Here's chapter six, everyone! Enjoy! Also, I'm having a few LiveJournal troubles. I'm totally lost and confused about how to actually use mine but I do want to learn how to post stories and stuff. If anyone wouldn't mind PM'ing any tips if/when you have time, it would be much appreciated. Thank you!
Disclaimer: Completely forgot to use it. I don't own Glee, obviously.
Quinn's elbow slips off her binder and it clatters to the floor, jolting her from her trance.
Damn pills, she curses silently, blinking to clear her bleary eyes. Anti-drowsy, yeah right. She had made it until 4:15AM before she started to get sleepy, and spent the rest of the morning cleaning her room for something to do. She wasn't necessarily afraid of going to sleep, she just didn't want the hassle of nightmares, that's all.
She was under a lot of stress. No need to add more to her plate.
"Pay attention, Quinn," Mr. Schuester orders without turning around as he writes on the board.
"I am," she mutters irritably.
"Doesn't seem like it," Mr. Schue counters, and his eyes, along with a few others, move to her.
"Hmm," Quinn hums uncaringly, and catches his quiet huff of frustration, an action becoming extremely familiar with Mr. Schue as of late.
"Have you worked on your duet with Finn yet?"
Finn sees Quinn's pointed glower and the boy nods frantically, avoiding looking at Mr. Schue.
"Yup," her ex-boyfriend squeaks. "It's coming along nicely. It'll be...awesome," he concludes lamely, and Quinn hears Santana muffle a snicker, and fights one of her own.
Mr. Schue sighs. "Alright guys, practice is over for today."
Quinn skips out of the room and out into the hallway just seconds after the words escape her teacher's lips, ignoring both the suspicious murmurs and curious stares at her quick departure. She guesses correctly that Mr. Schuester will corner her eventually and attempt to offer one of his trusty heart-to-heart talks, but she doesn't want to deal with him at the moment, or at all. Her phone's already at her ear as she speeds out of the parking lot, her mind already on Rachel.
That happens more often than usual, she thinks, only slightly bemused at this revelation.
"...desperately need to practice with Artie, as well as on my own," Rachel dictates, chattering happily as Quinn wheels her slowly down the hallway. Rachel continues to talk as she is waving goodbye to the disgruntled nurse assigned to her in the duration of her stay. The nurse sends Quinn an exasperated lift of her lips and Quinn grins back, shrugging, as if to say, she's hopeless. Rachel keeps prattling and Hiram is paces behind, discussing Rachel's treatment with another doctor, examining a clipboard. Shelby had called earlier, promising a visit when she could make time, along with Leroy who said he would see her at home, both sets of news delighting Rachel even further.
Quinn didn't complain—Rachel's smiles were a bright spot to alleviate her stupid day at McKinley High.
"So," Rachel inhales for breath, ending her monologue, "how was school for you, Quinn?"
"Boring," the blonde answers truthfully. "I'll be happier when you're there."
Rachel's smile is brighter than ever as they get to the parking lot.
Hiram beams behind an oblivious Quinn's back, and discreetly texts his husband.
I'll give it two months.
It's on, Berry!
Quinn feels a little queasy as she sits in her room, digesting her dinner—Rachel had demanded Chinese takeout, an indulgence she had been denied at Lima General, much to Quinn, Hiram, and Leroy's amusement—as the clock displays a late hour. She had left Rachel's with a promise to drive her to school the next day. The diva's smile—at both finally being home at last and the offer for a ride—was cheerful and lovely like a rising sun. Quinn remembers the obvious reflex to return it, which she did.
She silently realizes she doesn't like to smile lately, unless Rachel prompts it. Others don't have Rachel's natural ability to cheer her up.
Her eyes find her bag, tucked neatly by the door, along with her uniform and shoes.
She blinks lethargically, tiredness weighing down on her brain like an anvil. It wasn't rational to stay awake for this long, she knew that. But it wasn't okay with her to have nightmares about...things she'd rather avoid. Staying away from those memories would be beneficial to her happiness in the end, so as many nights of lost sleep wouldn't be detrimental to her homework or herself. She'll adjust. Wasn't that what college was like? All-nighters and functioning on uppers and pick-me-ups?
"Goodnight!" Judy calls from her room, and Quinn and Mandy respond in kind.
Have a lovely night, Quinn! See you tomorrow! Rachel texts.
'Night, Quinn replies, and shuts her phone off.
She reaches for a coffee she had bought on the way home, sipping it slowly and turns to her desk.
Homework creates an excellent distraction, Quinn thinks wryly. Far better than sleeping.
"Are you okay, Quinn? You look pale," Rachel comments, searching for a song on the radio.
