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Senior year began two days and six hours ago and Santana is already sick and tired of watching a pink-headed Quinn Fabray flounce around William McKinley High School like the Cheerios are the filth under her Doc Martens and William Schuester was the one who threw her out of her childhood home and ripped her child from her arms.

This year was supposed to begin with a loud crescendo and end with a deafening bang, because it’s the last first day and the final curtain call, but instead it starts with a kitten’s hungry mewl and will probably end with a guttural moan of regret if Quinn keeps up with this bullshit.

Santana watches her from afar with envy and despair in her soft brown eyes. Quinn is sitting on the bleachers with a few of her skank friends she somehow made over the course of the summer break. How Judy Fabray ever allowed her to mingle with such people—the type of people Quinn was conditioned to stay far away from when she and Santana were kids—is beyond Santana, considering the bitch took one look at ten-year-old Santana Lopez’s skin and turned her nose up at her, refusing to allow her to have a sleepover with Quinn at her house because she might’ve poisoned her with her “ethnic spices,” as Judy called them.

She can appreciate the diversity among the skanks, but it’s not so diverse when they’re all drowning in black clothing and piercings galore. They look like a terrible female rendition of AC/DC, and Santana would laugh, but it’s just not funny anymore. She might’ve laughed the first moment she found Quinn reapplying her thick eyeliner in the girls’ bathroom on the first day of senior year, but now the sight of the pink-haired girl just saddens Santana without a doubt.

“It’s Wednesday and I’m sick of her,” Santana tells Brittany as the latter jogs up to her in her Cheerios uniform, gym bag hanging off her shoulder. It’s hotter than hell on the field today, underneath the early September sun, and Santana feels her makeup melting away along with the urge to give a shit about Skank Fabray. “Look at her. She looks like shit.”

Brittany’s eyes squint in the sunlight and she creates a visor with her hand so she can take a gander at the pink eyesore standing several yards away. She figures they won’t need a crossing guard to direct after-school traffic if Quinn is standing out there. Not with that pink hair. She could bring a freeway to a screeching halt in half a second, although she seems to be the type of girl who’s content with being run over.

“She must be melting in that outfit,” Brittany points out. “Black attracts heat. And she’s wearing, like, seven layers. She looks like someone’s hippie grandma.”

“Witches only melt with water, Britt,” says Santana. “We gotta do something, and fast. She quit the Cheerios and Glee, and while I can agree that Coach Sylvester and Mr. Schue are both horrible educators and should spend time in prison, hanging with them is better than whatever bullshit she’s doing with those whores who might actually get her sent to juvie.”

“What are we gonna do?” Brittany asks, more to herself than to Santana, who’s placed her hands on her hips and tilted her head as if contemplating jumping Quinn and beating her ass in front of her newfound friends. “She’s not gonna listen to us. She’s kinda scary, San. She looks like she’ll punch me for offering her a flower.”

Santana glares indignantly at the Pepto Skank lighting up a cigarette between her lipstick-smeared lips. “Don’t worry, Britt-Britt. I know how to fight Quinn Fabray.”

Coach Sylvester blows her whistle, and both cheerleaders whip around to find the other Cheerios forming a haphazard pyramid on the otherwise empty football field, their indignant coach glaring at them.

“Quit staring at those wayward girls like they’re a playboy magazine and get your asses in your places!” Coach barks, whistle at the ready in her hand. Her voice becomes tellingly louder, her eyes drifting over to Quinn, who’s taking a drag of her poison stick on the bleachers. “If she wants to cut off her high pony and lose her place as my star cheerleader, let her. I create winners, not losers, and that’s exactly what she’ll be without her high pony and uniform.”

Sharing a look mixed with fear and concern, Brittany and Santana step up to the plate and move along with their day, being yelled at by Sue while Quinn, flanked by her skank friends, observes from her place on the bleachers, seemingly disinterested but interested enough to sit glued to her seat as if expecting something from watching her former friends practice whatever ridiculous routine Coach has them performing for nationals this year.

After extinguishing her second cigarette on the bottom of her boot and flicking the dead butt into the grass of the field where Santana barely sticks the landing of her back handspring, which shocks the Cheerio enough to send her stumbling back after she’s recovered from the adrenaline of catapulting through the air, Quinn stands up, the other Skanks following, and disappears underneath the bleachers, unable to be seen in the sunlight.

Sue blows her whistle in Santana’s ear. “Weak, Sandbags! Weak! You either stick the landing without falling all over yourself or you get the hell off the field! Again, from the top!”

Santana goes to swear at Coach Sylvester, but she figures it’s not worth the fight, so she resumes her place on the pyramid, and Coach blows her whistle for what feels like the umpteenth time this practice. Santana suffers through half of the routine before she notices Quinn emerging from the bleachers with her bag slung over her shoulder, her head careened down the slightest bit as she makes her way off the field and towards the school entrance. Santana misses the entire trajectory of her landing and stares blindingly into the sun as she finds herself on her back next to Quinn’s discarded cigarette. She doesn’t register that the wind has been knocked out of her body right away, only feeling numb and blinded by the yellowing around her vision, until she feels familiar hands grasp her forearms.

“Fucking bitch,” she swears to herself as she’s being helped to her feet by Brittany. “Fuck that little shit Fabray.”

—

Senior year began four days and three hours ago and Quinn Fabray is sitting beneath the bleachers alone. She reeks of cigarette smoke and the fruity gum she’s been relentlessly chewing to rid her breath of the fact that she’s been lighting up multiple times a day. She’s been waiting for the other Skanks for what feels like a century, and when her phone vibrates in her pocket, she’s quick to retrieve it. Her shoulders deflate upon discovering that it’s none of them and only her mother telling her that the house will be empty when she returns home from school because she has some “important matter” to take care of and won’t be home until after dark.

Quinn scoffs and pockets her phone. She should be shoving a freshman’s head in the toilet with the other Skanks right now, but she’s a bit more than exhausted. It’s probably from the smoke filling her lungs at all hours of the day or the fact that she’s not had a meal without nicotine to wash it down in weeks.

Sheila invited her to spray paint a penis on someone’s garage door after school, and while the offer is enticing enough considering her mother won’t be home for hours and won’t miss her in the slightest, Quinn declined, but she’s sort of regretting it now, because maybe that’s why no one’s come to sit with her and smoke another cigarette. Maybe she should’ve just accepted the can of spray paint and drew her best phallic image across the garage door of some unsuspecting conservative family.

“Hey Skank,” a familiar voice calls.

Quinn’s head snaps up from her gaze on the cigarette pack in her hand to find Santana, with her head held high and her tight ponytail flowing nicely in the wind. She’s carrying a couple of textbooks in her arm, clutching them tightly as if they’ll float away from her. Quinn can’t remember the last time she saw a textbook this close; maybe on the last day of junior year. She isn’t sure if any of her classes require them this year, and she couldn’t care any less, if she were being honest.

“What do you want, Satan?” Quinn snaps. “You’re on my territory. You’d better get out of here if you don’t want the other Skanks to drag you by your hair and ruin that boob job your daddy paid for.”

“Cut the shit, Fabray,” Santana hisses, all quaint mannerisms flying out the window as her knuckles whiten around the textbooks. “What is your problem? You waltz in here on the first day of school looking like a member of a horrible punk band and you ignore Brittany and I on the daily when we’re just trying to help your skanky little ass.”

“When did you try to help me?” Quinn almost laughs. She nestles a cigarette between in her lips and fishes around her pockets for her lighter. “All you two did was beg and offer to put peroxide in my hair. And as for Brittany, she called me a Jolly Rancher that fell in the ashtray. That’s not helping, Lopez. And besides, I don’t need your help. If I wanted help from you, I would ask for it, but until then, why don’t you turn your ass around and go get Brittany off in the girls’ bathroom.”

Santana’s jaw unhinges and closes several times. Her knuckles become impossibly whiter around her books and the strap of the backpack hanging off her right shoulder.

It’s now that Quinn realizes just how much she fucked up with that comment, and she flinches as the cheerleader approaches her by a few more inches, her free hand curling into a fist of fury, and if that’s any indication of anything, Quinn is about to have her pretty face reconstructed. Quinn’s heart thumps wildly in her chest as she braces her face for a harsh blow, going so far as to remove the lit cigarette from her mouth so it doesn’t get shoved into her throat in the process of her nose job.

Santana would beat the shit of the little skank, but she’s quickly apprehended by the sound of three more Skanks approaching her. They emerge from the shadows like wildcats hunting their juicy prey, and she takes a single step away from Quinn, her fist flexing into a flat palm against her red skirt.

“What do you think you’re doing back here?” Sheila says to Santana, somewhat protectively, and the Latina cheerleader would appreciate how kind she’s being to Quinn if it weren’t for the fact that she can see right through the bullshit like she’s looking through a rainbow kaleidoscope. “Get out, before I bust your pretty little cheerleader head open like a piñata. I’m sure you know what that is, don’t you, J-Lo?”

“Excuse me?” Santana scoffs. “Don’t you have a kid to shove in a locker or something? I’m trying to talk to this wannabe Skank here, so piss off.”

“Quinn, just say the word and this slut is getting her ass beat,” Sheila tells the pink-haired girl still huddled on the ground.

“No,” says Quinn after a moment of consideration. She stands up and brushes her jeans off. “She isn’t worth it. I suggest you leave, Santana. Me and my friends have something to do after school, and we have to plan for it. Tell Brittany I’m sorry but I’m not coming back to a place where I’m not wanted.”

Like a bitch scampering after her owner after being kicked, Quinn follows the rest of the Skanks, leaving Santana inhaling the smoke of a cigarette smoldering on the ground. Santana crushes it beneath her shoe and dusts the stench of Skank off her clothes before turning and heading back to where she came from before she made the mistake of trying to help Quinn see the light of day shining on her devastated face.

—

Quinn isn’t sure whose house this is, but she’s somewhat familiar with the side of town it’s on. Her father would drive her by the neighborhoods every December to look at the Christmas lights. It was the one non-holiday of the year he would choose to spend with his little Quinnie, but that was when she was Lucy and not Quinn. That was before Beth, before he cheated on her mother, before she was kicked out of her home and knocked on her pregnant 15-year-old ass.

She’s not seen this neighborhood in ages, but she doesn’t question why the other Skanks have brought her here. It’s not unlike her own; the houses are large and made of expensive brick. She knows these people have money, and she wonders if each of these houses has their very own Lucy and Russell and Judy Fabray inside, only less dysfunctional and much happier than Quinn ever even dreamed of being when she was just a little girl.

The young Skank swallows thickly. Of course they’ve done things they shouldn’t over the summer, but vandalism will be a new merit badge for Quinn’s invisible Skank sash. She considers the possibility of this being some sort of initiation or hazing and her waking up in a field with her panties on her head, but she doesn’t really care what’s about to go down. It got her out of Judy’s house after dark for a change, and although the streets are daunting at this time of evening, after the moon swaps places with sun, she’s determined to push through.

Quinn tightly grips the bottle of red spray paint as the group makes their way down a quiet street. Ronnie is the first Skank to duck behind a thick bush in someone’s yard, followed by The Mack (whatever her name actually is, Quinn isn’t sure) and Sheila. Quinn awkwardly idles, toeing at the wet grass and craning her neck to look at the house. All the lights inside are off and she can hear the steady hum of an air conditioning unit somewhere in the distance. It’s huge, larger than the home she grew up in. She can only imagine the amount of security systems they have in place, and only then does she remember she’s standing out in the open.

“Get down!” Ronnie hisses towards Quinn, snatching her by the waist of her jeans and dragging her behind the bush until she’s crouching down, the spray paint can rattling around in her hand. “This really must be your first time doing something like this, huh?”

“Well, yeah,” Quinn says with a slight shrug. “But I’m no pussy. I’m down. Whose house is this?”

“A little pussy’s house,” says Sheila. “We’re gonna draw a bunch of dicks on the garage door and dip. Since you’re a virgin to this, you can hang back and watch. But you’re up next time.”

Blinking a few times, Quinn watches as the Skanks prowl from behind the bushes and round the side of the house. They each have their own can of spray paint and are vigorously shaking them up as they approach the large garage door. She’s very careful in leaving the sanctity of the bush to observe her counterparts in their element, afraid of rustling the leaves and alerting anyone of importance to the situation.

Within minutes of watching the Skanks obliterate the once-white paint, the garage is adorned with penises of all shapes and sizes. Quinn doesn’t quite understand the symbolism or reasoning behind this escapade, but for the first time in awhile, she feels safe in the presence of other humans. They aren’t the kind of humans her parents would approve of, but she approves of them, and whether they genuinely approve of her or not doesn’t matter as long as she feels included in their shenanigans.

After the penises have been drawn, a yellow light blooms in one of the upstairs windows, and the Skanks—sans Quinn—are running in the direction they arrived. It takes one, two, maybe three seconds for Quinn to realize they’re leaving her holding the paint, and as a shadow moves towards the window, her feet pick up speed and she’s bolting after them, paint can rattling in her hand the entire way down the street.

At first she’s petrified that she’s been caught, but as she’s running away from whatever it is she just took part in, she smiles with joy. It’s been years since Quinn felt this carefree, this daring and adventurous. Maybe it was Lucy who felt like this, never Quinn, but she’s determined to change that, so she runs as fast as her legs can take her, until the other Skanks drop off one by one as they pass their houses, and then it’s Quinn’s turn to stop running. She’s heaving and gasping for air as she tosses the can of paint into the trash can sitting by the mailbox, her legs wobbling as they carry her to the side of her house where she leans a ladder she found in the garage against the house and clambers up until she can slip through her bedroom window. She lands on the lush carpet with a loud thump, and then laughs heartily, her hands coming up to cover her face.

When she looks in the bathroom mirror to wash her face, she doesn’t recognize the girl looking back at her, but she figures it’s alright, because no one recognizes her, and that’s how it will always be.

—

Senior year began seven days and eight hours ago and Santana is beyond pissed after searching for Skank Fabray for the better half of an hour to drag her back to glee club by the fine roots of her panther pink hair, only to discover the Cheerio-turned-Skank mingling by her car with a boy—no, a man, if his unshaven face is any indication of anything—she’s never seen before and quite frankly would be pleased to destroy if given half the chance.

Santana watches on, red with either fear or frustration, she isn’t sure. She just feels incredibly hot, and not in the way Brittany makes her feel when she looks at her. In fact, she feels as if she’s about to steam and begin whistling like an over-boiled kettle of rage. Her nipples tingle with dread, and that’s the first sign of a storm ahead.

Santana’s fingers loop around the chain link fence as she observes the boy place his hands on Quinn’s hips and pull her forward. He has at least seven inches on the young Skank, and that’s only if Santana is being generous about it. He’s practically a giant and Santana thinks Quinn’s neck must ache when she pushes herself on her tiptoes to kiss his scruffy face. It very obviously doesn’t hurt all that much, or else she’d flinch or pull away from him, but it might be difficult to do so because his grip on her waist seems deadly.

“Who’s that?” Brittany suddenly appears at Santana’s side, her hand reaching for the Latina’s. Their pinkies lock together almost instantly, and Santana breathes quietly, attempting to steady herself before she blows her top and beats the daylights out of Quinn and her wannabe boy toy. “He’s kinda ugly.”

“Kinda?” Santana raises a brow. “He looks homeless, and that’s an insult to homeless people. Seriously, he has to be at least 25. You know what that means, don’t you, Britt?”

Brittany’s narrow at the offensive scene unfolding before her as Quinn initiates what seems to be a hot and heavy make-out session with the giant man grasping onto her like she’ll float away from him. Santana wishes she would.

“Uh. She’s missing glee club to make out with a homeless guy?” Brittany responds quietly, a hint of defeat in her voice. “Why would she rather be with him than hang out with us? We have lips she can kiss if that’s what she wants.”

“I’m not kissing Skank Fabray, even if I weren’t with you,” Santana quips. “Britt. He’s totally a groomer! He’s, like, 7 years older than her. She doesn’t know what his intentions are. She sees dick and probably a one-way ticket out of Judy’s house.”

“Should we tell someone?” Brittany questions. “I don’t really think Mr. Schue or even Coach would help her. Not after her tantrum in Mr. Schue’s office. She told him everything is his fault.”

“Stupid little Skank,” curses Santana. “Look at her. About to become a victim of a crime. She’s so stupid, it physically hurts me to look at this. I feel fucking sick. Come on, B. Let’s get back to glee before Mr. Schue realizes we aren’t in the bathroom.”

Tightening her pinkie around Brittany’s, Santana gently urges her not-so-secret girlfriend towards the school entrance, hoping no one has locked the doors yet. It’s awhile past dismissal and no one should be out here, even little Skank Fabray and her boyfriend. Quinn may feel on top of the world, but Santana knows what the pink-haired girl is up to. Or maybe she doesn’t, and that’s what bothers Santana the most out of all the trouble her former friend has caused in the past week.

“I’m kinda scared, San,” Brittany almost whimpers, holding in all her upset at the idea of leaving Quinn behind with whoever that is. “We should tell somebody. Maybe Mr. Schue will forgive her and help us. We can’t just leave her out there.”

Coming to a steady stop next to a row of lockers just outside the choir room, Santana sighs and closes her eyes. Over the sound of vocalizing and harmonizing drifting from the choir room, she lets out an audible groan and rests her forehead on a locker.

“I wanna say fuck her and her bitch mother, too, but I’m with you on this one, Britt. I am. But I don’t know what to do about her. Coach couldn’t give one flying shit about her if she’s not helping her win competitions, and Mr. Schue has no idea what he’s doing if it doesn’t involve an 80s rock song,” Santana says with a shrug. “Every adult has failed her. Choices were made to get her here. I really doubt preppy, Christian Quinn woke up one day and decided to become a Skank to piss everyone off.”

“So what do we do?” Brittany asks. “She’s been kinda mean to us lately, but she was nice enough to stop Coach Sylvester from firing me out of a cannon and blowing my head off, so she’s kinda cool, I guess.”

“That was Quinn. We’re talking about Skank Fabray,” Santana says. She taps her chin thoughtfully, sucking in one cheek. “That bitch needs a wake up call. And she only reacts to one thing for certain. I’ll figure something out. Auntie Snixx is feeling particularly feisty since having to witness the Pepto bottle suck the face off a child predator.”

Brittany frowns. “What if he hurts her? He didn’t look nice. Not like a leprechaun or a unicorn. His hands were scary. Your hands are so warm and nice. It makes me sad that Quinn doesn’t know what that feels like.”

