Finding Prince Charming

by Celtic Quill

Sometimes, Prince Charming rides a white horse. Sometimes, he lives in a castle. Sometimes, he is the person you would least expect. And sometimes, Prince Charming isn't a prince at all.

36. Chapter 36

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

Thursday

I slept all through dinner, all through the night, a deep and dreamless realm of peace, where nothing can touch me, nothing can hurt me.

My eyes open to sunlight streaming in from the window above; I check my phone and see that it's six a.m. I also see that there are some text messages from Santana, Puck, Brittany, and Kurt.

I turn my phone off without answering anyone; chug down the glass of water Rachel left me, feeling as if I haven't drunken in days; and roll over, promptly falling back asleep.

It feels like my eyes have just closed to the tranquil darkness, barely even having time to drift off, when there's a jostle against my shoulder.

My eyes open again to see not sunlight, but Rachel's face, only a few inches from mine. I jerk back and make a rather unglamorous "whaa-huhh?" sound.

"Quinn," she says softly, "It's seven-thirty. You need to start getting ready soon."

I remember with a groan that, in my hazy half-asleep state earlier, I turned off my cell phone to avoid talking to people…and turned off my alarm feature with it.

"Damn it." My voice is gravelly, and my body aches all over from yesterday's exercise from hell. And, oh God, just thinking of going to school makes me physically ill, my stomach roiling and my heart picking up speed and clamminess itching into my palms.

"I'm not going," I decide, fixing Rachel with a firm look, as if daring her to challenge me.

"You want to stay home from school today?" she clarifies, biting down on her lower lip.

There's something about those words – 'stay home from school' – and it spreads a bittersweet twang at the reminder that this has become my home, here in this house with Rachel and her dads. A part of me still craves a hug from my mom, a hair-rustle from my dad, but they're not the ones sitting with me on a bed right now, checking on me, caring for me.

Rachel has been more of a family to me in these past few months than my parents have in…I can't even remember when.

"Yeah," I finally say. "I don't feel up to it. Can you…Will you…Call Principal Figgins and pretend to be my mom like you did last time?"

Rachel reaches her hand toward my face, and at first, I start to pull away, my eyes flinching out of reflex; but then she presses the cool of her palm onto my forehead, slowly, gently, pushing my mussed hairline back into place. My eyes close against her touch, and a soft breath works through me.

"Yes," she says. "Of course." She removes her hand; I miss it immediately.

I pull the covers up and over my head and burrow down into them like a protective fort. I hear her leaving my room, closing the door behind me, but not before she says, "Sweet dreams, Q."

She called me 'Q' again; it brings the ghost of a smile to my lips, too heavy to flicker to life, but there nonetheless.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

I wake up again at half past eleven.

My body feels like somebody stuffed lead under every inch of skin, but I manage to roll out of bed to use the restroom. When I'm done doing my business and am walking back out into the hallway again, I'm surprised to see light spilling from underneath the crack in Rachel's door.

She must have accidentally left it on before going to school. Without knocking, I open the door – and let out a little noise of surprise when I find that she's here, lounging on her bed and watching TV.

She looks over at me, eyes brightening and a sweet smile appearing. "Hey; did you sleep well?"

"Yeah," I say, returning the smile as best I can. "Why aren't you at school?"

"Somebody had to stay here and take care of you," she says. "And since my dads have to work, I volunteered to do it."

"But what about your perfect attendance record?"

"What about it?" She lifts her eyebrows, so simply waving away something that had once been so important to her. I guess now I am more important to her; the thought makes me bit down on my lower lip and will away a pleasant blush.

"Thanks," I say, my eyes smiling more so than my mouth.

Rachel pats the left side of the bed. "Come sit with me."

"Okay." Each step feels like a thousand as I drag my sore legs over to her bed and climb in. I settle against the pillows next to her, close enough that the sides of our shoulders brush. "What are you watching?"

A commercial flits across the screen. A woman smiles at the camera as she runs a bar of soap over her arm. She's way too cheery and excited over bathroom products, and when she actually pumps her fist in the air in victory, I can't help but to giggle.

Rachel giggles, too. "It's a commercial right now, but I was watching some run-of-the-mill romantic-comedy."

I look over at her, taking in her outfit of a dark blue cap-sleeved blouse paired with a short black skirt that displays her impossibly lean and long legs, leading to bare feet and pink-painted toenails. I try not to stare at her smooth, tan legs for too long; I feel a tingly warmth in my stomach, spreading down lower as my eyes drag up to her bare thighs.

