Disclaimer: I, by no means, claim to own anything remotely related to the Glee Universe. No copyright infringement intended.
AN: I have a slight obsession with stories where they write to each other, so here's another one. Please be aware there are trigger warnings for mentions of sexual harassment and abuse in this story, so please be safe. Hope you're all doing well, and keeping healthy and happy.
i.
Quinn Fabray avoids juvie by the skin of her teeth, her fingers still paint-smeared and a scowl permanently etched into her features. She sits, sulking in her seat, while she waits for the cop who caught her tagging to get her papers in order.
She missed out on juvie, but she does end up with an endless amount of community service.
"You're lucky you're not yet eighteen," Officer Puckerman tells her, sliding into the seat opposite her. "You get to be stupid now and not have it completely derail your entire life."
Quinn just glares at him. She's said very little since he pulled up in his patrol car and basically ruined her night. It was going to be an amazing piece, and now it won't be finished before someone's bound to come along and paint over it.
Officer Puckerman sighs, his shoulders dropping in a ploy to make him look more friendly. "Look, Quinn, this is the second time you've been caught, which really tells me this isn't the second time you've vandalised public property, or done something worse."
She resists the urge to wince, because he doesn't need to know what else she's been getting up to in the dark of night. It's mostly boredom that has her slipping out a window and getting up to debauchery, but it's also something else.
Just, even she's not going to bother to figure it out. Why would he?
"What happens now isn't up for debate," he says, getting her attention. "You've run out of chances here, which means you're going to do exactly what the adults tell you to if you don't want to get yourself a permanent record."
Hmm.
Sounds ominous.
He shifts some pages around. "You're obviously talented," he says. "You're also restless, am I right? From your file, I know you've been through a lot the last year, and I think the thing you're struggling the most with is finding some positive outlet for your energy."
Quinn's glare intensifies. He doesn't even know her. He knows nothing about her.
The man chuckles, as if he knows what she's thinking. "Believe it or not, I've been where you are - except, I actually ended up in juvie."
Her jaw clenches.
They definitely aren't the same.
"But you're pretty, and a white girl from the suburbs, so you get another chance to get your life back on track."
Wow.
Quinn hates him.
"Which is why you're in luck," he continues as if he hasn't just offered her a backhanded compliment - an insult? "We're running this pilot program for teenagers such as yourself."
Delinquents, he means.
"You get paired with a penpal; another teenager who is on the other end of the behaviour spectrum, and spend a few months interacting with them."
Not a delinquent, then.
"The idea is that you'll be motivated to achieve more and focus on bettering yourself to match your penpal."
It's probably the stupidest thing she's ever heard, and she allows her facial expression to show that thought as clear as it is.
Officer Puckerman smiles as if he gets it. "It's something they're trying," he says with a slight shrug. "And your prize for breaking the law is that you're now part of the program."
Quinn has half a mind to protest, but she doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of actually getting a reaction out of her. It's not like he'd even know if she actually participated. What is this, anyway? Who came up with this stupid idea?
"We facilitate the letters," he says, and Quinn can't help her snort, because they can't seriously expect her to write an actual letter? She's not fucking Emily Dickinson. "The idea is that you never learn each other's addresses."
Quinn almost rolls her eyes, but then she figures it's a safety thing. She's sure not everyone involved in the program got into it for something as relatively harmless as tagging.
Whatever.
"We'll pair you with someone also in the program, and you'll be the one to make first contact," Officer Puckerman explains, blatantly reading from a piece of paper in front of him. "The program lasts for sixteen weeks, and then we'll run a focus group for you and a few others to determine its success."
Quinn hates everything about this.
"I'm going to get you set up right now, and then you'll be able to leave once your social worker arrives."
Here, Quinn groans audibly, because the last thing she wants right now is to be on the receiving end of Holly Holliday's disappointment. It's really an expression the woman wears very well - particularly when it comes to Quinn.
Officer Puckerman slides a sheet of paper across the table. "You'll need to sign this form," he says. "Pick someone from the list, and then write your first letter once your participation has been finalised." He holds out a pen for her, and she stares at it for a long, long time.
She reaches for it eventually, because he's probably more stubborn in this moment than she is. There's a list of names on the form, just the firsts and the first letter of a surname. She sees names such as Caine C., Marcus G., Patrice L., and ends up randomly circling the name just below Paula D.
Next, she writes her own name, smiling a little when her hands leave paint marks on the pages. She signs and dates the page, and it all feels like a confession to a wrongdoing.
Which she knows she did.
She knows the law, and she knows she was doing something she really shouldn't have. She knows all of this already, and she doesn't need some rookie cop puffing out his chest and thinking he's doing her a favour by letting her off with a warning.
Officer Puckerman takes the form and pen back, and then leaves her to wallow until Holly shows up, looking unimpressed on top of her disappointment. It's the middle of the night, and Quinn feels kind of bad for interrupting her sleep.
Holly doesn't say anything to her as Officer Puckerman explains the situation to her, giving unnecessary details. Quinn feels small as she stands beside the blonde woman, absently worrying over how much she's going to have to push before Holly also gives up on her.
Other people have done so for less.
It's four o'clock in the morning when they finally leave, and the ride in the front seat of Holly's car isn't anything new to Quinn. There's even a pack of her favourite gum sitting in the centre console, left there a few months ago when Quinn's third foster home didn't quite pan out.
Holly drives to a diner that's open twenty-four hours instead of taking them straight to Quinn's current group home. At Quinn's confused look, Holly shrugs and says, "There's no point waking them all at this time." She opens her door. "Plus, I could use a milkshake."
Quinn follows, mainly because she could use a milkshake, too.