“I know, B,” sighs Santana. She takes inventory of her surroundings, finding them to be alone in the barren hallway with the sound of singing crescendoing from the choir room. Her hand finds Brittany’s and allows their fingers to intertwine like the pieces to a jigsaw puzzle. “We’re gonna help that little Skank, even if it’s the last thing we do. She’s insufferable at times, but she’s still our friend. A bitch she may be, but I think I can break her ice queen exterior if it’s the last thing I do. I’m sick of her running away. She runs away from everything and everybody. I think it’s time for Prom Queen to face the music.”

“What music?” Brittany’s eyebrows furrow. “All I hear is Rachel and Puck arguing. I wouldn’t call that music.”

“I’ll figure something out,” says Santana. “Let’s go inside. We’ll deal with the stupid Skank later.”

Santana tries to shake the thought of Quinn so she can focus on her part in the next song Mr. Schue’s set list, but it doesn’t do much for her when she enters the choir room to find that Rachel and Puck are squabbling over Quinn’s sudden departure from the club.

Stupid little Skank Fabray. She’s everywhere Santana goes.

—

Senior year began ten days and one hour ago and Quinn finds self-discovery in the mouth of a twenty-something she met at the gas station during her routine cigarette run a few days ago. He’s greasy and not the kind of man her father would ever accept for her, but that’s what makes this experience so whimsical. Quinn feels like she’s floating when she’s with him, although that could just be the booze he’s been liquoring her up with since he met her.

It’s a Thursday morning and she’s spent the entirety of first period in the backseat of her car with Ace—or that’s what she’s supposed to call him; he didn’t take too kindly to her referring to him by his birth name that she’s already forgotten by now because she’s internally and undeniably terrified of the fist he makes when he hears it. They’re making out with the radio blasting punk rock and the sound of the engine rumbling beneath them as he’s hungrily clawing at her clothing. It doesn’t matter if he rips them, she decides, as his calloused hands become too rough; she bought them that way, anyway.

“Wait,” Quinn says, pulling away from him, her hands creating a barrier between the two of them. “We can’t. Not out here.”

“Why not? Windows are tinted,” he breathes into her ear. He reeks of the cheap beer he’s been knocking back all morning. The receipt from the liquor store lies somewhere on the floor of Quinn’s car, all but forgotten. He’s over 21 and it doesn’t matter.

“You don’t know the kind of track record I have,” says Quinn. She’s laid back against the car door, using the handle as a headrest, with all his burly weight awkwardly laid atop her, because he’s even more of a giant this way and she thinks he could beat Finn within an inch of his life if given the chance. “I’ve had nothing but bad luck in these situations.”

Her mind flashes back to Beth, her nine-month bad luck. She frowns at the idea of her and where she is now, how she’s probably learning to walk and talk without Quinn to watch her or guide her. That’s Shelby’s good luck now.

“I thought you didn’t care,” Ace sighs frustratedly, replacing his lips somewhere on her exposed skin. “Come on. I thought you found yourself. You know you want to, Quinn. Forget about all that shit. Let go.”

A small, indignant sigh leaves Quinn’s chest, and she flinches when the stormy color of Ace’s eyes change to something darker than denim at that. She shuts her mouth and relaxes her muscles as much as she can, slumping against the car seat and tilting her head to expose the sensitive flesh of her neck. He’s quick to take her up on the offer, chapped lips immediately meeting her skin again.

She spends the rest of second period being pawed and clawed and nibbled like a treat while she gazes out the back window and wonders where she would be if not here; with Beth? With Santana and Brittany? Anywhere but here? She would hope that this is just a brush with fate and she’ll be able to shake him away, but the way Ace is violently sucking and biting her exposed flesh has her drifting towards the reality that she’s most definitely beneath a heavy man at least five years her senior and she’s also most definitely somewhat intoxicated, because she would like to believe that she would put a stop to this if she weren’t. Or maybe she wouldn’t, and that scares her more than reality does.

Regardless of the gravity of it all, Quinn spends the entire morning being a play thing for a man she barely knows, and she thinks that she’s deserved her Skank title after all.

—

Senior year began fifteen days and four hours ago and Santana and Brittany are exhausted watching Quinn have another cigarette for lunch. The pink-headed girl is sitting atop one of the tables in the courtyard, away from anyone who would complain about her poison stick, the cigarette nestled between her lips as she reads a copy of Frankenstein that rests quietly in her trembling hands.

Santana isn’t sure that Quinn has turned a single page of that book since she began watching her about ten minutes ago. Quinn’s eyes seem to be glued to the same page, scanning it over multiple times before filling with tears as she struggles to get past it. It’s clear the blonde-turned-Pepto is having an internal battle with something, perhaps the devil on her shoulder, and Santana would feel sorry for her, but she finds it difficult to express any sympathy in a form that doesn’t involve eye-rolling or bitch-slapping.

What she wouldn’t give to slap Quinn Fabray across her pretty face, just once.

“She’s so sad,” Brittany observes with genuine concern in her voice as Quinn extinguishes the cigarette on the bottom of her shoe. “I’m gonna sit with her.”

Restraining Brittany from sitting with Skank Fabray won’t do Santana any good, so she watches Brittany approach Quinn with the aura of a flower. Santana’s fists curl slightly, anticipating the need to mop the floor with Quinn if she dares hurt Brittany at all, with words or her body. She keeps Santana Lopez at the forefront but also holds Auntie Snixx close.

“Hey Quinn,” says Brittany, her eyes falling towards the ground. “You look really sad. Can I sit with you?”

“Whatever,” Quinn says with a halfhearted shrug, glancing at Brittany once before returning her gaze to her book.

Brittany immediately accepts the invitation and sits at the table, careening her neck to look at the sad girl, who looks more like a flamingo in the sunlight. She giggles to herself at the thought of Quinn being part flamingo, causing the bottle of Pepto to raise a brow at her and almost sneer. She’s never sneered at Brittany so harshly before.

“What are you laughing at?” Quinn asks, all bite gone from her voice. She curls further into herself, eyes narrowing at the blonde in front of her. Her voice almost becomes a defensive growl. “I said, what are you laughing at?”

“You just look like a fuzzy flamingo, that’s all,” Brittany giggles. Her face hardens up a bit and she frowns, her baby blues clouding with doubt and worry. “Why don’t you come sit in on glee today? We kinda miss you.”

“Kinda,” scoffs Quinn, flipping whatever hair she can over her shoulder before finally turning the page. She shifts awkwardly as Brittany stares her down in expectance, and the protective plastic casing on the book crinkles in upset. “Look, I’m not coming back, so just drop it, okay? I know you and Santana only want me to come back because you think you need me to be your captain and another background vocal in contrast to Rachel fucking Berry. You don’t need any of those things. I’m better off now that I’ve found myself. Deal with it.”

“But we miss you,” says Brittany in earnest. “Don’t you hate being the Jolly Rancher that fell in the ashtray?”

“I’ve already told you, Brittany, I’ve grown apart from you two. You and Santana are practically one being, anyway. You don’t need me,” Quinn says. “I’m fine where I am now. I have new friends I can relate to.”

Brittany’s head shifts side to side, surveying their surroundings before looking back at Quinn, a would-be smirk fighting its way onto her face. “I don’t see them. You’re alone.”

Santana Lopez fades away and Auntie Snixx arrives on the Bitch Town Express when Quinn snaps her book shut and throws her arms in the air. She’s at Brittany’s side in two heartbeats, glaring pointedly at Quinn, who’s tugging at her hair in frustration.

“Go away, Brittany,” Quinn snaps. “I’m not coming back to glee, I’m not gonna watch you practice your stupid cheers and half-assed routines, and I’m not gonna be your friend! I’ve already told you to go away, and you’re still here like a goddamn kicked puppy! Why can’t you just take a hint and go away?”

Brittany would like to burst into tears, but there’s something about the way Quinn looks so longingly at her, as if she’s contemplating throwing herself into Brittany’s arms—or off a bridge, that has her sucking up her tears. Instead she stands up and dusts her skirt off, standing tall and proud against the cowering Skank on the table, while Santana watches on with anger burning bright in her soft brown eyes.

“Fine, Quinn,” Brittany sighs, clearly hurt but refusing to allow that emotion to seep through the cracks. “You wanna be alone? You can be alone. But Santana and I won’t stop trying to be your friend, because we miss our Jolly Rancher. It must suck to be so sad all the time.”

Santana counts three seconds before she registers that Brittany is walking away from Quinn. She stands there idly, glaring at Quinn, who’s quivering hands have picked up her book and are cradling it to her chest like it’s her precious child—like it’s her precious baby Beth. A sob travels to Quinn’s throat but she swallows it down by placing another cigarette between her lips.

“You managed to make Brittany walk away from you,” Santana says curtly. “Great job, Skank. I don’t know what your problem is, but it might have something to do with that grown-ass man who had his hands all over you.”

Lighting up her cigarette, Quinn looks pointedly at Santana, almost freezing at the mention of Ace.

“That’s right, I saw,” says Santana, hands gripping her own hips. “He’s, like, 30 and probably has kids and a wife. What the fuck is the matter with you?”

“It’s none of your business, Santana,” Quinn insists, shoving the book inside her bag and jumping off the table. “Why don’t you worry about yourself? You have a lot of skeletons in your closet that you refuse to acknowledge, and Brittany is one of them.”

Santana‘s hand becomes closely acquainted with Quinn’s cheek in a slap that almost knocks Quinn off her feet. She stumbles back, her hand coming up to cradle her flaming red cheek. She wants to hurt Santana in return, the same way her father would treat her after she made him angry about not washing the dishes properly or failing to fit into her chastity ball dress, but she falls short and can barely push Santana, who weathers the storm that is Quinn Fabray, before she feels the swelling of hot tears gathering in her eyes and she steps away from the Cheerio.

“Brittany is right,” Santana says, folding her arms over her chest. “It must suck to be so sad.”

Santana walks away, leaving Quinn standing in the courtyard with a small gathering of people who’ve congregated to watch what would’ve been a great fight. Quinn immediately lowers her head and hurries out of here, just in case a Skank sees her shed her tears like a second skin.

—

Senior year began eighteen days and fourteen hours ago when he hits her for the first time. It happens after sunset, in the middle of a grassy field that houses an abandoned barn.

She doesn’t see it coming, rather just his flat, calloused palm traveling towards her face. It’s quick but sends her stumbling back a few paces, the force of it almost knocking the wind out of her malnourished body. Her hands immediately find her cheek and hold it tightly, hoping the pressure will remedy the sting. It doesn’t, but she pretends the warmth spreading through her body is that of her mother caressing her cheek or her baby nestling into her chest.

“I’m sorry,” she whimpers. “I’m really sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too, baby,” Ace says, bringing Quinn close to him. She doesn’t know why she allows him to touch her again, but she finds herself stumbling forward and melting into him, afraid he’ll float away like everything else in her life. “I just got a little upset when I saw you leaving school with him, that’s all.”

“Puck is just a friend, I swear. I wouldn’t hurt you like that,” Quinn sniffles pathetically into his chest, her tears soaking the front of his white shirt.

She neglects to tell him that, while she has zero interest in touching genitalia with Puck ever again, he is still the unlucky bastard who fathers her abandoned child, and the only person she shares a true trauma bond with, if she doesn’t count her parents. She fears another slap if she chooses to mention Beth or her catastrophic mistake with Puck a couple of years ago, and she cries quietly into Ace, because what else is there for her to do?

“He looks like he’s trouble,” Ace says as his right arm winds around Quinn’s trembling waist and his hand grips her waist. “Stay away from him, do you understand me?”

“Yes,” Quinn sobs. “I understand.”

She feels his lips kiss the top of her head, and her heart swells with what she assumes is love. They stay that way for what feels like a century before she parts from him, her tears almost completely stopped now, and finds a splotch of red on his shirt. She looks at her palm and discovers that she’s bleeding from her face. The large metal band on his finger may have something to do with that.

“You’re a mess. I’ll take you home,” Ace says, opening his passenger door for her. It’s an older car, and she figures it will give out altogether before they even hit the Lima city limits, but she can’t call anyone to rescue her from this barren field, so she sits silently among the empty beer cans and dirty clothes, swallowing thickly when he slides into the drivers seat. “You know I love you, right?”

“Yeah,” Quinn says, pushing a crying Lucy Fabray aside and replacing her with Skank Fabray. “I love you, too.” It’s rotten on her tongue, just like the tinge of blood in her mouth, and she swallows it down.

His right hand takes ownership of her thigh the entire hour they ride home together in a stagnant silence. She attempts to scoot away from him the slightest bit, but his fingers grip her knee tightly enough that she’s aware of who she belongs to now. Her face throbs with the ghost of his hand, and she thinks her lip may be cracked, but she doesn’t want to look in the mirror on the visor in fear of the unrecognizable girl looking her in the face again.

“I better not see you with him again.” Ace’s voice is rough and the threat is ever-present in the way his hand clenches around her thigh, slowly inching upwards. Quinn tries to clamp her thighs closer together, and he notices. “Why are you acting like that, Quinn? Do you not want to be with me?”

“No, it’s not that,” she says, quickly remedying his increasing grip. A sigh leaves her chest as his hand loosens. “It’s just. . .well, I’ve never felt loved like this before.”

“I’m here for you, babe. That’s why I say that guy spells trouble,” says Ace, hand still claiming her body as his. “I saw this Mexican chick staring at you the other day. She was with a tall, blonde girl with legs for days. You got something going on with them?”

Quinn shrugs. “They’re—were—my friends. Not anymore. I told them to fuck off.”

She can’t help but notice the speedometer increasing from 60 to 75 in a heartbeat as they merge onto a highway. Her palms begin to sweat, but she’ll just have to get past it, because this is the freest she’s felt in her entire seventeen years on earth, and she’s reluctant to surrender to Lucy screaming for help in her gut.

“Good.” Ace’s knuckles whiten around the steering wheel. “We don’t need anybody in our business. I can take care of you. Do you hear me? Nobody needs to help you with anything. You’re a badass, carefree girl. We’re unstoppable.”

Quinn nods in agreement, whether she actually agrees or not. Lucy whimpers and succumbs to the defeat, finally quieting down for the first time since Quinn poured that dye over her head.

—

Senior year began twenty days and three hours ago and Santana is curled against the warmth of Brittany after waking up to the sound of Maribel Lopez busying herself in the kitchen. Santana’s bedroom smells of pancakes and bacon, but she’s in no mood to eat, not with the thought of that annoying, pink-haired Skank weighing on her.

They’ve not spoken to Quinn since she shooed Brittany away and had her face reconstructed by Santana’s palm just a few days ago, but Santana figures it’s okay, because if the Skank wants to be a Skank, that’s her prerogative. Santana isn’t her mother, although even at the tender age of seventeen, she’d probably be a better one for Quinn than Judy. She’s not a parent and surely has no place to judge one; she’s also not a pilot but can definitely see a plane in a tree and know that someone fucked up.

“She’s a stupid slut,” Santana curses. Brittany strokes the dark hair from Santana’s face as the latter is draped over her lap. “I’m only lucky that nobody told Figgins about me slapping her across Ohio. Mami wouldn’t have let you stay over last night if she found out.”

“I’m still scared,” Brittany says openly, twisting a few strands of Santana’s hair between her thumb and index. “She’s not a nice person, but I feel bad, San. I miss Quinn. Not the Skank. Just Quinn. Cheer captain Quinn.”

“She was way better when we were younger,” says Santana as she turns over on her back and stares at the spinning ceiling fan. “I don’t get it at all. When we were, like, thirteen, we would have sleepovers all the time and do each other’s hair and paint our nails and talk about boys. Bleh. She’s totally a hetero. I was always a little uncomfortable when she talked about boys she thought were cute, but in the same breath she would tell me that she would be tainted if she ever even kissed a boy and her daddy would be ashamed of her. Something always seemed off with Lucy. I mean, Quinn.”

Brittany continues her ministrations on Santana’s hair and back. They’re far enough apart—and clothed—on the bed that Maribel won’t suspect anything of them if she were to walk in right now. Santana’s kept her guard up about the affection she shows Brittany when her parents are home, or when they’re out in public, or at school. Just about everywhere, Santana finally realizes. She would be exhausted by it, but she’s too concerned with other things to worry about how the rest of the world sees her.

“Maybe we should have a sleepover,” Brittany suggests with a shrug.

“We just did, Britt,” Santana reminds. A telling smile forms on her face. “A really good one at that. I’m still kinda sore.”

If her mother were to ask, Santana was definitely playing a late-night game of Twister with Brittany and sprained her wrist last night. She wonders how many games of Twister her mother will believe before becoming suspicious, but that’s a problem for later.

“With Quinn,” Brittany corrects, brushing off the innuendo. “You said you haven’t had a sleepover in a long time. Let’s have one with her.”

“She wouldn’t go for it, Britt,” says Santana. “I just bitch-slapped the taste out of her mouth. I highly doubt she wants to be besties now.”

“We could try,” insists the blonde. She leans down and brushes her lips over Santana’s ear. “Please?”

“No. Even if she agreed, she would catch onto. . .you and I. And she’ll tell the whole school and my parents because that’s who Quinn is,” Santana says indignantly, a scowl on her face. “Stupid little Skank. I wish she would just abracadabra off this planet.”

A pout forms on Brittany’s lips as her eyebrows meet in the middle. “You don’t mean that, Santana.”

“You’re right. I don’t. But I give up on her,” Santana says as she sits up and ties her hair up in a high ponytail using the tie around her wrist. She looks in the standing mirror in the corner of her bedroom and looks solemnly at herself. “I miss who she was before sophomore year. I don’t think she’s a bad person. I think a lot of bad things have happened to her.”

Santana’s reflection is accompanied by that of Brittany’s wrapping her arms around her from behind and resting her chin on her shoulder. Santana feels herself melting away.

“So does that mean you’ll ask?” Brittany questions. God, she just can’t let Fabray go.

“I guess. But we’ll ask her together. First I have to ask Mami if she’d be okay with it. She was a little worried when Quinn got pregnant, thinking it might rub off on me. She’s in for a rude awakening,” Santana chuckles lightly, staring at Brittany’s hands that are now roaming around her chest. She frowns when she thinks she hears footsteps approaching and shimmies out of Brittany’s embrace. “Whenever I decide to tell my parents.”

“Let’s ask her at breakfast,” says Brittany. “About Quinn. We don’t have to tell her that she’s a Skank. We just tell her that you two reconnected.”

“Alright, Britt. Come on, before my mom thinks we’re in here playing Twister again.” She winks, pulling Brittany off the bed by her wrist.

