Disclaimer: If you recognize the characters, clearly, they are not mine. The title comes from the song "Heretics" by Andrew Bird. The basis for this story, several lines and the basic plot come from the movie Jennifer's Body. If you haven't seen it, I seriously suggestion checking it out because it's really funny and a very entertaining way to spend an hour and a half.

A/N: Don't ask me where this story came from. I was watching Jennifer's Body for probably the twentieth time the other day and something about it just prompted me to write this story. It's a little bit different than stuff I've worked on before but hopefully you guys will enjoy it and if you could kindly drop me a line and let me know what you think, I would be most appreciative!

1.

Hell is a teenage girl.

No really, think about it. Not only are our bodies going through all those crazy changes that make us act like we've gone completely crazy at all times but we have to deal with other people just like us. Teenage girls surrounded by other teenage girls and every one of us is just as hormonal and confused as the next. Guys have it easy, guys pretty much look the same their entire lives. Sure some guys have muscles and some guys are completely scrawny and gangly but the muscular guys just beat up the scrawny guys and life goes on. Some girls have boobs, some have great butts and some, unfortunately, have neither. Girls don't beat each other up; girls just tease each other mercilessly until either implants are purchased or the girl who is being teased gets the hell out of the small town where the teasing is taking place and becomes a mega-huge star who never looks back and laughs while the girls who were doing the teasing get knocked up by the high-school boyfriends and have fifteen kids while their husbands drink away their paychecks. Everyone has a plan. But that's hardly the issue at hand.

The only thing that can make the teenage years bearable is another teenage girl who, instead of trying to make your life a living hell, actually tries to make things better by sticking by your side no matter what. The type of friend that you've known since you were playing in the sandbox and who doesn't care about the fact that she's on the drill team and you're a glee club nerd when high school hierarchy means everything. I had a friend like that once, someone I thought would be my best friend forever, a constant shoulder to cry on and person the laugh with. The reason why we're no longer friends is going to sound kind of crazy. Actually, it's going to sound more than kind of crazy. It's going to sound like the kind of crazy that gets people locked away in mental institutions and heavily medicated. It's the reason that my dads and I picked up and left our perfect life and moved to Lima, Ohio, a nothing town in an nothing state where no one ever really makes anything of themselves. Not exactly the place that I, Rachel Berry, ever saw myself. But it was far enough away from the town where we lived before that I was okay with the move, even though I was well aware that distance doesn't exactly erase horrible memories or truths that seem too impossible to believe.

But all those horrible memories and nightmare worthy images were not things I was trying to recall on my first day at the new high school I had been hastily enrolled in by my well-meaning daddy. I had insisted on home-schooling or maybe even a performing arts school because, really, I hadn't exactly had the best experience with my previous high school and now that I had lost my right-arm best friend, it was doubtful that my experience at this high school was going to be any better. But my dads were nothing if not firm in their conviction in the public school system. So McKinley High School it is.

As I stand outside the towering building (much larger and well-kept than my previous institution, which is a good sign, surely) I feel uncharacteristic nerves rolling my stomach and dryness in my throat. I can't help but remember my first day of high school, when I was nothing but a scrawny freshmen wearing pretty much what I am wearing now (knee socks and skirts are never out of fashion, thank you very much and it always pays to make a good impression), wondering if high school was really going to be as bad as I'd heard. But something was different about that day because standing beside me was the one person who could make things better no matter what, who's smile could always make me feel better. I can picture her now, standing beside me with a smirk and a perfect eyebrow arched. "Are you going inside or not?" I blink and she vanishes quickly, leaving me standing there, alone, at the foot of the stairs leading up to the entrance.

Apparition or no, she has a point. Butterflies might be doing the salsa in my stomach but I have never been one to back down from a challenge. I think that became pretty apparent a month ago, when I'd been forced to do what no one else would, even if it cost me everything and restarted my life.

I walk up the stairs and push open the doors, scanning through the mass of students to find the guidance counselor's office. Unfortunately, I have yet to experience that reported 'growth spurt' that apparently all teenagers are privy to, so peering over the heads of the Neanderthalic jocks and girls in heels is not an option and by the time I have shoved my way through their ranks I've had my feet stepped on three times and an elbow in my side that I wasn't entirely sure was accidental.

