Here's chapter seven. I don't know, but I might be able to make it to ten chapters. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I don't own Glee.
"Daddy," Rachel demands, knocking on the window impatiently. "Daddy! I'm going to be late!"
"I'm here, I'm here," Leroy says, buckling his seatbelt and waving goodbye to Hiram.
"Bye, Dad," Rachel calls, and Hiram smiles before returning inside the house for his day-off.
Leroy drives her to McKinley, and both see Quinn sitting on a bench, clad in her uniform and a bright, gleaming smile on her face. Leroy helps Rachel into the wheelchair and hands her backpack to Quinn. Leroy offers a farewell to each girl and a kiss on Rachel's forehead before leaving, as Quinn starts to push the wheelchair inside the building, still wearing that silly grin on her face.
"Good morning, Quinn," Rachel says carefully, not wanting to question the blonde's uncharacteristically chipper mood but remembering the previous day. Quinn just laughs.
"Morning," she beams, and Rachel twists around slightly in her seat to look at her expression.
Quinn's nearly bouncing in place with glee and a glint of delight rests in her eyes, making the hazel sparkle like precious gems. Rachel can't help but smile at the sight, but her nagging sixth sense—becoming increasingly pessimistic these days—won't go quietly. Something's...off. Quinn doesn't get this happy, ever (even when pregnant/friendly/not a Cheerio) and she was practically MIA yesterday after the assembly. No one had heard from her last night, and almost everyone had tried texting or calling her...and suddenly she's animated and lively as Rachel herself would be after winning a solo. Rachel wonders if she's being paranoid, but doesn't say anything until they reach her locker and Quinn's spinning the combination, humming to herself.
"Um, Quinn?"
"Yes?"
"Are you feeling alright?"
Quinn giggles. "Of course, Rachel. Why wouldn't I be?"
Rachel stares, and fumbles with a noncommittal answer. "No reason."
Quinn shrugs patiently and hands Rachel her books, as Sam wanders over, Kurt watching nearby.
"Hey," Sam greets, and immediately raises an eyebrow at Quinn's enthusiastic hello—a hug.
"Nice to see you too, Sam," Quinn gushes, kissing his cheek. (Rachel sees Kurt stomp his foot. Jealous!)
"Wow, you're feeling better," Sam laughs nervously, widening his eyes at Rachel, who shrugs, at a loss. "I thought you'd be upset after the presentation yesterday."
"It was sad, wasn't it?" Quinn sighs heavily. "I hope everyone who died is at peace, you know?"
Sam and Rachel are torn between desperately laughing, asking for her sanity, and questioning if she was abducted by aliens. The Quinn Fabray they know is somber and quiet, fierce as a lioness when angry and able to make just about anyone in the school cry if she really tries to. This Quinn Fabray is reverting to a cheerleader-on-crack personality, or maybe a Disney princess attitude, along with an apparent case of amnesia for her flight from the auditorium only the day before.
"Sure," Sam says weakly, scratching his ear.
"Exactly," Rachel squeaks. Quinn beams, undeterred by their solemnity.
"Sam, would you mind taking Rach to class? I have a Chemistry test to study for. Thanks!"
With a merry wave, Quinn skipped away, rounding a corner and disappearing from sight.
"Okay," Sam states. "I'm putting definitely my money on alien abduction."
"It has to be," Kurt insists. "Quinn Fabray has finally lost it. Flipped her lid. Gone nuts."
"She's not crazy," Rachel and Sam snap together. Kurt sighs.
"What else would explain her Spongebob Squarepants level giddiness?"
"You watch Spongebob?" Rachel wonders disdainfully. Sam snickers.
Kurt blushes. "When I was younger. Anyway, let's get back to Quinn. Any ideas?"
"Maybe she got over it," Sam suggests. "The shooting, I mean."
"It's been a month," Rachel disagrees, drumming her fingers on the wheelchair handle. "That's just not possible. I skimmed some of my father's psychiatric notes—"
"That's unethical," Kurt interjects.
"—and he wrote that most treatment of psychological traumas take extended periods of time with regular sessions," Rachel continues louder, acting as if Kurt had not spoken. "Recovering from seeing Jacob shoot himself wouldn't be that easy, even for someone as persistent and relentless as Quinn. She says she's sleeping well, but it's obvious she isn't—have you seen under her eyes?"
"So this cheery demeanor is a facade, you think?" Kurt inquires.
"I wouldn't doubt that she's still hurting," Rachel returns.
"The real question is how long she can keep up this jolly act," Sam says. "I don't think she can."
"Maybe she's just trying to get Mr. Schuester off her case," Kurt offers. "He's been singling her out a lot lately. Her attitude toward him doesn't help much. That man is insufferable to his own ego, that's not the point. Do you two think Quinn would resort to this to avoid the spotlight?"
"Probably. She's very defensive when she doesn't want to talk about something," Rachel allows.
The brunette girl, the male diva, and the blonde boy stay silent for several minutes.
"So...what do we do?" Sam sighs.
"Be around if she wants to talk," Rachel decides. "She has to eventually."
"Otherwise, just watch," Kurt declares. "Watch until she cracks and be ready to help."
"This would be where we break the huddle and clap," Sam supplies brightly.
"No, Sam. We're not doing that."
