CHAPTER FOUR

"I told you I was going to make it impossible for you to dislike me!" Rachel says smugly, falling into step beside me as I march out of the choir room the second rehearsal ends.

"Yeah, well, you're seriously failing with your mission so far." I bark a bitter laugh. "You forcing me into being your partner by using your bossy, controlling ways? That's kind of the opposite of what would make me like you."

I stop walking, turn to face her. I wish I hadn't; it's obvious I've hurt her feelings. It's really odd to see Rachel Berry frowning like that. Odd in that way when you see dogs standing up on their hind legs and trying to dance, or when you run into a teacher shopping at the same clothes store as you – it shouldn't be happening, yet somehow, it is.

Then, suddenly, her frown has transformed back into her trademark sunny smile. "This will be good for us; you'll see. Honestly, Quinn, our voices really do harmonize so well together. It's a shame that we don't utilize our differing pitches more often."

I decide to throw her a bone. There's no way this assignment is going to be bearable if I don't have at least a little bit of an accommodating attitude.

"Okay, fine," I huff. "When should we get together to practice?"

"We can go to the Lima Bean right now and brainstorm song selections over coffee," she suggests. "Then tomorrow, we can go to one of our houses and rehearse. We'll need to be ready by Friday; we're going to blow everybody else's performances out of the water!" There's a manic gleam of competition in her eyes; she must take in how I raise my eyebrows at her, for she hastily adds, "But of course, I hope everyone else does well, too. We're just going to be better."

"All right," I say. "The Lima Bean sounds good; I could use a latte."

She smirks triumphantly.

Sam and Finn walk up to us.

"Hey," Sam says hesitantly, tilting his head to the side. His eyes widen just a little bit.

Wow, he really does remind me so much of a puppy when he does that.

"Are you mad at me?" he asks.

"No," I say. "Why would I be mad at you?" But after four months of dating, Sam can read my body signals and tonal inflections well enough to know that what I'm really saying is, 'We'll discuss this matter later. In private.'

"Okay," he sighs.

Rachel looks back and forth from my boyfriend and me, her expression curious, but she has enough sense not to question our exchange out loud.

"I can't believe I got paired with Mercedes," Finn says, clueless to the tension mounting around him (as always). "I've never had a duet with her before. She kind of scares me."

"Finn!" I reprimand. "Mercedes is nice; why would she scare you?"

"She always calls me 'white boy,' and she doesn't do a very good job of hiding her laughter at me when I have a dance solo," he explains.

"You'll get along with her," says Rachel matter-of-factly. "You're kind, and you're perceptive of what it takes to make a tough situation work. That's part of why I love you so much." She leans on her tiptoes and pecks a kiss on his mouth.

As she's drawing away, Finn wraps his arms around her waist, pulling her back in. They're lips meet again, deeper this time; I look away.

Ugh. I feel sick. Seriously, how gross!

I know they've finally stopped macking on each other when Rachel says, "Quinn and I are going to head over to Lima Bean. I'll call you later, okay?"

I don't bother to contain my upper lip as it twists in disgust when I watch Rachel give him one last kiss. Well, thankfully it's not as shameless and is just on the cheek this time, but still. There are people watching; me included, and I don't want to lose my appetite, thank you very much.

"Why don't Sam and I join you lovely ladies and make it a double date?" Finn suggests. His boyish, lopsided grin passes from Rachel, to me, to Sam, and back to Rachel again.

I'm surprised when she says adamantly, "No, sorry, but it's a special girls' outing. No boys allowed. Especially because you're our competition."

I'm also surprised by how her saying all of this actually makes me feel kind of…happy…and sweetly relieved. Weird.

"Text me later, Quinn." Sam's hand slips alongside my face; he tries to kiss me good-bye, but I jerk away from him. I'm still pissed that he didn't fight to keep me as his duet partner.

I try to ignore the way his eyebrows furrow over sad eyes. "I'm still grounded from my phone, remember?" I say. "But I'll, uh, ask my parents if I can call you on the home phone or something for a few minutes. So we can talk." I shoot him a pointed look before grabbing the upper part of Rachel's arm and tugging her along with me, down the hall and towards the student parking lot.

Her bicep is not filled out, but it is lean, corded by muscle that has been taken care of with frequent exercises. Upon realizing that I noticed this detail about her, I drop my hand back to my side.

But as soon as I let go, I kind of miss holding onto her.

You know, 'cause that way I finally get to be the bossy one who drags her sorry ass around.


"Ahhhh!" This goofy grin, wide and close-lipped, spreads up Rachel's baby apple cheeks. She's just finished taking her first sip of her drink.

