A/N: Firstly, I am amazingly, immensely sorry. Life has just been..wow. For those of you who care, I recently came back from my immersion programme, got back my exam results, put on a showcase, won a playwrighting competition, saw my sister off for her exchanged trip. Also, problems with my family have gotten in the way. The biggest problems I've been facing would be the lack of a personal computer, and NaNoWriMo. Trying to juggle those two with this has just done me in, lately, but like I said, I'm not giving up on this story, because personally, I need it. The things RIB have done to Brittana...not things I want to think about. So this is kinda me trying to not think about it.
Again, I deeply apologise for the lack of updating. I'm an ass, I know.
Concerning this chapter though, I've been so busy writing it, I hope you guys understand it, because there's a lot to digest here. Hopefully, I've done a good job. I don't have a beta (looking for one though, so if any of you want to volunteer to shout at me, PM me! I would deeply appreciate it!), so all mistakes are my own.
Also: About tumblr. I'm really bad at updating there, especially considering my lack of a personal computer, so don't expect much from that (I thought I could maintain that, but no, because technology hates me.) So your best bet for updates is, once again, following and favoriting! Drop me reviews or whatever-I love getting those:D
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee, but my play is being put to performance locally. Which is nice, actually.
Small hands shoved hard on Brittany's shoulders, forcing her to sit down on a wooden bench. The dirt bike garage was a familiar sight to the blonde, with its neat rows of spare, training, and owned dirt bikes, a spectrum of colour that would have made Brittany smile any other time. The mismatch of gas cans, dented and used, lay on the tables amongst work tools in their own little cubbies, and benches lined them, cordoning off the workstations that mechanics used to touch up the machines.
"Britt, I need you to sit down." Coach's voice was stern, firm, and so like her during tutoring sessions, that Brittany clung to her words like a life preserver.
Still, it did nothing to calm her nerves, and her knee kept bouncing up and down-harsh, jerky, and in staccato-and the exasperation showed in her displeasured whine.
"How can I do that, Coach? Q's gone, and I don't know where she is!"
Coach blinked, more a squeezing of her facial features than anything else, as she pouted subconsciously. There was a maelstrom of emotions written on her face, but that merely clued Brittany into a state of even worse panic.
Quinn was her best friend. Quinn was the girl that had always been around. Quinn was just…Quinn.
"We can't just jump into things. I mean, maybe she just went home."
"Q would never leave me without saying goodbye or anything. She promised my parents that she'd drive me back, and Quinn takes her promises seriously!"
Brown eyes squinted, and the pink-clad woman huffed as she ceased her pacing and sat down, her own nervousness beginning to show. "Stop. We just have to cover all the bases, B."
"Well, we're not doing a good job of it then! What about that weird delivery person that you were talking to? They were sitting just behind her!"
This got her attention. A slumped back straightened with a jerk, and chocolate burned. "She was?"
Brittany gulped, unused to the sudden solemnity. Coach, despite her matter-of-fact nature, was pretty easy-going, at least to her. It was a bit disconcerting to see the brunette so intense.
Oh well. Her best friend was missing. Was her motorcross coach being weird really high on her list of priorities?
An uncoordinated nod, and her coach's mouth falls open curiously. "That idiot…"
"You know her, right? Did she take her? Did she?"
"Calm down, we don't know!" Coach tried, her own face not providing the same message of relaxation, as she jumped up and began to bounce from one foot to the next, not a moment of stillness as far as Brittany could see.
Brittany thought herself quite calm, considering the circumstances. Still, it unsettled her to see the teen begin to think furiously right in front of her.
"…she thinking…just off Lima…dang it!" The mumbles grew increasingly louder, till Coach slams her hands into the front pockets of her pink tracksuit hoodie. "Ugh!"
Brittany files away the outburst. This was not the time to analyse the girl. "Coach, did she take her?"
"Sugar."
"What?"
"Sugar. My name's Sugar." The brunette inhales and exhales like a balloon, burying her face in her hands. "Since we're in this situation now, it's weird if you call me Coach."
It strikes Brittany then, that she had never known her coach's real name. 'Coach' was enough, and no one had ever called the tough and childlike girl anything but that. It felt strange now, as though by giving her her first name, Coa-Sugar had just torn down the last walls of professionalism.
It felt the same way it did when Brittany had spotted Mrs Hagberg in the aisle of Quick-mart, looking for a bottle of over-the-counter headache pills. Suddenly, Mrs Hagberg wasn't just Mrs Hagberg, history teacher; she was Mrs Francessca Hagberg, the widow who lived on the corner of Brittany's block, her husband having died almost six years prior in a construction accident that left her and her grown children without a husband and father. Suddenly, she was a person.
Just like Sugar was a person.
A kid, actually.
Quietly, Brittany reached out to tap her on the wrist. Setting her gaze on the young girl, Brittany asked with barely a pause, "Who is she?"
"She's the biggest, stupidest, idiot I have ever met." A statement.
Brittany's eyes narrowed. "That's it? That's all I'm gonna get?"
Sugar nods, as she held a hand up. "Let me make a couple of calls. We'll see what happens next."
"Sugar?"