She's busy watching the TV screen, so thank God she doesn't notice me checking her out. "I feel underdressed," I say, motioning toward my flower-print pajama set, long-sleeved button-up top with matching pants.

"Nah." Rachel reaches a hand over to pat my knee …and leaves it there. Even through the cotton, I can feel the shape of her palm, the warmth of it seeming to radiate from my knee and shoot all across my leg. "You look cute, as always."

I can't help but to smile softly at her words, letting them soak the sunshine of her tone into my soul.

"So, how are you feeling?" she asks, her tone casual but her eyes heavy as they look to mine.

"Like crap." I shrug one shoulder. "I don't think I'll need to work-out again for a while."

Rachel angles her body toward mine, leaning on her elbow, her other hand shifting from my knee and slipping down my shin to balance herself. "Yeah, what was all that about? Do you care to explain why you were exercising hard enough to collapse?"

"Well, I hadn't exercised in a while, and I didn't want to get out of shape, so – "

"No," Rachel says firmly, shaking her head. "Don't lie. Not to me."

My eyes fall to my lap, shame zipping heat through my face. "I…I guess I was just really overloaded with emotions from everything that had happened not just this week but this year, and so I overworked myself on the exercise bike." I return my eyes to hers and find that her sternness has been replaced by gentle understanding and sympathy.

"I didn't mean for it to happen," I say quickly. "Honestly, I wasn't trying to make myself faint."

"I know," Rachel says, squeezing my shin before moving her hand back to her own lap. "I'm not mad at you for it, Quinn. Please don't be embarrassed. I guess I'm just…I'm in a tough situation here. I hate that I have to keep lying to my dads."

"What exactly did you tell them for why I wasn't at dinner last night and why I stayed home today?"

"I said that you'd gotten sick. At least the part where you threw-up wasn't a lie."

I wince at the memory, but then my expression transforms just as suddenly into something softer, more open.

I reach over a hand to land on top of hers. I just feel…better when I'm touching her. Like she's my safety net from the world; like just by meeting my skin with hers I am encased in special armor.

"Thanks," I say, "Not for lying, though I do appreciate that, but for taking care of me yesterday and making sure I didn't, like die or something." I meant that last part to be a joke, cracking a smile and everything, but the way Rachel is staring at me has never been more serious.

"You really scared me," she says quietly, huskily, her voice cracking apart at the end. She licks her lips and blinks her eyes a few times.

"I know," I say apologetically, curling my fingers around hers.

"No, I don't think you do," she sighs, looking away but returning the pressure with her own fingers, wrapping around mine.

I hate seeing her so sad, especially when it's my fault. My stomach contorts in on itself. "I'll tell your dads everything that's been going on, okay? I promise. Just give me until the weekend. Who knows, maybe things will magically work out by then so it won't be as big of a deal anymore when I tell them."

Rachel chews on her lower lip and nods, still staring off into space. "Okay. I guess that's fine."

I can't help it; I lean over and kiss her atop the head, catching that familiar whiff of her hair. It's that lavender-vanilla, clean and floral and sweet, and just so perfect and calming. Just so her. When I pull back, I see that she is gazing down at our intertwined hands in her lap. Maybe it's just a trick of the light, but I think there are tears in her eyes.

My entire face frowns at that, an ache trying to push its way out of my chest. "Come here."

I stretch out my arm and let her scoot closer, until we're snuggled together. She nuzzles her face into my shoulder, and I lay my chin on top of her head. The radiance of our body heat merges into a single entity of toasty warmth. I wrap my arm around her upper torso as she wraps hers around my waist, our hands still linked together, half-in both our laps.

"I love you, you know," I say, and it's the first time I've ever strung those first three words together.

And I realize – no, not really realize, more so finally accepting – that I do love Rachel. Like, love Rachel. All this time I have been fooling myself into thinking I just had a crush on her, or just really, really liked her, but it's so much more than that. Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with this girl, but I've been too afraid to admit it to anyone, especially myself.

The words feel so right, leaving my tongue in that order, but tasting of so many other things left unsaid, of cherished moments and the weight of memories. Of fingers laced together right now, and the first time I ever saw her, standing on a stage, lighting it up with her talent. And now here she is, lighting up my life just by being who she is.

And maybe my tone is kept too casual, too reigned-in, to hide just how much I love her, to hide what I really want to say – 'I'm in love with you.' But I said it, in one form or another, and for now, that has to be enough.

Rachel is quiet for a long moment. When she finally speaks, her voice is so quiet and fragile, and yet brimming with a loud and deep emotion that for the life of me I can't place.

"I know," she says, and I think I feel a warm wetness seeping into my shoulder, right where her eyes are buried. "I love you, too."