"Fine," Quinn murmurs, as her eyes strain uncomfortably at the morning glare of the sunlight. Rachel hums for the duration of the ride, soothing Quinn's nerves temporarily. They instantly pick up again upon their arrival to McKinley, and Quinn parks the car and shuts off the engine, and senses Rachel's gaze.
"You're worried," Rachel says quietly.
"I am," she allows, because's true.
"Why?"
"For you," Quinn explains, her keys digging tightly into her palm. "What if you get slushied? You'll still be ridiculed, and now, you're even more defenseless in a wheelchair. Artie doesn't get any special treatment, neither will you. I'm scared they'll think of something worse, besides putting you in a portable toilet. What if they push you down the stairs? Or put you someplace where I can't find you? I can't be everywhere at once and I'm sure something'll happen—"
"Quinn!" Rachel exclaims, interrupting the Cheerio mid-rant and smiling at her.
"What?" Quinn mumbles petulantly, turning red. "I'm just concerned, that's all."
"I know," Rachel laughs. "I get it. But you're wrong. I know it."
"How? Can you suddenly predict a slushie-free forecast?"
Rachel's expression remains placating and even. "They won't do anything, trust me."
"How do you know?"
"It's obvious," the brunette points out seriously, grasping Quinn's other hand. "Slushies will be a thing of the past, you'll see. They contributed to the bullying that instigated Jacob to...well, you know that part. I expect even David Karofsky will follow this course of action. He did most of them, remember?"
I remember, Quinn thinks mournfully. I also remember ordering a few attacks, too.
"Sure," she sighs, defeated. "Let's go."
Quinn gets out, pulling the chair from the backseat of her car and helping Rachel sit down like she was made of glass, meticulously careful of the awkward cast. Quinn slings her bag over her shoulder and has Rachel hold her own on her lap as she inspects the wheelchair for any sign of damage (you can't be too careful, she thinks, Lima wasn't remembered for their perfection) in addition to ensuring Rachel is sitting comfortably, or comfortably as you can be with a hurt leg and a forced stint as a near-invalid.
Rachel's eyes glitter in amusement as Quinn pretends not to fuss over her too obviously. Her eyes, mischievous now, twinkle mysteriously.
"You're still nervous, aren't you?"
Quinn doesn't answer, still distracted by the wheelchair until Rachel's touch stills her.
"Yes," she admits reluctantly. "Beyond nervous. My head hurts."
(No sleep contributes too.)
"We can't go into school yet, then."
"Why?"
Quinn looks up to meet her eyes and instead of doing so, Rachel just kisses her.
When Rachel pulls away, trying not to laugh at Quinn's flabbergasted (and bashful, because Rachel is still awesome at kissing) look. Her smile widens.
"Okay, now we can go. You don't look nervous anymore. Now you just look surprised."
"I—you...wait a minute."
"Quinn, I need to get to the choir room," Rachel orders patiently, fixing her gaze upward, as if the blonde was terribly slow on the uptake and nothing out of the ordinary had just happened. "Now, if you wouldn't mind. Do I have to wheel myself there, or are you going to?"
Quinn rolls her eyes in reply (since when did Rachel become experienced in boggling someone's mind?) and pushes the chair forward across the gravel, guiding Rachel through the front doors and to her locker. Quinn determinedly ignores the tempting urge to look at the library doors, still off-limits to students with the police tape stretched diagonally across it. Rachel doesn't seem to notice, instead keeping up a steady lecture about glee and her duet along with a pacifying, warm touch on Quinn's wrist.
"Well, well, well," a voice drawls, and both turn to find a smirking Santana Lopez.
"Santana," Rachel greets.
"Nessarose," Santana counters, her smirk becoming impossibly smugger as Rachel nearly flails out of her wheelchair.
Quinn huffs.
"Y-you just made a Wicked reference," Rachel breathes, amazed.
"Looked it up just for you, Shortie," Santana grins. "I know you'll be on cloud nine all day for it."
"My respect for you just skyrocketed."
"From where? The gutter?" Quinn questions, as Rachel bursts into giggles and Santana glares. Looks like they'll be on bad terms. Whatever, Quinn thinks.
"Green isn't a flattering color on you, Q."
"I like green. Frogs are green," Brittany adds unexpectedly, appearing on Quinn's right and dropping a kiss on Santana's cheek, earning an affectionate smile in return.
Brittany turns to Rachel and her eyes narrow suspiciously.
"You're like Artie now, Rach."
"Um, yes, that's right," Rachel answers, confused.
"Are you hiding a Transformer under there? We would have two robots in glee. That would be really cool."
"I'm sorry...no."
