You can't remember what made you start taking your afternoon power walks through her neighborhood. But one afternoon you find yourself veering left instead of right, and ten minutes later you're way past your regular route and speeding on your short legs through the ritzier part of town. Your dads are well off by most standards, but the Fabray house looms over you like Daddy Warbucks' mansion did in the dreams of your childhood, and you can't help but feel a little intimidated. You wonder how Finn must have felt the first time he was invited over here.
The first time you jog past, you give a slight nod to the mailman, who's busy shoving Barneys and Saks catalogs no doubt into the giant brick encased mailbox. The second time, you look around to make sure there are no cars in the driveway before your fingertips nudge the box open with a creak. And before you can talk yourself out of it you're flipping through credit card bills and fancy college brochures. You're not sure what you're looking to find, but you'll know it when you see it.
The fourth day you give in to temptation, a small manila envelope falls out of your hands as you scramble to put everything back into the box. You don't recognize the handwriting (why would you?), but Quinn's name on the envelope and the unfamiliar return address (who else would she know in Portland?) are enough to raise your suspicions. You're just going to commit the address to memory and shove the mail back into its rightful place when you hear a car turn onto the street, and before you can gather your thoughts you panic and shove it underneath the waistband of your shorts, sprinting so quickly in the opposite direction that your earbuds fly out and flop behind you like a tail as you scurry back towards your street.
Fifteen minutes later, you're pacing back and forth in front of your bed, eying the unopened envelope like it's some bloody glove you've got to get rid of before the police trace you back to the scene of the crime. Just when you've convinced yourself to run back and slip it into the mailbox, one of your dads calls you down to dinner. So you shove it into the bottom drawer of your pink dresser and pretend that it's not a big deal.
x x x x x x x x x x x x x
Eating lunch by yourself in the choir room isn't as depressing as you thought it might be. You can run your fingers through the few piano pieces you have memorized between bites, and sing as loud as you want without anybody telling you to shut up Berry and give someone else a turn. You're finally getting the focus you need to plan for life after high school, and for a while your purple pen can barely keep up with the ideas floating out of your head for ways to get ahead of the game and on track. But after a few days you start to really ask yourself what exactly you're trying to prove.
You know for a fact that she is sitting in your spot, flipping through her book until you forgive yourself for blowing up and just pull out the chair across from her. You know this because every day for the last week when the fourth period bell has rung, you poke your head into the cafeteria just to confirm that she's given up on you. Every day, she proves you wrong. And every day you're just a tiny bit closer to throwing in the towel until 6th period rolls around and Quinn walks out of Spanish class with a blue guidance slip like it's some sort of golden ticket. Or a trophy for a contest you're never going to win. Thinking about the envelope buried in the bottom of your dresser, still unopened, you sink lower into your desk and let the guilt chip away at your wounded pride. You wonder what Portland's like in the summer.
On Friday afternoon, you've just finished helping Mrs. Carlyle take down the science fair projects in the library (for extra credit of course) when you're walking down the hallway towards your locker. You've gotten pretty good at staring straight ahead when you zip past her office, but your head can't help but turn in that direction when you hear their shouting seep out of her office and bounce down the empty hallway.
What did you think I meant? That he was what, holding your place until you decided you wanted me back?
Well it wouldn't be the first time you used someone for that!
This is nothing like that Will and you know it! We're done and you can't just kiss me again and expect me to melt into a giant puddle of naivety.
Really? Because it didn't seem like you were so opposed to it the last time!
When you see him rounding to the other side of her desk, you know and she knows and he knows what's going to happen again. And before you can remind yourself that you're not speaking to her, you're calling out his name and sending both of their heads swiveling towards your voice like it's a giant spotlight on the outside of a prison yard wall.
"I'm-um. I'm sorry to interrupt but I just wanted to let you know that Coach Sylvester is trying to ah, install a dozen tanning beds for the Cheerios in the choir room. I'd tried to stop her but-"
Before you can finish your sentence, he's brushed passed you and into the hallway. You're pretty sure he knows you're lying, but it's too late for him to salvage his pride. You look back to see her leaning against her bookcase, her chest rising and falling and her eyes squeezed shut in embarrassment and relief. You start to excuse yourself, but then her blind grip sends a picture frame careening off the shelf and shattering across the linoleum. And you're squatting on the ground before you can blink, gingerly picking up the larger pieces of glass between your fingers when her very small, shaky voice interrupts you.
"Rachel-stop. You don't have to-"
"It's okay. I know the floor's dirty. Can you get me a dust pan?" you ask, not having to look back up to confirm the tears streaming down her face. She hands it to you, and as you sweep up the tiny remaining pieces you can't help but shake your head a little at the symbolism.
"You don't have to explain," you offer, sweeping the shards into her garbage can before you stand and brush the dirt off of your knees. "If anyone knows how frustrating it is to argue with him, it's Rachel Berry."
She lets out a shaky laugh as you hand her the tissue box the way she's done with you a thousand times, a gesture which gives you a new appreciation for her patience.
"I don't know about you, but I'm ready to get out of here," she jokes, swiping at the smudges on her eye makeup. You couldn't agree more.
When she pulls out of the school parking lot, you click your seat belt in place and give her the directions to your house. It's only four blocks away, but your heart is thumping wildly like a million blue guidance slips have landed in your lap. You don't expect her to say anything, and she hasn't said much since she locked the door to her office and waited for you to get your bag out of your locker.
Her cheeks are still red, and her mascara's a little smudged. But when you thank her for the ride for the tenth time as she pulls into your driveway, she musters up the best smile she can and reaches over to give your hand a squeeze.
"It's not my job. But I wanted to."
"You did?"
She nods and squeezes your hand a little tighter. "I did. You're very special Rachel. And I'm sorry I ever said anything to make you think otherwise."
You practically fling your backpack on the kitchen table as you bound up the stairs, slamming the door to your bedroom behind you. Your hand is jerking open the bottom drawer to your dresser as you flop down on the floor, folding your legs underneath your skirt as you carelessly rip open the envelope. When you give it a shake, a flood of baby pictures rains down around your knees. You can feel the wetness on your face before you peel the first one off the carpet.