Holly slides into a booth and orders two milkshakes - one chocolate and the other vanilla - before Quinn has even joined her. It feels different under the light of the diner, and it's the first time Holly looks directly at her all night.
Quinn almost wants to apologise, but she doesn't think she'd be able to say the words. Instead, she says, "Thank you for coming to get me," because gratitude has always been easier than remorse.
She learned that from her parents, even if they never meant it.
Holly is reading over the menu when she says, "It's my job," and Quinn feels her heart crack that bit further in her chest.
She knows.
God, of course she knows exactly who she is to the world. Parents who don't want her, friends who abandoned her, and people who want nothing more than to use and abuse her. Teachers who have given up on her, and a social worker who sees her as just a file number.
It hurts, but Quinn Fabray is used to the pain.
Holly seems to realise how her words must sound to Quinn because her eyes snap up and she starts to say something, but Quinn just looks away, her own eyes watching as their waitress brings their milkshakes.
She's suddenly not feeling up for hers, anymore. Maybe she should just run away again. She's done it once before, from her first group home, where there was a girl who tried to steal her shoes right off her feet, and now Quinn is a very, very light sleeper.
"Quinn," Holly says once their milkshakes are in front of them and Quinn hasn't moved at all. "I'm sorry. That's not - I don't mean - I'm tired, okay? I'm not thinking." She sighs. "You know you're more than just a job to me."
Quinn says nothing; just forces herself to put her straw into her drink. She takes a breath before she takes a sip, the thick white liquid sweet on her tongue. There's a tiny part of her that thinks she might cry, but she's become a professional at keeping her emotions in check.
She has far too much experience with the consequences of letting her emotions get away from her.
Holly watches her carefully. "You have to stop this," she eventually says. "There's - there's nowhere else for you to go if you mess this up."
Quinn can barely look at her, because those words aren't entirely fair and Holly knows it. Quinn doesn't mess up. In fact, she's a rather perfect child in many ways: quiet and unassuming. She's largely hardworking, academic-focused and unfairly athletic.
The problem most people seem to have is she also happens to be gay.
Quinn has a list in a notebook of all the people she's lost because of it, and it's alarming just how many people are on it. Her parents, for starters, and all of her church. Her 'friends' on the cheerleading squad, who made a big deal about having her around them - especially in the locker rooms - until their coach was forced to make a decision she claimed was difficult, but was still able to make it.
There's also her first foster home, and then the second. The group homes in between. There's the librarian at the town library, who knows exactly who she is and makes getting books very difficult for her. There's her sister, who she hasn't spoken to in almost two years. There's her favourite English teacher, whom she used to have long conversations about novels with, until they just didn't anymore. The other girls in her current placement, who give her pointed looks, as if she would be interested in any of them when she's so focused on just getting through the day without imploding.
Quinn isn't holding her breath that she's not bound to lose Holly, too.
What she's doing - this tagging thing - is what her guidance counsellor has called 'a cry for help.' Which is stupid. Nobody's going to help her. Even Holly's help comes with conditions.
Quinn is good. She just doesn't see a way out of the situation she now finds herself in, and there's a significant part of her that's just stopped caring about her future. And her present.
She just doesn't care. All the expectations are gone now. People take one look at her and see nothing, and sometimes Quinn feels it. Sometimes, she wishes she were nothing. Sometimes, she wishes a lot of things.
"What did Officer Puckerman explain about this program he's got you into?"
Quinn resists the urge to roll her eyes. "I have to write letters to some prissy goody-two-shoes as if that's going to make me take my life seriously again."
"Won't it?"
"No," Quinn says; "you forget that I was one of those prissy goody-two-shoes until a year ago."
"And, did you take your life seriously then?" Holly asks.
They both already know the answer to that, but Quinn still says, "I think I took myself too seriously." She looks at her hands on the table. "I didn't really... enjoy anything until - " she stops, because that's revealing too much.
That 'enjoyment' is the reason she's here in the first place. It's the reason she lost everything. It's the reason this has been the most difficult year of her life.
Holly's smile is tinged with sadness, and Quinn hates it. "I think, if you're going to look at it critically, it could be worse," she says. "Some community service and writing letters is nothing compared to what you could have got, Quinn. Please don't take this lightly. You have to stop. Don't you want to go to college?"
Once upon a time, maybe, but now Quinn just shrugs. She had dreams before, ambitions to take on the world and actually become somebody, but those have faded. Now, she's realistic about her prospects. Having no family and no money and little to no support can do that to a person.
"Will you please take just this one thing seriously?" Holly says. "I really don't want to have to visit you behind bars." Her smile shifts slightly. "It just wouldn't work with my aesthetic."
Quinn rolls her eyes. "It's all about you, isn't it?"
"I just want one success story," she says, exaggerating her exasperation. "Can you imagine the bragging rights I'd get if you got into... Harvard?"
Quinn hums. "I've always leaned more towards Yale."
Holly looks positively delighted by that information. "Even better," she says. "It would definitely fit you better. More suitable for your obvious creativity." She's wearing a smirk now, and Quinn rolls her eyes again.
"Fine," she eventually says. "I'll write the stupid letter."
"Oh, fantastic," Holly says, smile widening. "What are you going to write? Who's your new penpal?"
"I don't even remember what name I picked," she says, more to herself, and Holly gives her a look. "I don't. I wasn't really paying attention."
"And, we were going so well."
Quinn fiddles with her straw. "I'll take it seriously," she says, her tone heavy with something.
"Just try, okay?" Holly says. "I know none of this is what you wanted or expected, but there's only so much I can do. I need your help, in order to help you."
The words would probably hold more meaning to someone else, but Quinn isn't naïve. She understands the world as it is far too well at this point.