Santana is just a tad pissed when her Mami excitedly tells her that Quinn is more than welcome to have a sleepover. She’s even more pissed when her Mami says that Quinn can stay over whenever she likes, for as long as she likes.

—

Senior year began twenty-three days and five minutes ago and Quinn is exiting Ace’s car, her bag slung on one shoulder. A hand grabs her elbow and pulls her back, and her first response is to jerk away, but she’s quickly subdued by that same hand grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her backwards. Tears sting her eyes, and she tries blinking them away before any of her Skank friends can see.

“Where are you going so fast?” Ace questions, finally releasing her hair.

Quinn heaves forward against the car door and uses the door handle to break her falling face-first into the window. She can’t afford to take another blow to the face. It would be her third in the last week, and that’s already three too many.

“School,” she finally murmurs, looking up at the building in front of her.

She’s already running late, and she wouldn’t care, but there’s Lucy again, telling her how disappointed Judy will be if she fails her senior year, even if Judy is an alcoholic basket case who’d rather spend her evenings prowling for another wealthy husband to trap and suck dry like a recluse than at home with her wayward child whom is barely over a year postpartum and sans child.

“You’re forgetting something,” says Ace, as if expecting some sort of reward.

“Sorry,” Quinn says as she leans forward and kisses him. “You’ll pick me up?”

“Of course, babe. Three o’clock?” He takes a sip of the beer in the cup holder.

“Yeah. I’ll be out here,” she promises as she exits the car and smooths her hair so the evidence of being tugged at like a rag doll is less evident.

“And what did I say was gonna happen if I saw you with that dude or those lesbos again?” If the way his hand curls around the steering wheel and into a fist is any indication of anything, Quinn is very cautious about her answer. “Answer me.”

“I’d get it again,” she winces. Her bag brushes up against the soreness of her ribs, a blatant reminder of what’s to come if she stands less than six feet away from Puck or just about any other male. And in a turn of events, Santana and Brittany have been included in Ace’s list of off-limits people. “I promise, I’ll stay away. I’ll see you later.”

“I love you. Remember that,” he says.

“Yeah, I will.”

Quinn closes the door and makes her way into McKinley just as the bell rings. She chooses to forgo her morning cigarette in favor of attending first period. She’s shocked to discover that her first period is chemistry, something she was anticipating over the summer, but when she enters the classroom and realizes she knows not a single soul and hasn’t a single seat, because this their millionth class and her very first, her shoulders deflate. People are staring at her like she’s a piece of exotic art. The teacher, an older woman, plays it cool and offers her a seat in the front row, where she slumps down until the scorching pain in her side almost blinds her.

The exhausted Skank falls asleep and stays asleep during first period, missing everything she once was excited for. Her teacher wakes her up with a frown and reprimands her, telling her she’s not to do it again or there will be consequences, but Quinn shrugs her off at best. Lucy whines pitifully in her heart now, and Quinn ignores her, moving to the courtyard to smoke a cigarette and ditch second period.

—

Senior year began twenty-four days and eight hours ago and Santana and Brittany have just showered after Coach Sylvester mopped the floor with them during Cheerios practice in the gym. If it were up to their coach, they would’ve been forced to practice in the pouring rain, but Figgins was quick to put a stop to that plan. That being said, Sue was quite angry at that and punished the cheerleaders by having them perform ridiculous stunts that almost knocked Santana on her ass.

They’re in Brittany’s car, with her behind the wheel and Santana being the backseat driver in the passenger seat as she fiddles with the radio. Brittany is terrified to start driving in fear of getting into a crash and losing her precious Santana, but Santana is indifferent about the situation. She figures it’s more time to spend alone with Brittany without fear of her mother or father discovering her sexuality.

“Is that Quinn over there?” Brittany asks Santana, who sits up and looks out the window. Through streaks of heavy rain she can see the pink head of hair standing under the awning of the parking lot. “She looks scared, San.”

“Too bad,” Santana snaps as she returns to her clicking of the radio buttons. “She should’ve had the groomer pick her up. She knows Judy’s too drunk to get off her ass and get her. That’s her own fault.”

Brittany doesn’t seem too pleased with Santana’s approach to Quinn’s situation. She would move the sun and moon for Santana, but she has to admit that she’s being a bit unfair to the dumb Skank, who’s now wedged against the pillar of the awning and looking up at the sky as if wishing away the rain so she can walk home and not catch pneumonia.

“I’m gonna get her,” says Brittany, already putting the car in drive and slowly inching towards the awning.

“Just leave her,” Santana insists. “She’s tough, she’ll find a way home.”

It’s too late for Santana’s protests. Brittany has already pulled over next to the trembling girl so the passenger side window is protected by the awning and keeps Santana dry when Brittany rolls the window down. Santana goes to curse at Quinn but is quickly apprehended by Brittany, who looks pointedly at her.

Grumbling a few Spanish swears to herself, Santana glares at Quinn. “Get in the car, Fabray.”

Quinn presses herself further into the brick pillar, shaking her head. It’s a wonder she doesn’t have a cigarette hanging from her mouth. It’s almost impossible to recognize her without it, like a cat without its ears.

“Get in, before I have to hurt you,” threatens Santana.

Something flashes in Quinn’s eyes, and suddenly she’s squeezing her eyes shut and gripping the strap of her bag for dear life. Santana frowns, wondering where the comeback has gone. She was hoping for Quinn to retort, but that hope falls flat as Quinn shrinks into herself even more, her knees quivering.

“Quinn,” Santana tries again, her voice plateauing into something softer. “Just get in. It’s getting cold and a thunderstorm is coming. Just come on. I don’t care that you’re mad. I’d rather you be mad than dead, and that’s saying a lot, because I can’t stand you right now.”

“Ace is coming to get me,” Quinn finally says. Her throat feels raw and her lips are chapped. “I don’t need your help. You two can’t be seen with me.” She’s said too much and fucked up yet again. She purses her lips and stares out into the rain, wondering where the hell Ace is.

“Why’s that? Because we’re losers because we’re in glee club?” Santana challenges while Brittany settles a warm but firm hand on her thigh. “You know, we wouldn’t wanna be seen with you either, but we kinda care about your stupid ass, so get in, before I knock you upside your stupid, pink head. We clear, Magenta?”

“I can’t,” Quinn says, looking beyond the rain. She can’t look at Santana, thinking she’ll succumb to her demands if she does. “He’ll be here soon.”

“When was he supposed to be here? School lets out at three,” says Brittany. “It’s after four now. You should come with us. We know where you live; we could drop you off. Please, Quinn?”

Brittany is a sweetheart, and her sincere pout of insistence ignites something inside Quinn. She finds herself quaking forward until she’s almost to the back door on the passenger side, her hands trembling as she hesitates to open it. Intaking her surroundings one last time before taking the plunge, she shakes off the thought of Ace and slips into the backseat of Brittany’s car, finding herself accompanied by two backpacks and gym bags.

“See? That was easy,” Brittany says. “Buckle up, sad unicorn.”

She’s nearly forgotten how to use a seatbelt, with all her time spent unbuckled and flying down the freeway in the front seat of Ace’s car. Brittany is adamant, though, so Quinn buckles the seatbelt across her chest and pulls her sleeves down to her wrists.

“Since you’re here, Skank, I wanted to ask you something,” Santana says, twisting her restrained body in the seat to look at Quinn. She sucks in an exasperated gasp when she gets a good look of her this close. Quinn’s wearing too much makeup. “Sleepover at my house next Saturday night. That’s a statement, not a question.”

“Sorry, Santana, but I have plans with Ace already,” says Quinn. She leans her head against the window. The car feels like it’s moving, but she can’t be sure, because she always feels like she’s floating.

“Nobody cares, Fabray,” Santana coolly says. “Tell your child predator to deal with it.”

“I can’t,” she murmurs, closing her eyes for a moment. She would give her entire life to sleep right here, listening to the rain pelting against the window. She doesn’t realize she’s been shivering until she feels a blast of warm air breeze over her body and visibly relaxes. Her eyes open the slightest bit. “I told him I’d go with him. And anyways, you’re probably gonna bleach my hair when I’m sleeping or try to make me change who I am. So no.”

“How old is he?” Brittany suddenly asks. All innocence and serenity have jumped ship from her voice, startling Quinn. She’s glancing at Quinn every few seconds from the rear view mirror, her baby blues turned sad. “You know how old he is. How old?”

Quinn mumbles something neither Santana nor Brittany can decipher over the beating rain. Santana assumes it’s “bitch” or “none of your business” or maybe even both of those, but she’s unwilling to curl her fist at Quinn. She’s made too much progress to undo it all.

“What was that, Skank?” Santana questions.

“Twenty-six.”

Brittany’s foot hits the brake, and the only reason they don’t hit anything or anyone is because she’s been driving way below the speed limit. Quinn’s first instinct is to grasp her seatbelt and screw her eyes all the way shut, anticipating something flying at her, but nothing arrives. She opens her eyes again when she assumes it’s safe.

“Twenty-six?! He’s almost thirty! You can’t be serious right now, Fabray!” Santana exclaims exasperatedly. “He’s a total pedo!”

“He’s nice to me and loves me,” Quinn defends. “It’s none of your business.”

“It kinda is,” Brittany says. “I mean, that’s super creepy and weird.”

“I’m almost eighteen. I can date who I want.”

“He’s totally grooming you. Why can’t you see that through your Skanky little eyes?” Santana huffs.

Brittany’s hand gently squeezes her girl’s thigh again. Quinn observes the way her hand is so soft but very telling against Santana’s skin. Her stomach begins to quiver, wondering if they’ve ever hurt each other and left marks and bruises. Brittany’s grip isn’t the same as Ace’s; she’s clearly warning Santana by it, but it isn’t completely menacing or painful.

“I don’t need a lecture from you,” the Skank finally says. “Just drop it.”

They have to drop it, because Brittany is pulling up towards Quinn’s house. The lights are off, as expected, and she breathes a sigh of relief in knowing she won’t have to put up with Judy’s antics. The rain has slowed to a drizzle by now.

“Seriously, Quinn,” Santana says evenly. “Sleepover. At least think about it. Okay?”

“Fine, whatever,” Quinn mumbles, opening the door. She pauses and looks at Brittany. “Thanks.”

Brittany waits for Quinn to get into the house before she looks at Santana, who’s been silently lactating with intense rage. “My car smells like smoke now.”

Santana combusts. “Ace is a stupid name for a pedophile.”

—

Senior year began twenty-seven days and eleven hours ago the next time Quinn sees Ace. She meets him in a gas station parking lot, leaving the sanctity of her car in favor of his. She clambers into his passenger seat and kicks a few beer cans out of her way, sinking down into the seat. She isn’t sure why they’re here this evening; she only recalls him sending her a menacing text telling her to be here at seven and no later, so she is.

He’s clearly been drinking, and he’s also very angry, if the flush of his neck and that vein throbbing in his forehead tell her anything. She braces one hand on the door handle and brings her legs to her chest, ignoring the way the beer cans crinkle as she does so. Her belly hurts, mostly from the blow she received from him not too long ago.

“You alright, babe?” Her voice shakes slightly. There’s a chill in the air, and it’s not from the air conditioner blasting in her face. “What’s wrong—“

Her head smacks the window when her pretty face is assaulted by a violent slap. She’s more prepared this time, covering her head with her arms in case he tries to grab her hair again.

“I told you to stay away from them,” he growls into her ear, viciously pulling her forward by the front of her shirt. He reeks of alcohol and cigarettes, and although she couldn’t smell much better, she gags. “You never fucking listen to me, do you?”

“I did stay away,” Quinn blatantly lies through the pain in her scalp as he fights his way to grab a fistful of it in his hand. “I listened to you, I promise.”

Ace forces her to look at him by yanking her head to one side. She whines pitifully and tries to fight, but she’s so exhausted, and he’s too strong. “You didn’t. I went to pick you up on Thursday and I saw you getting in a car with those two dykes.”

“They’re not—ouch!” Quinn cries, a blinding pain hitting her in the stomach. “They’re not dykes! Don’t call them that!”

“Why are you defending them, huh? Are you one of them?” He’s almost completely on top of her, at least a hundred pounds more than she is soaking wet, and she thinks she’s being completely crushed to death. “You said they weren’t your friends. You lied to me, Quinn.”

“Please get off,” she whimpers. His strength is no match for hers. She’s full of smoke and empty on food. “Please. I’m sorry. I won’t talk to them anymore. They just offered to take me home, that’s all.”

With a forceful shove, Ace releases her, sending her head flying against the window again with a sickening thud. She sniffles and wipes the tears from her face, sitting upright to look at him with hurt and guilt in her green eyes.

He’s lighting up a cigarette and taking a drag when he barks, “Don’t let that happen again. You wait for me to pick you up. Understood?”

Quinn quickly nods, pulling her own cigarette from her pocket. He lights it for her, and she thinks all is well between them now that she’s apologized for her misbehavior and stupid Santana and Brittany causing trouble again, but then she feels the searing pain of a cigarette burning a hole in her forearm. She howls, her cigarette falling from her mouth and almost igniting her clothes before she puts it out in the ashtray.

“Lesson learned?” Ace asks, flicking some ash from his cigarette.

“Yes. I’m sorry,” says Quinn.

Lucy cries helplessly. Quinn smothers her with another inhale of smoke.

—

Senior year began thirty-one days and five hours ago and Santana corners Skank Quinn in the girls’ bathroom after her friends scatter away like little roaches. The pink-haired girl extinguishes her cigarette beneath her shoe and flicks the butt into the trash can, attempting to move around the disgruntled Cheerio.

“Move, Satan,” Quinn snaps. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Oh, I think you do,” says Santana, folding her arms. The door squeaks open and in walks a scrawny freshman girl with backpack straps over both shoulders like a child. Santana glares pointedly. “Out.”

Shrieking in intense fear, the girl scurries out of the bathroom, leaving Quinn cornered and crumbling into herself. She leaves the bravado on her face, her jaw set tightly, to avoid the tears brimming her eyes spilling over. She can’t showcase her weakness in front of her former friend.

“We’re getting to the bottom of this,” says Santana. “I’m fed up with your bullshit.”

Quinn swallows the sand in her throat and watches Santana wet a paper towel under the faucet. She maintains a gravelly tone in her voice and attempts to convey that she doesn’t care, but Santana finds it to be very telling and transparent.

“What are you doing?” Quinn asks.

“Take it off,” demands Santana, offering Quinn the wet paper towel. “Take all that Skanky makeup off.”

“No,” says Quinn, a semblance of control in what would be a catastrophic situation if she melted down right here. “I have to go.”

“Fuck that,” says the cheerleader. “I’m sick of you running away. You run from me, from Britt, from glee club. We give a shit about you, Fabray. I’m sick of you walking around here like you own us. You don’t. So take that makeup off your face so I can see how bad it is.”

The door swings open again, and Santana is prepared to fight, but it’s only Brittany, who’s been listening in on the commotion from outside. She steps between the two girls, creating a human barrier from Santana knocking the daylights out of Quinn.

“What’s going on now?” Brittany asks, more to her secret girlfriend than to Quinn.

“She’s taking off that fucking makeup,” spits Santana. “I need to see how bad her face is so I can put ointment on her cuts and bruises.”

Brittany raises her concerned brows at Quinn, who hangs her head and grips her bag tighter. The Skank attempts to push her way through the wall that is Brittany and Santana, but surprisingly so, Brittany aids Santana in blocking her from leaving. Quinn throws her bag down on the floor and lets out a muffled scream into her palms.

“Will you two just fucking move?!” Quinn shouts. “I don’t need your goddamn help!”

Typically, Brittany would waver and cave into the demand, but she has practice in this field from dealing with Santana for so long, so she instead winds her arms around Quinn’s quivering body in a gentle embrace. Quinn wrestles only for a few seconds before exhaustedly collapsing into the tall blonde, and she begins to quietly cry into her shoulder.

Brittany’s cradling Quinn to her body while Santana looks on in confusion, dropping the wet napkin on the floor before she’s instantly gravitating towards the two girls. She takes a place behind Quinn so the poor, exhausted girl is sandwiched between them. Quinn’s entire body vibrates with sobs against them. Brittany gently kisses her head, because that’s the only thing she can reach.

Their collective warmth soothes Quinn into sniffles a few minutes later. Brittany is the first to part from the hug, finding that Quinn’s eyeliner has streaked down her face. She almost has to pry Santana from Quinn before she carefully lifts the latter onto the counter and wets another paper towel.

“Just let me do this, okay?” Brittany says softly. “We don’t wanna hurt you, Quinn. We just hate seeing you sad.”

She doesn’t know why she allows them to do it, but Quinn finds herself surrendering to Santana and Brittany as they gently wipe away the five layers of makeup on her face. She winces every so often, but unlike Ace, she’s aware that they aren’t trying to cause her pain.

“Dios mío,” Santana gasps as all the blue and purple painting Quinn’s face. “What the fuck did he do to your face?” It’s not entirely harsh, at least not towards Quinn. She’s sort of awestruck, in a way, that a human could do this to another human.

“It hurts like hell.” Quinn’s busted lip quakes with emotion. “He was mad. He told me to stay away from you, and I didn’t listen to him, and so he did this and—“

“What a bastard,” snarls Santana. She picks up her discarded backpack and rummages around in the front pocket before extracting a tube of Neosporin. “And where the hell is your mother during all this?”

Even shrugging a shoulder pains Quinn. “Drunk, asleep, or with some man she’s chasing after to replace Russell. I guess. I hardly see her.”

“She was a shit mother when she was married and she’s still a shit mother,” Santana growls as she’s dabbing a bit of ointment on her index finger. “Hold still.”

The warmth of Santana as she’s rubbing the ointment into Quinn’s busted lip is soothing. Santana’s belly becomes queasy with feeling the rough, jagged cut beneath her thumb as she’s carefully coating it. Neither girl notices that Brittany’s been clutching Quinn’s hand. Quinn would thank her, but she’s unable to form the words.

“You’re lucky you didn’t need stitches on this one,” says Santana, running a careful finger over the ring-shaped cut on Quinn’s cheekbone.

“Poor Quinn,” Brittany says pitifully, a pout forming on her lips.

Quinn goes to say she doesn’t need anyone’s pity, but Santana’s telling glance subdues her.

“You’re never gonna see him again,” declares Santana. “Ever. Do you understand?”

Flinching at the words, Quinn pulls away from Santana’s hand that’s been applying the ointment and hangs her head. She’s trying to curl into herself and make her body untouchable, but her belly screams in agony and she whimpers the slightest bit.

