Title: Only Taking Space Up In Our Heads (3/?)
Author: theichkeilanch
Rating: teen/pg-13 (subject to change)
Length: 3300~ for this part
Spoilers: None. AU.
Disclaimer:If you recognize it, I probably don't own it.
Summary: Quinn transfers to William McKinley High School for the Arts from Carmel with the help of her not quite estranged aunt Holly Holiday after things back home get rough. Rachel, the daughter of known Broadway stars and a Hollywood director, has the school wrapped around her fingers. Quinn proves to be the exception.
AN: First and foremost, a HUGE SHOUTOUT to my beta leksi231! Thanks a bunch!
AN2: So here's the next part. As always, concrit is greatly appreciated. Drop a line and feed the author.
AN3: I've decided to add a little something at the start of each chapter. These will be lines from a particular song that's mostly inspired me to write each chapter. :)
Sometimes tears say all there is to say
Sometimes your first scars won't ever fade away
(The End Where I Begin; The Script)
Chapter Three
To her surprise, it had actually been Frannie who first came to her rescue the night her parents kicked her out.
Her father didn't even give her time to pack. He just shoved her out the door and slammed it closed, her mother's cries audible behind it. Quinn had been crying too without her realizing it as she got up, pounded her fists on the door, and begged, "Daddy, please. Daddy, I'm sorry. Daddy. Daddy."
Moments later the door opened to reveal the face of her tear-streaked mother, shoving an armful of clothes to her, and ushering her away from the door.
"Quinnie," her mother had cried, "you have to go. Take your car with you or he's going to take that away from you too. Please, baby." And then Judy had closed the door behind her, leaving Quinn with the few clothes she could carry on her arms, and no family.
A couple of hours later, when Quinn had parked her car near a cheap motel and she had been crying all alone with no idea where to go and what else to do, her phone rang, a snobby picture of her older sister looking back at her.
"Mom called," came her sister's subdued voice on the other line. "Oh, Quinn, what have you done?"
"I don't–" and then a choked sob.
"Quinn," this time, her sister's voice sounded strangled, barely in control, which before that day, Quinn thought, had been an almost impossibility. "Quinn, listen to me."
"Frannie…Frannie, I don't know what to do. H–he kicked me out. I don't know what to do."
"Did you…did you try calling anyone? Anyone who can help?"
At that instant, Quinn realized that her sister had known about their aunt all along. That Quinn had kept in touch, had kept it a secret from her family, had thought it best to keep it that way for years. But Frannie had known all along, it seemed, and had also kept it a secret.
She felt her chest constrict, but she forced herself to release a breath.
"I–I tried calling aunt Holly, b–but no one's picking up."
"Do you have somewhere to go?"
Another choked sob, "N–no."
There was brief silence on the other line as Quinn tried in vain to quell the tears from falling. But the more she tried, the more they kept on coming.
"You've really messed up, Quinn."
"I know, Frannie. I know," she released a shuddered breath, and then, "Frannie, please, I don't know what to do… I don't have anything. He just kicked me out, Fran."
"Oh God." It had been the first time Quinn had heard her sister use the Lord's name in any statement outside of a prayer or a doctrinal declamation. Apparently, it was as much a night of firsts for Frannie as it was for Quinn.
"Are you walking around the streets alone, Quinn? God, that's– Where are you?"
"I–I have the car. I'm parked outside a motel. Fran, I don't have anything else. He didn't even let me pack."
"Okay, at least I know you're safe," Quinn heard a faint rustling on the other line, like her sister was moving around. "Do you even have any money? Can you afford a room for the night?"
Quinn placed the phone down and she rummaged through her bag, looking for her wallet. When she saw what was left inside, she released a labored breath. "I'm not sure," she said back to her sister as she picked up the phone. "I think I can afford a night, but barely. If I want to eat anything at all tomorrow, I'll have to sleep in the car."
"No, get a room for tonight, okay?"
"D–do you think I can still use the credit card, maybe?"
"No, Quinn. I'm pretty sure he's already cut you off by now."
She sniffed, trying to keep the next batch of tears at bay. "Okay."
Her sister was still on the line, and Quinn could hear her moving around, but Frannie didn't say anything. Quinn closed her eyes as she roughly placed her fingers on top of her closed lids.
