Okay.
Okay.
She's okay, she's definitely got it this time.
No, not okay.
Quinn makes another move to leave her car, and for the umpteenth time, recoils into her seat.
She sits in the parking lot, eyeing the hesitant steps of returning students as they enter the building. She's noticed Artie arrive first, followed several minutes later by Mike and Tina, and Mercedes had met Kurt by his SUV, as Finn, carpooling with Kurt, had trailed behind them. Quinn exhales deeply. It shouldn't be this hard. It was just a day at school. One day, which will turn into a week, and if she can get through a week, she can get through the rest of the year, right?
Hopefully.
(She doubts it.)
Quinn tugs her Cheerios duffel bag closer to her, tightening her grip on the strap. She pulls out her keys from the ignition, unbuckles her seatbelt, and grabs the doorhandle.
Do or die. Do or die.
Probably not the best analogy, she internally grimaces.
Quinn grits her teeth and gets out of the car as if it was ablaze and slams the door. Rolling her eyes at her own cowardice—she's Quinn Fabray, she's not afraid of anything (lie)—and walks through the parking lot, swallowing her nerves and anxiety and opens the door, hurrying up the stairs. Her breath catches painfully in her chest as she sees Rachel's locker, still unopened by the owner, the floor clean and gleaming beneath her feet. The blood's all gone, yes, but Quinn can practically see it, the murky puddle that Rachel left in her desperate crawl to the library. Quinn's eyes find the library doors, still roped off with police tape.
She hears whispers and a few condolences, students passing her in an array of color and sound.
She just can't look away, even if she hears the bells ring once, twice, three times.
She still has her duffel in her hand, still frozen in place, unable to look away from the door, the room that changed so much about her. Rachel almost died in there, she almost died in there, Jacob actually died in there. She blanches and removes her gaze, ignoring the stream of curious teenagers on their way to classes and decides to skip, rationalizing that she won't be able to concentrate anyway. She steps backward, her hand behind her until she reaches the opposite wall and just slides down, her legs stretched out in front of her and her abandoned bag on her left.
Homeroom passes, and stragglers send her confused looks before hastening onward.
She dimly listens to the announcements as first period begins, as Figgins tells them of a mandatory assembly about the importance of speaking up about bullying on Wednesday. Quinn knows she won't be going, mandatory or not—it's not her scene anyway. It's a waste of her time, too. She knows the basics—don't be mean to the weirdo, he's crazy suicidal and will probably show up and massacre you in revenge. Oh, wait a minute, that already happened.
Quinn wonders if Louis XVI felt like this before he was beheaded. Knowing his people despised him, imprisoning him for treason against France and then gleefully watching the guillotine descend and sever the neck to the head of the uncaring ruler who had betrayed them so easily.
Quinn almost laughs. She sounds nearly as dramatic as one Rachel Berry.
Rachel won't be in school until Thursday, when the doctors will finally discharge her from the hospital. She'll have to wear a cast along with a temporary use of a wheelchair, followed by crutches and later, physical therapy to reteach the muscles their use again. Rachel had explained it all in detail, with an equally delighted Shelby interjecting information they both learned from the doctor. Quinn can imagine Rachel's relieved expression, because although her healing will be tedious and hard, she'll still be able to dance in the future, and will recuperate completely. Her inevitable future, the brunette had grinned. Broadway.
Rachel guesses it'll be several months before she'll walk on her own again, but that's okay, they got there just in time. She's lucky, very, very lucky.
Other students injured in the shooting are still in the hospital, recovering slowly.
Quinn's stomach twists with guilt. She won't visit them—Rachel's her only concern, and if she does visit, she'll only feel her despair increase tenfold.
Marie Antoinette had it easy, Quinn thinks glumly, now sitting Indian-style on the floor. The Queen of France was beheaded, didn't have to live the shame of her country's hatred and thirst for revenge. Marie Antoinette escaped a lifetime of misery with the simple swing of a guillotine, while Quinn remains unharmed and lost in regret. Anne Boleyn, too. One heave of the executioner and she was gone from her husband's loathing, and with him, England as well.
