At the Crossroads
3.
You found Rachel's Myspace page and although you don't have an account, you bookmarked it on your web-browser. You only managed to make it to Rachel's after-school rehearsals a couple of times before Thanksgiving break. Coach Sylvester graced the team with Sunday off, which meant you spent your day attending church and then volunteering with the church youth group. The next few days were easier practices because, as Coach said, "It's like waterboarding—I don't want to actually kill you all; I just want to get what I want from you, which is a perfect routine that'll knock the judges off their rockers and break their calcium-deprived hips."
With two days before the game, you're on your way to your first high school party. As a McKinley tradition, all the football players and Cheerios have their own "pep rally" involving large quantities of cheap beer and wine coolers. Coach Sylvester insists that days off "make the team soft," but she's forced to go along with Coach Tanaka's apathy and "school tradition." The actual reason is that McKinley hosts a bonfire pep rally the night before Thanksgiving that the whole town attends. Although you find consuming an absurd amount of alcohol before a major sporting event risky, Santana calls it "an official initiation," which she's looked forward to since middle school.
"Well, well," says one of the football players, red Solo cup in hand as he opens the door to greet you, Brittany, and Santana—the only freshman on varsity. "How are you tonight, ladies?"
Your inner Lucy returns with vengeance—you're entering a house full of the people who used to make your life miserable.
"Chill, Mark. They're in our year," says a tall boy behind him. He's not in any of your classes, but you've seen him on the field. He's McKinley's future quarterback and captain.
"Sorry, Finnocent, didn't know you had dibs," Mark says, stepping to the side and letting the three of you pass through.
You roll your eyes but mumble a quiet, "Thanks," to Finn as you pass.
He gives you a small half-grin. "No worries."
As soon as you step into the kitchen, Trish, a senior Cheerio, pulls you into a hug. She smells strongly of perfume and strawberry wine coolers. "Lacey! The babies are here!" she shouts over the music.
Lacey stumbles her way over, "Fashionably late, huh?"
A junior hands her a bottle wrapped in a paper bag. She smirks at the three of you before pulling a bottle of vodka out from the bag.
"So, girls… shall we?" she says, wiggling the bottle in front of you.
You aren't quite sure what you were saying to Finn when you were formally introduced to Noah Puckerman. You just remember snorting when he dropped the, "Most people call me Puck, but you can call me whatever you want, babe," line. You can tell that Puck is one of those guys who managed to grab the reigns of puberty before other boys in the grade—he's muscular, taller, and has a strong jawline. Finn's a bit softer, obviously having shot up a foot in height before high school, moving clumsily in a way that conveys his lack of familiarity with his new body. You wonder how he appears so athletic on the field in contrast to his everyday coordination.
"Quinn, quit flirting with these lame-os and sit with the girls for a bit," Lacey says, wrapping her arm around your shoulder and dragging you away.
"What do you mean you haven't chose your victim?!" Trish practically yells at Santana as you join the group of Cheerios surrounding the couches.
"Still considering my options," Santana says, looking nonchalant as she shrugs and sips from her wine cooler. You wouldn't know she was drunk if her eyes weren't so glossy; she's in character and in her element.
Meanwhile Brittany is wedged between her and the arm of the couch, bobbing her head to the music. "I'm thinking of being vegetarian, so I don't support killing animals," Brittany says.
Trish looks at Brittany confusedly for a moment before laughing, assuming Brittany is just drunk, and turning back to Santana.
"You know what you should be in support of killing? That midget's animal sweaters," another Cheerio says, laughing into her own drink.
Trish laughs, "Dear lord, that would be a blessing."
"Rachel? …I think she's kind of cute," says a voice beside you.
All the girls in direct proximity turn and look at Finn as if he's sprouted an extra head.
"And this is why we weren't talking to you," Trish says coolly.
"C'mon, Quinn, you have any suggestions?" Lacey asks you.
"For what?" you ask, sipping from your wine cooler in attempt to get rid of your dry mouth.
"She doesn't know Lima tradition," Santana explains, rolling her eyes.
"You choose an official Lima Loser as a freshman from your year," Lacey says, "And they should actually be flattered they get so much attention from us."
You take two gulps from your wine cooler as you shrug to avoid answering.
"Quinn's too nice," Brittany says, and you can tell she's being supportive, but you internally cringe as the older girls "aww" in unison.
"My vote is Rachel Berry," Santana says with a smirk.
Trish gives her a high five, "At least someone is doing it right."
You finish your wine cooler in record time, and you hear Lacey laugh beside you and say, "I don't know; Quinn is drinking those two under the table."
"I'm going to get another," you say, excusing yourself.
You make your way to the kitchen as someone shouts, "Go girl!" after you. Your head is swimming and the fluorescent lights in the kitchen don't help. You find yourself thinking about Rachel, how talented she is, the way she smiles as soon as you walk into the auditorium. You don't think your body was meant to tolerate vodka.
