Chapter Two
Saturday, June 11 / 9:30pm
Quinn sat on a stack of storage bins in the corner of Brittany's garage, tapping the toes of her shoes together, cursing herself for agreeing to be here. The guitar she had been ordered to bring leaned against the wall next to her.
A few feet to her right, Brittany sat solemnly behind a drum kit. She was frowning, tracing patterns on the snare with one of her drumsticks.
To her left, near the front of the "stage" drawn on the concrete floor with chalk, Santana and Rachel stood toe-to-toe on opposite sides of a microphone stand, bickering.
No wait, strike that – yelling. They were yelling.
"Santana, you have to give me one of those songs. It's totally uneven!"
"You seem to be under the delusion that this is a democracy, Tom Paine. But this was my idea and I be the emperor up in here. And since you've already stolen two songs from me, you need to keep your sticky fingers off the rest of them, you got that?"
Quinn shook her head. This is exactly why she had brought her backpack jammed full of other things to do. She reached down and unzipped it, and retrieved a history textbook that threatened to pull her forward onto the floor as soon as she tried to lift it.
Two paragraphs into her assignment, she felt a presence at her side.
"What are you doing?" Brittany asked, still clutching one drumstick in either hand.
"Reading my history book," Quinn answered hesitantly, closing the cover halfway to show her the title.
"Why?"
"Because I have summer homework and sitting here doing nothing but watching them argue is wasting my time."
"But, how can you have homework in the summer? We don't even see our teachers."
Quinn sighed. "Sometimes when you take AP classes, you get the syllab – the course schedule in the mail. They make you read ahead to get ready for the new class. For this one I have to turn in a paper on the first day of school."
Brittany nodded, clearly unconvinced of the veracity of this tale.
"It's just like having homework over night or over a weekend," Quinn tried again. "Only you have three months to get it done."
Brittany was ready to move on. "I'm glad I don't have to take your smart classes. Hey, I didn't know you played guitar."
"I don't," Quinn stated flatly. "Sam taught me exactly three chords. Santana seems to think that qualifies me for her band."
"Is it yours?"
"Yeah," Quinn nodded. "I wanted it when I was younger, like 11 or something."
"I can't play the drums, either. These are my brother's. I want to ask him to teach me, but he can't play them either, mostly because my mom says when he practices it aggravates her latent aneurysm."
Quinn was unsure whether to laugh.
Brittany grew silent, pensively observing the argument. Far from working itself out, it seemed to be escalating. "I think they just want an excuse to sing their favorite songs and fight," she concluded.
That, Quinn could agree with.
Rachel was waving a clipboard above her head. "No, I didn't!"
"Except that you totally freaking did!"
"I did not steal your riff. Santana, I don't even know what that means!"
"It means I was trying to SING, Berry, and all I can hear are your whale noises in my ears. Now sit your skinny ass down at your keyboard and sing your harmonies and otherwise shut your trap!"
"Santana," Rachel said, pressing the palms of her hands together in a gesture that looked like a prayer, "Be reasonable. It's a well-established fact that when you have an instrument like mine you simply cannot contain it. It bursts forth from your very soul and you—"
"Oh, really? Well I have a couple of instruments right here that are about to burst forth all across your face if you don't can it in a hurry."
As Santana squeezed her hands into fists, Rachel threw up her clipboard as a shield.
Quinn slammed closed her textbook with a thud. "That's enough!"
She slid off the tower of storage bins, took the drumstick from Brittany's nearer hand, and strode to the microphone.
"Santana, back off," she said, pointing it at her throat. "Give Rachel the Kelly Clarkson song. You've already claimed songs by a million different artists, and Rachel's voice is better for that one. Rachel," Quinn continued, turning to look at her girlfriend as she tentatively lowered the clipboard from her face, "Maybe for songs where Santana sings lead you could turn down your mic just A TAD to counteract any further soul-bursting you feel compelled to do."
"Bossy Quinn is so hot," Brittany observed, momentarily drawing Santana's glare away from Quinn.
"Um, since when do you get to swoop in and make decisions?" Santana asked, grasping the drumstick and shoving it out of the vicinity of her face. "You're supposed to be over there learning your songs while Berry and me work out the vocals."
"Maybe I can't focus because of all the yapping going on, due to the fact that neither of you has ever HEARD the word compromise."