Quinn wonders when she turned into such a History geek as another bell rings shrilly.
"Hey," a voice greets her, and Quinn looks up, seeing a tentative, smiling Tina.
"Hey."
"It's time for glee," she says gently, and Quinn studies her hands.
"How long have I been sitting here?"
"All day," Tina answers. "We've seen you, but you didn't look up. Figgins didn't mark you absent, though. Mr. Schue convinced him to let you sit there as long as you needed."
"Oh."
Tina doesn't say anything else, and Quinn sighs before standing up. Tina shoulders her discarded Cheerios bag.
"I've got it," the other girl says, smiling encouragingly.
"Thank you, Tina."
The two walk together to the choir room, and Tina goes first, dropping the duffel by the door. Quinn pauses in the threshold, and ten pairs of eyes snap quickly to her face as a silence falls over the normally chatty group before starting up again. Quinn forces her feet to move and sits down uncomfortably, slightly separated from the others. She doesn't want them too close—it's awkward and she feels weird without someone who she trusts at her side, which at the moment is Rachel.
As Mr. Schuester opens his mouth to talk to her front the front of the room, with the rest of the group automatically quieting to listen, Quinn's spidey-annoyed-not taking bullshit from anyone-senses tingle and an sharp, defensive sentence escapes her lips before she can stop it.
"Spare me a pep talk," she snaps.
Mr. Schuester isn't angry, he just nods like he was expecting that and starts talking about Sectionals. A few incredulous glances are shot her way, but no one says anything (they wouldn't dare). Quinn starts texting Rachel, which makes a small, pleased smile settle on her mouth.
I just lashed out at Schue...sort of.
Normally, I would scold you for your lack of respect to an authority figure, specifically our glee coach. But even with recent events of his support and kindness during this tough time, his biting remarks don't really fade from memory like he would expect them to. So, well done, Ms. Fabray.
I'll talk to you later, Rach. I have to go pretend to sing now.
QUINN FABRAY, YOU—is all Quinn reads before she closes the text, hiding her laugh as she joins the whispering group near the piano, avoiding eyes and fixing her gaze on the piano keys and allowing the promise of downtime with a non-pushy Rachel to get her through practice.
A buzzing of her phone interrupts Quinn as she examines the floor with rapt attention during another Schuester monologue (didn't they all scold Rachel for babbling? This man could compete with her, seriously), finding it far more interesting than talking to her friends or listening. She presses the glowing TALK button and holds it to her ear.
"Hello?"
"Quinn," Mandy answers, her tone slightly frigid. "I just wanted to say hi."
"Hi," Quinn says automatically, and warms up when she hears her sister grudgingly laugh.
"Okay, I hate how you can just do that," Mandy complains. "It's like, impossible to be angry with you, ever. Mom is a little harder to win over, you know. She's still upset."
Quinn frowns. Sure, she had reacted a little harshly. Storming out of the house...justified, because she's a teenager and allowed to have temper-tantrums occasionally. Staying over with Mercedes on purpose to avoid Judy Fabray altogether? Severe. Quinn had made sure to give her mother peace of mind, informing her of her whereabouts but usually ending the call before her mother could beg for her to return home. Quinn loathes the noise of her mother's crying. She used to hear it at night sometimes, when her father was around.
"I know," she acknowledges at last. In her peripheral vision, she sees eavesdroppers.
"I think it's been long enough," Mandy urges. "Please. I miss you. She misses you."
"You understand why I left, right?"
"Yes. We'll back off, I promise. Scout's honor."
"Okay," Quinn agrees. "I'll finish up here and get my stuff. I'll see you around...six."
Mandy assents and hangs up, and Quinn tosses her phone on her chair.
