The Matchmaker ~ a tale of Rachel and Santana
chapter two
RACHEL
Her phone beeps with a new e-mail alert, and Rachel smiles softly at the sound. She knows without looking who's sent it. Quinn Fabray's post high school path had landed her not in New York, but in Connecticut. New Haven, to be precise. She's been majoring in literature at Yale, defying her father's edict to join the pre-law or pre-med track, and not a week has gone by in the last four years since they've been in college that she hasn't gotten at least one e-mail or text or phone call from her best friend. Rachel regrets that there hasn't been more opportunity for her to use the metro pass tickets Quinn gives her at the beginning of every semester, though she does make a point of visiting the beautiful Ivy League campus whenever her schedule allows. Their friendship has been through a lot of ups and downs since its chaotic beginnings back in high school; some bad, a lot more good, but both girls know that they would never have gotten through any of it without each other.
Quinn had been the queen bee of William McKinley High School back home in Lima, Ohio, but she's changed a great deal in the time they've been friends. When they'd first met, Quinn was a classic blonde beauty with movie-star looks, the stereotypically popular head cheerleader with the star quarterback boyfriend. Rachel had been both jealous of and intimidated by those looks, and the ruthless way in which Quinn used them to rule the school from the top of the social pyramid. Many of the lesser beings in school had felt the sting of Quinn's acid-tipped verbal lashings when they made the mistake of getting in her way, and Rachel lived in mortal fear of somehow incurring her wrath when she sauntered down the hallway with a small army of worshipful cheerleaders and football players following behind her, eager and ready to do her bidding at the slightest offense, real or imagined.
The New Directions, McKinley's glee club and home to some of its most woeful social outcasts, was her sanctuary from the slings and arrows of the school's suffocating caste system. It was the one place where she and the other members of the club felt safe from the bullying, the name-calling and the bizarre obsession some of the more cruel of the popular kids had with throwing frozen drinks in the so-called losers' faces. This humiliating ritual was called "slushying," and it was so pervasive and ubiquitous that Rachel had taken to bringing two extra sets of clothes to school every day because for some reason, they really got a kick out of subjecting her to it with terrifying regularity.
It was the first – and only – time that Quinn herself had thrown a slushy in her face, ironically, that had brought Rachel and Marley together, before they'd become sisters. There were precious few places besides the choir room where Rachel could hide from her frozen drink-wielding tormentors, where there was one adult who refused to turn a blind eye to the abuse and absolutely would not put up with it. This was the kitchen area of the school's cafeteria, the domain of the kind, gentle woman who'd been a mother figure to Rachel before she ever met her own biological mom: Marley's sweet Mama Rose.
That day, she'd been chased through the hallway by yet another nameless, faceless jock with a taste for depravity and a love of making "losers" cry before stopping short right in front of Quinn Fabray. The head cheerleader wore her uniform like a suit of armor; she was untouchable, unassailable, completely in control of everyone and everything around her. Yet Rachel could swear she saw something like sadness in the girl's eyes before they hardened, narrowing in disapproval at Rachel's temerity in almost touching her.
"Berry," she said. Her voice was a cold Arctic breeze. It sent a chill through Rachel's entire body. "Why do you persist in making this so difficult? Just accept that this is the way things are. The way things have to be. Stop trying to reinvent the wheel. The sooner you and the rest of your Glee Club losers accept your place, the better it will be for all of us."
"No, Quinn," Rachel replied defiantly. Somewhere inside, she surprised even herself with those words. No one ever said no to Quinn Fabray. No one. "I won't accept this – this – this legalized torture, this ritual cruelty that masquerades as order in these halls. You think being able to get away with everything makes you special, but you're wrong."
At that, Quinn's devastatingly raised eyebrow, the one everyone in school feared, went up higher than Rachel had ever seen it before. Surrounded by the head cheerleader's beefy sycophants, the barely five foot tall Rachel felt smaller than ever. She knew she'd overstepped the well-drawn boundaries that kept everybody in their place at McKinley, but she couldn't find it within herself to care at this point. Damn it, someone had to say it sometime – so why not her?
"Oh? I'm wrong, am I? Like you would know anything about being special? Okay, I'll bite. If being popular and powerful doesn't make you special, what does?"
Rachel felt her insides liquefying under Quinn's laser-like gaze, but she'd gone too far to turn back now.