"Oh, okay."
"Berry! Hey, Berry!" A voice hisses.
Rachel peers sideways at Santana, who sits two seats away from her in Algebra II.
"What?" Rachel whispers, keeping an eye on the teacher, still scrawling a formula on the board.
A note slide in her direction, passed obediently by Brittany and a third, unnamed Cheerio.
What's Q's angle?
"What do you mean?"
Santana nudges Brittany, who swaps seats with her and the third Cheerio, leaving Santana right next to Rachel, Brittany next to Santana, and the tall blonde sandwiched between her girlfriend and the third Cheerio, who immediately had complied with Santana's order, terrified of the Latina's will. Rachel frowns at the new setup as the teacher turns around, seeing innocent, expectant faces, poised to take notes. The teacher scowls suspiciously before turning his back on them again to write.
"What's Quinn trying to do?"
"I don't know," Rachel insists. "She was like that earlier with Sam and I."
"It's freaking me out," Santana grumbles. "Even if me and Quinn—"
"Quinn and I," Rachel corrects.
"I'm not talking about you and Quinn, Manhands. Me and Q aren't exactly friends at the moment but I do know her. She never gets excited and squeaky, even when we were kids," Santana admits. "I know she's still mad at me. I shouldn't have pushed her, I get that, but why is she suddenly rivaling a Powerpuff girl in playfulness?"
"I'm still figuring that out," Rachel answers truthfully. "It's a mystery."
"Keep at it and get back to me," Santana orders, ending the conversation as she looks ahead.
Could've been worse, Rachel thinks, relieved. Seeing Santana offer her simplified notes to Brittany, who smiles thankfully and instigates Santana to color slightly, mollified, Rachel realizes with only some surprise Santana might actually care a lot about someone else other than her girlfriend.
"That was amazing," Quinn cheers, clapping, as Rachel and Artie finish their duet, breathing heavily.
"I have to agree, fantastic job, both of you," Mr. Schuester praises.
Rachel smiles uncertainly and wheels herself back to Quinn's side, blushing at Quinn's grin.
"Anyone else ready?" Mr. Schuester asks, pleased and the only one unaffected by Quinn's rapid turnaround. Everyone else had heard from other members in glee and casual observers that Quinn had switched from cool and biting to cheery and pleasant overnight, and her mood didn't change for the entire day. Ms. Pillsbury had gaped (scurrying to find a pamphlet to explain the change), Sue Sylvester had nodded approvingly, and Mr. Schue was delighted—no more jabs or rudeness from the Head Cheerio.
"No," Puck speaks for the majority, unnerved at Quinn's behavior. "We're still working."
"You guys," Mr. Schuester complains. "It doesn't take more than a week to hash out a simple duet."
"I agree," Quinn announces. "Finn, meet me in the auditorium, we have to practice."
Morbidly fascinated and frightened by her determination, Finn follows her out of the room. Instantly, chatter engulfs the club and everyone wonders exactly is in the water Quinn's been drinking, and how she managed to evolve into Rachel's enthusiasm and determination for glee assignments.
"I resent that," Rachel sulks. "Singing is my passion. If that's wrong, I don't want to be right."
"Whatever, Berry, it's true," Santana points out. "But it's you, and it's definitely not Quinn."
"I think it's a positive change," Mr. Schuester interrupts. "She's happy."
Ten pairs of eyes bore down disbelievingly on their oblivious, obtuse glee director.
"Are you serious?" Puck demands.
"She's clearly struggling," Rachel adds. "It was a month ago. Quinn is hiding her pain with joy."
"Yeah, it's as fake as Santana's chest," Puck tacks on, and Santana punches him in the arm.
"It's the truth!" Puck yelps indignantly. Brittany helpfully kicks his knee, and Puck curses.
"I'll have to side with Rachel on this," Kurt pipes up. "Quinn's never been this energetic."
"Well, I for one think we should let sleeping dogs lie," Mr. Schuester voices his opinion pointedly, wearing his annoyingly 'stern' expression. "Anyway, let's stop talking about Quinn for now. Since you all haven't worked enough, I'll give you practice time to work on those duets."
Rachel rolls her eyes and speaks with Artie as the others rehearse, and meets Sam's eyes.
Later, he mouths, let's find Mandy.
During Sylvester's practice, she mouths back. Quinn won't be home until six.
Sam nods and Rachel finishes her chat with Artie, internally planning her questions.
"I'm impressed, Q," Sue comments when the other cheerleaders are on the ground, panting. Sue had commanded fifteen suicides, and Quinn had led the pack, running like her life depended on it and ending the task with a wide smile on her lips. Quinn had stretched like a pro while the other girls collapsed, some in tears and others short for breath. The six boys on the team—catchers to the fliers during complex routines—also look exhausted. All except one happy Quinn Fabray.
"Thank you, Coach."
"To be honest, I underestimated you. I thought your postpartum depression would continue for the rest of your life, ruining your chances to get ahead in life. I wouldn't know pregnancy effects—never had kids and don't have the uterus or the patience to keep one. But once again you've managed to crawl from a second bout of despair after what I call 'Jacob's Folly' and cement your position as Head Cheerio. Excellent job."
"Thank you," Quinn answers, the steely look in her eyes the only indication she was affected by Sue's speech. Ignoring the tightness in her chest, she watches the field.