Brittany pouts and Quinn clears her throat at a passing Sue Sylvester.
"Charity work, Fabray?"
"No," Quinn snaps, her fingers taut and white on the wheelchair. "I'm helping a friend."
Sue continues on without comment as Becky materializes loyally at her side and Santana eyes Quinn with a speculative gaze while Rachel touches Quinn's wrist again, almost absently as she opens her purse to check her phone. The Latina's expression shifts into a calculated, knowing look and a sneer settles on her lips.
"Not now, Santana," Quinn warns.
"I didn't say anything, nothing at all," Santana leers, weaving her left hand into Brittany's right. "Let's get out of here, Britt. We should leave the happy couple alone."
Quinn's glare could've melted steel, and Rachel's hand on Quinn's arm again prevents retaliation. (Quinn wonders at the back of her mind how Rachel manages to do that.)
"She's trying to wind you up," the diva offers reasonably.
"I know."
"Ms. Sylvester and Santana are very alike. They're trying to find your weaknesses."
"I don't have any," Quinn mutters, shifting through Rachel's locker.
"That you know of," Rachel explains, accepting the books Quinn passes her.
"Why though? I assumed S and I were cool since the...shooting, but I don't understand her now. Well, we did fight in the hospital, so scratch that question."
Rachel pauses, organizing her thoughts.
"I'm sure Santana is merely egging you on for sport and her own ends, along with the urge to belittle you because she lost your rumble...and Ms. Sylvester has always been like that, but I believe she's testing you this year to prove your worth as Head Cheerio, due to recent events that would test your psyche and the ability to adapt."
Quinn leans her head on the closed locker surface, letting the cold metal soothe the anger in her brain. "Honestly, I don't care anymore."
"I thought you cared about your reputation," Rachel says.
Observant, chocolate eyes study Quinn's face knowingly, and Quinn makes up an excuse.
"I have new priorities."
"Such as?"
"Well...my sister and my mom, you, glee, homework, Cheerios...a reputation just doesn't make the cut anymore."
Rachel smiles one of Quinn's favorites smiles. "You ranked me before glee and Cheerios."
"So?"
"I just like your priorities," Rachel shrugs shyly, and Quinn hides a tired grin.
"Okay, Wheels. Let's get you to class."
"Hey."
"Hey."
"Quinn, wake up!"
Quinn jerks awake at a pencil tapping hard on her forehead, and Finn widens his eyes pointedly, warning her in case Mr. Schuester catches her asleep.
"Thanks," she whispers, and he nods, passing her a note.
What about our song?
I haven't thought of anything yet. Have you?
No. But I thought we could do something from—
"Do you two have something to share with the class?" Mr. Schuester asks irritably.
"Just our duet assignment," Finn blurts out. Quinn's too tired to yell at him.
"You chose now to work on it? Couldn't you wait until practice?"
"You said to work together," Quinn snaps. "Sorry if it's inconvenient for you."
An amazed, wary hush falls over the class and Mr. Schuester glares at her.
"Quinn, I'll see you in the principal's office."
Quinn shrugs and complies, unaffected by his ire anymore, slipping out of class and wandering to Figgins's office, walking quietly as a springtime breeze.
The principal coughs nervously as she sits down, and he gestures for her to speak first.
"Mr. Schuester sent me here."
"Why is that, Ms. Fabray?"
Quinn rolls her eyes. "I was passing notes with Finn Hudson...and I talked back in class."
"Maybe you should talk to Ms. Pillsbury," Figgins suggests anxiously, fidgeting in his seat. "She was wonderful pamphlets for anger issues, you know."
"I'm don't have anger issues."
"Er...well, I don't know if this constitutes serving a full detention," Figgins mumbles, and Quinn sees a half-hidden pamphlet (How to Deal with Intimidating Teenagers) on his desk. "Just...don't undermine Mr. Schuester again, young lady. Teachers will be a respected authority in this school, and if an incident like this occurs again, I'll be forced to call your parents. Is that clear?"
Quinn nods (even though one of parents was an alcoholic/purist Christian/neglectful loser) and stands up, disappearing in a flash of red and white polyester.
"Quinn, are you even listening to me?"
Quinn blinks owlishly and glances at Finn, who, along with Rachel, Santana, Brittany, and Puck, sitting with her at the lunch table, stare. "What? Oh, no. Sorry."
"For our duet, I think we should do something easy," Finn repeats. "Rachel suggested Lucky."
Quinn wrinkles her nose. "For us? No. If I did that song, it'd be with Sam. His voice would work better for it with mine. What other ideas do you have?"
"The Only Exception?"
"No."
"I Run to You?" Finn offers, rather desperately.
