Disclaimer: I don't own Glee or any of its characters (with the exception, this chapter, of the WONDERFUL Alina Powers).

A/N: Sorry it's taken me a long time to write, guys. I've just been so busy lately, it's hard to fit in the chance to write... especially with all of the work. Thanks to illunyx, readsalot86, Gleeeek, Ienne4Puck, munnerz, zettev2, razberry1, EagleRay, ltrasco, Willowfan, ms-rapper-sleepy, snakeyninja, kiarcheo, Princesakarlita411, fussyviolet,grangergirl22, thetamarine, writting is love, callmeblissful, sarasunnyshine, d80p, Buffy-Obssessed, phbr89, Rollergirl76, sillysah, Music and Reading Lover, Pie56, Sannie, smartblonde317, BleachedBlondeDork, G6-Flying, angelv7, MissMassacre99, Stevie92, Dreamalittlebitmore, celebirtygrl09, DismantleMe, MsChloeMa, gleefulness, achelette, J0EBLACK, oOScrabblesOo, YouTellMe, Cam05, teenidiot, aquarius127, Aiko Hamano, clenche, ch3lsk0, soraya.s, notpenny, fatedcircle26, Directions, romangst, jacketweather, , , RandomOtakuFromTumblr, vampiretiger, and Frilonsky for their wonderful support and comments :) I want to ask any of you if you'd like to ask any questions (as long as they're not offensive/too personal) :) You can ask via review, or ask me via my Tumblr (Link on my profile). On my Tumblr, I make random comments about whatever's going on in my neck of the woods/talk about what stories are coming up, chapter progress, etc. So if you wanna know what's going on, go ahead and add me there :) Please leave reviews... they make me smile... and you guys leave the most awesome comments :D

Chapter 8: Faint Echoes of You

The hours following the coffee trip were surprisingly normal, much to Rachel's utter incredulity.

Not a single person threw an unkind glare her way (not even Peterson or his lackey, which puzzled Rachel, since they had at least sneered at her once a day to make up for the fact they couldn't throw slushies into her face). Not a single person so much as glanced at her as she came through the halls, whispering about her shady past and her 'divorced faggot fathers' (she fought the strong urge to knee that person in the family jewels more than once).

It was the mellowest day Rachel experienced since her arrival in Lima, and she was thankful for it.

The only little twist in her day (and she didn't consider it a negative) was the fact that Quinn actually started to actively hang out with Rachel.

The two girls walked to first period together, smiling and joking brightly along the way. After class, Quinn escorted Rachel to second period with a silly little scowl on her face ('damned AP Chem test next period…' she'd murmured, hazel eyes flashing in annoyance) before turning to walk to her own lecture a few halls down.

During lunch, she dragged a scowling Santana and a grinning Brittany to the Glee table and sat down at Rachel's left (Tina had already commandeered the right as her official seat, with sitting at the very end of the table, and Kurt and Mercedes gossiping across the metal surface). She spent the rest of lunch avidly listening to every word that fell from the guitarist's mouth with a mysterious twinkle in emerald hued eyes.

During Glee club, the Cheerleader sat behind Rachel, the two remaining pieces of the Unholy Trinity beside her.

Quinn's staring had become much more blatant than before. Almost as though she felt, since the two had exchanged civil words, she was entitled to the right to look at her newfound friend any moment of the day she deemed appropriate.

Before, Rachel had been the only one to notice the outright intensity with which Quinn regarded her. She asked Tina on more than one occasion 'why is Quinn staring at me?' during the second or third week of school, and Tina gave her friend a strange look, declared her insane, and turned back to the latest chapter of vampire manga she'd borrowed from the local library.

As it turned out, Rachel merely noticed the small, yet intense glances because of that strange cocktail of emotions that poured forth unchecked when hazel orbs were on her.

The nauseas, semi-bitter taste of nostalgia fell fresh on her tongue with each passing moment. It made Rachel want to crawl out of her own skin, to force 'little' Rachel out of her body so that she didn't feel so vulnerable.

Because in the moments that Quinn spent looking at her, Rachel's memories of Lima seemed far more vivid than she would have liked, and it honestly scared her.

She came to Lima to find out why her Fathers had called off their marriage. Why they had thrown in the towel and given up on each other when she knew they were still in love.

She hadn't come to recall what she already knew.

Because if she remembered, then all the years away from this hellish place would have been for naught.

