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The plan for junior year is simple.
She’s going to lose all the baby weight long before school even starts again, and Santana will help her do it, because even though they’re not friends, they’re cut from the same ruthless, superficial cloth.
Then, she’s going to make sure her academic average recovers from sophomore year, because somewhere between getting knocked up, getting kicked out of her house, giving birth and losing regionals, neither her first nor second semester exam results were what they should have been.
If not for her mother’s regular visits to AA meetings, where apparently they’re not only teaching her how to stay off the sauce, but also how to be a human being, she’s sure she would’ve been berated for it by now.
As it is, she’s mostly just berating herself, because it is all her fault. She had everything she wanted in sophomore year; she stood so high on top of the pyramid that honestly, the things that had slowly shredded her self-control shouldn't have even mattered to her.
As it is, she’ll never really forgive herself for those five minutes in which she looked into the mirror after some ridiculous argument with Finn about Rachel Berry, and suddenly felt like that whale who had attended Belleville again.
The best she can do is move on, and scale the heights of the McKinley social ladder without looking down.
*
Nobody will ever need to tell her she’s not fat again at the end of junior year, because there is no such thing as a fat prom queen, and Quinn Fabray will get her hands on that tiara.
It’s written in the stars.
*
The grades and the weight sort themselves out because she is both dedicated and smart, and after royally screwing Santana over, she’s even back in her rightful place as head cheerleader.
As far as prom goes, she figures it doesn’t hurt to start preparing early.
*
She spends most of September looking around the choir room, wondering who on earth would even be worthy of helping her become teen royalty. Puckerman is out of the question; they can still barely look at each other, or maybe she just struggles with the way he looks at her--like she’s a mother, as opposed to the girl he’s been dreaming about sleeping with since he had his first wet dream.
(It’s both disgusting and flattering that he felt the need to tell her, that night.)
It doesn’t leave a lot of options. The head cheerleader doesn’t date boys in wheel chairs, or Asian geeks, no matter how well one of them sings and the other one dances. Maybe last year that would’ve been an option, but right now?
Santana catches her eye as she’s scanning the room and raises an eyebrow, but Quinn knows better than to take that bait.
Finn’s late, and with him comes one of the goofiest looking boys Quinn has ever laid eyes on; he’s wearing a striped hoodie that he somehow manages to make look both dorky and kind of cute, and then cracks a Dr. Seuss joke per introduction.
Almost despite herself, she’s amused, even before Finn says that Sam-I-Am’s on the football team, and she can’t help the sly smile that quirks around her mouth at that little fact.
It saves her from having to look at Finn moon at Rachel, or having to plot how she’s going to end their relationship so the Quarterback and the Head Cheerleader can claim their thrones at the same time, at least, so that’s something.
*
“He has no game,” Santana says, toweling off after practice, and wincing when her back cracks. “I know you probably feel that it’s physically impossible for you to slum it after sleeping with Puckerman, but at least he doesn’t come across like a fifth grader, Q.”
“Why are you even talking to me?” she asks, fixing her make-up without looking over. “I thought we were clear on hating each other, what with the way you tried to kill me in the hallway last month.”
Santana shrugs. “Who else is going to talk shit about Berry with me? Brittany thinks I need to be nicer, which is like, pffft.”
Quinn tries not to smile. “And what makes you think I’m interested?”
“Only the fact that you’ve been talking shit about Berry every single day of your life since we met, Fabray. But if you’re not--”
Quinn slams her locker shut and says, “Promiscuous leprechaun.”
“I’m sorry?”
“She looks like a promiscuous leprechaun today, and I want to tear that ugly ass sweater off her body and beat her to death with it,” Quinn says, calmly.
Santana grins and says, “There we go. … you’re not off the hook for chasing after a total dork, but that’s a little more like the Quinn Fabray that I respected.”
“He’s a geek,” Quinn says, grudgingly, because it’s true. “But given enough time, I can shape him into exactly what I need him to be.”
Santana looks at her knowingly, and then winces again. “You’re killing me out there. You know that?”
“You can take it,” Quin says, and then voluntarily rubs at the sore spot, just for a minute, because honestly, she needs her lieutenant more than she needs to rub Santana’s face in her failure some more.
*
Sixteen years of relentless etiquette training have not prepared her for dating Sam Evans.
He likes making airplane noises when he eats. He knows every single bit of trivia about the Star Wars franchise, but can’t say anything sensible about how good she looks--just mumbles something in that fake language from Avatar, and then impersonates a frog, or something.
Her knuckles are going white with how tightly she’s clenching her hand around her fork, but then he smiles at her, from underneath those floppy bangs, and says, “You know, everyone is wrong about you.”
She raises an eyebrow, because asking who everyone is would mean giving him the upper hand.
“Yeah, Finn was like, don’t date her, man. She’s evil, and kind of mean.”
Quinn rolls her eyes at what is definitely a verbatim quote, because only Finn Hudson would think that being mean trumps being evil. “He’s slightly biased.”