"Hang on, Britt." Her coach walked a few steps away, as she pulled out her bejeweled cellphone, pressing a number and holding it up to her ear. Brittany forced herself to stay put, as told.
That didn't stop her from trying to eavesdrop on Sugar, though.
"…situation…girl's missing, and I think she took…shut up, no one cares about…" Her agitation became even more apparent as she went on. "Listen to me!" She was shouting slightly, and her voice was tinged with anxiety. It was odd for Brittany, who usually associated the girl with her deadpan voice. As if realizing just how loud she was being, Sugar glanced over at Brittany, who looked down, pretending not to have been staring at her just moments before. Pacing further away, the rest of the conversation was lost to her.
Brittany took careful inventory of her facial features though. Sugar's went from nervous, to angry, to stubborn in the span of a minute, as her hands gesticulated wildly, as if to prove a point. Who was she talking to?
Biting her lip, Sugar rolled her eyes once more, before ending the call without even a goodbye. Immediately, she dialed another number, this time looking more worried than before. Brittany cocked her head. Who was it this time?
"Ma'am, it seems like she's taken a civilian hostage."
"What? Move."
"Ma'am, with all due respect, I think we should…"
"Stop your flapping. If I wanted to hear from somebody what they thought I should do, I would just go to my mother."
"But ma'am, a civilian-"
"Are you still here, Tina Turner? Do you see that bucket over there?"
"…the one with the dirty mop water, ma'am?"
"Yes, dunk your head in it."
"…"
"Now!"
"Right on it, ma'am!"
"…now, Lopez. What exactly are you doing here?"
"So?" Brittany was bouncing in her seat, eager to get going. She fingered Vi's keys. Sugar looked up from where she had been staring at the dusty floor, her eyes following after her head.
"Huh?"
"Where do we go? Is she in Lima? Do you know? What happens now?"
Sugar nods slowly, her lips puckering up as she stares at Brittany as if she were a piece of glass. Her voice was distant, coming from that space in the head that Brittany decided was where unicorns came from. Also, nightmares.
"I think…you should go home, Britt."
"What?"
"Go home." There was nothing else to be said. Sugar stood, looking down at her older student, who looked as though someone had just told her that the ground she was walking on was actually not solid at all. Like Sugar had somehow turned the world upside down for a moment, and then upright again, in some twisted magic trick to show that, see? This is reality, and I fooled you once.
"What?"
Breathing slowly, Sugar kicked at the dirt beneath her feet, fixing her gaze.
"Look, Britt. I want to make sure she's safe too, but the people I've called, they can't do anything until tomorrow. My friend…let's just say that she's very unpredictable. She could be anywhere; any town, any Walmart. I'm not saying we're not going to find her," She quickly tacked on, placing her hands carefully on stiff shoulders. "Because we are, Britt. But not tonight. Go home, make sure your parents are…go see your parents. Sleep in your bed. Go to school tomorrow. I'll call you if anything comes up."
Sugar felt the words fall from her mouth the way she had been told to. Inwardly kicking herself, and flinching from the completely betrayed look on the blonde's face, Sugar kept assuring her, kept giving her instructions to cling on to. "Or you could call me. That could work to; I'll even change my ringtone to a Spice Girls' song for you so that I'll pick it up as fast as a rabbit."
Brittany blinked suddenly shiny blue eyes, as she swallowed visibly. Sugar noted the way her hands were fisting by her sides, and slightly increased the grip she had on the girl. "Go home, Britt. I'll…we'll find her. Promise."
Blues sharpened, shockingly so, and Sugar flexed her fingers. "Pinky promise?"
It made complete sense to her, so Sugar held her hand out, her smallest finger extended. "Pinky promise."
As she looked at a suddenly relieved Brittany, Sugar really, really hoped she'd be able to keep this particular promise.
"Hey, Santana. When do I bring her to meet you?"
When Brittany S. Pierce cruised into the school parking lot alone, on her motorbike, that early Monday morning, students immediately began to talk.
Where was Quinn Fabray? Did the two have a fight? Why was the Head Cheerio so antsy?
"Yo, Britt!" Brittany spun, nearly dropping the hold she had on her dark helmet. Puck started slightly, leaning back to escape getting a faceful of blonde ponytail. Holding his hands up, he whistled low, eyes scanning the vehicle in front of his testosterone-filled self.
"Wow, Pierce. That is one hell of a sexy ride. Not as sexy as you, of course, but wow." He raised an eyebrow as he looked it over.
"Me and my dad built it together from scratch." Brittany replied shortly, tapping her hands on her helmet's Kevlar surface. Her eyes refused to still, as they roamed the lot for something.
To be honest, for being the scene of a shoot-out just the week before, the school sure didn't look like it. Sure, the students were a bit more jumpy, and Brittany had heard the Literature and History wings had been closed for investigation, but otherwise, it was just another bleary, dull Monday morning.
Puck was still talking, so Brittany at least tried to pay attention, despite her tired brain yelling at her to ditch the mohawked boy and plop down onto her desk in homeroom to sleep. She definitely hadn't gotten any last night.