We're sitting at a table for two in the middle of Lima Bean. I've only been here a few times before; the atmosphere is relaxed and easygoing, the food is quality, and the drinks are delicious. I really should come here more often.

"Good?" I ask, quirking an eyebrow.

"Wonderful," she corrects.

"What did you get again?"

"A white chocolate soy latte with a twist of honey, of course, for honey replenishes the vocal chords. And you got a…?"

"A, uh, skinny mocha latte. No whip. Boring, I know, but what can I say? If I try something and like it, I tend to stick with it and not branch out into more…elaborate choices."

She laughs, and the sound is dainty bells, or wind chimes tinkling on a breezy summer afternoon. "Yes, I certainly am 'elaborate,' in every facet of my life, apparently. Even drink orders."

I smirk and hold up my hot beverage. "To coffee, and all of the hidden symbolic meanings it has!"

"To coffee!" she echoes.

We clink cups, and I can't help but giggle.

We drink for a little bit in a silence that is surprisingly comfortable. I figure that if I have to work on this assignment with her, I might as well play nice. For now. As soon as it's over, I can go back to not even giving her the time of day.

She pulls out a mini-notebook with a sparkly baby-blue cover from her purse. A fuzzy magenta pen with a fluffy puff at the end is slipped into the spine of her notebook.

She pulls out the pen, starts flipping to a clean page, and I catch sight of her manicure. A bright, ruby red color, some nails slightly chipped. It goes well with her lipstick, which is somehow unaffected despite her coffee slurpage.

I watch as she begins scribbling in her notebook, pen flying across page; she wears her Rachel in Deep Thought Face – all scrunched eyebrows and pouted lower lip. Pure concentration, determination, that strive for her to succeed, succeed, succeed.

Curiosity gets the best of me. "What are you doing?"

She holds up a rigid forefinger, not breaking eye-contact with her journal, continuing to write for a few more seconds before finally setting the pen down on the tabletop with a smack of satisfaction.

"Done!" she says.

"With what?"

"With jotting down my ideas for our duet. This is of course a brainstorming session, so I would love to hear your input, but I needed to record my ideas before I forgot any of them."

I nod. "I like your notebook and pen; very…peppy colors."

She beams. "Thank you! I made sure to get a blue notebook, because the color is said to induce creativity. And this pen is fun because it's all furry and this fuzzy bit at the end is fun to tickle against my nose." She lowers her voice and giggles at that, as if she's just let me in on a scandalous secret.

I smirk in amusement; her childlike enthusiasm is…uncanny? No... Endearing, maybe? Yeah, that's the word.

"That's clever," I say, meaning it, "You picking your journal's color for that reason, I mean. I have one at home with a basket of kittens on the front." I feel kind of stupid throwing that out there, but whatever, it's just Rachel we're talking about here. Who cares what her opinion of me is?

"Well, you can't ever go wrong with kittens," she says, completely serious.

"Nope," I agree, "you certainly cannot."

I tuck a stray lock of my shoulder-length blonde hair behind my ear. "So, what ideas do you have?"

"Okay!" She bubbles up, instantly all business. "The project is 'happiness,' right? So, here are the songs that inspire that emotional concept in me. Granted, all music in general makes me happy – well, besides rap music, which I personally find to be an oxymoron; oh, and most country music – anyway, most music makes me happy, but these are the ones that I really think embody 'happiness.'"

She clears her throat importantly before reading from her list. "'How Lucky Can You Get' by the perfect Ms. Barbra; 'Tomorrow' from Annie; 'Popular' from Wicked; 'So Much Better' from Legally Blonde: The Musi – "

"Rachel!"

Her eyes snap up from her list. "Yes?" Irritation bristles her tone. "I wasn't finished."

"No show tunes," I say, "…please. If the rest of your song selections are not from musicals, then, by all means, proceed. But if they are all from musicals, then I'm going to do you a favor and let you save your breath."

"Not all of them are Broadway related," she says, with great indignity.

"Like?"

"Like…" She scans her list before looking back up at me. "Like 'Feeling Good' by Michael Bublé. I have that on here."

"And that's the only non-Broadway-musical song out of, how many did you put? A dozen?"

Rachel lifts her eyebrows and cocks her head. The look is challenging, defensive. "All right, then what do you have in mind, hmmm?" Feisty Berry, coming out to play.

"Well," I hedge, "there is one song I always turn to when I'm upset."

"What is it?" Her agitated expression melts into curiosity.

