I remember many things about our childhood together, Rachel. Sometimes they're like a kaleidoscope in my mind – jewel-sharp images warped and crushed together, creating a mosaic of sights and sounds and emotions. Occasionally, I can look back and pluck a memory out, hold it up, examine it, and remember with perfect clarity what we went through. My entire life is flavored with the sound of your laughter and the image of your smile, and the way summer sunlight would dapple on your cheek through the boughs of oak leaves.
When you turned thirteen, your dads threw you a bat mitzvah, and of course you asked me to come. I had never been to temple with you, though you had come to church and church functions with me on occasion. I had never been inside of a synagogue, and I barely understood the difference or significance of us coming from different religious and racial backgrounds. The bat mitzvah was an eye opening experience for me – I got to see you interact with people who were not in our old ballet class or family. You introduced me, quickly, to some of the people who were there (and that you seemed embarrassed of), like Noah, Sarah, and Jake Puckerman. You introduced me to Tina, too, though I didn't need it – I had been going to school with Tina since sixth grade, but I never knew she was Jewish.
It was strange, Rachel. It was strange to watch you with your dads and your community, people I had never met. The service was weird – but not too hard to understand, not too different. Yet the food and dancing, the singing, it was all somewhat peculiar. I didn't understand half of the things being said. Everyone talked too quickly and too loud, and I felt like a floppy, floundering fish. You tried to stay next to me, but you kept getting swept up in the excitement – and this was a day for you, so I didn't blame you. You can never resist the urge to shine, and everyone wanted to talk to you and look at you, and tell you things. I liked seeing this Rachel, the Rachel who was confident and who preened beneath the attention of everyone, including adults. It was hard to reconcile this Rachel with the girl I spent so much time with, the girl I tried so hard to convince of her own beauty and worth.
Entering into high school was almost the same thing, but in reverse.
Looking back now, I can see that. I can see how going to high school with me was a lot like me going to your bat mitzvah, and how things were so mangled and strange. You had never seen me in a school environment before – you didn't know anything about my behavior with a group of people you didn't know. I had friends at McKinley, some of which I had known as long, or longer, than you. People like Finn Hudson, a boy I went to kindergarten with, who was dopey and kind and tried to stick up for me when people called me stupid. He reminded me of you, a little bit, in that regard.
I tried to be mindful of you, but I got caught up – the same way that the excitement of your bat mitzvah drew you away from me, I was also pulled towards the tidal wave of exuberance that a first day of high school can bring. It was so exhilarating being among kids who were almost adults. It was disconcerting to be one of the youngest and shortest students, when I'd always been the tallest, even of the boys. I wore a skirt and a blouse; I looked pressed and pretty, and even though you wore a variation of the same thing – a plaid skirt with a sweater and a headband – I could tell you felt out of place. You kept looking at me with large, glittery, lost eyes, and every time I caught you staring after me it made my heart squeeze.
I could have done better. Every time I snatch this particular day out of the countless days we've spent together, and hold it up for review, the edges of it cut me – like a jagged piece of a broken mirror. Since then, the only feeling I have when I remember it is of regret, and it's the only emotion I can recall; though I know, at the time, I didn't think about it. I thought I would be able to soothe your awkwardness at lunch time, or in the art class we had together. But by the time afternoon classes rolled around, you were impatient with me, and you brushed me off. You didn't want to talk about it, so we sat side-by-side in silence while the instructor went over classroom rules, and I decided to drop it, just as you'd told me to do.
Things did get easier after that first day, or at least I thought. You always seemed just a little bit overwhelmed, a little bit out of place, but not so scared or uncertain as you did that first day. You tagged along with me to hang out with some of my old friends, like Finn, who had buddied up with the boy from your synagogue, Noah. But you were shy around them, and looked down, and wouldn't say much.
After school, sometimes we would go back to your house, and you would pull out our textbooks and help me struggle through English, math, and history. I helped you stretch and practice your plies, but I felt like things were different. I didn't know why, though. You didn't lean into me, panting and heaving, after a strenuous ballet set; you brushed aside my appreciative hand when I let it slip down your bare shoulder after you helped me puzzle out a particularly hard algebra equation. Sometimes you would throw me dark looks from beneath your eyelids, and they made me feel confused – but any time I asked you what was wrong, you ignored me.