It's not nearly enough, and yet it's all I could ever ask for. Maybe I can just pretend like the context is different, pretend like she means the kind of love that I have for her.

I kiss her on top of the head again, my lips lingering longer this time, burning with the silence that has descended upon us.

We watch the rest of the romantic-comedy, cuddled together, but I'm far more content watching the way Rachel laughs at the jokes and "awww"s at the sweet moments than I am watching the movie itself.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Friday

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

I texted Santana, Puck, Brittany, and Kurt back last night.

I know I've been pushing everybody away and have been internalizing too much. It imploded with my over-the-top work-out on Wednesday, so I figure I should start actually letting people back in.

Still, I keep the conversations short and to the point. There is still this stubborn, self-preserving part of me that whisper-screams in my ear to 'runrunrun,' to distance myself from anyone whom I care about and who could break my heart like my parents did.

Mr. Berry^Squared let Buttercup sleep in my room with me last night. I guess they took pity on me having been "sick." I'm very grateful that they let me do this, because if it weren't for her snuggled into one side of me and Tony the Lion snuggled into the other, I don't think I ever could have fallen asleep.

Now it's Friday morning, and Rachel and I are walking through the front doors, entering the school.

My body doesn't ache nearly as much as it did yesterday, but I'm still pretty sore, particularly in my legs. I overslept this morning and threw on the first passable outfit I came across in my closet: a white scoop-necked shirt paired with gray jeans and red sling-back shoes. My hair is parted to the side with a black headband through it, contrasting starkly with the paleness of the blonde beneath.

Rachel wears the same outfit she had on yesterday, since no one from school besides me actually saw it. Her hair is worn in loose curls with her bangs looking extra-fluffy, and she has on some rosy-red lipstick that makes her complexion seem to glow. She's radiant as always, and it makes me feel both happy and sad at the same time to see her in all her glory.

We hang out with Kurt, Blaine, and Brittany in the library before first period starts.

"Where were you guys yesterday?" Blaine asks me and Rachel when we sit down across from the trio.

"I needed a mental health day, so Rachel stayed home with me," I say.

"Ah," Blaine nods empathetically. "Totally understandable."

"Well, you're both looking hot," Brittany grins, prompting a 'thanks' from me and Rach. "Maybe you should take a day off more often."

"Sounds good to me," Kurt says with a dramatic heave of a sigh. "With all this homework my teachers keep piling on, it's like they want to discourage me enough to go ahead and drop out of school."

"We're graduating next month," Rachel says. "Just stick it out until we have final exams, and then you're home free. We'll be out of this place before you know it."

I've been so busy dealing with everything that I haven't even had time to think about graduation, about that massive question mark scribbled over my future. I know I need to start sorting things out soon, need to decide which college I want to go to (I have it narrowed down between Yale and Columbia). But for now, I take a deep breath to ease the knots from my stomach and push away the worries. Better to not waste my time stressing over something in the distance when the here-and-now is so pressing.

After ten minutes of conversation, the bell rings and Rachel, Brittany, and I head to English.

"Thank God this week is almost over," Brittany says. "Santana will be back on Monday! I've missed her so much."

"We all have," I say, and thinking of my short-tempered, fiery, and incredibly loyal best friend makes a real smile manifest across my face.

But when we enter the classroom and I see Rick sitting at his usual seat, that smile sours right into a scowl. He looks up at us and makes a show of rolling his eyes.

"Oh, great," he says, loud enough to attract the attention of every other student in the room. "Look who's back. I was hoping you two had transferred schools or joined some dyke-y cult or something."

"Are you talking to them?" Brittany asks, gesturing between me and Rachel. "I can't understand you. I think you said, 'I'm an asshole,' but I'm not sure. You see, you're kind of nasally and sound all stopped-up when you talk. Did something happen to your nose? It's, like, really swollen and ugly and making your voice sound even weirder than usual."

Everyone makes 'ooohhh' sounds at that, enjoying her series of insults. Rick's eyes flash, and his hands jump up to cover his nose. I think his face is turning red, but it's hard to tell when he's so naturally blotchy.

"Very well-put, Brittany," Rachel chirps, sauntering past Rick with her head held high and a proud smirk stretched up her face.

Brittany and I follow after her; when I pass by Rick, I can't help but to look at him. His eyes are cold and black, like two bottomless pits that could suck me in and suffocate the air from my lungs. There is something hateful and calculating in his face, which I see really is blushing.

"You disgust me," he seethes, quiet enough that only I can hear him. But there's something in his tone, this tremor of emotion that he's struggling to keep at bay.

