Wow, it's been exactly three months since I've last updated this. I could provide you with a plethora of worthy excuses, like school and lack of inspiration for a while and yadda yadda yadda, but I'll spare you. Just know that, to the people who have been waiting for this story to continue, I am genuinely sorry that it has taken so long. :-/ I hope you all still are enjoying this, and I hope this new chapter is well worth the wait. :) Also, to any new readers, I hope you like this, too.

Here's a big hug to anyone who has made it to this far in the story, and a big basket of fresh-baked virtual cookies for anyone who leaves a review. Much love! And onward we voyage... *Spanks rump of trusty steed (wearing a saddle emblazoned with 'Faberry Forever' in gold script) and gallops on into the plot*

CHAPTER SEVEN

"Are you allergic to dogs?"

Rachel adjusts the strap of her pale pink tote bag. "No," she says, "I love dogs! I wish I had one, but the only pet I've ever had was a cat, and she died last year. My dads were too heartbroken to even consider getting another animal anytime soon. But Miss Paws lived a very happy, healthy, long kitty life. I named her Miss Paws because she was all black, but her paws were white."

Girl has an anecdote for everything. Ask her about the weather, and if it's misty, she'll tell you a story about her favorite rainy day; or if it's sunny, how she once got sunburned on the beach.

Funny thing is, the day before yesterday, this annoyed the hell out of me. Now, I find myself almost enjoying learning these new things about her, even if some of them are super random.

"Cats are cool," I say. "I'm sorry yours died. But dogs rule the world, and don't you forget it." I shoot her a playful wink.

My fingers start to go around the knob of my front door, but Rachel's hand jumps forward, seizing my wrist.

"Wait!" she exclaims.

I turn to face her, raising my eyebrows. "Rachel, you can debate me on cats versus dogs after we get inside, okay?" I sigh, and tap my foot impatiently.

"No, it's not that," she says softly, gnawing adorably – er, annoyingly, I mean – on her lower lip.

"Then what is it?" I ask, feeling my own expression softening, even though I don't tell it to. Her hand is still around my wrist, and I hope to God that she doesn't feel my quickened pulse thrumming beneath her fingertips.

"I'm…nervous," she admits, and I can tell that it's not easy for her to do so. Rachel Berry is the Webster definition of confident, self-assured. She does not get nervous. And if she does, then she sure as hell doesn't say it out loud.

"Really?" My eyebrows knit together. "Why?"

She releases my wrist and starts playing with her hair instead, unable to look me in the eye. "Well… what if your parents don't like me?"

My mouth drops open; my heart squeezes.

Quickly, I recover. "Oh, come on, Rachel!" I scoff, offering her an encouraging smile. "You're Rachel Berry; you're like catnip to parents. You're the good, rule-abiding person that every parent wants their child to be friends with."

"Okay," she smiles this teensy-tiny smile, and I know she's still not convinced.

"Seriously," I try again, "it's just my parents. They're, like, totally old. Why would you even care about impressing them in the first place?"

Rachel surprises me with her answer. Surprises me, and makes me feel both wonderful and like crap at the same time.

"Because I know they mean a lot to you, and genetically speaking, you must share a lot of the same personality traits. What if they find me annoying and over-dramatic like you do? I've just appeared to have gained the approval from you for our friendship, and I would hate for parental dislike to have you reverting back to square one with me. Not when things are going so well so far."

I draw my head, physically taken aback. My mouth flounders for a few seconds. Speechless. I'm never speechless.

Does having me as a friend really mean that much to Rachel? But why? Seriously, I'm not that special. Rachel is out-of-this-world talented, born to be nothing but the pinnacle of success. But most importantly, she's a good person. Having her like me so much makes my heart feel warm, but it also makes my muscles feel leaded down with guilt at how I really don't deserve her kindness. I've always been such a bitch to her.

She's looking anywhere but at me, so I step forward and lift her chin up with the tips of my fingers, making her meet my eyes. "Hey," I say firmly. "Look at me." She obliges, because accommodation is second nature to her, and for some reason this only makes me feel even guiltier.

I drop my fingertips from her chin, ignoring the way they suddenly tingle. "You're kind, and smart, and funny, and there is no way you aren't going to charm the pants off of my parents. Which is really rather unfortunate for us, since my dad has a habit of wearing these horrible white boxer shorts with giant red hearts all over them." I make a disgusted face.

Rachel laughs, and it is music to my ears, egging me on.