It really wasn't normal of you to behave that way, Rachel. Usually you practically vibrate with the need to express and communicate – sometimes I'm stunned by the way words explode out of you, so quick and emotional. I kept expecting that to happen, especially in the early weeks, when I could tell that whatever was bothering you had settled beneath your skin, stretching it, filling you up with tension. You reminded me of an agitated rabbit – deceptively small and harmless, but with the ability to draw blood when cornered.
It made me sad in a strange, disconnected, unsettling way; and because I have never been particularly melancholy, I had no way of knowing why or how it happened – I just knew that looking at you caused a heaviness in me, where it used to only make me light and happy. I knew that something had changed between us (again), and you didn't laugh as often or as easily at things that had always amused you. I think that, for a while, we continued spending time together after school and on the weekends only because it was a habit, something we had been doing for years – and not because we both actually wanted to.
Finally, you told me that you wanted to join some clubs, and the look you gave me as you said this was desperate and pleading.
"What clubs?" I asked.
"It doesn't matter – anything. I want to make more friends," You said, your voice strained.
"Okay, Rachel," I agreed, because – even though neither one of us were – I wanted to make you happy.
I signed us both up for cheerleading, because I figured it would be easy enough, and the most popular girls did it.
You did not react the way I expected you to.
"For cheerleading? Brittany!" Your eyes were huge and indignant. "I can't – I can't be a cheerleader! I'd be a laughingstock!"
"Why?" I rubbed a finger over the tip of my nose. "You can dance, you're good with rhythm. Why not cheerleading?"
"Because – I just can't!" You shook your head. We were standing in the middle of the hallway, a few feet from the board with the sign-up sheets tacked to it. "I wanted to do something like the debate team, or the chess club!"
I shrugged. "Then sign us up for that."
"I will," You huffed, walking over to the board. I watched you delicately scrawl first your name – gold star sticker and all – and then mine, before you viciously scribbled out our names from the Cheerios sheet.
You stomped away, muttering. I watched you go, your hair a dark sheet swinging with your movements. After a moment, and almost as an afterthought, I put my name back on the Cheerios list.
"What's that?" Your eyes were huge and accusing the first day you saw me in the uniform.
"Do you like it?" I smiled, tugging at the pleated skirt. I liked the way it twirled when I moved. I didn't like the sharp press of polyester against my skin, or how the WMHS across my chest made my boobs feel flat, but I did like the skirt. It still smelled new, which was kind of stinky.
You grimaced. "You look like every other faceless sheep in here – just a tall, pretty, blonde cheerleader."
I knew you were trying to hurt my feelings, but I couldn't pinpoint how, or why. "Why are you mad?"
I could almost hear you gritting your teeth. "I thought we decided we weren't going to do cheerleading, Brittany."
"No," I replied carefully, "You decided. I do want to do cheerleading, so.. I'm doing it."
The expression on your face was a mixture of mild shock and anger. In hindsight, I realize that you were surprised that I'd do anything you hadn't explicitly condoned – but at the time, I was just even more confused.
"Don't be mad," I stepped forward, my fingers circling your wrist. Your eyebrows wrinkled, and I could sense that you were battling with the desire to pull closer or dart away. We hadn't been occupying the same space so intimately lately, and it was hard for you at first. I ran my thumb along the little tendons on the inside of your wrist, trying to liquefy the tension there. "I can still do debate team and chess club, Rachel. We can join other clubs, too."
I was taken aback by how your lips trembled before you pressed them together, that your eyes went glassy before you blinked. Your arm flexed, and then you slid until your hand was cupped inside of mine. "I miss you," You said, simply.
"I'm right here." I had never gone anywhere, Rachel.
"It doesn't – it doesn't feel like you." You frowned, your eyes scanning the hallway. Morning classes would be starting soon. "Sometimes I don't recognize you, here."
