"Drum Fills in Our Hearts"
Part 2 Chapter 1 - I Had Days
Washington, DC was never on her radar. New York was usually number one, then LA, then maybe Chicago. Washington, DC didn't have any discernable music scene. At least not one that she'd heard of. She couldn't think of any great bands that had come out of DC. She was sure there must be some, but she didn't want to have to get on the internet to check. She couldn't think of any world famous DC music venues. DC was barely a blip on her radar. She wouldn't be able to get jobs there. And yet...
But DC was where she'd found her first audition. It happened to be the location of the first person that had actually called her after she'd sent out about one hundred CDs wrapped in a neatly printed list of percussion skills and gigs she'd taken since she'd first picked up her sticks. The packaging probably drove away most potential employers. She'd sent the paper wrapped CDs to venues that had house bands - everywhere from dives in New York City to opera houses in Tennessee.
She didn't expect much. But when the mailman slammed shut her mom's mailbox in their cul-de-sac in Lima, Quinn drop her sticks and race up the stairs to check for responses. It didn't make sense, really. Anyone truly interested would be giving her a call, or emailing her.
Which turned out to be true. About five months into her deluge of mailings, she got a call. It woke her from her sleep.
She'd packed up her kit and a few pairs of clothes in the morning and driven through Columbus, West Virginia, and Maryland for more than 10 hours only to spend the night parallel parked on a sketchy alley in DC. The next morning she set up her kit in the stale smoke of a jazz club along U Street. She'd been glad for such a long drive. It had given her ample time to review the jazz riffs she'd forgotten in her dreams of being a rock star.
Mr. Marks hadn't expected her to be white. Or a girl. Or 19 years old. He also hadn't expected to hire her as the club's house percussionist. Quinn hadn't expected it either. But she had a job. And a one room place with a cot over the club to stay for the time being.
Puck followed not long after. They'd lost touch for the remainder of senior year, when she went away. But sometime in the summer after graduation, around the time that Quinn returned back to her mother's house in Lima, Puck knocked on the back glass sliding door, sat down on her couch, and picked up the video game controller as if nothing had happened. As if they'd always been best friends. As if it was normal.
They didn't talk about what happened for years. Not through the time that Puck lived above the club with Quinn, sleeping on the floor while he worked as a bus boy at a restaurant around the corner. Not through the time that Puck became the house bassist at the club and they'd put their earnings together to get a two-room place around the corner from the club. Not even through their first tour with the U Street Jazz Cats through the South.
Puck became the brother Quinn never had. More so after the talk. They were 23 and in a motel just outside of Charleston, South Carolina and Quinn was drunk and humiliated and Puck just listened. And the next day, Quinn expected him to be gone, but he wasn't. He was scowling at the Southern humidity and tuning his bass on the edge of the bed. And all Quinn could feel was relief.
The U Street club had closed not long after their second tour of the South. It didn't help that Mr. Marks ran a numbers game through the club most nights. Quinn was just glad that a visiting band was playing when the club was raided.
The Cats, as Quinn called them, stayed together and continued on tour. It wasn't much, but it was enough for Quinn and Puck to keep up their two room apartment and save a little each month, when they weren't blowing money on instruments or alcohol.
They'd been to New York City before. Going through the Holland Tunnel usually gave Quinn a flash of herface and a bubbling in her stomach, but as soon as they'd emerge into the light and the bustle of the city, all was forgotten. They'd go to whatever jazz club they were supposed to play that night. Do a sound check. Find some restaurant to grab a few drinks and some cheap fried food. Head back to the club and play at least three sets. Scoop up their tips. Drink on the house. Take an expensive cab out to some outer borough to stay with some friend of a friend. Wake up with headaches and move on.
New York was the last stop on the tour this time. With their relative success, they'd actually booked a week of gigs at one of downtown Manhattan's moderately popular jazz clubs. Puck had been so excited that they'd booked a semi-private hostel room in the Village rather than stay with his skeezy friend in Brooklyn yet again. He'd said something about "rolling in money, now."
The first night was like any other night on tour.
So was most of the second night.
Quinn had returned to their bunks in the hostel. Despite being a touring musician, she couldn't drink herself silly every night and wake up with hangovers every morning. Not like Puck.
She woke to Puck's sour breath and a poking in her side.
"Quinn. Quinn. Quinn."
Quinn turned over to find Puck sitting precariously at the edge of her bottom bunk.
"What Puck?" The sleep made her voice scratchy.
"Guess who I saw tonight?" Puck teetered and pushed his left foot out to keep himself upright.
