Normally you would find his obliviousness more than a little endearing. But when Finn calls to ask you what you want to do on Saturday, and you casually suggest that the two of you take a drive over to Akron, he doesn't seem to catch on. You almost half suggested it just to get him to talk you out of it, but for some reason he's content to spend half the day shouting out faraway states on the license plates of cars that whiz by on the interstate. Cars whose passengers point and laugh and your dramatic pantomiming while you sing along to the Gypsy revival soundtrack.
You've been sixteen for a while now, but your dads never bothered to teach you how to drive. They would have gladly obliged if you had asked, but all three of you had always assumed you'd never venture farther than Manhattan without a chauffeur one day. Your friends would probably wonder why you didn't drive. If you had friends. But Finn's the only one who cared enough to ask. "You don't need a car at Julliard," you had corrected him, suddenly noticing how much your last boyfriend's braggadocio had actually rubbed off on you. If Finn minded, he didn't show it.
The car jerks to a halt and wakes you from a short nap, and when you look around you and find yourself surrounded by an army of Range Rovers, you realize he's already pulling up into the Carmel parking lot. And for the first time you recognize that he understands more than you give him credit for.
"I can't go in there," he says, fingers gripped on the steering wheel, more in check with his emotional limitations than you can hope to be by a long shot. "I don't think you should either, Rachel."
The door to the auditorium clicks a little bit more loudly than you would have liked, but they're all too caught up in the choreography to notice. You take a seat in the balcony, your eyes skimming down across the empty director's table down below to the sides of the sleek blue stage curtain. The AV student running the sound booth gives you a peeved look when you tap incessantly on the glass to get his attention. Even he knows you don't belong here.
You squint a little under the bright sun as you escape through an exit door and make your way back around to the side parking lot. Finn's busy talking to a girl heaving over a trashcan, and you know what he's going to tell you just by the look on his face. She's already gone.
"I know she told you where they moved," you threaten, turning down the volume on Bernadette's voice as he pulls out of parking lot.
"It doesn't matter," he shakes his head as he pulls down the overhead visor. You know he won't deny you if you ask again, but you stop yourself when you realize that he'd drive you there next Saturday if you asked him too. So you don't inquire further. It's the smartest thing you've done in months. You wonder what Miss Pillsbury would say.
Your question is answered sooner than you would like. A few miles from Lima, Finn pulls into a gas station to fill up his car. "Now that...is a sweet corvette," he comments, pulling up behind an empty red convertible. You roll your eyes, and he grins like a five year old when you pull a couple dollars out of your purse and tell him to go get some Sour Patch Kids. As you lean your forehead against the hot window, feeling guilty for wasting his whole Saturday by being so selfish, you wonder why he's taking so long. When you look up, you see him standing out front talking to her. You almost don't even recognize her at first in the short blue sundress she's wearing. Her fiery hair's pulled back into a loose pony tail and a pair of sunglasses are balanced symmetrically on the top of her head.
Pleasenopleasenopleaseno, your mind begs Finn. And you grimace in horror as you watch him point over to you in the car and her eyes follow. You can almost see the word Akron floating out of his mouth like a comic strip, and you can tell by the flash of recognition across her face that she's already connected the dots in her head. She gives you a very small, hesitant wave, which you mirror. Just when you think Finn is going to come over and make you get out of the car, a man comes out of the gas station. Whipping off his black aviators, he extends a hand to Finn while he drapes his free arm around Miss Pillsbury. You're sure that you recognize his handsome features from somewhere, but you just can't quite put your finger on it. You watch Finn take his hand, a little uneasily, and you know exactly who he's thinking about at the moment. Miss Pillsbury shoots a glance your way, and you're pretty certain she knows what you're thinking about too.
When he gets back in the car, he tosses a water bottle into your lap and the bag of candy into the back seat.
"Who was that?" you offer casually.
He shakes his head as he puts the car into reverse, looping around the convertible as he repeats the same wisdom he gave you earlier.
"It doesn't matter."
Wednesday at lunch is tater tot day, so you know it's useless to run to the cafeteria to try and beat everyone else in the line. You have fourth period lunch this semester, and no one in glee club to sit with except Santana, who told you to go sit at the dwarf table, Berry, the last time you cautiously slid your lunch tray across from hers. Most days you're content enough to sit by yourself, pulling your furry purple pen out of your backpack to make a list of everything you have to accomplish this summer. Auditions. Lessons. Diet and exercise. You've got to stay on top of things until you can hire people to remind you to do them. At dinner a week ago, one of your dad's casually mentioned how a ten-year-old girl in the town down the road had gotten discovered and picked up to tour with Les Miserables. So when you press the purple ink to the paper today, it feels like you've already missed the boat. You wonder if your mother felt the same way when she was carrying you around. You were supposed to be her ticket, but she had cashed it in too late.
The last few days you've been noticing Miss Pillsbury hanging around the lunchroom. She mostly keeps to herself, pulling a novel out of her bag and occasionally looking up nervously when a student gets rowdy across the crowded room. You don't have to ask yourself why she isn't eating with the other teachers, because you already know the answer to that question. Just as you're noticing her absence today, her black bag drops on the table in front of you.
"Is this seat taken?"
If anybody else in the world had asked that question you know it would have been a cheap joke at your ever-sinking popularity status.
You shake your head, settling your pen down on the table as you flip your notepad and your secrets shut.
"I don't mean to interrupt your writing if you need some-"
"No, no it's okay," you assure her, certain she can smell how desperate you are for a lunch companion. "Just making a list of some things I need to take care of this summer."
She nods in recognition as she sits. "I do the same thing when I eat by myself. Although I'm sure you've got much more on your plate than I do."
Her words are meant to lure you into the neverending conversation you have with anyone who will listen about your plan for inevitable success. It's safe, and it's how people who are close to you have learned to autopilot through a unavoidable, exhausting conversation with Rachel Berry. What's funny is that it used to not bother you one bit. Now it just feels embarrassing.
You don't blink when she puts her plastic gloves on and wipes down the table, but you know she can feel the eyes of surrounding tables directed at her. It impresses you how something so simple can command so much attention, but you've spent enough time in her office to know she's not like you and would give anything just to blend in for once.
"I know you want to ask me," you blurt out faster than your mind can reel your words back in. "So just go ahead."
"Ask you what, Rachel?"
"What happened on Saturday," you acknowledge, lowering your voice in shame.
"Okay then," she nods down as she pops open her container of carrots. "What happened on Saturday?"
"Why are you asking me when you already know?" You realize how absurd you sound and you're genuinely surprised when she doesn't laugh at your stubbornness. She thinks for a second before trying again.
"Did you see her?"
"No. She's gone." You take your breath and continue before she can give you any sympathy. "And don't you know that asking yes or no questions is really bad for somebody who talks to people for their profession?" You don't know why you take so much pleasure in criticizing her, but before you can apologize, she laughs a little and shakes her head at your critique.
"Believe it or not, yes I do know that Rachel. Forgive me, but this is new territory for me. Usually when we talk I get a monologue about your weekly drama before I can even open my mouth."
"Are you making fun of me, Miss Pillsbury?"
She stops mid-bite and offers you the smile that has always seemed to elude your conversations. "That's a yes or no question. Try again."
She deadpans it so well that it takes you a few seconds to recover from shock before you feel your own lips curve into a grin. A curtain has been pulled back, but you can't decide whether she's let you in or you've let her.