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“We face a dire hour, Cheerios,” Coach Sylvester intones. She has all the Cheerios lined up in front of her. She paces like a drill sergeant. Quinn doesn’t blink, doesn’t move. Santana and Brittany stand on either side of her, and she can feel them reach for each other’s hands behind her back. “William Schuester has deigned to create a glee club.”
“Why’s that a problem?” And that’s Santana, cocking an eyebrow, leaning forward. She’s one of the only people on the team who actually challenges Coach Sylvester occasionally. Quinn thinks she’s stupid for doing it, but she’s also her best (only?) actual friend here, so. “I mean, a bunch of talentless losers singing showtunes or whatever isn’t going to threaten us.”
A few of the other Cheerios snicker, and Coach Sylvester tenses.
“Make no mistake.” Her voice is low, threatening. She looks like a big cat about to strike. “This glee club is dangerous. These delusional singing-and-dancing hooligans are going to tear us apart limb from limb if we aren’t careful.”
“How so?”
“There’s only room for one prominent extracurricular in this school. And it’s us.” Coach Sylvester looks right at them. “It’s always been us.”
***
“I’ve pulled together a dossier of everybody who might be worth considering for the club,” Rachel says, and she’s mostly just thrilled by the fact that these people are letting her in, that she’s sitting at a table with other students instead of a wide array of posters, that they’re listening to her. “Unfortunately most of them have already turned me down, but it’s worth considering regardless.”
“We’ve got six p-p-p-people already,” Tina points out. Her stutter always comes in at odd times, but it doesn’t impede her singing, so Rachel doesn’t inquire about it.
“Why’s Quinn Fabray on here?” Artie asks. "Isn't she kind of a bitch?"
“We’re not friends,” Rachel hastens, because they’re not. They happen to have two classes together and Quinn calls her names and Rachel tends to scoff in response. “Again, I’m just covering all of our bases. It’s more of a comprehensive database than a set of suggestions.”
“This is some serial killer bull,” Mercedes mutters. “This has everyone’s vocal range and blood type. How’d you even find this out?”
“Oh, I have contacts in the AV club. Coach Sylvester - the cheerleading coach, the one who’s always wearing tracksuits - has them recite Michael Bolton’s discography in slam poem form in order to warm them up and - test loyalty, I think.”
“Oh, yeah, Quinn told me that once.” Finn’s sitting with them, too, but he’s bunched up, sort of hunched over, only partially because he’s so tall – Rachel has a sinking suspicion that he’s embarrassed to be around them. “Sue’s pretty weird.”
“I still d-don’t understand why we n-n-n-eed more people.”
“Because national show choir rules state that clubs need at least twelve members in order to participate. Sectionals in this county aren’t until November so we have time but it can’t hurt to be prepared.”
“We should really be thinking about doing a number that doesn’t suck.”
“I have some ideas,” Finn pipes up, and maybe it’s because he’s more popular than all five of them combined, and maybe it’s because he’s here even though he has every reason to leave them all in the dust, and maybe it’s because Rachel is already starting to fall in love with him a little bit, but they listen, and it’s nice.
***
“I really don’t get why Coach Sylvester’s got her granny-panties in such a twist over this show choir thing.” Santana checks her reflection in the bathroom mirror. All three of them - herself, Quinn, and Brittany - are hiding out from Cheerio practice, taking the teen-girl equivalent of a smoke break.
(Quinn doesn’t smoke. She’d never smoke. Good girls don’t do that, haven’t you heard?)
“It’s not like anyone we know is even going to join. So what if some acne-scarred geek babies with a long future in their moms’ basements want to sing?” Santana pauses, scowls at her reflection. “That wasn’t very good.”
“Hm?” Brittany looks up from where she’s been watching a row of ants devour a stick of gum.
“I’m working on my insults.”
“Oh.”
“Anyway, the point is, the glee club’s irrelevant.”
“It’s not.” It’s the first thing Quinn’s said since the three of them slipped away, citing lady issues (and receiving a sharp reprimand from Coach Sylvester for not scheduling their periods to align with the off-season) and the words feel sour in her mouth. “Finn joined.”
Santana’s mouth drops open. Brittany lets one of the ants climb onto her finger.
“You’re joking.”
“I wish I was. That freak Rachel Berry got into his head somehow.”