"Being part of something special makes you special, Quinn. Not wearing a uniform, or getting free perks, or having the answers to every test e-mailed to you in advance. You Cheerios are talented, I'll give you that, but it's well known that the squad's success is as much a result of Coach Sylvester's insane schemes and plots against your competitors as it is the ridiculous things she makes you do in practice. No, I'd say that being part of a group that emphasizes real friendship and welcomes you for you are, and not who you pretend to be, that gives you the freedom to express yourself the way you want – that is way more special than being part of a monolithic hive-mind like the Cheerios."
"We're winners, you little idiot," Quinn scoffed. "What has your merry band of singing misfits ever won? What have you done to bring attention, praise and acclaim to this school? Without the Cheerios, this place would be falling apart around you. Anarchy would reign. No one would have any idea where they stood, who they even are at this school."
"Wrong again. I know who I am. So do the rest of us in the New Directions. But you know what? I don't think you do. You're the prettiest girl I've ever met, Quinn, but you're a lot more than that - and you don't even realize it. That's why I see the sadness in your eyes. You think this is all you are, that - that this is all there is, but it's not. There's a whole world beyond high school, and in three years, none of it is going to mean anything – and I think that scares you. No, I know it does. I can see the fear, the terror in your face, the truth behind the mocking, disdainful sneer you always wear. You're not the Head Bitch in Charge you say you are. The fact is, you're just a scared little girl who needs protection just to get through the day. Honestly, I feel a little sorry for you, because if you don't change, you are never getting out of this town. Not because you don't want to. Because, deep down, you don't think you deserve to."
They'd locked eyes then, and Rachel saw the truth of what she'd said reflected in the stricken expression on the normally perfectly poised ice queen's face. Quinn looked as though she'd just been slapped, hazel green eyes wide with shock, full lips parted and trembling. Then, without another word, she ripped a large slushy cup right out of a football player's meaty hand, a boy twice her size, and Rachel saw him draw back in fear just before a deluge of wet and cold blasted her in the face, burning her eyes, drenching her hair and clothing, leaving her blinded and utterly breathless.
"You don't know the first thing about me," Quinn whispered as she walked past Rachel, her minions following, all laughing and snickering. "You don't."
It sounded less like a statement than a plea - a desperate, futile denial - to Rachel's freezing cold ears, but all she could do was shiver in reply.
"HEY! Get away from her!" A new voice, different, rang out down the length of the hallway, over the mocking laughter. One she'd never heard before. Unfamiliar.
"Don't worry, New Girl," she heard Quinn say, the usual cool self-assurance back in that smooth, slightly breathy voice. "We're done with her. She's all yours."
"Oh my God, look at you," the owner of the unfamiliar voice said from somewhere above Rachel's head. Whoever this girl was, she was tall. "You're shivering! Let...let me take you to my mom. She'll know what to do."
"Need...need my...s-spare...clothes...f-from...my...locker." The words were low, forced out through clenched, chattering teeth, and Rachel could only hope that her benefactor was able to hear and understand them.
Fortunately, she was. The girl's eyes grew wide, then narrowed with determination. If her vision weren't blurred by frozen, colored corn syrup, Rachel might have found her expression adorable – but she was too freaking cold at that moment to consider it. "Right. Your locker. Okay. Show me where it is."
Rachel's hand slipped into the other girl's with an ease that was as startling as it was pleasant. Through her sticky, burning eyes, she was barely able to make out some details of her rescuer's appearance: as she'd thought, the girl was tall, slender, with long, beautiful brown hair and a red beret on top of her head, like the cherry on a sundae. She was frowning in anger, her pretty face clenched tight, and Rachel was touched by the girl's clear concern for her. No one at school outside of the Glee Club had ever shown her that kind of caring before.
After a walk down the hallway that seemed longer than it actually was, Rachel stopped abruptly and said, "Here. M-my l-locker. The c-com-combination is -"
"No. Don't say it. You never know who might be listening. Just – just guide my fingers. OK?"
Somehow, Rachel managed a smile despite the fact that it felt as though her facial muscles had been paralyzed. "Oh – okay." Her small fingers rested lightly on the other girl's longer ones, and after a few shaky moments, the lock gave way and the taller girl swung the locker door open.
"All right!" the girl exclaimed. "We got it open. Good job." She peered into the locker, not noticing the various pictures taped to the inside of the door, just about all of which were of the various members of the Glee Club (except the one of her dads at the lower right-hand corner). "Now – what am I looking for here?"
"There. The b-bag. All t-the way in the b-back."
"I see it." The girl reached a long arm into the locker to grab the bag. "Got it! Okay, do you need anything else, or can I get you to my mom now?"
"N-nothing else. Th-thank you."