My heart is racing as a cold sickness churns in my stomach, and I realize that what I'm feeling is fear. I'm afraid of him. I'm giving him power of me, and that realization makes a terrible shiver skitter across my skin.

I open my mouth to fire off some scathing retort, but I can't speak. I can only shake my head at him and hurry over to Rachel and Brittany, my hands rubbing at my upper arms to ward away the sudden chill.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

The rest of the day drags by without anything to report.

At lunch, I sit with the usual crew, but it's not overwhelming like last time, and I actually find myself enjoying the conversations and smiling much more than I am frowning. I would call that 'progress.'

Before sixth period, the last class of the day, I go to my locker to swap out supplies.

Sam's walking with me, doing an impression of some Star Wars character, but I'm only half paying attention.

For when I open up my locker, I find something that's been wedged through the vents.

It's a piece of notebook paper.

I open it up and find two words scratched out in black pen, big and bold and covering the entire page: QUINN FAG-GAY!

My heart stops for a second, and my head feels lighter. The letters blur together in whirls of black.

"What's that you've got there?" Sam asks. "A secret admirer? Ooooooh!" He leans over my shoulder; I try to hide it the note, but it's too late.

"Oh my God!" he says. "What the hell?! Who would write that?"

I sigh and crumple the paper within my fist into a tight ball. "I can think of, oh, about a dozen at least."

"Tell me all the suspects and I'll kick every one of their sorry asses!" he insists. His eyes are wild and deadly-serious.

"Some of them are girls," I say. "You wouldn't hit a lady, would you?"

"Hey, I believe in equal treatment for both genders," Sam says, face softening at my joke. "I wouldn't personally beat them up if they're a girl, but I could hire, like, another girl to do it for me if I find out they've been mean to you."

"Thanks, Sam," I say, feeling just a tiny bit better. "Good to know you have my back."

I return my attention to the inside of my locker. I stick my head deep inside, pretending to look for the book I need, but I'm really taking the few seconds of privacy to fight away the quiver in my chin.

When I pull back with my supplies, I make a show of stomping over to a nearby trashcan and ripping the note up into little pieces. I watch as they drift into the garbage like tiny bits of paper snow, fluttering from my grasp for good.

"Feel better now?" Sam asks when I walk back over to him.

"Yeah," I say, though my hands are shaking, just a little. "I do, actually."

And the crazy thing is that I mean it.

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/

Finally, school is over not just for the day, but for the glorious weekend up ahead.

Two whole days of being out of this hellhole and away from Rick and my other tormentors makes me almost do a happy-dance with relief. That was, almost, of course.

I walk to my locker and start loading what I need into my bag. I remember that there's Glee Club practice today, and I debate inwardly if I should go or not. I figure I should, since I missed the other two meetings this week. It will be good for me to be around my friends and distract myself with some good old-fashioned singing and dancing.

I shut my locker door, click the combination lock into place –a very normal routine of my right-after-school day – but when I hoist my bag's strap further up my shoulder and turn around, I am faced with a completely unexpected sight.

And a completely unwelcome one.

Rick, Carl, Rex, and their friend Marcus stand about two feet away from me. They are positioned in a stretched out semi-circle of sorts. I realize right away that I am trapped against my locker, like an animal penned into its cage.

The next thing I notice is that each of them grips a Super Slushie (that's what they call the largest size; that's thirty-two freaking ounces) from the school cafeteria. Rex actually holds two of them.

I try to ignore the fear rising within me; I concentrate on annoyance and anger instead. "What do you want?" I demand, narrowing my eyes.

"Jeez, calm down," Rick says with condescending patience. "No need to raise your voice."

I'm not going to play along with whatever two-brain-celled game he's cooked up. "Will you move out of my way?" I ask, not bothering to hide my irritation. I realize that I'm gripping my purse across my chest, fingers digging into the top of it in a vice-grip, but I can't bring myself to relax my hold.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" He holds up his free hand. "Let's calm down here."

I refuse to fall for his bait; I merely stand there, my eyes burning into his, not going to back down or even so much as blink before he does.

"Me and the guys here," he gestures to the two hulking hockey players to his left, and then towards the one on his right "actually come bearing gifts." He lifts his lidless, strawless Slushie in the air, so full that a little bit of the dark purple froth sloshes over the side. He flashes me a choir-boy grin, showing off his crooked, yellowed teeth.

"Really?" I quirk an eyebrow. "Wasn't it just this morning that you were being a complete dick to me and saying how much I disgust you?" I roll my eyes. "Now, get out of my way." I try to take a step forward, but when they don't take one back, I falter against my locker.

