When I first met you, I had braces and you had pigtails and you fell down when trying to do the second position arabesque. The other kids in our ballet class laughed at you – but I didn't. I liked your pigtails and your big brown eyes. I helped you up, and even though you made a face at how sticky my palm was (sorry! I was eating Sweet Tarts!) you still mumbled thank you.

"I'm Brittany," I told you, even though we had been in class together for a few weeks now and I was the only Brittany there – there were three in my kindergarten class, but you know that because I told you – and anyway, you said,

"My name is Rachel Berry." And you gave me a half-smile that made your dimples peek out. "I'm going to be a star someday."

I didn't know what you meant. When I think of stars, I think of webs of light caught up in a quiet blackness, or of Tinkerbell and fairy dust, and myths surrounding beings that, in my mind's eye, all vaguely glow. I don't think of the kind of star you mean, Rachel – even now, after all these years; after hearing it, time and again, and even after believing it, for you, and in you.

I was confused, but – even then, in second grade – I was used to that. "I can help you with that." I said, gesturing with a hand.

"Oh." You frowned, glanced down at your lacy pink shoes, and back up at me. "I'm disappointed in myself, really. I've been dancing since I was three."

I nodded, because it seemed easier than responding. "Still, I can help. If you want."

"Sure." You brightened and gave a full smile this time, and I had to smile back at you. But then in a second your face transformed, and I swear I was captivated – it looked like a storm rolling in; you seemed troubled and angry all at once. "Wait, is this some kind of prank?"

"Uh—" You were too quick for me, Rachel. You still are, sometimes, though now I'm used to the way you can change on a dime. You whipped around, quickly, with a fist planted on your hip (your leotard was pink just like your shoes and I imagined you in a tutu even though we weren't wearing them that day) and glared around the room. But nobody was paying attention to us, not even the teacher, who was busy with a parent in the corner. It was just us.

"Well, if it is, don't bother," You were huffy, and you even stomped a little when you faced me. "I'm too clever for childish tricks."

"Why would I want to trick you?" The idea seemed funny, so I laughed.

"Why would you want to help me?" Your voice was high with suspicion. I couldn't think of anything to say. Why would I? Why did I?

Why do I still?

I expected it to get awkward, as it usually does when someone is waiting for me to answer and I can think of nothing to say, but it didn't. The more we stood there, the calmer your face got, and eventually you gave me a weak smile. "Sorry," You whispered. "It's just – sometimes – people make fun of me."

"I know." I nodded.

"S-so you can really help me?" You seemed incredulous. "With the arabesques?"

"Yeah," I could feel the energy building in me the more I thought about it. "Then after that we can work on those whoosh things, and then—"

"The whoosh things? What do you mean?"

I made a gesture with my hands, but it didn't work. Your eyebrows gathered together above your eyes, and you were frowning. So I shrugged, and then promptly bounced upwards on my toes, my arms falling down by my waist. In a moment I spring upwards, twice, and landed quickly.

I heard you gasp. "How did you do that?"

I shrugged. I really didn't know – I still don't – but moving is easier for me than talking. It's easier than thinking. It just happens, as effortless as a heartbeat; much less complex than stringing two words together to form a sentence.

"There she is," You jumped at the new voice, but I just turned around slowly. "Brittany, are you showing off again?"

"No,"

"She wasn't." You answered quickly, and you put yourself between me and her. It's so funny to remember now – because you were so small, Rachel, we didn't even look like we belonged in the same age group, and she was so big – and you looked up at her, brazen. "She was helping me."

"Sure." My sister gave you a shrewd look, and then yanked me forward by the shoulder. "Let's go."

"Bye, Rachel," I said, because even she can't make me forget how to be polite.

"Goodbye, Brittany," Your eyes were troubled. "See you next Tuesday."

We took ballet class together until you were doing all arabesques as well as me, and even some of the other moves. We spent endless sleeopovers with you trying to teach me the words – but they're French, and that makes them twice as hard – and the whole time I was showing you how to stretch and where to put your legs, you were trying to make the terms and phrases stick in my brain. I have to hand it to you, Rachel, you are persistent, if nothing else.

I think we were thirteen when we had our first fight, and it was about ballet.

It was right before a big recital (which you weren't the star of, which made you kind of upset) and I sat on your carpet while you did my hair. It didn't occur to me then, but remembering it now, I realize – how strange it is that you can knot hair into the most perfect ballerina bun, but most days you can't master a simple braid? I had never been to regular school with you at that point, but I have since then and I know how hard it is for you to manage your hair – and I said,

"I think I'm quitting ballet."