"Okay?"
Quinn just nods.
They spend the next fifteen minutes having an odd conversation about the pottery class Holly is taking. She can't seem to decide if she likes or hates it, which Quinn can understand as a regular teenage problem. There are a lot of things in her life that confuse her that way.
It's already five o'clock by the time they leave, and they both know Quinn's current housemother gets up at five-thirty every morning. Quinn isn't looking forward to whatever conversation Holly's going to have with Terri, but she's trying not to worry over it too much. What's there to worry about, anyway? All the worst things in the world have already happened to her.
"All set?" Holly asks once they're settled in the car, and Quinn hums her assent.
Holly shifts the car into gear, and then pulls out of her spot. The drive is steady and quiet, and Quinn can't help thinking when the last time she felt this safe. Comfortable.
It lasts only the drive back, and then she's tense again. Expecting the worst.
It's not that Terri is inherently bad. She's just stretched thin, with all the girls in the home, all while trying to hold onto a marriage even Quinn knows is falling apart.
If Holly notices Quinn's change in mood, she makes no mention of it. They get to the house just minutes after Terri starts moving around the downstairs, and then Quinn hangs back while Holly speaks to Terri. She tries not to listen, but Terri's gaze cuts her way a few times, and it's obvious she's not happy with Quinn in this moment.
Well.
She can get in line.
Before Holly leaves, she squeezes Quinn's shoulder and says, "Please don't mess this up," again, as if the words hold different meaning to what they did earlier. Quinn doesn't know what she expects. What more could she do to mess up, huh? She's already gay.
Terri watches as Holly leaves with hard eyes, and then looks at Quinn. For a moment, all she does is stare. Then she says, "Get the little ones ready for school," in a clipped tone, and Quinn turns on her heel to do as instructed.
See, Quinn actually likes the little ones.
They don't care about whom she happens to find attractive. They don't even care that she smokes sometimes. All they really care about is that she has pink hair and she makes time to listen to their stories about school and actually helps them with their homework.
What's also lovely is that they actually listen when she tells them to get out of bed and start getting ready for school. They pick out clothes and line up to brush their teeth and wash their faces in the tiny bathroom. Quinn sits on the edge of one of the beds and goes through a rotating door of brushing hair and tying ponytails.
When they're ready, it's already six-twenty, and she sends them to the kitchen to eat breakfast while she has a minute-shower to get off all the sins of the evening. She's learned how to have a quick shower in the time she's lived out of her childhood home, always having her towel within sight and reach.
That one was a brutal lesson.
It seems she's constantly learning.
She doesn't end up with a lot time to eat breakfast, merely grabbing a slice of toast on the way out the door. She has to walk with the little ones to the bus stop, and then wait with them until they're safely on the way to school, before she can even consider getting herself to school.
In another life, she might have been able to drive herself at this age. In another life, many things would be different, but it does her no favours to think about it.
There's nothing she can do about it, anyway.
Quinn gets around to writing the all-important letter only when Holly texts her that she received an email from Officer Puckerman that her first letter still hasn't been submitted, and Quinn wants to scream.
She doesn't, of course, because she doesn't want to add 'crazy' to the list of names her classmates call her. It's honestly a feat to remember them, and she wonders how they manage to keep up with their vitriol. She isn't even doing anything.
Still, Quinn writes the letter.
She finds a quiet spot in one of the classrooms she knows is empty in the afternoons, sitting as hidden from sight as she can manage in what is considered a public space. She's generally safe from actual antagonists if people happen to look into the classroom, even if she does receive withering looks.
Really, she just wishes she felt safe in the library, the way things used to be. She's just waiting for them to get bored, and then maybe she'll be able to walk down a corridor without someone calling her a dyke. She's determined to claim the word for herself, but it'll remain out of reach as long as they say it in the tone they do.
Bunch of assholes.
Quinn takes out her notebook, and then her English books as well. She should probably work on her homework while she's here, given the chance of getting any peace at the foster home is minimal. She lives in a room with three other girls, and there's no lock on their bedroom door to keep out the little ones, who probably love Quinn just a little too much after knowing her since the start of the summer.
It still amazes her that they don't judge her for who she's attracted to - because they probably don't even see what could be so wrong with two girls loving each other - and it's a beautiful thing. It's also incredibly sad that people lose that unconditional understanding that love is all powerful as they get older.
Well.
Maybe this random penpal will understand. People generally surprise her - though, it's mainly in the worst ways.
Dear Penpal,
Is that a silly thing to write? Do people even have penpals in the world anymore? It feels a little childish, so maybe we can come up with something more suitable?
I'm supposed to tell you stuff about myself, apparently. Let's see. My name is Quinn. I'm seventeen years old. I have ten fingers and ten toes. My favourite colour is red at the moment, but it changes every few weeks. I had meatloaf for dinner last night, which really means I've now decided to become a vegetarian.
Okay, that's about it.
Normally, this is when I'd ask a whole bunch of questions about you, but there's all this privacy stuff they were talking about, so I figure it's easier if we just shared whatever we felt like sharing in the moment. Right now, I have a King Lear question set to complete, so wish me luck.
Quinn
She reads over the letter, just checking for gross grammatical errors. When she finds none, she folds the letter and slips it into the front pocket of her backpack. She'll drop it off at the station on her way to community service the next day... and make sure to take a selfie with it to send to Holly as proof of her compliance.
Quinn rolls her eyes at herself, and then proceeds to put pen to paper in another way. Her English teacher set a disclaimer before they started the play, claiming basically everyone would die, and Quinn is just waiting for it. She doesn't think she'd be able to handle the disappointment, otherwise.