"It's rude to listen on conversations," she barks without turning around, and hears movement, hurried discussion, and gossip immediately begin with her obvious irritation. Quinn snatches her bag and phone, spinning on her heel and leaving glee practice without another word, ignoring the calls of Mr. Schuester for her to come back. She won't deal with this, she doesn't have to.
Quinn leaves Mercedes's house, still thanking Mrs. Jones on her way out, and heads home.
Mandy's sitting on the porch when she arrives, and offers a hesitant grin.
"Moody again? I don't miss teenage angst at all."
"Some people need to mind their own business," Quinn grumbles.
"Did they ask you to talk?"
"No...more like, intense observation, like I'm terminal or something."
Mandy tilts her head to the side. "Well...I know you're not talking about it. But you'll have to convince Mom of that on your own. She's trying to understand why you won't open up to her. She thinks it's because when she turned you away last year when's she trying so hard to be your mom again. Just reassure her that it's not her, it's you—I mean...well, you know what I mean."
Quinn raises an eyebrow. "Thanks, Dr. Crowe."
Mandy's grin reappears. "I'll be a doctor someday. I just dropped out of law school."
"What?" Quinn yelps. "Why would you—how could...Mandy, but—"
"I'll give you a clue," Mandy jokes. "He paid for it."
"Oh," Quinn exclaims, comprehension dawning. "Dad."
"Correct, Quinnie," Mandy teases, dodging Quinn's retaliatory punch to the arm. "Dad wanted another lawyer in the family for his prestigious firm and I was 'right' for the job, being the oldest kid. But since all this happened with you and Mom...I want to be closer to you guys. I'm twenty-three years old, and the thought of being an uptight loser defending criminals—because yeah, Dad picks those ones—is horrifying. I want to be around whenever you need me."
Quinn smiles gratefully as Mandy tries not to blush openly.
"Thanks."
"I'm going to be a psychiatrist. I still want to help people," Mandy explains.
"I'm sure you'll be the best one in Lima besides Leroy Berry."
Mandy slings an arm over her sister's shoulders and steers her inside.
Judy looks up from her desk, glasses perched on her nose, and her eyes widen in surprise.
"Hey, Mom," Quinn says, after a nudge from Mandy, who vanishes up the stairs. "Can we talk?"
Rachel is sleeping by the time Quinn visits, a discarded magazine on the table. Quinn sits in the chair by the bed, finding a note from Leroy to Rachel, explaining that he has gone to work and that Hiram will check in with her periodically. Quinn assumes Shelby is still with Beth in Akron.
"...Kansas," Rachel mumbles. Quinn's head snaps up in surprise and a smile spreads on her face.
Rachel talks in her sleep?
"What?" Quinn questions, trying to prompt a response. Rachel frowns slightly.
"Not in Kansas," Rachel murmurs, and Quinn desperately wants to start laughing—did Rachel seriously dream about Broadway as well as in her waking state? Quinn finds it both hilarious and endearing. Rachel shifts in the bed and her eyes flutter open slowly, focusing on the room. She jumps a bit in seeing Quinn so close, but she brightens and an identical smile settles on her lips.
"Quinn, hi, how was your day at school? Glee? Did I miss anything?"
"Slow down, Dorothy," Quinn answers teasingly. "First, let's talk about you."
"Me?"
"Yup. I heard you say a few things before you woke up..."
Rachel turns pink. "Yes, my fathers have told me about that...unfortunate habit."
"I think it's cute," Quinn says, and Rachel's skin darkens imperceptibly.
"Anyway," the embarrassed brunette presses, "how was school?"
Quinn twists the magazine in her hands, not answering immediately. She doesn't want to worry Rachel, but she doesn't want to lie to her either. Rachel's eyes are kind and attentive, so Quinn just admits that she sat outside in the hallway in front of the library all day. Rachel frowns.
"Oh, Quinn...I should have been there."
"To do what? Hobble all over the place and get hurt even more than you already are?"
"No. I want to be there to support you, and vice versa."
Quinn's fingers tighten around the glossy paper. "I don't need support. You do."