"You're not annoying," I continue. "Well, okay, sometimes you really are. No offense. But sometimes you aren't. And that's basically how everyone is in the world, right? And as for you being over-dramatic? Rachel, honey, if you change that part of yourself, then I wouldn't even know who you are anymore."

She pushes lightly against my arm, chuckling. I am relieved to see her rolling back her shoulders and getting that can-do look all over her face.

"Can we go inside now?" I ask, making a show of slowly moving my hand to the doorknob as if afraid she'll spring at me again.

She nods. "Yes. I'm ready to face the music!"

I open the door and shove Rachel inside. "Get in there, you goober," I say, shaking my head.

I use my heel the close the door behind me and watch as Rachel takes in my house. She smiles softly, eyes darting here, landing a few seconds longer there. I wonder what she's thinking, how she perceives where I live, and what she thinks it says about me.

My home is pretty big (not as big as hers, though), and the furniture is nice but kind of tacky in comparison to her house's Martha-Stewart-worthy décor. I mean, there's a stuffed deer mounted above our fireplace, for goodness' sake! You can't really get any less tacky than that; nothing says 'height of glamour' like the dead, marble eyes of a buck staring out at you, its antlers shellacked with an embarrassing amount of care.

"Rrrruuufff! Rrrruuufff!"

Buttercup comes bounding into the room, paws slipping and sliding all over the recently-mopped hardwood floor of the stairs, before finally regaining some balance and a bit of doggy dignity when she reaches the carpet of the living room floor.

"Come here, baby!" I coo, dropping to my knees and throwing my arms open wide.

But the furry traitor zooms right past me and plows right into Rachel, Buttercup's four limbs coming clean off the ground as she literally knocks Rachel over, crashing the small brunette flat on her back.

She "oouunffs" in a rather unladylike manner, as Buttercup stands atop her chest as if she's new territory my dog has just claimed and is sticking a flag in. Buttercup's tail wags about a hundred miles per second, and her tongue lolls happily from her panting mouth.

"No!" I hiss, running over to Buttercup and pushing her off of the poor trampled girl. "Bad dog! A very, very bad dog!" Buttercup just stares at me, panting rather stupidly, this doggy grin all over her face. Which is totally unfair, because how you can stay mad at something that is so cute?

"Are you okay?" I ask Rachel, fighting back a sudden barrage of giggles. She does look pretty pathetic, all sprawled on her back like that, hands flown upward as if to protect her face from any further attacks.

"Never better," she insists, with the solemn bravery of a soldier back from battle. I shake my head at her, unable to control the next wave of laughter as it pours out of me, and grab her wrists with my hands. In one giant yank, I pull her up to her feet; the momentum sends her forehead colliding with mine, hard enough that there is an audible crack sound.

We both groan, jumping back and massaging at our heads; then we look at each other, and now we're both laughing our asses off.

"What's so funny, girls?"

I whirl around to face my mom, walking out of the kitchen, a pale pink frilly apron tied around her neck. It's totally just for show, since Mom rarely cooks, and when she does, she refrains from wearing aprons because she says they'll wrinkle her clothes. But she always throws one on when my dad or I have company, to preserve the illusion that she is a very doting and organized housewife, when really she either goes shopping all day, or she stays in on the couching watching Real Housewife marathons. That must be why she's so bad at the job, if she's taking pointers from those crazy people.

"Hey, Mom!" I ignore her question and walk over to give her a hug. Rachel follows and surprises me by hugging my mom after I've pulled away from her. Mom gives this surprised "Oh-ho!" sound of delight at Rachel's embrace, but I notice that she merely pats her on the back in this gingerly way, as if Rachel might have some cooties that she doesn't want to catch.

"This is Rachel," I point to the brunette as she smoothes down her shirt, probably hoping there are no paw prints marked into its fabric (there aren't, which is a real shame , because it would be totally hilarious if there were). "She's my partner for the Glee Club assignment, remember?"

Mom nods. "Oh…" her gaze travels the length of Rachel, giving her a well-guarded once-over, and I think I actually see a spark of approval within her hazel eyes. "…right. Well, that's wonderful, dear. Your father will be here in about two hours, and then we'll go to the Open House together. Rachel, sweetie, are your parents going to pick you up, or do you want us to give you a ride to the school and they can meet you there for Open House?"

"They're going to pick me up in an hour and a half. It's crunch time today for me and Quinn. We have quite a bit to get done if we want to have our routine mastered by Friday."

"And what are you two singing?"