I'm done with this; I want to get to Glee Club practice. Where's Rachel? She promised to… Oh. Right. We agreed to meet at her locker, not mine. And hers is on the other side of the school.

Which means I have no one around to help me.

Shiiiiiiittttt.

"No, really!" Rick insists. "We think it's totally cool" – something about how he emphasizes the word – this gleam in his eyes and this twitch of his lips, which all vanish almost immediately after appearing – makes a foreboding feeling twist within my gut like a rusty knife – "how you're not afraid to be yourself. Even if we all think it's wrong. Like, seriously, Quinn – it takes major balls to do what you did. To come out of the closet. And we're all sorry for being such asses about it."

"I didn't come out of the closet, Rick; I was pushed out by you and your asshole friends," I snap, my blood starting to simmer, my heart hammering at a sickly pace. I just want them all to go away.

My eyes flicker over Rick; several people have stopped to watch our exchange. They whisper to each other with disgustingly blatant amounts of interest and bloodthirst in their expressions. Some giggle, some point; they all stare.

"Oh, Quinn," Rick says, pulling my attention back to him. "What's the hurry? This is important."

I'm about to start forward, to freaking push my way out of this cage of towering limbs and beefy necks, when Rick's words stop me cold. And the wolfish grin and malicious glint in his eyes make a chilly finger slip down my backbone.

"Our gift to you is these Slushies. Coming one from each flavor of the Slushie rainbow, we are officially presenting you with the Gay Pride Special, something that we thought up just for you. We hope you like it, Quinn Fag-gay." He doles out a quick, authoritative nod to his boys, and then the reason for the foreboding feeling in my stomach unfolds, each action a separate bitch-slap to my soul.

I start to spring forward, ready to shove my way free, when I'm seeing red.

Literally.

Because one of the boys launches the contents of his Super Slushie at me, and thirty-two freaking ounces of bright red cherry-flavored half-ice, half-liquid explodes all over my front, my side. It is cold – no, frigid, like Antarctica in a cup – and sticky and so, so wet, and it stings. It stings every part of me.

"Dyke," one of them growls.

My eyes squeeze shut against the burning sensation of Slushie and tears: of sugar, of salt.

I open my mouth to say something – maybe a protest, maybe a scream – which is a mistake because another Slushie is thrown onto me, and I taste the sourness of lemon.

"Lesbo," another hisses.

The next color that attacks me, that icy-burns me to the core, soaking my outfit to cling against my flesh, is green apple.

Ironically, my favorite flavor: I catch a strong whiff of it when I have to painfully snort some up my nostrils, considering my floundering and sputtering mouth is finding it hard to breathe.

"Bitch."

I have cowered against the locker, holding my purse like a shield, pathetic and terrified and unsure of what to do or if I can even move.

It's a rapid-fire attack of one Slushie after another, explosion of frothy ice right after another explosion of frothy ice.

Slushied, then a verbal punch. Injury, then insult. But the insults, the malice with which they are uttered, actually sting worse than even a thousand Slushies.

Next up is blue-raspberry-flavored, sloshing into my shoes, drenching my socks and my dignity with it. Followed by a husky "freak."

Rick waits until I've swiped away enough of the thick coating of Slushie from my eyes to see him. He takes a step forward, then another, toe-to-toe with me. He tilts his head down so he can stare me right in my eyes, and then he lifts his Slushie. The last one. The base of a rainbow. Purple.

"You are a loser, Quinn," he says with condescending mock-pity and false sadness. "The world is better off without skanks like you. You really should have stayed in the closet." And with that, he slowly, casually, turns his own grape Super Slushie over and dumps its entire contents right on top of my head.

My hair is matted down and now I am effectively covered and dripping scalp-to-tiptoe with a rainbow of Slushies; I shiver uncontrollably, and not just because I am fucking freezing.

I can't see, but I hear them walking away. I hear how the gasping and whispering of my classmates transitions into louder tones. To their credit, at least nobody is laughing. A tiny mark toward humanity, but it's better than nothing, I guess.

I stand there, pressed like a sticker against my locker. And it's weird, but…I don't feel like crying. I don't feel humiliated or sad or disgusted with myself or pathetic or anything like that.

No, what I feel is fucking angry.

Furious.

My blood is boiling; my teeth are gritted. My hands are curled into tight fists. Shortened breaths heave from my pounding chest.

I lick my lips and taste a mix of blue raspberry and green apple. I tighten the strap of my bag and use my hands to rub a quick flick down the entire length of my face, clearing my vision.

