Thank you so much to everyone who is still sticking with this story! I love you all. :) I'm pretty sure I responded to everyone who reviewed, but it wouldn't let me respond to NomadQT73 because his/her Private Messaging feature is disabled. So, thank you so much for your absolutely lovely and kind review, and I am so glad that you are enjoying my story!

I hope that everyone continues to enjoy it. Without further ado, read on! :D

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

I don't know how long I stay in the shower.

Long enough for my tears to dry out and eyes to feel sore from so much crying.

Long enough that the heat of the water turns less and less so before going completely cold.

Long enough that I use a good half a bottle of my shampoo and body wash, making sure that the water that dribbles off me to wash down the drain is clear and clean, no lingering traces of rainbow color from my hair or skin.

I turn off the water and get out, wrapping up with a big towel around my head and an even bigger one around my body. The mirror is all fogged up from leftover steam, making my reflection impossible to see.

I feel…drained. Exhausted, more so emotionally than physically. I'm a blend of so many emotions – anger and sadness and even a sense of pride, happy that I finally stood up for myself – that I don't know on which to focus. It's overwhelming, filling me up to bursting, so I concentrate on taking steadying breaths as I exit the bathroom and go to my bedroom.

After I've changed into a pair of gray sleep shorts and my favorite lounge shirt, – the soft-as-a-cloud, gray cotton shirt with the elbow-length maroon sleeves – I go back into the bathroom to put up my towels and brush out my hair.

The steam has cleared enough from the mirror by now that I can see my reflection: my skin is tinted red all over from being exposed to hot water for so long, but there are no markings left from the Slushies. Thank God my hair is still as blonde as ever (though it does appear darker since it's damp) and not dyed by any of the heinously bright liquids thrown at me.

But as I'm dragging a comb through my hair, my gaze latches onto my eyes. They're reddened from so much crying, but that's not what catches my attention.

I stare back at myself, and what I see in the depths of me makes a real smile unfurl up my cheeks. My irises are bright and alive, burning their many tones of hazel like a fire coaxed back into life. I look at the mirror and for the first time in a long time, I see me. Or, more so, the part of me that I've always longed for: a fighter. Somebody strong, somebody worthy, somebody who doesn't back down.

It's beautiful enough that I almost burst into tears again, but a different kind than when I was in the shower.

A much different kind.

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

"Hey," I say when I walk into Rachel's room about ten minutes later.

She was in the middle of pacing back-and-forth along her flower-shaped rug; her hands were clasped behind her back, stare smoldering straight ahead in utmost concentration, brows furrowed together.

But at the sound of my voice, she stops and whips toward me, her face softening in a blink. She runs over and tackles me with a big, squeezing hug, crushing our bodies together so close that it knocks the next breath from my lungs.

"Rach," I squeak, hugging her back but not as tightly, one of my hands patting her on the back. "I kind of can't breathe here."

"Oh, right!" She steps back and clasps her hands together like before, but this time in front of her. "Sorry about that."

"No problem."

Rachel wrings her fingers together and lets a close-lipped smile tug up her face, plumping those dimpled, rosy cheeks. "Okay, how about we try that again?" She holds out her arms and steps forward. "I'm going to hug you now."

I giggle at the return of her little catchphrase. "I'm ready this time." I wrap my arms around her tiny waist as she locks hers around my neck. We hug for a long, warm moment, and maybe it's just my imagination (more like, wishful thinking), but when we part, she seems reluctant to let go.

She licks her lips and stands on tiptoe, tucking a stray lock of my still-damp hair behind my ear. She tugs down on the hemline of my shirt and clucks her tongue. "Look at you. You're a mess."

Warmth rolls over me at her tender nature and how it is so full of affection. "If you think this is messy, you should have seen me like an hour and a half ago, when I was covered in Slushie. Now that was a mess," I joke back, but it's not really a joke at all, and she doesn't laugh.

Rachel breaks away from me, fidgeting with her hands again. "I'm so sorry, Quinn," she says, staring at the ground. "I should have been there." Her eyes jump back to mine, burning with conviction. "I should have stopped them!"

"There was nothing you could have done," I insist. "They would have just Slushied you, too. You can't blame yourself, because then that just takes away the blame from the real people at fault."

"I know," she says, nodding, and swallowing hard enough that I can see her throat constrict.

"Could you show me where the trash-bags are?" I ask. "So I can throw away my ruined clothes."

Rachel nods again and leads the way out of her bedroom and all the way down into the kitchen. She grabs a trash-bag from the pantry, one of those big black ones, and hands it to me.

"Thanks," I say.

She walks over to the cabinets and starts pulling out a red kettle. "How about some tea?"

"That sounds lovely." I leave her to it and head back upstairs to grab my clothes from where I put them in the bathroom sink.