"A mash-up," I say, "between Shania Twain and Michael Bublé."

Mom crinkles her nose. "Sounds…interesting."

"Oh, it will be, Mrs. Fabray," says Rachel with a proud beam. "It's going to be interesting, exciting, and totally worthy of crowning us victorious." She has her crazy Rachel Must Win gleam crackling all through her dark brown eyes, lightening them to amber.

"Yeah, but winning isn't everything, right, Rachel?" I say with just enough subtle reprimand in my tone to snap her out of her brief reverie.

"Right," she says, but her nod lacks conviction.

"Come on; I'll show you my room." I grab Rachel's hand, but don't link our fingers, trying to be careful. I want to get away from my mother and the way her expression has slowly but surely been transforming into a look of distaste toward Rachel and her manic energy.

"Oh, goodie!"

When we reach my bedroom, I drop Rachel's hand to open my door.

"Wait!" she says as I begin to turn the knob.

"Not again!" I jokingly groan.

She smiles a close-lipped, ear to ear smile, making her cheeks look kind of chipmunky – but in the best possible way. Then, she closes her eyes, tilts her head back, and lifts her arms up to the ceiling.

"Um, Rachel? Your weirdness is showing."

"Shhh! I'm trying to take it all in. To breathe in this moment."

I scratch the side of my head. "What moment?"

"I, Rachel Berry, high-school-hierarchy-proclaimed 'perma-loser,' is about to step foot into Queen of McKinley Quinn Fabray's personal fortress. Do you hear that? That's the sound of the status quo exploding. Do you feel that? It's the Winds of Life shifting, changing beneath our feet, through our sou –"

"Oh my God!" I laugh. "You are soooo weird, Berry!"

She drops her ridiculous pose and looks at me, and then she's laughing too. "I know."

My laughter intensifies at this. "What am I going to do with you?" I shake my head back and forth, throw open my door, and push her inside of my room. A wild impulse makes me spank her rump to send her further forward, and I think I may die of embarrassment at the action, but my panic is fully assuaged when it only makes Rachel giggle harder.

I close the door to my room behind me and step up beside the tiny brunette, her widened eyes darting here, there, everywhere.

"What do you see?" I am suddenly nervous, wondering of the transparencies my room has revealed. Wondering if my secrets hang from the walls, peeling into view like old wallpaper. Wondering if they beckon from beneath my bed, like rabid dust bunnies, their furry talons ready to attack.

"I love it," she says, and I can tell she's being honest. She walks around, inspecting everything close up. Then, she adds, "But it's missing something."

"What?"

"A picture of me."

If this conversation had unfolded just a few days ago, I would have snorted, rolled my eyes, and insisted that she was conceited. But now, a strange sense of guiltiness twists in my stomach, and I find myself fidgeting with the hemline of my blouse.

Because, seriously, I have a picture of me and everyone but Rachel, practically.

"But never you fear!" she exclaims, whirling around to face me, a determined grin upon her face. I immediately drop my fingers away from my shirt and roll my shoulders back. "I can fix that in a jiffy."

Jiffy. God. How can you hate someone who is innocent and naïve enough to earnestly use words like 'jiffy?'

Rachel marches over to my oval mirror over the bureau and digs through her purse. She pulls out her wallet, flips it open, pulls something from one of the pockets, and then wedges it into place between the mirror's frame and glass.

She steps back, hands planted on her hips as she surveys her handiwork.

I look at what she's just put there, and I shake my head and maybe-sort-of smile at her persistence. It's a small, wallet-sized photograph of her, the one we had taken back in the fall to go in the yearbooks. Her bangs were freshly cut, a bit too short back then; her captured smile is cheesier and bigger than any smile in the world; the golden-yellow dress she wore is surely self-symbolic of her 'impending stardom.'

And you know what?

I think out of the dozens and dozens of pictures in my room, this one has already become my new favorite.

For the next approximately hour-and-a-half, we work tirelessly on our song-and-dance routine. Rachel is all business the entire time, but we do have a few light-hearted moments, a few inside jokes developing (wow, I never in my entire life thought I would ever have inside jokes with Rachel Berry of all people).

I'm confident that we have the routine down pat, but Rachel still insists that we need to meet at her house tomorrow to rehearse one last time, this time in our costumes. We're presenting on Friday, so tomorrow is our last chance to perfect our performance and work out any hidden kinks.