The smile the girl gave her in lieu of a you're welcome was as warm and pleasant as a sunny spring morning. Rachel suddenly felt much less cold, even with the chips of colored ice snaking her way down the inside of her blouse, all along the curve of her lower back, and into her unmentionables.
When they got to Mama Rose's kitchen sanctuary, they found her hard at work, pulling out a large pan of round, fluffy rolls from the other, replacing it with another, then stirring a giant pot of soup while chopping various vegetables at the same time. She moved with practiced ease from one task to another, humming tunelessly to herself, attention focused on the array of utensils and foodstuffs spread out on the massive prep table before her, until the sound of her daughter's voice came to her from just outside the doorway.
"Look, I don't care about class right now, or what Principal Figgins will have to say about it!" Marley was shouting at someone outside, probably one of the cafeteria staff. "This girl needs help, and I am going to help her whether you like it or not!"
"Marls?" her mother called. "What's the matter? What's going on?"
Her daughter burst into the room, dragging another girl who looked more like a half-drowned, brightly-colored cat behind her. "Mom! I'm sorry, I know I should be in class right now, but I saw it happen and I just couldn't let it go, not again -"
"Hush. It's all right, sweetheart, it's all right," Mama Rose said, trying to soothe her daughter's obviously frazzled nerves. "You did the right thing. Bring your friend over here so's I can get a look at her. I'd come over there, but you know I can't move around too well these days."
Rachel stumbled over her own feet, feeling the slushy squish uncomfortably inside her shoes, to present herself to the large woman seated on a stool behind the massive prep table. The woman's smile was soft and kind, her eyes taking in Rachel's sorry state with compassion.
"What's your name, sweetie?" she asked gently. "Marley, can you stir that for me while I look at your friend here?"
Marley nodded, moving over to the large pot, knowing that this was her mother's way of trying to keep the other girl's attention from straying, knowing also that she didn't want the poor thing to feel as though Marley was staring at her. She lowered her eyes and began to stir the steaming concoction while her mom began to assess the damage.
"It's okay, girl. I'm not going to hurt you. My daughter probably should have taken you to the nurse's office, not here, but it's just instinct, is all. No harm done. Now, what's your name?"
"R-Rachel, ma'am. Rachel B-Berry."
The woman's eyes widened in her round face, her eyebrows reaching all the way to the elastic part of the hair net she wore. "The girl from the glee club! My Marley talks about you all the time. Says she hears you singing in the choir room and the auditorium, just like an angel." Rachel smiled at this through the still-cold goo dripping down her face. "Honey, could you get me a wet towel? There's a girl."
Marley quickly did as she was asked, not wanting to intrude on her mother's ministrations.
"Marley sings too," the woman continued, wiping off Rachel's face and neck in a brisk, yet gentle manner, "but she's too shy to do it in front of anyone but me. I always tell her she's got a beautiful voice, n' she should share it with the world. It's a gift, I say, and a person should never let a gift like that go to waste."
"Mom!" came the expected protest, drawing an affectionate chuckle from her mother. "I – I'm not that good. Not – not like Rachel. She's amazing."
"And you are too, honey. You just have to believe in yourself, like I do." Mama Rose tsk tsk-ed. "We're going to have to get you out of these wet clothes, before you catch your death of cold." She turned her large frame in her seat to face her daughter. "Marley, why don't you go to the girls' room with your friend here n' help her change? I'll call the nurse and tell her to sign you both out of classes for the rest of the day. Damned slushies!" Her face reddened with anger. "Why on earth Figgins allowed that machine to be put in the cafeteria, I will never understand. Go on now, both of you, then come back here. Rachel, sweetheart – you want me to call your parents to come get you?"
"No, ma'am. They're both very busy at work. I wouldn't want to trouble them. This happens all the time, unfortunately – if I called them every time, they'd probably get fired."
Mama Rose blinked, struck by the girl's poise, even standing there covered in slushy practically from head to toe. My Marley could learn a thing or two from this one, she thought.
"Come on, Rachel. Let's go," said Marley, slipping her larger. warmer hand around Rachel's small, cold one. Rachel smiled up at her in thanks, and as they left the kitchen, they heard Mama Rose speaking with the nurse, as she'd promised.
Rachel made a mental note to bake some sugar-free "thank you" cookies for her over the weekend.
