A/N: Hey, guys. I had different plans for this chapter, but the muse she is fickle. I ended up splitting it into two chapters, which is why this one is a bit shorter than the previous ones. Sorry about that. Also, I wrote this chapter before "Mash Off" aired, so any similarities to certain events are coincidental. (But if I'd known what a douche Finn was going to be in that episode, I would've done some things differently. Bastard.) In response to the review from Willowfan: it's mentioned/alluded to in chapter 3 that Santana didn't tell the police about the phone because it has the video on it. She only told Rachel, Quinn and Brittany about the guys taking it. But as far as Rachel knows, Santana told the police about it in her statement. So basically, yeah, the police know nothing about it and therefore can't track it. Sorry if that wasn't clear. Don't worry, I've got plans for the phone. And as always, thanks to those who read and review. Please continue. Not gonna lie, my ego needs it. Ok, on with chapter four.
CHAPTER FOUR
"Lasagna or, um..." Quinn turned the bowl from side to side, wrinkling her nose. The goopy contents slid along the white Styrofoam like a slug leaving a slimy yellow trail in its wake. She sniffed it warily. Hmm. It looked like cheese and smelled like cheese, but in the Lima City School District that didn't necessarily mean it was cheese. "Whatever the hell this is?" she concluded.
Santana glanced at the mystery substance with disinterest and pointed to the servings of lasagna that congealed on the opposite side of the sneeze guard. Reaching under the plexiglass, Quinn chose a fresher, less fingered plate from the back. She set it on the tray, alongside her own lunch and the plastic sporks and napkins she'd collected at the start of the line. Once lime Jell-O squares had been ruled out in favor of chocolate pudding cups, the girls stood eyeing the milk cartons with an utter lack of enthusiasm.
"Pop?" Quinn asked, nodding towards the row of vending machines along the wall.
"I don't have any change."
"It's on me." Lifting their tray, Quinn motioned with her elbow for Santana to follow as she trudged to that large red beacon of hope, the Coke dispenser. A hush fell over each of the crowded tables they passed, and though Quinn didn't bother to look, she sensed that several pairs of eyes tracked their every movement. She had gotten used to the staring in recent years, the way you get used to a nosy neighbor and learn to shut your blinds. She had been the recipient of so many types of stares, she considered herself an expert on the subject. After laying "Lucy Caboosey" to rest, she discovered what it meant to be admired, gazed upon with desire. During her pregnancy, it was a mixed bag: pity, scorn, judgment. And as a pink-haired, pierced-nosed, punk rock darling, she was either an oddity or the butt of a joke. But, hey, at least she wasn't invisible.
These stares weren't for her, though. They only grazed past while flocking to her companion. Santana had probably selected the purple overalls and loose-sleeved peasant top to detract attention; but she couldn't hide the sling or her careful tread. And Quinn knew from experience that they didn't make clothes baggy enough to shield you from gossip. At one time she would have relished the idea of Santana walking self-consciously beside her, getting a taste of how it felt to carry a deep, shameful secret on the outside. It brought her no satisfaction now.
Luckily she had worn her heaviest combat boots today. They were good for stomping out frustration. To Quinn, each thudding footstep sounded like her own personal "fuck you" to the rest of the world. In honor of Santana, she stomped up to the Coke machine extra hard. She tried balancing the tray on one knee while rooting through her pockets for coins.
"I can hold it," said Santana.
"It's okay, I've got—"
"Just give me the damn thing, Fabray."
Quinn hiked her eyebrow at the snappish tone, more from habit than actual annoyance. Her new image required a bad attitude, and anger had become her go-to reaction for everything. Not a problem—with all the shit life had dealt her, she had rage to spare. But then, she was guessing, so did Santana. What else could drive the girl back to school less than a week after being raped? What else could she be feeling as two of her attackers scarfed Doritos and licked orange gunk off their fingers as they watched her from a table across the room?
"Pigs," Quinn said, handing the tray over to Santana. When she was sure the girl had a firm grip, she raised her fists at Karofsky and Azimio, middle fingers on prominent display. The boys snickered into their chip bags and went back to putting on a show for their friends. Their gestures made it clear they were discussing Santana. Quinn gave a soft noise of disgust and returned to scrounging for quarters. "Ignore them."
"I had a dream they chopped me up and hung the pieces on meat hooks all over school." Santana gazed around as if she might spot a dismembered limb amid the bustling cafeteria. "Think they left my liver in here."