“Fuck, not her. The MySpace girl?”
“Maybe she blackmailed him. Maybe that teacher blackmailed him.”
“I have him for Spanish.” Santana props herself up on the sink, leans on the mirror so it’s full of her red uniform and nothing else. Quinn’s almost grateful; she doesn’t like being tempted to look at herself, to envision the stretch marks pushing against her stomach as the thing she’s been trying not to think about pushes against her uterus- “He’s a racist dick. And I speak better Spanish than him.”
“Then why aren’t you in a higher Spanish class?”
“It’s an easy A. It’s forty-five minutes where I can turn my brain off.”
“Right.” Quinn takes the out - no need to keep talking about Finn throwing his lot in with the bottom-feeders, how that’ll track back to her, how someone will find out eventually.
(She doesn’t even know what she’s afraid of people finding, really - she’s the Ship of Theseus, she’s not really a person anymore)
“I have my brain turned off most of the day,” Brittany chimes in, having now stuck the gum to the window to watch the ants try and climb it vertically. “My parents think it’s Lord Tubbington’s dandruff but it’s actually because I like being bored.”
“Anyway, we should probably get back soon.” Santana looks at Brittany for a moment - fond, it’s a fondness that Quinn knows she can’t ask her about, that’s not how their friendship works - and turns back to Quinn. “Don’t want Coach Sylvester getting suspicious.”
“Of course not.” Quinn leads the charge on the way out, then, because she’s not the leader in this trio (it’s a flat team structure; if anything Santana’s the one at the helm) but she’s the captain of the Cheerios and she’s the point person in most of their routines. Then Santana laughs to herself again. “What?”
“I’m just thinking about Finn onstage with those geeks. Isn’t he a really bad dancer?”
“The worst.” Quinn forces warmth into her voice, that oh, you know how men are tone she’s heard Judy and her friends take at wine hours. She likes Finn, really, she does. He’s nice. He’s gentle with her, and he never pushes her too far (and she’s going to break his heart) and he doesn’t want anything more than what he has. Football, some buddies, and now this club as a passing novelty or else brain fungus courtesy of Rachel Berry. “We tried going to a formal at the Lima Country Club this summer and he almost broke my foot stepping on it.”
“I broke my foot once by getting it stuck in a locker,” Brittany adds. Santana loops their pinkies together.
“And Rachel Berry.” Santana cackles, and she’s beautiful when she laughs - she’s always beautiful - and Quinn presses down the hot feeling in her chest. Heartburn, or else exhaustion from practice. Some side effect of the thing, draining her energy, eating her food. Does it have a mouth yet? It must. “Holy shit. That’s gotta burn for you, Quinn.”
“She’s like fourteen. He’s probably taking pity on her.” Quinn’s hackles are rising, her chest still feels like it’s on fire. “Some kind of charity project.” They can track IP addresses now, can’t they? If Rachel Berry cared enough she’d know exactly how to find SkySplits93. Not that Quinn cares. She’s said worse to her face.
“Right, well, just as long as he doesn’t start dragging her to games.”
They’re in the hallway now, and the students part for them. Red Sea, Old Testament. One thing she has in common with Rachel Berry – they’ve read this same section. Except the Cheerios are the people everyone’s fleeing from.
There are people Quinn simply, genuinely views as beneath her. Dirt on her heel, unfortunate reminders of who she once was. Lucy Caboosey, dead and gone. These people don’t bother her - she thinks about them for a few seconds, feels a twinge of discomfort, and moves on with her life.
Rachel Berry isn’t one of them. Rachel Berry isn’t a mirror - Quinn was never that bold, never that unrepentant. She wasn’t nice, either - she was surly, snappy, quiet and mean when someone bothered to look in her direction - but she kept her head down. She wasn’t the one targeting people so much as the prey biting back. She has nothing in common with Rachel Berry. She has nothing that should let this girl bother her.
But Rachel Berry is an adversary, now - a rival for Finn’s affections, an obstacle in her way. Quinn’s almost relieved. Finally, a reason to hate her, something concrete, something she can use as a defense. She’s trying to steal my boyfriend, see, look, how can you argue with that?
