The bathroom is quiet when Emma finally gets a chance to slip in after lunch. With the latest spate of slushie-splashings in the hallway, she's spent all morning and part of her lunch dealing with upset, sticky freshmen, and she's ready to take a break from the constant angst.
Although Emma doesn't really remember most of high school, having kept her head down and her eyes on her schoolwork to avoid interacting with too many people, she knows the feeling of inadequacy – and she knows how it feels to be rejected. Sometimes, those feelings overwhelm her, no matter how much her social work training has taught her to disengage.
As she exits the stall, she catches sight of Rachel Berry standing in front of the mirror, the water running. But Rachel isn't washing her hands (at this, Emma makes sure she washes hers three times, ugh). She's crying.
"Rachel?" Emma's voice, always nervous even when she's trying to sound reassuring, bounces off the cold tile walls and startles the dark-haired girl with the wide, luminous brown eyes, now blurred with tears.
"Oh, Miss Pillsbury." Rachel sniffles, wipes a hand across her eyes, child-like. Emma smiles inwardly. These kids try so hard to be grown up.
"You okay?" Emma dries her hands. "I've got an opening now, if you want to talk about it."
"No, no," Rachel's eyes grow wide. "I don't need to do that."
Emma pulls out her antibacterial solution and begins to methodically rub her hands together. "Well, if you're sure. I guarantee, there's no one in the halls right now," she smiles. "No one will see you."
Rachel sniffles, bites her trembling lower lip. "No. I'm okay." Her voice wavers at the end of her sentence, and Emma cocks her head slightly, eyes sympathetic.
Rachel, ever emotional, can't hold it in, and the tears overwhelm her again. Her face crumples; her hair sticking to the sides of her wet cheeks, and Emma, despite her strict rule not to touch students since she got the respiratory flu last year from a sick sophomore, puts an arm around Rachel.
Rachel normally hates to be touched, especially by adults. But Emma is so caring and sympathetic, and she ends up leaning into her, wiping at her cheeks. Emma smells like flowers and something else – camomile, maybe.
"I didn't have a lot of friends in school," Emma begins. She strokes Rachel's hair back from her forehead. "No one liked me very much. Too shy, I guess."
Rachel wipes her eyes and pouts. "No one likes me, either. I don't know why. I try to show Mercedes how to sing a ballad, and she tells me to go to hell. I KNOW what I'm doing." She puffs up a little. "I've done this since I was six. My dads made sure I had the best."
Emma takes Rachel's hand, leads her to the benches just inside the doorway of the adjoining girls' locker room. She carefully crosses her legs, arranges her skirt over her thighs. Rachel, whose infantile pink blouse dotted with white hearts and short, flared jean skirt are slightly askew, takes her cue from Emma and attempts to sit more like a lady instead of flopping diva-ishly onto the bench like she normally does.
"Rachel, I'm going to be honest with you, and you may not like it," says Emma, her voice hesitant, but kind.
"Oh, I can take constructive criticism," says Rachel, tossing her shining brown hair. "I find I really learn from it. It's good to hear objective opinions."
"Well," Emma begins. "This has more to do with you as a person than a performer."
"Oh, still. There's really nothing you can tell me that I don't already know."
Emma sighs. This posturing isn't making this discussion any easier. She fixes her own brown eyes onto Rachel's over-eager ones, and tries to speak as calmly as she can.
"Rachel, I've been hearing from the other students, and from Mr. Schuester, that you might be pushing the expert-singer thing a little far."
Rachel looks honestly surprised, which breaks Emma's heart. "But I am. An expert, that is. Well, compared to the other kids."
"You're very talented, no question," agrees Emma quickly. "But my experience has been that most people don't really like to be told what they're doing wrong. They like to learn it for themselves."
"If I had to wait for everyone to learn it for themselves, we'd be there all day. We'd never get anything done!" Rachel's face is earnest, and Emma almost smacks her forehead. Instead, she focuses on staying calm.
"But isn't that the point of Glee? To learn together?"
"No. The point of Glee is to do our best and win. Mr. Schue even said so."
Emma inwardly rolls her eyes and almost stands up. She does have an office to get back to, and she doesn't trust her current co-op student not to dish out unsolicited advice when he's supposed to be filing her papers and keeping her calendar up to date.
Rachel looks thoughtful as Emma searches for something else to say that won't trigger a classic Rachel storm-out. She has flashbacks to Rachel's course selection appointment last year and suppresses a shudder.