"Physically, yes, but emotionally, that's an entirely different ma—"
"Rachel," the blonde reminds, an edge lingering on her words, "remember what you promised."
"Sorry."
"It's okay." (She means it. Rachel apologizes for her rudeness; others stubbornly offer concern.)
They lapse into silence, Rachel looking out the window and Quinn at the magazine until Rachel reaches over, her grasp like a hot iron to Quinn's skin while a quick jump in her pulse reacts to Rachel's gaze and touch, leaving her puzzled at such a strange response.
"I'm here when you need me, Quinn. I'll be back in school before you know it."
"I'll be pushing that wheelchair," Quinn returns, smiling faintly.
Her first/latest night back in her own home is unsettling. Mandy's just down the hall, after repeating the fact several times before finding something constructive to do. Judy is in the living room, watching her recorded shows and drinking juice—a healthy, better alternative to stress, her mother had explained, smiling her rarely shown megawatt, proud-of-herself grin (which makes Quinn happy)—while Quinn herself sits motionless in her room, as if seeing it for the first time.
She spent her first day sitting on the floor. Ridiculous. She's strong, she should be better.
Quinn stares at her ceiling, plastic glow-in-the-dark shapes still messily glued around the light. She was nine when she happily stuck them up there, standing on a stool, Mandy teasingly asking if she wanted to be an astronomer when she got older. Quinn had snottily replied no, she wanted to be an artist. The various shapes—moons, smiles, animals, and stars—still shine dimly in the darkness, unchanging even after seven years. Quinn wishes she wouldn't change, like them.
Half-heartedly, she wishes she could reverse time, jumping backwards a whole year, when things were simpler and she was a total bitch, ruling McKinley with an iron fist, an obedient boyfriend at her right side, two loyal lieutenants to her behind her, and a terrified student body shrinking away from her front because they're in the HBIC's way, which resulted in a slushie shower if caught of such an offense. No one offered support, they offered in stutters to avoid her entirely.
Last year, she didn't have a empty place in her heart for a mother's loss, she didn't have a crushing guilt on her shoulders, and she didn't have a head full of shame and regret and sadness. Last year, her heart was impenetrable, coated in unbreakable ice and protected by sneering insults and sharp sentences to the boy on her arm, who kept others away as quarterback. Last year, she wasn't thinking about a loser's death, the blood on her hands, both literally and metaphorically. Last year, she was cool and collected, nothing phasing her, not even guilt.
She won't change any further. She closes her eyes. She'll stay right here, suspended until she figures out how to disperse the remorse and heavy weights on her conscious.
Her breathing is ragged and desperate as she sits on the floor of the bathroom, a damp facecloth clutched in her hands. Quinn's eyes strain in the blinding glare of the lights, unaccustomed to it after sleeping for several hours. She had woken up so quickly, nearly tumbling out of bed, her heart in a frantic sprint and panic in her head with a scream bubbling in her throat, still seeing her nightmare over and over in front of her eyes. After scrambling out of bed and throwing up the minimal food in her stomach, she had sank to the floor, content to just stay there in isolation, between night and day where neither affected her.
She still can picture Rachel's bloodless, cold body on the library floor, the diva's eyes open and blank, staring at her, as if blaming her. Jacob was close to her feet, like an emancipated beggar to a merciless queen, a puddle of blood staining her white Cheerio sneakers and his beady, ugly gaze fixed on her as well, his lips curled into a triumphant sneer. She just couldn't move, she couldn't get away from either of them and both pairs of dead eyes bored holes in her body.
She doesn't want to leave her home. It's a sanctuary. It's distance and holds her secrets. At school, everyone knows Quinn Fabray's story. At home, she's just Quinn, plain and simple. No babygate drama, no envious glares, and no pitying stares. It's an escape from it all, too.
The clock reads 2:16AM and she rubs her eyes tiredly. She won't sleep anymore tonight, she'll find something else to do to occupy her brain until it jumps into school.
Quinn heaves herself to her feet and wanders downstairs.