The years of change, of purposely forgetting? They'd all be meaningless just because of Quinn Fabray's stupid hazel orbs.

But at the same time, Rachel knew she couldn't say anything like 'stop fucking looking at me!' to her newfound friend.

Because, while Quinn's eyes made Rachel feel like a little girl again, Quinn herself helped induce such a lightness of heart in the guitarist.

She'd never felt as light or as unburdened as she had with Quinn. Because Quinn gave without taking. Quinn was joy without taking.

In Maria, she had a confidant. A person to do stupid things with. Someone to argue with. A family… a sister that she had never known that she wanted. And while Rachel knew that no one could ever hope to take Maria's place, there was just something special about the blonde Head Cheerio that endeared her to the guitarist..

Where Maria would swear and cuss at making a stupid error, Quinn would blush and laugh (as Rachel discovered when the blonde accidently put salt in her coffee instead of sweetener) everything off.

Where Maria would insist to find a single solution without weighing the costs or benefits, Quinn would sit, listen, and then offer two solutions (as she had suggested with some Glee choreography) and write out the pros and cons.

They were opposites, yet both of them were crucial to Rachel.

When Glee practice let out that day (they had started practicing choreography—courtesy of Mike Chang and Brittany—on RENT), Rachel's pocket vibrated furiously as her iPhone announced the presence of a text.

Panting heavily (the new choreography—for her and the rest of the fairly experienced dancers in glee—was actually quite challenging), Rachel looked at her screen, cursing lightly as she read the message.

'I had to do a little bit of out of last minute critical work on a case, sweetheart :( Can you find someone to give you a ride home or walk? :)"

'A smiley face,' Rachel's hand shook angrily, scowling as she shoved the phone back into her pocket. 'He sent it with a fucking smiley face at the end. What sort of sadistic ba—person does that?'

On the one day Rachel actually felt like collapsing, her Dad just had to screw her over. The other days she could have walked, but today?

Today she didn't feel so fan-fucking-tasic, and she just really wanted to go home.

Quinn, seeing Rachel's distressed facial features, walked over to her friend, catching the guitarist on the shoulder and swiveling her around. "Hey, what's wrong? You look a bit… distressed."

"My Dad's working late at the office," Rachel said softly, adjusting the lone strap over her sore limb. "So I need to walk home."

"I can take you home if you like," Quinn offered, smiling. "It's no trouble. My house is just a few blocks down."

"I really shouldn't" the girl said, a frown creasing her lips. And she knew she shouldn't. Quinn had already picked her up that morning and paid for their coffee. It was just too much hospitality in one day, and Rachel was still very much baffled by the concept of 'giving without taking.'

"It'd make me verrrryyy happyyyyyy," the blonde sang, skipping beside Rachel, arms behind her back and greenish orbs twinkling.

"I'm fine," Rachel insisted, fighting the smile that threatened to crease her lips.

"I wouldn't be able to live with myself," Quinn switched gears quickly, pouting, "if I were to wake up tomorrow morning to find out that you had been abducted on your walk home… kidnapped by some anonymous, white, male figure with a fetish for stealing short brunette women from McKinley High School."

"Short?" Rachel glared.

Quinn shrugged. "You can't tell me you aren't."

"I'm of average height, Quinn Fabray."

"Not in this school, you aren't… what are you, like… four foot eleven?"

"Five one, and I can take care of myself," Rachel trudged down the chipping concrete steps outside the double doors of the school's entrance.

"What do you have," Quinn scoffed, "a rape whistle?"

"People with rape whistles are unrealistic losers," Rachel countered, pausing at the foot of the stairs with a glare. She didn't dare mention the fact that she'd worn a rape whistle religiously when she was twelve. "I mean, how the f-."

"Language, shorty."

"…Frick—and shut it—is someone going to get to you before the damn kidnapper or axe murderer, or whatever throws you into the back of his black truck with tinted windows and spins off into the distance?"

"You've really thought about this haven't you?"

"That's not the point," Rachel argued, glowering at the blonde. "The point is, I've taken extensive Krav Maga courses, therefore your fear that I'm going to be abducted is entirely pointless."

"Everyone can have an off day, Rachel," Quinn countered, keys jingling as she pulled them from the pocket of her cardigan, opening up the door of her red Porsche.

"That's sort of impossible," the girl smirked. "I'm Rachel Berry. I don't have off days."

"Even when you're sitting against a locker, trying to stifle the bleed after you got cracked one on the nose?"