She's been tempted to read ahead, of course, but there's something a little magical about getting to experience it all in class. She knows Shakespeare isn't meant to be consumed this way; it's supposed to be watched, but there's nothing to be done about it.
Maybe she can find a bootleg of a play of it on the internet. She's found loads of other stuff. It's how she does a lot of things these days, given the only money she has is from the tutoring she does in the tutor centre and from the grocery-shopping she does for Edna and her sister, Georgia, on Wilson Street.
People in Lima talk, and nobody is willing to give her an actual job and have others know it. Quinn only manages to remain on the tutor roster because she has the grades for it and they don't reject any qualifying applicants, which continually irks the librarian. Quinn loves it. So far, this year, she's tutored mainly the new kids… until they realise they'll get shit for even talking to her.
But she's also a genius in Math, so she does end up with people who are desperate enough to do anything not to fail. Quinn is that good at what she does, and it's really the only thing she can be proud of these days.
There is a box in the reception area of the precinct with the sign 'Letters for JD Program,' and Quinn wonders if these police people think they're being funny. They're just a bunch of assholes in her opinion.
They'll come after her for some innocent tagging, but say nothing about her homophobic prick of a father who threw her out of her home. Literally. He threw her, shoved her right out the door and didn't even blink twice when when she tripped on the top step of the front porch and ended up with a two-inch-long cut on her forearm. She even has the scar to prove it.
Whatever.
Anyway. Quinn has to sign for the letter delivery, and then makes sure the lieutenant at the front desk sees her drop her letter into the box once she's directed to it. She also remembers to snap a picture for Holly, before she spins around and high tails right out of there. She doesn't need to spend any unnecessary time around men and women in blue. They'd probably sniff out her cans of spray paint in her backpack, for all she knows.
Not that she's tagged since she was picked up or anything.
It's really a recent thing; something she wanted to try because she has a lot to say. She has a broken heart that nobody's bothering to attempt to help mend, and Quinn's pain manifests in various ways. Tagging, sure, and the smoking. She's also a lot reckless, and she physically has to stop herself from walking into bad situations just so she can feel something other than the crippling nothing that's stitched itself into her existence.
She toyed with the idea of self-destructing at the start of the summer, but managed to curb the desire - sort of. It was when the third foster home fell apart and she found herself living with Terri. It would have been so easy to stop caring completely and just let life pass her by.
The idea was so appealing to her that she even took steps towards it. Chopped off most of her hair - which really fuelled the lesbian fire - dyed it hot pink, and swapped out her babydoll dresses for denim and fake leather and flannel - clothing items that are decidedly cheaper to acquire.
For some reason, it feels safer to exist in the stereotype than to defy it.
Both easier and harder.
It's something she still struggles with; unable to decide if she wants to wear her sexuality proudly or continue to attempt to hide it when in public settings. She thought, once upon a time, that she wanted people to know, but she's not sure about it, anymore.
She just wants to be comfortable.
It is just a sad, sad reality that she's never quite been.
Quinn gets word of a reply to her letter in the form of an automated text to her phone just four days later, and she makes sure to stop by the precinct straight after she's done with her community service. She counts herself lucky she doesn't run into anyone who recognises her, and manages to escape with a white envelope and a little bit of pride.
It's her own curiosity that makes her stop for a coffee at the Lima Bean before heading to the foster home, treating herself to a caramel latte and slipping into a booth to read the letter. Who did she end up writing to, anyway?
Dear Quinn,
As far as I'm aware, penpals seem to have fallen by the wayside in recent times, which is a shame. Regardless, it's lovely to meet you. I get that this entire thing must be strange, but I'm willing to make the best of things, if you are.
Let's see. I'm also seventeen, snap. All appendages are accounted for. My favourite colour is actually yellow - the colour of stars. Will you let me know when your favourite colour next changes, and possibly why? Was the meatloaf that bad? As a vegan myself, I will strongly advocate for vegetarianism. How serious about it are you?
I suppose there are limits to what we can talk about. I'm not too sure which topics are taboo, and I wouldn't want to say anything wrong, either. Especially if people other than you are reading these letters. However, I think it's safe to ask about your opinion on Shakespeare. How did your question set go? Are you enjoying King Lear? I prefer Macbeth, if I'm being honest.
Also, you should know I'm a huge fan of music, so I have to ask if you have a favourite song?
Take care,
Rachel
Quinn reads the letter twice. Rachel. Her penpal is Rachel, and Quinn's pretty sure the girl is just as strange as Quinn is. She kind of just rolled with whatever Quinn wrote, which is pretty neat of her. If they can talk about things without actually talking about them; Quinn definitely appreciates that.
She checks the time, contemplates immediately replying, but thinks better of it.
She doesn't want to seem too eager.
It ends up taking three days to get around to returning Rachel's letter, and that only happens because Quinn gets detention - for something she definitely didn't do - and has some time to kill. She's no stranger to Room 446, and Mr Montgomery always rolls his eyes whenever she walks in nearly every week.
Well.
What is she supposed to do when silly jocks claim they could 'help' get the gay out of her?
She wonders what Rachel would think if Quinn were to reveal all of that. She's sure there are a lot of things she could say to scare this poor girl who's now stuck having to talk to Quinn for the next fourteen weeks, but she won't.
Not yet, at least.
What she does write, instead, is:
Dear Scribe-Buddy,
I think I prefer this moniker. Sounds younger; maybe a little more hip. Did I just let you know how uncool I am by saying that? I promise it's probably as cool as I get, so you should probably ask for a different partner.
To be perfectly honest, I don't know what's meant to happen with this entire thing. They claim you're supposed to help me get my life together, but I don't see what you get out of it. I don't know if that's insulting. I just don't spend a lot of time around people who do things without something being in it for them.