Her parents hadn't noticed that she had come back on her bike, without her best friend. They had barely looked up when she went past the living room, where they were enjoying an old rerun of 'Where The Wild Things Are'. Even Ashley didn't notice, since she was already in bed when Brittany returned, all snuggled up under her Little Mermaid blankets.
Brittany had lain on her bed all night, tossing, turning, and all but jumping up and choreographing an entire dance routine fit for a characterization of a tornado.
Her parents had raised an eyebrow when she had asked her dad for the keys to their rarely used motorbike. Brittany covered it up with the excuse that Quinn had wanted to head to the library before school to catch up on some homework, and Brittany wanted to sleep in.
She still wasn't sure how long it would take till Judy decided to check up on her daughter and call Brittany's parents when she couldn't reach her on her cell.
"…and I wanted to talk to Quinn, ya know? See what she thought about-"
"Sorry, Puck, but, no way is Q gonna go out with you again." Brittany could guess where his question was going to end. She wasn't psychic or anything. He was just super predictable.
Scrunching his face up, Puck took a step back. "Whoa, tiger. I never said anything about that. I thought we might maybe like to check out the competition, you know? Dalton's on the other side of town, right next to that dirty-ass neighbourhood. So if we were gonna go and walk around, it would be a lot safer if we went together, just saying."
Well, at least he used to be super-predictable.
Brittany blushed, as she cleared her throat. Her fingers stilling, she berated herself for making a fool out of both of them. "Sorry. Wasn't listening."
"Yeah, you've been really jumpy lately." Brittany gave him a look. "Don't do that eyebrow thing that Quinn always does. It makes me feel like I peed in my bed or something." Laughing at the face the Head Cheerio made, Puck nodded towards the double doors. "So, yeah. Are we gonna go? Where is Q, anyway?"
Brittany's steps faltered. "Good question." She said, walking past him. She couldn't lie to save her life-ok, that was a lie. She totally could. She just didn't know what to tell him.
Feeling Puck look at her weirdly, Brittany tried to change the subject. "Anyway, the trip. You guys go. I'm opting out. I don't think Quinn would be big on that too."
"Alright. We thought we'd get Schuester to lighten up and cancel a rehearsal if we all went, but looks like we're going after it, then." Nodding slightly, Brittany started to dial in her combo, as Puck waved goodbye, continuing down the halls. Tugging the metal door open, she sighed into the safety of the space, wishing she was anywhere else but here. How could anyone be expected to study when their best friend had been kidnapped?
Oh, world, thou art a cruel bitch.
A push on the other side of the door had her looking up, and Sam smiled his dorky smile, as he asked her about the small recon thing they had set up. "You're coming, right?"
"Hey, Sam. Nope." Brittany repeated, wondering if she could call Sugar this early and expect good news. Maybe later-she did say that they would only begin today.
"Really? That's a shame. I thought you would wanna go, you know. Since it's all spy-like and stuff."
"Why?"
Sam shrugged. "Cos it's fun." He went silent for a moment, as he stared at her. "Are you alright? Your eye bags have eye bags." Blinking again, he looked over her shoulder, a confused expression blooming on both their faces. "Sorry, but I was totally expecting Quinn to start coming at me for saying that. Is she sick or late or something?"
For the second time that day, Brittany was at a loss. What could she tell them? Heck, should she?
Sugar had said her friend was unpredictable. Quinn could be just about anywhere, going through some horrible things. If she found out Brittany had been talking about her…
"Britt!"
"Not the chainsaw!" She yelled, shocked and actually jumping, when Sam clapped his hands in front of her face. "What?" She glanced around, lowering her volume as the other blonde rubbed his ears in regret.
"You were doing that weird thing where you were staring right at me. Usually, you'd stare at my mouth and wonder how big a tuna I could fit in there. But you were staring at my face, so…are you ok?"
Deciding that she had embarrassed herself enough that morning, Brittany nodded, yeah, I'm cool, as she shut her locker and made to walk to homeroom. Since Sam was a year younger, they didn't share any classes, so Sam had to split with her there. Brittany waved, relieved at being spared anymore awkward questions.
Difficult questions.
"Q…where are you?" She muttered, sliding her thumb over the screen of her phone for the umpteenth time. School was almost over, and she only had Glee left that day. Cheerios was scheduled for tomorrow, and Brittany exhaled deeply as she told herself she couldn't lose her focus then. Coach Sylvester would have her head on a stick if that happened.
There had been no news from Sugar-could anyone blame her for being anxious?
Forcing herself to breathe in calmly, Brittany looked up just in time to avoid walking into a wall. Sighing, she slumped against it, as the bell rung and the halls emptied.
It took her a while to realize where she was.
Her brow furrowed as she took note of the yellow crime scene tape the police had put up. Straightening, she glanced around. The choir room was along the hall down the other end of the corridor. So this was where it all happened.
Walking along the width of it, Brittany noticed some strategically placed yellow tags, marking evidence just like they did in crime shows. Her gaze jumped from one to the next, taking in five in total.
As she did, she noticed something strange. She repeated the motion, studying the evidence carefully.