The glee club star leaned back in the chair that someone had put in the girls' room for just this type of situation and sighed at the feeling of Marley's fingers working the sticky slushy mixture out of her hair. Her scalp tingled with pleasure. The girl's hands were sure and her fingers were strong, and as Rachel looked up at her through half-lidded eyes, she realized that Marley was quite beautiful. Maybe not goddess-like, like Quinn, but extremely attracted in a wholesome, corn-fed sort of way. The girl hadn't turned away when Rachel had begun to disrobe, though her cheeks pinked cutely, and Rachel found herself strangely pleased when the girl showed no indication that she found her body gross or unattractive, as so many of her peers had claimed. Marley was actually quite helpful, taking the ruined clothing and discreetly placing it in the trash, handing her the fresh, unsullied clothes from her emergency slushy kit bag: socks, underwear, blouse, skirt, cheap tennis shoes.
She'd hardly said two words, though, and that bothered Rachel for some reason. She wanted to draw Marley out, to learn more about the girl who'd come to her rescue when she really needed it. Who was Marley Rose, and why was she so quiet?
"You're new here, aren't you?" she asked, the question sounding more like a statement over the hiss of hot water coming from the faucet. Steam fogged up the mirror above the sink.
"Yeah. My mom and I just moved here not too long ago. We used to do that a lot. Moving, I mean. My dad, his job was always transferring him somewhere, so we never stayed too long in one place when I was little. Then...then he left us, and -"
"He died?" Rachel gasped.
"No. He left." Marley's voice was somber, matter-of-fact, like the words didn't really mean anything anymore, she'd said them so many times. "He said he didn't love my mom anymore, filed for divorce, packed his bags and then he was gone."
Rachel frowned. Marley's voice was neutral, but she saw the hurt in the girl's eyes. "That's terrible. I'm so sorry."
"Thanks. It's been hard sometimes, but it made my mom and I really close. Like, it's been the two of us against the world for most of my life. I can't even remember what he was like, really."
"I have two dads," Rachel blurted. "One of the most prominent gay couples in town. My Dad is a lawyer, and my Daddy is a doctor. If you or your mom ever need legal or medical help, don't hesitate to call."
Marley looked at Rachel with an amused, puzzled expression. Never in her life had she ever met someone her age who talked more like an adult.
"That's not a problem, is it?" Rachel asked, failing to keep the worry out of her voice.
"I'm sorry?"
"That my dads are gay. That's not a problem, is it? Because it would be a real shame if that were the case. I don't have many friends – well, none, really, outside of the glee club – and I was beginning to feel that you and I could be friends."
Marley was taken aback at this, seeing the worry in Rachel's face, hearing the passion, and the sadness, in her voice. She wondered if the girl had ever been rejected for that reason before; the thought of it actually made her wince.
"No – I mean, no, it's not a problem. Why would it be? Love is love, right? It sounds kind of nice, actually, having two dads. I barely had one, really."
Rachel smiled, more widely this time. "Your mom is amazing. I always pack my own lunches because of my very specific dietary requirements, but I've heard from those who choose to eat the cafeteria fare that it's improved greatly since she became the head of meal services."
"Thanks. She's always loved to cook, so when we came here, she decided the best thing she could do was to cook for the kids. She really loves her job, even though it's pretty hard for her sometimes, being big and all," Marley replied. Her lovely blue eyes held Rachel's attention as she spoke, and the words sort of melted away. The beginning of something strange and wonderful stirred in Rachel's chest, like a flower slowly blooming.
"You should join the Glee Club."
"Wait, what? Join the Glee Club? Oh!" Marley stammered. "And sing – in front of you? I don't – I mean, I've watched you guys perform, you're all so amazing, and I – I'm not." She frowned, hanging her head. "I'm just a girl who thinks she can write songs and sings them in her room."
"First of all, I think you're selling yourself short. Second, the Glee Club is always looking for new members. And third, we could use a songwriter in the group, as our upcoming competition has a requirement for original music."
Marley felt her resistance waver. A chance for other people to hear her songs, to finally know whether they were as good as she hoped they might be? To show all the emotions she'd poured into those songs over the course of many nights and weekends spent alone while her mother had worked at second and third jobs to keep them sheltered, clothed and fed? An opportunity to prove to herself and everyone else that she wasn't just a silly girl who was hoarding her dreams away, saving them for...for what, exactly?
What would she give for that? Could she do it? Could she really sing in front of a bunch of other kids she didn't know, let alone an audience of strangers? She knew what the Glee Club was, what they did; she'd watched videos of their competitions on YouTube, marveling at the power and passion of their performances, secretly wishing she could be there too, yet afraid that she wasn't good enough - would never be good enough - to stand on a stage alongside someone as talented as Rachel Berry (and the rest of the New Directions).