Uncertain how to respond, Quinn fed coins into the machine and punched the top button with her thumb first. "Holy shit. That's really..." She reached for the can that clattered into the slot below. "Twisted."
"Twisted?" said a male voice behind her. "Must be talking about your freaky lesbian sex lives."
Quinn turned abruptly on her heel, scowling as her eyes traveled up the massive frame of Shane Tinsley. She only knew two things about the boy leviathan: he was dating Mercedes and he played linebacker for the Titans. Until this moment they had never said so much as hello to each other. She already despised him. "Excuse me?" she demanded.
"You heard me, Fraggle Rock." His languid smile made him look like he'd downed too much Nyquil. He motioned at Santana, but kept his attention on Quinn. "Seen you hanging out with her all day and figured you gotta be into that weird shit too. Just keep your new girlfriend away from mine. Don't want my baby catching y'all's lesbian cooties."
Quinn traded the Coke can back and forth in her hands and glanced sideways at Santana. Head slightly bent, eyes leveled no higher than Shane's chest, the girl didn't move a muscle. Didn't repay the insults. Didn't holler in Spanish. Quinn might as well have been standing next to a stranger. "I'd be more worried about myself if I were you," she said to Shane.
"Why's that?"
"You spend an awful lot of time with Karofsky. If gay is contagious, he probably already infected you."
"Man, you're crazy." Shane moseyed along, his grin as broad as the rest of him. It appeared he was just passing by, friendly as can be. Pausing near Santana, he spoke over his shoulder to Quinn, "Best be watching what you say about my boys. And careful touching this one." He pointed down at Santana, his index finger and thumb poised like an imaginary pistol in a game of Cowboys and Indians. He pulled the trigger. Bang, bang. "She cries rape."
"Careful dropping the soap in front of Karofsky," Quinn announced loudly, "or you'll be crying it too."
Conversation halted and plastic utensils froze midair at the table occupied by the band geeks. They resumed shoveling food into their metal-filled mouths when Shane shot them a warning look. He then turned towards Quinn, reaching for the football he toted under his arm—a jock's security blanket. After he gave it a few light tosses, he gripped it easily in one hand and heaved it at her face.
She flinched, but the impact never came. Heat flooded her cheeks when she opened her eyes to see him still holding the ball.
"Made you blink." Chuckling, he flipped the ball again and walked backwards a couple of steps. He pretended it was an accident when he bumped into Santana, his elbow catching her good shoulder. With a sharp gasp, she jerked away from him, the lunch tray tipping at the opposite end. She tried to steady it as the dishes of lasagna and pudding slid to the edge, but it was too top-heavy for a single hand to hold. And Quinn's reflexes weren't fast enough. The tray and everything on it crashed to the floor: sporks ricocheted in different directions; the pudding cups landed upside down, chocolate spattering from broken foil seals; Quinn's apple rolled out of sight; and an entire lasagna square plopped onto the toe of her combat boot.
"Oops," Shane said, surveying the mess. "My bad."
Most of the cafeteria had quieted, and Quinn could practically hear the intake of breath as everyone waited for her or Santana to react. For several moments, Santana's gaze stayed fastened on the cheese and meat sauce oozing down the side of Quinn's shoe. When Quinn flicked it off with a quick twitch of her foot, the color drained from Santana's cheeks. She cupped a hand over her mouth, dark hair fanning out behind her as she spun around and ran for the closest exit.
"There goes your Cheeri-ho," Shane said as Quinn started after the girl. She told herself to keep moving, to ignore the smug grin he exchanged with Karofsky and Azimio. But she couldn't let a perfectly good Coca-Cola go to waste after she had just taken the time to shake it up, now could she?
Hell no.
She jogged a few more paces, whipped around, and launched the can at the ground in front of Shane. It exploded at his feet, drenching his Nikes and jeans with a geyser of fizzy soda, then cartwheeled halfway across the room, liquid spiraling through the air. A group of innocent bystanders leapt for cover, their angry protests not fazing Quinn in the least. It was worth pissing a handful of people off to see Shane cursing as he tried to jiggle moisture out of his huge, cola-stained sneakers.
"Your bad. You clean it up," Quinn called to him, hurrying through the open doorway. Her legs hadn't moved this fast in months—Skanks mostly loitered—but she picked up speed when she spotted Santana disappearing into the girls' restroom down the hall. Seconds later, her own entrance was met with the sound of Santana puking her guts out in one of the stalls. It lasted a long time. So long, Quinn began to wonder if she should go for the school nurse. But eventually the retching faded to an occasional dry cough, and after a while, the toilet flushed. She waited a little longer, then tapped a knuckle to the stall door.