"Oooh, I have," Brittany raised her hand. "I know that one."
"You know what?" Santana said, gesturing to Quinn's textbook and backpack, "You're not even pretending to give a shit about this project. You don't get a say."
"Guys, maybe we should call it a night, okay?" Rachel interjected meekly. "We have more than enough songs decided to enable everyone to practice at home on her own."
Quinn and Santana didn't move, holding each other's glares, so Rachel took Quinn's hand and led her to the opposite side of the room. "Come on, Quinn."
Brittany bounded to Santana's side, jubilant that the tension had finally broken. "Wanna stay?" she asked. "My mom bought a brand new jar of the peanut butter with the marshmallow stripes. "
A flash of a smile crossed Santana's face, but she shook her head. "Not tonight, Britt."
"But, we can rent Spice World on Netflix again."
"Babe, I can't."
Overhearing this conversation while she was packing up her backpack to go, Quinn turned to look over her shoulder.
"Can I help you, Nellie Nosey-pants?"
Quinn wouldn't ask the question lest Santana think she actually gave a shit, but her puzzled expression did it for her. Santana was forced to weigh which was worse: acknowledging that she was susceptible to parental pressure, or letting Quinn think there was a rift between herself and Brittany.
"My mom's been asking why I never come home, okay?"
"You can't make an excuse?" Quinn asked.
"I'm running out. Two days ago I had to tell her Brittany walked headfirst into a street lamp and I had to stay to make sure she didn't fall asleep with a concussion."
"Your mother believed that?"
"I was desperate. Plus the street lamp part was, like, true."
Brittany nodded vigorously.
Quinn chose to accept that without further inquiry.
Rachel, who had been patiently waiting for this conversation to be over, piped up. "Okay, moving on. Remember, we meet at 8:30 sharp at Quinn's on Monday for our first volunteer day! Make sure you bring your signed waivers and background check forms, and I suggest wearing comfortable shoes and the ugliest t-shirt you can find, because many of the children WILL be armed with finger paint. And, you know, boogers."
"I don't have anything ugly," Santana said, slinging her purse over her shoulder. "But it's cool. If we're meeting at Quinn's maybe we can raid her closet before we leave. Walk me out, Britt?"
Quinn rolled her eyes as she and Rachel watched them disappear down the driveway and into the back seat of Santana's car, which was parked at a 45-degree angle about two-thirds of the way down the driveway. It was the only spot, which was apparent now that it was dark, which was out of the reach of both the driveway spotlight and street lamps that lined the sidewalk.
"I wondered when I got here why she parked so weirdly," Rachel said, slightly in awe. "It was bad even for Santana. Anyway," she said, turning to Quinn with a smile. "That was very romantic, the way you came to my defense just now."
Quinn smirked. "I should have brought the guitar rather than the drumstick," she said. "It's bigger."
"Well," Rachel said, wrapping her arms around Quinn's waist, "Don't worry. I'm sure there will be a next time."
"I'm sure," Quinn said absently. "Hey, I have something to tell you, actually, Rach."
Rachel raised her eyebrows expectantly. It was weird how, when Quinn made this sort of announcement, she never had any idea whether the upcoming news was going to be good or bad.
"I got a summer internship," Quinn said with a smile. "That's why I was a little late today – I was at orientation."
"Quinn!" Rachel exclaimed, and hugged her. "I didn't even know you were looking for one. That's amazing! Where?"
"It's at a biology lab at Ohio State. It's for some kind of high school outreach program. My AP bio teacher nominated me last semester, and Figgins and Mr. Schuester wrote recommendation letters about how I'd be a great representative of McKinley, or something. I start next week."
Rachel pressed her fingers to her lips and fanned herself with the other hand. "My girl is just the smartest. I'm so proud. But, I feel bad – I didn't even know you liked biology."
"I don't," Quinn laughed. "At least, I didn't know I did. My teacher thought I had an aptitude for it, so." She shrugged.
Rachel pursed her lips, the down side of this bit of good news just occurring to her. "It sounds like you might be too busy for all of our summer plans."
"It's only ten hours a week, so. I won't be any busier than you'll be with rehearsal."
"You're right," Rachel said, the wheels in her head already visibly turning. "With a well-oiled schedule I'm sure we can fit everything in."
Quinn stifled a chuckle. "Are you trying to say things that sound ambiguously dirty?"
