A/N: If this story goes too slow or too fast or it's unrealistic or whatever, let me know. I'll try and fix it and stuff.
…
It takes her five minutes when she gets up in the morning to pull on her new, dark wash, size nine jeans, but when she zips up the fly and pushes the silver button into it's slit, she feels great.
Until she pulls open her closet and looks at her shirts. They don't make tight denim shirts to slim you out like they make tight denim pants, so she has to settle for a loose, grey, Mckinley Spartans sweatshirt - a present from her dad that he had gotten her after he had taken her to see her first Spartan's home game when she was six. When she was still his little girl.
She's not anymore. Not really, and she can tell because the most he ever says to her anymore is "You're looking better. You've lost a bit of weight, haven't you?"
She knows she's a little too old for her daddy to tuck her into bed with a soft kiss on the forehead and a, "Goodnight, little Lucy Q," but that doesn't stop her from missing it.
...
The first day of school is really just a waste of time, she thinks, and she would have just skipped it if she didn't have a perfect attendance record (It's almost the only thing that's perfect about her, these days.)
So, she sits, and she waits through her first four periods while every single one of the teachers goes through every single one of the rules in the Mckinley High Handbook.
And every single time they start talking about the dress code, she looks out the window, and every single time, she gets yelled at to pay attention.
She's been here for four years. She doesn't need to pay attention to the rules in the handbook that she's already heard - and had to recite - three fucking times.
Needless to say, she can't wait for lunch.
...
She remembers how she used to sit at her own lunch table in grade school. Taking bites out of her tuna sandwich and nibbling on her apple while watching all the other kids trade pudding cups and Lunchables.
She hasn't sat alone at lunch in a while now, ever since Sam moved from Newport, Tennesse to Lima at the end of eight grade, but she doesn't think she'll ever forget how it felt to be so lonely all the time.
"Can I have your Jell-o?"
Lucy blinks up at Sam, who stares back with wide blue eyes and a mouthful of Cool Ranch Doritos that he swiped from one of the jocks. She laughs lightly, and digs in her lunch box for the plastic cup, sliding it across the table along with a spoon. "It's sugar-free. I'm not sure if you'll like it."
Sam scrunches up his nose, but peels off the white plastic top anyway. "Why do you eat this stuff?" He replaces the Doritos with a spoonful of Jell-o. "It tastes like squishy Kool-aid without the sugar."
"Sugar-free, Sam." She says and zips up her lunchbag. "And it's better for you."
Not that Sam had to really worry about eating unhealthy things. He was super-fit, with the abs and arm muscles to prove it, and Lucy was a little jealous.
She didn't want abs, or huge arm muscles, or to be Sam or whatever, but at least Sam never got made fun of for his weight. Only his mouth. (Which, really was understandable. It took her three weeks to stop staring.)
"Not for your taste buds," he says, and drops the empty cup onto the table. "That was disgusting."
"That's why you ate it all."
"I don't waste food." Sam frowns. He pokes at the "turkey dinner" on his tray and the mashed potatoes squish audiably when he flattens them with his spoon. "Except this. I'll waste this."
"If that's even food." Lucy says. "It could be some of that 'just add water' shit." (Yes, she knows cursing is a sin, but she hopes God understands peer pressure. She already gets called 'fat' on a daily basis, she doesn't need to be called a 'nun', too.)
Sam's spoon clatters on the plastic of the tray and he sits back, staring down at the questionable maybe-food in front of him. "I'm not hungry anymore."
Lucy snorts.
…
The thing about getting slushied regularly is that it never feels regular. There's nothing regular about ice chunks slapping her in the cheeks, lips, and eyelids and there's certainly nothing regular about sticky, lime flavored (today) syrup dripping down her sweater and into every crevice it can find.
Something that is regular, though, is her hearing the slap of a high five between two football players while she wipes the liquid from her eyes.
"Welcome back, Caboosey." The linebacker laughs in her face and she can smell his pizza breath. She grimaces, partly because of the smell and partly because something's just dripped into her bra.
She figures that Sam has Lucy Sense, or something, because when she shifts her books under her arm, his arm is suddenly there around her shoulder.
