Everybody comes to the spring talent show because two dollars is a small price to pay to miss seventh period. And everyone pretty much knows that the weird girl in the animal sweater will go last, because the weird girl in animals sweaters always demands to go last. And after watching the audience sit through an hour of skinny white boy rapping, a bank geek quartet full of note clunking, and a injury-prone performance by the jugglers' alliance (which recently and thankfully pulled glee club up from the lowest bracket among social circles), you're honored that you can give them an opportunity to see what real talent is. None of your fellow glee clubbers are brave enough to face the humiliation of scattered polite clapping after a solo performance, but you're always ready to step up the challenge. And who are you to deny everyone the opportunity to one day brag to their friends that they knew Rachel Berry before she was a household name? Or at the very least a gay household name.
As you're singing your heart out, unperturbed by the restless movements of the audience who are no doubt all texting each other about topics that have absolutely nothing to do with Rachel Berry, you're scanning the crowd. You get an encouraging nod from Mr. Schuester, and even Kurt can't help but crack a smile when you flash him one between breaths. And when you let go of your last note, you convince yourself that the disinterested smattering of applause is a little louder for you than for the other performers. Of course Finn standing up in the back row clapping loudly like a crazy person helps add to the volume. But you're eyes aren't glued on him when you take your third gratuitous bow. They're roaming frantically up and down the rows and finding her absent.
Before you can exit the stage, the bell ending the school day rings and everyone scatters like mad to escape from the building for the weekend. You try to make eye contact with your peers to elicit some sort of acknowledgement of your superiority, but nobody congratulations you as you move through the hallway to your locker. Which isn't always easy at the end of the day when you're half a foot shorter than everyone else and usually take a carelessly flung backpack or two to the face. You're hoping that maybe you just missed her when you were looking around the audience, so you decide to stop by her office to eke out the praise you so desperately crave when your peers have failed you. She didn't mention driving you home today at lunch, but you know she'll probably offer if you poke your head in just for a second.
But your body freezes to a halt as you stop in front of the glass door, taking in the obstacle that kept her from viewing your performance. She's got her hand on Quinn Fabray's shoulder, frowning thoughtfully as the girl sobs into her own knees. And whatever flicker of sympathy you might have felt for your classmate regarding her recent predicament and the impact of the federal offense you committed last week poofs into thin air when you see Miss Pillsbury lean over and tug at Quinn's arms, pulling her up out of her chair and enveloping her into the space you were naive enough to think was reserved for you. And you're counting the seconds until she lets go of her, like the curiously gaping space between lighting and thunder.
You stop counting when you reach ten, unable to torture yourself any longer when you feel a heavy pat on the back and turn to see Puckerman giving you a fist raise as he passes down the hallway, oblivious to the scene you've been taking in. "Nice work today Berry," he offers kindly, before knocking back a gulp of his Big Quench as he continues down the hallway and out the door.
You turn back for just the briefest second to take in the Guiness World Record Hug before your eyes glaze over green and you find yourself shooting down the hallway quickly to catch up with him. He's moved halfway through the parking lot towards his truck before your yelling causes him to spin around and grin.
"Geez, you give a chick a compliment and she's jumping your bones already."
"Shut up. I need your slushie."
"What?"
"Just give it to me," you plead as he jerks back the container from your grasp, causing a little of the purple liquid to slosh over the lid.
"Um, yeah I'm gonna need at least an explanation, Berry, before you snatch my goods."
"I need it because I need to do this," you smile grimly, yanking it out of his grasp. You take a deep breath, knowing all too intimately the sting of the frozen impact, and squeeze your eyes shut as you dump the contents over the top of your head.
"What the fuck? Are you crazy?" You don't bother to answer his valid questions as you drop the cup on the ground and sprint back towards the side entrance to the school, leaving a drizzling purple trail behind your footsteps.
Your feet slip a little as you make your way down the hallway, causing you to reach out and grab the side of a locker to steady yourself before you scamper the rest of the way towards her office. You're relieved to find that Quinn is gone, and you see her sitting behind her desk with her eyes locked onto the computer screen. Taking a deep breath to center yourself and hone in on the skills from the improv class your dads made you take last summer, you focus enough on the sensation of the sticky ice running down your forehead to wring a few convincing tears out of your eyes. If trauma is what it takes to earn attention like that, then trauma is what you're going to give.
Your knock on her open door is as timid as you can possibly make it, and the diameter of her eyes upon looking up and seeing your current predicament is enough to tell you that it you've secured the nomination for best actress is a teen crisis.
"Rachel! Oh gosh what on earth happened?" She shoots up from her desk chair, eying you uneasily as your penny loafers squish into her office.