Rachel blushed. "I think it's all in the ear of the beholder. What's on your mind, Quinn?"
"Maybe the fact that I already told my mom I wasn't coming home tonight."
"Ahhh," Rachel said, smiling and stepping closer to put her arms around Quinn's waist. "Well, shall we go, then?"
"I'm ready."
"Don't you want to bring your guitar?"
"Oh, um," Quinn stammered. Shit, now she was busted beyond a doubt for having no plans whatsoever to actually practice playing that thing. "How about if I let you try to redeem yourself at Rock Band later? Does that count as practicing?"
"The things I let you get away with because you're cute," Rachel said with a sigh, taking Quinn's hand and starting down the driveway.
Quinn smiled and squeezed Rachel's hand. "I really, really wish we didn't have to walk past Santana's car to get to mine," she said, slowing her pace as they got closer.
Rachel laughed. "I'll protect you. It's the least I can do in return for your earlier chivalry."
Rachel hugged Quinn's face into her shoulder. "Come on. Let's run past, I've got you!"
Before Quinn could decide whether she was onboard with that idea, Rachel took off at top speed, pulling her toward the street.
Monday, August 15 / 4:30am
As soon as Santana woke up, she knew something was. . . well, not wrong, exactly. But something was definitely not right.
She was wide awake immediately, for one, even though the clock on her phone read 4:30am.
Blinking up at her ceiling in the pitch black room, she felt sweat prickling at the back of her neck. Fuck, it was really hot in here. That must be what woke her – her father must've turned down the AC overnight again. She hated that shit, the fucking cheap ass. She kicked off the covers and pressed herself flat against the cool sheet beneath her. She closed her eyes and tried to go back to sleep.
No, this wasn't going to work. She needed water; her throat was totally dry. She pulled on her robe and went downstairs.
She felt a little like she was hungover, which was pretty unfair since she hadn't done anything fun last night. But her head felt woozy and her heart was beating just a little too fast, a lot like the after effects of too much cheap beer.
It was also weird, though, how her hand was shaking as she tried to bring the glass of water to her lips. Shit, she was obviously coming down with something. She was sweating pretty much everywhere now. It felt like her insides were on fire, and not in the good sex way. Well this was just great, because she totally needed to get sick with only a few weeks left to train for tryouts.
So one second she was standing there with the glass of water at her lips, pissed off at her bad luck, and the next she was slamming the glass down on the kitchen counter and bracing herself with both hands, because the world was turning grainy and unreal in front of her eyes.
And then she was fucking terrified.
Her breath came in shallow gasps, her heart pounded through her chest like she'd just run ten miles. She didn't even know she was crying until she saw the tears hit the counter.
Am I about to die? Pass out? Is my heart about to stop?
"Mamaaaa," she called out, when she could draw enough air. "Mama!"
She saw the hallway light come on as she crumpled to the kitchen floor.
"Santana? What's happening, baby?" her mother asked, sweeping into the kitchen and crouching down to take Santana into her arms. "Ahhhh," she said in dismay as she felt the damp fabric of Santana's pajamas. "You're soaked."
Santana flailed her hands at the front of her mother's nightgown and gripped it, white-knuckled.
Her mother put her hands beneath Santana's armpits and yanked her to her feet. Santana pressed her face into her mother's shoulder, only dimly aware that they were walking. She recognized the feel of the fringe and knots that lined the edges of the living room rug against her bare feet, then the soft plush of the rug itself, and then nothing, as her mother picked her up and deposited her onto the couch.
She doubled over, hugging her own torso and pressing her head into her thighs.
"Sit up, baby, shhhh," her mother said, "Sit up and look at me."
Santana couldn't do it. Her body was rigid, not listening to her. She whimpered as another round of shuddering overcame her. It was like it started at her core and shook her from the inside out.
"SANTANA LUISA LOPEZ. SIT. UP. RIGHT NOW."
The gasping stopped, just for a second, and Santana was startled back into control over her body just long enough to obey this time. Her mother pulled Santana's face into her chest and held her tight. Santana hugged her elbows into her sides and pressed against her mother's body; it seemed to quell the shaking.
"Listen to me, baby, listen. As soon as you start breathing more slowly you're gonna feel better, okay? Take a deep breath in with me, ready? Breathe in, one. . . two . . . three. Breathe out, one . . .two . . .three."