Rachel looked at her intently. Marley felt the weight of her stare, those big brown eyes seeming almost to be looking right into her heart – not judging, but taking her measure, trying to see what she was really made of.
There was only one way to find out. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and her response rushed out of her in a great exhalation of excitement and relief. Laughter and apprehension mingled in her voice.
"Okay. I'll do it."
"You – you will?" Rachel asked, as though she didn't quite believe what she'd just heard. Then she launched herself at the taller girl to wrap her in a happy embrace. Her trademark infectious laugh echoed off the tiled walls, vibrated through Marley's body as she returned the hug. "Oh my goodness, Marley! This is fantastic! You won't regret it, I swear."
Still laughing, Rachel took Marley's hand once again. "The Glee Club doesn't meet on Wednesdays, which is perfect, because I need to get you to my house right away," she said excitedly. "My room was designed with perfect acoustics in mind, so I'll be able to evaluate your voice, learn its strengths and figure out how to improve on any weaknesses. Oh, and we have to find you the perfect audition song!"
They walked out of the girls' room. Marley's head spun as Rachel went on about everything they needed to do. "Audition?" she asked, biting her lip, her fear and uncertainty welling up within her once again.
Rachel looked up at her. "Don't worry. It's just a formality," she said, seeking to allay the concern that showed in the other girl's face. "Everyone who's ever auditioned to join the Glee Club has gotten in. Think of it as introducing yourself with a song. That's why we need to find just the perfect one for you. Now come on!"
After getting Mama Rose's enthusiastic permission for Marley to go over to Rachel's house, the two girls left the school having been assured that the nurse had signed them out of classes for the rest of the day. Rachel was excited for what she was sure would be a resounding success the following afternoon, while Marley wondered just what she'd gotten herself into.
It was a great leap of faith for each girl, one they had no way of knowing would be the first step onto a life-changing path for both of them.
Rachel shakes her head, clearing away the memory to focus on the here and now. Quinn had been a very different person then - before her pregnancy and subsequent rejection by the Cheerios and their head coach had driven her into the arms of the Glee Club - and so had Rachel. So had Marley, for that matter. Their lives had all become inextricably linked together at that point, on that one fateful day, even though none of them could have realized it at the time.
She taps the e-mail icon on her phone to read Quinn's message, and her smile grows even wider. A giddy laugh escapes her lips, and her body vibrates with happiness.
Hi Rachel -
I hope you're not completely losing your mind over that big audition – I know and you know and the entire universe knows you've got this, so don't even worry about it. That's not even why I'm writing this e-mail, actually. I hope you're sitting down, because if you aren't, you're probably going to hurt yourself jumping up and down with excitement, and we can't risk you spraining an ankle or something. Here's the big news: keep your calendar as open as possible two weeks from now, because I've somehow managed to get ahead enough in my school work to safely be able to plan a visit to you in the great Big Apple! I know, I know, it's been way too long – but now we can finally rectify that egregious error (a term I learned from you back in high school, when you were describing one of Mr. Schue's competition plans) at long last. Get your planner out (if you don't have it out already) and start thinking of things you want to do.
So that's the news from here. Gotta go – the last of my term papers isn't going to write itself, you know! Please say 'hello' and give my best to Mercedes and Tina. Love you all!
- Quinn
Rachel bounds up from her bed, filled with renewed energy. Life is good – her audition had gone well, her sister has a big show tonight, and now her best friend would soon be coming to visit. Things could not possibly get any better.
SANTANA
Laundry is not one of Santana's favorite things to do. Actually, it's one of her least favorite things to do, right up there with vacuuming and dusting. It's not that she doesn't have an appreciation for cleanliness – it's just that her hands weren't made for such tasks. Brittany, on the other hand, had loved the minutiae of domestic life, and she was very good at it – well, as long as Santana overlooked her habit of putting things away in the wrong places. She had even become a good cook, despite once claiming that she found recipes confusing. Fluffing, folding, moving, arranging – all those were the tall blonde's forte. Santana had always kept out of her way when Brittany was devoting herself to maintaining their shared domicile, watching with loving admiration as she danced around the apartment doing everything as only she could, in equal measures silly and graceful.
Santana misses those days. Now cooking, cleaning and doing laundry are a slog instead of a celebration; they only serve to remind her of what she doesn't have, and fears she might never have again. Sitting here in the laundromat, she absently watches her clothes spin and spin, feeling vaguely like her life going in that same circular cycle. She hates this feeling of gloom; she wishes something would come along to change it, but she knows what she would tell a client who expressed a similar feeling – don't wait for things to happen. Make them happen.
