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Thursday, December 19

4:45 p.m.

ME: i didn't lock my car this morning. you and rachel just get in and wait for me. i'll be there in a second i just had to get my trig book from my locker.

ME: did santana decide where we're going? & who's all riding with us?

4:46 p.m.

MERCEDES: K we are in the car waiting 4 u. Me Rachel Tina Santana n Brit all crowded in here lol. N Santana said smth bout going 2 breadstix if that's k wit u

ME: breadstix is fine. i'll be there in a min.

I can count on one hand how many times I remember going to work with my dad when I was younger and surprising as it may sound… I used to love it even though it was boring.

Every April, Dad's work would have their annual "bring your daughter to work day", and me and Frannie always looked forward to going, because going to work with Dad usually meant that we got to skip school and sit in the office all day, playing on the big swivel chairs that zoomed really fast when me and Frannie used to race in them. Then for lunch, he would always take us to McDonalds and buy us hamburgers and if we were good little girls who ate all our food, he'd buy us milkshakes after. It's one of the few fond memories I have of my father.

The point I'm getting at is that there were times at Dad's office when all me and Frannie could do was sit around and try to find ways to entertain ourselves. He had a stack of magazines on his bookshelf that were so old and outdated that the pages were frayed, curled and yellow. The year I turned ten and me and Frannie went to work with her, I accidentally slammed her finger in his desk drawer. Tears welled up in her eyes and she called me the nastiest swear word I'd ever heard up until then. She told me she wasn't playing with me anymore and that I needed to leave her alone for the rest of the day. I was sad at first, because I lost my only playmate and the rest of the day was sure to be boring. But that day, I told myself that I would make it a point to read every old magazine in his office.

I remember reading in one of them that New York City passed a law to make it illegal to text while walking.

At ten years old, I thought that was a stupid law to make. I mean, who cares if people text while walking? Most people have gotten so good at multitasking that they can text while paying attention to the lecture while their teacher is giving it. I've even seen Shelby draft a text message with one hand while changing Beth's diaper with the other. Up until today, I really thought that making it illegal to text while walking was the stupidest thing any government in the United States had ever done.

Up until today, are the operative words here.

I'm too busy drafting that text message to Mercedes to pay attention to where I'm going. My head is down and my thumbs are flying across the screen at a million miles a minute, while my Trig book is tucked neatly underneath my armpit. And I'm walking in that real lazy kind of way, you know? It's like when you're just kind of dragging your feet along. You're not picking them up, you're just scooting them across the floor to get you from point A to point B and your shoes make that "tssst, tssst, tssst, tssst" kind of noise.

That's how I'm walking.

There's no pep in my step and surely no direction or attention being paid. So it really doesn't come as a surprise to me when I ram right into someone's back and my Trig book goes flying and my phone clatters to the floor.

Please don't be cracked, please don't be cracked…

"Ah, shit," he turns around and immediately drops down to his knees. "Sorry, Q. I didn't see you."

His voice registers in my ears before his presence registers in my body. It's like my brain is on a radio delay but my emotions are running smoothly and on time and the two of them can't catch up and get on the same wavelength to save my life. His scuffed up Adidas sneakers make my blood run cold, the loose threads at the bottom cuffs of his jeans make me feel the urge to vomit. And just like always, my first instinct is not to stand up and face him like I think I'm ready to. My first instinct is to look around and find the closest exit.

My eyes flicker to the bright red "EXIT" sign hanging by the door about three hundred feet behind him. I could make it if I had to run. I can definitely make it there. I can just slip right past him and —

"Looks like your book took the brunt of the fall," he snickers as he swiftly scoops up the things he knocked from my hands.

His lips pull back in a tight, leathery smile and expose a row of slightly crooked, off white teeth. He smiles at me and shows his teeth the same way a wolf's nose turns up at its prey. Teeth bared, tongue licking… waiting and hungry. And if he's the wolf, that must make me the…

Prey?

"Here," he mumblegrunts, nudging the book and my phone in my direction.

My face is still, frozen in a permanent state of just not knowing what to do. My mouth is open slightly, my eyes glossy and low. From the door, my eyes flicker down to his hands and I'm trying to tell my brain that it's okay for me to take it. I'm trying to tell my hands that it's okay to reach out and take my phone and my book from his hands and tell him thank you. But it's like I can't move. I can't do anything…

Except stare at his hands.