"Ugh, lime. That's the worst." He says into her ear and she doesn't find the strength to really respond, so he just steers her around the corner and then into the nearest bathroom.
"Sam." She says, when he pulls a chair over and sets it in front of the sink. He grabs her books and balances them on the porcelain edge of the sink. "You can't be in here."
"Yeah, well." He shrugs and sets his books down next to hers. Rolling up his sleeves, he motions for her to sit down. "I've never tried it, but I'm pretty sure washing your own hair in our school's sinks would be kind of hard."
She slides onto the chair, and when he twists the knobs and starts checking the temperature of the water she mutters, "I'm sorry", but he just smiles slightly and shakes his head.
"Close your eyes." He orders, and her head slips under the warm water. Fingers work the slush from her hair, and when she cracks her eyes open in a fit of rebellion, she watches the green water swirl down the drain. She sighs, and she feels Sam give her a reassuring scratch on the scalp before he shuts the water off.
"Uh." He says, and she can hear him shuffling around. "You cool with paper towels?"
She laughs. "It doesn't matter, Sam."
"Okay."
The sort-of-harsh paper being pushed onto her head is surprising, but not as surprising as her hearing the door open and a demanding, feminine voice saying, "You're a boy. You can't be in here."
Sam shifts awkwardly and the paper towels pause on Lucy's head. "Uh...well. She needed help."
"Why didn't she ask one of her girl friends, then?" Lucy is almost sure she can hear the girl cross her arms, before she snorts into the sink.
"I'm right here, you know?" She lifts her head up, her neck aching slightly. Sam pulls his hands away and flicks the water from them before they make their home in his pockets. "And because I don't have any other friends."
"Oh." The girl softens slightly and Lucy sighs.
She doesn't want pity.
Her arms drop to her sides and she smooths out her skirt. "Forgive me...um...?"
She stares at Lucy and Lucy blinks back at her. "I—what?" She pulls her sleeves over her hands and sits up in the chair self-consciously.
"Your name. What's your name?"
"Oh. ( Lucy almost responds with "What are you wearing?" because, yes. The argyle is that bad.) Um. Lucy. I'm Lucy." She clears her throat. "And, um. You?"
She flips her hair over her shoulder and Lucy raises an eyebrow while stifling a laugh. Sam snorts somewhere behind her.
"I'm Rachel. Barbra Berry." She moves forward and stops next to Lucy's chair with her hand extended. "You can just call me Rachel, of course."
"Of course." Lucy echos, and her mouth tilts up a little bit. She slowly raises her hand and grips Rachel's, giving it a small pull up and back down before she brings it back to her lap.
Rachel's handshake is firm, and it reminds her of her father's. She's never been on the receiving end of it, obviously, because handshakes are for men and cheek kisses are for women, but she's seen countless exchanges between him and the men at their church.
Maybe it's because her mind is a bit fried from confusion at meeting someone who hasn't thrown corn syrup and ice in her face or made train noises at her, but as soon as it clicks in her mind, she blurts, "You're Manhands."
She knows it was the wrong thing to say when Rachel's mouth sets in a line and she nods, posture rigid and fists balled and her sides.
"I—I didn't—I just—that's what, um, they call you. The popular kids."
Rachel nods. "Yes. It is."
"I—" She's horrible with words. It was supposed to be a simple statement, a fact, but instead she's ended up offending Rachel. "I'm sorry." For what, she's not sure. Her inability to work with words? "That didn't come out the way I, um, wanted it to."
Another hair flip, and Rachel's arms are crossed over her chest again. "It's fine." But it really doesn't seem fine at all.
Sam clears his throat in a way that he probably thinks is subtle.
Lucy looks from him to Rachel. "Oh, um, this is—" She rubs her lower lip between her teeth and motions him forward.
"Sam." He says, and gives a little awkward wave from his spot. "Sometimes Trouty Mouth."
"Pleasure."
He nods.
