for stability?
Maybe it's all of these things. Maybe none of them matter at all.
All Rachel really knows is that this person is so much more than what they seem.
None of this matters right now. Right now, the only thing that matters is that she's no longer alone, which turns this exercise from a sound check to a performance. She allows warmth to enter her voice; not enough that her audience would notice a sudden change, but enough to bring life to the emotive quality of "Memory."
Admittedly, she gets carried away with herself, as she usually does, and she has to remind herself to pull back when she practically fills the entire auditorium with her voice-showing off isn't actually what she's here to do-and by the time she comes down on the last few notes, she's almost forgotten that she isn't alone.
Which is why the startled jump she offers in response to the stranger's applause is only half-fake, or so she tells herself.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," the stranger says, holding up their hands in a peaceful gesture and pushing off from the wall.
"That's okay," Rachel says and sits down on the edge of the stage.
"I hope you don't mind the intrusion," they say, taking a few steps forward and pointing to the door behind them. "I heard singing. You're very good."
"Thank you," Rachel says, and while her verbal response comes off moderately cold and practiced, her smile is genuine. "So, are you a new transfer?" Rachel finally asks after an awkward few seconds. "I don't think I recognize you."
It's only after it's left her mouth that she realizes how loaded that last statement is, and she keeps her face in check in the hopes that her company doesn't catch it.
They don't seem to, and if anxiety caused Rachel Berry to lose her breath, she'd be sighing in relief, but that's not something Rachel Berry does and so she just smiles when the newcomer extends their hand and introduces themselves as "Quinn Fabray."
Great. Quinn. Of course. Why wouldn't it be something completely gender neutral? It would be far too convenient for this person to go by something specific like Molly or Larry.
Okay, maybe not Larry.
"I'm Rachel Berry," she says, sliding off the stage and standing in front of Quinn. "It's nice to meet you."
Quinn's handshake is surprisingly firm, which just adds another question mark into the body language column, and Rachel tries one more time to get an accurate read on the person in front of her. Their expression obviously falls on the feminine side, but Rachel knows better than to impose assumptions on people, and thinking of Quinn as "she" feels wrong, somehow.
She decides that "they" will just have to suffice until she's presented with more information.
"You, too," Quinn says, smiling down at her before glancing at the sheet music scattered across the stage behind her. "What's all this?" she asks and then moves around Rachel to glance over a few of the closer songs.
"Oh, I was just looking for an adequate piece to showcase my range for the upcoming glee auditions," Rachel explains as she gathers up the rest of the scores. "I'm going out for lead soprano this year."
"I'm sure you'll do great," Quinn says, handing back the few scores they picked up before leaning casually against the stage.
"Yeah, well, I got it last year, so I feel pretty good about my chances," Rachel says, and she hopes she sounds modest, even though she knows there's no real way to make that statement sound humble.
Quinn doesn't seem to mind, though, because they just laugh and say, "I'm not surprised."
"So what about you?" Rachel asks. "What are you doing here? On campus, I mean. Not that you don't have a right to be here..."
She trails off, because she's already made a mess of the question, and there's no real way to fix it now. Quinn surprises her again, though, and just laughs harder, and the smile they give Rachel affects her in ways she isn't prepared for. It's warm, and inviting, and it makes Rachel feel weak in the knees.
"I actually just had a meeting with Coach Sylvester," Quinn explains, gesturing to the large binder by the door where they had been standing. "You're looking at the newest Cheerio."
A disappointed "Oh" escapes from Rachel's mouth before she has a chance to process the fact that it's there in the first place. "Sorry. I mean, that's great. For you. Congratulations, that's a hard squad to get on," she says, because it's easier than saying, 'Please don't join the Cheerios, because then we'll never be friends.'
Quinn just takes it stride, though, as they have all of Rachel's nonsensical ramblings. "Yeah, well, clearly cheerleading isn't the only thing this school's good for, huh?" Quinn says, nudging Rachel playfully.
Praise is nothing new for Rachel, but she's not accustomed to getting quite so much recognition from her peers, and she tells herself that's the only reason she blushes. She doesn't want to consider the alternative; that Quinn might be flirting with her. If they are, it's completely unconsciously, and by the time school starts in a week, Quinn is sure to remember her as nothing more than a dodged bullet.
"Um, actually, it kind of is," Rachel says awkwardly, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "The rest of the glee club is nothing to write home about."
Quinn's face falls into a semblance of sympathy. "That's a shame," they say, and then their face brightens again. "More chances for you to shine, though, right?"
It's the reference to shining that has Rachel admitting that yeah, she's probably into Quinn-to whatever degree that's possible after just having met them-and that it's probably more dangerous than she cares to admit.
She makes a show of looking at the time on her phone, because if this conversation goes on for much longer, Rachel's going to hit the point of no return.
"I have to go," she says, slipping her phone back into her pocket. "My dad's supposed to be picking me up soon; I should probably head outside."
"Oh, sure," Quinn says, walking next to her toward the door and scooping up the Cheerio binder on the way. "I'm actually supposed to meet my mom, too."
Quinn opens the door for her-and of course they do-and waits patiently for her to cross the threshold into the hallway.
"So what year are you?" Quinn asks a few steps down the tiled hall.
"Sophomore."
