Author's Note: This is the part where I beg for reviews, but honestly, I'd be pretty tactless if I did so after how long I went after updating, huh? And, just so you folks know, I've busted through the writer's block over Thanksgiving break so hopefully I'll be better about updating this. I already have chapter 12 written, since I split this one in half (it was sooooo long).
Quinn Fabray doesn't need another reason to dread school, but fuck it, she's got one anyway. Six a.m. Cheerios practice on Monday drags by in a sluggish blur, with roundoffs, laps, and pyrotechnics doing nothing to distract her from her thoughts. Doing nothing to distract her from the dreaded interaction with Rachel - whatever it may be - looming ahead.
"It'll be okay, Q," Brittany sympathizes, patting Quinn on the shoulder, as the squad finally disperses and trudges from the gym towards the girls' locker room half an hour before the first bell.
Quinn walks alongside Brittany, feet throbbing dully in their pristine white sneakers, and looks over at her blonde friend. "Thanks, Britt," she says softly, the sincerity of her friend causing her to only have to halfway force her smile. She doesn't bother asking what Brittany is talking about; either Santana talked to her about the blowout with Rachel or she just witnessed it herself on Friday night.
"Christ, I hate Mondays." Santana brushes past, scowling. She shoves a gaggle of freshmen out of her way, Quinn knows, to be the first one to the more spacious handicap shower stall.
Quinn grits her teeth. "No kidding," she mutters under her breath, thinking again of Rachel.
Sometimes the red and white uniform does feel like a corset. It always hugs Quinn's body snugly, but often she can feel the pressures of her mother and her peers come to life in the polyester's cinching, splintering grip. This sleeveless top and skirt mean so much to everyone around her that they seem to grow hungrily around her, trying their best to assert their importance. This uniform. High school has just made it so goddamn essential. At times Quinn has to step back and remind herself not to take it for granted, though. The uniform's heavy on her frame, sure - like a suit of armor would be. It functions the same way. It keeps her safe in this hideous minefield they call a school.
Honestly, the main reason Quinn ever joined the squad was so that she could have the uniform as armor. In her imagination arrows labeled "lesbo" and "dyke" whistle shrilly through the air only to glance off the metal and chain mail.
After what happens in the locker room Quinn remembers strongly why she's grateful for it.
She's hunched over with one leg up on the bench, pulling up her socks, when she feels it. That prickle. That feeling that she's being glanced at, whispered about, that sensation that her self-conscious self is more attuned to than anyone else. It prickles the back of her neck like that Velcro she feels there when she watches a scary movie.
This is only a split second before she looks up and sees a clique of freshman girls chatting quietly over at the next row of lockers. Three of them. They speak casually and quietly, but their eyes dart just slightly, and Quinn catches a snatch of it:
"-and apparently it was because Quinn Fabray-"
Her heart leaps up into her throat as she thinks initially, instinctively, they know. She fumbles her shoelaces. But no, she rationalizes, she has to stay calm. No need to jump to conclusions. Still, this dull worry skitters about the back of Quinn's skull as she licks her lips and straightens up.
"What are you girls gossiping about?" she calls out purposefully, sharply.
They stop, confusion fluttering over their features for just a moment before it's replaced by guilt and the slightest twinge of recognizable fear. Seeing this immediately awashes Quinn with a savage pleasure. She can still get what she wants this way. Some things haven't changed.
One girl fidgets with the hem of her skirt and casually calls back, "Nothing." The other two echo agreeably.
Quinn says nothing for a moment, concentrating instead on adjusting the waist of her skirt so that it's perfectly snug. She makes them wait for her response, makes them sweat just a little bit more in thinking they're in trouble with the head cheerleader. Quinn Fabray knows what the fuck she's doing when it comes to getting what she wants from the people at this school who bend at the knee for the sake of this social hierarchy. They're so easy.
"I heard my name," she says dryly. "I know that you know I did. Just save us all some time and own up, okay?"
They exchange hesitant glances with one another. It's so cliché that Quinn almost laughs. Almost. But despite the airtight control she has over these girls and this situation, her lungs are feelings ever so slightly airless. That fear is nagging at the sensitive scalp skin on the back of her skull. She's not laughing.
"It's not a big deal," the middle girl offers casually. "We're not talking shit or anything, we're not like that," (that second part at least is for sure a lie), "We were just talking Finn Hudson's breakup."
"And how he mentioned you," a second girl chimes in.