"Go away."
"Are you all right?"
"Never better. Leave me alone."
Quinn gave the defaced partition a faint smirk. Ah, there you are, she thought. As much as they had butted heads in the past, she was glad that some of the old Santana still remained. Quinn owed a lot to that girl. If not for the fiercest member of the Unholy Trinity, Quinn's star status might not have shined as brightly as it once did. The threat of losing her popularity to Santana had been a driving force during their days as Cheerios. And Santana's attitude had scared off competitors, allowing Quinn to comfortably enjoy her position of power while getting to be "the nice one." If Quinn were the Great and Powerful Oz, Santana had been the shooting flames and booming voice that made it so.
"Can you at least pass me some toilet paper to wipe off this cheese with?" Quinn scuffed her boot lightly on the grimy tile below. She expected another dismissal, but Santana's deep sigh was followed by rattling, a soft rip, and a hand emerging from beneath the door. Bending to retrieve the wad of tissue it offered, Quinn saw that the girl had seated herself cross-legged on the floor. Ick. Quinn attempted to rub the top of her boot clean, but the generic one-ply sheets were as worthless at mopping up lasagna as they were at their intended purpose. She crumpled them up and tossed them into the neighboring toilet. Then she looked skeptically at the floor. Its dull, speckled surface had always reminded her of pimento loaf, and there was no telling what kind of crud lurked there, invisible to the naked eye. But she pushed those thoughts aside—she was wearing ratty old camo pants anyway—and eased down next to Santana's stall, her back against the divider, hands and butt touching only what they must.
"I've dropped trays in the cafeteria before," Quinn said when she got tired of listening to the dripping faucet that filled the silence. "And I didn't have a broken arm at the time."
"I don't care about the stupid tray."
The response was gradual, and lingered as if there were more to come. Not wanting to rush it, Quinn propped her chin on her upraised knees, arms wrapped around them, and kept quiet.
"That stuff spilling on your shoe reminded me of... I guess I had a flashback or something. Been having them since it happened." Santana sounded muffled, like she was speaking into fabric or skin. "And I get sick every freakin' time. I've thrown up more in the past five days than I have my entire life. My throat hurts."
Quinn nodded sympathetically. During her pregnancy, violent bouts of morning sickness had left her feeling as though someone had taken sandpaper to her esophagus. At one point, she'd been convinced she would give birth to a tiny, bald carpenter. "Well," she said, and almost didn't recognize the gentle, feminine tone that was her natural voice, "if it's any consolation, you look super thin."
"It's not. I hate my body. I have a skinny ass."
Surprised to hear those words coming from Santana's mouth, Quinn was momentarily speechless. She had always been a tad envious of the girl, whose slim figure had never been overweight or put through the rigors of childbirth. And Santana seemed to have such confidence in her own appearance. While the rest of the Cheerios whined about cankles and man shoulders, she would roll her eyes and continue filing her fingernails into perfectly sculpted tips. Even Sue sometimes called Santana front and center after weigh-ins, using her as an example of what the heavier girls should aspire to. However, that all changed when the coach found out about Santana's boob job.
"Better than having these tree trunk legs of mine." Quinn pinched the side of one calf with her thumb and forefinger. Her legs really were the feature she was most insecure about, but she didn't dare confide that to Santana before. It would have come back to bite her in the ass. Now it didn't even get a reaction. "Hey, you missed it," she said, deciding to switch topics. "I threw my pop can at Shane. It sprayed Coke all over his pants and shoes. And some other people."
"Seriously?"
"Yep."
"You're going to get into trouble."
"Oh well. Baby Huey had it coming. I have no idea what Mercedes sees in that horse's ass."
Santana took a while to answer. And then: "She doesn't believe me, does she?" Although phrased as a question, it was stated like a fact. Her feelings were disguised by the monotone in which she spoke. "That's why she didn't come with you guys the other day. Not because she had the flu."
Quinn wished she could change the subject again, but it would just be way too obvious. There was truth to what Santana said. On the previous Friday, Mr. Schuester had summoned each member of New Directions to the choir room to discuss their feelings and to clear up some of the rumors that swirled around Santana's absence. It was awkward—he also brought in Miss Pillsbury—and upsetting—Brittany cried so hard she had to be escorted to the nurse's office and sent home. And while no one accused Santana of lying, there were definitely skeptics in the group. Mercedes listened to Mr. Schue's version of events with arms crossed, eyebrow cocked, and not a single bit of input.