"Maybe," Quinn acquiesces, thinking of the Lady Antebellum song. "It could work."
"It would sound nice, at least in my opinion," Rachel pipes up, awkwardly stretching to reach her water bottle until Puck takes pity on her and passes it. "Finn could sound very country if he tried to, along with you, Quinn, are both perfect for the song. Your voices would compliment each other."
"Okay," she surrenders, missing Santana's scoff of disbelief and Puck's raised eyebrow. "What are the rest of you doing?"
"Artie and I are debating Don't Go Breaking My Heart. But our choreography needs work."
"How so?" Puck wonders, stealing some of Brittany's cookies, as he ignores Santana's glare.
"Well, we can't just replicate our Proud Mary performance. Wheelchairs offer only so many options and we need to be creative. Luckily, Artie is more enthusiastic about this number because it applies to him and said he would not object to practicing for another hour after glee today."
Rachel launches into another tirade and the rest of lunch is spent with dutiful, amused listeners.
Quinn wheels Rachel into the choir room amidst loud, enthusiastic greetings.
"Good to see you, Rachel," Mr. Schuester grins.
"I missed our solo spats," Mercedes offers sheepishly, similar to apologizing. Rachel giggles, accepting her past behavior.
"Me too. And I missed watching yours," Kurt snickers and receives a jab in the ribs from Mercedes.
"It's fantastic to be back," Rachel answers grandly, queenlike and regal. Quinn stifles a laugh.
Artie sits cheerfully with her at the front, with Quinn on her right.
"Oh, Sam?" Rachel calls, and the blond football player turns from listening to Kurt.
"Yeah?"
"Kaltxì, Sam. Fyape nga," Rachel says, nonchalant as the others stare at her blankly. Sam lights up, turning away from his boyfriend.
"That's Na'vi!" Sam yells excitedly. "Yes!"
"You speak Na'vi?" Quinn and Kurt squeak in unison. Sam trots over happily for a high-five.
"I was bored in the hospital," Rachel explains as the room dissolves into surprised laughter. "One of my dads brought over the DVD and I found the constant conversations in the language irritating, especially because it sounded like meaningless gibberish. I went on a translator and memorized a few phrases. Sam and I finally have something to talk about, besides glee," Rachel concludes proudly. "But I will say James Cameron copied a timeless Disney classic, Pocahontas."
"It's true," Sam agrees. "Jake Sully could be John Smith. Avatar is like Pocahontas...in space."
Mr. Schuester looks mildly impressed; Kurt looks horrified; Mercedes and Quinn are barely containing giggles as Finn struggles to compare the two movies.
Santana simply sighs, as if this is not the craziest thing Rachel could ever do, or will ever do.
"That gives me an idea for an assignment," Mr. Schuester muses.
"We already have one," Puck grumbles.
"I know. It'll be the next one. Okay, has anyone worked on the duets?"
"Artie and I are almost done," Rachel declares with an approving nod from Artie, while everyone else shifts uncomfortably, no one else quite near as ready as they are. "Our practice session today will be used to hammer down any imperfections, and we'll be first tomorrow, if that's okay, Mr. Schue?"
"No, it's excellent," the teacher acquiesces, relieved his best singer is back, injury and all.
He orders the group to split into their partners. Sam doesn't move from his seat, instead turning to Rachel.
"So. What do you think will happen in the Avatar sequel?"
"You've created a monster," Kurt calls exasperatedly from across the room.
Truer words were never spoken, Rachel thinks.
"Great job, Rachel," Artie wheezes, waving goodbye as he rolls to his father's car. "...bye!"
"Goodbye, Artie!" Rachel replies tiredly, and calls Quinn's cell phone, who was unceremoniously forced to study in the gym, presiding over Cheerios forced to do laps (Sue looked on, approving of her 'successor' and her successor's temper because it's so similar to "one Sue Sylvester") due to her terrible mood while Rachel practiced her routine with Artie ("I want you to be surprised, Quinn! It would ruin the effect if you weren't!") who waits patiently near the front door, playing with the hem of her sweater.
"Hey, look, it's Helen Keller," a voice sneers, and Rachel looks up to see David Karofsky, just out of football practice and looking especially cruel today.
"That doesn't make any sort of sense," Rachel rolls her eyes at his stupidity. "Helen Keller was blind and deaf due to an unfortunate fever when she was a child, thus carrying on for the rest of her life. I'm in a cast because I was shot in the leg, in case you forgot, luckily avoiding any permanent damage. It's a temporary measure, David."
Karofsky shrugs. "Anyway, I think I'll go put you in a port-o-potty now."
