Chapter 2 - To Persevere and to Excel!

She impatiently drums her fingers against the marble breakfast bar.

This isn't how things are supposed to go. By now, Santana should be awake, taking a tentative bite of Rachel's homemade version of heaven—oatmeal raisin cookies. She should be chewing on the delicious pastry, moaning with half-lidded eyes because Rachel is just that good. And then the Latina will be asking for another, and another, until she's stuffed with sugary delight, she'll forget ever being a bitch in real life. She'll give Rachel a hug, apologize for her earlier actions, and offer to help her in any way she can, like unpacking a few boxes she left in the living room.

But reality is, the cookies are sitting to cool on the dining table, and Rachel's torn between flinging them across the room and waiting a few more minutes.

She wants things to get better— more specifically, to get her roommate to like her—and she's figured that if this is to happen, then she needs to take matters into her own hands. Even if it means internally crying every time she has to crack open an aborted baby chicken. But sometimes you have to make little sacrifices in order to be rewarded. Or so they say.

And the reward comes in the form of delicious looking cookies the size of a regular dish. Rachel purposely made it big enough, that no one in this world would ever say no when offered with this treat. Not even the sleeping dragon inside that harmless-looking room across her.

But what if Santana prefers cupcakes?

Rachel briefly glances at the clock, and decides— taking a long, deep breath— it's now, or never. She'll reserve the cupcake plan for another day if this doesn't work.

Gathering what's left of her courage, Rachel takes several shaky steps towards Santana's room, trying to make as little noise as possible. Thankfully, Santana's too heedless to bother with locks, making it easy for the anxious brunette to merely twist the knob as mutely she can, and slide inside.

She resists a yelp the minute she makes it inside, almost losing her footing and nearly dropping the plate cookies as well as her efforts to waste.

Jesus, it's like walking into a disaster area. Rachel pinches her arms to make sure she isn't dreaming, because she's absolutely certain there's a G-string carelessly strung up by the window. The floor's covered with a variety of things—art supplies, textbooks, paintbrushes, worn clothes... She has to tiptoe her way around, not risking the possibility of stepping into a thumbtack. The utter chaos' making her head ache, not to mention, the disgusting smell of stale beer wafting through her nostrils.

Maybe she should pack her things and make a run for her life before it's too late.

Rachel makes her way slowly around the bed, and then sits at the edge of the mattress, making an effort not to dip in too much on the futon. Santana's sleeping on her stomach, and watching her in boxer shorts and a small tank top, the brunette mentally curses herself for realizing now how creepy this whole thing is. Less than a week in and she's apparently lost her marbles.

She hopes though, that Santana doesn't carry a rape whistle, because she can't even begin to imagine how she'd explain this to the New York Police Department.

"What the fuck are you doing in my room, Berry?"

Her heart leaps three levels up at hearing Santana's hoarse voice from beneath the comforter.

"Good morning, Santana." Rachel greets, surprised at the cheery tone she's able to muster. "How did you sleep? And uhm... how did you figure it was me?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe your candy perfume gave it away," Santana mumbles through her pillow. "Or the obvious fact that we're living together. Pick one."

"Well, I came in here to bring you some cookies. I made them, and I happen to be a really good baker, so—"

"Hush. Just hand me the damn biscuit."

"I-uh... here," Rachel puts the plate down right beside her head. "Would you like a glass of milk, or maybe some coffee? I already brewed—"

"One at a time. Geez, eager much? You baked this stuff?"

Rachel nods meekly. Santana blindly reaches for a piece, lifts her head just enough to free her mouth, and then eats the whole thing. Rachel's jaw drops, trying to decide what she wants more—the Latina's approval, or the chance of her choking on a huge ass cookie.

A few seconds after, Santana whines, "I hate oatmeal... more than I fucking hate raisins. Don't slam the door on your way out."

The remark earns her a glare from the brunette, which she ignores with a shrug before disappearing again beneath a cloud-white pillow (the only thing in here that looks considerably sanitary, in Rachel's opinion). The brunette frowns, expecting at least a 'thank you' which doesn't even have to be sincere. but more than that, she grieves the failure of her plan, and the fact that those baby chickens died for nothing.

"Hold up, one more thing!" Santana calls out suddenly, right before Rachel reaches the door. "Can you switch on the stereo? And max out the volume, I need to properly recharge in the morning."

After which, she's back to snoring like an animal.

Rachel does as she's told, and the music of Foster the People instantaneously reverberates off the speakers.

Considering her decent taste in music, Rachel might essentially forgive her someday.

xxxxx

At night, things are much more bearable.