“Well, you did have his best friend’s kid last year,” Sam says, easily, his fingertips tapping against the table. “He’s allowed to be a little like, woah, you know?”
He looks like he doesn’t really understand that he’s completely ruined her appetite, if not the entire night. “I suppose he is,” she says, tightly.
Sam smiles at her gently and says, “Anyway, I’m glad I didn’t listen, because you’re really smart and you haven’t been mean to me at all.”
Her hand relaxes around her fork, and she lifts it to pick at her salad some more. “Tell me about your goals for this year.”
“My goals?” he asks, and blinks at her. “Um, you mean like, what GPA am I hoping to get? Because I’m dyslexic and English is seriously just not a good time for me, so--”
“No,” she asks, forcing a bit of patience into her voice. “What are you hoping to accomplish this year? Where do you want to go?”
He stares past her pensively, and then says, “I don’t know. It would be cool if I could be the quarterback, though.” He looks at her again, hesitates, and then blushes. “And I don’t know, I’d like--maybe, a girlfriend. Maybe you. If that’s okay.”
All the lessons about good posture, a lady’s proper dialogue and tone and attitude, and years of learning how to eat appropriately don’t stop her fork and knife from clashing awkwardly.
He’s surprised her. She can literally count on one hand how many people have managed that in their lives. (No, not one hand. One finger.)
“It might be,” she finally says, when he starts looking a little less shyly hopeful, and a little more embarrassed. “And before you ask again--much later--you should probably know that I’m not going to have sex with you.”
“But you’ll watch Avatar 2 with me when it comes out, right?” he asks, his mouth full of food, with him still chewing away like some sort of boy/cow hybrid.
Strangely, it doesn’t bother her as much as she knows it should.
*
Sam Evans is the first dent in her plans.
“Oh my God, don’t tell me that you actually like that fish-lipped mouthbreather now?” Santana asks, staring at her when she watches Sam jog over to the field; he always turns when he’s halfway there, and waves at her in this silly, open way that flies in the face of everything she thought she liked in life.
(Structure; winning; control. Not necessarily in that order.)
“His name is Sam, and we can continue this conversation after you drop and give me twenty,” she snaps.
Santana’s on the ground in an instant, barely even breaking a sweat after twenty-five--bitch, Quinn thinks--but she looks smug when she gets back up.
“He’s a puppy, Q. He’s the kind of guy that’s going to date someone like Tina Cohen-Chang and buy her a teddybear at the fair. They’ll be happy and have five kids together, and one of them will be named Sam Junior, and he’ll take Sam Junior to baseball games and it’ll be a merry old fucking gay time for all of them.”
Quinn feels her face harden with every word that’s dripping pointedly from Santana’s lips. “What is your point?”
“My point is, he’s going to see what you’re really like someday, and he’s not going to like it. You might want to cover your bases for when it happens, or you’ll end up going to Prom alone.”
She watches as Santana fixes her skirt and heads over to Brittany, wrapping an arm low around her waist, and it absolutely blows that the only ammunition she has left on Santana would ruin Brittany alongside her.
Not that she’s not tempted, sometimes. Santana’s a button pusher, but she only pushes when she knows that there’s a button to be had there anyway.
*
Later that night, she looks at her mother’s tiara collection--dusted weekly, sometimes by Quinn, and it always pains her to see it--and takes a deep breath.
Weight, grades, Cheerios, Prom.
It’s the first thing she thinks when she wakes up, and the last thing she thinks when she goes to bed.
Sometimes, it feels like the only thing keeping her together.
*
Maybe Santana’s right, and maybe she is losing her edge, because the idea of breaking it off with Sam is entirely unappealing.
He pops a promise ring on her when she least expects it, and some part of her is too surprised to immediately laugh in his face. It’s her first mistake.
Her second mistake is pocketing the ring and heading to the girls’ bathroom on the second floor, where Rachel is crying.
She almost turns right back around. Not because she’s a heartless bitch, but because Rachel is one seriously ugly crier, and there’s only one reason Rachel would be crying to begin with and it’s really not Quinn’s place to be doing anything about that.
She’s been spotted, though, and so she stands rooted to the ground and waits for Rachel to start formulating words, which she does--brokenly, and all Quinn can gather from the sobbing is that Rachel hooked up with Puck and Finn dumped her.
That’s when she realizes she hasn’t lost her edge at all, because even as she gingerly sits down about a foot away from Rachel and offers her some Kleenex, she’s already thinking about how she’s going to prove Santana wrong.
*
“Quinn. Hey. I mean, hi,” Finn says.
She wonders if other people frequently feel homicidal when talking to him. “I’m sorry. About Rachel,” she says, as sincerely as she can.
“Yeah, me too, dude, I mean.” He shakes his head and his shoulders slump. “I never thought she’d do that to me. You, maybe, but not her.”
The ridiculous double standard she’s being held to is almost enough to get her to turn on her heels, but that’s not part of the plan. The plan is still weight, grades, Cheerios, Prom, and Finn is the thing that will keep the entire school under her thumb until the vote rolls around.