Her mother repeated the intonation over and over, and put her fingers on Santana's chin. She tilted her gaze upwards. "Look at my neck. Look, see? See my pulse? Watch it. Nice and slow. That's how yours needs to be, pumpkin. Breathe in, one . . . two. . . three."
Santana had no idea how long she sat there, pressed against her mother, watching the veins pulse in her neck, listening to her voice telling her to breathe. It felt like every time she started to think it was over, her body would shudder again, like an aftershock.
And when it finally subsided, it happened as fast as it came on. The weird sense of unreality persisted, but the shaking stopped and her insides felt still, and cool. The clenched muscles of her arms and stomach relaxed, little by little.
"Have you had a panic attack before, mi chiquitita?" her mother asked quietly.
Santana sniffled. "No," she whispered.
"Okay. You're okay. It doesn't hurt you, baby. It feels like it will, but it won't. Your mama used to get them all the time in school."
Santana laid her head against her mother's chest, stunned and exhausted.
"I'm gonna put the TV on, okay? It's good to have a distraction. I'll find us something funny."
Santana closed her eyes, and her mother kept one arm around her as she flipped channels.
"So do you want to tell your mama what has you so upset?" her mother asked quietly, after a few minutes.
And Santana thought about it. She thought about blurting it out.
It's Brittany.
Maybe if she tightened up her stomach muscles and tried to force out the words like she was throwing up, maybe it would finally just come out and she would never have to fucking go through this again. Maybe the murderous anticipation being over was the most important thing.
But the thought of losing her mother's touch and her sympathy right at this moment, of having to defend herself in her present state . . . it was too much to bear.
"No. I don't know," she croaked, and pressed her cheek against her mother's chest.
Monday, June 27 / 8:50pm
Kurt rejoined Rachel on the big, comfy couch in his family room, balancing a giant tub of popcorn and a pair of virgin cosmopolitans.
"Thank you," Rachel smiled up at him, cradling the giant plastic martini glass with both hands.
Kurt tapped the edge of her glass with his and reached for the remote. They were about halfway through their viewing of The Sound of Music on Blu-Ray – a birthday gift from Mercedes.
"Wait," Rachel said, putting her hand over his. "Before we put the movie back on – I wanted to talk to you about something. Something . . . kind of serious."
Kurt set down the remote and rolled his head to the side against the back of the couch to look at Rachel. "I suspected as much. I knew something had to be wrong when you let me take Liesl's part in 'Sixteen Going on Seventeen.' Not to mention that you haven't intentionally spent a night away from Quinn in weeks."
"That's actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Quinn, I mean."
"Oh no, don't tell me there's trouble," he said, sitting up. "Rachel, you're my only hope of fulfilling my dream of being the maid of honor in a lesbian wedding."
"We were. . . harassed. On Saturday morning."
Kurt closed his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Rachel. Are you okay?"
"Yes. Physically, I mean, yes."
"Was it just the two of you? Were Britt and Santana there?"
"It was just the two of us. Although, Santana and Brittany have had an incident recently as well. We're all okay but we're all a little, um, rattled. I was hoping you'd have some words of wisdom on dealing with all of this."
"I hate to say it Rachel, but you may have to get used to it as long as you live in Lima. I mean, just last week some meathead in a WWF t-shirt threw my fedora in the fountain at the mall. That kind of pointless mean-spiritedness is rampant here."
"I know," Rachel said pensively. "That's exactly what worries me. The fact that it could happen again, at any moment. Santana is just taking a few fragile steps towards self-acceptance, and Brittany is terrible at playing it cool in public. But, mostly I'm worried about Quinn."
"I can see why. Ms. Fabray is certainly not someone who is used to garnering disapproving commentary from strangers. Well, except for a span of a few months a year and a half ago, perhaps."
"Kurt, I feel like she's never happy anymore. The only time is when it's just the two of us, and even then, it isn't the same. She told me not long ago that spending time as a couple with Santana and Brittany made up some of the best nights of her life. Now, it seems like she can't stand to be around them. She's tense, she's cranky. She couldn't even relax and be herself at Pride in a city where she knew nobody but us. When this incident occurred, with this horribly creepy guy talking about how God didn't make us to love each other that way, it was like the universe painted a bullseye on Quinn's most vulnerable spot, and then kicked."