Do you have a particular fondness for stars? I feel as if you mentioned them for a reason. My favourite colour remains red, but it teetered on green yesterday while I was cleaning up the park outside the Youth Centre.
The meatloaf was probably poisonous. I mean, I don't know if I would be a vegetarian if I could. I enjoy bacon too much, but I commend you for your dedication.
Maybe I should just say something scandalous to see if anything gets redacted. I live in foster care in Lima, Ohio. Did you get that? Hmm.
I'm enjoying King Lear. I think it's a favourite, though Macbeth is also one I enjoy, just because of Lady Macbeth. I love her strength of character. I mean, she's kind of batshit, but strong, unapologetic females in literature are always important to me.
A favourite song. How do people even choose only one? Can you possibly do it? Have YOU managed to do it? But, if I had to choose, I suppose I would go with Saturn by Sleeping At Last. I spend a lot of time with it on repeat, just feeling sorry for myself and imagining how different my life would be if just one thing went differently.
Wow. That's depressing. Sorry about that.
Quinn
It's definitely longer than her first one, and she feels self-conscious about it until she decides she just doesn't care. She could make it longer, given all the time she has, but she rather takes out a novel she managed to borrow from the school library on one of her recently-rare visits and spends the rest of her time reading The Lovely Bones.
She doesn't think about what it would be like to be dead and watching the world from up above. Tries not to wonder if it would be easier than living.
By the time Mr Montgomery lets her and the two other people in detention go, she's almost finished with her novel. She contemplates staying to complete it, but doesn't want to look like an idiot, so she packs up to leave.
Quinn exits the classroom with a playful salute in Mr Montgomery's direction, and he just waves her away. They'll definitely see more of each other in the next few weeks. At least Quinn has some kind of consistency.
She makes her way to her locker, mentally going through her homework for the evening. She can and probably should finish it up in a random classroom. Again, she wishes she could go to the library, but she has to remind herself it's no longer a safe place for her.
Truly, nowhere actually is these days.
Even the school corridors.
Quinn should pay more attention to where she's going, because walking past the gym is never a good idea. The chances of running into her old crowd are too high, and it seems Quinn has an abundance of luck.
There is a group of cheerleaders and jocks just standing in the corridor, and they see her before she sees them. It would be a cowardly thing to turn right around and use another route, and Quinn is not a coward.
She keeps walking.
Now, the story of Quinn's outing is short and particularly painful. There was a girl. Quinn liked said girl, and said girl liked her back. They started dating in secret. Some cheerleaders found a letter - yes, a letter, go figure - that Quinn wrote to said girl, and said girl claimed that Quinn had an unwanted crush on her and just wouldn't leave her alone.
End of story.
Basically history.
Where nearly everyone in school thinks she's some kind of lesbian predator. Which she's not. She just fell for the wrong person, and she can't even realistically claim she wouldn't have done the exact same thing in said girl's position.
Doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.
Especially when said girl steps out in front of her and says, "Well, if it isn't Lezzy Lucy," with her mouth pulled into a sneer.
Quinn thinks of the last time she kissed those lips for a moment, but shakes her head to clear it. While she can accept that said girl might have thrown her under the bus, she can't quite accept this part, where Sadie looks as if she hates her and wants everyone to know it.
"Hello, Sadie," Quinn says, smiling sweetly. "Something you want?"
"Coming to spy on us?" Sadie asks, getting snickers from the group behind her.
"Nope," Quinn quips. "I've already seen all you have to offer, and I'm really not interested."
Something happens to Sadie's face, then, but Quinn can't bring herself to care. Quinn can hurt just as well in return. "Pervert," she spits after a moment.
Quinn hums, eyes a little narrow. "Because I don't want you?"
"You did, once upon a time," Sadie points out, and Quinn might have thought they were having a private conversation if she couldn't see the crowd in her periphery.
"Perhaps," Quinn admits, because she can't deny that. "But a hot body only makes up for so much of a lack of personality, you know."
Sadie looks as if she's eaten something sour.
Quinn grins, offers a salute, and then twists away. She's almost home-free. She's almost made it past them when a large hand grabs her backpack and tugs, hard, and she ends up stumbling right back and onto her ass.
There's laughter and some nasty words, accompanied by, well, spit, but they eventually lose interest, and Quinn is left to wonder how she ever considered those people her friends. People who suddenly find her disgusting.
For a while, Quinn just sits there, unmoving. She wonders if this is something she could tell Rachel. Isn't that why she's there? Maybe the girl who has it all figured out will know how to get Quinn through the rest of her high school career without completely losing it.
Quinn eventually gets to her feet and ducks into the closest bathroom. It's humiliating having to wipe off actual spit, and she ponders just how far she's fallen. Stupid fucking Lima. She desperately needs to get out of here.
Quinn experiences the feeling of I-just-want-to-go-home very rarely these days, but it happens sometimes, catching her off guard. She doesn't miss the pressure and expectations, but she misses having a place. Her place. She misses her bedroom and her bed and her books and the comfort of having a home. She misses the smell of her mother's perfume and she misses sneaking into her father's den when he's working at his desk and curling up with a book on his leather couch.
She just misses being able to go home.
Quinn gets a response from Rachel before the end of the week, and she forces herself to ignore the rush of something she feels. There's very little she gets excited about these days - besides tagging - and she won't admit getting a stupid letter from some penpal she's never met gives her a similar thrill.
Maybe it's just the idea of getting any attention from anywhere.
Quinn manages to sit through helping the little ones with their homework and dinner before she disappears to the room she shares with Dinah, Erin and Luisa, and settles onto her bottom bunk to read Rachel's letter.