The first was half a shoeprint, made visible by the lightest amount of dirt on it. The front was smooth, the sides straight. It was smudged though, and Brittany figured the cops would probably have a hard time trying to locate the owner.
The second were several open locker doors, in succession. They were further down the hall, and Brittany could just make out the small holes the bullets had made as they pierced the metal sheets.
They must've been the gunshots I heard.
Number 3 were a bunch of holes in the opposite walls, a jagged line of possible pain and missed chances. Brittany counted four holes. That matched the number of shots she had heard last week.
The fourth evidence tag had been attached to a latch on the windows, closer to where she was standing, at the head of the corridor. It looked broken, Brittany deduced, seeing the way it hung, pointed to the ground.
That must've been an escape or entry route.
The last one was another locker door, this time dented. It looked as if someone had slammed into it. It was just before the number 2s, and Brittany saw why the police had tagged it-there was a piece of cloth still stuck in one of the grills. Wondering why they hadn't bagged it, Brittany tried to get a closer look.
"Hey, you can't be here!" A loud yell had Brittany jumping, moving away from where she had been pressing lightly against the tape.
Holding her hands up, Brittany plastered on her best smile. "Hey, officer. I didn't see you there."
The uniformed guard made a face, as he cradled his coffee cup closer to his side, the other hand resting on his nightstick, as though waiting for her to give him a reason to use it. "I take a short break for coffee, and come back to find some kid trying to trespass a crime scene." He snorted, moving to a chair Brittany hadn't noticed before, tucked into an alcove.
Sensing an opportunity for information, Brittany glanced back at the crime scene, as she lowered her arms. "Sorry, I was just…it's interesting, you know?"
"Yeah, it sure is! I spend years on the force, and the worst thing that we have to contend with are hoodlums like you, drunk at 4am on Saturdays. And then suddenly, bam! Shootings in schools. I'm telling you, we're not paid enough to do jobs like these." Another derisive snort. "I'm definitely not paid to be some babysitter at a crime scene, that's for sure."
"So, why are you here? Shouldn't you guys be, like, excited, going through the evidence and whatever?"
The guard rolled his eyes, as he sipped from his drink with a disgusted face. "Yeah, we are. Some of the boys have been begging Trellini for days. But we can't even begin to process it, because the brass got orders from some higher-ups to freeze the crime scene. Which means," he continued on, his eyes drifting to just over Brittany's shoulder. "We have orders to not touch it."
That would explain why the cloth was still there and everything. Brittany bit her lower lip, as she tried to figure out another way to bring the conversation to the things she had seen in the hall. Before she could though, the officer began talking again.
"I don't even know why I'm telling you these things. But I'm seriously considering just diving into things myself. I hate that the Feds are getting into local business; don't they get that small towns can take care of themselves?"
Brittany nodded along, looking sympathetic. Maybe she didn't even need to try…
He was still ranting, looking as though he had been keeping all of the frustration inside himself for far too long. "…always sticking their noses where they don't belong!"
"Why are they even here, right?" She tried, prompting him.
"Yeah! I mean, sure, it's strange, but don't they have anything else to look into? Freezing a crime scene, stepping on our feet to get to the witness statements…I'll tell you though, we cheated." The officer had a glint in his eye, excitement and cunning. "We did as much as we could. It's pretty much an open-and-shut case!" Brittany was intrigued. She titled her head.
"See, there was a Latina-we got that from eyewitnesses-and she probably blended in with the student population. She walks down this very corridor, where we have another witness, who was hiding with a teacher in that classroom," he pointed to Room 401, down the hall Brittany had come from, "saying she started to pull out her gun. From the very spot you're standing at, she shot at the locker doors, those ones there," his finger moves to the yellow tags with a large number 2, "to clear out the students, and then moved to the choir room there, leaving behind a shoe print." Evidence number 1.
"What then?" She asks, though she had an idea.
He moves on, relishing the audience. "Well, some kids in the room say that she tried to open the door, and there was a struggle, so we assume she was trying to get to someone here. Probably heard the police sirens, and took off." He leant back in his chair, taking a long drag from his cup. Brittany tried to process what she had been told.
Some things didn't add up.
"So how do you know the shots came from here?"
His gaze narrowed at her, and leant forward again. "You're awful curious, aren't you?" Regarding her again, he moved back, settling himself on his seat. "The hole definitely showed the bullet entering from this direction. We also found them lodged in the walls opposite, and some on the floor. Don't tell the Feds, but we took those."
In the back of her mind, Brittany kind of understood why the FBI or whatever would think to step in-the Lima police were so loose-lipped, they'd probably spill everything to the very person they were supposed to catch.
"What about the window?"
"What about it?"
"Like, isn't the lock broken?"
"Well, yeah. But we checked it out with your principal. Said it was always broken." Now that Brittany thought about it, he could've been right. Students were always looking for ways to ditch classes. She could have easily broken a lock to use as a foothold to climb outside if she was ditching with Quinn.
"The cloth?"
"Probably from a random student. But could have been from the shooter. Who knows?"
Her nose scrunching up, Brittany blinked at the suddenly apathetic man. "What do you mean, 'who knows'? Isn't it like, super important or something? I thought everything mattered?"