"What?" My head jerked as you yanked, hard, on my hair, and I yelped. "Sorry!" You patted my scalp, as if to shoo the sting away. "But what, Brittany?"

"I just think.." I could tell by your tone of voice that you were getting flustered. "I think I want to try something else."

"Like what? Tap? I can teach you tap." You drummed my shoulder with your fingertips, signaling you were done, and then you handed me your brush. We changed positions, you sliding onto the thick carpet and me sitting on the edge of your bed.

"Tap dancing," I said it musingly, and held a lock of your hair between my fingers, letting it fall slowly. You swatted at me, jerking around, and I finally ran the brush through your hair. "That's boring. I think – contemporary, or.. " I struggled to remember it, since I had just read it on the pamphlet that the dance school sent home with my mom. "Hip hop. Stuff like that."

"Hip hop? Brittany," you said my name with that derisive kind of tone that always set my teeth on edge. "There's no art in that. Don't you get it? You could be great," And in true Rachel fashion, you turned and placed a hand on my knee, making meaningful eye contact. You meant it to be dramatic, or at least.. emphatic. But it was just silly, because half of your hair was twisted in my hand, and the rest of it was wispy and clinging to your face. "I really think you have it in you to be a prima ballerina. One of the best of all time – you could get into Julliard. I know you could!"

"But it's just not.. right. I don't know," I said it quickly, because I could see you working yourself up into a fervor. "It just doesn't feel right, Rachel. I like ballet – but I don't love it."

"How can you say that?" You seemed genuinely upset by this. "You're the best I've ever seen. You have a real talent. I mean it, Brittany."

I know you meant it. You still mean it – even though we don't talk about it anymore.

"I don't want to be the best at something I don't love, Rachel." I shrugged, because it was easy for me to understand.

"That's – ridiculous, Brittany. It's like you have this gift and you're just wasting it!"

"I don't think it's a waste." I smiled, trying to lighten your mood. "Maybe I'll be great at hip hop and still love it."

"You can't – tell me you're joking. Brittany," You shifted around, and it was so funny because your chin was level with my knees and you kept looking up to my eyes, and I know it had to be an uncomfortable position for you. "You won't ever get anywhere being great at hip hop dancing. So what? The best thing you could hope to be is a backup dancer to somebody like Britney Spears?"

"Hey," I frowned. "Not h—"

"I know," You rolled your eyes. "I know. But if you were a ballerina, Brittany, you could dance with the greatest ballet companies in the world! You could perform Black Swan at theaters in London and Austria! You could be a name, a somebody, a st—"

"Rachel." I stopped you by placing both of my hands on your shoulders and shaking just a little. Your eyes had that glazed, faraway look in them that they get. You snapped your jaw shut, and when I could see you focusing on me, I said, "That's your dream. But it isn't mine."

"What is your dream, then, Brittany?" You were angry. You leapt away from me and scrambled to your feet, the chocolate strands of your hair flying everywhere. You huffed, shuffling in front of your mirror, and started jabbing bobby pins into it, trying to tame it. "To frolic around with puppies and kittens and sunshine and rainbows?"

"Um. That doesn't—" I shrugged, deciding not to comment on how that didn't make any sense. "Sure. If I'm happy doing it."

"That's so childish," You were almost in a fury at this point, and I know you didn't mean it, but Rachel, you said: "It's stupid."

It was one of those moments that they frame up in movies all the time: the world went still, and everything was silent. I could see your reflection in your vanity mirror, and your eyes had widened, your jaw gaping open. I felt like the breath had been stolen from me. It was hard to breathe, and I was a little dizzy – because a moment later it hit me, the wave of hurt that was like a slap.

"Britt." Your voice was gentle and pleading. "I didn't mean it. You're not –"

"I know." I said it quickly and stood up. "I'll wait for you downstairs."

"Brittany—"

Your voice chased me out the door. I sat at your piano bench in the dining room while your dads talked about things I didn't understand, and I barely spoke to you on the way to the recital.

It was weeks before I saw you again, because our classes were on a break. I wouldn't have ignored you, but I was definitely avoiding you – you tried to call me, and I thought of increasingly more creative ways to dodge your phone calls (one time I mimed gagging in front of my mom and she became very concerned); but eventually, you sought me out, and there was no more hiding from it.