"With you better than ever, my team will win Nationals and earn you a scholarship," Sue says.
"A scholarship?" Quinn repeats, earlier delight returning to her expression.
"Yes, but enough talk about that. All of you, up and at 'em. Five laps, around the field! Now!"
"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Rachel questions anxiously.
"Yes. Maybe Quinn acts different at home. Her sister might know stuff we don't," Sam reasons.
"Fine, but if Quinn finds out and we're in trouble, I'm blaming you," Rachel vows.
Sam rolls his eyes but rings the doorbell as both shift in place, nervous.
The door opens, revealing Amanda Fabray, who looks to be a clone of Quinn, aged several years with only a few differences between them. Mandy smiles politely.
"Hi. Are you two looking for Quinn?"
"No, actually, we wanted to talk to you," Rachel asserts. "If you wouldn't mind, of course."
Mandy blinks. "Okay..."
She steps aside, opening the door wider and Sam lifts the wheelchair over the threshold. Mandy leads the way into the dining room, and Rachel sees a few pictures of Quinn and Mandy as children, one of Quinn when she was in middle school, and two imposing and posed family photographs, with Quinn, Mandy, and Mrs. Fabray standing behind Mr. Fabray. Rachel scowls at it before she is wheeled away, and Mandy clears a space at the table. An awkward silence descends upon the three of them until Rachel speaks.
"We're both here to discuss Quinn with you," the brunette offers. "Specifically her attitude."
"Oh, right," Mandy agrees, suddenly more interested in the topic. "Yeah, she's been busy. Tired. I haven't really noticed her eating too much—my mom's a little worried."
"Has she been acting strange?" Sam questions.
"Strange, no. Subdued, yes. My sister and I used to be able to talk for hours about anything and everything. Now she contributes about a quarter of that," Mandy admits sadly. "And the other day, I saw that she had used some anti-drowsy pills from my mother's medicine cabinet. She said she needed them but I think there's something else going on. She won't open up to me anymore. We were—I mean, we are—close, but it's just...different than before. She's like...Quinn-Lite."
"She's resorting to medication?" Rachel repeats, unease slipping down her spine. "That's not like her."
"I wouldn't worry too much," Mandy says. "She told me she only used them once."
"That doesn't explain her behavior today," Sam pipes up. "Quinn was totally weird."
"How so?"
"Well, um, Quinn puts on a...how should I say this? An act?" Rachel offers.
"A bitchy one?" Mandy guesses. "I know Santana. I've heard a few stories."
"Right. Well Quinn is normally either in an irritated mood or, lately, a quiet one, obviously because she's still dealing. But today she pranced around like Judy Garland."
"Jackie Burkhart, That's 70's Show," Sam adds.
"Galinda in Wicked," Rachel includes. "Or Dory in Finding Nemo."
"Will Ferrell, Elf," Sam continues.
"Patty Simcox in Grease," Rachel suggests.
"Okay, okay, slow down," Mandy interjects, trying not to laugh. "So...you're saying that Quinn was acting way out of character today? Like someone who's...very cheery?"
"Exactly," Rachel nods. "Quinn's never bright and cheerful as she was today."
"Maybe she had a good night's sleep?"
"I don't think so. She looks just as tired as she's been all month," Sam disagrees. "It's like she's a zombie going through the motions."
"I'll keep an eye on her," Mandy decides. "But I'm not sure if—"
"Hey," the blonde-in-question greets with a radiant smile, tossing her duffel bag on the floor and joining the three of them at the table. "What are you guys doing here?"
"Looking for you," Sam lies quickly, panicking.
"We missed you after glee," Rachel improvises wildly.
"I was just about to invite them to dinner," Mandy cuts in, still calm. "How 'bout it?"
"Sounds great," Rachel mumbles.
"Yeah," Sam squeaks.
Quinn beams at them before trotting upstairs for a shower.
Mandy sighs deeply. "I see what you mean. I didn't wake up and see her. Last night she was evasive and tired. She wouldn't gain all that energy and pep so quickly."
"It's practically inhuman," Sam agrees.
"Energy...pep," Rachel repeats, eyebrows furrowed in thought. "That reminds me of something."
"Let's talk about that later," Sam advises. "In private. We've given Mandy plenty to think about."
Mandy nods in agreement, glancing at the clock. "My mom will be home soon. I guess you two can just chill out in here if you wanted to. I'll go get changed, excuse me."
Sam and Rachel are left alone, and Sam coughs nervously.
"Um...ready for the most awkward dinner of our lives?"
"I'm a performer, Sam. I'm always ready."
"Show off."
Sam was half-right. The dinner was awkward, but only for the first part. Judy, surprised that Quinn actually invited friends over—it had been quite a long time, after all—was interested in both the football player and the diva, having not met them properly. Judy listened eagerly to the tales of glee club that Quinn 'forgot' to mention, and Sam supplied information about his games. Quinn, the only one completely comfortable, happily informed everyone of her 'fantastic' day.
"Ms. Sylvester mentioned a scholarship for me," Quinn reports, beaming.
"That's wonderful, sweetie," Judy smiles.
"Where would you go, Quinn?" Mandy wonders. "What would you even do?"