You find Puck peering into the fridge.
"Get me one," you say, and the words feel heavy in your mouth.
He holds an unopened beer in one hand and reaches back into the fridge with another, but you grab the beer from him and crack it open as he pulls out a wine cooler.
"Hey! That was mine!"
You cringe at the taste, but look at the can then back at Puck, "Doesn't have your name on it."
Puck laughs, putting the pink bottle back into the refrigerator before opening his own beer. He knocks his can against yours. "To our freshman year… New beginnings!"
"Amen," you mumble before drinking more of the watery beer.
Lucy berated you the entire next day as your hangover wreaked havoc on your brain. You managed to recover in time for the pep rally, do the short routine without getting sick, and converse with everyone your father and mother introduced you to. It was still strange—being bragged about, your father wrapping his arm around your shoulders as he talks to other fathers about your academic and cheerleading achievements.
The opening cheer routine before the big game goes off without a hitch, and the Titans fans on the Lima side of the stands roar in support. The Titans trot out into the field as the crowd continues to cheer as the offense and defense starters are announced. Finn gives you a small wave from the front of the field, and you grin and wave back with a pom-pom.
Santana leans over toward you. "Nothing like a quarterback and head cheerleader," she says.
You roll your eyes. "He's nice."
"Seems boring."
The announcer asks everyone to rise and turn to the flag. You expect the band or a recording, but you hear her begin to sing the national anthem and immediately smile. You look around to find her, and when you do, you don't bother really looking at the flag.
Standing beside the football team, she seems even smaller. She's dressed in a red sweater, black skirt, and white tights. You bite your lip to keep from laughing when you see she's wearing a black beret—not because you think it's bad, but because it seems so… Rachel.
"Is that the girl?" one of the junior Cheerios whispers to Santana.
You redirect your attention to the flag and see Santana nod out of the corner of your eye.
"Didn't know Santa's Helpers were out this time of year," another Cheerio comments, making Santana stifle her laugh.
You close your eyes and try to tune them out and focus on Rachel's singing; she hits every note perfectly.
The crowd applauds her performance when it's over, and the Cheerios make their way from the field to the sidelines as the Titans get into a huddle. Rachel's passing nearby, and when you lightly smack her with your pompom to get her attention, she jumps like startled cat.
"Sorry," you say quietly as you continue walking next to her, "You were great."
She looks around nervously before saying, "Thanks."
Your smile falters when you reach the sidelines and she keeps walking without another word.
"Hey Berry," says a voice from beside you, "when you get back to the North Pole, tell Santa I want a new car."
"Maybe you should lay off on Santa's cookies, too," another girl calls.
If Rachel heard them, she doesn't let it show as she walks off.
"Why were you even talking to her?" Trish says, looking at you dubiously.
"She's got a good voice," you say with a shrug.
"Uh oh," Lacey says, "Quinnie might've caught some gay."
You're about to retort when Lacey tells the other girls to get into formation for the kickoff cheer.
"I'm teasing, Q," she says before taking her position beside you. "I don't want you to bother with the Lima Losers. Now let's keep the boys happy." She bumps your hip with her own and gives you a grin.
You roll your eyes at her, "Of course. If I thought you were serious, I'd have ripped your hair out by your pony by now."
Lacey laughs as you smile for the crowd. You can't help but scan the stands for a little black beret the whole time. Instead, you just find your parents in their nice trench coats, beaming at you—their perfect daughter, Quinn.
4.
The Titans finished their season with a two-and-eight record, and all the boys immediately began to celebrate the off-season. You and the Cheerios, however, were just getting started. Although you're responsible for attending all the home games for the Titan basketball team, Lacey more or less resigned from her position as captain with the football season, letting her senioritus take hold. Most of the Cheerios have little to say about your leadership, but Santana often rolls her eyes when you speak with authority. She's challenging you, and you know this—Lucy would have backed down, but you—"Quinn Fabray: Head Bitch in Charge," as you have recently been dubbed—have learned to stare her down, or anyone for that matter, when she's being especially uncooperative.
"You're actually mildly intimidating now, Fabray," Santana said once after a practice when you had to tell off several Cheerios for slacking, "I'm proud."
This newfound intimidation tactic instilled some fear in most of the Cheerios, and no one wants to be the one to step out of line. The reboot in their drive shows in practice, and Coach Sylvester gives you a proud smirk after you deliver a lecture. Although Lacey still holds the title, everyone knows you're leading now—that you're the reason McKinley High just acquired a new Ohio Regionals Cheerleading Competition first-place trophy. With the school looking on, watching as other Cheerios move out of your way in the halls, you walk with your head higher, say the right things, and get what you want—you are in charge.