“Let me see, Quinn,” Brittany urges quietly. “Did he hurt your tummy, too?”

“Yes,” she sobs, wiping the tears from her sore face. Lucy is tired of the lying, so Quinn tells the truth. “I’m hurt everywhere.”

“Let me see,” Santana urges with caution. “I won’t hurt you.”

She’s been forced to trust Santana, so she allows the cheerleader to raise her shirt just a bit. Santana’s jaw sets and her hand tightens around the gray fabric, a familiar glow of anger in her eyes.

“He’ll be someone’s bitch in prison if it’s the last thing I do,” Santana curses at the purple and yellow smeared across Quinn’s body. “We’re going home.”

“Home?” Quinn questions, her voice wavering the slightest bit. “You know how my mom is. She won’t be happy to see you.”

“We’re going to mine, dumb-dumb,” says Santana as she pockets the ointment and slings her backpack over her shoulder. “My parents aren’t home. But we are stopping at yours first. Britt and I will wait in the car for you. Because if I see Judy, it’s on-sight.”

Quinn’s eyebrows painfully meet. She would show more confusion in her expression, but the pain in her face is so blinding that even moving mouth to speak hurts.

“Our sleepover is long overdue, Quinn,” says Santana. “You’re gonna stuff as much of your shit into a bag as you can and then we’re all going to my house for a few days.”

“But my mom—“

“—Is worthless and irresponsible,” Santana interjects. “She won’t even notice you’re gone. Come on. Let us help you here. Your face is fucked up, you probably haven’t slept in weeks, and I really don’t trust you to not run off with that pedophile again, so shut your busted mouth and let’s go so you can get some real sleep.”

Lucy is screaming at Quinn again, this time telling her to surrender because she needs a decent night’s rest or she might pass out, so she does, and she finds herself nodding helplessly into Santana’s chest as the latter holds her close and cradles her head to her body with very minimal reluctance. Quinn could curl up and sleep right here and is only prevented by the sting in her abdomen.

“Everyone’s in class now,” Brittany mentions. “We can leave without anyone seeing you. Let’s go, quietly, though.”

Santana helps her wounded friend off the counter, and both she and Brittany flank Quinn, each winding one arm around Quinn’s waist as they lead her out of the building with their heads held high, holding a decree that they’ll beat anyone’s ass they have to if it means protecting Quinn’s honor. The sad Skank keeps her head careened down in case anyone of importance notices how destroyed her face is.

The ride to Quinn’s house is silent as she’s sitting in the backseat again. Santana is driving with the radio off while Brittany expertly fidgets with a Rubik’s cube. Quinn observes her with a questionable interest and is somewhat shocked to discover that Brittany is excellent at it. Within minutes, she’s solved one side of the puzzle and is now working diligently to solve the next, her tongue poking out from her lips as she concentrates.

Quinn counts the minutes it takes Santana to drive them to Judy’s house. Seven, she discovers. Quinn’s belly does that thing where it flips and ties itself into a knot when Santana parks on the curb of Judy’s house and Judy’s car is in the driveway. She can’t recall her mother ever being too sober at this time of afternoon, so she exhales a trembling breath and exits Santana’s car, promising her and Brittany that she’ll be quick about it. She half expects them to leave her, but she wouldn’t be too surprised about it if they did.

She peeks in on Judy while she’s passed out face-down in her bed and quickly scampers to her bedroom, where she grabs her forgotten Cheerios gym bag and begins ravaging her dresser drawers. She stuffs the majority of her Skank clothes and a few of Lucy’s clothes into the bag before she finds herself staring longingly at the cheer uniform hanging inside a plastic laundromat bag in the back of her closet. She figures she’ll be back sometime soon, so even if she does have an urge to wear it again, she doesn’t need it right now.

After grabbing her headphones and laptop from her desk, Quinn slings the bag over her shoulder. It smacks her against her side, causing her to wince. She’s quiet about whining into her fist, in case Judy decides to rise from the dead and beg her to stay in her drunken stupor. She picks up her stuffed parrot, running a finger over the faux fathers, and tucks it beneath her arm with certainty.

She’s shocked to find that Santana and Brittany were true to their word and are still idling out front by the time she slips out of the house. She sits her bag and laptop next to her on the backseat, her headphones sitting around her neck as she pulls the seatbelt over herself.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Santana mumbles. “These rich people are staring at me.”

Quinn chuckles quietly. Santana drives off, and Brittany completes the Rubik’s cube.

—

Senior year began thirty-three days and one hour ago and Quinn is dodging every question Maribel Lopez throws her way at the breakfast table while she’s attempting to eat her blueberry pancakes. She knows Maribel will doing something about the disaster that she’s found herself in, so she’s quiet and only says that Judy is taking a vacation and she was bored being home alone.

She pretends she doesn’t notice how flabbergasted Santana’s parents are every time they see her bright pink hair or the clothes she goes to school in, like every time is the very first time—which had Maribel almost having a stroke when she returned from work that evening. Santana made it very clear Quinn is not allowed to light up her poison sticks within ten feet of the yard, but the young Latina has allowed her to smoke in her car with the windows rolled down when she takes it to “get gas”, if her lungs are craving it.

“Mija, you need to eat,” Maribel tells Quinn, pushing a plate of pancakes towards her. “You only had toast. You’re gonna blow away in the wind if you don’t eat. Brittany’s already had two.”

Brittany shovels another forkful of pancake into her mouth as Maribel gently lectures Quinn. Santana’s sat across from them with her own pancake in front of her, watching her mother fuss over the pink-headed girl, who seems as though she’s crumbling beneath the pressure to eat.

“Let me cut it for you,” says Maribel. Quinn goes to stop her and tell her it’s too much trouble to waste on her, but the woman is already holding her fork and butter knife and cutting her pancake into fourths before pouring syrup over it. “Now eat. I don’t mind the hair or piercings, but we eat in this house.”

Quinn’s phone buzzes in her pocket, almost zapping her back to the reality of where she is. She sent a text to Judy yesterday to inform her she’s at a sleepover for the weekend, and it went unacknowledged, so she can’t imagine it’s her who’s texting her at this time of morning. She goes to fetch it from her pocket, but Santana quickly taps her foot with her own and makes a gesture towards her mother, who’s throwing a few tortillas on a comal. Quinn nods and forces a bite of pancake down. It’s rude not to eat when someone has invited you into their home.

It buzzes a few more times, and by now, Maribel is serving the girls a stack of tortillas in a tortilla warmer. She brushes the pinkness from Quinn’s eyes and looks expectantly at her. “You going to answer that? It might be your mother.”

“She knows where I am, Mrs. Lopez. It’s probably just my friends,” says Quinn. Her heart beats wildly in her chest as she lies to the woman’s face. Her friends don’t care about her, and she’s sure Judy never read the text. Another buzz. “It’s fine.”

“Something might be wrong. You answer it. I’ll let you use it at the table this once,” assures Maribel as she moves to the downstairs bathroom. “Eat, Quinn!”

She reluctantly pulls her phone from her pocket and finds four new texts from Ace, all threatening and demanding. Bile rises into her throat as another one buzzes through.

I’ll find you

Quinn would cry, but her tear ducts are empty and her face is still sore. She’s been careful to keep the makeup plastered over her face in front of Santana’s parents and only allows herself to bare it once they’ve gone to sleep and she finds herself sandwiched between Santana and Brittany in Santana’s toddler-ish bed—or maybe it feels so small because there are three of them sharing it.

“Who was it, mija?” Maribel emerges from the bathroom with a spray bottle and hairbrush, along with several different bottles of de-tangler and hair products.

“Just a friend,” Quinn fibs. “Everything is okay.”

Maribel hums quietly to herself and snatches Santana’s head up before wetting it with the spray bottle. Santana scowls to herself and tries to awkwardly eat while Brittany giggles around a bite of tortilla.

“Hold still,” says Maribel to her daughter. “You need to take care of your hair. Look at these knots. Como un perro . Head up, Santana!”

Quinn observes in amusement; it’s not the first time she’s watched Santana have her scalp obliterated during breakfast, but it’s all the more funny when she considers how old and capable Santana is now compared to then and how Maribel insists on doing her adult child’s hair in the morning.

“Mami, stop,” Santana whines. “That hurts my head.”

“Cállate, Santana,” says Maribel, working a hearty amount of de-tangler into the girl’s hair. “Quinn, how long are you staying? You know I don’t mind. I just need to know how much food we’ll need.”

“Oh, um. . .” Quinn hums, half of her not expecting to be asked so outright. “I’ll probably go home on Monday after school. If that’s okay with you.”

“Anything is okay with me as long as your mother is okay with it,” assures the mother as she’s rubbing oil into Santana’s dry scalp. “I’ll give her a call tonight, just to be sure.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Quinn blurts out. She feels like she’s floating in the deep end but can’t swim. “She’s okay with it. She’s busy anyway.”

“Just to be on the safe side,” says Maribel. She parts Santana’s wet hair and begins creating braids on either side of her head. “I don’t know if I would be okay with Santana being gone for days. When she spent a week at cheer camp last year, her Papi and I about lost our minds.”

“I’m a big girl, Mami,” protests Santana, her head being yanked to one side as Maribel tightly braids.

“Big girl, mis naglas. You still sleep in Power Rangers pajamas,” Maribel announces to the table.

“Mami!”

Quinn’s shoulders shake with a few laughs. Maribel finishes up with Santana’s hair and leaves a kiss on her head as she leaves the room to put the supplies away.

Quinn finishes her pancake and looks pointedly at Santana, the slightest bit of life in her eyes. “Nice braids, Wednesday Addams.”

“Fuck you, Pepto.”

—

Senior year began thirty-four days and zero hours ago and Santana is pulled aside by her mother, who is dressed to the nines in her Sunday morning mass clothes. The young girl looks confusingly at her mother, head tilted. Her braids from yesterday morning are falling apart at the seams, but she attempts to get past it.

“Judy Fabray never answered my calls,” says Maribel, using caution that Quinn is still asleep and not listening in. “I tried her this morning, in case I caught her at a bad time, but no response.”

“She’s probably busy today, Mami. You know the Fabrays. They’re super religious and weird. She’s probably clutching her Bible and crying in the bathroom.” It’s meant to be a joke, but Maribel doesn’t find her daughter’s dismissal of the situation at all funny. Santana stops smiling. “You’re worried.”

“I think you know something I don’t,” says Maribel. “And I’m giving you until tonight to come clean with me about whatever it is. That poor girl is deeply troubled and in need of help. If something is going on, I trust that you would be the one to tell me about it. I raised you to be a strong, honest Latina woman.”

Santana swallows thickly and nods. She can’t lie to her mother like Quinn can. She’s petrified that Maribel can read her mind, as far as a stretch as that is. They’ve been connected since Santana’s conception and practically share a heart. Lying to her mother is the greatest sin of all; even if the church told her that her love for Brittany will earn her a trip to hell.

“Your Papi and I are leaving for mass now,” says Maribel, brushing a stray hair from Santana’s face. “Brittany left?”

“Yeah, she’s going shopping with her mom,” says Santana. Curse Brittany for leaving her on the day she has to force Quinn to come clean. “I’ll talk to Quinn, but I don’t know what’s going on.”

Maribel’s jaw sets and she’s staring deep into Santana’s eyes, finding the deepest pieces of her soul and telepathically warning her. Her palm rests against Santana’s cheek.

“Santana, you’re my only baby,” says Maribel. “I would be devastated if you were going through what Quinn is going through.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” Santana says.

“It’s something. Nobody wears so much makeup to sit around the house on a Saturday unless they’re hiding something. She’s very antsy and doesn’t like when anyone gets too close or tries to touch her,” Maribel points out. “If Quinn is in trouble, you need to speak up. She deserves that. She needs someone in her corner. It’s clear that her mother doesn’t care about what happens to her. I’m sure Brittany sees it, too. She’s a bright girl. I know you care for them both, and I don’t want to see anyone hurt.”

“Okay, Mami,” Santana murmurs.

Maribel nods once and kisses Santana’s forehead before grabbing her purse and going to the car where her husband awaits, leaving Santana standing on the porch in an oversized Power Rangers shirt and a pair of mismatched socks. After they’ve gone, she closes the door and jumps three feet in the air when she finds Quinn descending the stairs with her bleary eyes tired with sleep.

“Jesus, don’t do that,” Santana snaps. Quinn tenses and wraps her arms around her sore middle. “Sorry. Come sit with me.”

“Your parents left?” Quinn questions.

Santana plops onto the couch and kicks her feet up on the coffee table, because Mami isn’t here to tell her she can’t. She pats the spot next to her, and Quinn slowly sinks down and watches as Santana turns on PBS, which is airing some cartoon about a talking dog.

“Yeah. Church,” says Santana.

“They don’t make you go?” Quinn’s brow raises.

“They used to, but not anymore. I’m still a believer, but I just don’t like the whole church scene anymore. It’s kinda whack,” Santana responds with a shrug. “They respect my choice and relationship with god.”

Quinn wants to feel jealous of the way Santana is respected by her parents, but she’s interrupted by a sudden thought. “You don’t like church because they don’t like who you are.”

Santana raises a brow and folds her arms over her chest. “And who is that?”

“I think it’s cute,” says Quinn, almost dodging the question entirely. “You and Brittany, I mean. It makes sense that you stopped going to church when you realized that you don’t actually enjoy penis.”

Santana’s jaw drops and closes multiple times. She would slap the Skank clear across her face if she weren’t afraid of Quinn shutting down again. She has her in her grasp, right where she needs to be, and she can’t allow Quinn to float away from her.

“Shut up, Skank,” Santana snaps. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I do. I woke up last night between you two and you were holding hands over my stomach. You love her, and she loves you,” Quinn states. “I don’t have a problem with it. And I promise I won’t tell your parents. Or anyone. If you promise not to tell anyone about what’s going on with me.”

Santana’s fist clenches as her blood begins boiling over the top. “You can’t do that, Fabray. My mom is already onto you. That’s what she was talking about before she left. She sees you hiding your bruises and she knows why you won’t let anyone touch you. She tried calling Judy several times but she wouldn’t answer. She’s already aware, so you keep your stupid mouth shut about me being gay, and about Brittany, and about everything you know. Or you can hightail your ass to Ace’s house and get your ass beat again.”

Quinn winces and hangs her head. Her bruises on her abdomen have mostly healed and left behind a sick yellow, so she’s able to bring her knees to her chest and wrap her arms around them. Santana frowns and lays a gentle hand on Quinn’s quivering shoulder.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” says Santana in earnest. “You just can’t say anything, okay? I’ll come out in my own time. I promise. But not right now. I need to focus on getting you better.”

“I’m scared, Santana,” Quinn sobs. “He’s been texting and calling, saying he’ll find me. He’s filled up my voicemail box with threatening messages, and I’m scared to go to school or back home because he might be waiting for me. I don’t know what to do. I know I’m so stupid for getting involved with him, but I’m scared of him now. He reminds me of Russell, only way more violent.”

Quinn collapses into Santana and clings to her as if she’s her life preserver. Santana isn’t keen on affection, but she finds herself winding her arms around the trembling girl and holding her close to her chest so she can hear her heart beating. Quinn sobs mercilessly and wraps her arms around Santana’s neck, her tears soaking the pink Power Ranger on the front of Santana’s shirt.

“I’ve got you, Q. I’ve got you,” promises Santana as she’s rocking the girl like a baby. “He’s not gonna hurt you. I’m here, okay? You don’t have to go back home, but we have to tell my mom. She’ll know what to do. She always does. She won’t be mad at you because—Quinn, breathe!”

Quinn’s face is both red and blue as she struggles to exhale. Santana is quick about pressing her to her chest as tightly as she can, keeping Quinn’s arms glued to her sides and her head pressed firmly against her shoulder as Quinn looks into the nape of her neck. One hand cradling the back of Quinn’s head and the other wound snugly around her middle to keep her arms pinned, Santana begins inhaling and exhaling at a slow pace to allow Quinn to copy her.

“I’ve got you, Quinn. Just listen,” Santana exhales. The girl in her lap begins to relax, the tension releasing from her body. Her breathing regulates the slightest bit. Santana keeps rocking. “Almost there, Quinn. You’re doing good. Keep breathing.”

“I’m so stupid,” Quinn sobs.

“You are not stupid. You make stupid decisions. You’re human, Quinn.”

A few minutes of rocking and several bone-chilling sobs later, Quinn has returned to earth and stilled in Santana’s arms. Her body is nothing but dead weight in the other girl’s arms, so Santana pulls away just enough to look at Quinn’s exhausted face, finding that she’s cried herself to sleep against Santana’s heartbeat.

Santana leans back against the couch, mutes the TV, and makes a note to text Brittany once she’s able to move from here, but for now, she’s forced to find contentment with being nap-trapped by someone who isn’t Brittany. It’s foreign but doesn’t feel like the worst thing in the world.

When her parents return less than two hours later, they discover Santana asleep on the couch with Quinn halfway sprawled across her front, Santana’s left hand resting on Quinn’s back in case she rolls off. Quinn’s face is buried deep in Santana’s chest, hidden by whatever pink hair she has left after severing it in a fit of rage.

“I know she’s a lesbian, but I thought she was with Brittany,” Santana’s Papi whispers to Maribel, who’s staring longingly at the two exhausted girls.

“She is, viejo,” chuckles Maribel. “But I think Quinn is her best friend again. I’ll get them a blanket.”

Maribel moves to the hall closet and grabs a blanket Brittany keeps stored in there for her movie nights with Santana. Funnily enough, it’s decorated with rainbows. Maribel drapes it over the two sleeping teenagers and presses a kiss to Santana’s head.

“Leave them be,” she tells her husband, pulling him to the kitchen. “They have some explaining to do when they wake up.”

—

Senior year began thirty-four days and four hours ago and Quinn wakes to something moving up and down beneath her, a fuzzy warmth over her back, and the smell of something cooking. She discovers she’s on top of Santana and the position is extremely questionable, so she peels herself away, allowing the rainbow blanket to fall on the carpet.

“Good to see you awake,” Maribel says as she emerges from the kitchen with a dish towel over her shoulder. She goes to move Quinn’s hair from her face but halts, her jaw falling open. “Dios mio, your face! Come here, mija.”

It takes one, two, three heartbeats for Quinn to realize she’s makeup-less this morning. Tears spring into her eyes and she’s pulling away from Maribel, attempting to run far away, but the seasoned mother is quick with grabbing Quinn’s wrist and urging her to stay, and that in turn causes Quinn to shriek. All the commotion wakes Santana, who is graced with the sight of her mother fussing and fretting in Spanish over the sight of bruised Quinn.

