Couldn't resist, mates. In the iconic words of Captain Jack Sparrow from Pirates of the Caribbean, I present chapter nine to you readers. It explains a few points, and contains something suspiciously related to the Golden Globe aftershow yelling of Lea Michele to Dianna Agron, which were: "Drink it!"
So, yeah, your surprise treat for the chapter is my own interpretation of drunk!Quinn. Hope you enjoy, because Faberry practically wrote this angst themselves. I'd also like to suggest reading stories by Cheeseburger Aspiration, and thank you to both RedMagic and thelastpen for Live Journal advice.
Your reviews were amazing, by the way. They always make a sucky day at school a little easier to handle. And I don't own Glee, unfortunately for moi.
This could be the second to last chapter. The next could be the final, but I'm not exactly sure about an epilogue. Whateverrr.
Enjoy!
She won't say she's surprised. Honestly, maybe a little miffed, but no, not surprised.
Jacob did say he would haunt her conscious forever. Promised to. She just didn't expect it to be so tangible and obvious. A message from the grave, very original for Lima's dramatics. Granted, Quinn was the former queen of McKinley and the top billing as Lima's current star for soap opera-ish tendencies, but she digresses. Jacob once again screwed her over. First her eyes, now her ears. She still sees it. The splatter of blood like on crime shows, the ugly movement of skin and cartilage in a sickening implosion.
Now she has to hear the other things. From every side. Saved in phone memory chips to listen at leisure.
What's next? A kidney shot? An inoperable tumor caused by opening Jacob's locker after inhaling toxic fumes? A heart attack, maybe?
One minute she was standing in the cafeteria, and the next, sprinting down the hallway like she's first place in the Olympics. Quinn silently applauds her brain's quirky ability to send her into microsleeps. Really, she didn't even notice her escape until she nearly slammed headfirst into a row of lockers. It's like, blink, and she's gone.
Quinn finds the library to be empty, what a relief, and sits on the floor, just out of sight.
Several feet away lies the awful rug with the bloodstain underneath. How fitting, she muses. Here used to be hell, now it's an escape. Kind of.
Pulling her legs to her chest, she wraps her arms tightly around them and lowers her head to rest on her knees, and sighs slowly. She just wants peace, is that so much to ask? It's as if everyone enrolled in school seems to find a reason to stare at her. Wow, she's the hot captain of the Cheerios. Check that out, she's the pregnant leader of the Chastity Club. See, now, she's the pregnant cheater with the quarterback's best friend. Wow, she's back in action as HBIC. Look over there, there's the blonde cheerleader who saw JewFro shoot himself. And lastly, there's the broken loser who's darkest secrets have a funny way of getting exposed around here. Glad we're not her, right?
Fate is a fickle, bitter, evil, pathetic, savage, ruthless, whiny, terrible bitch, Quinn thinks.
Puck's already helping Rachel stand up as whispers spread across the room, breaking the harsh silence and causing groups to converse in closely knit circles, throwing glances at the glee club table and fervent stares. The epicenter of it all—the ones who know Quinn best, who understand her motive to simply run away and not yell.
The lunch ladies gossip loudly, wondering how they managed to find at the craziest school in the continental US.
"We have to find her," Puck urges. The club moves from their seats, but Rachel speaks at last.
"No. Just us. Too many is overwhelming," she orders firmly, eyes flashing, and no one argues with her.
"Let's go, Rach."
They depart through the double doors, and the hallways are silent. Teachers are crammed into the lounge for another regular meeting about keeping the budget while the students eat lunch, oblivious to the drama and pandaemonium occurring right under their noses. Puck rolls his eyes, exasperated. For people who claim to understand children, trained to sympathize and comfort them whenever necessary (teach them too, whatever), they sure make one hell of a job of it.
"We'll split up from here," Rachel says.
"You can't walk quickly enough," Puck insists.
"Doesn't matter," Rachel snaps and Puck's surprised by both her lack of paragraph lengthened answers and the spine-tingling iciness of her tone, quite uncommon to Rachel's normally fiery rage. The mohawked boy nods, turning down an adjacent hallway and is lost from her sight to search for the missing blonde.
Gripping her crutch tighter to steady herself, Rachel ponders where Quinn would go.
Ditching is an option, though she'll check the parking lot last. The locker room is out, because it was Quinn's idea to quit the squad, so there's not point to go in there.
Classrooms are to be ignored—the last thing Quinn will be into at the moment is learning.
Get into her head, Rachel thinks furiously. Where would Quinn pick to hide?
The answer floats uncertainly from the back of her mind, only to gain clarity as it appears.
The library—Quinn's hurt and angry and there isn't anywhere else in McKinley where the blonde can think about this, Rachel supposes, heading in the direction of the elevators. Aside from her home and the choir room, which Quinn wouldn't pick because the group would convene there, Rachel hopes she's finally understanding Quinn and that this isn't just a shot in the dark. Bad euphemism, the brunette chides her brain, but hobbles along until she reaches the doors.
Pushing the door open with her shoulder, Rachel manages to get inside and air whooshes behind her as the doors shut, and silence weighs down on her so oppressively, heavily, it's like the shooting day all over again. The librarian is out to lunch again—really, when was this woman around, do your damn job—but Rachel can feel it deep in her heart as if it's her own beating somewhere; Quinn's in here, hiding.
Rachel believes Quinn is one of the strongest people she knows. Quinn isn't scared. She's brave, completely the opposite of coward. Quinn forces herself to endure the days, forces herself to live, to keep going with her head up high (though lately she did have that drug induced 'keep going' attitude and the fact that she doesn't hold her head like a queen anymore, more like a lowly peasant) and just being normal. Quinn tries with Herculeanean effort to stay grounded, and mostly, it works for her.