“You deserved better,” she says, plainly. It’s not an apology and it’s not a diss on Rachel, and he seems to realize that around the same time as Sam finds them, if the surprised look on his face is anything to go by.
“Hey. You okay?” he asks Quinn, who shrugs; then he bumps Finn on the shoulder and says, “There’s other girls, man. It’s cool.”
The ring’s still in her locker, and she still hasn’t decided what she’s going to do with it.
Some people would say that made her a bad person, but honestly, look at where impulsive decisions got her.
*
She’s turned Finn into a cheater with the flick of a wrist. Maybe it’s like that old adage about medical school: see one, do one, teach one.
Even as they’re making out in the auditorium, on her toes with his hands low on her back, she’s wondering who he is going to pass Puck’s best life lesson onwards to. Because this doesn’t matter, and five years from now Sam won’t remember her, and Finn will understand the choice she’s making right now, because the only thing they have in common is that they’re both hopelessly shallow cowards.
“Wow,” he says, when they pull away. “Did you feel that?”
“Yeah,” she says, because she knows exactly what he means.
He’s going to call it fireworks.
She knows better, because it’s merely the thrill that comes with doing something that you know you shouldn’t be doing.
*
Sam doesn’t cry, and ends up dating Santana.
“Are you kidding me?” Quinn asks, from Santana’s passenger seat. Santana taps her nails against the steering wheel, taking a corner to Quinn’s house, and then sighs.
“No. I’m not. You’re right. He’s a nice guy, and better than that, he’s dumb as a drowned coon, which means that he’s exactly what I need right now.”
Quinn glances out the window and plays her part of this particular stupid exchange: ignorance. “Why would you need a boyfriend?”
Apparently, Santana is set on changing the game today, though, because takes a deep breath and blurts out, “You know exactly why, Quinn, so don’t fucking play Mary Mother of Jesus with me right now.”
Quinn’s lips twist into a grimace. “If anyone ever finds out about you and Brittany, your lives will be over.”
“All you care about is whether or not you’d somehow get slammed in the fallout, so don’t fucking act like this is about me somehow. I’m doing you a favor by dating him, so how about you thank me and get the fuck out of my car? That stick up your ass is ruining the leather seat you’re on.”
Quinn’s already one foot out of the door, but then something stops her, and she half-turns to look at Santana again. “How can this possibly be worth it?”
Santana’s look in response isn’t angry, or confused, or even annoyed. It’s pitying. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“What the hell does that--”
“I would do anything for her. Take a million Slushies to the face? Done. Make out with Dave Karofsky? Done. Get a fake boyfriend just so we can keep this to ourselves for a little bit longer and not have our entire school shit on it? Done.” Santana’s eyes are dark with anger, or something, and Quinn almost flinches away from them. “When’s the last time you did anything that wasn’t just to protect your own precious ass, hm?”
“Oh, what, so now it makes me a bad person that I would like this year to be just a little bit better than last year?” Quinn snaps at her, because how fucking surreal is this--the second biggest bitch in the school telling her she’s heartless.
“I don’t know, but if you’re honestly set on having a better junior year than a sophomore year, maybe you shouldn’t start seeing Finn just to fuck with Rachel Berry.”
“He make an excellent prom king,” Quinn hisses. “It has nothing to do with her.”
Santana rolls her eyes. “Yeah, Quinn. Nothing you ever do has anything to do with Rachel. Whatever you fucking say.”
Someone with slightly poorer self-control would probably hesitate before slamming out of the car, but Quinn Fabray is nothing if not good at exiting a lose-lose situation.
She relishes the slam of Santana’s car door, because it’s hard enough to chip some of the paint on her overpriced daddy-loves-me Lexus, and Santana’s “fuck you, Quinn” is audible even though all of the windows are closed.
The case of tiaras mockingly greets her from the foyer, and she stares at it just long enough to remind herself of the goal line. Weight, grades, Cheerios, Prom.
It’s going to be fucking perfect, even if she has to punt Santana off a cliff to make it that way.
*
Finn is clueless, but she’s prepared for it after a year of dating him; prepared for having to remind him constantly that prom is coming up in a few months time, and that she’s not going to have sex with him because the last time she had sex she got pregnant, and that she loves him. Him, not his status.
That particular lie won’t be the one to get her sent to hell, she’s fairly sure; it pales in comparison to the one she told him last year, anyway.
“Quinn, I really would love to think about corsages and stuff but I’m in the middle of COD and Puck is about to drop a grenade on me and I mean--oh, man, can I like--just pick one you like, later, oh wait, I love you” is literally the progression of every third phone call she makes.
Eventually, the frustration gets to her enough for her to seek out Rachel, who looks terrified of her--like she’s been even half the bitch she used to be, lately.
“How do you talk to him?” she asks, in a low voice, because they’re in a crowded hallway and it’s awkward enough that she’s asking for advice, let alone that she’s asking Rachel Berry.
Rachel frowns up at her in confusion and then says, “Who, Finn?”