"I don't know," Quinn gushes honestly. "But I have another year to figure it out!"
Rachel, Sam, and Mandy exchange nervous looks—she too cheerful!—but Judy and Quinn don't notice.
"She's like a Stepford wife," Mandy mutters when Judy and Quinn discuss colleges.
"I think you win the comparison contest," Rachel whispers. Sam nods.
"So, Sam, do you have a girlfriend at school?" Judy asks.
Rachel pales, and Mandy tilts her head quizzically at the only brunette at the table, wondering why. Rachel widens her eyes and mouths 'boyfriend' to Mandy, who chokes.
Sam laughs, the sound higher in pitch than usual, betraying his anxiety. "Um, no. I don't."
"He's dating Kurt, Mom," Quinn interjects cheerily. "They're adorable together."
Judy barely blinks. "Kurt Hummel, right? I met his father last month. That's sweet."
Mandy splutters.
"What?"
"I thought you would've thrown a Bible at him, Mom," Mandy remarks quietly, sending an apologetic glance to Sam, who shrugs. "Dad wasn't exactly tolerant in the past."
"I'm not your father," Judy says staunchly. "I think love isn't subjective to religion or gender."
Quinn looks impressed, Rachel and Sam look relieved, and Mandy just nods, pleased.
"Who wants ice-cream?" Judy trills cheerfully.
"I'm actually shaking," Rachel laughs. "Wow."
"We're alive," Sam cheers. "Quinn didn't catch us, and we got free food and tolerance."
"I always assumed Mr. Fabray was the aggressor. He was the one who kicked Quinn out but Judy was the one to apologize and ask Quinn to live with her again."
Sam closes Rachel's door, and walks around the car, and sits down on the driver's side.
"I think Judy is really trying," Rachel comments. "She was the opposite of my theories."
"I agree," Sam remarks, starting the engine, but doesn't drive off. "Hey, look, it's Quinn."
Quinn hurries across the driveway, and Rachel rolls down her window.
"Thanks for coming to dinner, guys. It was really nice," Quinn says, flashing a sparkling grin.
"No problem," Sam replies as Rachel smiles.
Quinn leans over and kisses Rachel's cheek. "See you tomorrow. I'll pick you up, Rach."
Quinn lopes back inside and Sam stares as Rachel turns red.
"That's new," he says, waggling his eyebrows. "Care to explain?"
"No."
"I think you liked it."
Silence.
"You're blushing."
"No, I'm not."
"Red's your color," Sam snickers.
"Sam."
"Quinn, you, Kurt, and I can double date," Sam teases. "What d'you think?"
"Sam."
"I hope you aren't threatened by me. Quinn kissed my cheek too, but we're just friends," Sam snickers. "But I think she really likes you. She stares at you all the time."
"Really?" Rachel asks before she can stop herself.
"Yes. And I," Sam takes on hand off the wheel when the car stills at a red light, dramatically placing it over his heart and smiling sweetly, "honestly think it's adorable."
"You've been spending way too much time in Kurt's company," Rachel pouts.
"Gotta keep the those temper tantrums away," Sam declares, smirking. "Solos are yours, Rach."
"Normally I would be delighted with that information, but we need to keep investigating Quinn," Rachel insists. "We need to see if she continues to act like this. Maybe we're overracting and this is the real Quinn Fabray, or we're right and Quinn's pretending to be over her issues. Now we have an eye on the inside to watch her closely."
Sam sombers slightly. "I know."
"Just so you know, the kising doesn't bother me. It wasn't the first time," Rachel says.
"What?"
"I kissed her the other day," Rachel explains. "This doesn't leave the confines of this car."
"Okay, okay, continue," Sam urges, interested. "I definitely want to hear this."
"Don't tell Kurt either."
"Deal. Talk, woman, talk!"
"Okay. It started with the library," Rachel begins, turning the radio off. "Quinn had found me and we were talking—she listens to me this year, I'm very shocked, and she hasn't said anything rude to me all semester. I suggested that she kiss me—stop smiling like that—because I really thought I was going to die," she elaborates, scowling at Sam's dopey grin, "and yes, I know it was dramatic. I'm dramatic, I do things like that. Whatever. Surprisingly, Quinn agreed to it, and I did kiss her."
"And then what?" Sam questions.
"It was magical," Rachel smiles. "And she said something like 'that's what friends do'."
"If you're Brittany and Santana," Sam scoffs disbelievingly. "We all know how that turned out."
"Anyway, she's become a good friend to me, in contrast to last year, but I think she's holding back. She won't talk to me—not that she talks to anyone, because she keeps avoiding the questions—but she does make an effort to listen when I'm rambling. She visited me often in the hospital, and she drove me to school the other day."
"Tomorrow, like she offered, too," Sam adds.
"Yes. To proceed, on my first day back, two days ago, Quinn looked especially nervous. She explained that it was out of concern for me. She didn't want me to get slushied or pranked by the likes of David Karofsky and his hockey minions. She was right about that, but more on that later. I kissed her so she wouldn't be nervous, and it seemed to work, she was sort of back to her old self—rolling her eyes but in a friendly manner. Does that make any sense?"
"Yup. So, besides the kissing thing, what did you mean about Karofsky?"
Rachel blushes. "Oh. He threatened to lock me in a portable toilet and tip it over, I assume."