Her crutch and uninjured foot make noise, and she hears a faint sigh of acknowledgement. Jackpot.
When she reaches the spot where Quinn is sitting, the blonde simply examines the floor.
"You can't take this lying down, Quinn," the brunette says.
"I'm not lying down, clearly. I'm sitting down."
Her voice is so dead and chilling, it creates goosebumps on Rachel's skin. From what she can see of Quinn's downcast eyes, they are shallow pools. Quinn's cut off from herself—her emotions are buried so deep down, they can't be expressed in her eyes anymore. If anything, she's a reanimated corpse, a shell of the once fiercely proud individual who strutted down the hallway with a devious smirk on her lips and the power of peer pressure in her hands. Now, she's unworthy to compare to that.
"You know what I mean."
"Afraid I don't, Rach. Sorry."
(The endearment is not pleasant. It's bitter and tired. It resembles an insult, at best, close to the snarky rudeness from all of freshmen to early sophomore year.)
"Don't shut me out. Please," Rachel begs.
"I'm not shutting anyone out," Quinn simpers, her voice morphing into a controlled sneer.
"You are," Rachel insists, struggling not to burst into tears. "You're closed off."
Quinn unsteadily heaves herself to her feet, and shrugs, walking slowly out of the library, but slow enough for Rachel to follow, probably to prove a point. The blonde looks almost bored, like a robot (Quinnbot?), and Rachel hurries to keep up as they round the corner to the front hall, where the parking lot is like a promised land, an escape for Quinn to use. Quinn stops with the front doors only five feet away, and turns back to Rachel, as if deciding something.
"Did you mean it?"
Rachel tilts her head to side, confused, and still choked up. It was her job, her mission to help Quinn rebuild. She volunteered, damn it! She vowed to save Quinn from herself and she's failed miserably. Quinn is still cold, infuriated, and only warms up to Rachel when the moon is tinted blue and pigs have taken flight across the sky.
(Which doesn't happen, ever. The flying pig thing. Stupid brain, Rachel thinks.)
Quinn's staring at her expectantly, so she coughs.
"Did you mean it?" Quinn repeats.
"Mean what?"
"That they don't mean anything."
"What?"
"When you kiss me, does it mean anything?"
Rachel's planned words die in her throat. This is the topic Quinn decides to breach upon? Those kisses that Rachel tactfully avoids thinking about in favor of keeping a stable friendship with Quinn and helping (although failing) to move on from Jacob's machinations. She hasn't really rationalized them properly. She was right when talking to Sam, she did have to think about them closer, but hasn't had the time to. Rachel can't tell if she's friends with Quinn or more than that. Or what she wants.
Honestly, it's really, really confusing. Her head's mixed up. That's not supposed to happen. Rachel Barbra Berry needs to have a focused mind, not one full of uncertainties and hopes and longings for someone who aggravates her and makes her happy at the same time and someone who gets her. Shouldn't she be thinking of Finn, or maybe Puck? Not the silent blonde with stormy eyes that she wants to fill with emotion, anything to fix her because damn it to hell, she knows she can fix her. She can.
"I don't know," the diva answers truthfully.
Quinn's eyes tighten infinitesimally and suddenly, they burn brightly with anger, frustration, and the sight of them being so alive and energetic distracts Rachel from the fact that she was suddenly backed slightly painfully against a locker, Quinn Fabray inches from her face, teeth bared in an irate, resentful grimace.
"You're lying," Quinn breathes. The air seems to crackle with electricity, sizzling with the ferocity of Quinn's ire.
"W-what d-d'you mean?" Rachel squeaks.
"You've kissed me three times," Quinn barks out, hands planted flat on the lockers on either side of Rachel's head. Too close, Rachel thinks. Too close. Too close.
"Y-yes, that's correct."
"And you tell me," Quinn continues dangerously, and Rachel can't help but flinch in trepidation and something else, "that you don't know what you feel. You don't know."
"I don't, Quinn. It's not that simple. Shouldn't we talk about J—"
"No!" Quinn growls, pushing off the lockers and striding out of the front doors. Rachel hastens to catch up to her, and Quinn whirls around to see Rachel outside behind her, looking upset and desperate, desperate for a breakthrough, a clue, some headway to keep going, to keep pushing for answers. (She get something. Not much though.)
"Why are so angry? What did I do?" Rachel pleads. "Was it the recording? I didn't know that would happen, I swear—no one did! No one's judging you, Quinn! Please just talk to me! I thought we were okay!"
"It's not okay, Rachel. I'm not okay," Quinn bites out. "I can't just sit back and let you kiss me whenever you want to. It's not fair. You can't do that whenever you please."
"I'm not talking about that," Rachel insists. "You're missing the point."
"You're missing my point," Quinn retorts furiously. "I want them to mean something. Don't you get it? I want you to kiss me and it to mean something! Is that so difficult to understand?"
"You need to focus on your issues with Jacob, not me," Rachel says forcefully, looking like she wanted to scream or sob. "The two of us is another matter entirely and can be discussed when you've explained your pent up emotions to me or a therapist. You're running away again, Quinn. Instead of dealing with the present problem at hand, you choose an easy route—you're more at peace about Beth now, and yet you talk about her frequently to avoid talking about this. The shooting happened, Quinn. You can't ignore it, no matter how hard you try. You can't push me away either. Everyone else except my father and I may have stopped, but we won't until you fess up."
"I don't care about the shooting," Quinn snarls. "I care about you."
"If you can't discuss the shooting, I can't discuss what we are," Rachel snaps. "Besides, you make it sound like a curse, and frankly, you're going in circles."