"I don't think it's that she doesn't believe you," Quinn said carefully. "She's probably just going along with Shane since he's her first real boyfriend. And for the record, Tina really was out of town."
"You believe me, though." A whisper, a plea. "Right?"
Before Saturday, Quinn would have struggled with the reply. She knew firsthand the extremes Santana went to for manipulation and revenge. At the wrong end of the girl's wrath, Quinn had incurred everything from bruises to mono. She had also lost more than one of her boyfriends to Santana, the high school equivalent of a man-eater. Perhaps things got out of hand with the guys, and Santana wound up regretting it. Wouldn't be the first time in McKinley history that a girl made up an awful lie because sex turned out to be a mistake. But after visiting Santana at home over the weekend, listening to her describe the rape in her own words, seeing how altered she was by it both physically and mentally, Quinn stopped doubting. She believed every last horrific detail Santana had given.
"Yes," she said. "I do."
Very, very slowly the stall door creaked open. Santana didn't step out, and after a moment, Quinn peeked around the corner to find her still seated next to the toilet, head lowered, long black hair veiling her face. Turning, Quinn scooted on her backside until she was halfway in the stall, then mimicked the girl's cross-legged posture, soiled boot tucked under her thigh. They looked like they were meditating right there on the lunchmeat tiles. As she tried to think of something profound or supportive to say—something not completely idiotic or insensitive—a pair of giggling freshman entered the restroom. They collided with each other, eyes widening, when Quinn leaned back to shoot them a dirty look. And they tripped over themselves obeying when she said, "Leave."
To Santana, for whom words could not suffice, Quinn offered a small touch, hand resting on the girl's knee.
"Aren't you afraid you'll get my lesbian cooties?" Santana said with a hint of wryness.
"I'll take my chances." Quinn smirked, tilted her head and peered up at Santana from beneath the shroud of dark tresses. Honestly, it hadn't shocked her when Santana admitted she was a lesbian. Brittany's loose lips raised suspicions even before the Fondue for Two incident, and anyone with eyes could see that the blonde and brunette cheerleaders were especially close. At one time, Quinn might have considered it immoral, thanks to her religious upbringing. But those days were over. She was doing everything in her power to shed the good little Christian girl skin that had inhibited her for so long. As proof, she added, "Besides, I've been to the dark side. Tasted those cookies."
That got Santana to lift her head. "What?" she asked, more animated in that one second than she had been all day. "When?"
"Summer. Mostly just some making out." Quinn shrugged and hoped the shadows cast by the blinking fluorescent light above would conceal her burning cheeks. "Turns out Mack is into more than truckers when she's lit. I was pretty hammered, too. Don't tell her I told you. She'd probably pop a cap in my ass."
Amusement flickered on Santana's features, her eyebrows arching, mouth quirked into a poorly suppressed smile. She reached over and wiggled Quinn's nose ring with the tip of her index finger. "And here I was thinking you were straight up vanilla."
"Nah. Look at this hair. Sherbet all the way." Quinn shook her strawberries and cream locks like she was auditioning for a L'Oreal commercial. "Or at least one of those Flintstones Push Ups."
"Oh, my God, I love those."
"Me too."
They looked at each other and giggled. But Santana sobered an instant later, as if laughter were a forbidden pleasure and she'd been caught in the act. She went someplace far away for a while, and even her voice sounded distant when she said, "My parents know. About me. We haven't talked about it, but I know they've heard things."
"Is that... bad?" Quinn asked. She hadn't spent a lot of time around Santana's mother and father, but they seemed decent enough. Much more laid-back than her own parents. Mrs. Lopez was an artist, too; and if the bold, sensual paintings—including a nude self-portrait—which adorned the walls of her chic home were any indication, she was fairly open-minded.
"I didn't want them to find out. Not like this. They're pretending everything's fine, but..." A tremor went through Santana's body, her face twisting into a pained expression. She cried without producing a single teardrop. "My dad doesn't look at me the same anymore," she said as clearly as her heaving breath allowed. "I don't know how to explain it. He's just... different."
Quinn didn't need an explanation for how it felt to become a stranger in your father's eyes, to lose his love because you were so deplorable. (It tears you up inside.) She swallowed hard, forcing back the lump in her throat as she gazed down at her ugly camo pants and the junkyard of spiked and studded bracelets on her forearms. (It destroys you.) "Maybe he needs time to adjust," she said, placing a palm on Santana's back and gliding it side to side. Quinn had once liked her mother to do this for her when she was upset. Now they rarely spoke. "Or maybe it just feels different because, after what you've been through, you are different."