I didn't know what you meant. I understand, now, a little bit about what baffled you – the fact that, at school, you weren't the focus of all of my attention, like it had always been between us. At school, I had other friends, some of which I valued just as much as you. I think it's always been hard for you to grasp that concept – because, for you, there was only ever me.
I have a big heart, Rachel, and I am capable of loving many people at once. I think you often forgot that, because for you – you were careful when opening yourself, always timid and hesitant to let anyone else see what you kept tucked inside.
"I'm the same," I said, because I didn't know yet about perspective, or perception; and I had only learned – even after so many years (I was still so young, myself) – a very small amount about the things you say and what you mean when you say them. It was always just an act of interpretation, and though I'm good at it, sometimes my own feelings interfere with the intuitive ability I have.
You sighed. I could tell the fight had drained out of you – you seemed to collapse in on yourself, without moving at all. "Will you audition for the school play with me?"
"Yes." I didn't know how to act, and I didn't want to, but I'd help paint cutouts of trees and teach choreography, if it was needed.
"I'll see you in art." You released me with a gentle squeeze of our hands. I watched you go, and couldn't figure out what had happened to scramble the communication between us. I had always been the sort of person who doesn't pick up the frequencies of other people – it takes a special sort of channel to reach me. And though, through the years, there had been static and interruption between us, for the most part we had had a clear signal. I don't know if it's because we're just naturally suited to each other – or because we were both so stubborn about it that we refused to give up.
I worried, though, in that hallway, with your back receding from me, that somehow one of us – or both of us – had thrown in the towel, finally.
Is it possible to choose to stop trying to hear someone, after knowing them for seven years? Is it possible to stop trying to speak to them in a way that they can understand?
I had always been a casually active person, with dance lessons and gymnastics and a lifetime of bicycling under my belt. But I was nowhere near prepared for the kind of brutal physical torture that would become Cheerios practice – parts of my body hurt that I didn't even know could hurt. I left, after every single day, feeling weak, and wobbly, and exhausted; I could barely see, or breathe, or think.
I didn't need to think in order to notice Quinn. She was like a bolt of lightning; suddenly there – brilliant and electric. I know that you hate it when I talk too much about her, Rachel, but Quinn was just – she was one of the most beautiful people I've ever seen, and I don't think it has to do with her hair or her eyes or her nose, like you do. Even though she didn't seem very beautiful in any other way, especially to you. We will never agree about Quinn, and that's all right.
Quinn noticed me, too. I felt a tiny twist in my stomach every time our eyes met; and unlike most people, Quinn didn't look away the second she realized we were staring at each other. In fact, she kept her gaze steady, and I could almost feel her watching me. It made me curious in a way that almost no one else ever has – and I could sense a question in Quinn, even though we had never spoken a word to each other. I didn't understand the question, or what the answer could possibly be, but I knew that there was one, somehow.
I didn't know how to talk to her, which was kind of silly. I've always been the sort of person who can walk up to anyone and begin a conversation. But the weight of Quinn's eyes made my tongue feel thick and my head feel loose, and sometimes when I caught her staring, my heart would kick up in my chest.
We spent weeks dancing around each other in Cheerios practice, and I thought that if we ever would have figured out how to talk to one another, it would be because of that – and I was wrong.
Instead, it was on an afternoon where you and I were working on the school play. They cast you as Gertie in Oklahoma, and it upset you; they cast me as tree-painter, and I was content. I didn't pay a lot of attention during rehearsals, because I listened to music and painted scenery while everyone else was singing, dancing, and yelling. Sometimes I would dance, too – sometimes I would slide across the floor on a cardboard box and pretend to surf, slinging paint everywhere. The drama teacher, Mr. Ryerson, was one of the few people who didn't get angry about it. In fact, he thought it showed a particular "artistic flare" and scolded anyone who yelled at me for getting paint on them. Whoops. You would sometimes catch me doing it, and whenever I saw the expression on your face, it was always a mixture of amusement and disdain; as if you couldn't decide whether to think I was funny, or hopeless.