When I lift them up, I see that it looks like my entire outfit was on the losing team of a tie-dye fight. But the colors are more muted after drying, everything running together into an ugly green-brown color. My jeans, shoes, and even my headband are also all completely ruined. I guess I could salvage the bra and underwear, since it's not like it matters what they look like anyway, but I'd rather not keep a token of reminder of being attacked with freezing cold slush-drinks.

I sigh as I toss everything into the trash-bag. Such a cute outfit, gone to waste. Mercedes' jacket is more so stained on the inside than the outside, but there are some large splotches on the front that I know won't come out no matter how many times I get it dry-cleaned. These Slushies must be made out of food dye from hell, I'm telling you. Jeez.

I'll have to buy Mercedes another jacket. I'm sure she'll try to refuse, but there's no way I'm not going to pay for the damage caused to this one.

After all the clothes are in the bag, I tie it at the top, heave it over my shoulder, and leave the bathroom.

By the time I make it back downstairs, the trash-bag bouncing against my back with each step, I hear the tea kettle whistling its impatient arrival of boiled water.

I sit down on the living room couch and set the bag at my feet. "Do you need any help with the tea?"

"No, I've got it, thanks. Just rest, okay? Let me take care of you."

I smile at that, knowing if there's one thing I can count on with her, it's that she does always take care of me, no matter what. Even back when I was a bitch to her, she was looking out for me.

A few minutes later, Rachel walks into the living room with a tray sporting two mugs of tea. There's also a little dish of cream, a bowl of sugar cubes, and two spoons. She sits down next to me, just a few inches between us, and lays the tray onto the coffee table in front of us.

"I didn't know how you like your tea, so I figured you could prepare it yourself," she says, nodding toward the cream and sugar and spoons.

"Thank you," I say, smiling at her before grabbing one of the mugs by the handle. The scent of ginger and mint drifts up into my nostrils, carried by gentle steam, fresh and delicious. "Wow, it smells great."

"It's the only kind we had," she says. "A mint leaves and ginger blend. I'm glad you approve."

I turn to her and see that she was watching my profile; our eyes lock, and, for some reason, her cheeks turn red, her eyes ducking down as she grabs her own mug. I look at her, hoping to catch her eyes again, but apparently the inside of her mug is very fascinating, considering her vision doesn't budge from it.

We sip our drinks in silence for a few minutes, the kind of quiet that is somehow both comfortable and pressing at the same time, like it can't decide which one it wants to be.

I shift my grip on my drink, fingers leaving the handle to cup around its middle instead. The mug spreads heat throughout my hands, seeming to flicker renewed life into my veins as I take a gulp of the tea. It burns deliciously down my throat, seeping into my stomach, rejuvenating me inside-out with warmth. I hadn't realized how cold I was until I wasn't anymore.

A shiver skitters all over my skin, raising goosebumps at the memory-sensation of Slushie after Slushie scorching the worst kind of coldness all over me, until all of my senses were consumed with it, like a frostbite to my soul…

"Quinn?"

Rachel's gentle voice yanks me from my reverie; I blink a few times, release a shaky breath I hadn't known I was holding, and shiver again, chilled to the bone.

My eyes jump to hers and the mug trembles, just slightly, in my grasp. "Yeah?"

"Are you okay?"

I shrug and take another sip of tea, letting it chase away the cold again and leave a pleasant heat in its absence. "I don't…I don't know," I finally say, my voice quiet. "I'm…" I take another deep breath and force a smile. "The tea is great, thanks again."

"Please don't," Rachel says, abrupt with desperation.

"Please don't what?" I ask, brow furrowing in equal parts confusion and concern.

"Don't shut down on me," she says, calmer in volume but still fierce with the undercurrent of a plea. "You're always doing that lately; you retreat into yourself, and I have no clue what you're thinking." Her eyes are big, pleading, scared. She always has so much worry for me; she just cares so much, it's unreal… And that, more than anything, makes me truly warm inside.

"I'm sorry," I say with as much sincerity as I possess – which, trust me, is a whole lot. "Honestly, Rach. You do so much for me, and I know that sometimes I get all introverted on you, and that must be frustrating. But…I mean…I lived in a house for seventeen years where I was never able to talk about my feelings without being judged or having them brushed aside. My problems were always treated like a burden, especially by my dad. So sometimes it's hard for me to just open up and let people in, you know?"

Rachel presses her lips together and stares down into her mug again; curls of white-gray steam drift up from it, tickling against her chin, like ghostly fingers. "Yes. I can understand that, really. It's just…"

She looks back up, and the anguish in her eyes cut right through me, into me, slicing my next breath in half. "I hate to see you hurting, Quinn. You deserve so much, and I just feel so helpless, like nothing I do is ever enough to really make you safe and happy."