Santana's out to some college frat boy's party, doing god-knows-what, and hooking up with someone Rachel hopes she won't meet in the middle of the night when she has to use the bathroom.

Things are better when she's alone, with nothing but a mug of hot chocolate in her hand and a novel to keep her company.

This week's story is about two people—*Alice and Mattia—caught up in a messy tale of friendship and love. And above all— being apart. Alice, crippled from a ski fall when she was a child, and Mattia, a math genius who occasionally cuts himself.

It isn't an altogether happy story, but its elements of yearning and misunderstanding feeds the hopeless-romantic part of her. And since she has a love for metaphors, she wonders in reverence what the author meant, when he wrote how the character Mattia saw himself and Alice as "*twin primes, alone and lost, close but not close enough to really touch each other". Rachel borrows the thought, relating it to her dreams of becoming a Broadway actress. She's made it to New York, got into the prestigious Julliard School of Drama, Dance and Music, and she has come so close…

And now after coming across these words, it troubles Rachel to realize that there's always the tragic likelihood of coming as close to her dream as such two prime numbers.

It' during these moments, when Rachel silently thanks her fathers for the encouragement they faithfully send her everyday.

xxxxx

Received: Aug 27, 2012 7:30 am

Motivational Quote of the Day: The essential thing is not knowledge, but character. – Joseph Le Conte

Shelley returns her calls one morning, and it doesn't take a few seconds for Rachel to finally erupt like a volcano. For the sake of civility, she has avoided any form of dispute with Santana, hoping to find a way to settle their difference in a much less… violent manner. But it looks like she's going to have to fight fire with fire soon.

"Damn Rach, slow down."

Rachel grips the phone tightly to her ear.

"I swear, she's a spawn of Satan. No wonder she's named Santana. I mean, she talks evil even in her sleep! Plus, she's rude, and selfish, and inconsiderate—"

"Yeah, I keep hearing." Shelley's calm voice echoes through the receiver.

"That's all you have to say?" Rachel shrieks.

"Well, what do you want me to say? I'm just the ref here, Rach."

"That I'm right, and she's a fucking bitch?"

"Wow… I rarely hear you swear. It must be really bad, huh? Look, I'm sorry, but I don't want to judge the girl. Give her another chance. For all we know she's approaching her time of the month or she's got anger management issues—"

"I don't care. She's driving me crazy." Rachel cuts her off.

Shelley's laughter resonates in her ear.

"I can't believe you're laughing at me."

"No, sorry, it's just that... I think it's safe to tell you now that I once complained to one of my friends about you."

Rachel gasps. "You did not."

"Yeah, I kind of did. You were so crazy with your rather peculiar diction, and your obsession with Funny Girl. I even thought you were gay for Streisand until that Jesse St. James proved otherwise."

"But you love me now, right?" Rachel says. "And that's gross. Barbra's like a mother figure to me."

"Deeply and irrevocably." Shelley confirms dully, but it still manages to make Rachel smile.

"Looks like I owe you a hundred. Just remind me when we see each other, okay?"

"Don't sound so defeated, Gold Star." Shelley coos. "Though I'd totally be lying if I say that winning our bet is definitely not the highlight of my day. You know I love being right more than anything."

"And I hate being wrong."

"You do. I can recall a few occasions where you've proven how much." Shelley muses. "So... what are you up to today?"

"Steindhart Orientation at eighty-thirty until five. It's a two-day program hoping to aid us in surviving our first year at NYU." Rachel says, quoting directly from the brochure they gave her together with her acceptance

"Like someone needs that kind of stuff." Shelley says.

"I do, actually." She responds solemnly, her mind wandering back to Santana and the atmosphere of terror she exudes. "I honestly need some guidance here. I'm not particularly good at fitting in. I told you how I was in high school," Rachel sighs at the memory. "Anyway, thank you."

"For what?"

"For not telling me, 'I told you so'."

"Didn't have to." Shelley mutters softly, sounding empathic.

"This is totally insane but, is there any chance you could join me here?"

"No chance at all, sweetheart. Listen, I have to go. But let me just tell you this: things will get better. Forget how I tried to stop you into leaving in the first place. I'm rooting for you, darling. Don't let one person ruin everything for you."

"You're right." Rachel sighs into the receiver. She wishes the call wouldn't have to end, but a part of her self feels relief in saying goodbye because this phone call is just another solid reminder of the good things she'd chosen to let go. "Bye, Shells."

"Later, Gold Star."