"I'll trip him at practice," Sam promises.
"Make it look accidental," Rachel prompts. "I don't condone violence."
"Fine," Sam sighs, exasperated. "So you do like kissing Quinn? I won't laugh, I swear."
"It's not like I haven't noticed how pretty she is," Rachel admits. "Who in Lima hasn't? But yes, I do like it—her. I do like her, but I don't want to jeopardize our new friendship. She's my first real best friend, one that I've always wanted."
"I thought I was your best friend," Sam protests.
"Are you?"
"Of course I am. We're like Will and Grace."
"Okay, she's my first best friend that happens to be a girl. You're my best friend that's a boy," Rachel amends, amused at Sam's persistence and sincerity. She wishes he was in McKinley last year, but that's in the past. Sam smiles at her as they continue driving, and she returns the gesture.
"Good."
"I'm just caught in a Catch-22. I wouldn't mind being with Quinn, but our friendship is a delicate one. I'm not even sure if my feelings extend beyond platonic because no other girl has been this close to me. It's all really confusing at the moment. And the fact that Quinn's dedicated to being Christian and straight."
"You don't know that," Sam offers. "Her mother is an example of change when praticing a religion. Quinn supports Kurt and I, along with Britt and Santana, so why wouldn't she support herself?"
"Gay panic?" Rachel suggests. "I don't even know if I'm completely straight. I'm just open-minded. I'll have to think harder about this."
Sam nods. "There's nothing wrong with that. Kurt knows I'm bisexual."
"Do you ever feel different than everyone else at school?" Rachel inquires.
"Sometimes. But Kurt makes me happy," Sam smiles. "I'd rather just be with someone who makes me happy than be alone, you know?"
They drive in silence until Sam speaks up.
"I think we can save this conversation for later. Quinn acting like a crazy robot is an important topic."
"True. We'll monitor her carefully," Rachel decides. "As Kurt said, she's bound to crack sometime."
"I think we should pick some sick codenames."
"I'll leave that one to you, Sam."
Quinn is no different the next day. She's smiling and waving like a perfect politican with an unshakable poker face and a yes-we-can demeanor. Kurt, ordered forcibly by Sam and Rachel, was given the task of trailing Quinn in the hallways as inconspicously as possible, only to report that Quinn's expression rarely changed. Only once did it falter, when she swept by the library. Kurt deemed it to be a "grimace worth using when excavating Rachel's closet of argyle for a dinner date" until Quinn rearranged her features into the bubblegum-happy beam, and had continued on her way without another problem.
The members of glee are wary, but only Sam, Rachel, Kurt, and Santana take an active interest as the others seemingly accept this new-and-improved Quinn, not missing the angry cheerleader. Quinn performs her duet with Finn perfectly, if enthusiastically, both crooning Lady Antebellum's song with a presence and talent to rival the original.
(Mr. Schuester is ecstatic.)
Quinn remains Rachel's offical driver, although Sam steps in occasionally. Kurt tags along.
The Head Cheerio's giddiness doesn't stop, but Rachel notices the tiredness under her eyes only gets worse and worse. Quinn's makeup and smile is the are the only saving graces she has, and others who aren't looking for imperfections don't see anything. Kurt and Rachel see it, and later explain to a confused Sam, who later understands.
Kurt mentions seeing Quinn's grades slip a bit.
"She's on the honor roll," Kurt clarifies quietly, when they're hanging out in Rachel's room. Sam's stretched out on her bed, Kurt sits on her desk chair, and Rachel works on Algebra problems. "I saw her get a seventy-seven on a Chemistry test the other day. That's not like her."
"Mandy hasn't noticed anything out of the ordinary," Rachel murmurs. "I asked."
"I still think we should keep looking," Sam declares, and the other two nod.
It's another month—an entire month of Quinn bouncing around like she's on speed—before something astoundingly different occurs. Others notice, but say nothing in favor of keeping to themselves. Rachel stares at Quinn constantly, who is suddenly allowing her expression to be blank, empty, neutral. Rachel and Kurt can't help but wonder if she finally hurt her face because she was smiling so much, while Sam hears rumors whispered by Santana from the Cheerios weight-ins; Quinn's losing a lot of weight.
"The Sue-Sylvester Master Cleanse," Santana sneers. "It works like a charm, trust me."
(Sue Sylvester is singing her praises to her 'heir' and Becky Jackson is understandably irritated.)
Quinn hasn't changed around much Rachel. She's still listening diligently, being a good friend (the one of the best she's had), and sometimes joining Rachel for dinner with Rachel's fathers. The Berry clan tries not to stare when Quinn talks, each with different reasons—Hiram for a medical concern, seeing the weariness of her physique, Leroy for an emotional interest, noticing the lack of venting she does, and Rachel for her best friend's stability and happiness. Sam and Kurt don't have answers, neither does Santana. Rachel won't give up; she knows Quinn isn't invincible. The only upside to Quinn's disturbing cheer is that she begins to talk to Rachel.
Sometimes, they just sit outside, shivering a little as fall approaches, the only sounds being the whisper of the wind and the rustling of tree leaves. Other times, when Quinn decides to talk, the blonde admits she's still having nightmares, and realizes she can't watch shows like Law & Order or CSI because she hates the noise of the gunshots. She won't watch Secret Life of The American Teenager because Amy Jergens bitches about having a life when she choose to keep her child.