“No, Barack Obama. Yes, Finn,” Quinn snaps.
Rachel shifts from one foot to the next. “I’m not sure I want to be having this conversation with you.”
“Since when do you get to decide if you talk to me?” Quinn asks, sharply. She straightens just enough for the logo of her Cheerios uniform to be smack at Rachel’s eye level, and Rachel relents almost immediately.
“Fine. But not in public. It’s--weird to be seen with you. People are staring,” Rachel says.
She walks off a moment later, and Quinn glares at the entire hallway even though her head is going through a repeat cycle of what just happened?
(Rachel does not walk away from Quinn. There are natural laws about this, surely.
She wouldn’t know; she dropped physics last year.)
*
A slip of paper in her locker indicates that Rachel requests her presence in the choir room prior to Glee practice.
Quinn is literally one spat of irritation away from clocking her by the time she gets to the room, but some of the wind sort of leaves her sails when Rachel’s just sitting on a chair, looking over a list of something--probably songs for nationals--and doesn’t even acknowledge her dramatic, storm-y entrance.
“I’m here,” she says, dumbly.
Rachel looks up and flips her notepad shut. “Yes, so you are. How can I help?”
This is beyond humiliating. “Finn and I are... trying to start our prom king and queen campaign. Or well, I am, because he can’t seem to focus on any one thing long enough to actually help me with it.”
Her teeth actually ache with how hard she’s clenching them, but she forces out the rest of her request. “I was wondering if you had any suggestions on how to have... actual conversations with him.”
Rachel, to Quinn’s immense surprise, doesn’t smile viciously or laugh at her or any of the things that Santana would be doing in this situation. (Or Quinn would be doing, if she’s honest.)
She just sighs and says, “Well, as dedicated as I was to the ongoing success of my relationship with Finn, I’m not a magician, and I never did manage to get him to ever listen to a thing that I said.”
“Oh,” Quinn says.
“He’s a little self-involved,” Rachel says.
Quinn laughs without meaning to, because, come on. “Sorry.”
“Yes, I know; consider the source,” Rachel says, with a small smile. “That should probably explain the scale of the problem.”
“He’s driving me crazy,” Quinn confesses, and then her legs walk over to the chair next to Rachel, and she sits down on it. “I mean, I’ve seen Call of Duty. How much fun can it possibly be to shoot the same people over and over again?”
“I don’t know, but then I have higher brain function,” Rachel says, easily, before clasping a hand over her mouth and making a shocked noise. “I’m sorry, that was really mean.”
Quinn almost says, actually, it was hilarious, but they’re not friends, so she just says, “I’m not even asking for much. Just an opinion on two different colors.”
“What are they?” Rachel asks, and Quinn reaches down for her bag and pulls out the swatches. “Oh--wow, that blue. That’s stunning. You would look amazing in that.”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure Finn would be okay wearing pastels,” Quinn says, biting her lip yet again at the same decision.
Rachel traces the swatch with one finger and says, “Well. If he doesn’t care enough to offer an opinion, maybe it’s silly to base your choice on his preferences.”
Quinn glances at Rachel for a second and then bags the swatches again. “Yeah. Maybe.”
She wants to ask more things, like, why are you being nice to me?, but the reality of it is that Rachel is nice to basically everyone. It’s always been Quinn that hasn’t known what the hell to do with that much niceness, and--
“You know, this is sort of a recent discovery, but--I can do better than Finn Hudson,” Rachel says, jolting her out of her thoughts.
Quinn almost agrees before remembering that Finn is her boyfriend. Instead, she just gives Rachel her best “what the hell?” face, which Rachel seems to be immune to.
“All I mean is that I can do better than Finn Hudson, why are you with him?” Rachel continues, before flipping back to her list of song choices.
It’s the second time all year that she’s been surprised by something.
Rachel saves her from having to respond by immediately following up that bizarre-ass compliment with, “Honestly, if I don’t get all the solos at nationals, I might actually file charges against Mr. Schuester, because his personal vendetta against me clearly runs contrary to most national human rights legislation.”
“You’re so unbelievably skilled at being annoying,” Quinn says, feeling really good about that statement, because it’s the first normal thing she’s done all day.
Rachel just rolls her eyes and says, “I know, Quinn, but I also know you like winning, so don’t even pretend that you don’t agree with me.”
Quinn’s really just kind of glad when everyone else files in and Finn settles down next to her, pressing a sweaty kiss to her cheek and saying, “You’re going to make a really pretty queen.”
It’s the first correct thing he’s done since they’ve gotten back together.
*
He obviously follows that up by being a complete fucking moron and elbowing Rachel in the face in the middle of a dance rehearsal.
Quinn rolls her eyes as Santana laughs her head off at how Rachel’s nose is now actually going to be of lethal proportions, and then watches as Finn takes Rachel to the doctor which will surely be a great help to her. After all, he’s good in situations where he’s faced with distressed girls (except not), traumatic face injuries (except not), and swift decisions that need making (except not).