I suddenly feel kind of self-conscious. Things that really make you genuinely happy are sacred, you know? I don't want to share this part of me with her and then have her laugh or dismiss me as being somehow wrong in my opinion or whatever. Then again, I did just interrupt her list, but she knows how I feel about too many show tunes….

I take a sip of my drink before answering. "'Man! I Feel Like a Woman' by Shania Twain."

She nods, slowly, truly thinking it over. Finally, she says, "Actually, I like that song. It's upbeat and empowering and definitely radiates a certain simplistic happiness. But then again, the most joyous things in life are often the most commonplace, right?" She smiles at her own deductions, proud of herself, no doubt.

"Good job," she says to me, doling out a final nod, sealing it in.

Yeah, as if I need your approval, I think, but there's this stupid, tiny smile gracing my lips at how satisfied she looks with me.

"You know…" I say, an idea beginning to bloom. "Since we're partners in this, why not combine my happy song with one of yours? I don't know…maybe, like, 'Feeling Good'? Throw some Bublé into the mix?"

Rachel's eyes widen, brighten; she somehow sits up even straighter in her chair. "Oh my gosh! That's a great idea, Quinn! I think a mash-up of those songs would be fun and quirky, and certainly happy."

She holds up her hand for a high-five and cheers, "Up top, girlfriend!"

I burst into laughter. "OhmyGod, okay, I'll high-five you; just promise never to say that phrase again, especially so unironically. And in public!"

She chuckles as we slap palms. "Fine. From now on when I use apparently outdated slang in your presence, I will only do so when the two of us are someplace private."

"Somehow, I think that's going to be more of a challenge for you than you realize," I tease, "considering about half of your vocabulary is entirely made up of 'outdated slang.'"

"Well, it's a good thing I have you to show me the ropes on the proper lingo of today's youth," she jokes, eyes doubled in size with mock-earnestness. A little smile curves at her mouth.

My heart flutters in the weirdest way; I look down at my latte. "Yeah. Good thing for that." I flick my gaze back up at her and flash a smirk. "Especially considering 'lingo' is one of the words not to be used in modern times by anyone under the age of forty."

She giggles. "I'll keep that in mind."

"And what are you two lovely ladies doing here?"

We snap our heads to my left and her right, catching sight of the voice that has just spoken to us.

It's Blaine. And he's with Kurt.

The two well-dressed, attractive boys carry tall orders of coffee in their shiny, clear-manicured fingers. Blaine wears an expression of friendliness, but Kurt's face is a cross between suspicion and curiosity. … Suspicion and curiosity that is directed towards me, as if searching for my ulterior motives for hanging out with his best friend.

"Kurt! Blaine!" Rachel exclaims, jumping up and throwing her arms around first the former, and then the latter boy. "What are you guys doing here?"

"Are you kidding?" Kurt laughs. "We practically live here. The barista has our orders memorized and everything."

"We're regulars!" Blaine says proudly, as if this title is as prestigious as being a member of the royal court.

"And, as my boyfriend asked, what are you two doing here?" Kurt gives Rachel this wide-eyed looked, cocking his head none-too-subtly at me, as if specifically asking why in the world she would voluntarily choose to hang out with me after school.

"We're working on our assignment for Glee Club," she explains, sitting back down in her chair. She's either oblivious to Kurt's rude disbelief toward us being together, or she chooses to ignore it. Either way, I'm grateful.

"Ooh, what did you decide on?" Blaine asks, flashing his inquisitive smile first at Rachel and then at me.

Rachel snaps her journal closed and gives him a raised-eyebrow, 'you're crazy' type of look. "I can't tell you that; it's classified information."

I awkwardly sip from my drink, unsure of what to say. Unsure of how to jump into this conversation, or if I even want to.

Blaine turns to me, offers a playfully conspiring grin. "Come on, Quinn; you'll at least give us a hint, right?"

Damn it; why does he have to be so…charming? This is so lame to say, but I find myself melting a little bit as he widens his amber-colored eyes at me and exposes those perfect teeth of his. It feels sort of…flattering, I guess…for him to be specifically reaching out to me despite Kurt's utter disbelief towards my presence.

So I find myself saying, "We're doing a mash-up."

"Quinn!" Rachel shrieks, slamming a hand down on her closed journal. Her eyes practically pop out of her face in accusation.

"Sorry." I try not to laugh at how dramatic she is. I turn back to Blaine. "But that is all the hint I can give you, or else I fear my partner may have a heart attack, or club me to death with her journal."

Blaine chuckles. "Okay, gotcha."