Rachel visits Shelby twice. Quinn is mysteriously busy each time. Puck drives her, and is adorably awestruck—at least in Rachel's opinion—of Beth. Shelby just smiles.
Even though Quinn's talking, they don't get very far. Bridges built are burnt immediately.
Rachel listens to Quinn's worries, because Quinn's being more honest to her than anyone else, waiting until to what Kurt has dubbed the "iceberg to Quinn's collision".
The library's been open for a week, Quinn notices. Students use it regularly like nothing's ever happened, and it unsettles her. She finally plucks up the courage to explore it, when glee's over and Sue gladly excuses her from practice, too pleased with her superb routines and Quinn's performance and excellence to care that she's missing precious time to exercise. Sam had driven Rachel home after glee club, and Quinn's been staring at the door for nearly ten minutes now, frozen.
Her hand curls around the cold handle and she steps inside, and catches her breath.
They switched everything around, she manages to comprehend. The shelves and tables are rearranged into another, different order, and the librarian's desk is closer to the doors than before. The room even smells different—like bleach and air freshener. Her heart pounds fast and uncomfortably in her ears as she moves forward.
She walks fifteen paces; she remembers that. Walking cautiously until Rachel had yanked her down.
Quinn's stunned and surprisingly annoyed to find a tacky rug in the exact spot where she and Rachel had leaned against a bookshelf. It's a mixture of brown and green, like old vomit or something found in a grandmother's home, and she honestly wants to burn it, but she doesn't. Her sneakers are blaringly white against it, and she scuffs a toe along the frayed edge, searching floor is almost clear, but the stain—Rachel's blood and Jacob's blood, she recalls seeing so much of it, dark and murky—isn't completely erased. A pinkish hue shines pointedly under her feet, and it's the only indication that something extraordinary had happened here.
Quinn sits down beside it, where she sat for over three hours only two months before. Her mind pauses, stumbling over the thought. Two months? That long?
"I bet you're wondering why I wanted to find you."
"You're the reason I chose to do this."
She did command a milita of eager bullies, the blonde thinks regretfully. She could have ended harrassment and slushies if she tried. Maybe McKinley would be different. Would she be friends with Rachel? Would Jacob have wanted to kill if his bullying had stopped, or was it too little, too late? Quinn doesn't know.
(She doesn't think she'll ever know the real answer to that question.)
"Stop trying to justify your innocence, Quinn! You don't have any."
"I want you to see the result of your terrible leadership and failure to be a better person."
She doesn't know if she's a better person. It's hard to tell lately.
Rachel seems to find her engaging—the diva hasn't asked her to leave, not once, and happily accepts the rides to and from school, and listens loyally when Quinn needs to talk. Kurt and Sam have taken a particular interest in hanging out with her, but she can't really find the urge to spend time with anyone other than Rachel. Quinn wants to laugh at the irony—she used to want to be as far away from Rachel Berry as possible, sneering disdainfully at someone so irritating, and now she's the only one Quinn wants to be around because Rachel's in her thoughts lately—but the blonde can't exactly remember when she really laughed because something was funny enough.
The pseudoephedrine keeps her moving. She even is trippy enough to smile, but it's fake, until she's become so so tired and slow that she can only manage to keep going but can't smile anymore—it's a waste of the precious energy she needs to conserve because doesn't have a lot. Quinn's surprised that she's kept it up this long. Her eating habits are smaller, and Sue Sylvester's beyond happy in using her as an example of a perfect Cheerio, parading her around to the other twenty girls as someone to idolize.
Santana stares at her. Rachel stares at her. Kurt, Sam, and Mandy stare. It bothers her.
She's opening up to Rachel, isn't that enough? Granted it's mostly about Beth and not what she wants to say, but still...the distance is great. She feels like she's separated by a glass wall, just looking at everyone else live happily while she deals with her own issues apart from the rest of the world, alone and different, like a lower species.
She wants to take up Leroy's offer, but she's so tired after school, glee, and Cheerios that he's out of the question. It's just one thing too many. Like smiling.
Smiling is offically off the to-do list.
The next day, during English, when she's feeling more sluggish and slower than usual, she blinks once. The classroom seems to swim in her vision, blurring along the edges and distorting in the middle, creating a kaleidoscope of confusion. The sight is so similar to 3D films that Quinn stupidly reaches for her eyes to take the colored glasses off when she realizes she doesn't even have any on and made a total idiot out of herself.
A paper is placed on her desk—an essay. Quinn squints at the red scribbles, and makes out: C-.
"Try harder next time," her teacher tuts, and moves on. Quinn rolls her eyes.
When she makes it to History and her teacher drones on and on about the Progressive Era, Quinn stares blankly. When has everyone suddenly looked the same all of a sudden? It's like twenty identical boys sitting around her, taking notes and snorting with nasally, annoying laughter. The teacher even looks just like—wait, Quinn thinks as her pulse jumps into a sprint and her breath shortens—no, he's not here anymore, it's not possible, it can't be, it has to be a mistake, the drugs, no sleep, she's—
"Quinn?" Jacob, dressed in her teacher's clothes, asks, almost looking concerned. "Are you okay?"
