Beth Corcoran has green eyes. You're not sure why this bothers you so much, but it does. Probably because your eyes were so dark that people used to ask your dads if they picked up their baby boy on vacation in Central America. She's barely three weeks old in the photos, but you can already tell she'll be the one parting crowded hallways in her high school days instead of pushing through them like you do. Sixteen years later. The mistakenly pudgey Guatamalan boy, all grown up.
You're sitting cross legged on your bed in the pink hearted pajamas your dads gave you for Valentine's Day, flipping over the photographs one by one like tarot cards as you squint at the images and decipher their meaning for the current predicament otherwise known as your life. Baby Beth on the couch. Baby Beth in her crib. Baby Beth in the sink. A pink bald blob of flesh with the same gaping green-eyed stare. Only sometimes in different outfits. You're grateful your mother isn't in any of the photos. The only trace of her is the writing on purple post it you found attached to a stray photo.
Beth says Hi! Let me know if you'd like more.
You can't help but roll your eyes a little as your fingers twist around a piece of your hair, still a little wet from the shower you took to clean off the slushie. Babies don't say hi, and you can't help but feel a little sorry for Quinn. The simplicity of the sentence itself seems unnaturally cruel to you. Your three week old daughter you gave away to a stranger just gurgled hello! Your dads would never have written such a thing.
You've just about convinced yourself that you're doing a favor by keeping them from her as you stack them back into a neat pile. You fasten them together with one of your hair ties and bury them back into the bottom drawer of your dresser, wondering how many more times you're going to torture yourself before you do something about it. The post it has already been sitting crumpled up in the bottom of your tiny trash crash for a few days, joined by the envelope Mr. Schuester gave you this afternoon.
But the prospect of calling her number simultaneously unnerves you and intrigues you the more you think about it. Because you don't think of your teachers as being actual people, having actual phone numbers and actual conversations that don't involve homework or detention or some other routine agenda. You're still not certain, however, that a Friday night phone call would be so welcome, as the whole offer smells like a gesture of obligation. Probably because most people's responses to your existence are gestures of obligation.
Your phone is blinking from the sixth text message Finn has sent you over the course of the evening. He's out doing family things with his family, and though you appreciated the invitation, an outing with his newly assembled family is the last thing you needed tonight. Your fingers are starting to itch, so you uproot your face from your pillow for a second to move your trashcan into the bathroom and close the door.
The buzzing of your cell phone causes you to blink awake on your bed a few hours later. Your hand slaps deliriously at it on the carpet as you wonder what time it is and roll onto your back and squint at the bright screen. It's past ten and you've missed four more messages from Finn regaling you with how many pizza bagels he has consumed in the last hour. As you're getting ready for bed, your eyes wander dangerously in between your toothbrush strokes, and before you can even spit and rinse your hand has shot down to dig through the trash. Before you can talk yourself out it, you're perched on the edge of your bed, hugging a pillow to your chest as the phone rings for the fourth time. And you're about to hang up with the line picks up.
"Emma Pillsbury's phone. How can we be of service?"
You pull the phone away from your ear in shock as the distinctly male voice bleeds through the speaker once again.
"Helloooo? Anybody there?"
You hang up in a panic, dropping your phone down onto your bedspread as if it had burned your hand. You stand up and take a few tentative steps away from it. Sure enough, after a few minutes, it begins to vibrate. Letting it go to voicemail would ruin any hopes for anonymity, so you begrudgingly pick up the phone as you squeeze your eyes shut nervously.
"Hello?"
"Hi, um who is this?"
"I'm really sorry," you blurt immediately. "That was so unbelievably rude of me but I didn't expect someone else to answer and then I thought you might be busy and I didn't-"
"Rachel," she interrupts you, as she is easily able to recognize your panicked voice. "Slow down. It's okay. I'm sorry I didn't pick up I just...don't usually get calls this late and I didn't recognize the number, so I had Carl answer it. I didn't realize that it might be you until after you hung up."
You grimace. Right, because only a crazy, selfish person would bother someone this late on a Friday. "Again, I am so, so sorry. I didn't realize what time it was," you find yourself lying, "and I should have realized that you'd already be in bed and-"
"No!" her voice chirps through the receiver as you wince a little from the volume. "No, no, no. I-we-were not, nope, no Carl...Dr. Howell's gone. He's gone and I am awake, well um obviously, and I am not in bed and no, he was just on his way out when you called and no I'm awake I wasn't," you hear her swallow nervously, "in bed. So how are you doing? Did you make it home okay?"
"Yes," you nod as you stare at yourself in the mirror, wondering what else you're supposed to say.
"Good, that's good. And Mr. Schuester obviously gave you my number, so that's good."
"Uh, yep."
"Good. I told him to do that."
"Yeah, that's what he said."
"And you got home okay?"
"Yeah, I had to ride on top of the garbage in his back seat."