"Again Rachel, I hate to be the bearer of negativity, but I'm not sure what you can do about it. You can be there for Quinn, but you can't work through her issues for her."
"I can't do nothing, either."
"Could you, I don't know, suggest a therapist? Aren't you well-connected in that regard?"
Rachel nodded. "I could. Quinn would never go for it, though. For one thing, she would have to tell her mother she wanted to go. Oh hey Kurt, wait – I think I have an idea."
Wednesday, June 29, 2011 3:15pm
A few days, a few phone calls, and just a little bit of coercive behavior later, Rachel sat primly in the waiting room of her therapist, Dr. Goldfarb. Her stomach was a roiling cauldron of nerves, almost enough to eclipse how pleased with herself she was for organizing this day.
Quinn, predictably, had been the hardest to convince. Rachel wasn't proud of the fact that she had withheld an orgasm to get her here, but was comfortable with the conclusion that the ends in this case justified the means.
Santana had been surprisingly receptive once Brittany was onboard, accepting with a "Whatever, it's only 45 minutes, right?" Convincing Brittany was just a matter of playing on her concern for Santana's well-being after recent unpleasantness.
Anyway, now, for better or for worse, here they were.
Dr. Goldfarb, who had only reluctantly agreed to this unconventional session due to Rachel's mercilessly insistent expressions of concern, opened the door.
"Come in, ladies," he said with a smile.
They went around and introduced themselves, except for Rachel, who sat tall and smiling, attempting to project an image as a beacon of experience.
"So," he began, "I understand from Rachel that the four of you have recently had some difficulty with people in public. People have recognized that perhaps you were in same-sex relationships, and reacted negatively. Would anyone like to begin talking about that?"
Santana and Brittany looked at each other, and quickly looked away.
Quinn stared at the wall above his head.
Rachel decided that, as the instigator of the afternoon, she should take the lead. She described in a few sentences the incident she and Quinn had faced last weekend.
"I wasn't that upset," she concluded. "I was angry and, for a moment, concerned for our physical well-being. But my primary concern. . . well, it was for Quinn."
"So the things this stranger was saying didn't upset you personally, Rachel?"
"I've been exposed to homophobia all my life. It was a shock, yes, to have it directed at me personally. But I was worried about Quinn. Because of the things he was saying. "
"Quinn, would you like to respond to that?" he asked gently.
"I . . . appreciate Rachel's concern," Quinn offered.
"Do you think that concern is valid?"
Quinn kept her face stony as she shrugged. "All the guy did was say out loud what tons of people around me are thinking."
"What people, Quinn?"
"Everyone at my church. Tons of people in general. Half the country."
"In your view, half of the country is like that man?"
"To a degree," Quinn nodded. "Maybe only a few people act on it, but it was a reminder how everybody feels about gay people."
"It's not true, Quinn," Rachel disagreed. "That man was off in the head. He wasn't normal."
"The only thing abnormal was his lack of self-censorship."
"Santana and Brittany," the therapist interrupted, "Do you agree with Quinn? I understand that you were also recently the victims of a verbal assault."
"A verbal assault with beer," Brittany clarified.
"Santana, can you talk about that a little?"
Santana, who had been slouching behind a plush throw pillow, sat up a little straighter. She glanced at Brittany, who nodded encouragingly.
"The guy who bothered us totally wasn't normal, either. He was a Neanderthal," she said. "I was worked up at the time, but next time I'll spray the asshole with mace and get on with my life."
Dr. Goldfarb chuckled. "Well that would certainly deal with the immediate situation. What about how you feel now, when you remember it?"
"I'm pissed."
"Go on."
"But it makes me feel better."
"Being angry?"
"Yeah, like, it was just some douchebag redneck in a shitty car. I'll never see him again. That's not the crap I'm afraid of, that's a freaking cakewalk."
"What crap are you afraid of?"
Santana's slight smirk faded. She affected an annoyed shrug. "I don't know."
"She's afraid of people at school. And her family. She wakes up all upset about her mom, and stuff."
"Britt. . ." Santana warned, shaking her head.
"Santana, these are the kinds of things we're here to talk about," the therapist smiled. "Can we talk about your mother?"
"Like, about what?"
"Like, how she would feel if she knew about your relationship with Brittany."