"Rachel," I say, a scolding sort of tenderness saturating my words, "Please, you have to stop blaming yourself. You have no idea how much you've given me, just by being my friend. I don't know where I would be without you in my life – literally, since you're letting me live in your house and everything."

She nods, releases a shaky breath, and then smiles a shaky smile. "So…my dads should be here any minute. I think you should tell them everything that's been going on. No more hiding things from them; it's time they know. We really need some adult help, Q."

"You're right." I nod. "I'm going to tell them tonight. I promise."

"Tell us what?"

Rachel and I whip toward the voice, so startled that we both almost spill our tea. We were so absorbed by our conversation that we didn't hear her parents come in.

Hiram and Leroy stand at the entrance to the living room, a concerned sort of curiosity shining in their eyes, the former's head cocked to the side after his question and the latter's eyebrows lifted high.

My heart starts to beat harder, faster, knowing that there's no going back now. I have to come clean and tell them the truth.

"I'll go pour two more cups of tea," Rachel says, standing up and smoothing down her skirt. "Dads, why don't you sit down in those chairs across from us? I think this is going to be a long conversation."

They oblige, each sitting in one of the fancy wingback chairs. They swap worried expressions but smile at Rachel gratefully as she passes them. They turn their eyes to me next, and I stare into my mug, now knowing how Rachel was so fascinated by hers. I mean, wow, look at all the pretty shapes the steam makes! And the color of it – such a light amber. Truly captivating…

Rachel returns with two mugs, handing one to each of her fathers, before coming back to sit next to me. This time, there are no inches between us, our thighs and sides and shoulders squished together. My heart starts beating faster again, but a different kind of nerves than before.

"I'm right here," she whispers into my ear, placing a sturdy hand on my shoulder. "There's no need to be afraid of their reaction, okay? We're all on your side."

I nod at her, take a final pull of my drink to fill up my senses with its calming heat, and then set the mug down next to Rachel's on the coffee table, on one of the matching coasters.

After clearing my throat and taking a deep, steadying breath, I finally let myself look at Hiram and Leroy, let myself make eye-contact. I see how concerned they are, the caring frowns and the patient posture. Rachel's hand is still on my shoulder, anchoring me to this room and to reality.

And just like that, a feeling of comfort washes over me until I'm no longer nervous.

I'm ready to talk.

So I do.

"All right," I say to Mr. Berry^Squared, my voice clear and strong. "So, there's something you two need to know. It all started last Friday after first period because of a guy named Rick… No, actually, it started even before that, on Monday of last week, when I slapped him…"

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

I'm not sure exactly how long it takes to tell them everything.

The clock tells me it's been about forty-five minutes, but it feels like it took far less, the whole story flying out of me in half the time.

Rachel helped me out with some parts, but she never interrupted; she only picked up where I left off if I turned to her with a prompting stare. And her hand never once wavered from my shoulder, sometimes giving a gentle squeeze, then veering into a light massage.

Leroy and Hiram only cut in to ask questions, but I could tell they were struggling to remain as calm and composed as they could. Emotions flickered across their face, in their eyes – the most dominant was empathy, but there was also anger, even downright fury, aimed at my tormentors.

When I got to the end part, about what happened today with being attacked, and I pulled out the ruined clothes from the bag to show them just how bad the damage was, I could have sworn that Leroy was about to scream with rage, from the way his eyes got all wide and fiery, and how his mouth was set into such a tight line that the color bled from it. And Hiram didn't fare much better, his pale face now red and his nostrils flaring.

I must have cried myself out earlier, because no tears come, not even when revealing the darkest parts of the secrets. And, somehow, I don't feel scared and vulnerable letting them out; I feel…relieved, maybe even empowered, at finally having the guts to share all of this.

"So," I finish, dropping the clothes back into the bag and giving a stupid sort of shrug. "That's everything. Did I forget anything, Rach?"

She shakes her head, her expression grim and posture too-straight. "No, I don't think so. That's everything I know about, at least." She slides her hand from my shoulder and uses it to rub at the corner of her eye, which I now see is beginning to sparkle with tears. "I had no idea that you were shoved into the lockers," she says, so quietly that her dads can't hear her, so quietly that even I almost can't. "Why didn't you tell me that before?"

I open my mouth to reply, but find that I have none. There's no good excuse, just the truth, that I was too ashamed and afraid to say anything. But I'm not now, the truth is finally out there, and that has to be enough.

"Quinn," Hiram says, making my and Rachel's eyes jump apart from each other's so they can swing to her dad instead. I see that he is still fighting to remain as calm as possible, most likely for my benefit, to help keep me calm, too. "Thank you very much for sharing all of this with us. I wish you had sooner, so that we could have put a stop to this right when it started happening, but it was very brave of you to tell us now."