"Quinn, listen to me," Frannie said when she spoke again. "I want you to take a deep breath, compose yourself, and check in for the night, okay? There's no point in crying yourself to death over this. When you're settled in, call Holly again and tell her what's happened. Do you understand me, Quinn?"
"Yes," was all she could manage to reply.
"After we hang up, send me the exact address where you're at, including the room number. I'm driving down there tonight and we'll figure something out."
Hearing that felt like a boulder falling off of Quinn's shoulders, and for the first time since her father forcibly pushed her out the door – she scraped her knee and she realized that the bleeding had stopped but it still hurt badly – she felt like she could breathe with a little more ease.
"You've really screwed up, Quinn," were Frannie's next words, "But you're my sister. And I'm not Dad."
"T-thanks, Fran."
"I don't understand any of this. And don't get me wrong, Quinn, I don't accept it." Then, there was a pause, and Quinn was just about to release a string of wet apologies, but her sister chose that moment to speak again, voice a little bit softer this time. "But you're my sister, okay? I'm not going to let you starve or live in your car. We'll figure something out."
"I don't understand why you're doing this again, Quinn," says Frannie, on the other line, as Quinn walks to the school cafeteria, her phone to her ear. "But that's nothing new, is it? I never understand why you do the things you do anymore."
"It's for a friend," she replies, as she nears the wide glass doors of the cafeteria. "I'm doing this as a favor, Frannie. It's no big deal."
"No big deal? Just last month you told me you're not interested in singing anymore. And now you're joining a show choir again? Do you even remember the last time you–" Quinn could hear her sister's quite audible sigh. "Fine! You know what? Do whatever you want. For your friend."
The clear insinuation behind her sister's statement carries through perfectly well that Quinn instantly feels the need to explain herself.
"It's nothing like that, Frannie…"
"Nothing like what?"
"Nothing like whatever it is you're thinking about, okay?"
She's inside the cafeteria by now and she stops to look around for an empty spot. For the past year, she's been keeping mostly to herself, especially during lunch time. Sometimes, she would join a group of people from some of her classes, but there was never any regular clique she would hang out with. A majority of the time though, she would either be sitting alone, reading while taking the occasional bites off her meal, or be at her aunt's office, eating lunch together.
There's an area in the cafeteria that's reserved (in an unspoken but quite known agreement among the student body) for members of New Directions, and while Quinn has steered clear of that space for the better part of her junior year, she's never quite gotten the habit of looking over there out of her system.
The first time she did it, Santana's boisterous laughter had snatched her attention away from the latest Murakami novel on her list, but as Quinn continued to look over, she noticed how even within the club, there was an observable division, a hierarchy that was obviously not just based on age or year level. Because while, yes, the youngest (freshmen) members of the club at the time cowered at the sidelines, it didn't really explain why Rachel and Finn, who were both also juniors then, were the apparent centers of attention when there were about five other senior members. If it was merely a matter of seniority, Rachel Berry wouldn't even be the captain of the club, let alone be able to commandeer the rest of the members' attention to whatever story she had been spewing out of her mouth. And it happened. Every single time. Regardless of the individual reactions – Santana's annoyed scowl, Finn's lovestruck grin, Puckerman's leer, Brittany's guileless smile, the freshmen's openly adoring stares – Quinn would watch as Rachel Berry had each member eating at the palm of her admittedly small hand. It happened that first time, and it happened every time Quinn would find herself just observing from her small spot somewhere in the cafeteria.
This time, Rachel is in another one of her diatribes, hands flailing and index finger randomly pointing at various members of the club. Finn is seated beside her, a sullen expression on his face, before he looks away, gaze directly towards Quinn. She sees his demeanor lighten immediately and a wide boyish smile appears as he waves her over.
"I'm sure it's that girl, your roommate. Santana, isn't it?" she hears from her sister, and Quinn has actually forgotten that they're still currently having a conversation over the phone.
"What?"
"The favor? For your friend? Look, I'm trying to be a little more open here, Quinn. But honestly, if you have to continue your…lifestyle, you should at least choose someone who's a little less, well, sinful." Quinn laughs at that because it's just so Frannie, and the things she found intimidating about her sister before are now the same things that make her feel lighter, make her feel not quite so alone these days. "I've met her exactly once, and I assure you, Quinnie, that girl is the devil's spawn. It would do you well not to try to get into her…good graces." A brief pause. "Or anything else, really."