Staring at her as he finished off his drink, the guard stood up. "Look, kid. I don't need you telling me how to do the very job I've been doing for almost half my life. Maybe it was the shooter. Sometimes though, things aren't all connected the way you think they are. It probably got dented when a student slammed into it trying to get away. Got their clothes stuck, and then what? We're supposed to track down every kid that was wearing a navy blue cloth shirt and question them for details about the shooter?" He paced forward, crumpling the paper cup in his fist.
"Would be helpful, sure. But it would take people and time we don't have. And it's not like you kids would be really helpful, anyway. You don't even remember homework; you expect something like that to last in your brain over the weekend? From my experience, kid, anyone in a stressful situation like this," he waved a hand carelessly behind her, "usually hasn't the slightest idea what they were doing then."
"Too much information trying to register itself into their head, stuck in a traumatic environment, too much adrenaline and fear. People would rather forget it as soon as they could. We couldn't even find a key witness; some people said they saw a girl touching some contaminated evidence on the choir room door." His dark eyes seemed tired, and Brittany figured she could maybe sympathise with his hopelessness. She hadn't even been in the hallway when the shooting happened-and yet, she could remember the fear that had filled her, had driven her.
Sighing, the officer tossed the crushed cup into a trashcan, hiking up his pants as he did so. Turning back to her, he gave her a small smile, which Brittany caught as she looked up from her shoes. "Sorry, kid. But we're trying our best. We'll find her, and we'll make sure you guys are safe. Now, run along. Don't you have classes?"
Brittany nodded, thanking the officer as she edged past to take an alternate route to the choir room. She had a lot to think about now-on top of worrying about her best friend, Brittany had just found out how little the police actually knew. Had they completely disregarded her statement? She had clearly told them every moment she remembered, hadn't she? How there was another gunshot, when her girl hadn't pulled the trigger herself?
And yet, the officer began to make her doubt herself. Maybe she hadn't? Maybe she had forgotten that detail? She definitely had forgotten to tell them that she had been the one to wipe the lipstick away.
Her heart thudded.
She had forgotten. She had only realised the possibility of another person after the entire thing was over, when she had been in her room with Quinn.
Which meant that the police were looking for the wrong person.
Which meant that her girl was telling the truth-the evidence clearly said so. There had been no bullet holes in the hall she had just been in-which clearly meant there had been someone else shooting at the Latina from there when she had been struggling with Brittany. The navy cloth couldn't have come from the mysterious girl; she had been wearing a leather jacket that Brittany now remembered had been zipped up-halfway, to be precise. The other shooter could have used the window to enter the school, bypassing Finn and Mr Schuester-because who else could the officer have been talking about, hiding in that classroom?
Which meant that, ultimately, her girl was the good guy-well, girl-in this instance.
Brittany had been right all along. Or at least, her gut had been.
She had to tell the police everything she knew. Whirling around, she saw the guard sitting down again at his post, settling against the little half-square the corner makes, with his arms crossed against his chest. He looked about ready to doze off.
She halts. If she told them…
Brittany had seen enough fugitive movies to know that was never a good thing. The police were still looking for her, even if they didn't know it-she was the Lipstick Smudger. If she told them everything…
Her girl was as good as caught. They could use Brittany for bait. Her girl definitely cared about Brittany, somewhat-the blonde found her hand drifting to her pocket, where she knew the scrap of paper the Latina had left for her sat.
Brittany could never do that to her.
Slowly, she began to walk again, turning around. Her thoughts were full of tan skin and dark eyes, blonde hair and her best friend, even as her feet brought her to Glee. Why was she even bothering, though? The period was almost over, and she was sure rehearsals were going to be a pain.
Her steps changed, and brought her to the parking lot. Before she knew what she was doing, Brittany was on her bike, revving up to head to the motorcross track.
Maybe Sugar would know what to do.
Brittany gaped at the note she had been left.
Britt,
Don't freak out. I can totally see you doing that. Calm down, don't go looking for me. I'll call you. Or you could call me, like I said. I'm going to meet up with my friends-they might have something for me. In the meantime, sit down, and don't worry too much. When we find Quinn, you'll need your energy.
Sugar
Pulling her phone out, Brittany began to dial the number she knew by heart-a number she had memorized after the very first lesson, where she got to watch her instructor pull a backflip after a jump.
The dial tone rang.
And rang.
And rang.
It picked up. Brittany opened her mouth, ready to speak, when a pre-recorded message filtered through the speaker.
"This number is no longer in use."
The mechanics in the garage all flinched when Brittany drove her bike through to the track, tossing up dirt and stones in her rush.
"That girl's going to ruin her tires." One of them told another, shaking their heads as they watched her peel down the strip.
"Brittany, you seem angry. Are you ok, honey?" Susan asked the silent blonde at the dinner table, reaching across her to place a plate of chicken. The worried mother had noticed her daughter's sullen mood-she had come into the house with a fury, racing upstairs to her room and shutting the door as the older woman had been preparing dinner. Now she sat, tearing an unsuspecting piece of tomato to shreds.