"It's . . . hard to say," Santana said. "I mean, she's Catholic. She goes to mass, but thinks it's mostly bullshit. She once said the Pope looked like a skinnier Jabba the Hut. Oh, and she likes Lady Gaga," she added hopefully.
He laughed. "Okay. Let's talk about you for a minute, Brittany. How did the incident make you feel?"
"Sad."
"Why?"
"Because it's sad. The way people have to try so hard to make other people feel bad. I don't get it. Like, if he thought we were hot, why wouldn't he be nice to us?"
"So naïve," Quinn muttered under her breath.
"Quinn?" he asked.
"She expects people to be nice. People aren't nice."
"My observation is that you tend to make generalizations, Quinn, and so far they've been extremely negative. I'd like you to see if, just for the duration of our session, you can think not necessarily more positively, but more realistically."
Quinn said nothing, responding by finding another spot on the wall to hold her fascination.
"Now, since we're here as a group of friends, I'd like to try some role-playing exercises."
Rachel's face brightened and she clapped her hands in delight.
"Santana, let's start with you. Why don't you pretend to be your mother? And – Rachel, please put your hand down, I'd like to cast Brittany in the role of Santana."
"Yes!" Brittany celebrated. "Okay, what do I do?"
"Think about what you would say if you were Santana in a situation where you were about to come out to her mother."
"Mrs. Lopez, I'm gay," Brittany said sincerely.
"Brittany remember, you're supposed to be Santana. You would call her 'mom'."
"Sorry. Mom, I'm gay."
"Okay, that's not how I would say it at all," Santana said, throwing up her hands.
"Mom, I'm in love with Brittany," Brittany tried again. "Is that better?"
"Too nice," Rachel added helpfully. "When Santana feels insecure she has false bravado."
"Shove it up your ass, Berry."
"See?"
"Okay, let's focus, ladies," the doctor interrupted. "Santana, what does your mother say in response?"
Santana sat up straight, crossed her legs, and tossed her hair over her shoulders.
"What is this?" she said, affecting an accent and gesticulating with her hands. "What is this you're telling me?"
"Mom, I'm telling you I want to marry Brittany."
Rachel and Santana both smiled.
"You're out of character," Quinn sighed.
"This is not who I raised you to be, chiquita," Santana resumed. "I raised you to be a strong, successful Hispanic-American woman. Already you're a woman and a minority, you don't need another disadvantage in your life."
"But mom," Brittany said, "I am being who you raised. I'm being honest and proud. How can I be a woman leader in the world if I'm not honest with people?"
"People won't respect you if you're like this."
"People will respect me for the stuff I do, because I'm talented and smart and really hot," Brittany said.
"Santana would say 'hot' first," Rachel suggested.
Quinn elbowed her in the arm.
Santana slouched back down into the couch. "I have no freaking clue what she would say to that," she said. "That's the problem."
"That's okay, Santana. That was very good, ladies," the therapist said. "Well done."
Rachel and Quinn pretended not to notice as Santana dabbed at her eyes with a tissue.
"Can we go next?" Rachel asked. "I can do an excellent interpretation of Judy Fabray."
"No thanks," said Quinn. "I'm never going to tell her, so that would be pointless."
"What makes you say that?"
"Well, I've known her for 17 years and none of you have. In fact, I'll make the roleplay quick – she would say, 'What? I didn't hear you. Tell me about your new boyfriend.'"
"Quinn, I think you're underestim—" Rachel started.
"There is nothing to discuss, Rachel. You don't know her. And anyway, you're a hypocrite. You're hiding our relationship from your gay fathers."
"I told you, I don't think it's practical to tell them until we're ready to come out as a couple. I think we should focus on small, attainable goals, like being out in Glee Club, for example."
"Maybe you should back off about my mother, then."
"I'm not saying you should tell her tomorrow, Quinn, but we can look toward the future, can't we?"
"Rachel," Dr. Goldfarb said gently, "If you let Quinn decide on the steps for herself, you might find that she's more responsive to your ideas."
Rachel nodded. "You're right. I'm sorry, Quinn, I didn't mean to pressure you." Her stomach sank, as there didn't seem to be much forgiveness in Quinn's eyes.