"Whatever," Quinn says dismissively with a wave of her hand, and walks to her car.
"I used to think you weren't a coward until about five minutes ago!" Rachel yells. "But you are! You'll be alone if you keep doing this, Quinn!"
Quinn refuses to look back.
Rachel sits on the bench outside, deciding not to return to class. Who cares, she thinks.
"Hey."
Her exhausted eyes find David Karofsky, hands shoved in his pockets, eyeing her apprehensively.
"David."
"Berry."
"Is there something you needed? I merely ask that because I'm really not in the mood right to change my clothes, even though the slushies have ceased as of late."
"I heard you and Quinn talking," the boy says, sitting down uninvited beside her.
"Lovely. Have fun spreading that around, will you?"
"I wouldn't spread it around," Karofsky mumbles. "It's like, private stuff. Confidential."
"Have you hit your head recently?"
"No, why?"
"You're acting extraordinarily out of character," Rachel informs him coolly.
"Oh. Well, I just wanted to talk to Quinn about something," Karofsky admits, scratching his ear.
"As you must've seen, she stormed off to her car," the diva huffs.
"Taken a leaf outta your book," Karofsky observes.
"So it would seem," Rachel acquiesces.
Outcast and bully sit in companionable silence, and Karofsky sighs.
"Anyway, I was planning on finding Quinn. I'll see you later, I guess."
Rachel watches, nonplussed, as Karofsky ambles into the parking lot in search of the blonde.
What was he up to?
Quinn's brooding in her car when she hears a tap of knuckles on her window.
Dave Karofsky stands outside, looking at her with slightly unhappy eyes.
"Hey, Quinn."
"Karofsky. What are you doing here?"
"Actually, I was looking for you," the jock offers quietly. "I wanted to talk."
"Did Rachel send you?"
"No. And I wouldn't be talking about you, I'd be talking about me," he says hastily. "You don't need to be mad at me like Berry. I heard a bit of your conversation—"
"Interesting story to run," Quinn interrupts. "Good luck ruining my reputation even more."
"I don't do that stuff anymore," Karofsky sighs. "I just want to talk. And I won't tell anyone about what I heard or saw. It's your business. I was just walking by."
Quinn raises an eyebrow.
"Can I sit in there with you?"
Quinn can't find it in her to say no, so she unlocks the door and allows Karofsky to sit in the passenger seat.
Watching him closely, he seems...upset. Lost, even. He's lacking his usual bravado and maliciousness—it seems to have fizzled out, just gone, like having a limb amputated. She doesn't know what to make of it, so she stays silent and so does he, both staring with glazed eyes out the windows, immersed in their own thoughts.
"Why do you want to talk to me, Karofsky?"
"We're in the same boat," the hockey player admits. "Messed up."
"True."
"Before I keep going, can we talk in private?"
"We're already in my car."
"That won't last," Karofsky points out. He gestures to the trio of Rachel, Santana, and Puck, huddled near the school entrance, deep in conversation. "They'll find you soon."
"We can go to my house," Quinn suggests tiredly. "Just promise this isn't a prank."
"It's not," Karofsky assures her earnestly. "I'm just as tired as you are. I just wanna get out of here."
"Sounds like a good idea," she murmurs, and starts the engine.
Careful to avoid being seen, the blonde drives herself and the boy all the way back to the Fabray house, feeling like she's left a piece of herself behind when she yelled at Rachel. She wasn't being fair, that is true. Rachel's only trying to help and Quinn wouldn't let her, instead demanding they talk about Quinn's strange, inconsequential feelings and yes, the truth she admires Rachel more than a friend should. Was that so hard to understand? It kind of slapped her in the face recently and now she doesn't want to look at Rachel without begging for forgiveness, asking for a relationship, or just leaving because it's too hard to think about and be around the petite brunette.
She doesn't deserve Rachel. Not in this lifetime anyway. But that doesn't mean anyone who's anyone doesn't want the only thing that seems out of reach, unattainable, the one thing you can't have. She can't have Rachel. It isn't fair because she was horrible to the girl, and saved her life, sort of, building a sometimes nice but often tense friendship that always had something simmering underneath because of those aggravating feelings that she developed for the diva since early summer.
Rachel's just trying to fix her. That doesn't mean she wants a relationship. She's isn't obligated to offer one. It's completely sickening to Quinn's stomach that she nearly lost it in the hallway, angry at Rachel for making her feel this way and angry at herself for allowing such such a slip in her composure, almost resulting in hurting Rachel.
"Here we are," she sighs, pulling into her driveway.
Karofsky nods. "It's nice."
"Yeah."
Karofsky's silent until Quinn offers: "Do you want to come inside?"
"If that's okay."
He's being somewhat polite, and it'a a little unsettling. They wander into her kitchen.
Quinn sits, Karofsky sits.
"Would you mind calling me Dave?" The boy asks, looking slightly sad. "I hear Karofsky every single day and sometimes I just want to hear my own name once and awhile."
"Okay," Quinn says, surprised. "Dave it is, then."
Dave folds his hands on the table, and Quinn can practically see the wheels turning in his head.
"Do you like Berry?"
Quinn pauses before answering an affirmative, and finds herself baring a bit of her soul to a once obedient yet annoying aggressor. The truth feels nice. Nice to admit it to someone who's distant and separated, who apparently isn't in the mood to judge or tell anyone else. He just seems muted. "Yeah. I don't really know how it happened...maybe it was leftover pregnancy hormones or something. She just...popped into my head and I couldn't stop thinking about her all summer. When school hit, I didn't know how to act so I just listened and tried to be nicer. Then the...the shooting happened and I was suddenly all protective, and the fact that she's kissed me—"
Dave holds up three fingers, looking apologetic for the accidental eavesdropping. "Three times."