“Mami, we can explain. Just let her go.” Santana hurries to her feet and helps Quinn sit down while Maribel continues losing her mind and swearing to her god in Spanish. “Mami! Relax!”

“What the hell happened to her face?! Santana, I need answers! This is very serious!”

Quinn isn’t used to a mother fussing like this. Judy Fabray is all smiles—as stiff as they may be—and sunshine, even when her husband is railing a tattooed freak in her bed while she’s away at a church retreat. She hardly batted an eye the day Russell kicked Quinn out of their house and onto her pregnant ass. But Maribel Lopez? She cares, and it’s evident when she immediately sinks down next to the two teenagers and grabs hold of Quinn’s trembling hands.

“What happened to you?” Maribel asks desperately.

Quinn’s almost-healed lip quivers under the pressure, and she bursts into tears. Santana remedies the commotion by wrapping Quinn in her arms and sighing heavily against her head, eyes locking with her mother’s.

“She’s dating a twenty-something-year-old guy and he beat the shit out of her, Mami,” Santana says, the curse rolling off her tongue like her third language. Maribel doesn’t even register it, too busy reeling herself back in from the moment. “He’s after her now and she’s too scared to go home or to school. She knows she made a mistake. You don’t have to lecture her. Brittany and I already have.”

“I wasn’t going to. But we need to talk about this so we can do something about it,” says Maribel. She settles a hand on Quinn’s shoulder. “Mija, does your mother have any idea?”

“No,” Quinn sobs against Santana.

“Judy’s just being Judy,” says Santana. “She’s drunk or asleep or whoring herself out for a new diamond bracelet all the time. She doesn’t have time for Quinn. Brittany and I found out on Thursday. That’s why we had her pack what she could and bring it here. So she has somewhere to go where he won’t find her, and because Judy is totally worthless. She probably doesn’t even realize Quinn has been gone for three days.”

“I’m gonna take care of this,” Maribel promises. “Quinn, has this man been threatening you?” Quinn nods pitifully and presses her face further into Santana until it hurts. She deserves it. “Are you scared to go to school?” Another nod.

“He knows where she lives and where she goes to school,” says Santana. “He even knows where to find her once school lets out.”

“Time for a restraining order,” says Maribel. “I’m taking you to school until things are settled. Both of you, and Brittany, if she wants. We’ll deal with your mother soon. We need to keep you far away from him. Don’t answer any calls or texts from him. Block his number. As far as he’s concerned, you don’t exist anymore.”

She wouldn’t exist if it weren’t for the two women surrounding her—and Brittany, she decides—so it’s not much of a stretch.

Maribel stands up and grabs her car keys from the hook on the wall. She sets her purse on her shoulder and slips on a pair of rain boots, even though it’s only a bit cloudy out. “Watch the soup on the stove. I’ll be back. Your Papi went out to watch the football game with some friends. Don’t open the door for anybody. I don’t care if there’s a baby on the doorstep.”

“Mami, where are you going?” Santana asks worriedly. She shifts Quinn a bit more, prepared to get up. “I’m coming with you.”

“You two stay here,” demands Maribel. “I’m gonna have a discussion with Mrs. Judy Fabray. I don’t care if I have to wait in her driveway for hours. She’s gonna talk to me.”

“Be careful,” Santana warns. “You might run into Ace.”

“Ace? What a stupid name for a pedophile.”

With that, Maribel is gone, leaving Santana cradling a sobbing Quinn in her arms.

—

Senior year began thirty-four days and eight hours ago and Santana is sitting on the floor of the bathroom while Maribel sits on the toilet lid, hands full of Santana’s thick, damp hair as she twists it into a long French braid at the base of her skull.

“You were gone a long time, Mami,” says Santana as she plays with the Rubik’s cube Brittany left behind in her car. She’s isn’t sure what to do with it, but the clicking is satisfying.

Maribel, who’s just returned home from losing it on Judy, nods although Santana can’t see her like this. She finishes braiding the last bit of hair at the end and ties it off with a hair tie that has a red bow attached. For a moment she’s transported to a decade ago, when Santana was just a little girl having her hair done by her mother because she was too little, not because she just wants her mother to do it for her. She wonders if Quinn ever had this experience, and it saddens Maribel when she thinks of her.

“Is Quinn still asleep?” Maribel asks Santana.

“Yeah. Papi bored her to death with his football talk,” Santana replies. She wants to laugh, but it’s caught in her throat. “He was disgusted when I told him what happened to her.”

“I’ll talk to him,” says Maribel. She clips a purple butterfly barrette into Santana’s hair. Santana is too engrossed with the toy in her hands to notice. “Judy had a complete breakdown and admitted she hasn’t been paying attention to Quinn since the Russell disaster. She said that, while she loves her, she can’t get past everything that happened with the baby and now this phase, and it’s hard for her to come to terms with the fact that her daughter is impure and outcasted her from her community when they found out.”

Santana’s hands clench around the toy and her brows meet. “So the pregnant teen who was drunk when she had sex is the problem and not the abusive father and husband who cheated on his wife in their bed? Typical Bible thumpers.”

Maribel nods in silent agreement. “Not so loud, mija. I haven’t talked to Quinn yet.”

“What else?”

“She gave me a trash bag of Quinn’s things, like her other clothes and some valuables. And her Cheerios uniform. And her legal paperwork. Birth certificate and everything.”

The Rubik’s cube clatters to the floor as Santana spins around to face her mother. Maribel smiles sadly at her with red-rimmed eyes and strokes her cheek.

“She disowned her?” Santana whispers. “Again?”

“I asked her to,” Maribel clarifies with a nod. “She can’t take care of her, Santana. I told her everything that happened between Quinn and that disgusting man, and she called her a very terrible name.”

“Where’s she gonna go, Mami? She doesn’t have anyone,” Santana rambles, tears swelling in her eyes. “She’s homeless now!”

“She’s staying right where she is. Here,” says Maribel, drying her baby’s tears. “She’s almost eighteen, and I’m certain she’ll get into college and be gone in a year with you. Not that I’m anticipating that. But it’s not forever, and she’s not a baby. I don’t have to change diapers or make bottles or potty train. I’m okay with taking her in.”

“How are you gonna tell her?” Santana asks. “She’s gonna be devastated.”

Quinn enters the bathroom, face stoic but eyes sad. “Actually I’m not. Sorry. I was coming to use the bathroom and heard you two talking about me, so I decided to listen in.”

“I’m so sorry, Quinn,” Maribel apologizes, holding her arms open.

Quinn quietly shuffles into the welcoming embrace and pats Santana’s head as she hugs Maribel. Santana has no room in her heart to push her away; she feels incredibly lucky that Quinn is still here.

“We’ll get you a restraining order. Judy agreed to do her part in getting one for you since you’re still underage for a few more months.” Maribel pulls away from Quinn and wipes a stray tear from her cheek.

“What a saint,” Quinn halfheartedly laughs. The tears gather again, burning as they nearly spill over the edge. “Thank you. You don’t have to keep me if you don’t want to. I can always find another place to go. I always have.”

“Nonsense. You’re staying here. I’m sure my old man can clear some space in his man cave for you to sleep. Or you can sleep in Santana’s trundle bed. She’s never used it for anything. It’s up for you two to decide,” Maribel assures as she pushes hair from Quinn’s face. She’s pleased with how well her injuries are healing.

Quinn doesn’t miss the glare Santana throws her. She chuckles a bit. “I don’t think Santana wants me sleeping next to her every night. I think she prefers her alone time.”

“Right. Brittany,” the older woman confirms with a nod. Santana’s jaw comes open. Maribel plants a kiss on her daughter’s head. “Yes, mija. Papi and I are aware, and it’s okay.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Santana declares with her arms over her chest. She’s quiet for a moment before looking up at her Mami with surprise. “Really?”

“Really. Life is too short and precious to worry about the little things. And nothing you could ever do or be would justify me throwing you out. I’m not Judy,” says Maribel. She looks up at Quinn and takes her hand, running her fingers over the scars and callouses. “I only have a couple of conditions for you. One, you cannot be doing illegal or dangerous things with those girls. What are they called?”

“Skanks,” Santana says, eyes focused on the cube in her hands.

“Skanks. No more doing illegal things with them. That means no going out drinking or partying without my knowledge. They can be your friends, but I don’t feel comfortable with you going out with them outside of school,” Maribel informs. Quinn squeezes her hand and nods. “Two, I know you’ve taken up a smoking habit, and I used to smoke before I found out I was pregnant with Santana and know how hard it is to quit. You can’t do it inside or at school, but I’ll allow you to smoke in the backyard. You have to promise that you’ll still try to quit.”

“I will. I promise,” says Quinn in earnest. Cigarettes don’t taste that great, anyway. “And I promise to keep the house clean and not cause trouble.”

“You aren’t my maid, Orphan Annie,” chuckles the mother. “Just keep your space tidy. I’ll take care of the rest. And I’ll try to make foods I think you’ll like if you aren’t used to what we eat.”

“She just called you a white girl,” Santana laughs, earning herself a flick in the head from Maribel.

Quinn scoots closer to Maribel, wrapping an arm around her shoulders while the latter brings her closer by her waist. It’s an awkward position to be in, with Maribel still on the toilet lid and Quinn standing tall.

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve really gotta pee,” announces Quinn, clenching her thighs together.

“I’m gone,” says Maribel as she stands with a groan. “You two get some decent clothes on. We’re going out for dinner. Anywhere you want, Quinn.”

Maribel leaves the bathroom and shuts the door, seemingly forgetting Santana, who’s still sitting on the floor.

“Hello?” Quinn urges Santana expectantly. “I said, I’ve gotta pee.”

“We’re sorta like sisters now, so that means we get to argue over the bathroom. This bathroom belongs to me,” Santana says with a nod, turning back to her Rubik’s cube.

“Fine. I’m not childish. Besides, we’ve seen each other shower.” Quinn lifts the toilet lid and pulls down her pants, startling the girl on the floor. “Deal with it. I have to piss.”

“You’re a shithead.”

“Takes one to know one,” says Quinn as she releases her bladder, which causes Santana to roll her eyes. “Look away, perv.”

“I was here first,” says Santana.

“I was born first.”

Footsteps approach the bathroom door and a deep voice says sternly, “Girls, do I hear fighting in there?”

“No, Papi,” Santana calls, glaring at Quinn. The footsteps retreat. “You’re a dummy.”

“Nice barrette,” Quinn laughs.

“Fuck you, Bubblegum Bitch.”

After a second of staring each other down, the pair erupt into a fit of giggles. The fact that Quinn is still on the toilet takes the cake in the moment. Santana falls over on her side, and she would typically be grossed out by laying on the bathroom floor, but she figures it’s all familial germs and won’t matter.

“Santana?” Quinn asks quietly after they’ve stopped laughing.

“Yeah, Q?”

“Do you think he’ll find me?” she asks. The tears return. “I’m so scared.”

“If he’s smart, he won’t.” Santana reaches up and squeezes her knee.

“He’s not smart.”

“Then I’ll beat his ass. I’ll kick his ass from here to Timbuktu. He won’t know what hit him,” Santana proudly says. Her face softens upon tears slipping from Quinn’s eyes. “Look, Quinn. I know he’s scary and you’re afraid, but I’ll be with you until you can get a restraining order. Brittany, too. We’ll protect you from that crazy bastard. I promise. My mom is taking us to school and picking us up. He won’t get you there.”

Quinn forces a watery smile. “Thanks. Now turn away so I can wipe.”

Santana faces the wall and waits for the toilet to flush before she stands up. Quinn washes her hands and stares at herself in the mirror.

“I’ll need my concealer,” says Quinn. “My face is almost healed but it’s still noticeable.”

“I have some,” Santana mumbles as she grabs concealer from a drawer. “It might be a little too dark but at least it’ll be covered.”

Quinn thanks her and dabs a bit over the more prominent wounds. It blends in just fine, and then she and Santana head to their for-now-shared bedroom and prepare for the evening.

“Where are we going?” Santana asks as she’s deciding between a casual outfit and a sundress. “I need to know so I know how bougie to dress.”

“I’m sure you know. It’s both our favorite,” Quinn says.

“You’re such a white girl.” Santana chooses the more casual outfit.

Quinn brushes out her hair and slips a beanie over her head. “Can it, Wednesday.”

“Shut up, Pepto.”

Lucy sighs with relief.

—

Senior year began thirty-five days and zero hours ago and Quinn and Santana meet Brittany in the first floor hallway of McKinley after Maribel drops them off as promised. Brittany hurries towards the pair and throws her arms around them, careful around Quinn’s abdomen and back.

“So you’re, like, sisters now, right?” Brittany asks excitedly. She pulls away to look at Quinn, that mischievous little glimmer in her eyes.

Quinn laughs. “Not legally, but sure. Judy’s a horrible mother. She gave Maribel all my stuff and basically said I ruined her reputation with her little church friends. It hurts, but it is what it is. It’s been one day and I’m already better off with Santana’s family.”

“Does this mean you’ll be my sister-in-law if Santana and I get married? And be the auntie to our babies?” Brittany asks hurriedly as they shuffle to their lockers.

Santana drops her textbooks on her toes and doesn’t feel it. “Babies?!”

Quinn forces herself not to guffaw in amusement at that. Brittany and Santana converse quietly about their potential babies—and Santana makes it abundantly clear that no child will ever use her vagina as an exit—while Quinn gathers her textbooks for her next two periods. The hallway is bustling with people, and she’s afraid one of them is Ace or her father. At least they can’t snatch her by her high pony anymore. She heard that kidnappers go for ponytails.

“Breathe, Lucy,” she tells herself as the bell rings and students begin scattering like roaches in the light. “You’ve got this.”

“You mean we’ve got this,” corrects Brittany, linking her arm with Santana’s and then Quinn’s. “Just hang on tight. You’ll be in class in no time.”

Brittany was right; Quinn is in class within thirty seconds, and Santana promises to get her once the period is over, considering her class is just down the hall. She sits in a favorable seat and sets her notebook and pens in a perfect color-coded array on the desk. She doesn’t fall asleep this time.

—

Senior year began forty-four days and two hours ago when Quinn is granted a protective order by the court. Judy fulfills her end of the deal and assists with receiving the order, pretending she’s known about the situation all along and is being the good Christian mother she vowed to be when Quinn escaped her body like it was a burning building. Shes only here because she can’t afford for Quinn to become a ward of the state and have a social worker intervene; she’s too good for such things. She’s sober enough handle her part of the process and finds a seat to be quiet in when it’s said and done and it’s clear she isn’t needed anymore.

Quinn and Judy don’t say anything to each other the entire time they’re in the courthouse. Judy clutches her pearls and the new diamond bracelet her most recent fling bought to wow her while the judge is signing the papers. Maribel is next to Quinn, gripping her hand for dear life as the teenaged girl trembles with fear and looks over her shoulder every few minutes.

The judge recommends that Quinn press charges for what Ace has done to her, and given the fact that he’s much older than her, he could be tried for sexual assault, but it just seems like unnecessary stress and thousands of dollars in legal fees that Quinn doesn’t want to be buried in nor bury the Lopezes in, so she declines and leans into Maribel as she’s granted her order of protection—which she discovers is actually different from a restraining order.

The tension is high in the air as Quinn and Maribel leave the courthouse with their hands joined and Judy saunters behind like a sad, lost puppy. As they’re going to their cars, Judy steps in front of Quinn and sets a gentle hand on her shoulder, to which Quinn shrugs off and takes a step back, her hand still interlocked with Maribel’s.

“I never understood you, Quinnie,” Judy sighs in despair. “You were my beautiful little girl. So bright and cheerful and very smart. I dressed you up like a little doll and paraded you around church and those adorable pageants. Do you remember the pageants?”

“I remember,” says Quinn, her voice holding a bit of edge. “You made me wear itchy dresses and took me to a tanning salon because I was too pasty. You made me smile and wave at strange men for a trophy. You forced me to wear makeup that made my face burn. I remember. You did it all for yourself. No preschooler wants to spend a whole weekend posing for men. You did it so you could brag to all your church friends about how beautiful and precious I was to you.”

Something inside Judy falters. She’s not so sad anymore. If anything she’s indignant and annoyed by Quinn’s assumption, but Quinn doesn’t mind. Judy Fabray has always been and will always be her own victim of crimes that never existed.

“You were always beautiful and precious, Quinnie. I just didn’t know what to do once you grew out of it and became a young lady. And then you were. . .with child and I couldn’t have you around the community anymore,” Judy admits. “I was shunned by my friends when news about your bastard child got out. I was devastated.”

Maribel stops Quinn from punching the living daylights out of her biological mother by wrapping an arm around her waist. As enticing as it would be to watch, Maribel has no interest in bailing Quinn out of jail this afternoon. It’s too nice of a day for that.

“She has a name, Judy,” says Quinn, on the verge of tears. “Beth. Her name is Beth. And I wanted nothing more than to keep and raise her, but you said she was a disgrace to our family namesake and told me I had to give her away. I lost my baby because of you and that bastard you married. I would’ve worked a million jobs if I had to in order to provide for her, but your stupid reputation and ego were worth more than that. I’m sorry I’m not like Frannie. I’m sorry I’m not going to marry a good Christian man and pop out a bunch of babies who will be abused by him like you did with Russell. I’m sorry that you’re upset that I’ll never be you. But not being you is the only thing I strive for in life. Santana was right about you then and she’s still right. You are a worthless, terrible fucking mother, and although you think the Lopezes are beneath you because of their skin or the language they speak, they’re still a million times better than you ever were at your finest. The only decent thing you’ve ever done for me is being here today to sign those papers. I should’ve had you sign papers to make the Lopezes my legal guardians, but we all know how much you enjoy your mother title. It’s the only thing you have left, without your child. I hope you have the life you deserve, Judy.”

Quinn tugs Maribel along, leaving a flabbergasted Judy Fabray clutching her pearls and cursing the heavens. Maribel slips into the drivers seat, Quinn in the passenger, and both are silent for a minute, the quiet rumbling of the engine filling their ears.

“Mija, are you alright?” Maribel asks.

“Not really,” sniffles Quinn as she wipes her tears on her sleeve. “I just told my mother to go fuck herself, basically. Sorry for cursing.”

“It’s alright,” assures Maribel. “Did you mean what you said about wanting us to be your guardians? Or was that to hurt her feelings?”