Rachel will be lucky if she gets back from the doctor’s office alive, in other words.
*
“You owe me a favor,” Rachel says, popping up like a demon behind her in the girls’ bathroom on the second floor.
“For?” Quinn asks. She doesn’t frown, because it would mess up her eyeliner, but the temptation is strong.
“For very awkwardly discussing the inadequacies of my ex-boyfriend with his current--mmph.”
It’s only really quick reflexes that have her hand covering Rachel’s loud-ass-mouth within seconds, and she doesn’t let go until she’s checked every stall and they are in fact alone.
She glances at Rachel as her hand drops away, and dumbly thinks, that band-aid looks really cute on her nose.
Wait, what?
“Don’t mention that in public,” Quinn demands. “And--I don’t owe you squat, Berry.” She turns back to the mirror without waiting for a response, and then jerks when Rachel starts talking again.
“I’m considering getting a nosejob,” she says, calmly. “And--apparently it’s customary to bring along a preferred nose.”
This is legitimately one of the weirdest things anyone has ever said to her, and Quinn almost touches her own nose on instinct. “What--are you actually suggesting--”
Rachel looks her straight in the eyes, through the mirror, and then says, “The work you’ve had done is excellent, if your eighth grade yearbook picture is anything to go by.”
Time literally stops.
There is a part of Quinn that lunges forwards and claws Rachel’s face off, but that part is secondary to the part of her that’s just too shocked to do anything at all.
“I work in the administration’s office as a filing clerk on Friday afternoons,” Rachel says, finally looking away. “It--after your pregnancy, there was a lot of documentation that needed adding.”
“I--” Quinn finally manages, but that is legitimately all that comes out of her mouth. Her eyeliner pencil drops to the ground, rolls towards Rachel’s feet, and she watches soundlessly as Rachel picks it up and hands it over.
“I will never tell anyone,” Rachel says, softly. “But--”
“Make the appointment. And then don’t ever speak to me again,” Quinn says, her voice shaking on every syllable like she’s in the middle of labor.
“Quinn--”
She ignores her make-up bag; ignores the way that when Rachel now says Quinn, it sounds like Lucy, and ignores the sympathy on Rachel’s face because it’s just too much.
She runs down the hallway and down the stairs and to the courtyard, where she sits, alone, until she can make her trembling fingers dial her third speed-dial.
Then, she digs her nails into her thighs until she’s sure she’s not going to cry. It takes a good five minutes.
*
Santana raises an eyebrow when Quinn drives them to a KFC and orders a bucket, but doesn’t otherwise comment.
“You’ve been here before,” she says, when they’re sitting down, and Santana’s picking at a few fries that definitely aren’t on the Cheerios diet.
Quinn’s gone straight for the wings. It’s just that kind of day. “Yeah. A lot, when I was young. And last year.”
“Your parents don’t seem like the types to encourage fast food lunches,” Santana says, swiping a fry through some ketchup and nibbling at it like it’s toxic.
“They’re not. My sister took me. Out of pity, I think,” Quinn says, and then shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. It was just something we did.”
They eat silently for a few minutes, and then Santana says, “Not that I’m not happy to be out of AP History, but why am I here?”
Quinn takes a deep breath, wipes her hands on a napkin, and then says, “I used to be fat. And ugly. And somehow, Rachel knows.”
The calculations that rocket through Santana’s mind are visible on her face, and Quinn feels her jaw muscles twitch when they briefly linger on almost maniacal power. Then, however, that fades, and the part of Santana that she hoped would stick around for this is on the fore.
“How fat are we talking?”
“Zizes. With glasses, braces, and a nose twice the size of Rachel’s,” Quinn says, roughly. She snaps another wing in half and dips it into some barbeque sauce. “I was very, very unhappy. And I did a lot to--well.” She feebly gestures at herself and then glances at Santana again.
“It’s a good nosejob. Nobody will ever know unless you tell them,” Santana says, eyeing her carefully for a moment.
“Brittany assures me that your breasts still feel real,” Quinn says, in kind.
They burst out laughing a moment later, and then Santana says, “So, what are you going to do about the dwarf?”
“I--I don’t know.”
“You’re going to need to keep her close,” Santana warns, before sighing and reaching for another fry. “I hate you for this, by the way. It’s bad enough you’ve got some deep dark Biggest Loser past, but now you’re fucking reminding me how great junk food is?”
“I don’t think she’s going to tell anyone,” Quinn says, after glaring at Santana half-heartedly. “I think she just--”
“What?” Santana says, before stealing Quinn’s coke and sipping some of it, making a small humming noise of pleasure.
Quinn knows she looks and sounds miserable. “She wants my nose.”
Santana spits out a mouthful of soda.
*
In the end, the only option is to go along with it, because honestly. Rachel is armed; Quinn just has her attitude and social clout, but all the Slushies in the world don’t outweigh what Rachel could do to her, if she wanted to.
They sit next to each other awkwardly in the doctor’s office, and Rachel says, “Has Finn expressed any opinions about your dress yet?”
