Rachel made her way down the hall during lunch, turning left into the small office. She wasn't really sure where to start, and figured the doe-eyed counselor was as good a place as any, especially since she was still unsure of what to say to her friends.
"Oh, hello Rachel," Ms. Pillsbury greeted her, finishing the final strokes in her desk-sanitizing routine. She carefully reached over her newly immaculate surface and squirted some antiseptic in her hands, rubbing them together furiously. "What can I do for you?"
"I was hoping you could give me some advice," Rachel began, feeling exponentially more foolish as the words came out of her mouth. Really? She actually thought the OCD school counselor could help? However, she was desperate, so she continued, "I recently became involved in an altercation with a…friend, and we are currently not on speaking terms."
The red-headed woman stared at her in puzzlement, but she babbled on. "However, I've come to realize I was at fault, and now wish very much to make amends, and was hoping you could offer some guidance on how best to approach him."
Rachel glanced up at Ms. Pillsbury, who finally seemed to catch on to what they were talking about. "Rachel," she asked sympathetically. "Is this about Puck?"
Rachel flinched slightly at the name, but shook her head. "This is about Noah," she clarified, not caring that the adult couldn't possibly appreciate the difference. She took a deep breath. "I just need to talk to him—apologize; but he won't even look at me."
Ms. Pillsbury looked down at her clean hands, then back at Rachel. "You know Rachel, from what I understand, I'm not so sure Puck is the type of boy you'd want to apologize to; perhaps it's for the best—"
As the counselor's wide Bambi eyes looked at the petite brunette's in pity, Rachel found herself tuning out the words. Even the school counselor thought of him as Puck, and it made her heart wrench for Noah.
"I don't talk about this kinda shit to most people," he whispered to her.
"Why not?" she asked. "It's not like I'm asking for a detailed five-year plan. Just what you want for yourself."
"And I told you—out of this goddamn place. If I can accomplish that, I'm ahead of what anybody thinks I'm capable of."
"That's not true. I think you're capable of more than just that."
"And you would be on a fucking short list of people who do. So my plan? It's enough for me."
She scoffed. "That's not much of a plan Noah. Don't you want anything beyond that? Maybe to be a singer in LA, or a college student in Miami—a bartender in Cleveland?"
He chuckled into her hair. "Book-smarts aren't really my thing, babe, and I'm not mega-talented like you," he replied. "I don't really have much of a knack for anything, so I guess I try not to think about it: set your standards low, and you'll always reach your expectations."
"There's always time to turn things around," she sighed, hugging him closer to her. "Dip into your potential. Always shoot for the moon Noah; even if you fail, you'll still land among the stars—think about it."
The brunette rose in disappointment, realizing her confidante was all but useless, and turned to the door.
"Rachel, wait." The counselor stood and walked to her. "Perhaps you should ask one of his friends how to talk to him," she recommended. "Perhaps a girl in his clique—like maybe Quinn Fabray? She seems very nice." Ms. Pillsbury smiled kindly at Rachel, who faked one of her own as she thanked the woman and left the office.
Rachel scurried to her next class, trying to avoid all eye contact as she scoffed at the teacher's direction. Quinn Fabray, whom Rachel was sure already despised her, helping her to speak to Noah. Like that would ever be remotely possible. However, perhaps she may be right about speaking to someone in his social circle…
The next day Rachel spent lunch with Finn in the choir room. She'd been doing that a lot lately, bouncing back and forth between spending time with Mercedes, Kurt, Artie, and Tina, and Finn. He'd been so supportive, so friendly, as if he couldn't stand the fact she was hurting. She'd even heard the rumor that he'd rallied to her defense against some unflattering locker room talk concerning what she and Noah's relationship had involved.
Regrettably, when she brought up her desire to speak with his friend, Finn had been dead set against it.
"Rache," he'd told her. "You see him every day, and he hasn't said anything. With guys like him, that's usually a pretty clear sign, you know?"
She said nothing, but perked up slightly when he continued to himself, "Although it's kinda weird he hasn't said anything in the locker room…"
"He hasn't?" Rachel asked, to which Finn shook his head, still thinking out loud.
"Nah—the other guys ask, you know? And guess a lot of stuff; but he won't talk about it." He looked at her. "I guess I just assumed that meant you guys didn't…you know." He looked at her, tilting his head in curiosity. "Did you?"
"So maybe he's just concerned about what speaking to me will do to his reputation?" Rachel pushed, evading the question. Finn opened his mouth to contradict her, but she pressed, "Maybe you could convince him to meet me somewhere private so we could talk?" Her deep brown eyes grew wide as she looked up at him, pleading her case. "Please?"