I watch as Rick and his pals turn the corner down the hall, hanging a left.

And then, without consulting my brain first, my legs start running forward. I slip and slide all over the place, shoes squeaking like agitated mice, but I manage not to fall over or trip on the huge puddle of Slushie that lies at my feet.

In no time at all, I catch up with Rick and his friends. My heart sprints as fast as my shaky legs.

"HEY!" I shout, only a foot away from him now. "DICKHEAD, TURN AROUND!" I don't wait even a second for him to do so, sinking my sticky claws into the back of Rick's letterman jacket and whirling him around to face me. I release my hold from him so quickly that he stumbles backward a bit, just barely managing to catch himself from falling on his ass.

He looks shocked to see me.

Then confused.

Then really, really pissed off.

Yeah, you and me both, buddy.

The Dickettes whip around to face me, too, but I don't pay attention to them. They don't matter. They're idiot pawns in Rick's sick game of life.

Rick is the ringleader, and Rick is the one who's going to pay.

I'm looking at him, but I don't see his face.

No, instead, I see my dad. How he looked when I came out to him: his upper lip curled taut in disgust, and his eyes cold with hatred.

I see my mom. The weakness, unable to stand up for her own daughter. Watery eyes and wrinkled nose and quivering mouth.

I see the church tsk-tsking for what they think is my doomed soul, writing me off as a wasted life, a hopeless sinner.

All I can see when I look at Rick is Ignorance and Selfish Conformity and Fear, and it all makes me feel sick to my stomach. Because all of those things are the exact opposite of what I want to be. All of those things are the exact opposite of how anyone should be.

I'm sick and tired of it. I'm sick of people telling me who I can and can't be. Who I can and can't fall in love with. I'm tired of trying to be anyone other than who I am, than who I believe God made me. I'd rather be "a sinner" than be fake. I'd rather live freely and make some noise that ends up crashing than to live quietly and safely and end up with nothing at all to show for it.

So, I lock my eyes right onto Rick's, right into those shallow pupils of his, and I feel something inside of me unfurling, something blossoming deep in my chest. The air is charged, static-crackling with my energy.

"You're right; I'm gay!" I yell, loud enough for all of the watchful eyes in the hall to hear me. And probably every other person in Ohio, too. "I'm fucking gay! I like girls. I. LIKE. GIRLS! And you know what!? I don't give a fuck anymore what you think. What anyone thinks. I have friends who love me and are there for me, unconditionally. But you, Rick? You are alone. Are you are going to be alone for-ev-er."

His jaw hangs slack, eyes bulging out, and arms dangling at his sides.

"So, don't feel sorry for me." I swivel my head toward the small crowd that has gathered, momentarily addressing them, too. "I'm going to be fine." I turn my attention back to Rick and go in for the kill. "But you? You're an ignorant, helpless asshole. So, it's you that I feel sorry for. Not myself. Because I'm not ashamed anymore. I'm just pissed off."

And with that, I yank the empty Super Slushie from his limped grasp and hurl it so hard at his head that it makes a loud clunk against his surely-empty skull before clattering to the ground and rolling away.

It's like I've just flicked the switch on Rick back to Crazy Town Mode, because instantly after hitting him, this blackness burns in his eyes and this shadow storms over his face, and then he lashes out at me so fast that I don't have time to do anything.

His hands are just there, on my shoulders, slamming me down to the hard tile of the ground. I land on my side; pain shoots up my hipbone.

I try to jump back up, seriously ready to fight him, but my slippery state of Slushie-ness makes me slide right back down again.

He starts to bend toward me, raises his hand as if to strike; there is murder in his eyes.

But then, out of nowhere, Rick goes flying.

Someone hurtles their self against his back, sending he and Rick forward a good three feet before Rick crashes to a loud, clanging stop against a row of lockers. The metal shrieks around him, reverberating as if he made impact on it a thousand times.

I see that it's Puck, pinning both of Rick's arms behind his back. Rick's neck is twisted to the side, his face toward me, and I see that he is wincing in pain. His cheek is squished against a locker, and his nose is starting to bleed.

"You were going to hit her?" Puck shouts, pulling Rick back just so he can slam him into the locker again. "You were going to hit her?!"

"Quinn!" I look up to find Sam and Mercedes running over to me. They both grab at my arms and haul me to my feet.

"Oh my God, what the hell happened?" Mercedes' eyes are wide and mouth hangs open.

"Isn't it obvious?" Sam asks with so much fury that I can almost feel it rolling off of him. "They attacked her."

Rick's friend Marcus grabs at Puck to pull him away from Rick, but Puck, without even looking, sends the guy back – by bucking his foot right into Marcus' groin.