"You most certainly will not," Rachel shrieks, batting away his meaty hands that reach for the handles, but hopelessly unsuccessful in preventing his advance. "If you push me any further down this hallway, David, I will be forced to use my rape whistle and scream as loud as I possibly can!"
"Karofsky!" Quinn shouts, striding down the hallway, her face darkening to nearly purple with rage.
"Juno," he offers rudely, and Quinn's glower intensifies.
"Back off. You aren't taking her anywhere. By the way, great nickname. Nice to know you can copy Santana."
Karofsky scowls, pushing past Quinn with a heavy shove. "I'll just slushie her tomorrow then. We're all happy, aren't we?"
Rachel stops the blonde from following as the jock leaves, and Quinn exhales deeply, rubbing her eyes.
"Told you so," she murmurs, pushing the wheelchair through the parking lot.
"I was doing perfectly fine on my own," Rachel mumbles.
"For once, Rachel, accept defeat," Quinn barks, frustrated. Opening the door, she helps Rachel sit down in the passenger seat, and folds the wheelchair and crams it into the backseat. Slamming the door, she stomps to the driver's seat and turns the keys, starting the car and easing out of the parking lot. Rachel sighs apologetically.
"Sorry."
"You don't have to apologize. I overreacted a bit," Quinn admits before sneering at a passing driver that cut her off. "But I'm just saying that I knew something like this would happen. Karofsky is a bully, and he always will be—he won't change for anyone unless he wants to, believe me—and I originally thought a school shooting would shock him into being a nice person, but I guess that's completely impossible. One of his targets is gone, so he'll concentrate on making his others miserable."
Rachel is quiet for awhile, simply studying Quinn until they reach another red light.
"Have you been sleeping well?"
"Sure," Quinn shrugs without conviction.
"I've noticed lately you've been extremely unfocused during classes and glee, even though I've only been back a day. It's one of my talents, but that's not important. Anyway, Finn had to call for your attention multiple times because you were so out of it."
"Maybe I don't like listening to him. He's stupid."
"Maybe you're exhausted, Quinn. Not getting enough sleep can affect your memory and concentration. Have you tried using any sleep aides?"
"How'd your duet practice go?" Quinn deflects.
"Don't change the subject," Rachel quips, but can't resist adding, "It was great."
Quinn nods and parks in Rachel's driveway, where Leroy waits on the front steps.
"Thanks for the ride," Rachel says, leaning over to unexpectedly kiss Quinn on the cheek. Leroy hurries over and lifts Rachel effortlessly—she looks like a rag doll, Quinn thinks—placing her into the wheelchair and holding her backpack over his shoulders. Offering a friendly smile, Leroy murmurs a request for Quinn to wait a moment while he takes Rachel inside. The blonde nods, and Rachel disappears inside, and Leroy returns outside after several minutes, taking Rachel's previous place in the passenger side.
"How are you doing, Quinn?"
Quinn notices he isn't using a psychologist tone of voice, instead, it's a neutral, detached curiosity. She stares at him so long that he offers a small smile.
"I'm guessing you've used the same answer when someone asks you that question."
"Yeah," she admits. "I don't think I can use the word 'fine' any more than I already have."
Leroy's expression is gentle but cautionary; he doesn't want her to snap, yet senses her request for help hidden carefully behind her hesitation. "Everyone keeps offering an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on, correct?"
"More than I can count."
"You could talk to me as well, if you wanted to," he says easily, his eyes sweeping her face. He notices the dark circles under her eyes, but doesn't comment on them. Not yet. She'll deny it, he realizes. "No pressure...similar to a parental figure, but separate enough not to know and ask about everything you're trying to hide."
"Trying to hide?" Quinn questions, but knowing his answer anyway.
"I don't expect you to show me all the skeletons in your closet," Leroy chuckles dryly. "You're entitled to keep secrets. I'll wager that most of your friends, although good intentioned and concerned for your wellbeing, are trying to push you. You've been through an experience most adults and other students will never understand, no matter how hard they try. Shootings from the nineties and earlier are still relevant today. The victims are remembered, and the survivors are altered, sometimes obviously, and sometimes obscurely. Your school shooting was barely a month ago, Quinn. I'd imagine you're struggling with this, trying to cope—who wouldn't be?"
Quinn is silent, and Leroy takes this as incentive to continue.
"I haven't been involved in a school shooting, but I'd like to help you work through it, if you wanted to."
"Maybe," she murmurs, feeling like that answer is overused too.
"If you find that you can't talk to your mother, your sister, your friends...you can talk to me, Quinn. Or, if I can't help you, my daughter is an excellent listener," Leroy adds.
Quinn blushes slightly, guilt stirring in her stomach. "Um, sir...do you know what I used to do and say to your daughter? I don't exactly deserve your time."