It’s funny how a month ago, Finn Hudson was the most awkward thing they could talk about between them. “No. Of course not. We have another month, right? Why rush the decision?”
Rachel makes a frustrated little noise and says, “Boys. I honestly don’t know why we bother sometimes.”
“Yeah. Because I’m sure they have nothing to do with the appointment we’re at right now,” Quinn says, wondering if she sounds as sarcastic as she feels.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Your newfound feminist kick would be a lot more convincing if you weren’t trying to--you know,” Quinn says, gesturing at Rachel’s still swollen, but less damaged-looking nose.
“So what, that’s fine for you but not for me?”
Quinn clamps her mouth shut, because she’s not having this discussion.
“Why are you so threatened by this? It’s just a procedure, it changes nothing about who rules our school and who--well, make up your own metaphor about my place in the social order.”
“I’m not threatened by anything, Berry.”
Rachel examines her a little bit longer, and it’s starting to make her feel unwell, honestly. “Are you worried that Finn will notice me again if I show up with a slightly more perfect face? Is that what this is about?”
Quinn rolls her eyes. “You can have him, at this point. I don’t even really care anymore. I might as well be going to prom by myself.”
Rachel says nothing in response to that, and the clock above their heads ticks loudly and slowly. Quinn feels some part of her body flare up with anxiety, at the idea of just sitting here with Rachel Berry, and then finally says, “You don’t need it.”
“Don’t need what?”
“A better nose,” Quinn says, even more quietly.
Rachel stays perfectly still for another ten seconds or so, and then turns to face Quinn cautiously. “Is it worth it? Looking like you do?”
Quinn doesn’t have an answer, but when Rachel gets up a few seconds later and says, “Come on. This was a stupid idea, and I’m only just now realizing how creepy it is to ask for someone’s nose”, she thinks she might have given one anyway.
*
Rachel is the one to end up picking out the corsage.
It’s her way of apologizing for being, in her own words, “a Single White Female-esque face stealer”, and Quinn doesn’t even have the energy to tell her to back off or mind her own business anymore.
Cheerleading nationals are coming up; glee nationals are coming up; exams are coming up; and that bucket of fat she ate recently has knocked her up a pound, meaning even her dress is a little too tight.
If Rachel’s willing to talk to Finn about how to not be a complete tool for five minutes, she’ll take it, at this point.
“You’ll love what he chose,” Rachel promises, the next day, when they’re busy working on blocking for their final song at nationals during glee; the song somehow has her ending up right next to Rachel, almost center stage, even though she’s sharing her solo with Mercedes.
“What you chose, you mean,” Quinn says, dryly, even as they take two steps away from each other and work out the final five beats of the song again.
Finn’s foot is in the way, and Rachel goes flying over it--straight into Quinn’s arms.
“I have excellent taste,” Rachel says, a little breathlessly, before taking a step back and looking at Quinn’s nose pointedly. “Despite what some people might think about me.”
“I just hope it’s not knitted and there’s no animals on it,” Quinn says, hiding a smile. Rachel rolls her eyes before shoving at Finn’s shoulder and berating him for almost killing her again.
It’s weird to think that glee has somehow become the most relaxing part of her day, but it’s also completely true.
*
A few days later, Rachel drops a few flyers for limo companies in Finn’s lap and says, “You should probably make a reservation now.”
Finn blinks and says, “Oh, yeah, Quinn’s been asking me to and stuff, but it’s just, you know, we’re so busy.”
“I know,” Rachel says, easily.
Quinn doesn’t even look from the seating chart--it’s one thing to be going to prom, but as it’s going to have to be perfect to make up for last year, she’s also organizing it--but suddenly has enough energy to realize that putting Brittany and Santana on different tables is completely not what they want, no matter what they’re both saying.
When she looks at the empty space at her own, she realizes there’s someone missing from the roster, and looks up--but Rachel’s already left the room.
*
“Hey. Are you not going?” she asks, catching up to Rachel in the hallway; they’re on their way to AP English, so it’s not like she’s following her or anything.
“I’m on my way now.”
“No, I mean, to prom.”
Rachel looks at her with a small smile. “I don’t have a date, Quinn.”
Because I stole your boyfriend. Sort of, Quinn thinks, but that’s not an acceptable thought. Instead she says, “Well, you promised me your vote. How are you going to vote for me if you’re not there?”
Rachel laughs. “You won’t need my vote to win.”
Rachel’s probably right, which is why it’s so weird that that’s not a satisfying answer. “If--if I find you a date, will you come?”
“Quinn--” Rachel says, in a slightly less patient tone of voice, but they’ve reached the classroom and the bell rings, and somehow that sentence never gets finished.
*
It’s what any good teammate would do, she tells herself later that night.
“Can I borrow your little black book?” she says, as soon as Santana answers.
“Do you know what a little black book is? I mean... it’s not where you list the numbers of guys who aren’t going to fuck you,” Santana says, slowly.
“It’s not for me, it’s--” Quinn hesitates, because it’s important to say this the right way. “Berry needs a date. For prom.”