"I let them hit me."

"That's what they all say," the blond shook her head, getting into the car. She looked up at her companion. "Gonna get in?"

"No, I've resolved to walk this one out."

"Rachel, don't be stupid," the cheerleader pointed at the passenger seat. "Get in the car and I'll take you home."

"No, I don't think so," Rachel backed away from the car. "I'm going to prove that I can take care of myself. See you tomorrow!"

"Rachel!"

"Bye Quinn!"

And with that, Rachel took off in the direction opposite the car.

"Berry, get back here!"

"Not going to happen, Fabray!"

"I'm going to kick your ass tomorrow!"

"As if you could!" Rachel laughed, hearing the Cheerleader should a stream of expletives after her.

'Perhaps,' Rachel mused to herself, chuckling as she jogged away from an angry Quinn Fabray, 'this will be the start of a pretty damned amazing friendship.'

"I should've just taken the offer for a damned ride."

An hour after her runaway from Quinn found Rachel trudging through some unknown neighborhood almost halfway across the town from the school.

Apparently Rachel's sense of direction, which Rachel often prided herself on in San Diego (her Father, Hiram, couldn't find his way out of a paper bag), was useless in small town Lima, Ohio. Which was an embarrassment, considering the fact that she'd passed twelve years of her life here before moving to California.

So Rachel resolved to explore the area. Try to find a place where she could kick her feet up and stay until Leroy was finally done with his work.

But so far, she hadn't had any luck. She hadn't found any restaurants (well—she'd seen Breadstix, but she wasn't about to go there. Her memories may have been fuzzy, but her recollection of Breadstix was just as crystal clear as the only time she'd gone there… and ended up with food poisoning the next day) that she could sit at. Only small bookshops and endless buildings with 'CLOSED' written in bold red writing.

In fact, she even walked down the street where her favorite sheet music store, Rick's, stood.

But all that stood in the place of the once homey shop, with its warm green walls, organized clutter, and parchment smelling walls was a decrepit old building, the windows smashed in and the sign painted over in crude graffiti.

It broke Rachel's heart, tears building in her eyes and burning their way down her cheeks. She stepped through the empty pane and into the space, glass crunching under the heels of her Converse.

In her mind's eye, she could see the freestanding wooden bins in the middle of the shop, with their dividers separating yellowed pieces of sheet music from their cousins. On the walls hung those glossy posters of Ella Fitzgerald, Johnny Cash, Barbra Streisand, and other music greats, frozen in time, inspiring. And at the head of the shop, Rachel could still see Rick, with his smile-creased cheeks, graying black hair, and those big, square-rimmed glasses on his crooked nose. She could hear him speaking of the greatest musicians… of their passion and drive in that deep, Brooklyn accent she'd always loved.

She feel his huge hands draped over hers, pressing her fingers down of the soft, aromatic wood of her first guitar as he taught her chords. She could see that awe-inspiring smile that'd cross his lips every time she learned a new song, or the looks of immense pride that would cross his features whenever her mouth opened to sing.

She could remember those 'better days.'

But now, there were no cluttered bins of music, or inspirational posters. Rick wasn't standing there, waiting for her to check out her latest music with those funny smiles on his lips.

All that was left were the crushed bits of glass beneath Rachel's feet, the naked walls of chipped plaster, and the smell of water-rot eating away at what once had been her sanctuary.

The guitarist fell to her knees, ignoring the bite of shards through the heavy denim of her jeans, eyes flickering about the place in disbelief.

This place was no more. This memory, this precious memory, was no more.

And Rachel hadn't been there to see it. To fight for its existence. To preserve it so that none would be able to touch its sacred walls.

But she'd failed, in a sense. She'd failed the store, just like she'd failed to keep her Fathers from separating. In fact… she'd probably hastened its demise.

Because Rachel could see, in the depths of her shoddy mind, the way Rick would worry over the inventory whenever she would spend the evenings there. The almost grateful way he'd taken her money.

He'd needed the money. Rachel could put two and two together now that she was much older. Because when you're twelve, you don't often think of money, especially when you had little worry of ever running out of it.

The Berry Family was well off. Rachel knew that by her Dad's silk shirts, handmade ties, and custom suits. She knew that, now that she was older. But back then, she'd never been to a single school where the kids were poor.

Elementary school, she'd been in a private school. Her one year at Belleview, ridden with taunts, bullying, and little socialization had made it nearly impossible for her to even know anyone in her grade, let alone those above her in age.