Ten more Jacob's turn to face her, some looking at her chest, some passing notes, others whispering, and all stare with those empty, creepy eyes and pallid, sweaty, pale complexions. Her skin crawls with disgust and fear and she feels like she about to faint from the combined horrors and paranoia.
"Um, I think I should go to the nurse," she chokes out, abandoning her poorly scrawled notes, grabbing her bag and striding nervously out of the room before the Jewish-boy-teacher-imposter-man can reply. She's racing through the hallway, her feet clattering noisily against the floor and she ducks inside a bathroom, slamming a stall door shut and throwing up what's left in her stomach. It's practically nothing anyway, just bile and an ache and pain and she finally can breathe again.
Quinn exhales deeply through her nose, her skin still prickling as she shivers. She's been so cold in the past few days, and she just can't warm enough. She rests her weight on the stall's wall, regulating her breathing. Her chest is constricted and her breath slowly returns to normal. Her intestines seem to desire escaping her body, but she clamps her teeth firmly together and lets her head clear the disorientation as her eyes settle on the graffiti. It's old, some from the eighties, most from the past five years.
Quinn recognizes her own looping handwriting, insults usually pertaining to Rachel and those horrible drawings she used to do in her spare time between classes. The pornographic pictures were originally a passing party joke from Santana, but Quinn was the one to actually doodle them all over the bathroom. Looking back, she's kind of embarrassed. Normally, you'd find pictures like that in a boy's restroom. What on earth possessed Quinn to even laugh about them, let alone write a few?
(Something she'd rather not think about, but it involves Rachel Berry, her body, and her mind numbing kisses. But no way was she going to think about that. She's just...not going to think about it. Right.)
Then they spread to her notebooks—something Rachel had definitely seen but didn't comment.
Rachel's more noble than Quinn will ever be, and it's makes her feel equal portions of happy and sad. Happy that Rachel will always remain exactly the way she is, superiorly proud of her talent, likes, and personality and will carry that on to the inevitable stardom she'll attain the future. Sad that Quinn herself will never be a honest, pure, and forgiving person that her religion requests, and worse, she can't find it in herself to try anymore. She's drifting aimlessly, and only Judy goes to church on Sundays.
Quinn searches through her bag and finds a Sharpie, and her lips quirk slightly.
When the door shuts and she disappears to find a new place to think, dozens of black scribbles and lines cover the mean-spirited pornographic images, nearly defacing the stall she occupied and the other four in the bathroom. Instead of insults to Rachel, Quinn scrawled dozens of insults about herself in every stall so all would see them. And for some unknown reason, it feels good. Cathartic, like she's releasing her anger.
(It's probably her Vitamin D addled brain, but she knows also it's her conscious, and maybe a little karma too.)
She wonders later if someone will laugh at them, and finds herself hoping for it. She deserves that, doesn't she? According to Jacob, at least.
Quinn misses three classes while in the bathroom, and unfortunately misses lunch. Whatever.
She leans her elbow on the back of a chair in the deserted choir room, and adjusts her head to rest on her hand, keeping her head propped up so she can close her eyes and rest. Just a moment and she'll be ready for glee practice. She's been going flat recently (Rachel told her so—who else would know?) and it bothers her. Quinn knows that her lack of appetite and sleep could contribute to that, but she resolves to think of that later. Now, she was just resting her eyes. Only a few seconds, and then she'll move.
Her dreams are dark, and her eyelids feel like lead weights, dragging her down, trapping her in unconsciousness.
Jacob's still cackling as she wakes up with a shuddering gasp, and finds Sam standing over her.
"You don't look too good, Quinn," he says.
"I know."
"Seriously, you look like a cancer patient. You need to take care of yourself," Sam insists.
"I understand," she murmurs.
"Everyone's left you alone since you stopped running around like a psycho," her fellow blonde remarks sternly, crossing his arms. "Even Rachel. Well, I've had enough of you dragging yourself around like a zombie. It's time to revive you, Quinn. You aren't healthy anymore, and it shows. The only one happy about this is Coach Sylvester, only because you're pushing yourself three times harder than usual, and it's more than your body can take. I get it, Quinn. I do. You're not eating."
"You don't know anything," Quinn says dully. "I'm not like you in any way."
"Yes, you are," Sam counters. "First of all, we're blondes. Second, we're jocks. Third—"
"Is there point anywhere in your stupid speech or can I go back to sleeping?"
"Third," Sam continues firmly, "we both have body issues."
"I don't have body issues, Sam. You've been watching too much television," Quinn snaps tiredly.
"Then explain to me how you lost fifteen pounds in two weeks," Sam retorts.
"Exercise," Quinn says slowly, like he's four. "You know...cheerleading? Why? Did Santana spy on me for you?"
"No. Santana keeps her weight and still looks better than you do. I've watched you at lunchtimes, Quinn. You don't touch your food, and when questioned, you mumble something about a big breakfast. All of us have heard it so many times we just don't ask you because we know you're lying."
"Wow," Quinn exclaims nastily, "you've solved the mystery, Fred! Good job!"
"Don't try to distract me with a Scooby Doo reference," Sam warns. "I'm serious."