Sam storms over to the group, and soon there is an all-out brawl: Sam and Puck are fighting Carl, Rex, and Marcus. Rick hobbles out of the way, staying out of the fight like the coward he is.

"Sam!" Mercedes shrieks when he almost gets punched in the face, ducking down to just barely avoid Carl's fist.

"Stop it!" I yell. "Puck! Sam! Stop fighting!" The idea of them getting hurt fighting for me makes a banner of guilt start unfurling within my already jumbled stomach.

Mercedes turns back to me and takes off the dark purple jacket she wears. "Here," she says. "Put this on."

"But your jacket will get ruined," I protest.

"You're wearing a white shirt, and all of that wet Slushie on you is making the outline of your bra visible," she explains, still thrusting her jacket at me. "Seriously, girl, you're more important to me than some stupid jacket."

Despite how shivery-cold I am, this act of friendship from Mercedes makes warmth spread from my heart, all the way to my toes. I smile at her, quick but genuine, and take the jacket from her. I'm just starting to slip one of my arms into a sleeve when there's the sound of running, and Mr. Schuester and Coach Sue appear.

They start grabbing at the boys; Mr. Schue seizes Puck and Sam, one of his hands grabbing at the back of either of their necks. Sue stands across from Rick and his friends, her body squatted down as if to strike at any moment, her arms held out in front of her; she's blocking any of them from trying to run off.

"Principal Figgins' office! Now!" Mr. Schue orders, so loudly that his neck vein bulges. "All of you!" He releases Sam and Puck and shoots them a stare rife more so with disappointment than anger.

"You heard him, meatheads!" Sue shouts at the hockey posse. "Off to Figgins before I use my leg as a personal hockey stick and put it so far up your asses that you'll be coughing up my shoelaces from those oversized gullets!"

Mr. Schue and Sue start to herd the boys to the office when my former coach stops at the sight of me. For a moment, we just stare at each other. There's a look buried deep in her eyes, something softer and meaningful, but it's covered by the hardened lines of her face.

"You too, Lil Kim and Kesha," she finally says, her tone devoid of its signature bite. She starts to walk off but turns back, giving me raised eyebrows. "And cover up. You look like you're competing in a wet T-shirt contest for leprechauns with a rainbow-fetish."

As she marches off, she whirls toward all the bystanders who had watched the fight and wiggles her hands at them like a witch casting a spell. "Scram, miscreants!" she yells, and they all do, fleeing like rats at the sight of a flashlight.

Mercedes and I have no choice but to follow Coach Sue. As we walk, I slip on the rest of the jacket and zip it up all the way. It's big and warm and cozy, but sticky against my Slushied self.

"Thanks," I tell Mercedes. "You, like, literally took the clothes off your back for me. That means a lot."

"No problem, girl," she says, linking her arm with mine. "I'm just sorry that I couldn't stop those assholes from doing this to you in the first place."

We pass down one hallway, and then another, and soon we are down the hall that has Rachel's locker.

And there she is, standing in front of it with Finn. She's gesticulating wildly, arms waving and head whipping around. The closer we get to her, the more pissed off I realize she is. Pissed off at Finn, who is arguing right back at her, his arms crossed over his chest and his nostrils flaring.

"Hey, Rach," I call out as we start to pass by them. "…Finn."

She whips toward me, and immediately the anger on her face dissolves into horrified shock. "Oh my God! Quinn! What happened to you?"

Finn gets his stupid, confused look on his face as he gapes at me. "You look really, like…colorful."

Rachel runs over to me and Mercedes and falls into step with us. She grabs onto my other arm, peering up at me with eyes so wide that I can see the whites all around. "You're soaking wet! And…and…What happened to you?"

She's babbling, all hyper energy and worry and fear, and rather than those negative emotions make me even more upset than I already am, they actually make me feel better. Because here she is, at my side, clinging to me and offering support and loyalty and any help that I need. Just having her around makes everything feel just a little bit better. And 'a little bit' is a whole freaking lot right now.

Finn hurries to catch up with us. He keeps staring over at me, so confused that I fear his brain may actually explode. But there's some worry in his dark brown eyes, enough to remind me that despite my jealousy and annoyance toward him, he really can be a decent friend sometimes.

I turn to Rachel say, "Rick and his friends ambushed me with Slushies. Then I yelled at Rick, threw a cup at his head, he tried to hit me, Puck swooped in to stop him, Mercedes and Sam showed up, Sam and Puck started fighting Rick's friends, Mercedes gave me her jacket, Mr. Schue and Coach Sylvester showed up, and now we're all being marched to Principal Figgins' office."