Quinn isn’t Coach Sylvester - she doesn’t concoct schemes. She doesn’t play elaborate games of chess with her peers. She says what she means and she orders slushie attacks when she feels like it and she dedicates more of her energy than she should to keeping herself on top of the ladder. That's all.
“This is where I get off,” Santana says, stopping at a sharp left turn in the hallway. Brittany’s still holding her hand. If Quinn was just slightly worse she’d make a comment about that – are you two hooking up or something? But they’re allies. Lions don’t eat lions.
“Coach Sylvester’s going to chew you out if you ditch now.”
“Of course I’m not ditching, Jesus, Fabray, you think I have a death wish? We’re staggering our times. So she doesn’t realize we were skipping out and aren’t actually totally synced on our periods.” Santana pauses. “So you go, we’ll do a loop around the school, the old bat’s none the wiser.”
“You’re a genius,” Quinn says, dry as she can, and wonders if Santana takes her for an idiot.
“That’s why I’m the one who isn’t getting my boyfriend stolen out from under me by the Target Kids section.” Santana gives a waggly little wave and then saunters off before Quinn can snap a reply back.
She’s going to tear Rachel Berry apart, if she doesn’t do the same to Quinn first.
***
Rachel tries to avoid the bathrooms when she can, but she also understands the importance of hydration and does not want to end up on the receiving end of a UTI because she held in all of her pee for an entire day.
She’d like to say that she’s an expert at tuning out the bullies, that she lets their words roll off her back like raindrops or something equally poetic, but the truth is that their comments burrow, that she resents needing to dedicate so much energy to combatting that when by all means she should be dedicating her energy to more important things, such as her burgeoning musical career, which will burgeon further now that the Glee Club is actually semi-competent.
Which is why she can feel the good mood of the day dissipate the moment she steps out of the stall and sees Quinn Fabray at the sink closest to the door, staring at herself like she’s a foreign object.
Rachel, refusing to show fear, purposefully strides towards the closest sink (the one on the other side of the bathroom, conveniently) and washes her hands and does not try to make herself quiet (her Mary Janes always click on the tile anyways) and she rolls her shoulders back and briefly checks her reflection (there she is, same as always) and it’s only when she turns off the faucet that her enemy faces her.
“What do you want?” Quinn Fabray snarls, and Rachel does not flinch because at least there wasn’t a slur tacked on the end of that sentence, which is what she’s come to expect.
“The last time that I checked, this was a free country and I could use the bathroom for its intended purpose,” Rachel retorts, and she holds the sink tight so that Quinn doesn’t see her hands shaking at all. She isn’t afraid of her, not really. She’s never thrown a slushie in Rachel’s face herself - she’s above that, maybe, or else doesn’t want to stain her hands - but she’s said worse, done worse.
“I meant what do you want with Finn.”
“Oh, nothing at all, not romantically anyways.” Lying through her teeth, of course, but she can’t very well tell Finn’s girlfriend that she has a crush on him. “He’s an exemplary male lead and we need that - no offense to Artie or Kurt-”
“I don’t know who either of those people are-”
“-but Finn just has that je ne sais quoi that’ll allow this club to make it to Nationals.”
“Nationals.” Quinn’s voice drops several octaves, comes out as a low and nasally sneer. She’s leaning in close and Rachel can see a handful of freckles on her nose, dusted over with concealer. “Do they even have national championships for show choir?”
“They do! And William McKinley High School’s Glee Club won in 1993 - they were significantly defunded early on in the Bush era and of course the death of former advisor Lillian Adler was another terrible blow but under Mr. Schuester’s tutelage - and with Finn’s help - it seems like we might actually be able to be national contenders again.”
“You’re six losers being toted around by a creep trying to relive his glory days. You’ll be lucky to win Sectionals.”
“See, you already know the lingo. It’s the same as cheerleading competitions, and McKinley is known for cheerleading - who’s to say that the Glee Club can’t work in tandem with that?”
“Common sense. Everyone with eyes.”
If Rachel was good - if she was a Disney Channel sort of protagonist, somebody who uplifts others instead of climbing on them to get to the top - this would be the moment she reached out to Quinn Fabray, her tormentor, and she would put a hand on her shoulder and tell her that she doesn’t have to be this terrible, that she can join the Glee Club, that there is space for everybody, here.
Except she isn’t, and she doesn’t, and instead she backs away and glares at her.