His fingers are long, slender, slightly bent at the knuckle. Thin layers of dirt smudged up underneath his fingernails are all in straight lines and they look cold. His hands. They look clammy and cold and little and nonthreatening and I don't know… I don't know if they're the same hands that stole things from me, the same fingers that dug into my flesh when he forced my legs apart, the same fingernails that scratched my scalp when he was done with me, done and stroking my hair and calling me beautiful while I cried. They seem so different in a new light. They talk to me, they say "why are you afraid of us, Quinn? We're harmless." And for a second… I start to believe them.

"T-Thank you," my jaw trembles and the words get stuck in my mouth like peanut butter when you take a bite of a sandwich. I manage to weasel my book and my phone out of his outstretched hands without actually touching him.

"What's wrong with you?" His left eyebrow cocks up while the right one stays down. He slouches a little when he hoists his backpack up onto his shoulders and I feel like I'm shrinking.

Like being in the middle of an inflatable pool when all the air is suddenly being let out. The world around you gets smaller but you stay big and it's weird and it's uncomfortable and it's unsettling and I… I can't breathe…

"Mmm," I groan, mostly to myself and eye the door behind him again.

"You're always so weird around me anymore," he steps toward me and I want to step back, but I can't. My legs aren't working…

What was it that Jessica taught me when I start feeling this way? What was it again?

Five things I can see…

The glowing red exit. Jacob Ben Israel lugging his camera out the door. The blue posters hanging for winter formal on Saturday. The reminder for the French club meeting tomorrow. The megaphone trophy the Cheerios won two years ago in the trophy case.

The exit. Jacob Ben Israel. Posters. Reminder. Trophy.

"Even in Glee club, you just act so weird all the time. You don't look at me, you don't talk to me, you don't even acknowledge me." He tilts his head to one side and looks at me and I feel his eyes all over me. They're all over me, they're… they're…

Four things you can hear, Quinn.

I can hear the janitors wheeling the mop buckets down the hallway. I hear the air conditioning system humming. I can hear keys jingling from the teachers locking up their rooms. I can hear someone's high heels click-clacking down the hallway.

Buckets. Air conditioning. Keys. Heels.

"I thought after everything we've been through, you and I could at least remain friends." He rests his shoulder against the locker and I feel like he's closing me in. I can't see the exit anymore when he stands like that! I can't see the door!

Three things you can feel…?

I can feel my heart and it's beating too fast. I can feel my eyes stinging with tears. And I can feel the clothes on my body because suddenly they feel too heavy!

Two things I can smell…

I can smell lysol from the janitors cleaning and I can smell his cologne because he's so close to me…

One I can taste… one I can taste… one I can taste…

My fear… I can taste that….

"I-I have to go," I flip my hair over my shoulder because I'm just trying to be like the typical glamorous Quinn so he doesn't feel like something's wrong with me. "I'm meeting the girls at Breadstix and I don't wanna be late."

I start to go around him so I can leave and pretend like this never even happened, but he takes one step to his right and blocks me and I can feel it all over again. The anxiety. It's filling me up the way water fills up a bathtub.

"Puck, seriously, I—"

"See, you're avoiding me again." He stands in front of me with his feet planted firmly and I don't know what I'm going to do if he doesn't let me leave. I can just scream… maybe someone will hear me… maybe someone will save me this time… I want to scream for Mom but I know she's not here… "You've been avoiding me since the beginning of school."

I close my eyes and swallow a little bit of vomit that crept up into my esophagus and made my throat burn.

Five things you can see…

"It's it 'cause you still think of me? And you know I'm with Zizes?" Again, he steps toward me. And I don't realize what he's doing until it's actually done. It doesn't register when he lifts his arm, sticks his hand out, and uses one finger to move a loose strand of my hair out of my face. "It's okay if you think of me… I won't tell," he whispers and… that's… THAT'S IT.

At first, yeah, okay? At first I do feel my shoulders tense up and I flinch and cower away from him like I'm afraid but that's just the thing. I'm DONE being afraid of him. He's not scary at all. He's just… he's… he's Noah fucking Puckerman. He's nothing. I'm stronger than him and I am determined to put this behind me. I'm done letting him control me.

So I swat his hand away and give him a look that lets him know that he cannot touch me, ever, ever again.

"I don't think about you," I shake my head and look at him from head to toe.

He's got eyes that used to make me dizzy every time he looked at me because I remember the way they had fire and determination in them the night I said no. He's got eyes that I'm not afraid of anymore.

