Chapter 21: Rachel

I'm having a nightmare that a thousand Oompa Loompas are in my head, hammering my skull. Opening my eyes to bright light, I wince.

"You've got a hangover," a girl says to me.

When I squint, I see Brittany standing over me. We're in what looks like a bedroom with walls painted pastel yellow. I squint up at her. "Where am I?"

"My house. I wouldn't move if I were you. You might puke again and I don't really want to clean it," she says. "Lucky for us, my parents are out of town, so I get the house to myself until tonight."

"How'd I get here?" The last thing I remember was walking…

"You passed out outside a club. Quinn and I brought you here."

At the mention of Quinn, my eyes open fully. I vaguely remember drinking, then walking, and finding Quinn and Kitty together. And then Quinn and I… Did I kiss her? I know I leaned in, but…

I puked. I distinctly remember puking. I sit up slowly, hoping sometime soon my head will stop spinning. "Did I do anything stupid?" I ask.

Brittany shrugs. "I'm not sure. Quinn wouldn't really let anyone get close enough to you. If you want to call passing out in her arms stupid, then yes. Yes, you've managed to do just that."

I drop my head in my hands. "Oh, no. Brittany, please don't tell anyone in glee club."

She's smiling. "Don't worry. I won't tell anyone that Rachel Berry is in fact human... and totally not as innocent as she looks."

"Why are you nice to me? I mean, when Kitty wanted to beat me up, you defended me. And you let me sleep here, even though you told me that we're not friends."

"We're not friends. Kitty and I have never really clicked. At this point, I enjoy seeing her pissed off. She can't stand that Quinn isn't her girlfriend anymore."

"Why'd they break up?"

"Ask her yourself. She's sleeping on the couch in the living room. She passed out as soon as she carried you to my bed." Oh. Quinn is here? "She likes you, you know," Brittany says, looking at her fingernails instead of me.

Butterflies start flittering in my stomach. "No she doesn't," I say, even though I'm tempted to ask for details.

She rolls her eyes. "Oh please. You know it, even if you don't want to admit it."

"For someone who says they'll never be friends with me, you sure are in a sharing mood this morning."

"I have to admit that I kind of wish you were the bitch people say you are," she says.

"Why?"

"Because it's easier to hate someone who seems to have it all."

A short laugh escapes from my mouth. I'm not about to tell her the truth- that my life is crumbling around me. "I've got to go home. Where's my cell?" I ask, patting my back pocket.

"Quinn has it… I think."

So sneaking out without talking to her is out of the question. I struggle to keep my head on straight as I stagger out of the bedroom, searching for Quinn.

It's not hard to spot her, she's literally sprawled on the couch like it's a bed. Quinn is nothing, but a sports bra and shorts. She opens her eyes hazily; they're bloodshot and glazed with sleep.

Oh, God. I'm in trouble. Because I'm staring. I can't keep my eyes from ogling her perfect abs and the dip of her sports bra, creating a perfect valley between her breasts. The butterflies in my stomach have just multiplied as my wandering gaze meets hers.

"Hey." I swallow, hard. "I, um, guess I should thank you for taking me here instead of leaving me passed out in town."

Her gaze doesn't falter. "Last night, I realized something. You and I, we're not so different. You play game just like I do. You use your looks, your body, and your brains to make sure you're always in control."

"I'm hungover, Quinn. I can't even think straight and you're getting philosophical on me."

"See… you're playing the game right now. Be real with me. I dare you."

Is she kidding? Be real? I can't. Because then I'll start crying, and maybe freak out enough to blurt out the truth- that I create a perfect image so I can hide behind it. "I better get home."

"Before you do that, you should probably go to the bathroom," she says.

Before I can ask why, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall. "Oh, shit!" I shriek. Black mascara under my eyes, running down my cheeks. I resemble a dead person. Hurrying past her, I find the bathroom and stare at myself in the mirror. My hair is sticking up I places I didn't think possible. I have puffy bags under my eyes, and my eyes are bloodshot from the alcohol. All in all, I'm not a pretty sight.

I wet toilet paper and rub under my eyes until the streaks are gone. After the mascara streaks are unnoticeable, I splash cold water on my face hoping to clear my mind. Then I rinse my mouth with water and rub my teeth with some toothpaste, hoping to get the worst of the night of puking and sleeping and drunkenness from my mouth until I get home.

Squaring my shoulders and keeping my held high, I open the door and walk back to the living room to find Brittany walking to her room and Quinn standing when she sees me.

"Where's my cell phone?" I ask. "And please, put some clothes on."

She reaches down and grabs my phone off the floor. "Why?"