Dear Quinn,
I would prefer Scribe-Buddy as well, except for the fact it feels as if it highlights just how short I am. I don't know what it is, because I'm not usually conscious of it, but that's all I'm thinking about now. Reckon you can come up with something else, oh wordsmith?
I think I'll keep you, if that's all right.
I'll be honest, Quinn, because I suspect you don't receive enough of that. My mother signed me up for the program. I do a lot of volunteer work in other places, mainly youth places, but my mother is sort of dating a cop and he mentioned the program, and she thinks it will look good on my college applications. Does that make me sound horrible?
I LOVE stars. I view them as some kind of metaphor. Something to reach for. They're bright and light, and I just love them. If you want to tell me more about the Youth Centre, you can, but I won't ask.
It can't have been poisonous! You're still here. I mean, you could be a vegetarian if you really wanted to. Or a flexitarian. That's a popular thing these days. People having meatless days.
Okay. They definitely do read these things. There was a whole sentence that was whited out. Lame. I think we should just keep writing scandalous sentences to scar whoever reads these. [WHITE OUT]. It'd be funnier if you could actually see what I've written. Sigh.
That's one of the reasons I enjoy Macbeth. Lady Macbeth is just one of those characters that transcends time. Strong and ambitious in a way that didn't even fit in with the day and age in which she was. I wonder what it would have been like in a modern setting.
Okay, I admit it's a difficult question, but thank you for giving it a go. I like your choice, by the way, and I don't have any kind of opinion on how or why you like it. I do not have a single favourite song, though my go-to genre is Broadway. Musical theatre makes me happy, even if it also makes me sad.
That's also something you can talk about, if you want. Life is hard, Quinn, even when it doesn't have to be.
Take care,
Rachel
Quinn feels slightly unsettled by the knowledge their letters are actually being monitored by some stranger. Ugh. Imagine if it's Officer Puckerman.
But she's also unsettled by Rachel, herself. It's not something she's used to; just having this person in her life who seems to understand her.
Who claims to want to keep her.
Of course, Quinn suspects that'll change once Rachel gets to know her. All Quinn needs to do is reveal her sexuality and heads will roll. Though, she's not sure she's willing to do such a thing now that she knows people have access to what they write to each other.
Quinn reads the letter a second time, and then rolls out of bed, fetches her notepad, and pens a response without thinking about it too hard.
Dear Writer-Mate,
Ugh. That one is WAY worse. Scribe-Mate?
Is this when I get to ask how tall you are? Or short? Is that a personal question? I never quite know. People can be touchy when it comes to heights. Especially the boys at school. I guess I can say that because I'm an average height. Perhaps considered on the taller side for a girl.
It's all right with me.
Weirdly enough, that makes me feel better in a perverse way. I appreciate honesty, so thank you for that. I guess it's a bit of a relief you are getting something out of this. Makes me feel less of a charity case because of it. I hope it helps with wherever you intend to get in. Colleges are so picky.
Do you have a favourite star? Favourite constellation? A metaphor for success? I think that's pretty cool, actually. I guess I'm going to associate every star I see with you from now on.
The Youth Centre isn't anything fancy, really. I mean, you must know I had to have done something to end up in this program and part of my rehabilitation is community service at the Youth Centre. It's a lot of picking up litter, cleaning up the rooms and packing supplies. I would probably be helping with the kids, but, well, I'm Undesirable No. 1 in these parts.
I guess I must count as a part-time vegetarian - flexitarian? - because I can go for days eating only peanut butter sandwiches. We'll see how things go. How long have you been a vegan? Why did you decide to become one - besides the obvious?
Here comes the scarring sentence: the woman whose house I'm in has a husband who's basically having an affair with my guidance counsellor - I totally saw them doing it in her office this one time - and I don't know if it's my place to tell her.
Gosh, can you imagine Lady Macbeth in modern America? Where would she even fit? I reckon she'd either hate it, or figure out a way to take over the world. She wouldn't even need a man to hide behind. Also, I'm pretty sure her closet would be devastating.
Any playlists you'd suggest? I'm always keen to learn about new music.
Life is hard. It just seems a lot harder than I thought it would be, and that's not something I expected to say as a seventeen-year-old. Some things have happened that probably shouldn't have; maybe wouldn't have if I were part of a different family and in a different town. Who knows? I certainly don't.
Quinn
She checks her grammar, feeling a little embarrassed about how much she's actually said. She has really given away a lot, but she's starting to get the impression she might end up giving away everything, anyway. Rachel seems like a safe place to confess her sins.
Maybe even tell her truths.
Quinn doesn't have a lot to get excited about. Beyond any new Jeffrey Archer books, her life is pretty sedate. She has a boring routine - school, community service, tutoring, homework and foster care - and very little happens that gives her any kind of pleasure.
That is until Luisa comes into their room one day, tosses an envelope at her and says, "You've got mail," in her annoying twelve-year-old voice. "Holly dropped it off when she brought Zena back from the trauma counsellor."
Quinn's heart stutters in her chest, because she gets mail from only one person, and her mere reaction to the letter should alarm her. If she has something to look forward to; she has something to disappoint her.
"Who's it from?" Luisa asks, dumping her own school bag on her bed. It must be filled with rocks with the way she groans.
"I don't know," Quinn says, shrugging. "Probably to do with the community service thing."
Luisa laughs. "That's right," she says, "Almost forgot you're a delinquent."
Quinn's not sure she even knows what that word means, so she doesn't even bother with a response. She just drops the letter into her open backpack and tries not to panic at the thought of having it out of sight.
"Hey, Quinn?"
Her head snaps up. "Yeah?"