"I don't want to be different. I want things the way they were before." Santana demanded it, as if Quinn could snap her fingers and make it happen. But there was no magical snap—only that leaking faucet to remind them they were sitting on the crummy bathroom floor of a school they would both be lucky to escape alive, let alone unchanged. "Fuck," she said, and drove her fist into her knee. "It's not fair. Those assholes ruined me. I can't even sleep by myself anymore. I have to sleep with my mom like I'm fucking eight years old. But they get to walk around like nothing's wrong. Coach Beiste didn't even kick them off the team yet. She probably won't. They're going to get away with the whole goddamn thing."
"No, they're not," Quinn said firmly. She wasn't as certain as she sounded. Plenty of people were gunning for the boys to do hard time, but she had overheard her mother debating the issue with friends during Sunday bridge club. The weekly card game was really just an excuse for a group of affluent women to gather in each other's homes, drain the liquor cabinets, and gossip about the other members who weren't present. Yesterday, Lee Bowman's mom was one of the absentees. Her close friend, an outspoken woman who also happened to be the mayor's wife, came to her defense and spent a good twenty minutes listing reasons the boys would go free, not the least of which was Santana's "reputation." According to the know-it-all, Lee's dad was pushing for a speedy trial with no convictions, and he would get it. Quinn wanted to punch the woman after listening to her drone on and on. Now, watching despair consume Santana whole, she wished she had.
"They're guilty as hell," she said. "Let them get convicted and rot in prison for a while, then their lives will be fucked up too."
"For a while," Santana muttered.
"Yeah. And until then..." Quinn shifted onto her knees, unzipped the cargo pocket at her thigh and pulled out a black permanent marker. Random acts of vandalism were The Skanks' specialty; their motto: Be prepared. She was pretty sure they had stolen that from the Boy Scouts, but no big surprise there—theft was another favorite pastime for the pack of delinquent girls. "We'll keep them from getting too comfortable on the outside."
"What do you mean?"
Quinn stood up and uncapped the marker. Choosing a section of stall with the least amount of graffiti, she began scrawling in large capital letters that spanned the surface from top to bottom. Pressing till the felt tip bled, she wrote:
GUILTY OF RAPE AND ATTEMPTED MURDER
LEE BOWMAN (#59)
DAVE KAROFSKY (#77)
AZIMIO ADAMS (#92)
JACOB BEN ISRAEL (NOBODY)
She put out a hand for Santana, who stared at it with a mixture of curiosity and fear before hesitantly taking hold. Quinn helped the girl to her feet, clicked the cap back onto the marker and pointed it at the verdict on the wall. "Which one should suffer the most?"
Santana studied Quinn for a moment, her rich brown eyes steadfast, unblinking. They darkened to black flint as she turned them, lids narrowed, on the list of rapists. Raising her index finger, she let it hover near the first name, then suddenly dropped it to the second. She drew an invisible line through Dave Karofsky.
"Ready, set, hike," said Quinn.
xxx
The girls returned to the cafeteria minutes later, Quinn in the lead. She would have to work fast if she was going to pull this off before a teacher intercepted her. Lunchtime was almost up, and she had begun to lose some of her audience too. Luckily, Karofsky and Azimio were still clowning around for the occupants of their table, which included Shane and his damn football. Leaving Santana by the doorway with instructions to watch and wait, Quinn made a beeline for the human acne factory emptying his trash into a barrel by the exit. She snatched the tray from the boy's hands as she plowed by, his startled, "Hey!" falling on deaf ears. Flipping the tray facedown on a nearby tabletop, she scribbled her message on the back with thick, furious strokes of the permanent marker. Nice and big. Easy to read.
They were too busy lobbing the football across the table at each other to notice her at first. Shane spied her as he caught a pass from Azimio. Plunking the ball down in front of himself, he pinned it under his elbow and signaled over Azimio's shoulder. "We got company," he said.