Easy to put on a bumper sticker or a business card. Much less easy to put into action.
The little bell above the front door rings, signaling the arrival of a new customer. It's still pretty early on this Saturday morning, so the place is fairly empty. This enables Santana to hear the clatter of the new customer's shoes on the tiled floor, and the accompanying small oof! She looks up at the sound to see a short brunette woman stumbling and struggling with a laundry bag that's very nearly as big as she is. No one else makes a move to help her. Sighing, Santana stands and walks over to the small woman, whose face is partially hidden by the giant bag.
"Need some help?"
A large, round, chocolate-hued eye peers out from behind dark brown bangs and the bag that's perched precariously in her arms, widens at the sound of Santana's voice. Santana finds it impossible to stifle the impulse to laugh at the reaction, but somehow she manages to minimize it to a soft chuckle, rather than the full-on belly laugh she'd normally let out.
She takes the bag from the petite brunette, grunting at the weight of it, and rests it on the floor between them. The other woman's face looks up at her with an expression of gratitude so sincere and genuine that Santana's chest feels herself flush with warmth. She's lovely, but not in the conventionally beautiful sort of way: those large, dark eyes are complimented by a slightly too-large nose and a set of full, pillowy lips, all framed by a soft fall of silky brown hair. Her petite frame heaves with relief at no longer supporting the weight of the heavy bag, and Santana is suddenly impressed, realizing that the woman is deceptively strong despite her diminutive size.
"Thank you," the woman says, standing upright and flashing a dazzlingly white smile. She sticks her hand straight out for Santana to shake. "I'm Rachel Berry, student and future Broadway star."
Santana chuckles again at the woman's forthright, earnest manner. She takes the offered hand and gives it a gentle shake.
"Santana Lopez, matchmaker and hater of laundry. Nice to meet you."
"The pleasure is mine," Rachel chirps brightly. "I don't usually fumble around like this." She frowns in displeasure at the oversized laundry bag. "But my less-than-diligent roommates suddenly realized that they were in dire need of getting some of their clothes washed, after completely ignoring the post-it notes I posted on their doors the last two weeks, so the bag was extra heavy," she fumes. "I swear, sometimes I think they're taking advantage of my natural kindness."
"Oh, I'm sure that's not the case," Santana replies dryly.
"You're not making fun of me, are you?" Rachel's eyes narrow, and her face scrunches up adorably in displeasure. She straightens her sunny yellow blouse, smooths down her short black skirt in a self-conscious sort of way, looking around as though she's afraid of someone overhearing their exchange and thinking badly of her.
Wait, what? Did I just think this girl is adorable? Well, hell. I guess she is, kinda. In a Japanese businessman's strange fantasy sort of way.
Santana hasn't been this immediately attracted to anybody since Dani, but she can't deny that this girl has her intrigued. She decides to push further, find out more about her, see if there's more to her than exotic good looks, a cheerful disposition and – not that she's looking or anything – a pair of rather nicely shaped legs.
"No, no, not at all." She holds her hands up in a mollifying gesture of surrender, then points down the long aisle to where her laundry is still spinning away. "I'm over there. Come on, let me help you with this."
Rachel beams up at Santana (who's really only two or three inches taller), indicating that if she had been offended before, she's not anymore. Apparently she's the forgiving type, which is good, Santana notes with a strange sense of relief. Being a matchmaker, a position that calls for sensitivity and compassion, hasn't entirely curbed Santana's tendency to unleash kind of an acid tongue sometimes. Which is why, if she's honest with herself, she has to take the blame for several of her past break-ups, pre-Brittany.
They carry the bag between them, sharing the weight, letting it drop when they get to the machine next to the one Santana's using.
"Thanks again," Rachel says as she opens the door to the washing machine and begins to reach into the bag for items to toss into its deep, round maw. "Are you in the habit of rescuing damsels in distress when you come across one in the laundromat, or am I the first?"
"You're the first," Santana answers with a flirtatious smirk. "Although now I wish I'd thought of it sooner. I've seen some pretty hot women in here."
"Oh, really? And yet I'm the first woman you've approached. I suppose I should be...honored." Rachel's voice drops down to a low, seductive purr, and Santana's throat suddenly goes dry. Apparently this innocent-looking little would-be diva can give as good as she gets in the flirtation department. Another plus.