"Martha said you helped her with her science homework the other day," Luisa says, barely able to look Quinn in the eyes.
"I did," Quinn confirms, not seeing where this is going, because Luisa is one of the girls - along with Dinah and Erin - who love to make Quinn's life hell by constantly commenting on how living with a lesbian makes them uncomfortable.
"Do you think you could help me?" Luisa asks, and her voice is small. At Quinn's raised eyebrows, she continues to say, "It's just this one part on acids and bases that I just can't figure out, and I have a test on Friday, and I want to do well, so I can show my mom when Terri takes me to see her next weekend."
Quinn visibly softens, and curses her own bleeding heart. Luisa is only twelve, living apart from her family, and Quinn -
"Okay," she says.
Luisa's eyes widen. "Really?"
Quinn nods. "I have time now, or after dinner," she says. "But you're going to have to work with me, okay? No goofing off or anything like that. I don't appreciate people wasting my time."
"No, okay, totally," Luisa says, shaking her head, and then nodding it. "We can start right now. Get it out of the way."
Quinn guesses Luisa just doesn't want any of the other girls to get home and see her working with Quinn, but she's not going to dwell. She doesn't really care what they all think of her. She's experienced things worse than a hostile living environment.
If Quinn had to hazard a guess, she'd say the next hour of her life is the most pleasant she's spent in Luisa's company. As soon as Quinn mentions the little rhyme she uses to remember which end of the pH scale refers to acids and the other to alkalis, Luisa grasps the concepts really easily. It's one of Quinn's favourite parts of tutoring: that moment when her student just gets it.
As a result, they're done long before any of the other girls gets back, and Luisa even says a timid thank you before she ignores Quinn for the rest of the night.
Baby steps and all that.
What Quinn can't ignore is that letter sitting at the back of her mind. She's constantly aware of it, wondering what Rachel has written back. Just the knowledge it's there makes her unable to sit still, and Terri casts several curious looks her way during dinner.
Quinn wonders if the woman suspects Quinn's now on drugs.
Stranger things have happened, and it's actually a little amusing the way Terri watches her from the corner of her eye. Imagine if Quinn were to tell her she's actually twitchy because a girl she's never met wrote her a letter and she's keen to get some time alone to be able to read it.
She'd surely be sent away again.
She finally gets the opportunity when the entire house has gone to bed and Quinn is left at the kitchen table working on a paper on World War One for World History. She has an abundance of source material to go through, but her focus is now on the letter in her hands, words written in Rachel's increasingly-familiar scrawl.
Dear Quinn,
What about pen-friend? It sounds weirdly appropriate, though I can't figure out why. Vote yay or nay, because I really don't want to be called someone's mate - Twilight has scarred me for reasons I can't tell you.
As for my height, I can accurately tell you that I'm shorter than you. That's all you need to know, and we won't talk about it any further. The only teasing I accept is in person.
Okay, that's good to know.
I promise to be as honest with you as I can manage. Hey. You're not some charity case. Sure, the circumstances behind this entire program may make it seem like that, but I don't see you that way, and I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't think so ill of my pen-friend. (Ooh, look how well it fits - I like it.)
Colleges ARE picky, and I have a very particular field I want to go into that can be super competitive, so I'm quite worried about it all. Are you also a senior? Have you been applying?
Not particularly. My boyfriend actually purchased a star for me using one of those websites, so now there's a star in the sky named after me, which is actually pretty neat if I allow myself to think about it. A metaphor for success, yes. Aiming for the stars, I suppose. For stardom. I want to perform on stages and be a household name.
While I appreciate your Harry Potter reference, I'd like to remind you not to talk badly about my pen-friend.
Look. I won't ask what happened to get you into this program, but I think the fact you're in it at all means something. Means there's something there to protect and preserve. And I think there are worse things to be doing for community service. Imagine having to clean up bird poop off pavement.
Are you really that much of a fan of peanut butter, or is it a circumstantial thing? You don't have to answer, if you don't want to. But that's another thing you can talk about if you want.
I've been a vegan since I was twelve. I watched this documentary on cow farming, and I just haven't been able to consume meat since. It helps my father is also one, so we have a pretty vegan-friendly house at the moment.
Wow. That's a lot of white out. What on Earth did you write? Now I'm curious to know. Did you reveal the secrets of the Universe? It doesn't seem fair that you could have done that and I'd never know. I think I'm going to talk to Danny (Mom's boyfriend) about it. Maybe we can get special treatment, because there HAS to be a perk to having a literal stickler for the rules living in our house.
Here's my sentence: [White Out].
Lady Macbeth would definitely take over the world. I reckon she'd be like Michelle Obama and RBG and Lena Luthor all wrapped up in one devastating woman. We would just be her minions, and I would be perfectly okay with that.
I don't even know where to start. I feel as if a conversation about music is something that has to happen in real-time. In the meantime, there's a Best of Broadway playlist that has some of the more popular songs from musicals, so you can't really go wrong with it. Also, you should definitely listen to the soundtrack to Wicked, and you can thank me later.
Well. I suspect your outlook on life has a lot to do with why we're even talking right now. Things have happened in your life to get you to where you are, and I just know they haven't been fair or right. I'm sorry people have disappointed you. I will do my best not to be one of them.
Take care,
Rachel
There is something happening.
Quinn can feel it, and it is confusing. She's relieved and disappointed at the same time, and she doesn't know how to handle the conflicting emotions.
First, she's sure pen-friend is going to stick. It's a good compromise, though she's curious about her Twilight trauma. She's also a little caught up in how it feels to have Rachel defend her, even from herself.
Then there's the entire college thing. What could Quinn even tell her? She mentioned Yale to Holly more offhandedly, but she has thought about it more than she's willing to admit. She's just not sure she's willing to sign up for that much of a student loan if she can't get hold of some decent financial aid.