She hadn't noticed Rick's tattered shirts, or the fact that he'd worn the same jeans for three days at a time, at the moment.

But now that she was older, Rachel understood it all.

The girl ran her fingers gently over the glass shards, rubbing the spare bits of adhesive still clinging to their translucent surface, remembering the bright papers that hung in the window, announcing the store's latest sales. And perhaps…

Rachel's hand closed about a particularly wicked looking shard, blood dripping to the ground in steady ruby drops.

Perhaps the signs that announced the closing had clung to these little bits of glass as well.

For a moment, Rachel knelt amidst the ruins of the store, closed fist pressed tightly to her chest, praying for the memories that died there. Praying for the dreams of one passionate, good-natured man that had come to an end Lord knows how many years ago.

She stood up after several moments of quiet reflection, glancing about interior of the dead shop once more, and slipping the shard into one of her jacket's roomy pockets. Wiping the blood dripping from the shallow cut on her hand on the side of her jeans, Rachel turned on her heel and stepped out into Lima's quiet streets.

The guitarist shivered against the cool air, pulling her collar up and thrusting her hands into her pockets, taking a deep breath, brown eyes flickering to and fro. Resolving on her next destination, Rachel steadily sauntered down the street, shoulders hunched against the freezing weather.

She never looked back.

She hadn't thought it would still be there.

After all, if Rick's couldn't survive, then surely a small little dance studio in an art deficient town wouldn't. Especially when the gyms about town advertised those cheap, crappy dance classes where you really wouldn't learn anything of value.

But time had been kind to Alina Powers' classes, unlike the cruel treatment given to the small, quaint music store. It still stood next door to the shady old gun shop, next to the oddly placed Italian restaurant (which Rachel would always remember as the place that served the best food in town), with its gleaming windows and its colored flyers advertising dancing of all styles.

Rachel stepped forward, staring through the window, seeing children moving in unison to the steps of some unknown song. She lifted her cut, blood speckled hand from her side, pressing it against the glass.

It seemed as though five years had never passed here. Everything was just as it had always been. From the whitewashed walls, to the numerous, shining plaques hanging on the wall.

It was just the same as the first time that she set foot in the studio oh so many years ago. And it made Rachel feel somewhat comfortable at last.

The guitarist shuffled over to the door, putting a cut hand to the doorknob, and pulling the glass wall open.

The merry chime of the bell fell upon deaf ears as the children kept moving in unison to a song that Rachel was positive she'd danced to before.

As she stepped onto the white tile floor, the heavy beat crawled up her spine. She fought the urge to tap her foot and move to the beat. She shuffled quietly through the entrance, careful not to disturb any of the many shoes in the doorway.

She stooped over, unlacing her Converse and throwing them into the neat line, shucking off her socks before quietly stepping onto the blue pads lining the studio's floor.

Rachel made her way to the other side of the room, brown eyes searching for the last semblance of familiarity as she seated herself against the wall.

At the head of the class, a woman with curly, graying black hair moved about with practiced ease.

Her petite figure was coiled with lean, taut muscle that shifted beneath tanned skin as she moved gracefully about the students, weaving in and out of the rows with practiced ease.

Black eyes flashed in surprise as the woman took in the girl sitting at the back of her classroom. She halted in her fancy footwork between a row of students, licorice orbs drawn wide in absolute astonishment as a smile crossed Rachel's lips.

The woman pulled a remote from her cargo pants, snapping a button down and plunging the studio into silence.

The students fell into chaos, bumping into each other as they looked confusedly at their teacher, who took several steps toward the guitarist seated at the back of the room.

"Everyone… we're going to take an early stop today," the woman glanced about the students, who looked at her questioningly. "I want you all out in five. Make sure you practice; we have the showcase in a few weeks. Everything has to be sharp and crisp."

"Yes, Ms. Powers," they chorused, before rushing toward the walls to gather their things.

A connection seared and sizzled between teacher and student, Rachel slowly getting to her feet as Ms. Powers smiled softly at the girl, stepping forward as the last student stepped out the door.

The door slammed and the bell echoed through the sparsely decorated room.

"Rachel," the word curled on the teacher's tongue, a gentle whisper as the guitarist shoved her hands in her pockets. "Rachel Berry?"

"Ms. Powers," the girl's lips curled sheepishly. "Hello… it's been a long time."