Quinn's eyes narrow. "What?" she blurts in surprise, jaw clenching tightly. This is the last thing she was expecting. Finn, broken up? With Rachel? How didn't Quinn know about this? And how is she involved? Her heart flies to her throat and she swallows with some difficulty, trying to force down the panic, but if there really was a breakup her first wild instinct is to think that Finn is telling people that Quinn Fabray is a huge dyke. "What's going on with Finn?" she demands.
"Kaitlyn's boyfriend told her," Cheerio number one says promptly, and the first two girls look sidelong over at the girl who hasn't spoken yet. She blushes and smiles faintly.
"My boyfriend plays football on the varsity team." The girl pauses to grin with shy pride, and her two friends nod happily. "And, well, he was telling me how at practice yesterday Finn Hudson was talking about breaking up with his girlfriend and, uh…" At this point the girl stops to glance up at Quinn nervously. "Well, I guess he said it was because of you. Or something…"
Quinn takes a step closer, throat constricting with difficulty around the lump like it's a mouse in a snake's belly. "What do you mean? How would that have anything to do with me?"
They shrug and look away, and Quinn thinks frantically of the worst. He's telling people she's gay. Just the thought of being outed makes her itchily uncomfortable being in the girls' locker room.
"He didn't say," the first cheerleader offers, shaking her head. So at least there's that. There are no rumors about Quinn's sexuality going around. She relaxes a little.
"Didn't you used to date Finn?" the third girl, the shy one, pipes up suddenly. All three of them, piqued, crane their necks towards Quinn slightly.
She blinks. "Yeah."
The first two cheerleaders exchange a quick glance in a fraction of a second. "Do you like him?" number two asks.
Quinn clears her throat in chagrin. "Why would you think that?"
Number two's eyes shift back and forth doubtfully. She clicks her tongue on the roof of her mouth. "Well, it's like, the only possible explanation, right? If Finn and his girlfriend broke up supposedly because of you…"
"Are you trying to get him back?" the first girl finishes, eyeing Quinn shrewdly.
Quinn exhales through her nostrils hotly, trying to calmly wrap her head around the pettiness and stupidity of these freshmen. Her frustration aggravates that familiar wrath, poking it like a hornets' nest. She steps closer to the cluster of girls, noting with grim satisfaction how they shrink away from her slightly.
"Okay, girls, you're going to listen to me," she says silkily, sinking easily into the part of Cheerios captain. "I have nothing to do with Finn or his little breakup. I do not want him. He's a shitty kisser and I very gladly skipped away from that little train wreck of a relationship last year." Quinn notes with relish the looks of self-doubt and unease on the faces of her audience, and she stalks nearer, somewhat sadistically wanting more.
"And while I'm on the subject," she continues, her voice lowering ominously, "You three will stop spreading this unimaginative little rumor today, and I will find out if it goes any further. If you don't, I will personally see to it that the extent of your cheerleading career at this school will amount to fetching towels and scrubbing bloodstains out of the uniforms." Quinn looks slowly in turn at each spooked colorless face in front of her. "Understood?"
"Yeah," the first girl says somewhat hoarsely. The other two just nod.
Quinn smiles like a cat who has cornered three mice. "Great," she responds. "Now why don't you lesbians quit watching me change and get out of here."
The three freshmen (not that they even have anything to be insecure about with their sexuality, lucky ignorant girls) scatter instantly. Ponytails bobbing, skirts twirling, they all but sprint for the door. Again, they're almost comical, and again, she would laugh if not for the fact that right now Quinn is on the verge of tears.
Once the girls are gone, all the anger and bravado rush out of her, and she deflates like a punctured balloon. She sinks onto the bench, clenching and unclenching her fists, and trying to get her shallow breathing under control through trembling lips. The hateful, loathsome, weakness-indicating tears sting at her eyes, and she blinks furiously so that they go away.
It's all wrong. Quinn knows she doesn't have to worry about any rumors, having terrified those freshmen into dispelling them, but it's a hollow victory. Not only are all of her chances of anything remotely good with Rachel in the toilet, but Quinn's also to blame for her breakup with Finn. It's all wrong. She doesn't need another reason for Rachel to hate her, on top of everything she's ever done to the poor girl, but she's gone and fucked with Rachel's life again anyway. It's like Quinn hurts her whether or not she tries.