"Yes. She claimed to do it to make me feel better. It sort of worked, but brought on feelings and thoughts about her that I thought would never happen with someone who's a girl, let alone Rachel Berry."
Dave nods understandingly. "Is it hard?"
"Yeah," Quinn admits. "Confusing. I don't know if I'm straight or...This is actually the first time I've really looked at it that way. It's like, only her, that's it. I don't think about anyone else. I don't want to."
"How do you deal with it?"
"I don't," Quinn says honestly. "I run."
Dave nods again, and inhales a shuddering, frightened breath. "I've run too."
Quinn tilts her head to the side, confused. "How?"
His hands shake uncontrollably, and he looks like he's about to faint. "I think...I mean, I'm not sure, but it really looks that way...that I might possibly be, you know...gay."
Dave looks torn between being upset with himself or being relieved at saying it aloud.
"I think I am," he articulates. "I think I'm gay, Quinn."
"That's why you wanted to talk to me," the blonde guesses. "You wanted to know how the Head Cheerio deals before you could say it aloud in front of someone else."
"Yeah."
"I hope I didn't disappoint you," she says. "I'm honored that you chose me to tell, but I haven't figured out how to properly deal with my own confusion."
"I expected as much," Dave sighs. "It's not like we can change it or hide it."
"We run from it," Quinn amends. "That's not good either."
"No, it isn't."
Both lapse into sad, wistful silence, and Quinn's suddenly struck with a thought.
"Where's Azimio lately?"
Dave promptly looks repentant and miserable, and she understands immediately.
"He was one of the twenty-one, wasn't he? I hadn't noticed, I'm sorry."
"Yeah. It's been...hard, not having my best friend around," the jock admits. "I miss him."
Quinn thinks up another question.
"Why have you stopping bullying?"
"You're kind of an example to me," Dave says, embarrassed. His face is flushed, like the words spill out of his mouth against his will. "You yelled at me that time for almost shutting Berry in a port-o-potty and it was like a total wake up call. Why would you want to protect someone you used to torture? And if you could, why couldn't I?"
"That makes sense."
"It's not enough," Dave adds mournfully. "I want to apologize to everyone I hurt, but I can't find the courage."
"Hopefully we both can someday," Quinn says, and Dave nods.
When the silence has stretched, this time, a little more easily, Dave speaks up.
"Thanks for listening, but I should head home."
"Not back to school?" She questions.
"Nah. I need some space from it," the boy says.
He's halfway out the door to walk home—clear his head, Dave had said with an almost content sigh—when Quinn calls him.
"Dave?"
"Yeah?"
She fidgets with the hem of her shirt and Karofsky waits patiently.
"Do you ever...blame yourself? For what happened with Jacob?"
"Yes," Karofsky answers, his eyes full of honesty. "All the time. All day, all night."
"Feel free to join the confused, unhappy, guilty boat of misery," Quinn smiles sadly. "I do too."
"I'm the captain, Fabray," the jock jokes weakly. "See you."
When Quinn's been standing in the kitchen for at least a half an hour, immobile, she blinks and wanders distractedly to the dining room, in the mood for something relaxing. Music won't do it. Sleeping won't either, nor will watching television. Finding the hideaway key for the taboo cabinet, she unlocks it and peers inside at the dusty bottles, and takes one, hurrying upstairs to her room like a fugitive. At least Puck won't be around this time, that's a relief.
(It would later prove to be a bad/good idea. Not harmfully, just emotionally.)
When Judy arrives home, she finds Mandy reading fitfully by the front door, as if she's waiting for something.
"Hi, sweetie. What's up?"
"What?" Mandy jumps, startled, before fixing a tight grin on her face. "Oh, nothing."
Judy stops, hearing the hitch in her daughter's tone, a weakness long exposed since the girl was young, and turns around to see Mandy reading a newspaper, upside down.
"Amanda Olivia Fabray," Judy remarks coolly, seeing Mandy wince reflexively. "What's going on?"
"Huh?" Mandy squeaks. "Nothing, Mom."
"Don't lie to me, Amanda."
"It's not a big deal," Mandy says nervously, blocking the stairs. "Not really."
Judy takes a step closer, Mandy takes one back. They repeat the dance twice.
"Don't make me ask again," Judy warns. "What's going on?"
"There was an incident at school," Mandy rushes, as Judy scurries up the stairs, her daughter at her heels, then blocks Quinn's bedroom door. "But it's not anything bad."
"Really? Then why are you hiding in front of Quinn's door?"
"Just let me explain first," Mandy protests valiantly. "Then you can go in."
Inside, Quinn calls in a whine: "Mandyyy, I said no visitorrrrs!"
Judy recognizes the timbre of Quinn's voice and oddly drawn out syllables, and knows instantly what Quinn's doing.
"Move."
"Mom, just promise not to freak—"
"Move."
Mandy shuffles sideways obediently, regretfully, and Judy pushes the door open.
Quinn's sitting cross-legged on the floor in the dark, and Judy detects the distinct odor of alcohol rise in the air. She's not dependent on drinking it anymore, a habit long kicked but not forgotten, but unfortunately, it seems have to deferred to Quinn in terms of coping with something. Judy remembers vividly the days she used to drink and do nothing else—with Russell not assisting at all, he joined in as well—and a silent Mandy keeping little Quinn occupied. She's ashamed of that, unconsciously allowing her eldest to mother her youngest, and she finds even more resolve than ever to be better. She has to be. She loves her children, and it's time to really be a parent.
"Quinn," she fumes. "Why are you drinking?"