She hangs up and plops tiringly on one of the wooden benches, allowing the warmth of the sun to console her. The past several nights she hardly sleeps. Possibly still taking time to adjust in her new flat. It's not yet home, and Rachel doubts she'll use the term anytime soon. She goes over her inbox until she finds her Motivational Quote of the Day, reviewing it before she heads out to a cloudy Manhattan morning. Armed with renewed confidence, Rachel puts on her most charming smile as the doorman bids her farewell.

Rachel has both character and knowledge. She will find a way to humble Santana and take NYU by storm.

xxxxx

Their proctor arrives half an hour later. She greets the class with a vivid smile, introducing herself as Katrina Forbes, and currently on her second year as a graduate student. The slight wrinkles in her eyes strongly suggest that she's quite possibly in her mid-thirties. But whenever she smiles, the years magnificently fall away.

"Welcome to the official NYU orientation class, let's start with a short ice-breaker." The class noticeably perks up. "Anyone who's familiar with Kokology?"

Several students—including Rachel—raise their hand.

"Good, good. But for those who are hearing the term just now, Kokology refers to the study of kokoro, a Japanese word for mind or spirit. Please open your manuals to page eleven."

Forbes reads the directions aloud. And when she's done, she gives them five minutes to finish the entire survey.

Rachel proceeds turning the pages until she reaches a section that contains a set of seemingly random questions. She tries to contain the tiny ripple of delight as she scans the page, having always been fascinated with games of self-discovery. Being naturally attracted to human behavior, psychology came in second to her choice of career. But she doesn't think she'll ever give up performing. Besides, having a background on the subject can potentially help progress her talent as a Broadway actress.

For the next several minutes, she answers the questionnaire truthfully, circling the first letter she feels is her most appropriate response to the given circumstances. The key to Kokology is to let your mind drift off and go with instinct. It won't work when the person starts overthinking a scenario. What comes isn't a natural reaction but rather, a calculated action. And that rarely happens in real life. Rarely does a person think for several minutes before reacting to an incident.

Rachel taps the rear end of her pen softly against her cheek, finally arriving at the last question:

You are standing in front of a painting at an art museum, hands clasped behind your back as you try to take it in, when a total stranger comes up alongside you and says something to you. Which of the following does the stranger say?

(a) You know, I happen to be a painter myself

(b) Excuse me, do you have the time?

(c) Isn't that a beautiful picture?

(d) What do you think of this painting?

She easily rips a scenario from it, playing a tiny clip in her mind where a sophisticated-looking lady admiring a work of art, is approached by a dashing man— an artist himself— and they instantly jump into an innate conversation about art and life. And then the scene morphs into the man, asking the lady for a cup of coffee. He takes her home, paints her a portrait, and by the end of the day—they find true love.

Long ago, she would've imagined that man to be Jesse. And it sucks when reality tarnishes imagination.

"Time's up! Anyone who would like to share? First, introduce yourself, your course, and then uhm… let's go with your favorite hobby. After which, pick a question of your choice, you tell me your answer and I'll reveal what it says about—"

Rachel's hand quickly shoots up in the air.

"Alright, I love your eagerness! Let's hear it." She says, flashing her pearly whites at Rachel.

"My name is Rachel Barbra Berry," Rachel starts, swallowing nervously as every head turns her way. "And yes my middle name is after the great Barbra Streisand. I just transferred here from Julliard and I'm taking up Applied Psychology. Since I just mentioned Julliard, then I think it's obvious that my favorite hobby is singing. Well, actually it's not just a hobby. It's my life."

Rachel pauses, getting a old of herself before her little speech turns into a detailed autobiography.

"I choose question number ten. You are standing in front of a painting…" She begins to read the entire text, and afterwards, Rachel readily gives her answer.

Forbes clears her throat. "Thank you. Now this question aims to see how you'd react in chance encounters. Like for example, meeting someone for the first time. And you answered letter A…" She repeats Rachel's answer swiftly before moving on with its interpretation, "…this means you're fond of communication in general. You immediately trust someone with information about yourself— in a desire to impress them— so you don't have a hard time giving them."

Rachel nods in agreement. She briefly wonders how it's ironic that a study can easily say more about someone, rather than the people close to them.

"Can I have another volunteer?" Forbes calls out.

For a time no one moves or breathe. Every pair of eyes (except Rachel's) steering clear of Forbes' searching gaze.

"How about you?" She points at a student about four seats to Rachel's right. Brown eyes follow the direction of Forbes' hand, until it lands on a blonde with leaden hazel eyes, choppy hair framing the most perfect cheekbones Rachel's ever seen. She wears a grey boat-neck sweater and a sluggish look to pair it with.