He's got a mouth that used to make me want to throw up when he spoke to me because I knew that mouth felt cold and harsh and wet when he kissed me over and over to get me to stop whimpering. He's got a mouth that I'm not afraid of anymore.

I look at him… at Puck, the father of my child, the stealer of my virginity… the goofball in Glee club… I look at him and I see… I see nothing but a little boy. A scared little boy… one that matches the scared little girl inside of me…

"I don't think about you," I say again with more conviction this time. "At least, not in the way you think I do."

He tilts his head to the other side, eyebrows wrinkled in the middle like he's asking what I mean.

"When I think about you…" I take a deep breath to steady myself and clear the tears from my voice. "I think about your body crushing me. Over, and over, and over again until I black out and can't feel it anymore." A tear rolls down my cheek but I don't bother wiping it, because these tears are not weakness. These tears are strength. "I think about how I could tasting the saltiness of my tears, mixed with your sweat and they roll down my cheeks. And I think about the sound my underwear make when you tear them off my body and then how you tell me to relax when I put my hands on your chest and push you away from me. ...I think about the way you took my virginity — stole it — and the blood stain on my Cheerios skirt to remind me of it. You raped me."

His face is so white that it's translucent and he looks as though he has just seen the ghost of me. There's a small spark inside of me that feels bad for him, a small spark that knows that he is just a child and he is a coward. But I snuff that spark out because I'm not done with him.

"Look," he rubs his hand across his head. "I dunno what you're trying to say, and I dunno how you remember that night, but that's not my memory of it. I didn't make you do anything you didn't want to do, I didn't…" he looks around like he's trying to see if anyone is around, then he makes his voice really low so that only he and I can hear him when he speaks. "Rape you, Quinn."

"Except you did, Puck. You did." It's kind of eerie how calm I am. You know, I thought about this moment a whole lot. I thought I'd be shaking and crying when I finally confronted him, but it's not like that at all. I feel nothing but calm. Nothing but present in this moment. "You knew the moment I tried to go home that you weren't going to let me. You knew the moment I said I didn't want anymore alcohol that you were going to keep giving it to me."

"No, you said okay," he shakes his head hard. "Do I need to refresh your memory?! You said 'okay, but don't tell anyone.' I never did a thing to you. You really think I need to rape you?! You were practically begging me for it, kissing me, grinding on me… you don't get to cry rape just because you regretted it the second it happened. What we did was not rape. We had sex, we made a baby, and that's it. You told me it was okay. You told me to keep going."

"And then I asked you to stop!" I bite my lip to regain control over my emotions. "I asked you to stop multiple times, multiple times before you even put it inside me! You no longer had my consent. I didn't want to do it. I told you no, I told you to stop, and you went and did it anyway. You took it anyway. You took something that wasn't yours to take."

"Whatever, Quinn," his face isn't white anymore. It's completely red and I see anger all through him. Yet, I'm still not scared. "Whatever. If that's the narrative you're going with and if that's what you want to believe then —"

"It's the truth, Puck. The truth. You can sit here and try to convince me otherwise, but you know… and I know… what really happened. It's the truth. You raped me."

"I did not rape you!"

"You did!" I purse my lips together tightly because I know what I have to say next. I know what I have to say. There's a part of me that wants to remain stuck in this state; this permanent state of anger and anguish. That part of me isn't ready to stop being angry at him for denying it. But the part of me that is bigger and the part of me that wants to move past this knows exactly what I have to say and why I have to say it. That part of me feels it, deep in the depths of my soul…

"...And I forgive you," I say after taking a deep breath. "I forgive you for not knowing more about consent. I forgive you for being a scared, immature little boy that doesn't have anyone to look up to in his life. I forgive you because nobody ever taught you that the second a girl says no, you STOP. I forgive you because I need to believe that you know better now and you won't do it again. I forgive you for me… and for Beth. I forgive you. And I don't hate you."

His face softens and I can see the look of relief wash over him. And I'm not sure if it's relief because the mother of his child doesn't hate him or if it's relief because he knows that he's in the clear and I'm not pressing charges. Either way, he's relieved and I guess… well, I guess I don't care.