“I meant it. Hurting her feelings was a bonus,” says Quinn. “But there’s no point in that. I’ll be eighteen in a few months and won’t need a legal guardian.”

“Have you considered changing your last name?” Maribel inquires, reaching over to rub Quinn’s shoulder. “It won’t bother me if you don’t want to. But you are welcome to take ours if you don’t want to be a Fabray anymore.”

Quinn doesn’t expect the gravity of that statement to hit her as much as it does. She weeps quietly into her hands and only nods. Whatever the nod means, Maribel hasn’t a clue. The mother shushes Quinn and lovingly rubs her back with a flat palm.

“I could do that?” Quinn sobs softly.

“Of course, mija. You can be whoever you want,” says Maribel. “If you want to, you can have your name changed. It’s not a big deal. Well, it means a lot to you, but it’s no trouble for us, alright? We’re all here for you. And I’m sure Santana wouldn’t mind introducing you to people as her white best friend with the same Mexican last name as her. Or just her sister. It’ll probably change based on the day.”

A laugh leaves Quinn’s body through shaky sobs. She isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry anymore, so she does both.

“I’d like that,” says Quinn. She wipes her tears. “I guess you should get me to school now, huh. I’ll make it in time for lunch. Santana and Brittany were gonna save me a spot.”

“Not today,” Maribel says with a shake of her head. “If you’re feeling up to it, we’re gonna go get some Halloween candy for the trick-or-treaters, and then you and I are gonna put some lights on the porch to surprise Santana and Papi when they get home. You can get a small bag of candy that you like. How does that sound?”

Quinn figured today would be particularly difficult, but she didn’t expect to cry this much from such a simple gesture. She can only nod through her tears, and then she’s leaning into Maribel for literal support, which the older woman is more than pleased to provide.

“Let’s get you out of here,” says Maribel after they’ve pulled away. She kisses the tip of Quinn’s nose. “Judy is staring at us.”

“Let her,” says Quinn, swiveling her head to find her biological mother glaring through the window from afar. “She made her choice when she gave you all my stuff.”

“I put your birth certificate and legal papers with all my important documents,” says Maribel as she begins to drive away from the courthouse, away from Judy Fabray. “Which only means I won’t be able to find them when I actually need them.”

“They’re under your mattress,” Quinn says with certainty, earning herself a side-eye. “Santana told me.”

Maribel would be annoyed at Santana’s big mouth, but she’s too preoccupied with driving to the nearest grocery store to deal with it.

Maribel has never been disgusted by the pink-haired girl. That changes when Quinn selects a bag of candy corn and proclaims it as her favorite.

—

Senior year began forty-seven days and three hours ago and Santana and Quinn are hanging more Halloween decorations on the front porch to accompany the purple and orange lights Quinn and Maribel had strung a few days ago. Brittany is sitting on the stoop, wrapped in a strand of yellow lights, while the two girls hang ghosts from the gutter.

Quinn has never celebrated a Halloween before. Judy and Russell always said it was the work of the devil and the candy would just rot her beautiful teeth out of her precious head. They would spend Halloween night at church to ward away the evil, so hanging ghosts and hammering the stakes of a large pumpkin inflatable into the ground are activities that feel like learning a new dance or language.

“I really thought your parents would be against Halloween,” says Quinn as she hangs a ghost on a hook. “They’re religious.”

“Just my abuela,” replies Santana with a shrug. “One year both my parents had to work on Halloween, so she babysat me and when I put my witch costume on, she told me I was the devil and wouldn’t let me go out that night. I was the only kid in kindergarten who didn’t go trick-or-treating. The next day at school, everyone had candy. Except for me.”

“Not the only kid,” Quinn assures as she climbs off the ladder and takes a plastic pumpkin from the box, and then sets it nicely on the porch step. “I’ve never been trick-or-treating. Or had a costume. We went to church every Halloween. You know, to protect ourselves from evil. Everyone was terrified of that holiday. Silly people.”

“We totally have to go trick-or-treating this year!” Brittany exclaims excitedly, jumping up from her place on the stoop, lights tangled around her body like colorful wire. “It’ll be fun!”

Quinn smiles and reaches up to pat Brittany’s cheek in earnest. “Sure, B. We’ll go.”

Santana grins, although it’s hidden by her hair. Quinn is so sweet to Brittany, it’s almost sickening, but she would rather them be sweet to one another than have to referee cat fights between them like Brittany sometimes has been forced to do between her and Quinn. It’s almost embarrassing how much they’ve fought in the last two years.

“Santana?” Quinn asks as she strings neon green lights around a rosebush. Santana hums from her place on the ladder. “I think I wanna come back to glee.”

“Berry will be happy to know that,” Santana responds, a pumpkin in her hands. “She’s been complaining about you leaving us since you turned Skank. Finally, we’ll have some peace if you choose to come back.”

“I think I want to,” says Quinn with a shrug. “Not really Cheerios, though. I think I could do without that.”

Santana agrees that, although it would be nice to walk the halls of McKinley, arm-in-arm with Quinn in her cheer uniform, Quinn is probably better off forgoing that path, at least for this semester.

Brittany pretends she doesn’t notice Quinn glancing over her shoulder every couple of minutes with a hint of apprehension in her eyes, as if she’s expecting something terrible. Protective order be damned; Quinn is still terrified of the worst, and Brittany wants to wrap Quinn in her arms and tell her that life is sunshine and rainbows, but she knows it’s all clouds and rain for Quinn.

While Quinn is apprehensively surveying her surroundings, the front door squeaks open and Maribel peeks her head out, motioning for the girls to come inside. “It’s getting cold. I’ve made soup,” she announces before shutting the door.

“Not soup again,” Santana whines, dropping the strand of lights she’s been holding. “I’m practically a can of Campbell’s by now.”

“Your mom’s soup is, like, way better than Campbell’s,” Brittany says, unabashedly taking Santana’s hand and laying a kiss on it.

Santana quickly pulls her hand away and takes a long look around herself à la Quinn, almost offending Brittany, whose eyes become cloudy as she silently moves into the house, leaving Santana and Quinn idling on the porch while Santana looks down at her sneakers and toes at the ground.

“She’s not supposed to do that outside of the house,” the Latina mumbles.

“She loves you, idiot,” says Quinn as she tightens her sweater around herself. She tilts her head. “Why are you so afraid?”

“This isn’t New York or California. You can’t be gay in Lima,” says Santana with certainty. “Neighbors could’ve seen that, and I would be an embarrassment to my family.”

“For being you? Santana, I’m a genuine embarrassment to my family because of the stupid things I did,” says Quinn. “You’re just being yourself. It’s not embarrassing. Your family supports you. I’d give anything to have grown up with a mom like yours. And a partner like yours.”

Santana’s vein pulses in her neck. “You can share my mom with me, but you keep your paws off Brittany.”

“She loves you so much,” says Quinn. “And even though you’re scared to show it, you love her more than anything, too. Last night you two were cuddled up so tightly together I thought you were gonna suffocate her.”

“Papi needs to hurry up and put a newspaper down in the kitchen for you,” huffs Santana.

Quinn laughs quietly although Santana is very indignant about the situation. She wraps an arm around Santana’s shoulders and peels the pumpkin carver from her taught fingers so she doesn’t scrape her own eyes out. Santana leans into Quinn’s warmth as they enter the house and find Brittany sitting at the table with a bowl of soup in front of her.

“I’m sorry, Britt-Britt,” is the first thing out of Santana’s mouth as she and Quinn take their seats at the table. “I shouldn’t have pulled away.”

“It’s okay. I know you’re still scared,” Brittany says with a soft smile. Her eyes seem a bit sad, and it breaks both Santana and Quinn’s hearts. “Maybe one day you won’t be so scared.”

“Maybe,” says Santana. Brittany holds onto that for dear life, the same way she holds onto Santana’s pinkie under the table.

Maribel enters the kitchen and leaves a kiss on Santana and Quinn’s heads on her way to the stove, where she scoops a bit of soup in two identical bowls and fills plastic cups—one red and one green—with water from a jug.

“I don’t want any arguing over who gets what color cup like last week,” says Maribel. “Quinn, what color do you want?”

Quinn doesn’t think very much as the words simply roll off her tongue like water. “Rojo, por favor.”

“Did you just speak Spanish?” Santana inquires, raising a brow. She isn’t even upset that she has to drink out of the stupid green cup.

“I guess I did,” says Quinn with a shrug. “I didn’t mean to. It just felt natural and right.”

“I have to teach you all the swear words so we can talk about people at school,” says Santana, almost excited by the idea of teaching Quinn how to curse someone in her native language. Quinn will be the only white girl who’s fluent in Spanish in school, and although Santana would be slighted if it were anyone else, she thinks watching Quinn speak her language will be fun because they can shit-talk and insult the other girls and boys with no repercussions. “Mami, is it okay if I teach Quinn all the swear words?”

Maribel runs a hand over Santana’s head. “As long as you’re using them in the right context and not to hurt others.”

Santana pouts and shovels some soup into her mouth. Her mami isn’t any fun sometimes.

Quinn, on the other hand, is beyond excited as she sips her soup like a toddler, the red cup in one hand. Santana glares indignantly; the green cup makes her water taste bad.

Lucy hums quietly to herself and begins to dissolve into happiness as Quinn eats her soup surrounded by an unfamiliar but welcoming sensation of contentment. She doesn’t bother Quinn today.

—

Senior year began fifty-two days and five hours ago and Santana is staring at herself on a small television screen with one of the many LGBT symbols accompanying her in her Cheerios uniform. Burt Hummel stands protectively over her while Mr. Schue and Coach Sylvester linger on the sidelines with sorrow and regret in their eyes as tears gather in the girl’s eyes and the swelling in her throat chokes her up just enough to gag her as she whimpers pitifully.

Fucking Finn Hudson is going to feel her wrath—as soon as she’s done crying, and that might be quite a long time.

“Santana?” Mr. Hummel asks quietly, kneeling down to her level like she’s a little girl, and she feels so small compared to him, but he isn’t frightening like most of the fathers she’s seen at McKinley. “Do your parents know?”

“Yes, but—but my abuela. She can’t find out. She’ll disown me,” Santana gasps, gripping her elbows with her opposite hands. “This can’t air. It can’t air. My parents are fine with it, but I don’t wanna embarrass them. Or Quinn. She has it bad enough; she doesn’t need to be known as the girl who got pregnant in tenth grade and got kicked out and beaten by some douchebag and has to live with her lesbian, Mexican friend’s parents. If this airs, it’s over for me. You have to stop this. Please. Please stop it.”

“Quinn got kicked out again?” Mr. Schue questions. Quinn still hasn’t returned to glee, but he sees her in scarce intervals in the halls of McKinley, and she seems to be a bit healthier.

“Santana, I’m so sorry,” Sue immediately says, her hand gently resting upon the girl’s quivering shoulder, which Santana immediately shrugs off.

“My whole life is over,” Santana sobs, standing up and brushing past Mr. Hummel and her terrible educators.

She doesn’t know how long she’s running for, but she finds herself collapsed beneath the bleachers at some point, realizing just now that she’s not wearing her jacket and it’s colder than a witch’s tit out here, more so under the shadows of the bleachers where sunlight and warmth are rare.

“Santana!” a voice calls from around the bleachers.

Santana hears a metal door slam and within seconds, Quinn emerges from the awning leading to the school. The world around Santana begins to crumble beneath her rainbow-colored aura and she’s falling away into a pair of arms and a steady heartbeat.

“You’re gonna catch a cold,” says Quinn as she parts from Santana a bit to peel off her denim jacket and drape it over Santana’s back while she’s scooping her into her lap and shushing her. “I saw you running out of Coach’s office. What happened?”

“Can’t, Q,” Santana sobs mercilessly against the sweetness that is Quinn. “You’ll be so embarrassed. And—And people will bully me and hurt me. And abuela is gonna disown me. And I fucking hate Finn! It’s all his fault! He is a stupid bowl of lard!”

“Hey, calm down some, okay? Listen.” Quinn lays Santana’s head over her chest so she can hear her heart.

A faint swooshing fills Santana’s ears. She can’t tell if it’s Quinn’s heartbeat or her own blood rushing through her veins. Her fists tighten around Quinn’s shirt as she grips it like Quinn will fade away.

“Do I need to get Brittany?” asks Quinn, after Santana had calmed a bit.

“She’s taking a test,” Santana sniffles pathetically. “Don’t bother her. You know she’s about to be held back.”

“Then I’ll call Mami.” Quinn isn’t sure when calling Maribel “Mami” like Santana does became a second skin, but she enjoys the way it flutters in the air. “But you’ve gotta tell me what’s wrong.”

“Stupid Finn! Now everyone in Ohio is gonna know!” Santana sobs. “Someone heard Finn out me in the hallway, and now there’s a campaign ad that’s supposed to air in a couple days, and my fucking face is on there and they’re outing me in front of the whole state! My life is fucking ruined! I hate Finn! I hate him, I hate him!”

Santana’s fists pound into Quinn’s chest, although not very strongly, and she eventually collapses in exhaustion against Quinn, her face buried in the crook of her neck. Quinn runs a hand up her back, over the denim, and places a kiss on the top of her head.

“I’m here, San. I’m here. Let’s go home,” says Quinn, already taking her phone from her pocket. “Mami is gonna sue the hell out of whoever she has to to stop that ad from airing.”

“It’s too late,” sobs the distraught girl. “It’s gonna air, and my life is ruined. Abuela won’t love me anymore. She can sue the whole world; it won’t stop anything. Abuela is gonna see it ‘cause she always watches the news after her stories finish. She won’t love me anymore.”

“I think you should tell her before the ad airs,” says Quinn. “Maybe the bandaid will come off easier that way. Just a thought, I guess. But you know Mami and Papi won’t let anything bad happen to you. They’ll take care of it.”

Santana can’t cry anymore. She sits rigidly in Quinn’s lap and watches Quinn dial Maribel while her free hand roams around Santana’s back.

Lucy is filled with rage. She makes a note to beat up Finn Hudson at her earliest convenience.

—

Senior year began fifty-four days and ten hours ago and Quinn is sitting on the kitchen counter as Maribel gives her step-by-step instructions on how to make the perfect arroz con pollo dish. Things have been tense in the Lopez home since Maribel found out about the ad that’s due to air tomorrow at seven in the evening, but cooking is the only time the older Latina is able to control her emotions and avoid punching someone in the face.

“How much cumin?” Quinn questions as Maribel is seasoning the rice. She’s been sucking on a goat’s milk lollipop—dulce de leche, Santana has corrected her—for half an hour after pleading with her surrogate mother for one after Santana left the house to talk with her abuela.

“As much as your heart desires,” says Maribel. “Never measure with spoons. Only your heart.”

Quinn continues to watch in awe as Maribel cooks. She would say the woman is content, but the way her hand grips the bottle of cumin and her knuckles whiten to that of a ghost tell Quinn otherwise, but it’s very understandable, considering what the family has been catapulted into.

“Do you think Santana is okay?” Quinn asks, checking the time on her watch. “She’s been there awhile.”

“I hope so, mija,” says Maribel as she salts the rice and places a lid over the pan. She throws a fish towel over her shoulder and looks at the pink-haired girl. “I’ll be honest. My mother is not a nice woman. There’s a reason I haven’t invited her for dinner to meet you. You’re more than welcome in my home, and I love you like I love Santana, but my mother. . .she’s not a kind woman like that. When Santana was born, my mother was very judgmental and mean. Always said Santana was too cold or too warm, or too hungry or too fat. She couldn’t just be a grandmother to her and hold her and love her. She always had something to say.”

“Sounds like a Judy,” says Quinn with a shrug. She pulls the lollipop out of her mouth with a pop. “So she’s really that mean?”

“Santana refused to learn how to walk until she was well over a year old. My mother, god bless her, made my poor little baby stand up on her own and held her hands above her head until Santana would walk. We were there for almost an hour before Santana tried to walk, and as soon as she started taking steps, her abuela let her hands go and forced her to take a few steps by herself. Santana didn’t know how to balance herself and fell forward and hit her big head on the floor,” says Maribel. “I went to pick her up, but my mother insisted it would teach her a lesson. It’s alright, though. Santana picked up a block and threw it at her head.”

“Will Santana need a block tonight?” Quinn asks. The sun is setting and she fears Santana is being beaten within an inch of her life. “I’m kinda worried.”

“I am, too. But she’s a big girl. She’s tough. She’s been tough since she was born. I was four days past my due date because she refused to come out. And then she sent me into a thirty-seven-hour labor,” Maribel chuckles. “And then had the nerve to come out weighing almost nine pounds and mean-mugging the nurses.”

Maribel’s phone buzzes on the counter. She checks her messages and frowns, causing Quinn to tilt her head at her.

“Santana is spending the night with Brittany,” she says with a discontented sigh before replying something to her daughter. “It must not have gone well.”

“Is she okay?” Quinn asks carefully, unable to read Maribel’s expression. “Is she hurt?”

“I don’t know, mija. She’ll be okay with Brittany. I know that for sure.” Maribel reduces the heat on the stove and brushes the hair from Quinn’s face. “I think you being here has been good for Santana. You keep her busy and safe. You two have a special bond. I want you to stay for as long as you like. I mean it. And Santana won’t admit it, but she enjoys having you here. She never wanted a sibling because, well, she has what I call Main Character Syndrome and wouldn’t get along with another kid, but I think she enjoys having you here because she feels protected by you.”

The idea of protecting Santana is foreign, because it’s always been Santana doing the fighting and swearing—and Quinn is still waiting for her chance to sucker punch the hell out of Finn—but she’s okay with being Santana’s keeper if she has to. She couldn’t protect Beth in that way, and while Santana is nowhere near as fragile as baby Beth, the sentiment is there.

Lucy wants to be protected, but she wants to protect more than anything. This arrangement has worked out very well for everyone. Well, for everyone except Judy Fabray.

—

Senior year began fifty-five days and two hours ago and Quinn has earned herself a one-way ticket to Ms. Pillsbury’s office. Although she isn’t the redhead’s biggest fan, she’s more than grateful it’s her and not Figgins—where she would be if it wasn’t Mr. Schue who witnessed her knee Finn right in the balls.

Ms. Pillsbury rubs some sanitizer into her palms and clears her throat. “Quinn, do you know why you’re here?”

“Because I kicked Finn in his family jewels,” says the former Skank with an affirmative nod. “I thought that was very obvious.”

“Enough of the attitude, Miss Fabray,” says Mr. Schue as he rolls his eyes to the ceiling. Quinn takes a glance up there, too, in case she missed something. “What you did to Finn was wrong and you know it.”