"What she said," Mercedes nods.

"Wow," Rachel breathes. "Oh my God. I…I can't believe I wasn't there. I'm so sorry, Quinn! I should have been there." She swings a pointed look toward Finn, who is suddenly staring straight ahead, his cheeks tinting pink.

"Don't worry about it," I insist. "You're here now. I'm fine, okay?" But my throat is tight, and my heart is still hammering, and my knees feel like they are going to buckle in and make me fall, and I am freezing.

We arrive down the hallway of the principals' office, and I see that his lights are off and that Figgins himself is standing outside the door, talking to Mr. Schue and Sue. Puck and Sam stand off to one side while Rick and his gang stand off to the other. No one looks happy.

"Hello, children," he says tiredly when we reach him, Mr. Schue, and Sue. "Yikes, Miss Fah-bray, I see what Mr. Puckerman and Mr. Evans described of your condition was not an exaggeration."

He rubs at his temple and brow and heaves a long, drawn-out breath. His shoulders sag. "We have quite the problem on our hands here. But the thing is, I have a very important meeting I have to get to. So, here is what we are going to do." He drops his hand from his face and sweeps a firm stare toward all of us gathered around.

"All of you I see standing here, that is all of you who participated in or witnessed the fight, will report to my office first thing on Monday morning. And for you, children, you will bring at least one of your parental guardians, or you will automatically get a Saturday detention…for the night of prom." When there are some cries of protest from that – all from Rick's posse, I notice – Figgins holds up a hand and nods his head.

"Yes, that is how it will be. You must bring a parent with you or you will be punished. You are all minors, or maybe eighteen but still very young, and so dealing with an issue as big as this will require that you have a personal adult present with you."

My blood runs cold at that, colder than the many layers of Slushie soaking into me. I don't have any parents who I can bring with me for the meeting on Monday. But it's not like I'm going to admit to that, not here in front of the people who just attacked me.

"Now, go off to enjoy your weekend and we will figure this out on Monday," Figgins says, already walking off. There are some questions and demands yelled at his back, but he just waves his hand behind him, shooing us away.

Mr. Schuester escorts me and my friends to the front doors of the school to the parking lot while Sue escorts (more like, screams at and shoves at their backs if they aren't moving fast enough) Rick and his posse to the other side of the school, taking the long way to the parking lot.

Once outside, I hug Puck and Sam and make them promise not to do anything drastic once I leave. Then I thank Mercedes again and accept an awkward one-armed hug from Finn.

Rachel and I get into our cars and drive to her place. The second we're through her front door and into her house, I waste no time in going upstairs to take a shower in the hall bathroom. I lock myself in there and take deep breaths to steady my racing pulse.

All week, I have not cried.

Not a single tear has been shed; not even a grain of liquid salt has scratched down my face.

At the beginning, the tears would stab behind my eyelids like the tiniest but sharpest of knives, sometimes frigid and sometimes searing, but always hard like little rocks, like miniscule fists shoving behind my lids.

Eventually, after blinking them back enough, they gave up, marched away from my eyes, and took up residence somewhere deep inside me, this invisible, darkened place that weeps in silence, weeps alone.

So, I guess I should say, I have not physically cried all week. Emotionally? That's a different story.

But when someone whispered behind my back...

When people giggled and pointed at me...

When I received disgusted but curious sidelong glances, like a science experiment gone wrong...

When I was shoved into the lockers "accidentally"…

When I saw Brittany get a face full of bright blue Slushie, dripping down her long blonde ponytail and staining her Cheerios uniform and tainting her dignity to its very core...

When I collapsed from the bike, sweating and exhausted, the room spinning and blackened around me…

I did not shed a single tear. I did not cry. Not during any of those horrible times. I did not cry.

But now, as I strip my sticky, ruined clothes from my body...

As I peel off my still-damp bra and underwear and take away some dry skin and rip some tiny hairs off along with them from the adherence...

As I look down at my body and take in the rivulets of dried Slushie running all over me in stripes and diagonals, a gingham print of shame and hatred...

As I turn to my reflection in the mirror and see that it looks for all the world like I am bleeding bright, rainbow blood from every pore of my body...

As I step into the hot, steaming shower and the sounds of water beating down into the ceramic tub fills the room loudly enough...

This is the time.

Hot shower water mingles with even hotter tears, bursting like dams and running down my body, and I don't know which does a better job of washing away the Slushies and impurities and warming away the icy numbness that I have become.

I let the waters flow.

I let myself feel.

I let myself cry.