Besides, she reminded me, pacing back and forth like a restless drill sergeant, Finn and Mercedes went today, and their mash-up was actually very enjoyable and cute, so we had better be able to beat them, or else she will never hear the end of it. (Which I didn't think was necessarily true – the 'her never hearing the end of it' part – because Mercedes isn't petty, and Finn knows better than to taunt his girlfriend if he wins over her.)

When Leroy and Hiram arrive to pick Rachel up, I am actually a bit sad to see her go.

Which is totally ridiculous, seeing as how I'll be meeting up with her again in less than an hour at the Open House. … What is wrong with me?

I have to admit, I'm relieved when neither of her dads come to the door to retrieve her; rather, Rachel gathers her stuff and leaves my house to walk out to their car, thanking my mother for her hospitality on the way out. I know that my mom – and dad, when he gets here – are about to discover that Rachel's parents don't fit the stereotypical dynamic very soon, but this sick part of me wants to prolong the revelation as long as possible.

…And an even sicker part of me wants to ensure that they never have to find out at all.

"I made it out alive!" Sam says dramatically, running toward me and scooping me into his arms. He lifts me up by the waist and spins around a few times.

"Sam! Put me down!" I hiss, cheeks flaring crimson at the spectacle he's making. Parents watch us, some amused but most raising curious eyebrows toward my boyfriend's antics.

"Sorry," he says, setting my feet mercifully back onto the tile. He runs a hand through his floppy blond hair and grins. "I'm just so excited that my parents didn't ground me when they found out I'm failing! They just made me promise I would start coming before and after school twice a week for extra help."

"That's great." I smile, catching a bit of his enthusiasm.

"Yeah," he says, reaching out and tucking a stray lock of my hair behind my ear. His touch is so gentle, and his tone is so soft and sweet when he adds, "That means I'll still be able to hang out with you. I can take you out to dinner this weekend, and we can be together."

Guilt, that now-familiar adversary, arrives and waves at me smugly before kicking me right in the stomach.

"That's…awesome!" I insist, hoping my smile doesn't look as weak as it feels. "I can't wait to, um, to hang out with you." I lift up on my tiptoes and brush a quick peck to his cheek.

"Quinn! There you are!"

"I should have known Sammy would run off to find his girlfriend."

We turn to find our parents striding toward us, smiling affectionately at their respective daughter and son.

Sam and I exchange greetings with the other's parents. Then, we engage in small talk for a few minutes. I play the part of Charming and Friendly Young Girl very well, if I do say so myself.

Finally, Sam and his parents have to part ways with us, seeing as how the next classroom of his they need to visit is on the other side of the school from the one my parents and I are going to next.

I hug Sam a temporary good-bye and wave to his parents before walking off with mine.

"Such a kind boy," Mom says. "And he treats our Quinnie so well."

"And he comes from a great family," Dad adds, ruffling my hair. "I'm proud of you." He's proud of me for having a boyfriend that comes from a respectable family? Isn't that just sheer genetic luck on Sam's part? And what does that even have to do with me? … Okay then.

"So, where's Rachel?" Mom asks. "We've been here for almost an hour, and still no sign of her or her parents."

"Yeah, I need to meet this girl who's been stealing my daughter away all week," Dad jokes. His wording… Oh, God. He really needs to watch his wording.

"I'm sure we'll run into her soon," I say. "It's not exactly a huge school."

As if being summoned from our conversation, who should round the corner before us? None other than Miss Rachel Berry herself.

And I hate how relieved I am that her dads are not with her.

"Quinn!" she squeals, rushing over to me. She pounces on me with a giant hug, squeezes the air right from my lungs.

And rather than whining and blushing like with Sam, I find myself giggling and hugging her back just as tightly. Call it temporary insanity if you want.

"Hey, Rach," I pull away from her after a moment, and I smile at how happy she is to see me. My stomach is all warm and fuzzy inside…you know, because I'm so…flattered.

"Hello, Mrs. Fabray," Rachel nods at my mom, then turns to my dad, "and Mr. Fabray, whom I have not had the pleasure of meeting until now."

My dad smiles at her. I can tell he's already awarded her points for using 'whom' rather than 'who.'

"Hello there," he says, accepting the hand she offers and giving it a brief shake. "Nice to meet you. We were actually just talking about you, actually."

"Speak of the devil, and all that," Mom chuckles.

"Oh!" Rachel flushes, pleased. "I'm honored."

"Where are your parents?" Dad asks curiously, scanning the perimeter for any sign of them.

"They had to use the restroom, but I told them which classroom to meet me, so they should be intersecting us on this path any moment now."