“But outing Santana in the hallway and causing her to be outed on statewide television last night wasn’t?” Quinn challenges, picking dirt from underneath her fingernails. “Look, Mr. Schue, no one in this dumb school knows how to do their job. No one cares that Finn outed Santana and put her in danger, but I bust his left nut and suddenly there’s a problem? You don’t care if Santana gets hurt by this, but you care that I killed a couple of Finn’s swimmers? Get real, Mr. Schue.”

Ms. Pillsbury is quick to intervene by stuttering and shuffling papers on her desk, because Mr. Schue just might combust and throw the girl against the wall. “Quinn, it’s come to my attention that you’ve been kicked out of your home again. Is this true?”

Her jaw falls open a bit, and she’s looking between her teacher and the red-headed woman, eyes stinging with a familiar emotion. She wants to throttle Santana, but she figures the poor girl has been through enough, so she’s forced to reconcile and forgive Santana before she’s tightening her fingers around the strap of her book bag and scooting to the edge of her seat.

“It’s true,” Quinn confirms. “I’ve been through some stuff since the school year started, but I’m fine now. I’m more worried about Santana. She’s scared. She couldn’t sleep last night. Kept tossing and turning. Finally I slipped some NyQuil in her water and she passed out.”

“So I’m assuming you’re staying with the Lopezes,” Ms. Pillsbury says, more of a statement than a question. She opens a file in front of her. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

“No, not really,” says Quinn with a shrug. “I’ve got it taken care of. I don’t need your type of help.”

The counselor seems slighted by Quinn’s demeanor, but Mr. Schue isn’t all that fazed by the way Quinn sits rigidly and slips her mask in place. He steps closer to her, and he feels much larger than she is, so she shrinks away and anticipates the coldness of a ring splitting her cheek open.

“If you’re gonna hit me, do it fast,” she sighs, closing her eyes and bracing herself.

Mr. Schue takes a step or two back from the cowering girl. “I’m not going to hit you, Quinn. Where did you get that from?”

“It’s nothing, Mr. Schue,” insists Quinn. Her eyes flutter open to find Ms. Pillsbury raising a brow at her while fumbling through a stack of pamphlets. “Can I please go? I have history right now and I don’t wanna fall behind.”

“We aren’t done here, Quinn,” says the glee teacher. “Did you think I was going to hit you?”

Quinn continues picking the dirt from her nails, eyes darting everywhere but the two adults in the room. “Well, kinda. I mean, that’s normally what people do when they stand over me like I’m a little girl.”

“I think it’s best that I call Santana’s parents,” says Ms. Pillsbury Dough Face. “Quinn, I know you’ve got it rough right now, but you can’t take your anger out on other people. You hurt Finn, and I think it goes deeper than you protecting Santana.”

It’s Quinn’s turn to roll her eyes. She looks glaringly into the cheap fluorescent lighting and sighs heavily. “Me busting his nuts wasn’t about me. It was because he hurt Santana. Stop making this into something it’s not and just suspend me already. I could use a week away from this place.”

“We’re still calling Santana’s parents,” says Mr. Schue. “I think it’s best that we talk to them one-on-one about this behavior. You walk around here like you don’t have a care in the world, and I know that you’re hurting.”

“You told me to grow up, so I did,” Quinn retorts, folding her arms. “Grownups protect people they care about. I did a better job at it than all of you. The glee kids get thrown into lockers and have slushies thrown in their faces and nobody does a goddamn thing, but I defend my best friend against the guy who ruined her life and suddenly I’m the problem? You people need to get a grip on reality and realize that you probably shouldn’t be working with children.”

“I’ve had enough. Emma, I think Mrs. Lopez would love to spend her Monday morning in this office.”

She knows Mr. Schue is attempting to be threatening, but Quinn would give everything and anything to melt into Maribel right now, so she nods. “I agree. I’ll call her myself.”

Mr. Schue yanks the cellphone from Quinn’s hand sets it on Emma’s desk. The teenager sulks in her seat and angrily glares at the large bottle of hand sanitizer, imagining she were floating away in one of the bubbles.

Ms. Pillsbury is then calling Maribel, and Quinn is certain she hears a few exchanges between them before the redhead hangs up and wipes the phone with a sanitizing wipe.

“Twenty minutes,” announces Ms. Pillsbury. “You look tired, Quinn.”

“Because I share a room with Santana most nights and she was up all night, thanks to Finn’s stupid ass. It’s hard to sleep when you have to get up and lay with a crying girl to help her sleep.” Quinn’s eyes meet the light again and back to the counselor.

“You’re a good friend to her,” says Ms. Pillsbury.

“Yeah, sure. That’s why kicked Finn in his balls.”

“Inappropriate wording, Quinn,” says Mr. Schue, earning a shrug.

When Maribel rushes into the guidance counselor’s office sometime later, she’s stunned to find Quinn in the seat rather than Santana. She figured she should’ve waited for Ms. Pillsbury to provide her with a reason for coming up to the school rather than just rushing at her earliest convenience as soon as she heard she was needed in the guidance counselor’s office.

“Quinn? What happened?” Maribel asks as she kneels next to the pink-haired girl and moves a few strands from her face. “Did you get hurt?”

There’s only one seat in the office, because Sue threw a tantrum over the glee club getting a place in this year’s yearbook and catapulted the second one through the window, so Maribel is kneeling next to Quinn and looking pointedly at the two teachers.

“Quinn, why don’t you have a seat over here while I talk to Mrs. Lopez,” says Ms. Pillsbury as she stands up and ushers Quinn to the corner just behind the desk where there’s a small patch of fluffy carpet and various stacks of pamphlets about eating disorders and self-harm. She ignores them and picks up a stress ball that’s sitting on the shelf, violently squeezing the life out of it.

A lot of adult things are said between Maribel and the educators while Quinn busies herself with the ball. Quinn picks up on familiar buzzwords like “therapy” and “trauma” and “isolated.” She would care, but she doesn’t deserve the help they’re trying to give her, so she focuses on the stress ball and pretends it’s Finn’s head. It doesn’t burst, though. That’s a bit disappointing.

—

Senior year began fifty-seven days and zero hours ago and Santana finds herself sobbing into her knees on her bed. The trundle bed is pulled out and decorated with an array of blankets and the stuffed animal Quinn has been sleeping with, but Quinn is already having a quick breakfast downstairs. Santana isn’t hungry; she feels sick and might be forced to Linda Blair all over her nice comforter set Maribel just bought her at the mall last week.

“Santana, hurry up!” Quinn calls from down the hall, keys spinning around her finger. “I’m driving us and—Santana?”

Santana feels herself being lifted into Quinn’s lap, where she’s frequently been residing for the past few days, and cries quietly into Quinn’s chest. Quinn expertly wraps an arm around Santana’s body and brings her closer, resting her chin atop her head as she shushes her.

“What’s the matter? Your abuela again? I told you, there’s nothing wrong with you, Santana.”

“Not that,” Santana sobs, her breathing becoming ragged and unsteady. She might throw up all over Quinn’s outfit. “I can’t go to school.”

“Why not? I took care of Finn. He won’t bother you anymore,” promises Quinn with a kiss to the crown of Santana’s head. “What’s the matter?”

“You’ll get suspended if I tell you,” mumbles Santana into Quinn’s chest. “I didn’t tell Brittany because I was scared of him hurting her if she says anything.”

A protective hand curls itself around Santana’s side and squeezes her impossibly closer. She breathes in the scent of the familiar clothing detergent her Mami uses to wash their clothes, her eyes fluttering closed as she feels herself crumbling into several pieces.

“What happened, Santana?” Quinn’s voice carries a bit of edge. “Tell me, please. I know you were scared when you found out I was being hurt. I’m worried about you in the same way. Please tell me.”

“Josh Coleman,” is all Santana can muster out. The name leaves her body in a shudder.

“That creep? What did he do? Did he touch you?” Quinn could vomit up her rage, but Lucy is shushing her with a promise to beat his ass. “Santana?”

“No, but he tried to. Said he could make me straight and he would get me one day,” Santana sniffles. “I’m not going to school today. I know Mami will be angry when she gets home, but I can’t go. I know I talk a lot of shit, but for the first time in my life, I’m scared. I’m really scared, Lucy.”

Quinn has an out-of-body experience when Santana calls her Lucy like she knows Lucy is ever-present and steadily beating between them.

“That’s all I need to know,” says Quinn as she pulls away. “I’ll call Mami on my way to school and tell her you’re sick. So lay down and look sick, okay?”

“Don’t get suspended,” Santana warns.

Quinn slips off the bed and spins Santana’s keys around her finger—sharing the car since feeling comfortable to drive themselves again has been an experience. “I’ll get expelled if that’s what it takes.”

Santana goes to protest, but she sort of figures that whatever Quinn has in store for Josh Coleman is well-deserved, even if Figgins disagrees, so she just nods and curls herself into a ball. Where there’s arguing with Quinn, there’s no arguing with Lucy.

Quinn shuts Santana’s door and leaves the house, not even bothering with grabbing her backpack on the way out; she won’t be at school very long.

—

Senior year began fifty-seven days and one hour ago and Quinn is playing with Ms. Pillsbury’s stress ball while sitting on the uncomfortable couch in the principal’s office. The faux leather squeaks beneath her as she shifts awkwardly and pretends it’s not making her ass sweat right through her leggings.

Ms. Pillsbury sits next to her, having an urge to pat her back but is also terrified of having her face reconstructed by a teenage fist of fury like Josh Coleman just did on his way to harass every vulnerable girl on campus, so she refrains from doing so and keeps her hands busy in her lap.

“Second time this week, Miss Fabray,” says Figgins. “We’re waiting for Santana’s mother to arrive, but while we’re here, why don’t we go through your track record of the last six weeks, shall we?”

“Let’s not,” says Quinn. “I know what I did, and I’m prepared for a punishment. But I’ll wait until Mrs. Lopez to get here so she can listen in on the double standard that this school has. And besides, it wasn’t me who punched Josh and shoved his face into a locker. It was Lucy.”

“Lucy?” Ms. Pillsbury questions. “Not the alter-ego thing like Santana. It’s clear she’s beginning to rub off on you. I can grab you a pamphlet about influence and peer pressure from my office when we’re done here.”

“If any of you idiots would read my file, you’d see that my legal first name is Lucy,” says Quinn as she rolls her eyes. “I just don’t go by it anymore. But she’s very angry and protective, and attacking her family makes her very violent. So I suggest you be careful with your accusations against her. She doesn’t like people ganging up on her.”

“Lucy, Quinn, whatever your name is, this is very serious,” states Figgins. “You cannot punch students just because you feel like it. It’s not okay or appropriate school behavior, and you should know better. You’re very lucky I didn’t suspend you for hurting that poor boy in his holly berries.”

Quinn avoided suspension by the skin of her teeth and was let off on a promise to behave herself for the rest of the semester, but Lucy has other plans, and she could use a break from this hellhole, anyway.

The door opens and in saunters Maribel in her loungewear. She looks indignantly at the principal, who shakes her hand and motions for her to have a seat. She squeezes in next to Quinn and immediately takes note of the bruising on her knuckles.

“Mija, your hand! What’s going on here?” the mother demands, eyes flicking between the counselor and principal. “One of my kids is bruised and I certainly didn’t send her like this. My other one is pretending to be sick for an unknown reason, and she never fakes sick to stay home, so something is definitely happening here.”

“Mrs. Lopez, I can assure you that Quinn is perfectly fine. We had the nurse check over her before we called you. The boy she beat up, however, is not as fortunate. Typically we would have both parties meet here, but he was too banged up to make it, so his mother picked him up,” says Figgins. “We need to have a serious conversation about Miss Fabray’s recent behavior. She kicked a boy in his no-no place, and today she attacked a rugby player in the hallway. It doesn’t seem she was provoked or defending herself.”

“Quinn?” Maribel asks as she lifts Quinn’s face by her chin so she can meet her cloudy eyes. “What happened?”

“Josh Coleman happened. I know Santana isn’t sick. She was upset and scared this morning when I tried to get her to come to school. She started crying and said that he threatened her,” says Quinn with a shrug. “Lucy doesn’t like when people threaten someone she cares about.”

“Enough with the alter-ego, Miss Fabray,” Figgins sighs in annoyance, leaning forward and clasping his hands together on the desk. “When something happens at school, you tell an adult.”

“Hold on here. Someone threatened Santana?” Maribel questions. She turns to Figgins, the leather squeaking under her weight. “Did you know about this?”

“I. . .did not. But even so, it doesn’t give anyone the right to attack him. If he did threaten Santana, it’s important that she tells a trustworthy adult, not sic her friend on him like she’s her personal guard dog. We have zero tolerance policy for violence. Quinn broke the policy. Twice!”

Quinn sulks and glares pointedly at Figgins. “What were any of you gonna do about it, huh? He threatens to rape her and you’ll just say he’s being a boy and isn’t serious. And then if he actually does hurt her, you’ll still blame her for not doing anything about it. So what do you want from me?”

“He threatened to rape her?” Maribel asks fervently, hovering over Quinn a bit.

“He said he would make her straight. We know what that means,” says Quinn as she runs a finger over her sore knuckles. “I had to give him a taste of what will happen to him if he ever touches her. I did my job. I punched him and shoved his face into a locker. His nose is probably broken. Too bad, so sad.”

Ms. Pillsbury interjects before Maribel can completely blow her top. “Mrs. Lopez, while it’s not okay to make such threats, it’s also not okay for Quinn to assault him. She could have sent him to the hospital. She could have seriously injured him.”

“Maybe that’s true, but back to Quinn’s question: what was going to be done about it?”

A silence falls upon the room, and Maribel nods confidently and stands up, taking Quinn’s hand in the process and slinging her purse over her shoulder. She looks between Ms. Pillsbury and Figgins, shaking her head in dismay.

“I’ll accept whatever punishment Quinn receives for punching him, but I want something done about that boy, even if I have to bring Santana in myself tomorrow morning and spend all day in this office working something out,” says Maribel. Figgins can see where Santana gets her fire, and he almost wets himself when the mother leans over the desk, one hand still taking hold of Quinn, who idly observes in pleasure. “I don’t care if I have to sit in on every one of her classes and walk with her to lunch; something will be done, and nobody is going to lay a hand on my daughter, so unless you want me here all day, every day, I suggest you get it together and find something to do about it. I’ve already sued every last person associated with releasing that ad that outed her. What makes you think I’ll let you get away with letting a rapist run loose and attack my kid?”

“Quinn is suspended for the rest of the week,” says Figgins. “Bring Santana in tomorrow morning so we can have a discussion and take care of this. As for Quinn, if she does something like this again, I’ll be forced to extend the suspension or expel her altogether.”

“Oh, I’ll be here. And if nothing is done, I’ll be here the next day and the day after that and the day after that,” says Maribel, tugging Quinn towards the door. “Come on, mija. We’re gonna go to the store and get ice cream for you and Santana. Brittany is coming over later. You can choose one for her, too.”

Maribel tugs Quinn out the door, and Quinn smiles and holds up the stress ball. “They’re all stupid. I took the ball.”

“Don’t even bother giving it back.”

—

Senior year began fifty-nine days and two hours ago and Quinn and Santana are watching a rerun of SpongeBob while Maribel busies herself in the kitchen with a phone call from Principal Figgins. Quinn holds a half gallon of cookie dough ice cream in her lap while Santana scoops her own chocolate ice cream into her mouth.

“Do you think he got suspended?” Santana asks Quinn. “I don’t wanna go back. I don’t want him to hurt me or Brittany or you or even stupid Berry. He’s really creepy.”

Quinn mutes the TV and looks reassuringly at Santana, who stares apprehensively at her ice cream as if it wronged her. She rests her bruised hand against Santana’s shoulder.

“Hey. Something is gonna be done about him,” promises Quinn. “You didn’t hear what Mami said to Figgins. She won’t let anything bad happen, okay? I promise.”

“Thanks for beating him up, Lucy,” says Santana. She isn’t sure why she feels so comfortable with calling Quinn by her government name, but Quinn doesn’t mind. In fact, she prefers being called Lucy; it’s more of a reminder that Lucy was just a scared little girl who was bullied and still made it out alive. “I was too scared to do anything when he said that. I just froze. And when he walked away, he kinda brushed my shoulder and I felt really sick. I threw up in the girls’ bathroom, and Brittany freaked out and thought she somehow got me pregnant with her lady parts.”

Trying not to think of a Santana/Brittany hybrid child, Quinn scoots closer to the girl and wraps her arm around her. The ice cream carton melts in their warmth and the edges drip with sugar, all but forgotten in their laps.

“Babies,” Maribel calls as she enters the room, pocketing her cellphone. “I have good news. That terrible boy has been expelled indefinitely, and Quinn, you can return to school on Monday.” Breaking her own rule, she sits on the coffee table in front of the yellow sponge and looks sadly at the two girls. “I don’t like violence, and I would be very upset if you had hurt him for nothing, but you were protecting Santana, so I’m going to let this go. But now that it’s said and done and Santana is safe, I don’t want something like this to happen again, okay?”

“I understand,” says Quinn with a nod. She stares into the ice cream. “I thought you were going to kick me out. You know, for causing you trouble and making you go to school twice in a week.”

Maribel clicks her tongue and pats Quinn’s knee. “There is nothing you could ever do to justify me making you homeless. Just don’t murder anyone and we’re okay.”

Quinn raises a brow and smiles. “No promises.”

Santana rests her head on Quinn’s shoulder and feels Lucy’s presence loom over her. It’s less of a person and more of an aura that feels protective and safe. Maybe Lucy isn’t much of a person but is a spirit. Santana wonders if Quinn can feel her fluttering around her chest.

“Mami? Can Brittany come over tonight?” Santana asks.

“Is water wet?” Maribel asks, squeezing her daughter’s knee.

“Actually, water itself is not wet. Water is water. The act of something touching water makes it wet,” says Quinn with a definitive nod, as if it’s the smartest thing she’s ever said.

“Alright, Miss Smartypants,” quips Maribel as she stands and leaves a kiss on Quinn and Santana’s faces in turn before leaving the room.

Santana leans further into Lucy’s aura and sits safely in her protection. Quinn unmutes the TV and a squeaky laugh from the sponge fills the room.

“I’m not afraid anymore,” Quinn suddenly says, as SpongeBob is building a bubble stand. “You know. Of Ace. Russell. Judy. They all tried to overpower me in different ways, but I’m not scared anymore. Even if my father tried to come back, I would never call him Dad, and even if Judy tried to be nice to me for once in her life, I would never call her Mom. It was pulling teeth to get her to help me with the restraining order. She didn’t seem very concerned that I was beaten almost to death.”