Her second day starts easier. She's been ready for three hours, having nothing else to do, bag packed and something in her stomach so her mother doesn't worry. Mandy's still asleep—the fortune of the unemployed, out of college and living with a parent again. Quinn twirls her keys on her finger and steps out the door, closing it behind her and opening her car, stifling a yawn. Tina greets her timidly at her locker when she arrives at school and Quinn offers a small smile before heading off to class.
Her teachers are surprised to see her looking blank and ready to learn, but the open warning in Quinn's face makes them recoil and decide to call attendance instead of talking like a caring adult to a kid they know is having a hard time. She rolls her eyes and raises her hand, choosing not to talk if she doesn't want to.
Her Chemistry teacher—worst fucking bitch in the whole school—doesn't appreciate her silence and pointedly asks her a question.
"Carbon," Quinn snaps.
"Yes. Carbon is the element present in all lifeforms...that makes start writing this down, people."
Her aggravation only gets worse throughout the day and she texts Rachel to calm down.
"Quinn?"
"What?"
Mr. Schuester looks exasperated. "Would you mind listening to the assignment?"
"If I have to, I suppose I could," Quinn quips, as an outburst of laughter comes from the back of the room.
Mr. Schuester's disapproval with her is apparent, but Quinn silently challenges him with her eyes to do something—would he dare send the troubled, poor and coping Quinn to the principal's office? Her teacher turns away, his back to her, uncapping his pen again to write conjugations on the board and Quinn hides her shame at his disappointment and instead shows off her smugness at not getting yelled at. Keep the mask on, she tells herself.
Can't wait until you're in school again, she sends to Rachel.
Me too. Hospitals aren't as appreciative of my excellent scales as glee club is.
I'll see you later.
I'll be waiting, Rachel writes, and Quinn drops her phone in her bag.
The rest of her day is somewhat easier, until she hears Lauren Zises talking with the AV club.
"...miss him a little, you know? He was an annoying pet or something."
"Excuse me?" Quinn snarls, but Lauren barely blinks at her appearance.
"I said that I—"
"I know what you said, Zises," Quinn hisses, knowing the hallway was eavesdropping, holding their breaths and conversations, "and I'm telling you now to shut the fuck up."
"You can't tell me what to do, Fabray," Lauren replies lazily. "I don't care."
Quinn struggles for a counterattack as Lauren fixes a slight smile on her face, curious.
"You won't do anything," the girl says simply, tilting her head appraisingly to the side.
Quinn sneers. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"You don't control anything around here anymore," Lauren shrugs. "You're a disgrace now."
Quinn grips her books tighter to her chest as Lauren continues.
"You won't dare do anything else, not to me, not to other people like him because you're guilty," Lauren sighs, almost mockingly. "Your power's gone, Quinn. Deal with it."
Quinn's choking up under her fellow student's scrutiny and the stares of all others in the hallway and she sets her jaw before stomping around the corner and out of sight, finding a janitor's closet and ducking inside before anyone actually sees her cry. She tosses her bag and books to the floor, and kicks a mop bucket in frustration. She nearly destroys the closet, throwing things around and snapping a broom in half with her hands, the savage desire to express her anger—it's so lethal lately, she notices—momentarily sated with the vandalism. She finds a old seat and sinks into it, her eyes adjusting to the musty air and light and decides to cut class for the rest of the day.
She won't be able to focus anyway.
She's still seething with rage and tears when she gets to glee, and sits as far away from the others as possible, her arms tight over her chest. Mr. Schuester doesn't bother to engage her in the lesson, knowing her response, and she tunes him out, eyeing the wall instead. To no one's surprise, Mr. Schuester reuses a project and proposes duets, revealing his special hat-of-fate.
"Maybe the duck's in there this time," Brittany whispers excitedly. Santana smiles, patting her girlfriend's wrist.
"Mercedes, you get Mike," Mr. Schuester calls.