Leroy nods, allowing, but his kind expression doesn't change. "Rachel tells my husband and I everything. But you've become her friend. If she's forgiven you, why can't I?"
"You're probably the best father ever," Quinn blurts out honestly. Leroy smiles wider.
(He's more forgiving than her own father would be in his entire life, and it makes her privately upset.)
"Don't let the other Mr. Berry hear that."
"I'll guess that you two are in competition to spoil Rachel," Quinn jokes.
"You have no idea," Leroy laughs. Quinn lets herself relax a little.
"Well, I've added my name to the options," Rachel's father says, opening the door. "If you ever need a hundredth person to speak to, I'll make time for your problems."
"Thank you," Quinn smiles, and Leroy waves, heading into his home and closing the door.
Quinn drives away, the pressure on her head relieved for the moment.
"Hey," Mandy yawns, glancing at an approaching Quinn from the living room where she had been lounging on the couch. "Where've you been?"
"School, glee, Cheerios, Rachel's," Quinn sighs, collapsing in an armchair. Mandy tosses a chip at her.
"You're overworked, loser."
"You're underworked, slacker."
"I'm on a break," Mandy protests stubbornly.
"You don't have a job, you're living with Mom and in your hometown, you're twenty-three and you dropped out of law school," Quinn snickers. "That's not a break."
"I've earned it."
"Whatever you say, sis," Quinn singsongs, stealing the remote.
"Excuse me, I was watching my shows!"
"You were watching Days of Our Lives, a repeat on SoapNet. That screams 'loser' and second, I was working hard all day. I get to pick what we're watching," Quinn replies.
"At least put on something interesting...no! We're not watching Bring It On."
"Why not?" Quinn exclaims. "It's awesome. Have you seen the routines?"
Mandy rolls her eyes. "Cheerleaders. Total airheads."
"Dropouts," Quinn counters. "What wastes of space."
Mandy throws a pillow at her. "Whatever, you geek. How was school?"
"I played nurse all day."
"That sounds kinky," Mandy remarks suggestively, raising an eyebrow. Quinn turns pink.
"I pushed Rachel's wheelchair around and helped her get to class," Quinn hisses, embarrassed. "God."
"Your words, not mine," Mandy teases, watching Quinn's skin blush brighten. "How is dear Rachel doing?"
"Fine."
"Think of a new adjective, smarty pants."
"Insufferably cheery," Quinn amends. "She's recovering from a bullet wound and still manages to fine-tune her duet with Artie while Finn and I haven't even started ours."
"Finn? The ex-boyfriend?" Mandy inquires, surprised. "Interesting."
"Stop watching soap operas," Quinn orders. "They're messing with your head."
"I do know that anti-drowsy meds mess with your head," Mandy says swiftly, eyeing Quinn closely. "I've noticed a few have gone missing from the cabinet."
"I have to stay focused in school," Quinn lies uncomfortably. "That's why I used them."
"Yet you're still tired," Mandy points out. "Anything you want to tell me?"
Remembering Leroy's comments from earlier, Quinn shakes her head firmly, her humor faded entirely.
"No, Mandy. Nothing at all."
Quinn picks Rachel up the next day, and finds her midway through a conversation on her phone.
"...when? Sure, that's okay. Are you having—no? You can if you want to. Okay, yes, bye."
"Who was that?"
"My mom," Rachel answers. "She wanted to know when I could visit her again."
"I could drive you," Quinn suggests. Rachel squirms uneasily. "What?"
"She also wanted to know if you wanted to join us."
"Why?"
"Um...maybe to see Beth."
Quinn doesn't say anything for several moments. "I don't know. Have you asked Puck about it?"
"Noah? No! I didn't even think of him. You're right, he might want to see her," Rachel agrees.
Quinn silently brings Rachel to her locker, and hands her the textbooks for her morning classes.
"Quinn?"
"What?" Quinn asks, seeing Rachel's expression become earnest and hopeful.
"I think you should see Beth. It might be good for you."
"That's for me to decide, Rachel," Quinn mutters, avoiding Rachel's eyes. "I know you're trying to help, but I don't know if I'm ready yet, or if I ever will be."
"Okay," Rachel sighs, and doesn't press the topic.
Quinn is in third period when an announcement drones through the loudspeaker.
"All students will report to the auditorium at this time."
"What's going on?" Quinn asks Sam, who's nearest to her out of anyone she talks to.
He holds the door for her, and they sit in the back, while other students file in from the sides.
"The memorial service," Sam says. "Remember? They mentioned it on the news."