Quinn felt like she might throw up. She knew the answer before he could even say her name. Who else would he run into in New York? Who else would merit waking her up in the middle of the night? Sure, they'd had the talk. But Quinn had been sure to dance around Rachel as much as possible. Puck couldn't have known the reaction that her name would elicit.
He didn't wait for her to answer. "Rachel Berry." He looked at her with eyebrows raised and a strange grin on his face. "Rachel fucking Berry."
Quinn didn't want to hear about her. She'd spent the last five years crafting a new Quinn and the name "Rachel Berry" was a reminder of the Quinn she'd spent so much time emerging out from under.
"So we're in this bar. Some piano bar. Stupid place. A bunch of theater geeks. And she's behind the bar. Behind the fucking bar, Quinn! A Broadway star doesn't double as a bartender."
Puck finally stopped, waiting for a response in earnest. Quinn didn't want to be interested, but the allure of the Rachel Berry of her past was just too strong.
"So, did you talk to her?" She whispered.
"Yeah. I sat down at the end of her bar. She didn't recognize me at first, but then she just stared at me. Called me 'Noah.' I almost forgot that was my fucking name, Quinn." He laughed but Quinn's face felt frozen. She awaited more. "She's gonna come to the show tomorrow night."
Quinn couldn't release the air from her lungs. She felt her body shake minutely, not enough for a drunk Puck to notice.
"What?"
"Yeah, I told her I had a gig and..." She couldn't deal with Puck's drunken state anymore.
"Did you mention me?"
"Uhhh...I don't..." Puck looked beyond her. "Unsure. Shit. I forget."
"Puck, I don't think Rachel wants to see me."
"Oh sure she does. She used to always ask about you when you left Lima at the end of senior year. She even got your email address from me when I first moved to DC."
"What? How come you never told me this?" Quinn's brows scrunched together.
"She didn't email you?" Puck's face mirrored Quinn's.
"No."
"Oh, well, I didn't know it was important, I guess. Anyway. It'll be fun. She sounded excited."
Quinn tossed and turned in her bed. The third night would certainly be different from any other night.
...
The third day was certainly different. Quinn could feel the bags under her eyes and the cold, clamminess of her skin whenever it made contact with something. Even though it was the third day and they didn't need to, Quinn went in for a sound check. It was the only thing to get her mind off of what she could only feel was impending doom.
Wailing away on the drums continued to be the remedy. A sound check, it was not. She had to retune her snare after slamming on it so hard. The bartender in the club seemed to disappear from his set up during the last half of her practice, likely escaping the piercing snaps of the snare and crash cymbal.
As with all performances, the lights were too bright, and she couldn't make out any faces. In turn, it almost felt like any other gig. Almost.
Quinn felt the drum sticks nearly slide out of her hands any time they were idle. Her brain raced between sets. She'd disappear into the musicians room rather than stand outside with Puck smoking a cigarette or having a drink. In the room, she braced herself best she knew how, by taking shots with the trumpet player and playing a hand of cards every now and again.
But the avoidance routine could only stand for so long.
"Fabray, the gig's up," Puck giggled like a school girl as her pushed his way into the alley. He was drunk. "Literally and figuratively."
"Jeez, Puck, I didn't think you knew what those words meant." Quinn could hear the familiar honeyed tones of her voice before she saw her. She quickly stubbed her cigarette out and shoved her phone in her pocket. She'd only been playing a game anyway. As she stood, she noticed a familiar presence in front of her.
Rachel had grown up, somehow. It took few moments for her to take everything in. She was leaner, more toned. Maybe as a result of all that dancing work Quinn had heard they had to do in arts school. Her makeup was a little darker, more sultry. Her outfit was not the same Rachel Berry outfit from William McKinley High School. Gone were the knee socks, argyle sweaters, and headbands. She wore long leather boots, pulled up over tight blue jeans. Quinn took notice of some sort of designer blouse or something. She didn't know her fashion much, but it definitely wasn't a sweater with reindeer. And no headband. Rachel's hair fell in waves around her face. Quinn caught a glimpse of her eyes and quickly averted her gaze to the ground.
She must have stared for long enough to create some sort of uncomfortable silence. Quinn began kicking herself. This was not how she was supposed to make Rachel feel around her.
"Well, uh, I'm gonna get back inside," Puck placed the brick in the back door of the club and left them to their privacy.
As soon as the door hit the brick, Quinn could feel a chill in the air. She stuffed her hands in her pockets, unsure of how to break the awkward silence between them. She didn't have to.