"Oh my god, Frannie," she says in response, fully aware that she's blushing now.
It's that same moment that Quinn sees Finn stand up from his spot, still waving her over, smile even wider. The girl beside him, however, has stopped whatever speech she's handing out to her colleagues, and now looks at Quinn unblinkingly, with her lips mashed in a thin, straight line. As expected, the rest of the club is now aware of what caught Finn's – and then Rachel's – attention, and they all look back at her with obvious interest.
"Quinn!" Finn calls out to her. "Quinn, over here!"
"I gotta go, Fran," Quinn says to her sister. "I'll call you later after glee practice, okay?"
"Okay. Just make sure you know what you're doing this time. Alright, Quinn?" and then her sister hangs up.
She places the phone inside her shoulder bag before discreetly taking a deep breath and walking her way towards the glee table. When she gets closer, she immediately heads for Santana's side until Finn says, "You can sit here," gesturing to the seat beside him – the other side, the one currently unoccupied by an almost pissed off diva – and all Quinn could do is catch her roommate's amused eyes as she sits beside him.
"Hey, Q!" Brittany says, that patented easy smile on her face, as Quinn places her bag on top of the table and sits down.
"Hey, Brit," she says back, fully aware that the rest of the club has their eyes on her, wondering, judging maybe. It's not the first time she's been acquainted with all of New Directions, but it's the first time she sits at the table. It's a lunchtime ritual every student, especially the actual members of the club, are aware of.
It's a ritual she's been trying to put off for the better part of a week since she officially became a member.
"Glad you could join us, finally," are Santana's words, as they smile at each other. "We were all wondering when you'd show up and grace us with the Fabray presence."
"I've been busy; you know that, S."
"Yeah, San," joins Brittany, "That project you're doing with Ms. Holiday is very pretty, Q. She showed me some of the pictures yesterday and there's that one where we look like birds flying. You know, when they're all arranged in the sky and flying to somewhere not so cold? Only, we're not really flying, 'cause we're dancing. It's my favorite."
"That's one of my favorites too, Brittany."
"Can I have a copy of that?" Brittany squeals, and Quinn can't help but smile even wider, even when she sees, at the corner of her eye, her roommate's attention unnaturally taken by the piece of lasagna on her plate. "I want it to put it on my wall! It's so pretty. I want to wake up and see it every morning."
"Of course, B. I'm sure I can have a copy printed for you early tomorrow."
"Can I see some of your work too?" Finn asks from her left, and she sees him straighten up, moves his body so he's leaning more towards her. "Oh! Maybe you can take pictures of the club when we're rehearsing and stuff. That'll be really cool."
Before Quinn has even formulated a response, Rachel pipes up with a, "Finn, I think you're missing the point of rehearsals. It's so that we can actually rehearse. For glee? Not spend our time pretending to casually pose for candid shots when we could be working on perfecting our performances." Quinn catches Rachel's eyes this time, irritation written clearly all over the girl's face; although she thinks maybe it's not something directed at her this once. "Besides, Quinn isn't with us as a photographer. If we wanted one, we could just as easily hire someone else. She's a part of this club now. That means being in glee a hundred percent."
"Oh, and by that you mean swaying in the background and singing occasionally?" Quinn asks with an eyebrow raised. She has a smile on her face though – a full smile, not one of those half-smiles her roommate has been known to perfect – that's supposed to take the intended sting out of her words. Statements like these are exactly what she and Santana have decided would work best. Intermittently passive-aggressive. Never confrontational. Always with a smile.
"Burn!" Noah Puckerman harps, raising his palm up for a high five that Santana meets halfway with a laugh. The rest of the club are already either grinning openly, or trying (mostly in vain) to hide their own amusement.
Except for the glee captain herself, of course.
"Not quite, Quinn," Rachel says, indignation seeping out of her every word. "By that, I mean being the team player that this show choir needs at every opportunity possible."
"And you would be the expert at that, of course," it's Santana this time, "Being a team player."
"Most certainly. I've only been the captain for a majority of our high school career, Santana. Even you have to admit I've always advocated for the welfare of glee. Three of the four consecutive national championships New Directions has won can attest to that."