She's not usually thrown by anything - especially not by women she's just met - but Rachel Berry has definitely thrown her, and that just ratchets up her curiosity even higher.
"Er – oh, yeah. Definitely. You should definitely feel honored. For sure," she replies, mentally kicking herself in the ass for such a lame reply. What has happened to her game?
It doesn't help that her eyes go wide with surprise when she just happens to catch sight of the lacy red thing Rachel throws into the machine, and the shorter woman catches her staring. The knowing smile she sends, and the soft, throaty chuckle that accompanies it, makes her entire body heat up with a pleasant warmth that radiates out from her lower abdomen and spreads all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes, and even the ends of her hair.
Suddenly desperate to distract herself from that sudden wave of internal heat, she decides to take another conversational tack. "So, um, you said you're a student, Rachel? Where do you go to school?"
"I am currently in my last semester at NYADA, which stands for the New York Academy of Dramatic Arts." Rachel's face lights up as she describes the institution which had become her home away from home these last four years, shaping her both as a performer and as a person in that time. "It's very prestigious in the performing arts world, but not as well known outside of that world as, say, Juilliard or the Yale School of Drama. More insular, because it's even more selective. Only a mere twenty to thirty students are accepted into the school every year, and of those, maybe five to seven get full scholarships. I am proud and honored to say that I received one of those scholarships prior to my graduation from high school."
"Wow! Color me impressed," Santana says. The city is full of aspiring actors, dancers and musicians. Brittany had hoped to become a dancer before the call of academia had lured her back to MIT. "So, you're an actress, I take it?"
"I'm majoring in musical theater, with an emphasis on vocal performance, which basically means that I'm more of a singer who acts than an actress who sings." She laughs that musical laugh again, and Santana decides she can never hear enough of it. "I dance as well, having been trained in all three disciplines since I was old enough to stand on two feet, but my voice is my strongest asset by far."
"I would love to hear you sing sometime. My ex...she was a singer too. Folkie type, you know – tie-dye shirt, acoustic guitar, flower tattoo on her arm."
The smile Rachel gives her is so bright, it's positively blinding. "Well, it just so happens that I have a spring showcase performance coming up soon. It's open to the public, if you'd be interested in attending." The petite singer throws the last item from her now-empty laundry bag into the washer, and with her tongue cutely poking out between her lips, proceeds to rummage around in her purse for the coins she needs to start the machine. "Ah-ha!" she exclaims, pulling out not only the coins, but a pen, and a small notebook.
She gestures to Santana's bottle of detergent, ducking her head. "I'm sorry, but - may I? This is so embarrassing – I never forget things like that."
"Oh, no problem." Santana hands her the bottle, and as Rachel opens it, she continues on, enjoying the light conversation. "It's a brand new bottle, so go ahead – knock yourself out. Honestly, I'm not all that great with laundry myself. I make my living by straightening out people's love lives, but my own life is kind of messy these days."
"Yes, you mentioned earlier – you're a matchmaker, you said, right?" Rachel pours in the detergent, feeds the coins to the machine, and sits down again as it rumbles to life. "What a fascinating and rewarding profession that must be, helping people to find love. I'll bet you get invited to a lot of weddings."
"More than I'd like, actually," laughs Santana. "My friend Kurt is usually my date. We always end up crying about how we're going to end up alone together, with only our cats and fashion magazines to keep us company. I...get a little emotional when I'm drunk, which is why I generally avoid alcohol - except at weddings, for some reason. Kurt's really good at keeping me from making too much of a scene."
"We all need friends like that. Someone to speak to our better selves," Rachel muses. "My roommates do that for me." She pulls out her phone, and after a few taps and scrolls, offers it to Santana, who notes how small, yet elegant Rachel's hands and fingers are as she takes it.
She peers at the picture on the screen. It's Rachel seated at a restaurant table, flanked by two smiling women who look to be about the same age as her – one a pretty Asian, the other an equally pretty, slightly heavy-set African-American. The Asian girl has her hair down, dark and lustrous, while on the other side of Rachel, the African-American has her hair up in a bun. They all look happier than any three people have any right to be in the middle of what's obviously a mid-priced chain kind of place, with all kinds of pictures and knick-knacks adorning the wall behind them.
"These your roommates? They look nice," Santana comments. "Very wholesome."
Rachel beams. "They're the best roommates anyone could ever have," she gushes. "Tina Cohen-Chang and Mercedes Jones. When I first came to NYADA, I wasn't sure how I would be received. I was...a little sheltered, not all that sure of myself I guess you could say, and my personality could be a little abrasive at times. I cultivated a sort of bossy, overly confident persona in a vain attempt to hide how scared I was as a small town girl newly arrived in a big city. I'm sure I drove them a little crazy at first, but somehow they found a way to put up with me, and now we're all great friends. They're singers and performers as well. Very talented."