Finn held her eyes for a moment, then sighed. "I don't think there's anything I could say to him to change his mind," he told her. "But maybe if you talked to Quinn—" He clarified at Rachel's incredulous look "You know, she's a girl, and you're a girl, and she's kind of friends with Puck. I don't know; maybe she could give you some advice."
Rachel, seeing no other options, had finally given in, which explained how, Friday afternoon, Rachel waited outside the gym for the Captain of the Cheerios to emerge and talk to her. She watched as the team poured into the hallway, too dehydrated and exhausted to even notice her presence (which was probably for the better, considering her current situation). She glanced at every uniform, looking for the pristine blonde, but she didn't appear. Finally, five minutes after Coach Sylvester had left, she made up her mind and walked through the doors.
She heard a door slam, and found Quinn staring back in surprise, back braced up against the utility closet. When she realized who it was, the Cheerio smirked, looking back at the door behind her, and Rachel could hear the cogs of her mind as she got ready to deliver the insults.
"What are you doing here ManHands?" she sneered, walking towards the bleachers where her duffel sat. "Searching all of the closets at school in case there's someone else desperate enough to want you waiting in one?"
"I need to speak with him Quinn," Rachel stated, ignoring the hurtful words and the malicious grin that now adorned the other girl's face. "I know you aren't fond of me—"
"What's not to be fond of?" the Queen Bee replied, taking cold, calculating steps toward the Gleek. "The fact that you look like a transvestite and wear clothes that your blind grandmother probably chose? Or the fact that you've been putting the moves on my boyfriend since the day you met?"
"Finn is only a friend, and your boyfriend; and I have no intention in pursuing a romantic relationship with him," Rachel insisted.
"But you do with Puck?" Quinn sneered. She closed the space between them, leaving mere inches as she whispered, "A word to the wise, loser: players don't have follow-up with the played. Not they're style."
Quinn gave a cruel chuckle and moved to get her things, but Rachel grabbed her arm. She ignored the murderous glare in her eyes and repeated, "I just need to speak with him."
Quinn snatched her arm back, appraising the petite thing in front of her.
"I can't guarantee anything," she finally said. "But maybe if you do me a favor, I could put in a good word."
"Name it," Rachel knew she should be careful about promising things to people like Quinn Fabray; but for Noah, her Noah, she'd walk through fire.
Quinn smiled. "I'm having a little get together tomorrow night," she informed her. "Some close friends— the who's who of this school, you know," she gave Rachel a superior smile.
"I still have some shopping left to do," she continued, pulling out a paper from her backpack and handing it to Rachel. "If you can get me everything on this list before 5 o'clock tomorrow night, I'll see what I can do."
Rachel looked at the folded sheet in her hands, then back up at Quinn. "Thank you," she told her earnestly, turning and striding out into the hall.
She stood for a moment just outside the door, opening the paper to look inside. Her eyes went wide as she took in the words, but she pulled out her phone as she flew towards her car.
"Mercedes?" she said breathlessly as she started the engine. "Is Kurt with you? I need your help."
Quinn zipped her bag shut again, and hefted it onto her shoulder.
"That seemed kinda cruel," a voice spoke up from behind her as it emerged from the closet.
Quinn arched an eyebrow at Puck as he emerged from the closet. "Hey, I didn't say I would get you to talk to her; I just told her I'd see what I could do." She laughed. "Not my fault if I already know that the answer is nothing."
"You know she can't get your shit," he insisted.
"No shit Sherlock," she retorted. "Just one more reason I won't have to bother trying to explain to her that she's a loser who got played."
"Whatever," he grumbled. He was miserable with guilt, and moreover hated listening to Quinn describe Rachel as a loser.
"They don't matter," she'd said, once of many times. "They call us losers because they're afraid for themselves. They know that being who we are, even if we don't make it, we're already halfway there. And them? They aren't even out of the starting gate."
He'd never really believed her.
"Hey," she called out as he started walking away. She strode up to him. "You owe me part of my money back." His eyes went wide at her demand. "I have to do major damage control for your mess, which wouldn't have happened if she'd ended up with Creepy Blogger Loser in the first place."
"Bullshit," he told her. "The money's already gone towards getting the hell outta this cow town."
She chuckled at him, closing the space between them. "Oh Puck—you really think you're going anywhere?" she patted his cheek, leaning close to whisper. "You were born a Lima loser, and you'll die a Lima loser; doomed to look back on these few years in high school as your peak."
And with a smile and twirl of her cheerleading skirt, she turned heel and walked out the door.