The black haired woman threw her arms about her former student, laughing softly, tears carrying through the edge of her throat. Rachel lifted a hand tentatively, wrapping it softly about Ms. Powers' small form, smelling the spicy, cinnamon laden scent she'd always found comfort in.

Growing up, Rachel had no feminine role model in her life. She had two fathers that defied every sort of gay stereotype (while Hiram and Leroy both dressed impeccably, they were rather clueless in the women's clothes department—as well as 'the talk' department) and a faceless mother that she had never cared to seek.

Ms. Powers had been that influence, with her headstrong attitude and almost motherly doting. She took the shy, and almost dejected Rachel and gave her confidence. She bandaged every cut and provided the much info about the need to know things in life (Hiram had not hesitated to ask a very red Ms. Powers to explain 'that time of month' to Rachel) without a single complaint.

Still, Ms. Powers had never been an emotional woman, with the exception of her extremely sassy personality. She told people what she thought of them, knew what she wanted, and went for it no matter what the consequence. It was a trait that young Rachel Berry * took to heart the moment she'd seen her teacher put it into practice by crushing each and every single student that impeded her way to putting out each flawless studio program.

To see the slight glint of tears in Ms. Powers' eyes as she pulled back alarmed Rachel. The nonchalant façade was gone, and here was someone alien embracing her. A stranger wearing a familiar face.

Ms. Powers slowly pulled back, placing gentle kisses on the Rachel's cheeks and smiling tearfully. "My, how you've grown… I can't believe it's little Rachel Berry. How are you doing?"

"I've been doing well, Ms. Powers," Rachel stepped back, putting considerable distance between her and the dance teacher. "As well as things can go when you're a teenager."

"I don't remember my High School years having been particularly kind," Ms. Powers mused. "But perhaps you've had a slightly better experience in…?"

"San Diego," Rachel replied.

The teacher's eyes widened. "San Diego? You've been in California all this time, Rachel?"

"Yes, ma'am," Rachel's brow furrowed confusedly. "Papa never told you?"

"No, Hiram never said a word to me," the teacher frowned. "The last time I saw him was the last time I saw you. That month before the divorce…"

The teacher paused. "…How is your Papa, Rachel? I haven't heard from him in years."

"He's been doing well," the guitarist leaned against a nearby wall. "He started up a practice down there. Been getting lots of business."

"Good, good, and tell me," the teacher put her hands on her hips, cocking her eyebrow. "Have you been keeping your dance skills up, Miss Berry? I didn't waste nine years of my life teaching you to dance for nothing, did I?"

"No, no," the girl replied, shaking her head. "I still dance. There's a studio a few blocks away from the house. It's not as good as the lessons are here… but I've kept up what you've taught me. No need to worry about that."

"I'm glad," Ms. Powers shook her head. "You've always had such goddamn talent. It'd be a waste if you'd thrown it all away for… what are you doing now?"

"Chamber Singers, ma'am."

"Chamber singers?" the dancer's jaw nearly fell. "My Goodness, you've been singing Holy music for five years of your life. You haven't put your skills to good use at that new school of yours?"

"We don't have a Glee Club there, Ms. Powers," Rachel scratched the back of her neck, grinning sheepishly. "And the dance and cheerleading teams just… they just aren't up to snuff."

"My goodness, what are those goddamn Californians," Ms. Powers huffed, crossing her arms, "spending all their goddamn tax dollars on? Can't they afford a decent art program?"

"If they win, then yes," Rachel replied.

"That seems like the lame end of the deal," the teacher muttered. "How can you do well if you don't have the money to do well? Are you guys state funded?"

"To some degree," to some degree, Rachel replied, remembering days of under the table deals between band and the Chamber singers. "But most of the money's fundraised."

"Typical," Ms. Powers snorted, before smirking. "Now tell me, Miss Berry. Are you a straight A student still, or have you slipped?"

There had been an ongoing joke between Hiram and Ms. Powers about the overall state of Rachel's grades, especially since Rachel had been so anal about how long she'd had to study. There'd been a chart of times (copies of which she handed out to everyone who was part of 'the plan,' fully bedazzled and a gleaming gold star sticker after Rachel's signature) that hung quite proudly on the Berry refrigerator next to Rachel's latest assignments.

"Majority of A's with the occasional B," Rachel conceded with an easy smile. "You see… I've learned to be… less anal about certain things."