"A-a-and," Santana drawls, "you've only also had the most amount of solos ever performed in and out of competition. Perfect example for a team player right there."
"Wait a minute, Santana," Kurt interrupts, sweeping his perfectly coiffed hair to the side. Quinn sits back, watching their interactions from the closest angle she's ever had the opportunity to have since realizing that she finds people-watching – particularly this group of people – a most intriguing hobby indeed. "We always hold auditions for solos in this club. On behalf of Rachel, I resent whatever you're surely intending to imply."
"Thank you, Kurt," Rachel says, smiling back at him. "And Santana, I never knew you wanted a solo so badly. Maybe the next time you audition for one, you should choose a song that's along your vocal range. Just a piece of advice."
Quinn sees Santana's nostrils flare, eyes blazing with anger, ready to pounce. She contemplates keeping her silence for a second, just letting Rachel's ego take the physical smackdown her roommate's willing to hand out; that is until she looks a few seats over to where Brittany is, hands gripping the edge of the table, clearly torn between wanting to calm Santana down and knowing that she has no right to anymore.
"And if I want a solo?" Quinn asks instead, looking to her roommate first, hoping to convey a very clear calm the fuck down message, before letting her eyes roam the rest of the glee club's faces. Her gaze settles on Rachel though, and Quinn makes sure to keep her face devoid of any kind of emotion.
"You'll have to audition like the rest of us, Quinn," Finn answers, and she shifts her gaze to the boy beside him, knowing full well she still has Rachel's eyes on her. "Sometimes, multiple times. It's worth it though. We give the best performances. Right, Rach?"
"Always," but Rachel continues to look at her, brown eyes boring into her, not even sparing a glace to the boy seated between them. There's that discomfort that settles once again in Quinn's gut, the same feeling that makes her feet itch to stand up and take a long walk.
Ironically, Quinn knows it is also the same kind of itch she feels when she wants to grab her camera, hide her face behind its lens, and capture random moments other people would not even take a second glance at.
It is an admittedly disconcerting feeling.
Rachel is an admittedly disconcerting force of nature.
"I also suggest you choose a song along your vocal range, Quinn," Rachel says. "Not everyone has the kind of range that Kurt or Mercedes has." Or me, is left unspoken, but Quinn (as well as the rest of the club) gets the message loud and clear.
"I'm sure I can figure something out," Quinn forces out a grin that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "And if I don't, swaying in the background is still all kinds of fun, right?"
"All different kinds of fun to be had at this club, Fabray," Puck says loudly and follows it with a lascivious wink directed at her. "It's all about the behind-the-scenes action though, if you ask me."
"No one's asking you, Puck," Mercedes calls out, hitting the back of the mohawked boy's head, which results in his even louder "OW! That fuckin' hurts, you know."
"Unnecessary display of violence aside, Mercedes," And then Rachel finally, finally faces the other way, "Thank you for pointing out the unfortunate reality of Noah being his usual disgusting self."
"Only for you, babe," he says, still rubbing the back of his head. "And maybe for Quinn, if she wants in on this."
Santana guffaws at that, apparently cooled down substantially from her earlier almost outburst.
"Not a chance in hell, Puckerman. So you can keep Lil' Puckerone tucked away."
"What? There's nothing little about my Puckerone! And how can anyone resist these guns?" He says, flexing his biceps.
"How can anyone not?" Kurt remarks.
Quinn nods in agreement, grinning a little more naturally this time, fully aware of Puck's player status in the school. She's aware that not a lot of girls (and some boys really) has the ability to actually put up a resistance to his moves. She's also aware that Noah Puckerman has in the past and probably will always use this to his advantage. Even Rachel Berry herself had fallen for his charms once during that brief but still talked about three-month interlude sophomore year, before Quinn has ever stepped foot in the halls of McKinley.
Quinn nods because while all this is true, it's also just as true that she now has an awareness – the three-year kind to date – of why she would never find herself falling for his bad boy image, or the supposed rugged appeal she hears some of the girls giggle about in between bathroom breaks. In another time before, or in another world, maybe she would have considered it.
Now she just laughs alongside Santana.
It's a hilarious thought, if anything.
(End of Chapter Three.)