"I'd like to leave the four of you with some parting observations," Dr. Goldfarb continued. "You all have certain fears. This is natural and normal. What I'd like you all to keep in mind is that you have a lot of things working in your favor, too. For one, you have each other. And among you, you have several adults who are either already supportive, like Brittany's mother and your Glee Club director, or likely to be supportive when you decide to tell them, like Rachel's fathers.
My parting advice is this: use the resources you have. Support each other. And come back and talk with me if you feel that I can be of assistance."
"Thank you, Dr. Goldfarb," Rachel said with a grateful smile as she followed Brittany and Santana out of the room.
"Quinn, may I have a word?" the doctor asked as the girls filed out.
Quinn thought of ignoring him entirely but ultimately didn't have the nerve.
"Quinn, this is a card with the contact information for my colleague, Dr. Hector Reese. He specializes in LGBT counseling. I'd like for you to see him, if that's possible for you."
"Oh, so I'm the remedial case in the group?" Quinn asked. She eyed the card in his hand. "Thanks, but I'm not doing that."
He smiled and tucked it into her hand. "Take it in case you change your mind."
Brittany and Santana drove home together. They didn't talk and didn't put on music, and Santana wasn't even screaming and honking her horn, so it was quiet and kind of nice. Santana stared ahead at the road, absently squeezing and releasing the steering wheel.
Brittany was in a really good mood.
"That was totally fun," she said.
"You thought therapy was fun? Britt, you're truly kind of weird."
"I know, but, I was proud of you."
"Why?"
"Because you didn't just get mad or make fun of it. You talked about your mom and your feelings. "
Santana thought for a minute. "I don't know, I guess if something is going to make me feel better I'll try it, even if it is Berry's idea."
"Well, I think you've come so far, Santana. And just so you know, whenever you're ready to tell your mother or whoever, we're all gonna be right there next to you. Just like today. I'll make sure of it, okay?"
Santana took her right hand off the steering wheel and set her forearm on the center console, palm up. Brittany slid her hand into Santana's and they rode like that the rest of the way home.
Saturday, June 25 / 11:22am
"Have you ever gone before?" Quinn asked Rachel as they sorted rainbow-colored fliers on the counter at the Fedex Kinkos.
"To Pride?" Rachel asked, surprised. "Sure, a few times. I was even in it once, when I was a baby. My dads took me on the float sponsored by the clinic that matched them with Shelby."
Quinn nodded and smiled weakly.
"I can't believe I've never shown you the pictures," Rachel continued cheerfully. "Apparently I bonded with multiple drag queens. There's one photo where I'm trying to steal a microphone from a trio of Chers."
"Of course there is," Quinn said. "Okay, this stack is done," she sighed, holding up a series of brightly colored pages advertising free health clinics in Lima, Columbus, and Toledo. Smiling same-sex couples stared out from the pages. "I'll go make the copies."
"Thanks, Quinn," Rachel smiled, bumping her hip sideways against Quinn's. "I'm almost done, too."
Quinn headed to the color copier, smiling to herself over the idea of baby Rachel thriving among all of that fabulousness.
"How do you even work?" she muttered at the copier under her breath. She liked to think she was a fairly intelligent person, but figuring out its touch screen wasn't proving to be intuitive. She set the pages on top of the machine and resigned herself to reading the posted instructions on the front panel.
"Excuse me," a male voice said from just over her shoulder.
Quinn stood up and turned around, relieved, expecting to see someone in a purple Kinkos shirt arriving to rescue her from her incompetence.
Instead, she found herself face to face with a pudgy man around 35 in a white collared shirt, with curly brown hair and a receding hairline.
"Hello," he said, smiling briefly without his eyes. "I need to ask you a question."
Well, if he needs instructions on using the copier, he'll need to move along, she thought.
But he was concerned with something else entirely. He took another step forward and Quinn found herself suddenly uncomfortable. Was it on purpose that he'd just moved within arm's reach? She shivered.
"Is that homosexual propaganda that I see over there?" he asked, gesturing over Quinn's shoulder to the flyers she had left on top of the copy machine.
Quinn's blood went cold.
"Uhh," she replied. "Prop—propaganda?"
"Material meant to further a social or political agenda." He leaned forward almost – but not quite—imperceptibly.
"I know what it is," Quinn said, her voice quivering. He seemed to want to pin her between himself and the copy machine. She slid along the machine to her right and stepped past him. Rachel met her a few steps away, grasping her hands.