"I-I don't know!" you find yourself wailing as you wipe the slush dramatically from your eyebrows, "I was walking down the hallway and somebody told me 'Nice song, loser!' and before I could look up, it just hit me. Why does everyone hate me so much?" you lament aloud with an added sniff for dramatic effect. The story is so familiar to past encounters with your classmates that you almost believe it yourself as you shift into autopilot.
"Oh sweetie, I'm so sorry. Why don't you-no!" she shouts, abruptly startling you from your attempt to flop down into a chair. "No, Rachel, you can't sit there, you can't...please, you can't stand here," she stutters as she eyes the small purple puddle you've made on her floor. "C-can you just go back outside please? NOW?" she adds a little more urgently when you don't move immediately. The panic in her words and obvious rejection of you jolts you out of character, draining the space you've reserved for your tragic performance to make room for the deluge of anger you felt minutes earlier.
"What is wrong with you?" you snap, quite loudly, as she backs away from the step you've taken towards her. "You're so scared of a little water and food coloring that you can't even do your job!"
You can hear her swallow heavily as she squeezes her eyes shut, and you're not certain whether she's absorbing the extent of her current state of panic or the blow of your barbed comments.
"Rachel," she begins, her voice even and soft as she keeps her eyes shut as she chooses her words. "You don't think that I know that? I am...well aware...of my shortcomings."
"I just want to go home," you mumble desperately, feeling the sting of shame in your chest for the whole debacle you've initiated. "Can you just take me home?"
"Honey no, I can't," she says as she looks up at you with a frown. "I really I wish I could but you're...dripping...and sticky...and my car...and I just can't. What about Finn, huh?"
You shake your head and search for a convenient lie. "He has practice today."
"Okay, well..." she pauses as her glance shoots up towards the ceiling for an answer. "Okay, just hold on, I'll be right back. Please don't go anywhere." She sidesteps you and the puddle you've made on her clean floor as she disappears down the hallway.
After three minutes of waiting and wringing your sticky frosted mass of hair out in the hallway, you're sure your eyes deceive you as you see him following her back down the hallway toward you.
"Rachel," she smiles weakly, still keeping a good two feet of distance between you and her. "Mr. Schuester is gonna take you home okay? I'm gonna stay here and...clean up this mess."
"You okay, Rach?" he asks, his eyes much kinder than the last time you spoke to him. You nod silently, shooting Miss Pillsbury a peeved look before you lead him back down the slippery hallway towards your locker.
You open the door to the back seat of his car before he even asks you to, blushing at the memory of how you embarrassed yourself the last time he drove you home. He apologizes for the mess, and as you brush a mountain of fast food bags and greasy wrappers out of the way to make a space for yourself, you can't help but feel a little sorry for him.
"You were amazing today," he offers as he cuts out of the parking lot. "I know you know that. But I also know it's nice to hear. And I know your classmates have a way of knocking you down when you're trying to rise above them."
Normally you'd roll your eyes at the corniness of his sentiments, but they're exactly what you needed to hear at the moment and you aren't the least bit surprised when you feel the corners of your eyes sting wet.
"I yelled at her. I yelled at her for not being able to help me. And now she hates me. I'm sure of it."
You can see his body tense up at your mention of her, and you mentally flog yourself for bringing up such a sensitive subject.
"I know it's frustrating Rachel. Believe me, I know. But I also know that she hadn't spoken a word to me in a week. I think the building could be on fire and she wouldn't bother to come get me. But Rachel, she didn't hesitate for a second when it came to you. Not for a second. And whatever that is, it couldn't be farther from hate."
You exhale a silent "thank you" to him as you pull a stray napkin off the floor and wipe your cheeks. "I'm sorry I got slushie all over your car."
"It's okay, we're both messes today," he grins as he pulls to a stop in your driveway. "I'm sorry you had to sit in a pile of garbage. Hey, Rachel, hold on," he stops you as you open the door to exit his tiny car. You watch as he grabs an empty ripped envelope from his overhead mirror and flips open his glove compartment to search for a pen.
"She told me to give you this," he explains as he scribbles something on the back of the envelope. "I think she'd want to know that you got home okay."
You blink in surprise as he reaches back to hand it to you.
"But shower first," he teases as you stare down at the seven digits he's written. "She'll be able tell if you haven't. She has magical powers like that." The sad smile he gives you makes you feel more than a little guilt regarding your dental fawning earlier in the week.
As you hurry up the front walk, you turn to give your teacher a tiny wave of gratitude. Because you're pretty sure that the envelope clutched in your sticky fist is worth more than the longest hug you can possibly imagine.