"Goodness, it must be the apocalypse," the dance teacher chortled. "Because there's absolutely no way Rachel Berry—gold star—would have gotten a single B, nor the fact that she would've been—don't glare at me like that!—less anal about anything."

"Then the apocalypse must have happened," the guitarist smiled wryly. Indeed, lots of things changed since she'd last set foot in that little studio.

The last time she'd been here, she'd been an insufferable, self-centered child. Rachel could freely admit that.

She'd stepped over her classmates in the studio to get where she needed to be in each studio production, and hurt the hopefuls at every school play with her desire to be number one. Because Rachel Berry was always the best, no matter what it took, just like Ms. Powers.

The teacher's facial features shifted, taking on a bit of a melancholy edge, eyes glazing over in some sort of hazy remembrance. "I can see so… But I'm happy for you… You've become so remarkably well-adjusted… Like…"

The dancer searched for the words, trying to find the right set to fit the situation. She'd always been like that, which had triggered little 12 year old Rachel's endless perusal of the dictionary to describe various events.

'Even then,' the singer smiled bitterly. 'I was still trying to outdo someone… or trying to prove something. It just goes to show how much time has changed me.'

"Like you've finally found yourself," the teacher finished.

Rachel's brow furrowed. She hadn't been well-adjusted before the entire mess? "What do you mean, Ms. Powers?"

The teacher looked down at the floor, biting her lip in contemplation, before licking the chapped surfaces and parting them to speak. "You weren't always the happiest little girl, Rachel… The months before the divorce, you just shrunk in on yourself, and you just didn't look happy anymore."

"Your Papa always told me that something was wrong at school, or that you were just feeling off that day," Ms. Powers shook her head. "But a child never has that many off days… Youwere never off, Rachel. You'd always known exactly who you were, and you always strove to do your best. You didn't look at people the same way anymore… you had such a…"

"Such a?" Rachel whispered in inquiry.

The teacher sighed. "Such an... aged look in your eyes. Children shouldn't have had eyes like yours: tired, resigned, and bitter. Jaded."

Rachel gripped at the soft surface of her corduroy jacket, closing her eyes.

She'd known she'd had that look in her eyes. She still had that look in her eyes. That weary, saddened look. But she'd just grown more adept at hiding it behind smiles and lies. The art of suppression was one that Rachel had proven to be adept at.

That had been the time that Rachel Berry had died. At that point, she'd been nothing but a soulless doll that ate, lived, and breathed only because it seemed some nagging men wanted her to live.

Everything that Rachel believed in and supported her had been proven to be an absolute farce. Her father's happy marriage was a sham, and so everything else must not be true. She must have really been as terrible as her classmates said she was.

She must've been faggoty anne, must've been an abomination. Must've been unwanted and unloved.

It took a fucking kick in the rear by a redheaded, unsympathetic young Maria to awaken Rachel to the truth. To bring her back into herself as a new person with a new set of values and a new outlook on life.

Rachel relished that restart. Once she'd gained her new code of ethics, she'd never looked back.

But one thing hadn't changed.

The façade that she'd built over her emotions. The one covering the pain from crossing over her face right now. The mask held over the indecisiveness and the twelve year old Rachel who cried beneath the steel barriers for release.

Rachel's eyes flickered about the room, searching for something new to discuss. The topic was broaching on the edge of something uncomfortable, and already Rachel could feel her mind flashing its warning signals.

Her eyes skimmed over trophies—trophies she'd had a part in winning—across some endless papers about certain dance steps, falling on the list of instructors—assistant and main—that took part in teaching the students.

Her eyes easily found, written in neat, curly font, 'Alina Powers' (it made Rachel laugh a bit inside, since Ms. Powers always had a flare for the ornate, just as she had oh so long ago) along with several other more familiar names that Rachel could remember from her classes.

Though one name stood out as unfamiliar and glaring in nature, in dark, bold ink that stood in simple typescript.

'Lucy Fredrickson, assistant instructor.'

Rachel's brow furrowed in thought.

Lucy. The name didn't connect with a face in her memory, yet it provoked something nostalgic on Rachel's tongue. There was something in that name, it brought something to mind. Something just out of reach, something that Rachel felt she should know or remember.

But try as she might, Rachel couldn't connect the shattered fragments of memory, no matter how she tried. Her eyes traced over the letters as she spoke.

"Ms. Powers… I recognize most of these names except…"

"Lucy's?"

Rachel's brown orbs darted over to her teacher. "Yes."