"Feelin' sad," Quinn slurs delightedly, quite the contrary to her statement. "Needed to relax and let looose!"
"Mom," Mandy voices quietly, urgency in her eyes. "It's not that bad."
"It's not? My daughter resorted to drinking underage to feel better," Judy snaps. "That's two strikes against her already. Quinn keeps making the same mistakes, Mandy. She's avoiding her problems by doing something else and burying her head in the sand. And the fact that she's learned that 'feeling better' involves alcohol is deplorable—it's my fault, I do see that. I set a bad example in the past. But she needs to realize," the oldest blonde woman says pointedly, "that she'll be punished immediately."
"You d-do that, Mo-o-om," Quinn singsongs. "Slap on the chains!"
"Freak," Mandy mutters, shaking her head.
"I'm not joking, Quinn. You're in huge trouble, young lady."
"Aye, aye, captain," Quinn giggles, her eyes dancing with brightness caused by the drinks and humor. "Wait, no! You're not the captain. Dave is. Oh, hold on! You can be the queen—no, no, no, wait! You can be the commodore! Commodore Judy of the Seven Seas! Avast, ye landlubber!"
Mandy tries to fight the amused smirk from growing at the sight of Quinn's drunken babbling, but fails, and Judy sighs.
"Who's Dave?" Mandy wonders with a small laugh.
"Don't encourage her," Judy warns.
"Dave is my new best friend thaat's a boy," Quinn squeals. "But Mom!" She yells, waving. "Don't worry, Dave is wicked cool! He won't get me pregnant—he's capital G gay!"
"I can't believe this," Judy says, slapping a hand to her forehead.
"Let her sober up, sleep it off, and punish when's she hungover," Mandy comments. "That's the worse feeling. You feel awful, look awful, and then you're in big trouble too."
"I plan to."
"Why are you two yelling?" Quinn shouts suddenly, smacking her hands to her ears. "Stop hurting my ears, GOD!"
"At least we know she's a happy drunk," Mandy remarks helpfully.
"Shut up, Mandy," Quinn grumbles, exasperated. "You're sooo drunk. Jesus."
"You're the drunk, loser."
"I am not a loser!" Quinn huffs. "You're the loser, you big dumb loser."
Judy sits down on Quinn's bed, and Mandy leans in the doorframe.
"Might as well stick with her until she's sober," Mandy suggests.
"We'll wait all night if I have to," Judy bites out grimly. "What was she drinking?"
Mandy turns pink, avoiding the pressure of her mother's angry gaze.
"Mandy."
Silence.
"Amanda."
"Scotch," Mandy mumbles. "Dad's older ones."
"How much did she drink?"
Mandy murmurs something incomprehensible, while Quinn swats at imaginary flies.
"Not flies," Quinn rolls her eyes when asked by her mother. "Nargles. Get it right."
"What's a nargle?" Judy asks.
Quinn bursts into laughter. Mandy snickers.
"Well, what are they?" Judy demands.
"I don't know," Quinn scowls, searching for the bottle, which fortunately has disappeared from her sight and clutches. "Luna Lovegood sees them all the time!"
"Who's Luna Lovegood?" Judy inquires impatiently. "I don't understand."
"I'll explain it to you later, Mom," Mandy grins, shaking her head.
"Hey," Quinn protests. "She's my mom, you poser. Get out of here."
"Oh my God," Mandy exclaims mockingly. "Sorry, yeah. I'm your new neighbor. Cindy."
"Nice to meet you," Quinn trills, as expected. "I'm Quinn Fabray...I think?"
"No, you're name is Abraham Lincoln," Mandy offers helpfully. "The president."
"Cool. I get a top hat," Quinn burps noisily. "Four score and something, something, something...years ago, I—"
Judy rolls her eyes.
After a long, grueling hour of listening to nonsense, Quinn hasn't sobered up a bit and keeps singing (off key, unfortunately) to a terrible rendition of Bruno Mars's song, Just the Way You Are. Mandy tries desperately not to laugh, while Judy complies a silent list of ways Quinn could repay this mishap. Chores for three months? No, four, maybe. Cleaning duty, laundry duty, cleaning Judy's car and her own, and cooking would be a start. Then therapy with Leroy Berry, if Judy could actually persuade Quinn first.
"Hey! Mom!" Quinn bellows suddenly. "Mom!"
"What, Quinnie?"
"We're in the same club," Quinn insists dazedly. "The Bad Mom's Club."
"Quinn, don't," Mandy warns as Judy tries to remain impassive.
"We're both really, really bad mothers," Quinn continues on obliviously. "Shelby too!"
Mandy and Judy glance at each other. "Shelby?" Mandy offers.
"Yeah," Quinn scoffs. "She's like, the worst mother ever with a capital WM."
"But she adopted Beth," Judy says uncertainly. "How is that bad?"
"She left Raaay-cheel all aloooone," Quinn drags out. "Last year...near Regionals. Jesse St. Dickface tried to swoop in and take my Rachel and then bam! Shelby was like, right there, out of nowhere! And they talked and talked and wham! Suddenly Shelby doesn't want her anymore. Rachel was so sad. And then Jesse egged her with dead chicken babies and Vocal Masturbation funkified us and we lost Regionals. And then I had a baby—did you guys know that? I don't remember telling you..."
Mandy rolls her eyes, frustrated, while Judy wilts into her seat unhappily.
"Shelby and Rachel have made amends," Judy says.
"Yeah, yeah," Quinn mumbles, waving dismissively at no one in particular. "Who knows how long that'll last. Rachel would be upset and then sing a sad song during glee."
"Wait a second," Mandy yelps, picking Quinn's speech apart. "'My Rachel'? Where did that come from?"