Ashley stared at her sister, trying to figure out what was wrong. Brittany had been happy yesterday, when she left for motorcross, but this morning she had been in a rush, running through the kitchen to get her keys from daddy, and then to the garage. She hadn't even given Ashley a kiss on the forehead, the way she normally would've.
John was equally as worried. He just hadn't been brave enough to ask. He figured it maybe had something to do with the shootings, and hadn't wanted to fiddle with that particular can of worms unless Brittany was open to it.
The teen in question didn't seem to be. She sighed, as she speared a gooey piece of tomato and brought it to her mouth, chewing slowly. Her blue eyes, usually so alive, were dull, as though with her sigh, all the energy from whatever had her so annoyed had exhaled itself along with the air.
"Sure, mom."
Susan finished her mouthful, crossing her ankles underneath the table. "Really, Britt? Because that poor tomato sure didn't deserve that kind of ending." Pointing with the tines of her fork, Susan watched as Brittany deflated even further with another sigh. "Come on, honey. Talk to us."
Lifting her gaze, Brittany made a face. "I don't want to talk about it."
"It's obviously bothering you, Britt." Her dad, this time, and Brittany felt tight, trapped. Reminding herself that they were just asking because they cared, she tried not to snap. "I'm telling you. I'm fine."
"Your cuts are telling me otherwise. Where were you? Because I did get a call from Mr Schue telling me that you weren't at Glee today."
"Daddy, stop it. I went to the track today. That's all."
"Why?" Her mom, this time. Brittany wanted to snort.
Well, mom and dad, Quinn got kidnapped; some girl I might possibly be in extreme like with is being hunted down by the cops; my motorcross teacher apparently has 'connections' with the kidnapper; I've been left alone with no way of contacting either of them for help; and oh yeah, in case we forget, my birthday's this Sunday!
She totally understood what Katy Perry meant now-if she was a plastic bag, she would totally be considered drifting through the wind.
Maybe even viciously tossed through it.
They didn't deserve it though. Her family was just trying to help; they didn't know what was happening.
Setting her fork down (she was afraid she would throw it at something), Brittany took deep breaths, trying to calm herself down. It wouldn't do anyone any good if she lost her temper.
"Sorry." She breathed out. "I just…couldn't be in school, you know? They were in the choir room, and I just couldn't…after last week…" She shook her head, as she tried to articulate to them what she meant. Maybe they would let it slide. It certainly sounded believable.
Her dad's face relaxed, as though he had been hoping that that was the reason.
Now that John knew it was about the shootings, he had something to work with. He could actually help, instead of just feeling like he was trying to win a high score on Minesweeper. Resuming his meal, he stared across the table at his eldest.
"Was it hard?"
Brittany shrugged. "A little."
"Do you maybe want to tell us what happened? Because we still don't know what you told the police, honey."
Brittany sucked her lips into mouth, as she leant back in her chair. "I guess." It wouldn't hurt to tell them that much, would it? Maybe it would help.
"We were in the choir room. I was showing them the choreography for our assignment, and then people were rushing outside. So Mr Schue and Finn went to check, and we stayed behind. We heard three gunshots, one after another, and then we tried to hide ourselves. I grabbed Quinn…" Brittany faltered for a moment. "-and then we hid in a corner. Someone came to the door, someone our age." She saw her girl, holding a gun. "And I tried to open it for her, but she kept me inside. She was holding a gun. So I freaked out a bit." She saw the way her family's eyes widened. "No, no, wait. She held the door closed for me. She wouldn't let me go out. That was when the last gunshot sounded."
"Someone else was there?"
"Yeah, mom." Brittany felt the truth slipping out before she could stop it. She hadn't meant to tell them that. "Anyway, she heard it, and ran. And then the police came, and everyone else got evacuated." She hurried, leaving out the lipstick part. They didn't need to know that!
"Who was she?"
"Huh?" Brittany glanced across the table to her sister, whose face was scrunched up in confusion. Rolling her eyes, Ashley rephrased her question. "Who was the girl with the gun?"
Deciding she might as well tell them, Brittany gnawed on her lower lip worriedly. "I don't know. The police think she's the shooter…"
"She could be."
"John, she kept her inside the room."
"Suze, you can't deny the fact that she had a gun! Maybe she started it, and the other person was the one trying to stop her-"
"Maybe they were, but no one just brings a gun to school like that, John. Britt doesn't know her, she couldn't be a student-"
"She could be, and Britt could have just not recognized her-"
"Stop!" Brittany called, her eyes wide with her parents back-and-forth. Where was the conversation going? "Why are you guys even arguing about this?"
"Britt, did you tell the police all of this? You and your friends could be in danger, she could still be going to school with you-"
"Dad, stop. I'm telling you, she doesn't go to WMHS. I don't know her, but I know that much." Why did she ever think telling them would help? It just made things worse.
"How can you be so sure?"
"Because we kinda already met before." Oh, her lips were just as loose as that police officer's, weren't they?
"Where?" Her mom prodded. Feeling like she was in the Spanish Invasion or something like that, Brittany shrugged uneasily. "She kinda gave me Charity."
"Charity used to have an owner that owns a gun? Cool!" Ashley exclaims, turning in her chair to look at the calico in the corner of the dining room, who lifted her head from her paws at the mention of her name.