Because of the win at Regionals, Coach Sylvester rewarded everyone with a Friday off and no weekend practice. The generous offer is obviously a sign that she'll be ruthless upon your return.
"Don't you have a raucous party to get ready for?" Rachel asks as you enter the auditorium.
"I'm skipping out."
"The Cheerio Cult lets their captain opt out?" she asks, raising an eyebrow.
"I don't feel like drinking the Kool-Aid tonight," you say, making her smile, "and I volunteer tomorrow morning for my church's food drive and soup kitchen. Sunday, too."
"Ah, can't be hungover while doing God's work," she says, shuffling through some music.
"Nope," you say, walking over to stand beside her at the piano. She's busy looking over some music, and you watch as she takes a sip from her water bottle. Despite the clout you now hold, you like that things with Rachel haven't changed—you still get to hear her sing and listen to her rant about the importance of music and performing arts. "What are you working on today?"
Rachel sighs. "Nothing, really." She tucks a few loose strands of hair behind her ear before giving you a bit of a sad smile. "I went to the glee club Sectionals competition. The other schools are really incredible."
You give her a sympathetic smile. "There's always next year."
"Until then, I have you."
When she looks at you, the air gets caught in your lungs as you watch her cheeks turn light pink. It's been happening more—you feeling breathless, her blushing and looking away—or maybe you're just noticing her eyes more.
"You should sing for me," Rachel suggests, "After all, it's only fair."
You laugh. "I didn't know that was part of the agreement."
"Totally. Didn't you see the small print?" she says, crossing her arms and looking at you expectantly.
You look at her pursed lips briefly before exhaling in an exaggerated fashion. "You're not going to back down, are you?"
Rachel shakes her head like a stubborn child, and you chuckle despite her adamant behavior.
"Okay, um…" You walk around the side of the piano and take a seat on the bench. You play a few keys, familiarizing yourself with the feel of them beneath your fingers again.
"You're full of hidden talents, aren't you?" Rachel says, leaning on the piano and resting her chin in her hand as she looks at you.
"I took a few lessons when I thought I could be a rock star," you say, "but I took up gymnastics shortly after. Turns out you can't play piano very well when you break your fingers every other day."
You play a bad rendition of "Heart and Soul," eliciting an airy laugh from Rachel, but you stop and clear your throat before saying, "This was the only cool song I learned."
Rachel nods eagerly, and although you're rusty, it sounds good enough.
"Hey Jude, don't make it bad… Take a sad song and make it better. Remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better…"
Rachel softly sings the harmony, and you almost forget to keep singing between listening to her and focusing on the keys. Rachel sits beside you, her back to the piano as you play, and you both continue your small, timid duet.
You let the last chord hang in the air at the end of the song.
"That's all I got," you say with a shrug.
"Well, I'm very happy you shared that with me," Rachel says, her voice warm.
You share a smile, and the entire moment is light—a reprieve from all the heavy burdens you've had to learn to carry in the past weeks. You didn't know how tired you felt until now, until Rachel took some of it and reminded you that everything isn't supposed to be so rigid and difficult. Sometimes things can be easy. Sometimes life isn't testing you, and it just is.
You lick your lips, and suddenly you're not breathless—you feel the opposite of hollow like Lucy, the opposite of grit and stone like head cheerleader Quinn. You're floating, and you close your eyes and let your body move freely—toward her.
She exhales, and you smell her sweet lip balm just before your lips meet hers. Your lungs feel full of grace, like your body is meant to live this way. She parts her lips, a soft inhale before her mouth presses against yours—still gentle, still earnest.
"Quinn…"
It's a whisper against your mouth, but you feel your chest plummet at the sound—an anchor chained to your heart and pulling you back into your body—back into Quinn.
You stand so abruptly, you almost trip over the piano bench. Rachel looks at you, hesitant, her mouth slightly parted as she tries to find something to you.
"Quinn, I—"
"I'm sorry," you say, and you hate how quickly the light leaves Rachel's eyes at your words.
You don't give her a chance to respond. You grab your bag and leave, walk out of the auditorium and the school into the cold December air. You listen for footsteps following after you, but they don't come.
You shiver as the wind blows, trying to steady your breathing as your heart thuds against your sternum. It hurts, breathing in the winter air. You blink rapidly to avoid crying because you don't know what anything means, and crying would mean you haven't changed at all—you're still that weak, confused girl you were just over a year ago.
When you father pulls up, you hop into the car without a word.
"Are you okay?" your father asks, giving you a concerned look as he puts the car in drive.
You shake your head. "I think I'm getting sick," you say, still shivering—quaking, avalanches in your ribs.
"You have to be careful, Q," he says, "Take care of yourself."
You nod, not trusting your voice, not trusting yourself to even look at your father because your eyes might give you away—confess everything you've hidden, including the parts of you that are supposed to be dead in the ground.