The first time I actually talked to Quinn, it was because she was watching me – like you often did – and I didn't know it. I was listening to a song on my iPod that made me think of the complicated dance moves my instructor put us through every week, and somehow the red side of the barn had white splatters on it – my brush went in a wide arc, and the next thing I knew, I heard a muffled, annoyed gasp.
I yanked one of my earbuds out of my ear, quickly, and turned, my eyes round. I hated it any time I got an innocent bystander with paint, even if Mr. Ryerson wouldn't let them be mad at me – but the sight of Quinn with paint all over her made my jaw drop, followed a moment later by the paint brush clattering to the ground.
"Oh my gosh!" I rushed forward, forgetting the fact that this was the girl who had such a hold on me – and forgetting, too, that my hands were a smeared mess of greens, reds, browns, and whites; by trying to wipe the paint away from her face, I was only making it worse. "I'm so sorry!"
"It's okay," Quinn said, but I could tell she was upset. Her eyes flashed in my direction and caught the gleam of the overhead lights. I could tell, this close, that they were speckled, like the side of a river stone; they were green and black and gold, and impossible, it felt like, to me. Impossible. I stopped what I was doing and stared, and I couldn't remember how to breathe or think because of her eyes – they reminded me of fairies, and magic, and the sort of wonderlands that I had been told, time and time again, weren't real.
"What?" Quinn's tone was amused when she realized I was motionless. Her lips quirked in the most subtle of smiles, and there was something about it that reminded me of a cat - quick and confident, and so sure. I smiled back without realizing it, and her eyes changed subtly; something inside of them shifted, and it caused a warmth to bloom in my chest and pump outwards, buzzing, tingling my fingertips and cheeks and ears.
"Help me wash this off?" Quinn asked, her voice a whisper. It sent goosebumps skittering along my skin. I nodded, suddenly breathless, and Quinn's smile grew.
I followed her through the corridor, which was mostly empty by this time in the afternoon. She was making a beeline for the Cheerios locker room, and as every second passed, my heart kicked more fitfully behind my ribs, strangling my lungs, making my cheeks flushed. By the time we entered it, I was gnawing on my lips, and when she turned to face me, I could see that her face was red, too.
"Pretty girl," I murmured. It was a thought running through my mind, and it slipped out – it caused her to grin with her whole face, and her eyes to go lidded.
"You aren't so bad yourself," She stepped closer to me and cocked her head back, smirking.
I cupped the back of her neck without thinking, and didn't care that her hair stuck to all of the paint. "I'm going to kiss you," I whispered, and Quinn tilted her jaw. It felt a little bit like time stood still. I waited a heartbeat to see if she would object – but I could feel the tiny muscles in her neck shifting, and the look on her face was still smug. So I slipped even closer, and pressed my free hand to her hip, and then laid my lips against hers.
She was still grinning while we kissed, and I felt one of her hands secure me around the waist, while the other pressed against the heat in my cheek. Having her here, so close to me, made my body twist and tangle and knock together clumsily – I could hear the blood swimming in my ears, and feel how hot and taut my skin was, and how my lungs struggled to breathe. Everything happened both too fast and excruciatingly slow. I couldn't help the way a tiny moan squeezed out of me when her tongue slipped over my bottom lip, and on my quick inhale, she pushed it inside.
Kissing Quinn was a little bit like kissing fire – bright and intense, hot, almost painful; though it was subtle and contained, too. It was this strange contradiction that had me squeezing her closer to me, and moving my tongue over hers, and then into her mouth. I liked the stinging mystery of her, and the way she smelled like a field of wildflowers beneath the plastic-y paint scent.
We kissed like that for several long moments, until my lips were swollen, and my heart beat had taken up residence somewhere below my navel. I tugged my face away from Quinn's, and I could hear her breathing, now; in short, breathy pants. Her chest rose and fell quickly, and the look on her face was almost disbelieving – she scanned my features with her eyes, her lips pressed together.
"You have paint on your face, now," Quinn said quietly.
I scrunched my eyebrows and lips, and realized it was true. It made me smile.