Rachel pauses, gazes at Santana with a look the taller woman can't quite define. It doesn't make her nervous or uncomfortable, though; it's like Rachel is searching for something, somehow seeing inside her. Santana has the strange feeling that she's being tested, and even more strangely, she finds herself hoping she passes.
A satisfied little smile stretches Rachel's lips across her pretty face, and Santana takes that to mean that she's passed the other woman's silent test. She's about to ask what that was all about when Rachel speaks again.
"You're very talented too. I can just look at a person and see whether or not they have talent, and you clearly do. Untrained, of course, but it's definitely there. You simply channeled your passion into another direction, which is completely understandable given the difficulties of the artist's life, but I can see that there's much more to you than matchmaking. Not seeking to cast aspersions on your profession, of course, which as I've said is quite a noble pursuit. I just tend to look at people in a much deeper way, and looking at you, I like what I'm seeing. Very much."
Santana blinks, stunned by the torrent of words that's just been hurled at her.
"Do you always speak in paragraphs?"
Rachel just laughs in reply as Santana's washing machine clicks off. She picks up the pen and notebook, and moments later, presents Santana with a freshly torn out page. Her name, phone number, the address of the campus building where the showcase is to be held, and the date and time of the performance are all written on it. Santana's never seen anyone write so fast, yet so neatly. There's even a perfect five-pointed star drawn next to Rachel's name. It's unnervingly impressive.
"Did I? I'm sorry. I've actually gotten much better with that since my high school days. When I get nervous, I tend to talk a lot. Well, more than I usually do, anyway. Not much makes me nervous, of course – I haven't had stage fright since I was three years old." She lowers her eyes, gazes out at Santana from behind her long lashes. "Beautiful women, though...they always make me nervous."
Santana's insides flip at the sultry look Rachel's giving her. She hasn't felt like this...well, not since Brittany. She feels the heat rise in her face, grateful that her dark complexion will hide the blush.
Who is this girl, and what is she doing to me?
"Yeah...I know just what you mean." She locks eyes with Rachel, and any doubts she has about the other woman vanish completely. There's no question: the attraction here is definitely mutual.
Rachel's stare is so intense that Santana has to look away first. She glances down at the paper again, needing to distract herself from the rather inappropriate thoughts that are racing through her mind. "Um...so...this performance thing – are you being graded on it? Is it, like, your senior thesis or something?"
Rachel giggles, breaking the tension (much to Santana's relief). "Well, I guess you could describe it that way. It is graded, and it's also a competition. I've won a few before. I've lost a few, too. Winning them is much, much better. However, I must admit that I haven't been thinking about the showcase as much as I should be, because I'm thinking much more about the audition I just had."
"An audition! Well, that's exciting." Santana is surprised to realize that she actually is excited for the smaller woman; she can see that Rachel is just dying to tell her all about it. She hopes she's coming off as cool as she thinks she is when she asks, "What was it for, off-Broadway?"
"On Broadway. A revival of Funny Girl, in the role that was originated by my idol, the one and only Barbra Streisand. I trust you've heard of it."
Santana frowns slightly. Normally, she would never feel embarrassed over something like this; yet now she's actually worried that Rachel will be offended by her answer. Still, as a person who's always prided herself on being honest, she swallows and forges ahead.
"No...no, I can't say I have. Sorry. I...I never really followed the whole Broadway thing. Had tickets to Cats years ago, but missed the show when I came down with the flu."
"Oh," Rachel says, crestfallen. Then she brightens. "Oh – well, that's good, actually. Better than good. Now I can teach you all about it! As a matter of fact, I'll be singing my favorite number from the show at my showcase. That gives you even more reason to attend. Well, that and the dinner I'd like to buy for you afterwards."
Well, damn. Best laundry day ever, Santana thinks. She's aware that the smile she's wearing is kind of loopy, like she's had a little too much to drink. Her insides are still fluttering, and she knows what she's about to say isn't exactly the smoothest thing in the world - but in this moment, it's exactly what she feels, so fuck it.
"You know what, Ms. Rachel Berry, student and future Broadway star? I think I'd like that. I think I'd like that a lot."
A/N: Of course, I don't own "Glee." If I did, I'd like to think it would still be on the air. Please review! I love getting feedback from readers.