"This year, I think," Quinn recalls hazily. "I dunno. My head's all wonky-tonky right now, sorry."
"Maybe Dad dropped you as a baby," Mandy muses, and Judy glares at her.
"Nah, I think it was the big bullet noise," Quinn hiccups. "You know, boom? Kablam? Or Jacob, maybe. He said a lot of mean things...hey, my eyes are foggy, is that normal, Mandy and Mom?"
"Totally normal," Mandy interjects.
"Okay, good. Anywhoo, I was all like, 'hey, back off, jerk!' and Jacob got pretty mad. Wait! That happened at school today. Somebody had the recorded tape of the shooting," Quinn flails ungracefully, pulling her laptop across the floor so the plastic screeches loudly, scratching the hardwood—Mandy and Judy wince—and Quinn fumbles through the Internet for a few seconds, and brings up Jacob's abandoned blog, still up on the host website with his previous entires and scandals for all to see.
"It's a real shocker," Quinn whispers conspiratorially. "I think I could win an award for being so brave."
She presses play and manages to happily remain in her drunken haze, unaffected by the horror playing, while her sister and mother turn slightly green in the face with repulsion and regret. No wonder Quinn's been messing around lately, Judy thinks sadly. Having to actually live that terrible experience would—should—allow anyone to act out and work through it their own way. The main problem is easy: Quinn's not dealing. She's dancing around it, careful not to miss a step until confronted. When questioned about her issues, she simply jumps back into the dance and ignores what she should do and instead focuses on what she wants—to be normal and safe.
"I just might throw up," Mandy admits.
"I agree. But now we know the whole story. That day, all we saw was the results. We can try and get it through her head that it isn't her fault," Judy says determinedly, while Mandy nods. "We won't stop until she's whole again. No more fooling around—she's going to therapy, even if she goes kicking and screaming. It's two against one."
"Hold on!" Quinn yelps. "What's going through my head? Not a drill, right? I don't want a botany examination!"
"That's a lobotomy, idiot," Mandy scoffs.
"Stop speaking stupid, pansy fancy French, Mandy. I take Spanish III. Tu eres loco, puta!"
"Good Lord," Judy sighs.
When Quinn's finally sobered up, it's close to nine o'clock. After repeated efforts to lessen the effects of the alcohol, Mandy decided bluntly to splash water on Quinn's face. With only a few mishaps ("Oh my God, I'm drowing, HELP!" and "When the heck did I get in the shower?"), Quinn is tired, sober, and completely embarrassed, sitting at the table in the kitchen with Judy's unwavering, reanimated glare fixed on her face and Mandy's taunting smirk, who sits perched on the counter.
Judy just stands, arms crossed, and Quinn silently and apologetically prays for mercy.
"I've decided."
"On?"
"What I'm feeling right now," Judy remarks stiffly. "Not angry, no, past that. I'm disappointed."
No! Quinn screams inaudibly. The disappointment card is the worst card ever! No!
"That makes sense," she mumbles instead.
"You're right, it does. I've also decided that you're grounded for five months."
"What?" Quinn yells.
"I'm not finished," Judy snaps. "You'll be doing all the chores and I'm taking your car away."
"I need it to get to school!"
"Take the bus."
"I don't have a job!" Quinn exclaims.
"Get one, or find a suitable alternative for getting to school," Judy shrugs, unrepentant.
Mandy's sneer is practically Cheshire-Cat worthy, it makes Quinn's blood boil.
"Before you go up to your room, no television, either," Judy comments and Quinn's skin darkens in anger, "let's talk about all the things you said while under the influence."
"No."
"You'll listen to me, Quinn," Judy barks. "I'm your mother and I said so."
Quinn sulks.
"First on the table," Mandy drawls after receiving a go-ahead nod from Judy, "who's Dave?"
"A guy at school," Quinn mutters, scuffing her sneakers on the floor tiles. "David Karofsky. He used to be a grade A asshole and always kept a steady line of slushies for all the kids at McKinley. A little while after the shooting, his personality warped totally sideways after I yelled at him for intimidating Rachel. He didn't do anything for so long, I almost forget he was in school with me until he approached me at my car. He wanted to talk in private, so we did. End of story."
Mandy and Judy tactfully avoid the other confession about Karofsky and press on.
"How was he planning to intimidate Rachel?" Judy questions curiously.
"When she was still in the wheelchair, he said he was going to put her in a port-o-potty and tip it over. It's happened to Artie a few times. I stopped him before he could."
"And you talked to this bonzo?" Mandy exclaims.
"He's sorry about it," Quinn says dully, blinking sporadically. "I don't really want to be his friend but I understand what he's going through, I guess. He's trying to figure out a way to apologize to everyone who he bullied, but he's not sure how to start. Neither am I, honestly."
"You?" Judy inquires.
"In case you haven't noticed, Mom," Quinn laughs hollowly, "I used to be Head Cheerio, like the cookie cutter cliché. Last year, you couldn't breathe wrong without either me, Santana, or the other girls on the squad snapping an insult at you before you finished. I went straight to the bottom when I was pregnant, and then all the way back to the top, only to fall over again after the shooting. There's plenty of people I've hurt, friends or not. Especially Rachel."
"Why?" Mandy asks.
"She was my main target," Quinn bristles. "Nicknames, slushies, setups...the whole nine yards."
"But I thought you two were friends," Judy observes, lost.
"Well, yeah. Later in the year, when I wasn't all high-and-mighty and bitchy, when Beth sort of opened my eyes to the hurtful insults and name-calling—I can still list all of them pregnancy ones Santana came up with, by the way—Rachel still worried about the baby's health and offered friendship to me, the girl who hurt her every day. I didn't deserve it but I wanted to repay her, so when this term started, I just decided to be nice to her. It wasn't that hard. I liked doing it."