The mention of Rachel's boyfriend throws her a little, but she thinks it's important. It's always something she worries about: developing misplaced feelings for people she really shouldn't. It's happened before, and it's always heartbreaking. Knowing Rachel is taken and just a sincere person without any romantic intentions actually eases Quinn's mind. No chance of starting to like some faceless stranger now. Quinn's life is already complicated enough without adding that to it.
The confusing part is really Rachel mentioning her father, and then her mother and her mother's boyfriend. Quinn reasons her parents must be divorced. Maybe. Does she live with them both?
There's a lot she has to reply to and, as much as she would want to do so right now, she's not entirely sure what she would say. About college. About what's happened in her life to get her to this point. How is she supposed to put any of that into words?
So she rather works on her paper about the events of Sarajevo and tries not to think too hard about how she's supposed to explain her life in a way that every word she writes doesn't get whited out.
It takes five days to draft her first letter, and a lot happens in those five days.
Quinn gets detention, which is a given at this point. It's not even her fault, and Mr Coolidge knows it as he writes the slip sending her to Room 446. He even apologises, but nobody's willing to stand up for her anymore and the reality hurts in a new way every time she's reminded of it.
Luisa gets an A on her science test, and she buys Quinn a small chocolate bar as a thank you, which makes Quinn smile like a bit of an idiot.
Quinn's locker also gets trashed, with some nasty words painted over her door. It doesn't hurt the way it used to, because she rarely leaves important things in there anymore. The words mean nothing, too, because she's decided they are words she now owns. The labels are hers to keep and use, and there's nothing wrong with her for living authentically.
At least, that's what she tells Sadie when they have an altercation about the defacing of her locker, the brunette coming to gloat and revel in Quinn's perceived humiliation.
Quinn is having none of it, and it feels weirdly freeing to say, "I don't care," with all the meaning in the world. Because she doesn't. Not anymore. "Can't you tell that I don't care? You and your idiot friends can talk shit about me all you want and mock me and laugh about how my parents kicked me out all you want, but at least I get to live as exactly the person I am, and I feel sorry for all of you people who still have to hide." She means to say the words solely for Sadie, but she's sure they hit home for a lot of other people, too. It would have have hit her particularly hard if she were still in the closet.
Because her words are now true: she is free.
If there's anything this stupid world has given her, it's this: freedom.
Nobody can convince her it isn't a beautiful thing.
So, it takes her a long five days to figure out just how to tell Rachel exactly that, and she isn't even sure she manages it.
Dear Pen-Friend,
You hit the nail on the head there, though I wouldn't be able to say why, either. It just fits, doesn't it? Maybe because we're now friends? Is that something accurate?
No way. You can't drop a Twilight nugget like that and not give me the full story. That's just cruel.
I would never tease you about your height, whether in person or not. Especially not if it's something you don't particularly like. Though, is there anything you do like being teased about? I used to enjoy being teased for how much I read as a child by all sorts of adults, because I thought it meant I was smart. Hindsight has proven it was just a symptom of several underlying social problems.
People who meet me don't generally stay wanting to keep me. I've been told I'm an acquired taste, which I guess is true to some extent.
Thank you. I appreciate that more than I can say. I guess I could just tell you what I've done, just in case you think I'm actually some hardcore criminal. I'm not, by the way. I just like to tag things that I probably shouldn't. Well, I like to paint, actually. And draw. I like art, I guess. And a thrill. But I got caught, and now I'm here.
I'm also a senior, yes. Honestly, I don't know what I'm going to do for college. I have dreams as most of us do, but I'm trying to be realistic about it. My life has really changed in the last year and a bit, and I guess my dreams have to change with it too.
That's actually really cute that he did that. The only thing my last boyfriend gave me is clarity on just what I deserve out of a relationship. You're a performer? As in a singer? An actor? Some kind of musician? All of the above, perhaps? That's the coolest thing. I could be talking to a future superstar right now. Can I get your autograph?
You got the reference. You passed the HP test. Also, yeah, I guess there's hope for me. My case officer says I'm lucky I'm still a minor, and a suburban white girl. Which is kind of an asshole thing to say. I'll throw in my scarring sentence here: I low-key think he wishes I were older, because there's just a certain way he looks at me that a girl just knows means something.
Dude, I've actually had to clean up bird poop before. Definitely not a party.
I AM a fan of peanut butter, but it's really a circumstantial thing. I try to avoid going to my school's cafeteria as much as possible, so a quick sandwich is my usual go-to when it comes to lunch. It's just safer that way.
That's some dedication right there. Honestly, I don't think I've stuck to any one thing for that long. Your father? Whom you live with? But you also live with your mother and her boyfriend? I am a little confused, though you don't have to explain if you don't want to.
I wrote about adults in my life who are supposed to be role models but are actually just hypocrites. Don't ask for special treatment on account of me. It's not worth it.
Lady Macbeth would be the heroine we need. I'm immensely relieved you put Lena on there, because she deserves all the recognition.
You intend to have a real-time conversation with me at some point? Rachel. I've spent the last few days listening to the playlist on repeat, and I have some favourites. I'll just thank you now.
I guess life doesn't really care about what's fair or right, which has been a bitter lesson to learn. Is it sad that I'm getting used to the disappointment? I hope I can hold the same for you. I would hate to say or do anything that would alter your opinion of me.
Quinn
There's so much truth in her words that they actually give her pause. She would really hate it if she somehow managed to alienate this stranger who's been accepting of her than anyone else in her life. She's received such little kindness in the past year, and she's going to do what she needs to keep Rachel, too.