"Fuck," she growls, the frustrated and desperate sound low in her throat. On top of everything else, she just had to tear those other girls down with a homophobic remark, didn't she. Every time her contrived viciousness includes homophobia, it adds another layer to her security in never being suspected, but at what price? Her respect for herself always drops significantly when she uses "gay" or "lesbian" derogatorily in conversation. It's good for bolstering her heterosexual reputation, but is it really necessary?
"Fuck," she repeats, getting abruptly to her feet and brushing off her red skirt in irritation. She has five minutes before the first bell and here she is lagging in a deserted locker room, crying and feeling sorry for herself. She has to face the school and the day sometime. She has to face Rachel sometime.
By third period Quinn hasn't seen Rachel at all. She supposes morosely that the brunette has every right to avoid Quinn, but she at least hoped that she would be able to see her. Not that she's actively seeking Rachel out, either, because she is positively dreading having to have that inevitable conversation. Seeing the hurt and complete loss of trust in Rachel's eyes. Apologizing sheepishly and knowing that she won't get a definite answer of forgiveness in return (fat chance of that happening). No, she's revolted at the thought of that conversation, but somehow her instincts are still feeling gloomy that Rachel isn't around. It's pathetic, is what it is.
She rounds the corner of the west wing hallway by the gym, dragging her feet on her way to third period Honors History. It's the first class of three that she and Rachel share together during the day. Inside, Quinn battles with her dread of having to face Rachel and not knowing what to say, and her urge to see her and be around her and see if she's okay. As the two conflict in her guts, the outcome isn't any resolution of any kind, one way or the other. She just feels slightly ill.
Off to her right, leaning against some lockers, Quinn sees one of the freshman girls from earlier that morning, talking animatedly with two others, one with the coveted uniform and one without. She eyes the group for a second as she walks. If anything else had spread about this alleged Finn-Rachel-Quinn love triangle, she would have heard about it by now. It's most likely that those girls left the locker room and did not spread that rumor at all, and if they heard it anywhere, dismissed it as a crock of bullshit (before moving on to bigger and better dirt about so-and-so's genital warts scare). Quinn smirks to herself; it just goes to show that if you use enough intimidation, anything can be accomplished.
It's a hard philosophy to let go of and she knows it.
When Quinn reaches her classroom, she finds that Rachel's not there. She stands in the doorway stupidly for a second, scanning the room for the petite brunette that she's come to be able to single out in a flash. But she's simply not there.
It's only when the teacher clears his throat behind Quinn, unable to get through with her blocking the way, that she shakes herself from her fog and takes a seat. She sits there, puzzled. As the teacher, a middle-aged man with his polo shirt tucked into his khakis, begins to take attendance, Quinn pulls out her phone under her desk and flips it open. Santana is the only one she trusts to text about this. She doesn't know why she's trusting her dark-haired rival, but after this weekend Quinn has an indistinct impression that something's changed.
did you hear about rachel and finn? & have you seen rachel at all?
Quinn's phone vibrates with a response in a minute.
yeah heard they split but dnt know why. & i think berrys out "sick"
Quinn sighs. If Santana Lopez doesn't know the dirt about something then it must be really hush-hush. She thinks again, though, of the bullshit rumor the freshman Cheerios had got their hands on, only a few degrees away from Finn himself. But no, that one was… well, bullshit.
i cornered some cheergrunts gossiping about it this morning, said they heard finn said it was my fault
It's nothing, it shouldn't mean anything, but this stupid little weed of a rumor Quinn stamped out a few hours ago keeps nagging at her in the back of her mind. What the hell could it mean, and why would Finn say something like that? She's snapped from her thoughts by her phone vibrating in response. Flipping it open, Quinn reads:
idk q, finncests a moron but hes just as much of a jerk. i dont have any problem believing he'd blame getting dumped on some1 else
Huffing from frustration, Quinn quickly types a response on the keypad.
i just wonder if maybe it's true w/o me even knowing it
This time she has to wait several minutes for a response, her blank gaze boring into the blackboard as she feigns attention to the teacher's lesson. Finally, her phone buzzes.
all i know is that if it was me id feel like finn owed me a huge fucking explanation, you know?
Quinn stares at the tiny pixilated words on the screen for a few seconds before snapping the device shut. For the rest of the period, her mind swims unblinkingly through the drone about her of The Battle of Gettysburg and The Emancipation Proclamation, just to rest restlessly among troubled thoughts of Finn, Rachel… Finn's locker room gossip; Rachel's wounded eyes.
If it was me I'd feel like Finn owed me a huge fucking explanation.