"The reason I need my cell," I say as I take it from her, "is to call a cab and the reason I want you to put a shirt on is, well-um… because..."

"You've never seen a girl with only a bra on?" she says smirking.

"Ha. Ha. Very funny. I'm a girl, obviously I've seen that. You don't have anything I haven't seen before. You're nothing special."

"Wanna bet?" she says, then moves to take her bra off.

Brittany walks in at that exact moment," Whoa Quinn, Please keep your clothes on. We all know you're confident, but c'mon."

When she looks over at me, I put my hands up. "Don't look at me. I was just about to call a cab when she-"

Shaking her head while Quinn adjusts herself, she walks to her purse and picks up a set of keys. "Forget the cab. I'll drive you."

"I'll drive her," Quinn cuts in.

Brittany seems to be exhausted dealing with us, similar to how Mr. Schuester looks during chemistry class. "Would you rather me drive you, or Quinn?" she asks.

I have a boyfriend. Okay, so I admit every time I catch Quinn looking at me a warmth spreads through my body. But it's normal. We're two teenagers with obvious sexual tension passing between us. As long as I never act on it, everything will be just fine.

Because if I ever did act on it, the consequences would be disastrous. I'd lose Finn. I'd lose my friends. I'd lose the little control I have over my life.

"Brittany, take me home please," I say, then look at Quinn.

She gives a small shake of her head, grabs her shirt and keys, and storms out the front door without another word.

I silently follow Brittany to her car.

"You like Quinn more than a friend, don't you?" I ask.

"More like a sister. We've known each other since we were kids."

I give her directions to my house. Is she telling me the truth? "You don't think she's attractive?"

"I've known her since she cried like a baby when her ice cream fell on the street when we were four years old. I was there when, well... just leave it at the fact that we've been through a lot of stuff together."

"Stuff? Want to elaborate?"

"Not with you, sorry."

I could almost see the invisible wall going up between us. "So our friendship ends here?"

She looks at me. "Our friendship just began, Rachel. Don't push it."

We're coming up to my house. "It's the fourth one on the right," I say.

"I know." She stops her car in front of my house. I look at her; she looks at me. Does she expect me to ask her in? I don't even let good friends come into my house.

"Well, thanks for the ride," I say. "And for letting me crash at your place."

Brittany flashes me a weak smile. "No problem."

I cling to the door handle. "I won't let anything happen between me and Quinn. Okay? Even if there's something going on below the surface."

"Good. Because if it does, it's going to blow up in your faces."

In the house, my daddy is sitting at the kitchen table. It's quiet. Too quiet. There are papers in front of him. Brochures or something. He quickly straighten, like little kid caught doing something wrong.

"I… I thought you were st-still… with Kurt," my daddy says. My senses pick up. Hiram Berry never stutters. And he's not commenting on how I look. This can't be good.

"I was, but I got a killer headache," I say, walking forward and focusing on the suspicious brochures my daddy is so interested in.

Lima Heights Home for Special People.

"What are you doing?"

"Looking at options," he says.

"Options? Options! You call sending dad to an elderly home for "special people" an option!?"

He turns to me. "Calm down Rachel. I haven't spoken to your father yet. It's a discussion I've been having with his therapist."

"I'm going to Ohio State next year so I can live at home and help."

"And next year, I'd like you to focus on going to New York and focusing on your Broadway career instead. Rachel, listen," my daddy says, standing. "We have to look into options. After his outburst the other day and his continued-"

"I don't want to hear it," I tell him, cutting him off. "There is absolutely no way I'm letting you put him in some senior home!" I snatch the brochures off the table. My dad needs to be with us, with his family, not some facility with strangers. I tear the brochures in two, toss them into the garbage, and then run to my bedroom.

"Open the door, Rachel," my daddy says, jiggling my bedroom doorknob.

I sit on the edge of my bed, my mind whirling with the image of my dad being sent away. No. It can't happen. The thought makes me sick. "You don't even try. It's like you're giving up before you even tried. You think it'd be easier without him. You're wrong."

"Don't be ridiculous," his voice muffled by the door. "There's a new facility being open, very close to our house. If you'd open the door we can have a civilized discussion about it."

I won't let it happen. I'll do everything in my power to keep him home.

"I don' want to have a civilized discussion. My own father wants to send my other parent to a facility behind my back and behind his. Leave me alone, okay?"

I can't help by think about the events of the past few hours. Brittany isn't a friend, yet she helped me. And Quinn, a girl who cared about me last night more than my own boyfriend did, acted as my hero and is urging me to be real. Do I even know how to be real?

I clutch my pillow and I allow myself to cry.