There's about five seconds of dead air—of which Rachel can't grasp in any way because the task is simple. They're being asked to share a basic, honest-to-god answer that's either right or wrong and this girl appears utterly lost—

"I'm Quinn. Linguistics. Hobby, I… don't have one."

Her husky voice is consistently neutral— nearly monotone-ish. Rachel doesn't have to look at her in order to detect the apathy trickling with every syllable being spoken. The girl's barely making an effort to open her mouth that the words sound garbled to Rachel's ears.

Rachel wonders if maybe she came in intoxicated, but considering the time it's highly improbable. Still, Rachel is thoroughly turned off, shaking her head curtly at this outrageous form of disrespect.

"Alright, Quinn. Your question?" Forbes follows up when Quinn went silent again.

"Ten." Quinn swivels her chair.

"Oh, chance encounters again. And you answered…?"

Quinn swiftly runs her tongue over her front teeth. "B."

Forbes starts reading option B for everyone's convenience, and then gives the personality it embodies, "B. It means you have your own world, and that merits both a positive and a negative reaction from other people. You're not very attached to majority of society's norms, but instead, you live life at your own pace and maintain an individuality that most people wouldn't understand or relate to."

"Thank you for sharing, Quinn." Forbes adds, and Quinn's face maintains its same passive expression, looking far from apologetic.

"Okay now we move on to our main objective, which is to familiarize you with the university's standards and culture. But first, every student should be aware of what NYU strives to have each its students learn by heart. Which is…?" Forbes trails off.

"To persevere and to excel," Rachel recites with certitude. She doesn't even care if she's coming off as overly enthusiastic. Or if they think she talks an awful lot. She came prepared, and she's not going to hold back for the sake of being liked by people she doesn't even know. Success is a contest, and Rachel's a willing participant.

"That's right." Forbes says, and begins to discuss what students can expect from NYU, while Rachel lets her attention deviates once more towards the idle blonde, watching wide-set eyes stay glued to the shiny desk. Certainly, Rachel did not expect NYU would accept a student like this Quinn girl.

xxxxx

"Excuse me, but are you absolutely positive we're allowed in here?" Rachel waves at the glowing sign which hangs above their heads that said 'Carnival'. She stands on her toes, taking a glimpse of the pub. Her nose scrunches at the sight of an old man, squeezing a hundred dollar bill inside the breast pocket of a girl who doesn't even look old enough to volunteer at UNICEF.

There's no argument that this place's doing a good job living up to its name.

Forbes had rounded them up for drinks as soon as their last session for the day ended. Rachel had dared to protest, but everyone were already nodding their heads and passing out bars and nightclubs they know of.

"What are you? Fifteen?" Someone jeers in her face. Rachel steps back at disgusting smell of root beer and ham.

"If I look like it, then I take that as a compliment. Otherwise, that's a very immature thing to say, considering not everybody enjoys a lap dance or having their throats burned from—" Rachel's cut off by Forbes' body wedging between her and the bouncer.

"Don't try to upset the big guy until I can get all of you in, okay?" Forbes whispers or rather hisses at Rachel. Then with the little space she has, Forbes spins around and tells the bouncer, "Katrina Forbes. They're all with me."

He checks his clipboard, decidedly pausing to look at their faces behind his sunglasses, before eventually clearing the entrance. "Don't trip." He mumbles through a chuckle as Rachel brushes past his shoulder.

The brunette rolls her eyes, feeling more and more isolated as they walk further inside the club. It's all dizzy lights and the heavy scent of alcohol and perfume. Rachel supposes they might as well be in Santana Lopez's lair (this causes her to grip a metal pole, fearing that she might actually trip at the thought of Santana being here).

As they push through the crowd, Rachel wraps her arms around herself, occasionally cringing at the loud synthetic music blasting through the giant speakers. Before, Shelley used to drag her around Brooklyn, taking her to pubs packed with bikers and mostly, dangerous men who seem to enjoy preying on the likes of her and so she vowed she'll never again visit this kind of place, but—

But she couldn't really pass up an invitation like this, could she? Because it turns out that transferring to NYU is nothing like a breath of fresh air, nor a trip to fucking Disney land. In all honesty, she feels like an aquarium fish, suddenly thrown into the sea, swimming in vast, darker places for the first time, and with no crystal walls to protect her. And the worst part of it is there's no going back. So when a guy with a Mohawk from their group suggests they play a drinking game, Rachel all but smiles nervously.