“She thinks it’s normal to be beaten, Lucy,” says Santana. “Russell was a shithead to her. The few times I did go to your house as a kid, he was really scary. Like your house was boot camp or something. He would yell at you and Judy and wouldn’t let me use your bathroom because I was a guest and guests had to use the downstairs bathroom because he didn’t like outside germs mixing with family germs. And there was that time I brought you candy from Mexico as a peace offering after we argued about a stupid boy in fifth grade and Russell threw it away in front of me and said you couldn’t have it because it was ethnic.”

“I’m sorry for all the shit you had to see in my house. That’s why I stopped inviting you over in seventh grade,” says Quinn in earnest. “Things really got weird when Frannie left. You thought Russell was unhinged before then? When Frannie, his perfect child, left home, he started being really strict and kinda abusive, and Judy just let him because she needed to feel some sort of control. She had no control over anything in her life because she was taught to submit to a man. He would make her and I sit at the table well into the night and read Bible quotes about women being property and to obey their fathers and husbands. I’m sure he has a small dick. I know that’s a weird thing to think about your own sperm donor, but he has to be compensating for something. He doesn’t have personality or looks or brains or a dick, so might as well be angry all the time to feel powerful. It’s a wonder I turned out so pretty with him looking like a toad and Judy looking like a Who.”

“You’re really smart, Lucy,” says Santana. “I think you’ll get into an Ivy League college.”

Quinn side-eyes Santana a bit. “You’ve been calling me Lucy more often.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Not really. If I’m honest, I’m not so sure I want to be just Quinn anymore. At first I wanted to go by Quinn because I wanted to forget all about Lucy. But then I realized that Lucy was just a scared child and didn’t deserve to be treated the way she was treated,” says Quinn, her eyes becoming sad. “She was trying to protect me this whole time. Every time Russell or Ace hit me, she would tell me to fight back. Every time Judy called me a disgrace, she told me I’m perfect the way I am. I’d like to go by Lucy again, but I don’t think it’d stick. People would just make fun of me like they did when I was younger.”

“Come back to glee,” says Santana. “They’ll understand. They’ll call you Lucy. It’s your birth name anyway. If they’re willing to call me Satan, I’m sure they’ll call you Lucy.”

Quinn picks her skin and shrugs uncertainly. “I just don’t wanna be this Quinn anymore. But I also don’t want a whole new name. Lucy deserved better than what she got.”

“So give her a second chance,” says Santana.

Quinn—Lucy—smiles and squeezes Santana’s hand.

—

Senior year began sixty-two days and seven hours ago and Lucy is flanked by Santana and Brittany as they approach the choir room. Chatter from the club fills the air, and Lucy can hear Rachel harmonizing something with Kurt, if she listens closely. She’s not been here in what feels like decades, and stepping closer to the door feels like greeting an old friend.

“I’m a little nervous,” Lucy admits. “I don’t know if they want me to come back.”

“I may have already taken care of that,” says Santana. “I didn’t tell them you went back to your old name, but I did tell them you were probably coming back and I would put my foot in their assholes if they objected to it. You’re welcome.”

“They were totally scared,” says Brittany. She runs a knuckle over Santana’s cheek. “That’s my girl.”

Santana intakes her surroundings and finds the coast to be clear before melting into Brittany’s touch. “I love you.”

Brittany goes in to rub her nose against Santana’s, but they’re quickly stopped by Lucy, who clears her throat expectantly and taps her foot.

“Can you two be gay a little later? We’re already late,” says Lucy.

“Cockblocker,” Santana mumbles, pulling away from the would-be kiss that Brittany was leaning in for.

A tiny smile finds its way on Lucy’s face. “I don’t think Brittany has one of those, but whatever.”

Lucy inhales and pushes open the door to the choir room. The chatter and commotion come to a screeching halt as she enters and stands awkwardly off to the side, almost waiting for her cue to speak or move. Mike stops dancing in the middle of the room, and Mercedes drops her handful of Tina’s hair that she was brushing into a ponytail until now.

“Hey,” says Lucy, quite shy, which is unlike herself in this situation. “I’m back.”

“We thought Satan was just playing us,” Kurt says from his place at Rachel’s side. “We didn’t think you’d actually come back.”

Santana bristles at the flash of hurt that crosses Lucy’s face. “Foot, meet Kurt’s asshole.”

Brittany puts one arm in front of Santana to avoid her jumping their friend and reconstructing one of his holes with her cheer shoe. She figures that would be painful.

Rachel moves closer to Lucy, teetering on her feet as if she’s concerned with breaking her if she gets too close. “Well, although you’ve been gone for the first two months, I’m certain we can get you caught up in no time. I mean, I could, at least. Welcome back, Quinn.”

“Lucy,” she corrects, earning a few suspicious glances from the group of people who have formed a circle around her as if she’s an attraction. “Call me Lucy.”

Artie holds up one finger. “Lucy? Like Lucy Cab—“

Santana immediately kicks the side of his wheelchair and hisses something in Spanish into his ear, effectively silencing him while the rest of the group fawns over Lucy. Mercedes goes in for a quick hug and pulls away from Lucy while leaving a kiss on her cheek.

Mr. Schue enters the room, attempting to contain the hushed chatter of the room by ushering the kids to their seats, but he stops when he sees Lucy awkwardly shuffling on her feet, as if she isn’t sure if she’s allowed to take the empty seat next to Mercedes and Rachel.

“Quinn? Have you decided to come back to glee?” Mr. Schue asks.

“It’s Lucy. And only if you want me here,” Lucy responds. “I know I’ve caused a lot of trouble, but I’m trying to get past it. I hope you all can forgive me for leaving glee and ignoring you. It hasn’t exactly been a cakewalk, but at least I made it out.”

“I’m sure you’re forgiven. Of course you can come back. We’ve been looking forward to your return,” says Mr. Schue. “That seat belongs to you.”

Lucy feels warm when she takes her seat. She sinks into the familiarity and the memories she’s made thus far in this chair, sandwiched between Rachel and Mercedes.

“Lucy!” Rachel gasps as Mr. Schue is shuffling papers. “Your knuckles! What happened to you?”

“You should see the other guy,” is all Lucy says, a telling smirk on her face.

Rachel can’t help herself but to word vomit. “Are you hurt elsewhere? Do we need to tell someone? That looks quite serious!”

From her seat in the back row, Santana violently kicks the back of Rachel’s chair, almost sending the girl flying out of her seat, to which Rachel responds with a hair flip and vicious glare.

“I’m trying to be a good friend,” Rachel defends to Santana.

“Mind your own business, Berry,” says Santana. Brittany settles a warning hand on her knee.

“It’s fine, Santana,” Lucy says, twisting in her seat to look at Rachel. “I’m okay, I promise. You don’t have to be worried.”

Rachel moves her bangs from her face and nods. “Good. We’ve all missed you. Some of us a little less than others.” Her eyes shift towards Finn, who’s staying as far away from Santana’s wrath as possible. “But still. We still missed you.”

Lucy’s ball of nerves that resides in her stomach begins to unravel as Mr. Schue begins going over a few songs on a set list. She feels like the new kid and the old kid all at once, and once the room erupts into song sometime later, she finds her place in it, harmonizing and moving about the room in time with the rest of them as if she never left.

—

Senior year ended one day and three hours ago and Lucy, Santana, and Brittany are sitting on the back porch as Lucy lights up a cigarette and takes a heavy drag. She’s not been able to completely kick the habit, but she’s proud of the fact that it takes her almost two weeks to finish a pack.

“I’m sorry you have to stay behind, Britt,” Santana says. She tries not to sound pitiful or condescending about it although her heart aches at the thought of leaving her previous Brittany behind in this shithole town while she shakes her pom-poms in Kentucky.

Brittany shrugs and picks a few blades of gross from the ground where she sits. “Somebody’s gotta keep an eye on Mr. Schue and Tina and look after the new glee kids. They’re gonna be really confused by him. And besides, I don’t think I’m ready to leave Lord Tubbington yet. I think he got our neighbor’s cat pregnant and I’m gonna have to pay child support when the babies are born.”

“Isn’t Lord T fixed?” Lucy asks, raising a brow. “He can’t get another cat pregnant if he’s had his balls snipped.”

“But I heard them talking. She said he got her pregnant when they made loud, passionate love behind our trash cans last month,” Brittany says with certainty. “I’m about to be a grandma. I’m too young to be a grandma! We’ve tried to discuss birth control with him, but he’s just a horny cat. Cats will be cats, I guess. Sex feels really good. I can’t blame them. Santana and I would have, like, seven kids by now if we had opposite parts.”

Santana rolls her eyes and nudges Brittany with her bare foot, effectively sending Brittany toppling off the bottom step of the porch and flat onto the ground. Lucy almost swallows her cigarette with a laugh, watching Brittany roll herself over to grab hold of Santana and pull her down, her fingers fluttering over her sides to tickle her.

The back door screams open as Maribel emerges from the house with a tray of ice cream bowls and various toppings in ramekins. She raises a brow at Lucy, who just shrugs and finishes off her cigarette while Brittany has Santana pinned beneath her.

“Please tell me they’re just roughhousing,” Maribel tells Lucy as she sets the tray down on the small table and nestles herself next to Lucy on the porch swing. “She’s going to miss Brittany so much.”

“I know,” sighs Lucy. “I will, too. I mean, not in that way, but you know. We’ve been friends for years and I don’t wanna leave either of them.”

“But mija, Yale. You got into Yale,” Maribel praises, patting Lucy’s knee. “You’re so smart. And you just gave me so many bragging rights. Judy gets no credit. I get to walk around telling everybody that I have two babies in college and one of them is Ivy League. Just promise me that you’ll come back for holidays and you’ll call every week. And be as irritating as you can to Santana while she’s in Kentucky. I know she’s going to be very lonely without Brittany by her side, so I need you to be a thorn in her side so she doesn’t feel so alone.”

“Of course. But promise that you’ll take care of Brittany while we’re gone,” Lucy propositions, her eyes holding a bit of grief. “You probably won’t see her very much since Santana and I will be gone, but try to call Whitney every now and again to make sure she’s okay. She’s fragile.”

Maribel nods sadly and goes to say something inspirational or comforting but is cut off by Santana shrieking in pain from across the yard. Her motherly instincts kick into overdrive, and she catches Santana in her arms.

“I got a splinter in my foot,” she whimpers. “It hurts, Mami.”

“So dramatic, Santana. Let me see,” says Maribel as she attempts to grab hold of Santana’s ankle.

“No! You’ll hurt it worse!” Santana accuses. She hoists her legs up so they’re sitting in Lucy’s lap while she clings to her mother’s shirt. “Lucy! You pull it out!”

“Why me?” Lucy scoffs. “Do I look like a doctor to you?”

“Do it now! It hurts!” Santana glares.

Rolling her eyes, Lucy grabs Santana’s ankle. “Hold still or it will hurt.” She pinches the small piece of wood between her index and thumb and begins dislodging it from Santana’s skin.

“OW! It hurts!” Santana cries. “Ow, ow, ow! OUCH!”

Santana continues to holler and wail while Lucy desperately tries to remove the splinter. Brittany approaches Santana and rests a gentle hand on her back while Maribel keeps a tight grip on her arms to prevent her from smacking Lucy.

“OW!” Santana wails, but Lucy is already holding the dislodged splinter in her hand.

“All done, you crybaby,” says Lucy. “Now dry your tears so you can have ice cream.”

Like a toddler, Santana wipes her cheeks with the backs of her hands and grabs her half-melted ice cream, dumping a load of gummy bears on top before limping into the house, Brittany following like an obedient puppy.

“You should work with children,” Maribel declares to Lucy. “You’re good with Santana.”

“I wanna be a child psychologist,” says Lucy. “Maybe I can finally figure out why Santana is the way she is.”

Maribel laughs. “I wish you the best of luck with that.”

—

Lucy finishes her time at Yale ten years down the road, earning her doctorate in child psychology. She visits Santana and Brittany in New York sometime after her graduation—where Maribel and Santana humiliated her by cheering in the crowd and taking godawful photos—and when she arrives at the 600-square-foot piece of heaven Santana and Brittany have created for themselves, she drops her suitcase at the door and makes herself at home, as she frequently has done during holidays and birthdays in the past few years.

“So you’re a doctor now,” Santana says as she pours Lucy a cup of coffee that Brittany just made.

“I haven’t gotten my fellowship yet,” reminds Lucy. “But I have learned plenty enough in the last ten years to know what’s wrong with you.”

Brittany comes to Santana’s side and wraps an arm around her wife’s waist. She loves her sister-in-law, but she’s okay with Santana jumping her. Just this once, for laughs.

“So what’s wrong with me, Miss Doctor?” Santana challenges.

“You have control issues and lack the ability to allow people to take control because you fear that losing any control will cause you to spiral, and you’re mean to people because that’s how you defend yourself. It’s called projection,” says Lucy, twiddling her thumbs around the mug. “Typically, people like that will allow one or two people beyond their walls. Which, for you, would be Brittany.”

“Excuse me, I allow Brittany to take control all the time,” Santana says, folding her arms over her chest.

“That’s just called being a bottom,” Lucy chuckles.

Santana makes a fist and charges towards her sister. “You’re getting it, pendeja.”

Maribel exits the bathroom and intercepts her two kids, effectively putting a barrier between them and stopping Santana’s fist in mid-air. Lucy blinks a few times, unsure of when her mother materialized before her eyes.

“Mami! I didn’t know you’d be here!” Lucy says excitedly as Maribel wraps her arms around her in a hug to last a lifetime. “When did you get in?”

“Last night. I’ve been playing housekeeper for these two since,” says Maribel. “Dirty underwear in the sink, tampon wrappers on the floor, dishes haven’t been washed in years. I’m supposed to be in my prime, mis niñas. Not washing my adult daughter’s crusty panties in the bathtub because she couldn’t bother to get a washing machine and hook it up to the water line and instead pays a million dollars at the laundromat.”

“They’re not crusty,” mumbles Santana. “And anyways, we wanted you both to be here.”

“What’s the occasion?” Lucy asks. “You finally gonna allow me to evaluate you?”

Santana hums and politely caresses her sister’s hair out of her face so she doesn’t punch her. Maribel is watching, and Santana is not too old to have her behind spanked.

“No, but you can evaluate our kid in a few years. Just let Britt and I get it nice and fucked up for you first,” says Santana.

Neither Lucy or Maribel register the comment at first, but when it finally settles in, both women are staring agape at Santana and Brittany, who laugh and push a small piece of paper across the table.

“I don’t have the right parts to get Britt pregnant, but we found a way,” says Santana with a shrug. “This is the only one, so enjoy this moment.”

Lucy cries with joy.

—

Lucy was always Santana’s keeper from an early age. And then, at the tender age of seventeen, she accidentally became Brittany’s, too. And at the busy and stressful age of twenty-eight, she’s standing in the maternity ward of the hospital she’s been working out of—because the mental health of children only continues to decline with time and the ever-changing throes of society and parenting —and cradling a tiny six-pound, eight-ounce baby to her chest.

“She’s perfect,” Lucy whispers in awe.

“She looks like Brittany already. Even though she’s kinda wrinkly,” says Santana as she stands at Lucy’s side. “Brittany did good. She only told me to fuck off one time.”

Lucy chuckles and continues to bounce the baby in her arms. The way she gurgles and squirms as her body becomes accustomed to being outside of the womb reminds Lucy so much of Beth before she was ripped from her arms at just a few hours old. This baby is only two hours new and already permanently glued to Lucy’s skin.

“Thanks for deciding to stay in New York,” Santana says as Lucy is pressing a kiss to the top of the baby’s hat—kissing her face is a huge boundary that Santana will absolutely kill her over. “I knew you could take your doctorate anywhere. I’m glad it’s here. Mami was supposed to fly out next week, right before Brittany’s due date, but because baby girl was so impatient and decided to pop out right before Britt and I were supposed to go on our Valentine’s Day date, she’s not gonna be here for a couple days. She had a fucking heart attack when I told her Brittany was in labor. She thought she would have enough time to get on a flight and make it in time, thinking that Brittany would be in labor for days, but goddamn, within four hours, I saw the head.”

“I’d rather be here. New Haven was nice while I needed it, but there’s nothing but preppy guys and weird theater kids there,” Lucy says, shifting the baby to her other arm. “You and Brittany are gonna need some help. Mami and Papi can’t stay forever.”

“Mami can, but I’ll be honest, I give it a week before I tell her to go back to Lima,” says Santana. “Brittany’s parents are coming by in a week, for just a couple days to make sure she’s okay and to see the baby. It’s good to have some family here. I told Kurt and Blaine to make sure their crotch fruit has all her shots before daring to step foot in our house. And if Rachel comes in singing some shit from her Funny Girl show, I’m throwing her out the window. Everyone is welcome to visit, but to see the baby, we’re all going in an order of sanity.”

Lucy sways and looks confusingly at Santana. “Sanity? We can’t all be last.”

The baby gurgles more and stretches her arms out of her blanket, her eyes finally opening wide to reveal those storm cloud hues Lucy expected based on Brittany’s eye color.

“Hey there,” Lucy coos. “I didn’t mean to wake you. I’m your Tia Lucy. Can you say that?”

The baby sighs tiredly and mean mugs Lucy before closing her eyes and bringing her fist to her mouth, effectively ignoring her aunt.

“Your baby just rolled her eyes at me,” the now-blonde-again woman tells Santana, who shrugs in pride. “What’s her name?”

Santana side-eyes Lucy. “You’re gonna laugh.”

“I won’t. I couldn’t make fun of this sweet little baby. It’s not her fault she has you for a parent.” Lucy is only joking, but Santana would love to stomp on her foot.

“Since she decided to tear up my wife’s vagina on the one holiday we do very expensive, intimate things, we named her after today. Valentina Maribel Lopez-Pierce.”

Lucy smiles and snuggles baby Valentina close to herself. “Oh, sweet Valentina. I can’t wait until you’re sitting in my office and telling me all the terrible things your moms say in front of you that alter your brain chemistry.”

Santana glares, but while Lucy is busy snuggling the newborn, she snaps a picture with her cellphone and quickly sends it to her mother.

Valentina yawns and nestles into her aunt Lucy’s chest. And as soon as Lucy feels the baby’s tiny heart beating against hers, she knows that she’s become her keeper, too.