“You’re a brilliant person, you know - I’ve seen you in chemistry class and there was that time we had to peer-review each other’s English essays and you had a genuinely insightful opinion about the misogyny in The Taming of the Shrew, and none of it matters at all because instead you’re going to waste away as somebody who peaked in high school with a cheerleading trophy as her only crowning achievement.” Rachel speaks in a Trans-Atlantic accent because she wants people to hear every slope of every word, every spit-out consonant, and she emphasizes each one as she tears Quinn Fabray apart and barely cares. “You are going to peak in high school and in five years when I’m in college in New York and/or on Broadway I won’t even remember your name.”
“At least I’m not a desperate little troll who has to steal other people’s boyfriends to be interesting.”
Their faces are inches from each other and if she wanted - if she was an entirely different person and this was an entirely different world - Rachel could kiss her. She doesn’t, of course - she has more self-respect than that, even if Quinn Fabray is objectively pretty, even if she wears that prettiness like armor and does a very good job of it - but physically, conceptually, it is possible.
“At least I’m honest about who I am.” Then Rachel - nearly a full head shorter, over a year younger, small and powerless and furious - shoves Quinn back.
For a split second - so fast she might’ve imagined it, one of those floating dots when you open your eyes - she thinks Quinn looks wounded.
As quickly as the expression appeared, though, it’s gone, and Quinn walks out of the bathroom, stiff as a board, and Rachel watches her.
***
“What if we joined the Glee Club?”
“What the fuck,” Santana says, at the very same time that Brittany says “sure.”
“I’d be able to keep tabs on Finn.” Her future, her everything, slipping away. She’s already fucked with the- you know- growing in her, if she loses Finn she’ll have nothing.
“Then why do you need us?” Santana flips over onto her back, looks up at the ceiling. Quinn does the same, and it’s dizzying. They’re in her own bedroom, it’s nighttime, it’s a sleepover. Normal girl things. Brittany “forgot” her sleeping bag, the way she’s “forgotten” it for the past three sleepovers, including the one at her own house. Quinn doesn’t ask questions. Quinn keeps plausible deniability.
“Backup. And that way it won’t seem as suspicious.”
“You’ll get kicked off the Cheerios.”
“Not if I tell Coach Sylvester the truth.” That Rachel Berry is magnetic. That nobody can ignore her. That she, Quinn, walked past the choir room yesterday and heard them all laughing. “That she’s trying to steal Finn. It’s good optics for the Cheerios and the football team to be together, and we’re McKinley’s it couple.”
“Ooh, espionage. Sounds fun, as long as I get to be a bitch to Mr. Schue.” Santana sits up, and she looks impossibly tall from where Quinn’s still lying down. “So, next order of business on Operation Fuck Up the Glee Club, what song? We have to audition.”
“I know the choreography to ‘On Top of Spaghetti,’” Brittany says. Santana would use that as fodder for weeks, if it was anyone else, but to Brittany she just shakes her head, soft, a wordless no. The two of them communicate with more and more words than that, Quinn knows.
“Maybe Elder Fabray’ll give us some ideas.” Santana flips through a CD rack. “Wow. These are all bad.”
“They’re not mine.”
“Right, well, you’d better hope bad taste isn’t hereditary because otherwise you’re doomed to a lifetime of…” Santana squints. “Amy Grant.”
“What about ‘I Say a Little Prayer’?”
“What’s that.” Brittany never asks her questions like questions.
“It’s not actually a religious song, but it has the word ‘prayer’ in it, so the church plays it every week.” Quinn pulls up YouTube on her computer, types it in, waits for it to load. Rachel Berry’s MySpace page is still there as another tab, and she closes it before Santana can comment on it. She hits play, and it buffers.
“Your Internet sucks,” Santana says, just as Quinn pauses the video to let it buffer. Brittany crowds around Quinn, Santana on her other side, and she’ll never admit that it feels nice, being flanked on either side like this, supported.
“Quiet, it’s starting.”
***
“I still don’t get why we’re hemming these. They’re red T-shirts, they don’t have to be perfect.”
“Except they do.”