In the end, Tina and Brittany are paired, with Santana and Kurt, Finn and Quinn—she rolls her eyes as Finn squirms uncomfortably—Puck and Sam, while Artie is paired with Rachel. Mr. Schuester assures him the song isn't due until next week, and he knows Rachel will practice in any health. They all laugh and Quinn manages a slight quirk of her lips, a specter of a smile. Artie nods agreeably, and Quinn offers to drive him to the hospital to tell Rachel the news, since she's going there anyway.
"We have practice, Quinn remember?" Brittany interrupts.
"I'll get my dad to drive me, Quinn, that's okay," the boy says, nudging her arm. "Thanks."
Quinn nods and follows Santana and Brittany's retreating backs to the field.
She lags a little, showing up a few minutes after her friends, and a whistle blows shrilly.
"Fabray! I don't care if you're captain, take five laps!" Sue roars through her bullhorn.
The younger blonde shrugs, trotting off to do so and Sue wonders where Fabray's attitude went.
"A duet assignment?" Rachel repeats eagerly, accepting Artie's high-five. "Excellent!"
"It can be any song, too," Artie continues, smiling at her enthusiasm. "I know you have tons of ideas, right?"
She grins delightedly at his teasing tone. "Of course. And because we'll both be in wheelchairs—me, temporarily, sorry," as he waves off her apology, "and we can choreograph a routine similar to Proud Mary. I would hug you now for giving me creative control but I can't reach you."
"That's okay. Do you know how to fist-bump?"
"Unfortunately, yes. My fathers enjoyed the likes of Jersey Shore, which baffled me completely."
Artie laughs. "Well, I let you pick the music, and I'll start the moves. Sound good?"
"It does...by the way, how was Quinn today?" Rachel asks.
Artie scratches his head uneasily. "Well...she sort of had a face-off with Lauren Zises."
"What?"
"Yeah. Nobody knows the whole story. Lauren's too annoying to ask and Quinn's shut up like a clam lately. Some people heard that Lauren said something about Jacob and Quinn just snapped."
"Who wouldn't?" Rachel questions darkly. "He murdered students at our school."
"Some can adapt to loss, others can't," Artie replies. "Lauren must be immune to sadness."
"In that instance, she reminds me of the Tin Man," Rachel mutters, and Artie chuckles.
"Alright, let's get started. What do you have in mind for our duet?"
Quinn chooses to go home after practice, texting Rachel that she's tired and will visit the hospital tomorrow.
Rachel's response is long and excited—Artie's giving her free rein and she's elated.
Who's your partner?
Finn, Quinn writes, still irritated with the news.
The hat of fate is clearly out-of-whack, Rachel sends bracingly. You'll be okay.
I hope so.
Quinn shuts her phone off and takes a quick shower before going into her room to start her homework. She's squinting closely at Algebra problems when she decides a catnap—a few minutes, that's it—will be sufficient enough for her to finish and attain a good night's sleep. She's out quickly, a bit behind on her sleeping schedule from the incident this morning, but she dozes off easily, her textbook as a pillow and her lamp like a nightlight.
Someone's shaking her shoulder and she jerks awake, finding Mandy standing next to her.
"You okay, sis? You missed dinner," her elder blonde says.
"I'm fine," Quinn lies, picking her pencil off the floor. "I'll eat something later."
Mandy gestures to the clock on her way out the door, a stern look in her eyes. "It's close to ten. Better get some soon, if you eat late you'll get nightmares."
Quinn's left alone again and checks before mumbling, "I already get nightmares."
She scribbles answers, half-doing the rest of her assignments and finding it past twelve.
When she knows she's the only one awake, she sneaks into her mother's bathroom, and opens the mirror, perusing the selection of orange containers and cold medicines.
Anti-drowsy, she reads and opens it, filling a plastic cup with water and closing the mirror door.
She studies her reflection—ghostly white face, a dulled gaze and purple bags under her eyes—and downs two of the pills before chasing them down with water. That'll keep her awake. No more nightmares if she doesn't sleep, right?