The it I'm talking about is the way it hurts me when people call me stupid – which is old news, now, though it still digs, hitting nerves buried deep – and I know you understand it, because it's the same kind of pain that claws at you whenever anyone ever calls you ugly or freak or talentless. It's the same kind of pain you felt when Mike Chang's mom wouldn't let him play with us anymore after she found out you have two dads. At this point, even as awkward thirteen-year-olds, I had already held your hand when you cried over the pretty girls in your school making fun of your sweaters. I didn't cry when people called me stupid, but you always held me anyway.

I thought staying away from you would make it go away, but it didn't. And seeing you standing on my front porch with a bouquet of sunflowers made it ache even worse.

You were reaching up to ring my doorbell, and I was coming in from riding my bike. I made the choice to see you – I could have just cycled away, and put it off for another day. But you were wearing brown leather loafers and a pleated skirt, and a white headband that was shiny in the afternoon sunlight, and I missed you. "Rachel!"

You spun around and made your skirt swish. You smiled, briefly – I took off my pink Power Rangers helmet – and you walked down the concrete path to my driveway, clutching the sunflowers.

"Hello, Brittany." You smiled your I'm-trying-to-be-bashful smile, but I could tell you were pleased with yourself. You held out the flowers and watched my face carefully for some kind of reaction.

"Thank you." I said, remaining neutral, and I took them from you. "Why sunflowers?"

"Because they're a little bit silly," You said, and shrugged. "Like you."

I didn't know what you were trying to say – it made my heart squeeze in response, and your expression changed so quickly; a moment between being happy and the next concerned. "B-but that's what I love most about you, Britt," You said, and reached forward to clasp my hand that was gripping the flowers. You folded it in between both of yours, and you were very close to me. I could smell your strawberry shampoo and the laundry soap on your clothes, as well as the mild scent of your sweat in the mild heat. You needed chapstick. I could tell because your lips were dry from you worrying them between your teeth, and I had the crazy urge to kiss you. "I love that you're silly sometimes. I'm sorry for being insensitive to you. You have every right to follow your dreams.. whatever they may be."

"I quit ballet." I said, releasing a breath. I watched you flinch, but you didn't draw away. You even squeezed my hand a little tighter between yours. "I'm taking salsa dancing lessons when this year is over."

"Th-that's good." You tried to smile, but it was a little weak. "You'll be great at it, I think."

"You could take them with me, you know,"

"Oh, no." Your eyelids fluttered as you looked towards the concrete. "I intend to master every level of ballet by the time I graduate. It's an important skill to have if I ever want to be on Broadway."

"Shouldn't you take other dancing?" I shrugged. I barely knew what Broadway was, even though you spent hours regaling me with tales about how marvelous it is. "Maybe ballroom dancing? Or swing?"

"Maybe." You sighed. "But if I need any help – you'll still help me, won't you?" You tried another smile.

"Of course." I shifted, looked down at the sunflowers. They were big and bright, and happy. "I'll always be your friend, Rachel."

You seemed relieved at this, and I wondered if you really thought that I wouldn't be. "I still love you even when you're mean." I said it, because it seemed like you needed to hear it.

"I'm very glad." You squeezed my fingers again. "Truly. I am happy to have you in my life, Brittany."

"Okay." You were being hyper-intense, almost-too-scary Rachel. I shifted my weight on my feet, and it made you draw back. The tension broke between us, and we both smiled.

"Hey, you know something?" I said it as we both turned towards my front door. "I think you're more like a sunflower than I am."

"Oh, really? I think I'm more like a tigerlily, or maybe a jacinth –" You gave a ponderous hum. "Why do you think I'm like a sunflower?"

"Because they're bossy, just like you."

"Brittany, how is a flower bossy? And I am not—"

"They're loud flowers. They demand all of the attention. They grow up bigger than other flowers do." I was grinning by the end of the sentence. "They reach for the stars."

Your perplexed, nearly offended expression fell away, and you gave me a shy, almost rueful smile. "You're right, Britt. I am kind of like a sunflower."

I think that might have been the first time you said the words you're right to me, and they made warmth blossom in my chest and spread down the length of my arms to my fingertips. I looped our arms together as we walked towards my porch, and I realized that this was the best thing about friendship – that even when another person causes you pain, that doesn't mean that they can't also make you happy, too.

I learned that from you, Rachel. I never forgot it.

Just a little drabble. Part one of a three part story, I think. Don't expect the continuation anytime soon, I'm busy with my too many other stories. I hope you like it, and will review anyway. Tell me if you like Rachel at all. I'm bad at writing her, but this is my favorite Rachel ship, so..

The title and description text comes from the e. e. cummings poem, "tired"