We stand there for a few seconds, all smiling at each other in a way that is just a little bit awkwardly too-polite, but isn't full-out uncomfortable by any means.

"Oh, here they are!" Rachel exclaims as her dads come into view, their hands linked and their steps close together. It's a far cry from my own parents, walking at least a foot apart, making no physical contact whatsoever.

"Daddy! Papa!" she waves her arms over her head, as if they could possibly miss seeing her in the near-empty hallway. "Yoo-hoo!"

I hazard a glance toward my mom and dad; their reactions make my stomach curdle.

Mom's smile is frozen in place, her eyes as big and strained as the fists curling around her skirt. And Dad…I can't even. I think I may faint. He's…his smile, the friendliness in his eyes, the easygoing posture – it all vanishes. He first stares at Rachel's dads in complete confusion, but it only takes a few seconds for everything to click into place for him, and now the expression all over his face, his body, his eyes, his everything, is one of half-horror, half-disgust.

I whip my own panicked glance over to Hiram and Leroy; they have reached us now, and are standing unaware with Rachel nestled between them. A typical happy family. Only they're not typical at all, not in any sense of the word. And I suddenly feel the intense urge to snatch them all up and run these kind, friendly-faced men and their impossible, enigmatic daughter far away from the cold, judgmental eyes of my mom and dad.

I think I might puke.

"Hello," Leroy says, smiling. He holds out his great paw of a hand to either of my parents. "I'm Leroy Berry, Rachel's father. It's a true pleasure to finally be able to meet you both."

"And I'm Hiram, Rachel's other dad. Quinn was such a joy to have over yesterday that we couldn't wait to meet the wonderful family she must come from." Hiram keeps his hands in his pockets; his smile is too big, his eyes pained behind his glasses. He knows. He knows what my parents are thinking.

My mom can only stare at Leroy's hand, still in shock. My dad, however, surprises me – surprises everybody, I think – by clapping his hand onto Leroy's and shaking.

"Russell Fabray," Dad says. "And my lovely wife, Judy." Dad now wears a mask of hard indifference; I can see his knuckles protruding from how tightly he grips Leroy's hand, and he issues a series of ridiculously hard pumps before releasing.

My lower lip trembles at the wince that flashes across Leroy's face from the vice-grip handshake, at the way he flexes his hand to work out the pain.

I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole when my dad actually wipes his hand off on his pants leg, in what I'm sure he thinks is a subtle maneuver, but does not escape the attention of Hiram's narrowing eyes.

"Dads, y-you should see the, um, the…" Rachel's voice is thin as she flounders to control the thick, suffocating tension that fills the air like a dark storm cloud.

I have been unable to look at her until now, and I feel cold, cold shame at the way she is holding onto both of her dads' arms, in this protective manner. At the way her face is a few shades paler than normal, and she is actually stuttering. Rachel Berry, the most competent speaker I have ever met, with one of the best vocabularies, is having difficulty expressing herself – that may be the most telling of all.

"The d-dog that Quinn…" Rachel trails off mid-sentence, her eyes landing on the floor.

"My dog!" The words jump from my mouth of their own accord, but I keep going, making sure to offer small but genuine smiles to first Hiram, then Leroy, and finally to Rachel, who looks up and catches my gaze. "Yeah, um, I have a pet dog named Buttercup, and she's, like, um, she's really sweet and she's cute and she's sw – yeah…she's…Buttercup!"

The Berry family smile at me, these tiny but grateful smiles, and I feel like I may burst into tears right then and there. This is a waking nightmare.

"That's great," Hiram says sadly. "We love animals. Did Rachel ever tell you about Miss Pa – "

"We need to get going," Dad interrupts, seizing my mom's hand and then mine, territorially.

Mom remains mute.

"O-okay then," Rachel says. "It was nice seeing you again."

"It was a pleasure to meet you both," Leroy says with a terse nod.

Dad grunts in a noncommittal fashion before pulling his wife and daughter down the opposite end of the hallway.

I look over my shoulder and lock eyes with Rachel one last time.

Her smile is not a smile at all, but rather a mere upward twitch of her lips. Tears glitter in her eyes.

And I know that I should yank my hand from my dad's sweaty, overpowering grasp. I know I should go back to the Berry family and apologize for my family's rudeness. I know I should do something, damn it.

But instead, I just blink a few times, trying to combat the hot moisture in my eyes, and I turn my neck forward again, struggling to match the brisk, heavy steps with which my father leads.