“Oh, she does, does she?” Santana asks, sounding amused.
“I’m--look, she’d probably be going with Finn if it wasn’t for me, and I feel guilty--”
“That’d be a first,” Santana says, dryly.
Quinn stops talking, and waits for Santana to just give in, because she normally does.
“I’ll give it to you, on one condition,” Santana says.
It’s always dangerous to give in to Santana when she’s so clearly set on playing games, but Quinn doesn’t feel that she has much choice; not many guys at church would be happy to go to prom with a Jewish girl who has two gay dads, and everyone else in Glee is partnered.
“What?”
“Admit you like her,” Santana says.
Quinn inhales sharply and says, “... fine. We may sort of be friends. Not really, but I don’t hate her--”
“I don’t mean as a friend, Q. Honestly, if you wanted to be Rachel’s friend, I would be asking who lobotomized you at this point, because she is one annoying ass midget and there are just no excuses.”
“What--”
“You want on her. And I mean, I’ve seen her legs; I don’t even really blame you. Kissing her also seems like an effective way to shut her the hell up, so--”
It’s the third time someone has surprised her all year, though somehow, she feels like she should’ve been able to see this one coming.
“You’re insane,” she says.
“Look, Q, as much fun as it is to watch you play hide and seek in a closet for the rest of your life, Britt-Britt has been threatening to cut me off if I don’t do something to help you be happy, so if you’re going to blame anyone it should be her.”
“How exactly is insinuating I want--” She feels her nostrils flair and unwillingly looks at Jesus, who of course is not approving of this. “How is this going to make me happy?”
Santana sighs and says, “Baby, you’re so into that girl that you’ve spent most of your life at McKinley trying to ruin her life just so you could get close to her. Are you being serious right now?”
“I--” Quinn forces herself to stop talking and to regroup, because Santana is just destroying her with nonsense right now.
“I mean, the drawings; asking people to Slushie her specifically rather than some general loser; constantly staring at her in Glee; fighting over the same guy for years. Please, you’re like the poster child for repression.”
“I did all of those things because--she steals my boyfriends, okay!”
“Your boyfriends that you care about how much exactly?” Santana asks, pointedly. “I mean, let’s face it, I was worried about you and Sam for a moment there, but only because he’s exactly as big a dork as her, and it’s just kind of gross to be dating the male equivalent of the chick you’re into.”
Quinn exhales softly and closes her eyes. “I’m not into her.”
“Yes you are. But it’s cool if you don’t want to man up to it. If you honestly think that seeing her with one of those handsy fuckers on the volleyball team is going to make your prom night the shit of your dreams, I will happily provide you with some numbers.”
I hate you, Quinn thinks, and hangs up.
*
The thing about certain thoughts is that once they’re in your head, they become impossible to ignore.
She knows she’s going to have to murder Santana when after third period, she hits up the vending machine next to the boys’ bathroom and eats an entire Reese’s bar in like half a minute.
Quinn Fabray does not eat her feelings.
Except apparently, she does exactly that after forty five minutes of staring at Rachel Berry’s legs in the middle of AP Biology.
*
Finn finally seems to snap out of his stupor long enough to actually be present on the day of prom.
He’s at her house at eleven in the morning, dropping off the start-of-day flowers that she asked him to get (and Rachel made sure to order), and then shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down at her bedroom carpet.
“So I like... I got us a hotel room, and stuff,” he says, a little uncertainly.
She’s pretty sure she goes green in the face on the spot. “To do what in, exactly?”
He scratches his head. “I don’t know, it’s kind of tradition, right? I mean, that’s what people do in movies and stuff.”
The look on her face has him taking a step backwards. “Finn, I assure you. Even if the world was ending, and us having sex on prom night was the only way to stop it, I would not sleep with you.”
He looks at her like he’s really seeing her, for just a few seconds, and it’s not a pretty sight. “Do you even like me at all?”
“Of course I do,” she forces out.
“Yeah? Because sometimes it really doesn’t feel that way. Sometimes, I honestly think you only got back together with me to piss Rachel off.”
Her blood boils, but she knows that her face has taken on that eerie calm that it sometimes does, and that scares the shit out of him. “If that’s what you think, then why are you with me?”
He doesn’t flinch. He just says, “Well, maybe I shouldn’t be, then.”
The plan crumbles before her eyes.
She’s gained another pound in chocolate in the past week; she tanked a chemistry quiz last week because she was too busy trying to figure out how she could possibly manipulate Kurt into taking Rachel to prom to study for it; she’s sick and tired of having to whip the Cheerios into shape when Santana could be doing exactly as good a job; and she’s about to get dumped, hours before she’s due to go to prom.
“No. Maybe you shouldn’t be,” she says, when it hits her all at once that she doesn’t give a shit about any of it.
“Fine,” Finn mumbles. “That baby blue was a stupid color anyway, I looked like a chick in it.”
He’s down the stairs and out of her house within a minute, and she watches him angrily stalk down the street.