Lucy is used to awkward silences, but Sam, however, is not. He steps forward, suddenly, his hands popping out of his pockets and says, "Your sweater's all ruined, Lu. I'll go grab one of mine for you to borrow, okay? Okay." And then he's out the bathroom door before she can say 'thank you', or 'you're the best', or 'please don't leave me with this girl I don't even know Sam please'.
"He seems nice." Lucy looks up at Rachel. She's amused.
"I didn't think 'nice' and 'awkward' were synonymous."
Rachel puffs out a small laugh. He arms uncross and she sighs, pushing her sleeves up to her elbows.
"What are you doing?" Lucy asks.
Rachel leans over and switches on the sink in front of Lucy, skimming her fingers under the water. "Slushie stains are hard to get out as it is." She says. "Imagine if you let it sit all day."
Lucy just blinks at her, and Rachel motions at her torso. "It'd be easier if you took that off."
Self-consciousness smacks into her immediately and she folds her arms across herself. "I...um...I don't really—"
Rachel raises an eyebrow. "I'm not—I won't do anything to you."
She doesn't want to say, 'it's not you, it's me', but there's really no other way to put it.
"It's not you." She says, and she fidgets with the pocket on her sweater and just sort of shrugs.
Sam chooses that moment to re-enter, grey Cocke County Fighting Cocks (she'd snorted when she'd first seen it, too) sweatshirt in hand. He raises it with a grin. "All set."
"Thanks, Sam." Lucy says, and then shifts uncomfortably when both him and Rachel glance at the red (and green, now) sweater still covering her body.
She has to close her eyes a remind herself not to be mad at them. They don't know you have bodily issues. They don't know that you don't like to undress in front of people. They don't know.
Sucking in a deep breath—with difficulty, because her brain is screaming at her in her head; don't do it, don't do it, don't let them see how fat you are—she mumbles, "Turn around."
They comply, after they glance at each other, and Lucy pulls the garment over her head. "Sam, toss that to me."
He starts to turn around, and something cold runs down her spine while she screeches, "DON'T LOOK."
"Sorry, sorry." He tosses, and it hits the ground a couple of feet in front of her.
"Okay." Lucy says, once she's situated in Sam's XL hoodie. She leans down to grab hers and then hands it to Rachel who immediately sticks it into the sink and starts scrubbing the lime from it, occasionally using a dot of soap from the soap dispenser attached to the wall.
Lucy walks over to Sam. "Thanks."
He nods, smiles. "Anytime."
"I'm sorry I yelled at you."
He shakes his head and smiles a little. "No problem." He ruffles her hair a little bit.
Maybe it's weird that she thinks of Sam as her older brother, because some part of her knows that she should be thinking of him as something else—as her boyfriend, even—but she can't.
He has the blonde hair, fair skin, and athletic build to be a Fabray, she thinks. He would fit in just fine.
Far better than she did.
Something like jealousy coils low in her stomach, and her smile feels forced when she pushes on Sam's arm and says, "You're late for English."
He shrugs. "So are you."
"I have an A. You don't. Now...go."
She feels bad, because his dyslexia is a huge chunk of the reason he has a C-, but she takes one look at his bicep muscle rolling under his shirt and all the guilt practically disappears. "I'll catch up."
"I...um, okay. Bye, then." He back pedals a few steps before he spins out the door.
Lucy sighs, and then crosses her arms over her stomach again and walks over to the sink. "Any luck?"
Rachel hums some soft of affirmative, and then she's pulling the sweatshirt out of the sink and holding it up for Lucy to inspect.
"...lime free." Lucy says, with a bit of surprise. "That's—I'm impressed."
Rachel shrugs, and she pushes the damp material into Lucy's chest. "Don't be." She pulls paper towels from the wall and dries her hands. "Lots of practice."
Lucy almost says, "You too, huh?" but instead she just smiles, and nods.
"I'm late for History." Rachel announces, and she pulls her sleeves back down to her wrists. "It was nice to meet you, Lucy. I wish it was on better circumstances." She pulls on the handle to the door.
"Thank you, Rachel." Lucy says, and she holds up the sweater. "For...this."
Rachel smiles and nods back.
…
A/N: Criticisms welcomed. Actually, I encourage that. It helps me out.