Summer vacation had come and gone about as fast as a particularly punctual hooker - or Finn - and Rachel Berry was absolutely beside herself with excitement.

Almost hysterically, she bedazzled her most impressive yarmulke and placed it gently atop her perfectly coifed hair. Frantically, she fixed her wedgie for the 134th time that morning with all the fevered enthusiasm associated with the first day of school, and meticulously ironed first day underwear.

Rachel could hardly believe she was already a junior, but that was probably because she could've very well been a sophomore, or even a freshman. She'd stopped paying attention to these things when she found herself compulsively rejecting character consistency and continuity late last year ("What the fuck is this," Rachel mumbled, fighting a sudden and inexplicably violent craving for pizza, "The Sims?"). Everything she had ever known or believed was subject to change at any moment, so Rachel – as was expected of any true star – had learned to adapt. If she often woke up in the middle of the night dressed in what seemed to be a red leather catsuit, surrounded by empty bottles of Jack and something that smelled suspiciously like napalm, whatever. She just lifted herself up, brushed herself off, crawled over the mountain of naked bodies sitting neatly beside her pillow, and got on with it.

Softly placing a cheese and tuna sandwich in the pocket of her bag, Rachel took one last look in the mirror, smoothed the satin lapels of her rather dapper pink tuxedo jacket, and bounded down the stairs with a gait one could only describe as "eager", or "retarded".

"Goodbye Mysteriously Absent Father Figures #1 and #2," Rachel shouted brightly into the empty house. Her voice echoed off the walls of the living room and was met with silence.

Rachel's face melted and she crumbled to the floor in a lonely, Jewish heap.

"OH GOD," she squealed in absolute anguish, "I'M JUST SO LONELY!"

She cried so hard, even her yarmulke seemed to sparkle a little less brightly. Then she packed a second cheese and tuna sandwich, reluctantly carving "FATTY" into her arm with a dinner fork as she sobbed and devoured the first.

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Quinn was looking considerably less spherical than she had just three months ago, having spent summer vacation all but camping out at the Lima Local Gym for Big Ol' Fucking Fatties. Rachel let her eyes settle on the hard plane of the blonde's toned stomach - her white sundress tight and taunt against the angles of her sharp, rippling abs – before moving her gaze up and along the impressive biceps bulging beneath Quinn's letterman jacket.

Rachel licked her lips as she gently shut her locker, books completely forgotten as she bathed in the masculinity that was Quinn Fabray. She nervously clutched at her yarmulke and made her way to the cheerleader's locker, gulping audibly.

"Wow, Quinn," she spoke, her voice sounding strangely husky. "You really outdid yourself working off all that pregnancy fat over the summer."

Quinn turned to meet Rachel's lidded gaze, one eyebrow quirked in annoyance. "What the hell are you babbling about, Jewberry?"

Oh, that voice. Rachel shuddered and twisted her skirt in her hands, trying desperately to hide her monster erection.

"W-well, women generally retain a certain amount of weight gained during pregnancy even after giving birth, but I see that hasn't stopped your athletic pursuits, which I personally find to be very admirable and perhaps even-"

Quinn cut her off with a sharp lift of her hand, face contorting in confusion.

"Are you deaf or just stupid? What pregnancy? What are you even talking about?" She huffed, crushing a whole apple in her fist in what was likely 'roid rage.

Rachel gaped nervously, unsure of what to say. Surely Quinn hadn't completely forgotten the events of last year. Certainly Quinn couldn't have disregarded an entire 10 months of character growth and a baby. Quinn suddenly pulled her meaty fist back and rammed it directly into the locker with a mighty roar, denting the metal in a fit of passion reminiscent of He-Man. Rachel snapped her mouth shut.

"Um, you know…your pregnancy? Beth?"

Quinn rolled her eyes in exasperation. "Try talking to me again when you decide to make sense. Or, you know, don't." Sighing, she swaggered off down the hall, her tree-trunk thighs quivering with each movement. Rachel looked on wistfully, imagining wrapping her slight Jewish frame around one of those muscled man-legs, clutching her skirt in ecstasy.

Quinn booted a freshman clear into a rack of magazines.

Rachel's yarmulke trembled in pleasure.

And, just like that, Rachel knew what her goal for the year would be.

Rachel Berry wanted Quinn Fabray.

Specifically, she wanted Quinn Fabray to slap her around like the dirty Jew she was. And maybe kiss and cuddle and watch Sex & The City with her on particularly lonesome Friday nights (every Friday night). And perhaps marry her and adopt an army of gay Jew babies that they would love and cherish and systematically design for greatness. Actually, yes – all of the above!

Rachel Berry had lofty desires indeed.

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Brittany S. Pierce cackled as she gave Artie Abrams' wheelchair a hefty push, watching him fly chaotically into a gaggle of students and dispersing them like a chain of bowling pins. The chair flipped, one wheel spinning pathetically as Artie struggled to right himself with a girlish cry.

"Hey, Quinn!" Brittany called, spotting the significantly more muscular Cheerio stomping down the hall. Quinn gave a curt nod in Brittany's direction, stopping for a moment to brutally backhand Artie with a wicked war cry, knocking the boy over once again.

"Oh, Quinn," Brittany giggled, shaking her head good-naturedly.

She turned to greet Santana Lopez, ignoring the frantic cries of her boyfriend still sprawled on the floor. Santana approached the taller Cheerio shyly, avoiding her eyes and staring at a spot on the floor. Things had been somewhat awkward between them since Brittany stopped putting out, but she couldn't help but feel that they were close to a new, special chapter of their relationship.

"Hey, Santana," Brittany grinned. Santana met her gaze evenly, the ghost of a smile appearing on her own lips.

"Hey."

And then-

"Brittany, a little help, please? My chair, it's-" Artie trailed off with a yelp as a particularly hasty freshman stepped on his fingers, breaking every single one of them at the same time.

Santana sighed, the moment broken.

"I'll just…yeah," she whispered, jabbing her thumb toward the Spanish classroom, and continued off down the hall with a resigned shrug of her shoulders.

Brittany watched her leave, the apple-red of her Cheerio skirt standing out amongst the other students, until she disappeared around the corner.

Brittany's titties tingled in rage.

"Are you fucking serious, Artie?" she growled, appearing beside him in three long strides. "Did you seriously just ruin what was going to be an exceptionally special moment between Santana and I?"

She grabbed his greasy head in her fist, ignoring his hiss of pain.

"Ow! Brittany, I-" she pulled his hair, jerking his head toward her. "Ow! I'm sorry, please don't hurt me-"

Brittany cut him off with another sharp tug.

"If I wanted to subject myself to the plaintive bleating of a sensitive young lady, Artie, I would remove the copy of Pride and Prejudice I'm sure you keep sweet and safe in your locker for particularly sentimental days, and I would read it. Shut the fuck up."

He did.

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Somewhere at the other end of the school, Quinn hoisted a shorter girl up by her pigtails and threw her through the bathroom mirror.

She could feel it; it was going to be a fantastic year.

Last year had been a bit touch and go, what with all the sudden, unexplainable binge eating she'd been doing, but now she was - she paused her thoughts to shove a lanky boy's head into a locker, smiling serenely at the indentation it left in the cold metal – back and better than ever.

Yep, she could feel it. It was going to be a fantastic year.

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