Accept the challenge, sweetheart, her dads would always say. And so Rachel constantly lives up to the challenge, even though she hates it. And she's not sure what 'it' connotes exactly— it can be the itchy couch they're sitting on, the drink around her fingers she didn't ask for, or the vertigo slowly creeping into her head. Or perhaps all of it combined.

"It's like 'Never have I ever' but in reverse," He explains carefully, looking thoroughly pleased. "One of you is going to think of a nasty thing which you've either done, or has been done to you, and if someone hasn't done that before, then bottoms-up grandma." He raises his shot, and swigs it.

"I think I know what you're trying to do here Puckerman." Forbes comments, looks at him knowingly.

"Got a problem with that, Ms. Forbes?" Puck challenges with a playful wink.

Their proctor shakes her head, smirking with equal haughtiness. Rachel frowns, attempting to read into their interaction because it seems nothing good will occur in the coming hours. And it's only eight-thirty. God knows how long this kind of activities last.

Puck uncaps a bottle of Jack Daniels, says, "I'll go first."

Rachel positions her shot glass right in front of her. The sigh of it is already making her sick.

"Lit a cigarette in a non-smoking area."

Rachel downs her shot glass, wincing at the scorching in her throat.

"Bartop dancing."

And another one.

Puck wiggles his eyebrows ridiculously, and says, "Sex."

And—embarrassingly— another.

"Pee contest in a public restroom." ("Hey that's not fair!", some girl yells. But Puck's streak continues.)

And another shot. Her vision gradually starts to spin counter-clockwise.

"Kissed a girl."

Rachel downs her umpteenth shot. Actually, she's the only one who had to drink.

Puck pulls out an Absolut out of nowhere. They go for another round, exchanging creative experiences which Rachel can't even bring herself to imagine. Dear god, she never considered the possibility of death by a drinking game, being her ultimate fate.

"Holdup, smartass. We get it, you're a bad boy," Forbes interjects after some time. Half of the group are already drooling on the collars of their expensive shirts. "But I'm assuming the game rules are flexible, so let others take their turn. I'll go next, then Rachel, then Georgia and so on…"

"Have been cheated on twice," Forbes says it so casually, but Rachel feels the graveness of these words. All of a sudden, she's overwhelmed with an impulse to comfort her thirty-something friend—or teacher, it's too much confusing at the moment—and tell her she'll be okay. Or it could only be the alcohol starting to seep into the emotional side of her brain. Thankfully, she manages to controls herself. Nevertheless, Rachel feels bad for the woman and chooses to break the rule and preserve the little of what's left in her cup.

Forbes raises an eyebrow at her. "It's your turn Rachel."

Rachel's entire body goes rigid. "I- I haven't done anything remotely naughty, so…"

"Just think of anything." Forbes urges on.

Anything? Amidst the pounding in her head, Rachel can still make out a few 'anything's that most people would find boring, so she goes with the one experience she's actually proud of.

Rachel narrows her eyes deviously, and says, "Three-time nationals champion in a choir singing competition?"

They all stare at her dumbly, before eventually bring the burning liquid to their lips. Rachel smiles and takes her shot anyway, because at last, she won at something.

xxxxx

It's not exactly clear how she even got out of club without falling all over herself.

Her limbs feel heavy with something akin to lead, causing her movements to be stiff and slow. But when she makes it outside, she's more than delighted to receive the cold rush of wind against her face. Rachel breathes in the air like a drug, savoring the smoke-free atmosphere of the night.

Her mind unclutters, if only for a little bit, but enough to notice a far out figure slumping against a lamp post. Or maybe it's just her vision playing tricks on her again, because all the colors in her spectacle are beginning to bleed into each other, creating a lovely pattern of sorts until they morph into images of places and people she doesn't recognize.

Rachel shuts her eyes tightly, trying to shake off these hallucinations.

And when she opens her eyes again, she sees not a figure, but a girl, wearing a familiar grey boat-neck sweater …

…Quinn?

Footnotes:

*Alice and Mattia – These are characters from Paolo Giordano's "The Solitude of Prime Numbers". And yes, in this story, Rachel's currently reading this book. Also, I highly recommend you read this novel.

"*twin primes, alone and lost, close but not close enough to really touch each other".—direct quotation from the book. Twin prime, in mathematics, is a prime number that differs from another prime number by two (ex. 3, 5). A prime number never follows after another prime. Hence, they can only be as close as they can be, but never will they be together.

The book is an important plot element in this fic (yeah, I thought about this story a lot), so for now, just bear with it.