You grin as she laughs a little, but you can still hear the nerves in both your voices. "Oh gosh, I don't want to imagine. He's bad about that."
"Yeah..." after a few seconds of silence you frown at your reflection as you realize that this was even harder than you had anticipated, drumming your fingertips on top of your dresser as you both awkwardly wait for the other to speak.
"Rachel...I just want you to know that I feel horrible for this afternoon. It's my job..."
You frown as you hear those three words again, but she realizes her mistake and corrects herself before you can say anything.
"It's my job to make sure that you feel safe at school and make it home okay. And...I think I did that. But I feel like I failed you as a friend today and I really don't have any worthy excuse for that."
"We're friends?" you ask, genuinely surprised as you slide down the wall and onto the floor to sit. You can tell by her silence that's she turning the question over in her mind as far as her job can let her.
"Well...yeah," she answers, her voice much quieter. "I mean I thought so."
You pull your knees to your chest and smile.
"But Rachel, I am a little curious about something. You've been hit with a slushie more than a few times in a last few years and-"
"Is that supposed to make it less painful?" you snap, suddenly feeling defensive.
"Well, no. But today was the first time you came to me about it..."
Your throat tightens as you're certain that she's caught you in your lie.
"Was there something else that was bugging you sweetheart?"
More than anything you just want to tell her the whole truth about your self-inflected slushie. But she's called you her friend and you're willing to settle for half the truth and not lose that privilege.
"You didn't come. To the talent show. I looked for you and you weren't there."
"Oh."
"So you forgot then."
"No...I didn't forget about it. I was just busy and had a meeting."
"You didn't have a meeting. You had Quinn and I know it wasn't planned because she always comes during 6th period and not 7th." The knowledge flies out of your mouth before can reel it back in, and you grimace a little at how crazy you sound.
"Rachel, you know I can't talk about this with you. But if a student stops by my office with a problem I can't just turn them away."
"She always stops by. Every day she stops by."
"Yes, she does." You're surprised to hear no trace of frustration with you in her voice as she admits what you've already figured out.
"Because you want her to."
"Because it's part of her transition plan."
"Is excessive hugging part of her transition plan?" you practically hiss before you can stop yourself. "Because I really doubt you can use that excuse."
When you're met with silence on the other end, you realize that she's giving you an opportunity to apologize. You don't know why you try and push people away before they push you, but it's an urge you just can't seem to shake. You suddenly realize that she's a lot better at her job than you give her credit for and you wonder if she has figured you out better than you have yourself.
"So you would have handled it differently?" she asks evenly when you don't take back your words.
"Yes, yes I would have. It was her choice to give up her child and she's got to live with that choice and the sooner the better. And if you ask me I think she's more than used up the pity she deserves from everyone, especially you. Coddling her isn't going to help."
"You think that I'm coddling her."
"I do."
"Helping a student through a difficult time is not coddling Rachel. And I don't think that I treat Quinn any differently than anyone-"
"What, you think that I'm jealous?" you scoff, knowing full well that you're admitting more than you're denying with such a question.
"Well...are you jea-?"
"No!" you snap, a little too quickly. You feel more than a little trapped by her questioning, not ready to admit to her or yourself that you care way more than you should. That you'd gladly let Quinn have reign of everything else in your life except this. Except her.
"You're the one who told me to call you, okay?" you whine. "I didn't ask for a ride home last week." You're thankful that she can't see your tears as squeeze your arms tighter around your knees.
"I...know that. Did you not want those things?"
"Well I certainly don't if this is just part of my transition plan, Miss Pillsbury. Rachel Berry, transitioning from seriously crazy to slightly less crazy."
"Emma."
"Excuse me?"
"My name is Emma."
"Well...I know that," you frown, not following her. "What does that have to do with anything?"
"And I gave Quinn a hug because she needed one. She was hysterical and sometimes I find that words just fail in a situation like hers."
"I know that. I'm not stupid."
She sighs a little before continuing. "And do you know why I hugged you the other day, Rachel?"
"Because Dr. Howell made you."
She surprises you with a laugh. "No, that is not why. I hugged you because..." she pauses a little and you can feel her hesitation through the receiver, "well, because I wanted to. Because I think I needed one as much as you did."
"Oh."
"And you don't see the difference."
"Not really," you lie, curious to hear more from her.
"Rachel Berry, you don't see the difference between ten thirty on a Friday night and seventh period?"
You grin a little at her teasing. "I guess so."
"Well you better guess so."
"Well you better answer the next time I call you and not some boy," you poke back, suddenly feeling a little bolder.
"I promise," she laughs. "No boys. Goodnight Rachel."
"Goodnight...Emma." Your face scrunches in embarrassment as you test out her name and decide you like the sound of it.
And when you flick off the lights and crawl into bed, you can't decide which makes you happier. The fact that there will be a next time, or the fact that she never questioned the necessity of one.