Despite the heavy boots, she moved lithely into their midst—moved like she was a Cheerio again—stepping from floor to bench to table without breaking stride. Her grace went no further. She squashed it beneath the heel of her boot, along with Karofsky's leftover Jell-O. Styrofoam bowls and plastic spoons cracked, half-empty Mountain Dew cans toppled, and someone's Little Debbie snack cake burst inside the wrapper as she took a second to delight in chaos and destruction. The boys gaped up at her in amazement, as if she were some sort of demented, pink-haired deity they worshipped. But that infidel Shane swore at her, his elbow bashing against the table when she kicked the football out from under it. The ball wobbled through the air in a low arc and scattered a pile of class notes two girls were trading at the next table. It wasn't the spectacular kick Quinn had hoped for, but the racket it made and the girls' squeals got everyone's attention. She planted her feet firmly in the middle of the table and stretched both arms high above her head, the makeshift sign on display for all to see. She revolved in a slow circle, letting the entire cafeteria read her announcement before showing it to Karofsky.
He mouthed the words to himself, his cheeks flushing bright red—
#77 IS GAY
"What the hell?" said Azimio, just getting a glimpse of the tray too. "Girl, sit your ass down."
Quinn ignored him and flashed a spiteful grin at Karofsky. People were taking pictures with their cell phones, and she obliged them with another full turn. She would have kept going, but several things happened at once: Mr. Hughes, the history teacher who mistook lunchroom duty for naptime, was jarred awake by the commotion and stormed towards Quinn, gesturing for her to lower the sign; as if they sensed trouble brewing, Finn, Puck and Mike hustled over from their table; and Karofsky stood up on his seat, grabbing for the tray. He caught the corner of it, nearly wrenching it from her grasp. Quinn yanked back with all her strength. They began a tug of war that drew laughter and comments—"My money's on Fabray" "Holy shit, she is psycho" "Is he really gay?"—from the crowd. When she refused to let go, he released his end of the tray while she was pulling hers. McKinley lunch trays were not the flimsy kind found in fast food restaurants or elementary schools. They were heavy-duty slabs made of an ancient, durable plastic that had been around since at least the eighties. Quinn was sure the woodlike substance had knocked out her front teeth as, by her own momentum, it collided with her mouth. Frantically she ran her tongue along each tooth, checking. Still there, thank God. But there was a painful gash inside her upper lip, a bitter taste of blood. Red smears on the fingers she touched to her mouth.
Karofsky gazed mildly at her, making it clear that the sight of a hurt and bloodied girl had no affect on him. She gripped the tray in both hands and swung it at his face as hard as she could. It connected with a crunch, and he took a stumbling step backwards off the bench, swearing and clutching his nose. She lost track of him then, as several pairs of hands reached for her. Azimio had her by the leg, and she kicked out at him, her boot clipping him under the chin. His teeth snapped shut loudly. Strong arms encircled her from behind, dragging her away before she could land a second kick. Adrenaline pumping, she continued to wield the tray, fighting against whoever was hauling her off the table.
"Quinn. It's me. Stop."
The familiar voice brought Quinn back to reality, and she turned to face Finn when he stood her on the ground. He urged her chin up, his brow furrowed in concern as he examined her lip. "Think you need stitches," he said grimly, features contorting with anger. He started to push past her, a murderous glare trained on Karofsky and Azimio, but Mr. Hughes blocked his path.
"Cool your jets, Hudson," said the history teacher, a palm thrust out in warning. "Miss Fabray, principal's office. Now." He pointed to Karofsky and Azimio, who were poking and prodding at themselves, inspecting their faces for damage, while Puck stood guard. "You too."
Quinn swiped at the warm, wet trickle on her lips and tried not to wince. Her hands were shaking badly. She wanted to find a mirror to mourn in front of, but she'd probably just cry if she looked at herself right now. And that was not an option. Swallowing a mouthful of bloody saliva, she leaned over and placed the tray facedown on the table where her writing would be on view. Shane reached for it, but Mike had quicker reflexes. The dancer held the tray at chest level, its message directed at the crowd as he took the long route to discard of it, his stride much slower than usual.
While Mr. Hughes led the way to the principal's office, Finn fell into step beside Quinn, casting worried glances down at her. "I'm fine. Go watch out for Santana," she said softly, and nudged him towards the girl. "See if she wants lunch or something."
Volatile as Finn's relationship was with Santana, he and the rest of the boys from glee club had been eager to defend her since the attack. Immediately he obeyed Quinn's request and jogged ahead. He used his tall frame to shield Santana from the other boys as they passed through the exit. Still, she kept her gaze on the floor until Quinn approached. When their eyes met, Quinn gave her a small, crooked smile—too sore for anything bigger—and drew a checkmark in the air. Then she trailed after the teacher and football players, the hall echoing with every stomp of her combat boots.