Kurt and Mercedes have many, many opinions on their costuming for this number - the first number where they actually have costumes, which is exciting in and of itself - and Rachel has found herself in the Hummel family basement, surrounded by red fabric, surrounded by warm chatter and a possibly-expired box of Cheez-Its they’ve all been indiscriminately pulling from all evening.
Rachel’s dads are picking her up at ten. It’s the latest she’s ever stayed out. This is objectively somewhat pathetic but, well, better late than never and she’s been humming “Don’t Stop Believin’” all day.
“This is the first performance.” Kurt is dead serious, baby-faced, and has pricked his finger with a sewing needle at least three times. Rachel has already grown much too fond of him. “It sets the tone for the entire club.”
“If that were true then our real first number would’ve set the tone and we’d already be doomed. I don’t know about you two, but ‘Sit Down You’re Rocking the Boat’ wasn’t anyone’s best work.”
“This is our first one with Finn.”
“Sure.”
“It’s going to be different. I can feel it.”
“What’s going to be different?” A gruff, deep voice cuts through the Beyoncé playing on Kurt’s iPod just as a pair of boots stomp down the stairs. “Oh! You guys on Kurt’s team?”
“We are.” Rachel stands to her feet - just slightly asleep, having sat cross-legged for the past hour while Kurt and Mercedes hemmed the red shirts - and crosses the room, sticks out a hand to shake. First impressions are important. “And you must be Kurt’s father.”
“I am.” Then he shakes her hand, firm and warm and calloused. “Burt Hummel.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Hummel. Your son is very talented, though he’s facing an uphill climb as a falsetto.”
“I, uh, don’t know what any of that means, but don’t give me any of that Mr. Hummel crap. I’m Burt. Says it right here on my name tag.” Then he peeks behind Rachel. “And you’re Mercedes, yeah? Kurt’s been talkin’ about you nonstop.”
“Oh.” Mercedes smiles, pleased. Rachel files this particular information away for later.
“I’ll be back in the shop, holler if you guys need anything.” Then Burt’s back up the stairs and Mercedes watches him go and Rachel is just relieved that Kurt’s father is that sweet lug of a man, that she doesn’t have to be worried about her new friend’s home life, at least, because this is the first time she’s had friends. It’s bizarre, to worry about them.
“He called us your ‘team,’” Mercedes says, the moment Burt is out of earshot.
“Yeah, we had this deal.” Kurt furrows his brow, hems the shirt just so. It’s Tina’s, Rachel’s pretty sure. “I had to join a team before the end of the week. He was worried about me.”
“Did he have…reasons, to be worried?” Mercedes puts a hand on Kurt’s leg, looks at him, concerned. The two of them are a unit already and Rachel tries not to be jealous. She and Finn are the leads, after all, not to mention the undeniable romantic chemistry that they have, Quinn Fabray aside.
Quinn Fabray aside, as if she isn’t a persistent thing in the back of Rachel’s mind, her venom-tinged words, the way she looked hurt when Rachel pushed back.
“It was just Ms. Pillsbury freaking out like she usually does.” Kurt is flippant and unwilling to talk and that, Rachel recognizes, is something that sets them apart - she’s never had trouble sharing her feelings, whether through song and dance or simple words, she’s never needed to be cagey about anything.
“Ah.” Mercedes nods, turns back to the shirt she’s working on. This one’s definitely for Finn - it’s bigger, built for his wide shoulders. “You know who I’m pretty sure has a crush on her?”
“Ooh, who?” Kurt swivels his chair, leans in close. Mercedes grins.
“Mr. Schue.”
“No!” Kurt clutches his chest, gasps with his whole body. He’ll be an excellent actor, Rachel decides - he has the physicality for theater. “Really?”
“Really.”
“Isn’t he married?”
“He is,” Rachel confirms, and she thinks about Terri Schuester, her demands for a perfectly ordinary life, and she hopes against hope that this works, that their rendition of “Don’t Stop Believin’” is memorable enough for this not to fall apart. “But, well, if it’s true love, it doesn’t matter as much, does it?”
“I’m…pretty sure it does,” Mercedes says, slowly.
“I’m just saying, in a completely hypothetical scenario, if somebody happened to have feelings for somebody else and that person was - in some way - committed, to another person, but they weren’t meant for each other, isn’t that person technically doing the first person a favor by expediting the end of that relationship and moving the other person towards who they’re meant to be with?”