"Okay then, why all the dramatics? If you're not mad and you forgive me, then why —"

"I forgive you, Puck. That's all. I forgive you. But I never want to speak to you again. Ever. And I never want you to speak to me. And next year, when we graduate? You will never see me again. And you'll never see Beth again, either. So just… take it, okay? Take my forgiveness and do whatever you want with it. But I don't want to speak to you again. You're… You're dead to me…"

Shaking my head, I turn and walk away from him… finally. And I feel good about it when I walk away from him, too. I feel like… like I'm closing the last page of a very long book. Like this chapter of my life is finally over. And I think I hear him calling after me. I think I hear him calling "Quinn!" while I walk away from him.

But maybe it's just an echo.


I sure am glad that there's nobody in the office on Saturdays except for the receptionist because if there were, I'd surely be getting a thousand crazy glances from everyone considering the way I look right now.

I usually put more pride in my appearance, I swear I do. And maybe if I still had a crush on her the way I did before we kissed and everything blew up, I'd have snatched the curlers out of my hair and put on a pair of leggings instead of my baggy sweatpants. I swear, if I still had a crush on her, I would have done a whole lot better. But after all… I'm only dropping in.

Since Saturdays at the office are pretty relaxed and chill, I don't have to wait for anyone to buzz me in and take my name down. The receptionist knows me and she doesn't even look up from her computer when she presses the button to unlock the door. I just have to yank the handle and go inside.

I feel the six curlers in my hair wobbling with every step I take, and my sweatpants are falling because the car keys in my pocket are weighing them down, but it's only a few more paces until I reach her office. I don't know if me just showing up here randomly is against some kind of rule or if it's perfectly okay because sometimes patients have crises, but I guess I'm about to find out. It's just that we didn't schedule a visit today because I have winter formal to go to, but I know that she uses Saturdays to catch up on her paperwork so she should be here.

Oh I feel so sorry… I feel so sad. I tried to help you. It just made you mad. And I had no warning about who you are. I'm just glad I made it out without breaking down and ran so fuckin' far that you will never ever touch me again…

"Won't see your alligator tears 'cause no I've had enough of them," I whisper the last part of the lyrics to the song playing in her office to myself then grin. I should have guessed she was a Halsey fan. She totally seems the type.

"Knock, knock," I say in a sing-songy voice as I tap on her already open door.

She looks up from typing on her laptop and her face is surprised, but she breaks out into a very honest smile.

"Quinn!" she smiles at me and turns down the music blaring from her laptop speakers. "What are you doing here?! Did you need a session?!"

"No, no," I shake my head, mindful of the curlers and walk into her office. "I'm not staying. As you can see, I'm getting ready for the dance."

"Oh, that's tonight?" She raises her eyebrows. "Do you feel well enough to go? How's your throat?"

"It's fine. It's a little itchy now that it's healing, but yanno. It's better than it hurting all the time, so." I sit down in the chair I usually sit in. "I just wanted to come by and tell you thank you. For not giving up on me."

"Ah, Quinn," she waves her hand at me. "You know you're my girl. You know I care about you just as much as I care about myself. I'm just glad to see you're doing better."

"I am," I nod. "Doing better, I mean. I… I think my mom is gonna let me go. Sign the papers and stuff, saying that she terminates her rights. I think she's gonna do it. I went and talked to her."

"Oh, you did? You wanna talk about it? Was it bad?"

"No, it was good actually…" I slip my hand down into my pocket just to make sure the real reason I came down here is still in there. "...And I talked to Puck, too."

"No…" her jaw drops. "Well…? How'd that go?"

"Think we can save it for Tuesday? I'm… I'm okay. I don't need to talk about it right now."

"Well, if you're sure," she shrugs her shoulders. "...Why'd you really come down here, Quinn? What do you need?"

"Nothing." I stand up and wrap my hand around the smooth packet inside of my pocket. "I just… I wanted you to have these." I put the packet down on her desk and watch as she picks it up and studies it.

"...Lemon seeds?"

"I went down to the flower shop to pick up Rachel's corsage… you know, for the dance tonight? And I saw this lemon tree… it was so pretty and so big and so… yellow. And I looked at the nameplate and it said that it was planted in loving memory of someone. I asked the shop owner and he said his father wanted that tree planted in his memory when he died. Said he wanted his son to use the lemons to make lemonade so people — homeless or not — could have a free cup to drink when they come by the shop. He said something to me… Something about life handing you lemons and people have to teach you to make lemonade. And well…" I sigh. "You taught me how to make lemonade, Bail. So I thought you'd like some lemons."

She smiles at me with two streams of tears rolling down her cheeks and says, "You're an amazing kid, Quinn."