Kurt slips a territorial hand around Blaine's elbow and ignores me, looking only between his boyfriend and Rachel, as he says, "Let's take a seat, Blaine. My boots are not made for walking or standing; they are made for fashion, and sometimes, fashion hurts like hell."

Blaine chuckles again, the sound loaded with so much more warmth and affection and love this time, and he flutters his fingers in a little wave at me and Rachel. Then Kurt&Blaine prance off to sit down at what I assume is their "regular table."

"Please, for the sake of all that is show business, do not divulge any more highly classified information to our competitors," Rachel scolds me.

"Whatever," I roll my eyes. But I have to admit…I kind of like how she's so 'us against them;' it makes me feel, like, kind of…special or something. Which is truly pathetic to admit, but it's not like you're going to tell anyone, so who cares.

"Would you like to practice at my house or yours tomorrow?" she inquires.

I mull over my options. Neither one sounds all that great. Well…except…I guess it would be kind of, you know, interesting to see where Rachel lives. What her house is like. How her family is – especially those two dads or hers (yeah, you heard me correctly).

"Your house," I say.

"Then we can go to your house on Wednesday. We'll have about an hour and a half before the Open House at school to practice."

"Why do we have to go to my place? Why can't we use yours again?"

"Because I am very curious to see what kind of castle Princess Quinn lives in," Rachel says with this happy, teasing smile. And I can't help but smile back.

"Okay, so, should we exchange phone numbers, in case we need to get a hold of each other?" I ask. "You know, for the assignment," I make sure to tag on, not wanting her to get any ideas.

"I already have your number."

My eyebrows skyrocket in alarm and surprise at this, like 'staaalkeeerrr!'

"I have all of our fellow Glee Club members numbers stored in my cell," she explains. "Being co-captain with Finn and all, it would be irresponsible of me not to have contact references for everyone."

"Oh…" I say, feeling lame. That actually makes perfect sense. "…Right."

And now I feel weirdly embarrassed, like it's rude for me not to already have her number, too.

But I hand her my phone and she adds her information for me without seeming offended or hurt at all; nothing but her typical peppiness.

When I take my phone back and read over how she entered her number, I surprise myself by softly smiling over the way she entered her name. It should annoy me, make me roll my eyes and audibly insult her cheesiness.

But it's just so…her.

She's entered her cell phone and home phone number, and she has stored her name as: 'THE Rachel Berry*' … yes, with an honest-to-God star at the end of her name. It's just so on-the-nose and maybe just a little bit adorable of her.

Still, she's so full of it, you know? The poor girl really does try so hard, I tell myself.

"I'll text you later and let you know if my parents give the okay to me coming over after school tomorrow," I say as we stand up from our table and start gathering our purses and now-empty cups.

I never in a million years thought I would tell Rachel that I'd be texting her later, let alone that I'd be voluntarily going to her house.

"I thought you said you were grounded from your phone?"

"No…."

"That's what you told Sam." She cocks her head, arches an eyebrow: Detective Berry mode.

"Well, I lied to him," I say simply. I turn away from her, about to head for the door, making it clear that this conversation about my boyfriend and me is over before it can even begin.

But, of course, she doesn't take the (ob-vious) hint.

"Why would you do that?" she asks, tone so abashed in its curiosity that irritation flares beneath my skin.

"And why are you so damn nosy?" I demand, whirling on her. "What, don't you ever lie to Finn?"

"No," she says, folding her arms over her chest and lifting her chin. "I don't. Finn and I tell each other everything; that's what you do when you're in a serious relationship with somebody, Quinn."

I bristle. "As if I need relationship advice from you." Who does she think she is? Just when I'm beginning to not totally hate this girl, she does something completely obnoxiously self-righteous, and I just dislike her even more than before.

Rachel draws back, as if I've just slapped her across the face. "I'm only trying to help."

"Why?" I hiss, the word practically a plea.

"Because that's what friends do, Quinn," she says, her voice almost a whisper. Everything about her in this moment is so sincere: her words, her widened eyes, the tiny tug of a frown at her mouth.

"And as much as you try to push me away, I am your friend." Some of her feistiness seeps back into her demeanor. "Whether you like it or not." She walks past me, head held high, shoulders back in a posture so perfect that a prima ballerina would weep with envy.

And all I can do is stare after her, my arms crossed tightly over my pounding chest, my face twisted into a strange expression.

She has left me speechless, for the millionth time in the past few days. I feel something almost like guilt, weighing down inside of me.

Rachel Berry says she's my friend.

No matter how hard I try to push her away.

And the trouble is, I don't know if this is the worst thing I've ever heard…

…or the best.