"I know you're trying to keep yourself together on the outside, but I bet inside, your heart is just swelling with this pride that you've actually made it, that you're living your dream, and you get to see me standing here, like this. Pathetic. Just a touring group. Not even a part of a Broadway chorus. Working at a bar when I'm not on tour." Her words felt like venom, piercing Quinn into submission.
Quinn felt her face screw up and was at a loss for words for a few moments. "Of course not. Why? I don't…"
"The last time you spoke to me you spewed such hatred and anger. I remember every word of it. Every vile word, Quinn," Quinn looked at Rachel, who leaned against the brick wall of the alley. Her words were still filled with anger, but tears brimmed in her eyes. Quinn wanted to take a step toward her. Wanted to wrap her arounds around Rachel's back and bury her face in her hair and whisper her apologies over and over again. "Seven years later, and I remember every single word you said to me. You begged me to remember how nice you were. How nice you were. I've been fighting with that line for seven years. You weren't nice to me, you were selfish. You never cared about my happiness, just what I could give you in return."
Quinn hadn't thought she'd have to defend herself against those words ever. Not in person. She'd run through hundreds, perhaps thousands of apologies to Rachel. Half of her journals from her time away from Lima at the end of senior year were apology letters written to Rachel. Now, face to face, she struggled with the right thing to say. She knew now that there probably was no right thing to say.
"I've thought about those words for seven years, too. They were my undoing, you know." Quinn replied sadly. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips. Rachel's eyes dropped to Quinn's mouth.
She stared for a while, took Quinn in. It was uncomfortable, but Quinn thought she deserved it. She deserved to be stared at. At least by Rachel. She was taller. More graceful and elegant. Her hands moved with purpose and efficiency. Her bottom lip twitched when she was listening to Rachel, like she wanted to interrupt her and explain everything. Her breathing was slow and deep and even. Had Quinn always moved like that and she'd failed to notice?
She was more mature – even in the same outfit as Rachel had last seen her – a pair of jeans, a white t-shirt, and converse sneakers. Converse sneakers - those symbols of a worn, active childhood. Quinn's shoes had turned into a sun-faded pink, instead of the effervescent red of their origin, the soles worn down around the edges. She wondered if Quinn still twisted the soles of her shoes into the ground when she was nervous.
Despite the same exterior, beneath the surface everything seemed different. It was the control. The precision. Quinn had always had that with her percussion. Kick drum on every first and third. Snare on the third. Hi-hat. Hi-hat. Crash. Exact. It had flowed into her being.
"You're so different from what I remember." The hate in her voice was gone. She pushed herself off the wall and took a step closer to Quinn.
"Really?" Quinn glanced down at her outfit. She could feel Rachel's presence nearing. Her body heated in a way she hadn't felt in ages. It didn't feel right to feel this about Rachel now, she thought. "Puck would disagree, I think. He always makes fun of these things." She pushed her foot out in front and Rachel could see her twisting the sole of her shoe into the concrete of the alleyway.
Rachel smiled, quick and hidden, looking down at Quinn's shoes. She let Quinn's joke pass and the silence settle again.
"Really. You're so different," she said, almost in wonder.
Quinn looked up at her and felt her body go rigid.
"I'm sorry I said those things, just now. I've been thinking about this all day. About what I've wanted to say to you. And there were so many things, Quinn." Rachel turned and let her back press against the brick wall before sliding down. Quinn took a seat next to her and a swig from the beer bottle she'd brought outside.
"So many things." Rachel whispered again, before watching Quinn take another sip from her bottle. When Quinn put the bottle down, Rachel slid her hand out to graze Quinn's pinky resting against the ground.
Quinn's eyes shot down, as if to be sure it was really happening.
"I guess...I just don't understand. You're such an enigma to me."
Quinn didn't know how to respond. She wanted to pull Rachel's hand into her own, but it didn't feel like the time.
"Why did you hurt me?" It was as if all the pain that she'd accumulated over the past five years lived in Rachel's eyes.
There it was. The question she'd struggled to answer herself for these past five years. The question she'd talked with counselors about. The question she'd written about time and again in her journal. The question that Dr. White would bring up even to this day on occasion.
She'd had time to think about this. It wasn't an apology. It wasn't an excuse. But it was an answer.
"I was a child, Rachel. You'd had years to get used to your body, your hormones, your brain. I had days. It doesn't excuse what I did, but it's an answer to your question. I only had days."
Quinn hadn't cried in so long. And she hadn't cried in front of someone in even longer. She let a few tears slip in front of Rachel, but it felt good to reign it in. It felt good to release and resume control. She was different.