"Honey, not now." Susan chided, as she turned back to Brittany. "The girl gave you Charity?"
"Long story. But yeah. So." Brittany shrugged, at a loss for what to say. Glancing nervously at the faces around the table, she wondered what was going to happen next. Her mom looked curious, her dad, slightly alarmed that his child knew someone who owned a gun. Ashley was still in awe over the new factoid about their cat, and was trying to coax the feline over.
"Britt, why do we not know about this?" Brittany sighed, remembering another person asking her that same question about the exact same person just two days ago. A person that she was insanely worried about.
Getting up from her seat, Brittany pushed her plate away, suddenly feeling exhausted. "You never asked. And it was never important before. Is it alright if I go upstairs? I need to do some homework for Mrs Hagberg. And Lord T needs to be fed his meds. I don't want him to OD on his pills."
Susan felt their daughter retreating from them, curling away. They had the answers to one question. They weren't going to get a second one out of her.
Nodding in the face of defeat for this particular battle, she let the unusually quiet girl leave. Picking up her fork once more, she saw her youngest staring at her. "Ashley, finish your dinner, and then go do your homework, alright?"
"Yes, mom." The little girl popped pieces of chicken into her mouth.
"Dear…" Her husband was trying to catch her gaze.
"I know, John." She matched his worry with her own. "I know. But we can't do anything until she lets us."
"Do we tell the cops about the second person?"
"Hell no. They're incompetent. I heard from a friend that the FBI stepped in last week. Maybe they would be able to do something. If they need anything, they'll find us."
"But this mysterious girl…"
"Is someone Brittany trusts. We have to have faith in our daughter, John." Reaching across to smooth Ashley's hair with a smile, Susan felt her motherly instincts calm down.
"Trust in Brittany. She can solve her problems on her own."
Brittany had no idea how to deal with everything. If she had to wait one more day, she was sure she was going to kill someone. Or worse, ride her bike around town to the post office and ask for the delivery girl. That was a surefire way to get her best friend killed.
But it had been exactly six days since Quinn had gone missing. A full five days without anything from Sugar, and nights spent wondering.
Brittany felt like she was at a stalemate though, like she was playing a dangerous game of chess with someone else, where her girl, Quinn, her family, school, Cheerios, Glee-they were all pieces to be moved around. Trying to juggle everything at the same time, trying to find something close to normal; she was still waiting for her opponent to make their move.
Friday had come, whistling a merry tune with the accompaniment of a light breeze and warm sun. Brittany wanted to find Friday, and punch it in the face. It was not a nice day out, despite what everyone was saying.
Her parents were tiptoeing around her, and while Brittany appreciated them considering her feelings, she wished they would stop hovering. Sure, she was tired, like, all the time, and wasn't talking much, and was riding to school by herself; it didn't mean that she was headed to drugs-she was pretty sure that was where her parents thought that was where she was going to.
(She decided not to tell them that Lord Tubbington would probably need to check-in at rehab again.)
They hadn't even braved asking about Quinn. Brittany was glad for that, though. She was already lying to everybody else-she didn't want to add her family to that list.
Which was another thing. Everybody in Glee wouldn't stop asking her about Quinn. Everywhere she went, people would try to slip something about her best friend, in the hopes that Brittany would crack and tell them. To be honest, Brittany wondered why she didn't just tell them that the other blonde was sick.
Oh, right. They had called and visited the Fabray house.
Brittany remembered the conversation she had with Mike yesterday, during a study period together.
"Hey, B. I know you've probably been asked like, a gazillion times." She looked up from where she had been doodling dark eyes in the margin of her essay. Mike was twirling his pen around, a nervous habit Brittany recognized he did often. The Asian glanced up at her, his fingers tapping out a beat. "But what's up with Quinn? Is she sick?"
Brittany sighed, dropping her head down onto the table with a dull thunk. The librarian shushed her, as she walked past, toting a cart of books. Pouting, Brittany rolled her head, wishing the headache that had been marching across her brain would stop.
"Yeah. Since the weekend."
"Right. Right." Mike nodded, hearing the same reason Brittany had been giving everyone else. "But, you know." He dropped his voice into a whisper, spotting the old coot behind the shelves glare at them again.
"I told my mom about it, and she made me a soup of panda hair; to take to Q, you know? Thankfully, I got her to not make me pass along some ginger cubes and elephant uterus, but that's not the point." Brittany's eyes widened with alarm-people actually ate those things?
Mike was continuing on, his tapping increasing in tempo. "See, I went to her house, and rung the doorbell. But no one was home. I even went around the back and tossed a few stones at Quinn's bedroom-no go. So I called her landline, and the machine picked up." He was looking past her shoulder now, lost in his memories. "I told her to call me back when she could, and that I hoped she would get better soon." His lips pressed into a thin line, Mike stared at Brittany. "She never did. She didn't reply to any of our voicemails either, and my mom said Judy never turned up for the PA meeting on Tuesday."
Brittany sat up straighter at the new information, holding back the hiss of pain with the action. Her brain seriously needed some quality sleep, especially with all the Cheerios practices and Glee rehearsals. Exams were coming up too, and she had no idea how much longer she could go on like this.