"She came to us about a month or so after you left," Ms. Powers responded, smiling fondly in remembrance. "You wouldn't know her, before then she'd never been with us. That little girl worked hard, and she's a superb dancer. She comes in when I need an extra hand, and the others can't come down after school."

"Oh," Rachel replied simply.

"You should come down and meet her sometime," the dance teacher smiled. "She's a lovely girl. I have a feeling the two of you would get on well."

"I'd like to meet her," Rachel replied, eyes still locked on the name. "Perhaps I will someday."

'I'm all alone," you realize, hugging yourself as you look up at this strange building with its lifeless crème surfacing, looming over the horizon in all its intimidating magnificence. You can hear laughter… see the small little shapes of your peers as they run along the playground.

But you're over here, standing in the middle of this grassy field, and they're over there, playing and having fun… Without you there among them.

Because they're happy without you. You sniffle to yourself, wiping your eyes on the edge of the knitted red cardigan Daddy gave you for your twelfth birthday, declaring you a 'big girl.' They don't like you, they've never liked you.

Still, you wouldn't mind at least being around them. It wouldn't matter if you were there, so long as you're silent right? They wouldn't care as long as if you weren't in your way.

You take several steps toward the playground, looking down at your shiny black Mary Janes, sniffling pathetically. You don't have to be alone anymore.

But as you look up, you notice something odd.

You're just as faraway as before. The several steps you took have done nothing to bring you closer to the school. Have done nothing to bring you closer to human contact.

In fact, you look closely. It seems like they've gotten even more far off than before!

You start running as fast as you can, anything to get back to the school. The teacher will get mad if you're not back by the time the bell rings.

But with every step you take closer, the father away you become. A broken sob pierces the air as you cry out in desperation.

Why are you being left alone? Why doesn't anyone want you?

You stop running, falling to your knees and start crying piteously.

A warm hand touches your shoulder, however, and soon you're enveloped in a gentle hug.

Brown eyes open wide, and all you can see is a white cardigan, and the smooth chestnut locks of some unknown savior.

"It's alright," they say to you, holding you closer. "It's fine. What's wrong?"

You sniffle, burying yourself further into the hug. "I-I… I can't get back to school… and… I-I don't know why."

You can feel the person smile against your shoulder, pulling back slowly. Suddenly, the sun seems to shine too brightly, and all you can make out are dazzling hazel eyes and the gentle, warm hands on your shoulders. "It's alright. How about we go back together? Everything'll be fine then, right?"

You nod slowly, getting to your feet as your faceless friend pulls you forward, grasping your hand tightly in their own and toward the school. Seconds seem to pass quickly, and the school grows larger by the moment.

Mary Janes morph into black converse, plaid skirt to dark-washed jeans, sweater to t-shirt, and cardigan to jacket and scarf. Your hand becomes callused and scarred, growing larger as the hand of your friend transfigures as well, pale and delicate about your own.

And when you finally stand before the school's gates, you feel your friend start to pull away as you desperately try to keep hold of the hand.

"Aren't you going too?" you ask, the voice of a teenager leaving through your lips as you stare desperately at the dazzling light and into smiling gold orbs.

"Sometime soon," it's a teenaged girl's voice, you realized as it drawls forth warmly. "I'll be there. But it's not time yet. You still have a lot to do, don't you?"

"I do?" you question softly, confused.

Tinkling laughter fills your ears. "Yes… and we have to say goodbye until then."

"Goodbye?" you hold onto the hand tighter. "But…"

"I'll still be here, waiting for you when you're done," she reassures you. "But what you're going to do… you need to do it by yourself. It's important, and I know you need to do it alone."

"Do you promise you'll still be here," you whisper.

"I promise," she replies. "I'll be right here."

The hand falls slowly from your hand. You can hear her falling away from you, and you fight the urge to lurch forward and take her hand, because you know that she's right. This is something you need to do by yourself.

As the last of the slender digits falls from your hand, and you're all alone again.

But as the darkness falls across your eyes, you see one last flash of golden hair before you concede.

A/N: Leave questions if you have any (whether it's here or on my Tumblr). And if you could spare a minute or two, leave a comment, because I'd love to hear what you all think :)

EXTRA NOTE: (Last chapter, the song Rachel sang was Family Portrait by Pink. I edited the lyrics a bit to fit her situation. But I just want to say... I DON'T OWN IT :D And if you've never heard it before, give it a try. It's a lovely song.)