"Quinn, what's going on? Do you know this man?"
"No," Quinn whispered, her eyes wide. "He just came up to me."
And then he was right behind Quinn, face to face with Rachel.
"I hope this is sisterly love that I'm seeing between the two of you," he said. "Because God did not create young ladies to love each other in a homosexual way."
"Why don't you mind your own business?" Rachel challenged, stepping out from behind Quinn.
"Oh," he smiled. "But you are my business."
He was at least eight inches taller than Rachel, and Quinn did not like the looks of this at all. There was something weird in this guy's eyes, something vacant but also menacing. She needed to get Rachel away from him and out of here, but she was just standing. Why wasn't she doing anything?
"All God's children deserve forgiveness," the man continued. "The question is, are you willing to ask for it with your words and your actions?"
"You need to leave us alone," Rachel countered. "I have the ACLU on speed dial."
The man smiled more broadly this time, seeming to be genuinely mirthful. He held his palms out to his sides. "The institutions of man don't decide what's right and wrong. You young ladies may not want to hear what I have to say, but it doesn't make it untrue."
"Is there a problem here?" A middle-aged clerk stepped toward Quinn and Rachel.
"There certainly is," Rachel replied. "This man is harassing my girlfriend and me."
"Do I need to call someone, here?" the clerk asked. "Or are you going to leave these two underage females alone?"
"I'll pray for you," the man said quickly, looking into Quinn's eyes, and headed for the door.
"Thank you," Rachel told the clerk gratefully, and enveloped Quinn in a hug. "Sweetie, you're shaking."
Quinn lifted her hands to Rachel's sides, but didn't hug her back.
"It's okay, Quinn. He's gone, he's gone. Okay," she said decisively, "We're going to get out of here, okay? We can make the copies in Columbus tomorrow morning."
Quinn turned, fighting back nausea, and started for the copy machine where she'd left her papers.
"He's not gone," she said in a whisper, stopping in her tracks. Outside on the sidewalk, the man stood smoking a cigarette. "He's waiting for us."
"Okay, we need to call someone," Rachel said. "The police?"
"Oh God. No, I can't deal with that," Quinn said. "Can your dads . . ."
Rachel shook her head. "They're in Columbus already."
"Umm," Quinn said, thinking. "Call Puck."
"Okay," Rachel nodded, and dialed her phone.
Fifteen minutes later, Puck, Lauren, and Finn burst through the Kinkos door.
"Where is he?" Puck demanded of the girls. "I'll break his nose and happily go back to juvie."
"Ladies first, Puckerman," Lauren said, cracking her knuckles.
"He's gone," Rachel said quietly. "At least, he's been out of view for the last five minutes."
"Are you guys okay?" Finn asked. The look of worry on his face made Rachel's heart flutter.
"Yes," Quinn nodded.
"Yeah, we're fine. Just a little shaken. I don't think violence is necessary, Noah, he didn't hurt us. He didn't even really threaten to do-"
"Yes he did," Quinn cut her off. "It was in his demeanor."
"We're gonna drive around and see if we can see him," Puck said. "A grown dude intimidating a couple of high school girls like that? That ain't all right and he needs to be shown."
Quinn wrapped her arms around Puck. "It's okay, Noah. Thank you, but can you just take us home, please?"
The trio formed a perimeter around Rachel and Quinn, Lauren in the lead and the boys behind them at either side. There was no sign of the guy.
Lauren had driven, so Finn wedged himself into the back seat, scrunched up awkwardly next to Rachel. He was trying not to touch her with his thigh, but it was pretty much impossible, which was a fact that the corner of Quinn's eye seemed to have noticed. Rachel had never tried harder to make herself into a flat line.
"You guys let me know if you see him," Puck said as they pulled out of the parking lot, but the drive was incident-free.
When they got to Quinn's house, Rachel walked her to the door while Lauren idled at the curb.
"Are you sure you don't want me to stay?"
"I want to be alone."
"You'll call me later, right?"
"Yes."
Rachel leaned in for a kiss. Quinn, glancing at their audience only twenty feet away, redirected her into a hug.
Rachel trudged back down the sidewalk, glancing back over her shoulder, but Quinn had already gone back inside.
"Hey, so, does anyone want to go to The Lima Bean?" Finn asked as Rachel got back into the car.