She had no idea that Judy wasn't in town. It would explain, though, why there hadn't been any frantic calls from her, asking about her daughter. Or did the kidnapper take her too?
She wished Quinn was with her. Her best friend could help her figure things out.
"I don't know, Mike. Maybe they went on a holiday?"
"Well, that's why I'm asking you. I knew the Glee club asking her for a straight answer would be a long-shot; she hates half of us. But I figured you would know." Mike was worried, to be honest. He had noticed the normally happy Head Cheerio looking like a soggy piece of cereal lately. She would fall asleep in classes, but would always wake up with a jerk, like she had been dreaming or something. She always looked tired too. Her dancing was becoming sloppier with the day, and he swore he saw her having a staring contest with a water fountain the day before.
"I don't know, Mike." The way she said it, Mike figured that she did. But hey, who was he to push when Brittany didn't want to tell him something? It wasn't his place, certainly.
"Alright, alright. I was just asking. It's fine. More importantly, how are you? You look tired. Are you alright, you know, after last week?" The investigations still weren't going anywhere, Mike had heard. Someone had finally come in to process the crime scene-a pair had walked past his bio lab dressed in the dark uniforms, with the caps pulled low over their faces. Of course, when he came back out, the guard on duty was snoozing. Way to be on task.
Brittany managed a smile for her friend. "Why, are you worried?"
"Well, yeah, Britt. You're lucky my mom hasn't seen you. She'll make you eat some weird stuff to help you sleep." He shuddered just thinking about it.
Making a face, Brittany managed a light chuckle. "Thanks, but no thanks. I like never having my stomach pumped, thank you."
Coach Sylvester yelled at her to jump higher, and Brittany found some strength in her leaden calves to do what she was told. The Cheerio's coach insulted her movement, and Brittany just repeated it again, but better.
If nothing else, Brittany didn't want to mess up and lose her spot on the team. She was kind of glad that Quinn had quit after she had Beth-the other blonde would have probably have gone head-to-head with Coach Sylvester, in her post-pregnancy depression.
As she dropped into a split to end the routine, she plastered a very fake smile on her face. She was more than ready to go onto YouTube and find some DIY sleeping pills (maybe she would break her no-stomach-pumping record), just to not have to think about anything anymore.
"You girls disgust me, you sacks of fat and silicon boobs. Get up, wash up, and walk your hormones away, because you all obviously think that having a life is more important than improving your routines. When you're ready to remember how much more essential the Cheerios are to your life, then drag your sorry asses back to practice. Which reminds me. Tomorrow, at five. You girls will be running my own version of Heartbreak Hill. Don't look at me that way; you'll at least have a sunrise to remind you how you're slaving away under me."
Ah, classic Coach Sylvester. Brittany flopped onto her back to catch her breath, as her teammates all jogged past to the showers, eager to leave. She was going to join them as soon as she could breathe in without feeling like she was going to choke on air.
"Pierce!" The feedback from the loudspeaker crackled slightly. "You're sub-par today. That is immensely disappointing to me." Brittany looked up into the mouth of said loudspeaker, and to the person using it, just above her. "Your stamina was lacking today, as well. Care to explain why?"
Swallowing, Brittany squeezed her eyes shut, as she scrunched up her face in discomfort. "Sorry, coach. It's just been a…rough week."
"Rough, tough. I once hiked across South America on my period, with nothing more than a monkey carcass I had picked up on the road, and my passport. That was tough, especially after the monkey's relatives found him in my backpack and decided to steal my shoes."
She wondered how much of that was true. Knowing Coach Sylvester, probably all of it.
"Yes, coach. I promise I'll do well next rehearsal."
"Yes, you will. Especially since I am declaring you off-practice till further notice." What? "You heard me, Blondie. You are to rest up, you hear me? If your performance proves lackluster the next time I call you in, you will be off the squad."
"I might be Sue Sylvester, and as much as I wish I could swap your sorry butt for that dancing llama I saw on YouTube, you're one of, if not the best dancer amongst this whining cesspool of estrogen, and a shaggy mammal just won't cut it. I do have some common sense swimming around in the old cerebrum, enough to know that you will be a lot more useful with some sleep. Make sure that happens."
Brittany blinked, as her coach walked away, yelling at Becky for her coffee order. What the hell just happened? She wasn't kicked off the squad, right?
Did Coach Sylvester just show some humanity in her?
The thought alone made her shiver in horror. She picked herself up off the grass, headed towards the showers. She just wanted to get home and do what she had been ordered to do-sleep.
Finishing her washing-up in record time, Brittany slung her duffel over her shoulder, as she headed out one of the side doors of the building. Checking her phone once more for any possible messages from Sugar (which was highly unlikely, but her only chance at the moment), she tapped on her screen with heavy fingers, as she made her way to her bike.
Tapping on her key fob, Brittany's eyebrows furrowed, as she the sound that followed wasn't the disengaging of the locks of her motorbike.
Rather, it was their engagement. Looking up, Brittany stopped short.
There, leaning against her bike, looking for all the world like she belonged there, was her girl.