Quinn pales slightly and nods, feeling nauseated. The twenty-one who didn't make it, the ones Jacob mowed down on his killing spree. Quinn still remembers the sounds. The auditorium fills up and Figgins stands alone on the stage, waiting patiently for the chatter to die down. The teachers stand against the walls, expressionless and grim. Far off in the corner, a news camera and a reporter talk quietly. Distantly, Quinn can see the back of Rachel's head, she and Artie at the end of an aisle, whispering. Puck sits on Rachel's left, and his face looks contemplative and ghostly, but he seems to glance at Rachel and nod once, and Quinn knows instantly that he wants to see Beth.
That makes one of them. For now, she supposes.
"You okay?" Sam murmurs, his eyebrows drawn together in concern.
"Fine," she responds, sounding far away, almost incomprehensible. Sam holds her hand tightly.
Figgins signals the projector room above the seats, and finds a seat for himself next to Mr. Schuester and Ms. Pillsbury. The film begins, showing the pictures of the twenty one teenagers that were lost and words from an expert, who urges those involved to speak, speak to someone. Quinn thinks the pictures must be the ones from the first day of this year, when everyone was herded into the gym for yearbook photos. Her head starts to ache painfully and the room seems to shrink, making it harder for her to breathe as she stares at each face that projects onto the stage. The last picture—the bespectacled Jewish boy with beady eyes, an untamable red curly 'fro and a creepy smile that sends her heart plummeting into despair and pure terror, just like her nightmares—makes her sick, as all voices around her roar with rage and indignation.
"Why is he there?"
"What the fuck?"
"He did it, he shouldn't be with the people he killed!"
Quinn wretches her hand from Sam's, who doesn't fight her, only half-rising sympathetically from his seat as his fellow blonde bolts for the doors, streaming brightness into the dark as she disappears as fast as she can. Sam's eyes meet Kurt's sad ones all the way across the auditorium, who gestures to Rachel on the other side, clearly desperate to follow Quinn. Sam navigates through the chaos of shouting students as teachers try to calm them down (some looking disgusted with the picture themselves) and finds Rachel. He winds his hands around the handles and pushes Rachel up the aisle, ignoring everyone else and returning Rachel's grateful smile.
They search for over an hour, peering into classrooms, bathrooms, and janitor closets, when the other students have returned to class, swearing and muttering mutinously at Figgins's daring (Sam recalls Figgins frantically trying explain that Jacob was a student too). Teachers give up trying to teach and let their kids have free rein.
When the football player and diva reach the parking lot, Quinn's infamous red car is missing.
"She ditched," Sam sighs.
"She's scared," Rachel returns, defeated.
"She needs to get real help," Sam says, sitting down on the sidewalk and squinting at her worried face. "Quinn's bottling things up. That never ends well."
"I know. Even I can't through to her, and I was with her when it happened."
"Should we try and find her?"
Rachel shakes her head. "No. She'll come when she's ready. She has the excuse. Next time, we'll chase her."
Sam surveys Rachel's face. "You care about her a lot, Rachel, I can see that. So do I. You see her differently than we do. How can we fix this? Santana's can't help because Quinn's angry with her and their friendship is strange. Finn, Puck, Mike, and Artie can't relate to her. Brittany doesn't understand (or maybe she does, in her own special way), while Mercedes, Kurt, Tina, and I might be able to help a little but you're the only one who went through the same thing. Is there a way to get through to her?"
"My dad, Leroy, he's a psychiatrist. He offered to listen. But she won't talk to anyone, not even me. She did promise though, so maybe she'll eventually talk with me."
"Why don't you bring her to see the baby?" Sam proposes.
"No, no way," Rachel says vehemently. "Beth is a risky tactic. She could either be happy to see her, happy to see her and want her back from my mom, or be angry and yell at both of us for trying to force it on her. Those are just educated guesses—she's become unpredictable now."
"What about her mother? Or her sister?"
"Maybe," Rachel theorizes. "Siblings often understand each other better than most observers would. I wouldn't know, of course, but she's probably very close to Mandy."
Sam drags a hand over his face. "Okay. We should talk to Mandy."
"I'm sure she knows, but you're right. Soon. For now, I think we should leave Quinn be."
Sam steers Rachel back into the building, and the security guard regards them warily but continues reading his newspaper at his desk. The bell rings shrilly and the hallways flood with bodies on all sides, and Rachel checks the time. Forgoing the task of getting their books and backpacks from their third period classes, Sam brings her to the lunchroom and they wait at a table for their friends to arrive. "We should keep that conversation to ourselves," Sam mutters out of the corner of his mouth.
"Agreed," Rachel murmurs back, and both hitch on smiles as Santana, Brittany, Puck, Finn, and Kurt approach, laden with lunch trays.