"Oh, wow. Me, too," Quinn says. "Maybe we'll have some classes together."
"Yeah, maybe," Rachel answers noncommittally. It's a nice sentiment now, but she knows it won't mean anything in a week after the rest of the Cheerios get to Quinn and explain how the McKinley social hierarchy works. And Rachel doesn't really want to exchange these meaningless sentiments and get her hopes up at the idea of having a friend that doesn't just put up with her, but seems to actually like her, if none of it's real.
And she really doesn't want to think about the smile that Quinn is giving her right now. Or the fact that Quinn is so obviously oblivious to it.
Quinn makes an uncomfortable sound in the back of their throat as they push through the double doors at the main entrance, and Rachel follows their gaze to the silver car idling in the parking lot. There's an older blonde woman behind the wheel and from where Rachel's standing, she looks impatient.
"Are you going to be okay by yourself?" Quinn asks, and Rachel has to bite her tongue to keep from falling that little bit farther. She tells herself that Quinn is just being nice, and then reminds herself that it's all going to end when Quinn figures out how things work around here.
She nods, and then Quinn starts across the parking lot with an, "It was nice to meet you," tossed over their shoulder.
Rachel watches as they approach the car and bend down to talk to who Rachel guesses is their mother through the lowered window. They're too far away for her to hear their conversation, but the woman behind the wheel looks even more exasperated, and Quinn just turns around to look back at Rachel.
Which of course is when Rachel realizes that she's been staring herself, and so she quickly looks away and down the road, where she thankfully sees her dad's car pulling into the parking lot. She turns back to Quinn, finding them still looking worriedly at her and she motions at the approaching vehicle and waves goodbye.
She makes it a point not to look at Quinn until she's safely inside the car and buckled in, but Quinn and the silver car have disappeared by the time she looks up.
"So who was that girl?"
"Her name is Rachel," Quinn says absently from the passenger seat.
"Oh? Is she another cheerleader?" Judy asks, and her voice carries just enough of a hint of probing that it sets Quinn on the defensive.
She's in trouble-she's always in trouble-but she just can't figure out why.
Which is nothing new, really.
"No, she's a singer."
"A musician?" Judy asks, and her nose scrunches uncomfortably.
"Yeah, Mom, you know that thing you sent me to years of piano lessons to train me to be?"
"Don't get smart, Quinn, it's not becoming," her mother warns. "Besides, I didn't send you to those lessons to train you to become a musician. I sent you to those lessons to teach you discipline and commitment."
"Right," Quinn says, fixing her gaze outside the window again.
"I did, however, send you to a personal trainer for a year so that you could get on one of the best cheerleading squads in the country," Judy continues, her voice only a little tight, despite her words. "Which you wanted so that you could be popular. So maybe you should hang out with them, instead of some musician?"
"Yes, ma'am," Quinn says and adds, 'befriend Santana' to her mental to-do list.
"Besides," Judy continues as though Quinn hadn't spoken. She might as well not, at this point. "You'll have boys all over you the day you walk in."
"You think so?" Quinn asks, and she thinks she's just about mustered enough enthusiasm at the prospect. She knows, logically, that she'll be working at securing a boyfriend from the word go, but it feels more like an obligation to fulfill than something to really look forward to.
"Of course," Judy responds and glances at her daughter. "Trust me, between boys, the squad, and studying, you won't have any time to think about anyone else."
Ah. For a second, Quinn wasn't sure if her mother's abrupt conversational change was because she was really letting it go, or if it was because she thought it was big enough to get her father involved.
It's getting harder, these days, to know what the rules are.
But her mother hasn't changed topics at all. Not really. She's just trying to distract Quinn from... well, she's not sure what. But if her mother's going to this much trouble, she's probably trying to keep Russell out of it. Which means Quinn's walking a fine line, and she should probably just play along.
"Yeah, you're right," she says, and it's almost as though her voice takes on teenage enthusiasm all on its own. "Santana, the captain? She says the football team's pretty hot."
Lies. It's all lies. And she should probably feel worse about how easily they tumble out of her mouth.
"Captain, huh?" Judy asks, smiling, and Quinn knows she's generally out of the woods. "Not for long though, right?"
"She'll keep it this year," Quinn says, crossing her arms over her chest.
Judy chuckles softly, and it's one of those rare moments when Quinn's mom actually seems to enjoy being in her presence. Quinn just wishes that it didn't exhaust her like this.
"Well, just remember," Judy says, pulling into the driveway, and Quinn has to stop herself from bolting out of the car. "There may be boys, but you have the power," she says as she shuts off the engine. "No man can do anything to you unless you let them."
"I know, Mom." It's the same line she's heard from her mother throughout childhood, and she knows her sister got a lot of it when she was getting ready to go to college.
She thinks it's meant to be empowering.
But for now, she's met her quota of one-on-one mother-daughter time, and she just wants to be alone for a while. She's tired now-she feels as though she's been acting all day and then realizes that she has-and all she wants is to escape to the isolation of her room.
So despite her mother's good mood, she offers her mom a final smile and pushes her way out of the car and into the house. She doesn't bother to wait for Judy as she climbs the stairs, but a few minutes later, the tinkling of glass on glass downstairs tells her she'll be left alone at least until dinner.