Leroy nods and reaches a hand over to Hiram's, grabbing onto it and rubbing his thumb over the back of his husband's. "Yes, thank you, sweetie. You did the right thing, and we're proud of you."

"But who we are not proud of right now," says Hiram, his stare cutting pointedly at his daughter, "is Rachel."

Rachel's lips part to argue, but then she starts chewing on her lower lip instead. Her gaze falls to her lap; she sniffles.

"What?" I ask, sitting up in alarm. My brow furrows. "What did Rachel do?"

"Nothing," says Leroy. "That's the point. She did nothing." Then, he directs his attention from me to her. "Sweetheart," his tone is somehow both scolding and caring at the same time, "You should have come to us about this. I can understand why Quinn would be too nervous to, since she doesn't know us as well as you do, but we're your parents. You two are just kids, babygirl. Why didn't you reach out to any adults?"

Rachel's head lifts back up; her eyes are filled with tears and guilt. The red-hot color of shame rises in her cheeks. "I didn't want to go behind Quinn's back," she says. "She made me promise not to tell you guys. I was just trying to support her and not betray her." She quickly turns to me, now apologetic. "I'm not trying to throw you under the bus."

"I know," I say, resting my hand against her upper arm for a moment. "It's okay."

"You may have thought you were helping her, but sometimes it's more dangerous to keep someone's secret than to tell it to someone else who you know is trust-worthy and responsible," Hiram points out. "But we're not blaming you, Rachel. We're just disappointed that you didn't think it was best to come to us."

"I'm sorry," Rachel says, the tears falling over. Her eyes zip around, from her papa to her daddy to me, and back again. "To all of you, really, I'm sorry."

I wrap my arm around her shoulders. "Don't worry about it."

"Oh, honey, we don't want you to cry," Hiram says, frowning, guilt now arriving in his eyes. "You're not going to be punished or anything. Your daddy and I are just trying to understand things, okay?"

Rachel nods, her eyes squeezing shut and face squeezing up. She lifts her hands to cover her face; her shoulders start to shake under my arm.

"Oh, come here, babygirl," Leroy says, his voice soothing now, that cadence of softly rolling thunder.

She stands and walks over to him, letting him envelope her in a big hug. Hiram gets up and joins in, waving me over with his hand.

"You too, Quinn," Leroy says, voice slightly muffled by the top of Rachel's head pressing into his face. "Don't think you're exempt from this group-hug."

"You probably need it most of all," says Hiram.

I hurry over and let their arms pull me into the middle, my own wrapping around somebody's shoulder, somebody's waist. We embrace for a long moment, until Rachel's stopped sniffling and my heart is warmer, beating steadily.

I grab Rachel's fingers with my own and pull her back to the couch, where we sit together across from her parents again.

"Now we need to think of how to move forward from here," says Hiram.

"You said that there will be a meeting at your principal's office on Monday morning?" Leroy asks me.

I nod. "Yes, but I'm supposed to bring my parents, and considering we're not exactly on speaking terms right now…"

Hiram bats a hand through the air. "No need to worry about that. Leroy and I will come with you as your guardians."

"You can do that?" I ask. "I mean, you would do that?"

"For you?" Leroy smiles, his eyes softening with it. "Anything, sweetheart."

"And as for if we 'can' or not, well, you obviously don't know the Berry family very well." Hiram winks, making me and Rachel giggle. "We never meet a problem we can't solve."

"Honesty, respect, and dance," says Leroy. "Those are the foundation of the Berries."

My giggle blossoms into a full-fledged laugh. Sounds like a good enough motto to me.

"We'll need to take those ruined clothes with us to your principal," Hiram says, a thoughtful gleam in his eyes, looking up at the ceiling. Determination is starting to sear into his tone, so much like Rachel's when she's set her mind to something. "We'll want to have as much evidence as possible on our side."

"You should wear a tank top on Monday," Leroy tells me, "to show the bruise on the back of your shoulder, from when you were thrown into the lockers." His eyes flash with anger at this last part.

"That's a good idea!" Rachel says before turning to me. "And you'll want to break into tears at least twice. Trust me, as a 'fragile' young girl," she puts finger-quotes around the emphasized word, "nothing will help get your way with Principal Figgins more than crying in front of him. That's how I helped get that creepy and perverted Mr. Ryerson fired."

I can't help but to grin at all of their advice. "Thanks, you guys," I say, and boy do I mean it. "I think we may actually be able to get Rick and his cronies punished once and for all."

"Oh, trust me," Rachel says with a proud smirk. "After my dads are done talking with Principal Figgins, those nasty boys won't be able to lift even so much as a finger of harm at anyone ever again."

And from the scheming look in all of the Berries' eyes, with determination so thick in the room that it's almost palpable, I know I've got the right guys on my side. I definitely don't envy those stupid enough to go against them in a fight.

Rick and his Dickettes have no idea what's coming.