But I finally manage to find the guidance office (relatively) unscathed. The glass on the front of the door is polished immaculately, so I take the chance to adjust my appearance and plaster on the smile I've perfected over the past few months to convince the world that all is right. I tap on the wooden frame of the door (someone who clearly spent that much time on the glass wouldn't want even the slightest smudge) before turning the handle.

A compact and willowy red-headed woman is sitting behind a desk, her focus on a silver frame that she is polishing with almost unnecessary fierceness, her tongue poking out between her lips. I hesitate for a moment in the doorway, not wanting to describe her concentration. I know how it can be to completely lose yourself in whatever you are doing, even if what you're doing happens to be polishing a picture frame. The rest of her office is just as orderly and well-tended as her spotless door would lead me to believe. The books on the shelf behind her desk are organized both by size and color and her plants look well dusted. There are carefully handmade posters decorating the walls, encouraging anyone who steps into the office to give life their best and always reach for the stars. I feel a connection with this woman and not just because my tendency toward uber-organization appreciates the care she has taken with her workspace.

The woman finally looks up from the picture and seems almost surprised to see me standing there. "Oh." She sits up straighter in her seat, carefully putting her frame down between her name plate and a coffee mug with neatly lined up pens. She takes a minute to make sure that there is equal distance between all three items before turning back to give me her attention. "What can I do for you?"

I step into her office. "I'm Rachel Berry, the new transfer student. You're Ms. Pillsbury, correct?" She nods. "My dads spoke with you over the weekend about my enrollment."

Ms. Pillsbury nods and gestures for me to sit in the seat directly in front of her own. I hold my bag to my chest so as not to accidently bump her desk as I sit down. "Yes, Rachel, of course." She opens a drawer on the right-hand side of her desk and pulls out a manila folder. "Your fathers were very adamant about enrolling you as quickly as possible."

"They hate for me to miss any school." I explain. Truthfully, they wanted me to get back to my 'normal' life as quickly as possible, as though changing schools and towns would be enough to solve that problem. I highly doubt that, out of all the things that I will go on to be, that 'normal' will be one of them, not after what's happened. "You did receive my transcript, correct? I would hate to have to waste time enrolling in classes I've already completed."

Despite my previous feeling of kinship toward this woman, she gives me the same look that I've seen from teachers and dance instructors and acting coaches my entire life: who the hell does this girl think she is? I can't help that sometimes I know better than the adults around me, especially when it comes to my training and schooling. And why would I want to waste time in remedial classes in which I've already excelled? I feel like that question is completely justifiable.

"Yes, Rachel, we have your transcript. I'm sure that your schedule will meet your approval." Ms. Pillsbury pulls a sheet of paper from my folder and gingerly hands it to me.

I quickly glance over the classes; the registrar did a passable job, there are no duplicates and all AP classes, which should provide a distraction from the thoughts constantly swirling around in my mind, which is something I desperately need. It's hard to sleep at night without lying awake remembering or seeing those horrible images in my mind. Hopefully a heavy class load will exhaust my brain enough to tame my subconscious.

I nod, getting to my feet. "Thank you, Ms. Pillsbury, I'll be sure to come to you if I need further guidance." The woman half-heartedly agrees with my suggestion as I walk out the door. I remember what my fathers said about seeking Ms. Pillsbury's help for more than just scheduling issues. They suggested that I open up to her, express everything that I've been feeling over the past couple of months. They want to find me a therapist here in Lima, someone with whom I can share my innermost thoughts. They still don't believe the story that I told them about the events leading up to our hurried departure from our previous hometown and so it's only natural for them to think that a therapist would be able to help me through this 'troubled time' that I have found myself in following the deaths of my closest friend and boyfriend. I have given up trying to convince them that the story I have told them is the truth, that I do not fabricate stories, especially not about things as important as what happened with Quinn Fabray, Jesse St. James and myself. So, naturally, I am not going to bother trying to convince anyone else (trained professional or no) that what I say is the truth.