"And save her life," Mandy adds.
"I suppose. If you count copying Lost with wrapping a leg to stop bleeding."
"That's still important, Quinn," Judy urges. "Rachel wouldn't be here without you."
Quinn bites her lip.
Judy looks out the window, and Quinn instantly knows why she looks so insecure—because Judy's trying hard, trying to provide for the three of them and balance being a better parent, something she lacked in over seventeen years, when Russell Fabray began to enforce his poisonous influence. Mandy had admitted, once, to scarcely being able to remember a time when their mother was really happy, and not buzzed up-happy. Judy's attempt to be an impressionable mother was only underappreciated in Quinn's most secretive, malicious thoughts, and she had accidentally voiced them aloud. Mandy jerks her head in Judy's direction, scowling, until Quinn sighs.
"Mom?"
"Yes?"
"I didn't mean what I said, you know," Quinn says awkwardly. "I just—"
"No, you're right. I haven't been a suitable role model. And apparently you've inherited the alcoholism and self-deprecating feature of the Fabrays," Judy murmurs pensively.
"Mom, you're wrong, okay?" Quinn insists. "I'm the bad one. Not you. You've turned around to be the best mom I've seen around besides Carole Hudson. Honestly, I like how we're all living now. It's happy, nice, warm, and we're not silent and cold all the time. We have fun living here. You're like cool-mom chieftess, Amy Poehler."
"Yeah, it's great," Mandy interrupts, albeit lamely, and Quinn scoffs.
"Do you mean that?" Judy queries uncertainly.
"Yes," both younger blondes say firmly, and it's the last reassurance she'll need.
"Oh, that's a relief," Judy sighs. "I'm doing something right."
"You are," Mandy agrees. "Punishing Quinn for being the idiot she is was spot-on awesome sauce. Ten points to Mrs. Fabray in Gryffindor."
"Loser," Quinn grumbles.
"Idiot," Mandy counters.
"Is it true, though?" Judy cuts in, looking sympathetic. "About Beth?"
Now Mandy's looking in her direction curiously for something she hasn't done yet in her lifetime, and there's instance number one of two that Mandy will never understand as well or experience first. Quinn couldn't keep her baby—any child of Mandy's will undoubtedly belong to a proud and delighted husband, and always be around for Christmas and other holidays, growing up with her real mother. Quinn was the first of both sisters to have a child, and even if it was out of order and age level, Quinn will always be more mature than Mandy will be, including the shooting incident. The younger Fabray girl will grasp the concept of fear and absolute adoration, while Mandy won't ever be able to really know those extremes. It's strange, really. Mandy should be the example for Quinn to follow after, yet Quinn's two steps ahead in terms of life ordeals.
"Yes. I can't...I think about her a lot," Quinn admits, and Judy and Mandy nod encouragingly. "I mean, I gave her up before I even thought you two would be here to support me like you have been. She's so close and far away at the same time. I told Puck I didn't want to keep her only because I wouldn't have been able to provide for her. I had to plan ahead and realized she wouldn't grow up cared for enough if I had her and when Shelby offered...it just seemed like the best deal for both of us."
"You can still see her," Mandy murmurs soothingly. "Shelby wouldn't mind."
"I don't know if I'm ready," Quinn replies quietly. "I'd probably want to take her in my arms and never leave her again."
"You don't know that, honey," Judy says, reaching down to tilt Quinn's chin up. "Once you see her, you might notice how comfortable she'll be as she gets older."
"That's not what you're really scared of," Mandy observes correctly.
"No."
"What is it?" Judy questions.
"I don't..." Quinn mumbles. "I don't want her to hate me."
"Hate you?" Mandy repeats, utterly confused. "I don't get it."
"She's implying that Beth will hate her for leaving her," Judy clarifies, a little knowingly.
"No way," Mandy protests. "You can't actually believe that!"
Quinn says nothing.
"Quinn, she won't hate you," Judy insists, brushing Quinn's hair from her eyes, which stare upward at her pleadingly for reassurance. "She'll just want to know why you did it. When Shelby decides to tell her the truth, you explain the reasons you had to let her go. Sixteen, still in high school, while trying to raise a baby? It's not possible."
"What about 16 And Pregnant?" Mandy jokes, but falters obediently under Judy's glower.
"Ignoring that, do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Yeah," Quinn acquiesces. "Sort of."
"Better than nothing," Judy smiles.
Mandy raises an eyebrow in Quinn's direction when it's her turn to ask something.
"Explain what you think about Rachel."
"She's a singer, bound for Broadway," Quinn offers hastily. Mandy frowns.
"No, try again. You said it yourself—'your Rachel' and that you 'understand what Dave is going through'—and we want to know. Mom and I won't judge you, Quinn."
Quinn blushes crimson and Judy restrains a chuckle while Mandy grins.
"Okay, the easiest way to say it is that I have a huge gay crush on Rachel," the ex-cheerleader squeaks. "But it's only because she's kissed me first, and it's her fault, like—"
"She kissed you?" Mandy repeats. Judy listens along, interested.
"Well, yeah. The first time was during the shooting, like, hey, she's dying so why not. The next two times because she 'assumed' I was nervous or something. She mentioned that I looked, I don't know, calmer afterwards, but honestly, I don't know her real motives. It could be—"
"An excuse?" Mandy prompts, snickering. "Maybe she has a crush on you too."
"She doesn't know yet," Quinn retorts. "I asked."
"I love high school drama," Judy pipes up, clapping. "SoapNet runs Beverly Hills 90210 and One Tree Hill. I've taken quite a liking to them. A lot of problems they have."