"Let's take a shower," Quinn said, and it my heart dropped.
"Are you sure?" I asked. I rubbed my thumb over the base of her neck, and she slid her hand down to rest on my shoulder.
"Yes," Quinn said.
I let her put her hand in mine and tug me behind her, through the empty locker room. It smelled like chlorine and water and cement. She dug out a pair of towels from the towel closet, and then pulled us both into one shower stall. She didn't look at me as she turned the knobs, adjusting the water, but she turned back around when the steam started to fill the room.
It was even harder to breathe the thick air, especially with Quinn watching me. She carefully peeled her shirt over her head, and my eyes widened at the sight of her in just a bra. It was white, and plain, but it still excited me – so much that I stopped her hands from pushing her skirt down by covering them with my own. I looked at her, for just a moment, and she watched me with dark, guarded eyes. She let me tug her skirt, revealing her underwear, and it made my breath hitch. She was smiling more easily at me when I looked at her face again, and she almost playfully yanked up the hem of my shirt.
In a moment, we were both naked, and Quinn didn't wait before she pressed her body against mine. I had never been so close to someone with no clothing between us – even you. Even when you were making love to me, there were always layers of pajamas and underwear as a barrier between our bodies, and so this with Quinn was new and exciting, exhilarating, even. It made my stomach tie in tight, tense knots; my hands skimmed over her bare back tentatively, disbelieving.
Quinn bit at my lips, and her touch wasn't gentle or hesitant – her palms pressed hard against my lower back, and then gripped on my hips. It made me gasp and moan into her mouth, and she seemed greedy for these noises – she murmured, a humming in the back of her throat, and her fingers squeezed me even tighter. I could tell there would be bruises there, but I didn't care. It filled me up with a hot urgency, and I shifted until my hands were fastened on her hips as well. I moved us both beneath the spray of the water, and grinned when she gasped at the sudden shock of warm water against her.
I scraped my teeth along the line of her neck, and she groaned, her body shifting almost incessantly. It didn't take long for my hands and fingers to brush along the curves and contours of her body, along the rigid line of her bones beneath her skin, over the muscles – she shivered and panted in turn at every new touch, and her hands tugged and tugged at me, while her hips rolled, bumping against mine. All of her movements were impatient and demanding – and whenever I glimpsed her face, her eyebrows were knit, her lip between her teeth, as if she were caught up in a struggle. It was nothing like any of the times I had kissed or touched you, Rachel. Nothing. Quinn was hot and closed up and full of sharp insistence – she wanted me in a way I wasn't familiar with. She wasn't afraid to hurt me – in fact, she didn't seem to care if she did, squeezing and jerking my body as heedlessly as she could.
She grunted when my hand slipped between our bodies and cupped her between the legs. The noise was grateful, but still hungry; and she moaned when my fingers slipped inside of her. I had never done this to anyone – I had thought it would be with you, the first time – and I was in awe over the slick heat of it, the stickiness, the impossible way that it was both soft and strong all at once. I could feel the pulse of Quinn's life when I was inside of her, the rhythm of her body, and she jutted her hips against my hand in time with it. I held her low on her back, and pressed her against the tile wall, while my fingers shifted and slid at a stilted pace. At every moment, Quinn grew more desperate – I felt the sharp bite of her nails in my skin, and she writhed and thrashed against me. I sped up – watching her face and her body, a little stunned by the way she didn't even look like herself anymore.
The spray from the water made Quinn's hair darker, a golden brown, and her face was wrinkled and pink – I could see her chest rising and falling with the effort of breathing. I had no idea what was happening, except that my fingers were following the pace that Quinn set, before she cried out – loudly – and seized, her whole body shuddering into stillness for one long, pulsating moment, and then she spasmed, rocking and jerking against me. I could feel her insides quaking, and it mystified me; I had no idea what it was like to experience an orgasm from this side of it.
When it was over, her muscles relaxed, and her face smoothed out. She was back to looking like the pretty girl I had admired for so many weeks. I kissed her cheek, and then her forehead, and her eyelids fluttered open. She smiled at me, dimly, before she moved until my hand fell away from her.