"No, I'm serious. I'm so fucking sick of you all watching me and whispering. Do you honestly think I don't notice? That I don't see your little powwows when I'm not there? I practically invented that. It's pretty pathetic," Quinn snarls, snatching her bag and stalking out of the room as fast as she can.
Sam mutters a swear as Kurt and Rachel enter the room, several minutes later after Quinn's gone, both divas eyeing him hopefully. "Mission aborted," Sam sighs. "Failure."
"The bad cop routine didn't work?" Kurt asks. "Damn it."
"I thought it would do the trick," Sam groans. "Back to square one."
"Wait!" Rachel yelps suddenly, startling them both. "I've just had an epiphany!"
Quinn reminds herself vaguely of an owl. Those unblinking, blank eyes, roving head business.
(Quinn wonders why her brain seems to think of the strangest things.)
Her eyes have watered with sticky tears, like her brain was begging her to blink and fall asleep for hours and recuperate. Her head swims in confusion and globs of color and noise, and she can barely understand her native language anymore, which is just sad. Sentences are garbled and she usually catches the ends and the gist, but that's it.
Maybe Santana could be her own personal translator. Santana can decipher her broken Spanglish. Nah. That would involve converting her befuddled mind into comprehensible, gramatically correct Spanish, and she doesn't really want to make an effort in anything worthwhile nowadays.
Her eyes have been way out-of-whack lately. She doesn't trust her own vision anymore—her dreams are mixing seamlessly into reality. Sometimes she sees Jacob chatting within a group, and others, his face on a jock's body, laughing. She's half scared, half uncaring. He isn't real, no matter how much she sees him. Then Quinn acknowledges that she'll keep seeing him around because the pills she stole from the nurse's office are the only things keeping her awake and mobile. She should be passed out by now.
Sheer willpower keeps Quinn Fabray from collapsing. She's a little proud.
Quinn sits down at a table, luckily recognizing Brittany's giggles when listening for them.
"Whoa," Brittany breathes. "You look awful."
"Seconded," Santana comments, uneasy. Quinn looks uncannily similar to the walking dead.
Quinn shrugs.
"Anything to eat, Q?" Santana asks uncertainly. "You're skin and bones over there."
"I have a drink," Quinn murmurs, vacant and listless, fishing the Sue Sylvester Master Cleanse from her bag.
"Don't drink that," Santana orders fiercely, almost pleadingly. "You don't need it."
"Of course I do," Quinn utters coldly, but her voice quickly loses inflection and emotion.
She eyes the drink, feeling her stomach churn noisily like a washing machine. She can feel the dizziness returning like clockwork, and the bottomless hunger clawing her insides. The nausea and sleep deprivation combine in a sickening cloud of queasiness and she wants to scream but can't because her throat is raw and hurts too badly. The pseudoephedrine makes her jumpy and paranoid and she downs the Sue Sylvester Master Cleanse with shaking hands. It's worth it.
Quinn has to be perfect. If perfect means if taking Vitamin D and drinking the SSMC without sleeping, then so be it. She doesn't have her title as Head Cheerio for nothing.
Her stomach squirms uncomfortably and she stands up unsteadily from the lunch table, swaying slightly.
Brittany's hand tightens on her wrist as she nearly careens sideways. Brittany's mouth is moving, and Quinn struggles to focus her eyes and ears.
"...wrong with you?" The other blonde seems to be asking.
"I'm fine, m'fine," Quinn answers groggily, sounding warped and like she's drunk again. She shakes off Brittany's grip, who wilts and eyes Quinn unhappily, as Santana frowns, looking scared all of a sudden. "I...I—have to-to go to class now," the shorter blonde mumbles, walking slower than usual, her head bowed.
The drink has not made her better. She's worse as ever, and her body will betray her eventually. No sleep, no food, and no control, and later, she'll lose it all.
"Hold!" Sue roars into her megaphone. "Lance, if I catch you crying one more time, I swear..."
Quinn blinks languidly from the top of the pyramid, feeling the wind graze her face. She feels like she's disconnected from her body, like a ghost, and it's unsettling. Her empty stomach claws her insides, and she grimaces, hiding her discomfort. Santana is looking, she notices, and Quinn panics. Calm, calm, calm, she thinks. No one'll notice.
She squints as her vision blurs slightly, trying to see better. Sue continues to watch the formation from the bleachers, needlessly having them stay in position so she can study the least effective cheerleaders. Quinn shivers—when did it get so cold?—and forces her eyes wide open, even though it hurts. Nausea teeters behind her lips and she grinds her teeth. Focus. Focus. Focus...she just wants to sleep, honestly. Sleeping makes everything better. She can't though. Not anymore. Sleeping is bad.
Quinn breathes deeply. Her brain shrieks for her to surrender. Sleep, sleep, forget, hide, sleep—
"Fabray!" Sue yells, no doubt spotting her quivering knees and chattering teeth. "Hold still!"
Quinn feels her stomach jerk and her mouth tastes like sawdust and mixed ingredients from the devastating weight loss cocktail she downed and her eyes close unwillingly as if they're glued together as she struggles to breathe properly while her chest tightens around her lungs and her heart thumps painfully on her ribcage—the Cheerios on the pyramid below are screaming her name—the blonde coughs and flails, flying backwards into darkness as she just lets herself lose, lets herself give up and black out.