Her daughers stare at her in absolute derision until Quinn exclaims: "What is it with you two and SoapNet? Seriously!"
"It's entertaining," Judy says defensively.
"I like the soap operas," Mandy muses. "Someone's always in a coma or car accident."
"The lighting on those sets are terrible though," Judy adds, and Mandy nods, agreeing.
"Excuse me?" Quinn interjects, waving a hand in her own vicinity, and the other two glance at her. "Can we get back to my issue, please?"
"Which one?" Mandy quips. Judy chuckles.
"Cute. No, not really. The Rachel thing," Quinn says impatiently.
"You like her," Mandy intones, like Quinn's six. "She might like you. So, maybe run up to her all dramatically in the hallway—you know she'd love that—and give her a kiss."
Quinn scoffs and Judy tries not to start laughing, instead glancing innocently out of the window.
"Nice," Quinn jeers. "Take you that long to think it up?"
"Nope," Mandy answers proudly.
"Thought so."
"It's getting late," Judy interrupts. "Quinn, you should get some sleep."
"It's barely ten o'clock," Quinn protests indignantly.
"Oh, that's right. I'm adding a bedtime to your punishment."
"This sucks!" Quinn yells, stomping up the stairs, enunciating each word with a crash. "I don't deserve this! I'm seventeen, not seven! I won't put up with this forever!"
A door slams and Mandy turns to Judy, who both laugh at Quinn's dramatics and the relief that they did make a lot of progress today.
"Well Mom, I think they're perfect for each other."
(several hours earlier)
"That shit was creepy, bro," Puck remarks, tossing a football to Finn, who catches it expertly and tosses it back.
"It's like Gossip Girl," Kurt agrees, reading a magazine over Mercedes's shoulder (US Weekly).
"Or Pretty Little Liars," Tina adds.
"It's preposterous," Rachel grumbles. "Those were the most terrifying moments of my life and Jacob's savagery and Quinn's bravery should have remained private matters between her and I. A compelling connection we share that we'll carry on with us and a chapter I'll obviously dedicate to in my memoir."
"She was really brave," Mike comments. "I don't think any of us could have done the same."
"Hold on a moment," Rachel shouts indignantly. "All of you would have let me die?"
"No—"
"—'course not, Berry, calm the fuck down—"
"—probably—" (Santana) "—ow, Britt, fine, that was a joke—"
"—never, Rach, honestly—"
"Oh, nevermind," the diva huffs. "I want to see what Artie has to say."
The boy in question hangs up his cell phone and turns to face the convened group. Rachel sits next to Sam, while Kurt sits on Sam's left with Mercedes on his left. Finn and Puck remain standing, Mike and Tina sit in the very front, Brittany and Santana are sharing the piano bench, while of course, Quinn is absent. Mr. Schue had cancelled practice upon discovering the distress of the students (Figgins had nearly had a heart attack, Ms. Pillsbury grabbed a paper bag to stop from hyperventilating, Coach Beiste recited a prayer and Sue Sylvester couldn't utter a word) and his absence, along with Brad's and the band members's gave the glee club a bit of privacy to talk.
(The superintendent had also hauled ass to school to 'investigate' but could obviously not find the culprit.)
"There wasn't a living perpetrator," Artie announces, and several gasps float from the club's mouths.
"Oh my God, it was Jacob!" Finn shrieks, almost tripping in haste to point out his opinion. "He's a ghost!"
"Finn, I haven't even explained myself yet," Artie informs him patiently, and Finn shuts up sheepishly.
"What a wuss," Puck mutters. Sam nods in agreement.
"My dad, as you all know, works at the LPD—"
"Huh?"
"Lima Police Department, Britt."
"Oh. Okay. Keep going, Artie."
"—and he did tell me that Jacob was wearing a microphone on his person on the day of the shooting," Artie continues gravely. "It recorded only about thirty minutes, but it was the five before he entered the library, and the fifteen inside it, along with the extra ten of coroners examining the body before they could locate it in his clothes. The microphone, hidden in his jacket, fed into his computer at home, until it stopped."
Artie pauses in concern at Rachel's whitening, nervous expression, but she nods pointedly for him to move on, which he does.
"When the tape stopped playing, the police had not yet found it, allowing the original mechanism to work correctly. The recorded data, sent electronically from the mic to his opened computer, streamed into a drafted email to be sent on a later date. Usually, it's referred to as an 'out of office' memo, where, say if an employee was on vacation, his or her clients will receive the same email stating that their salesman is currently absent, and would reply to their messages upon their return. Jacob utilized such an option," Artie explains, "and saved his recorded audio into an email, already attached to his blog, to be sent of all of us at a previously chosen, probably random, date."
"Wow," Tina breathes.
"That's fucked up," Santana comments. "He probably had all of our emails in that message."
"My thoughts exactly," Artie acquiesces. "It's a simple, uncomplicated tool used in emailing services, but Jacob used it to continue his psychotic wave of terror."
"So, it was Jacob," Finn says again, feeling a little vindicated for being right, for once. "Just...not him being alive to finish the job?"
"Correct."
"It sounds like his promise to keep hurting Quinn," Rachel murmurs sadly.
"If he intended that, scaring the other students was killing two birds with one stone," Artie says. "It was a horrible offense, but strategically executed to the end."
"Poor birds," Brittany mumbles. "Poor Quinn."
"How can we help you, Rach?" Finn wonders. "If you're trying to help Quinn, what can we all do to help you?"
Rachel's so surprised by his offer that she's silent for awhile, thinking it over, until a bright, delighted grin speads across her face, earning a few confused ones in return.
"I have an idea."