Besides, all that is supposed to be behind me, isn't it? Isn't that the reason that we moved in the first place, so that I could begin the 'healing process' in a new place? A fresh start, that's what my dad kept saying as we unpacked boxes and tried to make a house a home. Why should I bother with rehashing those memories to perfect strangers if I'm trying to start over? Of course, those memories rehash themselves every night but in my mind and I know everything I remember is absolutely true.

I check the classroom number of my homeroom before starting down the hallway, joining the crush of students. McKinley is a big place, it seems like all the teenagers in and around Lima have been enrolled here. As the new girl, I am aware that I am turning heads as I walk down the hallway but I keep my attention focused on the classrooms around me, ignoring the piercing stares of the cheerleaders and the once-overs I'm getting from just about everyone else. Once I've found my homeroom, I can go about introducing myself to my fellow classmates and hopefully finding not a best friend but at least someone who I can eat lunch with and do homework with after school.

I am not expecting to receive a face-full of frozen cherry slushie. I mean really, who does that? One minute I'm looking up from my schedule, the next some broad-shouldered football player is throwing the entire contents of his plastic cup directly in my face. "Welcome to McKinley loser." He sneers at me, laughing as he high-fives the guys standing next to him.

I stop in my tracks, sputtering, frozen in place. The ice is cold and sticky and dripping down my neck and soaking into the fabric of my blouse and maybe even the waistband of my skirt. I'm sure that it's in my hair, the corn syrup ruining the effort I put into making myself look presentable. I can hear people laughing around me and that burns more than the sting of slushie I'm currently trying to blink out of my eyes.

"Not cool man." I hear a voice growl from somewhere behind me. "What's your problem?"

"Just giving her the ole McKinley High welcome." I turn around to see the guy who slushied me laughing as he shrugs, his attention on a guy in a letterman's jacket who's currently giving him an intimidating glare. "You know, the one you invented." The guy keeps laughing as he starts down the hallway with his fellow beefy jock friends, who are all undoubtedly very proud of themselves.

The only guy who isn't laughing at my unfortunate appearance turns his attention in my direction. He's got this completely ridiculous mohawk haircut and what looks to be a permanent scowl of disinterest on his face but given the fact that he's not only not laughing at me but actually seems offended on my behalf, I could care less about his haircut or the expression on his face.

"Those guys are assholes." He says, shaking his head.

I wipe slushie out of my eyes, trying to remember a time when I felt as gross as I do now. A month ago, when I was covered in another type of sticky red liquid that was most definitely not slushie probably tops this moment. Remembering that night, coupled with the feeling of humiliation I'm currently experiencing, brings the sting of tears to my eyes but I'll be damned if any of these people see me crying. "It's fine." I say stiffly, straightening my posture. "Thank you." I turn back down the hallway, intending to find a bathroom and clean off before I start crying right here in the hallway.

To my surprise, the guy follows after me, his long strides easily matching my much shorter ones (see, everyone else experienced this fabled teenage growth spurt). "I just can't believe they slushed you on your first day." He says, shaking his head. "I mean, they don't even know if you're a loser yet or not."

I look up at him through narrowed eyes. "I'm glad that you at least have criteria before you toss a frozen drink on someone." Honestly, what kind of school is this? I just might finally have the ammunition I need to convince my dads to agree to home schooling.

The guy looks like I've thrown him a curve ball and he runs his hand over that absurd haircut. "Look, I was just trying to apologize, all right? Shit." He shakes his head and I can see yet another familiar look in his eyes: the why did I ever get involved with this girl look. The only people who never had that look were Quinn and Jesse and they're both gone now. I feel the sting of tears again and look away from him before he can notice. "I'm Puck, by the way."

I raise an eyebrow, but my face is still turned away so he doesn't see. "Puck? What type of ridiculous name is that?"

Puck (that is a piece of sporting equipment, not a name) narrows his eyes and squares his jaw. "Fine, crazy, suit yourself." He turns and heads down the hall without a backwards glance and is quickly joined by a dark-haired Latina girl in a very short cheerleading skirt. She glances over her shoulder and sneers at me.

So within my first five minutes of being enrolled at McKinley High School, my appearance has been completely ruined and I've already managed to be on the receiving end of the scornful looks of the 'popular' kids. Again, I can easily imagine Quinn standing next to me, that smirk on her sharp face. "Good going Berry."

TBC