“Care to share something with the class, Rachel?” Kurt drawls. He drawls most of his sentences - long and languid, wry and dry, especially here, where he’s comfortable. Rachel wrinkles her nose, huffs, turns back to her own shirt. She may not have allies here in this particular element - her inevitable romance with Finn, the hearts she will break along the way - but they are her friends, in some way. That's remarkable on its own.
***
Quinn and Santana and Brittany practice “Say a Little Prayer” until their limbs are sore, until she’s trapped in muscle memory.
“We’re not actually trying out unless they’re good,” she says from her bed, flopped on her back, wearing silk pajamas that will slide off her body soon enough. Brittany’s in a ratty t-shirt, Santana in a tank top, all three of them October-hot and weary from the impromptu rehearsal. “If they suck - which they probably do - it’s not worth our time.”
“Okay,” Brittany says from her sleeping bag, already halfway to dreamland.
“Alright.” Santana closes her eyes and Quinn tries not to snag her gaze on the way they’re nestled into each other. It’s so easy. It’s so comfortable. Quinn - with her too-tight uniform and the nose that isn’t hers and the face that isn’t either - can’t remember the last time she felt comfortable.
She burns with it - the want, the love, the things she’s not supposed to feel in this way, in this order. She closes her eyes and Rachel Berry’s face stares back at her, so she just keeps her gaze fixed on Santana’s chest rising and falling until the sun cracks through the window and she realizes that she hasn’t slept all night.
***
Rachel finds herself excited for school, excited to perform and to see Finn and to plot out the rest of the semester.
This must be what it is to be a teenager, and it may have taken her nearly half of high school to recognize it but now she loves it, she’s going to love it forever.
She’s going to be incredible.
“Move it.”
Which is exactly why the timing has to be like this and her parade, not yet in the Funny Girl tradition, must be rained on.
“I’m not blocking the hallway,” she retorts, not exactly playing dumb so much as playing ignorant, trying to force Quinn Fabray - because it is, of course, Quinn Fabray telling her to move, though she’s not flanked by her two teammates (friends? lackeys? it’s hard to get a read on exactly what they are to Quinn, who they are to each other) - to admit exactly what her problem is and she’s holding her backpack tight, laborious, like it hurts to carry.
“Do you want a slushie thrown in your face?”
“I want you to leave me alone.”
“You started this.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Rachel says, lying once again, and she knows she’s getting under Quinn Fabray’s skin and she could be so much worse, she could say so much worse (she knows that Quinn’s said worse about her) but she’s still struck by that flash of hurt in the bathroom and besides, she’s about to steal Quinn’s boyfriend, so she might as well at least be civil.
“What would you do if I joined the Glee Club?” Quinn shoulders her backpack, grunts a little when she does it. Her ponytail bounces, ridiculously, with the motion.
“We accept everybody,” Rachel says, the diplomatic answer. “But if you attempted to sabotage us, or in some other way caused it to become an unsafe space, it would be well within my authority as captain to remove you.” She isn’t technically the captain yet - they don’t technically have a captain and if anybody’s assumed leadership it’s probably Finn - but of course Quinn Fabray doesn’t know that.
“Of course.” She says it in a way that implies Rachel has no power, which is, of course, technically true, but it’s frustrating that she recognizes it.
“You’ll want to audition with your lower vocal register - I’m the resident mezzo-soprano, of course, and Tina Cohen-Chang’s voice is very high and Mercedes Jones is on another level entirely, so having a contralto would actually be quite useful.”
“Don’t act like I’m your friend.”
“I’m not.” Rachel almost laughs at the thought. Whether she’s drawn to Quinn Fabray - whether she thinks she senses a kindred spirit, a girl in denial - is irrelevant, because they’re certainly not friends. “But I need the Glee Club to succeed. So if you’re genuinely interested-”
“I’m not.” Then Quinn stops, abruptly, in front of a door. Her first class of the day, probably. “But stay away from Finn.”
Rachel has a red shirt in her backpack. She has her future ahead of her. She doesn’t stop thinking about Quinn Fabray until she reaches the history classroom.
***
Quinn watches Rachel Berry do her stupid little trot down the hallway. She watches her leave, and she watches her disappear, and she has no idea this will be the first of many such instances.
Right now, all she does is watch.