"Miss Pillsbury?"
"Yes, Rachel?" Emma shakes herself out of her reverie and focuses on the girl in front of her – this unlikeable, stuck-up, prima donna-ish girl who hides behind her attitude because she's desperately trying to be recognized and liked.
"I don't really want to point out what they're doing wrong. I just want them to pay attention to me." Rachel's eyes are shining a little too brightly, and Emma quickly puts a hand on Rachel's shoulder, rubbing it soothingly.
"I want them to like me. And to like how good I am. Maybe if they like me, they'll stop whispering about me behind my back, or talk about me in the halls. Maybe the calls I'll get will be from friends, and not prank calls."
Rachel sniffs, and Emma, wincing, hands her a Kleenex. But she gets it. She gets how Rachel feels, and despite her squeamishness about children's bodily fluids, she pulls Rachel in close for a hug.
"I suggest," Emma begins, "you try asking them if they want help first. And maybe cut down a bit on the . . . know-it-allness."
Rachel impulsively throws her arms around Emma and Emma hesitantly pats her back, and then hugs her properly. Despite Rachel's inherent unlikeability, she is just a girl trying to find her place in a classist, cliquey high school.
She walks Rachel out of the bathroom after washing her hands again. "Good luck, Rachel. You know where my office is if you need me."
"Thanks, Miss Pillsbury." Rachel's face is still a little swollen, but she manages one of her stunning bright smiles and Emma can't help but smile back.
Later, Emma is packing up for the day, rubbing a hand tiredly across her eyes, when Will steps into her office.
"Long day?" His charming smile never fails to send a shoot of excitement down her spine, and she smiles a little excitedly.
"Hey!"
"Hey," he replies, returning her smile. "How'd today go?"
She shrugs, her eyes sparkling. "You know, slushie criers, a couple panic attacks about midterms. I found Rachel Berry in the bathroom in tears."
"Oh, that's where she was? No one seemed to know. She told Tina she was feeling sick."
"She was upset. I guess there was an incident . . .?"
"Well, it was typical Rachel," says Will, crossing his legs and leaning against her desk. "She stormed out after Mercedes told her off. She's really insufferable at times."
Emma swallows carefully, trying to remain objective. "Yes, but Will, she's just an insecure little girl. I think she's just so abrasive, it's hard to remember that."
He grins. "Yeah, I guess. I know we're supposed to like 'em all, but sometimes I wonder about that girl."
"I talked to her. I don't know if any of it sunk in, but . . ."
"Well, she was quiet at practice this afternoon. Not a word, really. No tussling over solos, no trying to out-sing the rest of the kids. It was pleasant. If that was you – thank you."
Emma smiles shyly. "Well, I just was doing my job, I guess."
Will smiles at her gently. "You're good at it."
There's an awkward silence, then he checks his watch. "I've got to get home. Terri's having some sort of family dinner tonight. She's got an announcement."
"Oh!" Emma's eyes widen. "Don't let me keep you."
"Hey, Emma – lunch tomorrow?"
"Oh, gosh, Will –" (Gosh, pronounced gawrsh – she really wishes sometimes she could lose the Virginia accent around him) " – that'd be great. I'd like that."
He grins, overlooking her awkward stammering and blushing. "Okay then. See you then."
She looks down, trying to hide her pink cheeks, but when she looks up again, he's gone.
In his place, stands Rachel Berry, with an understanding look on her face.
"Oh, Rachel, honey, I'm sorry. I'm about to go home," stammers Emma, trying to regain her professional composure. She grabs her antibacterial gel, rubbing her hands compulsively. Rachel watches her impassively, and then nods.
"I won't keep you. But – thanks again. I guess . . . you sort of get it, don't you? I didn't think you would."
Emma gives her a soft smile. "Well, I wasn't always an adult."
"I guess some things don't change anyway, do they?"
Emma pulls out her keys and walks Rachel out, shutting the door behind her, locking it securely. "No, I guess not."
Rachel's sympathetic gaze teases a smile out of Emma. "Take care, Rachel."
"You too, Miss Pillsbury."
Emma watches the dark-haired girl take off in the other direction towards the student parking lot, her hair bouncing against her back, and turns to her car. As she drives off, she hears the sweet soprano of Rachel Berry rising above the shouts of the track team, and she smiles.
Emma Pillsbury does do it for the kids, in more ways than one.