Quinn waits until five o'clock, when McKinley is cleared out, and slips inside, her eyes cold as ice.
Anticipating another nightmare-filled night, she decides to take extreme measures. Forget sleep aides, and forget useless anti-drowsy medication. She resolves to find the best upper she can think of, and she's seen the effects before. Alert, bright, happy, and most important of all, staying awake, albeit excessively.
Peeking around the hallway, she finds the nurse's office unlocked. She turns the light on. Striding to the desk, she opens a drawer, finding pens and office supplies.
Opening the second one, she finds what she's looking for—pseudoephedrine—and swipes two boxes of it.
"Everyone gets a dose," Terri Schuester trilled delightedly, handing two pills and a cup to each waiting glee girl, and smiling eagerly. "Oh, except for Quinn," she added, lowering her voice to a stage-whisper, "You get folic acid...momma. It's good for the baby."
"Get the lead out, Howard. We have patients waiting," Mr. Schue's ex-wife commanded. Howard Bamboo, her depressed-looking employee, struggled to rip open the boxes.
"Are you sure we should be doing this?" Rachel asked uneasily.
"Oh, it's over the counter. It's safe. You can trust me. I'm a nurse. It's good for you," Terri wheedled, a weird, expression on her face and an unstable glint to her frigid eyes.
Quinn frowns at the box, recalling the effects. Nervousness, excitability, dizziness...even Santana was perkier, something about as common as a flying pig, and smiling genuinely—tripping, but genuine—and Quinn didn't have any like the others. Rachel was practically floating off the ground after the performance of the mashup, squeaking frenzied phrases that were even more incoherent and babbling than usual. All the glee members were as high as kites, and Quinn was curious about the feeling.
Her hand finds her stomach and her resolve strengthens. Beth isn't around to be affected anymore. This dosage won't harm the baby she used to carry, adapting her lifestyle and eating habits to make sure her child was okay and cared for. It will only affect Quinn. Her body is finally her own again, she's not sharing.
Beth has a new caregiver. Quinn isn't needed, except in the future to explain why she gave up her child and undoubtedly lowered her daughter's self-esteem and self-worth.
That point makes her sad, guilty, and exhausted all at once like a sucker punch to her heart or a well-placed kidney shot.
(Her conscious protests that this is a bad idea—she'll crash and burn eventually. Drugs won't keep her afloat forever, it'll just delay the inevitable burnout.)
Quinn's gaze reaches a window, and reflected back in the fading sun is her face, whiter than snow and akin to the complexion of a corpse.
"Vitamin D it is," she murmurs to herself. Shutting off the light, she closes the door on the way out.
Quinn ignores the warning label as she stands in front of her bathroom mirror the next morning, Judy and Mandy still asleep.
She determinedly stayed awake the entire night before, finishing her homework, choreographing a dance for her and Finn to perform with their duet, packing a lunch so she doesn't have to buy one, setting her Cheerios uniform aside with her bag, organizing a routine for Coach Sylvester to inspect and approve, tidying up the living room, quietly practicing scales and lastly, endlessly pacing. Her head feels light and empty, and for once, she doesn't dispute the stereotype of cheerleaders being stupid airheads.
Because she's being exceptionally stupid, and she can't really feel her brain at the moment. She thinks it shrank, but that's the drowsiness talking.
She again eyes her own image, and she can't even remember how she looked like when she was normal. Her mind argues that very point—when was she ever normal? As a kid? Preteen? Freshman? Quinn can't decide if she was ever normal in the first place, or always struggling with some issue. Between cheating on her gullible boyfriend with his best friend, tricking said boyfriend for a long time about the baby's parentage (that was surprisingly easy, but Finn was pretty stupid sometimes), then being kicked out of her home, having the baby's father exposed and jumping between houses, to witnessing a school shooting and becoming friends with the very girl who she tormented for two years straight and the same one who outed her secret of sleeping with Puck to Finn himself and almost cost them Sectionals last year?
No. She was never normal. She resembles a femme fatale from Mandy's silly soap operas, at best.
Quinn Fabray, Head Cheerio, HBIC. Quinn, the once-pregnant girl, now the restored queen, and lastly, the tortured blonde in glee club who was well on her way to becoming the school crazy. Might as well add thief to that list of labels, Quinn thinks, slightly amused. Or, future Vitamin D addict.
She swallows two pills and chases them down with water, and blinks twice, waiting for the dose to slip into her bloodstream, rush through her arteries, circling once around the heart, and finally, traveling into her head to influence her. Hmm. Biology class was actually useful. Imagine that.
Bottom's up, she muses.
Sorry for the wait!