"Have you ever done that before?" Her voice was thick and low, and it made my stomach clench.
"No," I said, and realized my own mouth was dry.
Her eyes lit up, and her grin grew wider – she laughed, a tiny sound. "I'm going to teach you something."
She pressed with both of her hands on my shoulders, until I got the impression that she wanted me to drop to my knees – and when I did, I was eye level with her navel, and it made my heart race. I had never been like this – never been so close, so intimate. Everything inside of my body throbbed with anticipation and a bit of trepidation, but I didn't care; I pressed my hands to the meat of her hips to steady her, and ducked my head, slipping my tongue out along her skin.
She moaned, rocking, and spread her legs. I could feel her fingers tighten in my hair, while her other hand pressed against mine on her hip, as if she had to have something to hold on to. I was curious of the way it tasted and smelled, and even when my tongue was sliding through the most secret parts of Quinn, a corner of my mind was on you – I remembered you doing this to me, during one of those hot, humid summer nights that I ghosted into your bedroom after dark. I remembered the way I wanted so desperately to pin you down and find out all of your secrets, too. But I had Quinn – and Quinn was gorgeous, with her bedtime-story eyes, and she was eager and lithe and wet. I wanted her, too, so I let myself forget you, for a little while.
With Quinn's fingers fisted in my hair, and my tongue inside of her, I couldn't pay attention to anything else – except the abrupt tugging on my scalp, and the way she moaned and rocked into my mouth – so it was a complete shock to me when she jerked, nearly ripping my head away from her. I was disoriented – the sound of the shower hitting the drain had numbed my ears, and my gaze was blurry and unfocused.
"What are you doing here, you little creep?" Quinn's voice was low and acidic, and it reminded me of the way a snake might sound if it could talk. All I could see was a curtain of water – I became aware of how much my knees hurt from direct contact with the tile beneath - but I figured that Quinn was addressing someone on the other side of the curtain.
"Are you going to just stand there? Beat it, you pervert!" Quinn growled. I heard a faint rustling noise that must have been the shower curtain falling back into place.
Quinn shifted, impatiently, and she tried to bring my face back closer to her. "Who was that?" I asked, tilting my head back.
"Nobody," Quinn grunted. "She shouldn't even be in this locker room."
For a long beat, I paused, thinking. I could tell Quinn had already forgotten our interruption and wanted me to finish what I started – but I was thinking, thinking, and I thought it might have been you, Rachel. I thought it could have been you, searching for me, trying to figure out where I was. We were supposed to ride home together after you were done rehearsing, so.. I knew it could have been you.
I let the thought go, though, because Quinn was whining, now, and her hips were moving, and I could tell that she wanted me. Quinn wanted me, and it made me feel drunk with arousal, so I forgot about you.
I think about that moment a lot, Rachel. It always comes back to that moment, right there, when I made the decision to forget you. If I hadn't – if I had gotten up, instead, and come after you, would it have made a difference? Or was the damage already done when you pulled back that shower curtain and saw me with my head between Quinn's legs?
I don't know. I'll never get to know, either, because I didn't make the choice to stop – I made the choice to stay. When Quinn was done, we stayed even longer, because she wanted to make sure that I was satisfied, too.
By the time we left, my skin was white and wrinkled, my hair and body scrubbed clean by relentless water. My knees were red, but my body felt relaxed and liquid and golden, so I didn't mind.
I didn't think about you again until late that night, when I was already in my pajamas and getting ready for bed. I remembered in a flash that I was supposed to ride home with you – I remembered the play, and the rehearsal, and everything. I checked my phone, but there were no messages from you. When I called, it went straight to voice mail.
I tried to rationalize it, by thinking you were already asleep – but dread had formed a cold ball in the pit of my stomach, and I just knew better.
I knew that there was something very wrong.
I didn't know, then, that things would never be quite right again. Not really.
you have played,
(I think)
and broke the toys you were fondest of,
and are a little tired now;
tired of things that break, and—
just tired.
so am I.