Some part of her wonders how long it will take him to go crying back to Rachel; the rest of her is already reaching for her keys and out the door.
*
Rachel looks surprised, and really, it’s just nice to for a change be the one blindsiding her, rather than the other way around.
“Shouldn’t you be--” she starts to say, and then straightens. “Oh, do you need help with your hair? I never considered this, but obviously you don’t want Finn to get near it, and--”
“I’m not going,” Quinn says, and then bites her lip and looks at the ground. “We broke up. I just couldn’t do it anymore.”
“Wait, but--you have to go,” Rachel says, completely serious and earnest in her llama-print pyjamas and messy bed hair.
Quinn can only bear glancing at her for a second, because somehow this is worse than all the short skirts and breathing exercises and other things that she can’t stop thinking about ever since Santana slapped her in the face with some harsh truths.
“I’m not going,” she repeats.
“But--I already put your name on the plaque,” Rachel says, in an urgent whisper.
“What?”
“You won by a landslide, but you have to be present to actually win, geez, Quinn, what--”
She surges forward because honestly, Rachel is just too much sometimes, and Santana’s theory about shutting her up turns out to be pretty much correct.
It’s definitely her day for surprising Rachel, who definitely doesn’t see this coming, either--but then hands wrap around her neck and pull her in for a little more kissing, and then they sort of stumble into Rachel’s hallway.
Rachel pulls back with a hand to her mouth after just a few (delightful, sinful, fantastic) seconds, and then says, “Um. Is this--payback? Because I saw your student file?”
“You drive me crazy,” Quinn says, in explanation, knowing she looks exactly like Finn with her hands in her pockets, rocking back onto her heels, wondering if she’s going to get slugged or kissed again. “I mean, you have, since eighth grade. Everything about you irritates me, because you’re a giant dork and you’re super annoying and literally the entire school picks on you, and you don’t even care. You’re just--you. And I hate it, because I’m never just me, I’m just someone who wins a bunch of trophies and tiaras and, honestly, I’m sick of it.”
Rachel blinks a few times, but otherwise doesn’t move, and then says, “I feel like I’m hallucinating.”
“Santana thinks I’ve--I mean, I have some issues, obviously. I’m very religious,” Quinn says, glancing at the star around Rachel’s neck, and already feeling a headache come on. “And my parents aren’t … very tolerant. She thinks I’m just really repressed.”
“That would explain a lot,” Rachel says, still sounding shell-shocked.
“But I definitely don’t want to go prom with Finn, and I don’t want you to go to prom with anyone--except maybe me, but I’m really not sure that that’s a good idea, and not just because you don’t have a dress and it’s in four hours, so.”
Rachel’s lips curl into a little smile. “You sound like me right now.”
“Is it annoying you?”
“It’s … kind of endearing, actually,” Rachel says, biting her lip, and Quinn sighs deeply, wondering how the hell she got here.
“Yeah. That’s sort of how it happened to me, too.”
*
The thing is, Rachel explains, she’s always wanted to be Quinn’s friend, and this is a little unexpected.
They’re having some cocoa in Rachel’s kitchen; it’s a warm and homey place, full of drawings Rachel must’ve made a small kid, and Quinn wonders abstractly if Santana has been drugging her, because it’s actually making her happy just to be sitting there, looking around and witnessing a normal family.
“Honestly, I don’t think I’m gay,” Rachel says, because saying things like that aren’t difficult for girls like Rachel, who love themselves and have two supportive gay dads and generally don’t give a crap about what the world thinks of them. “But my behavior has been confusing me, because my therapist seems to be dropping a lot of hints that it’s not exactly normal to help your ex-boyfriend’s current girlfriend have the most magical prom alive. If you hate her, anyway.”
“You hate me?” Quinn asks, which is so dumb, because Rachel should, but it’s never actually occured to her that--
“No, but I should,” Rachel says, with a small smile.
“Yeah,” Quinn sighs.
“My therapist also thinks you might be bipolar, by the way,” Rachel says, blowing on her mug.
Quinn can’t really help her smug grin. “Geez, how much time do you spend talking about me to your therapist?”
Rachel rolls her eyes. “I refuse to answer that question on account of the fact that I don’t find smugness attractive.”
Quinn smiles and taps her nails against her mug.
“What now?” Rachel asks.
“I don’t really know. Except I’m single, and I might need to retake AP Biology next year. … oh, and Brittany and Santana are planning on coming out tonight--”
“Wow. Wow. I mean, it’s about time, but still,” Rachel says, blinking rapidly. “Really?”
Quinn smiles. “Yeah. So Cheerios is going to be fun next year, because I’m sure Coach will love this, and on top of that I have to deal with this little dictator who constantly yells at me during glee--”
“Hey, I’m merely demonstrating efficient co-captaincy, thank you.”
“My only point is, I don’t really know how I got here, and I’m not really sure I--I mean. You’re not gay. I’m going to have to spend a lot of time in therapy, I think. So we probably should just--take it easy.”
“I was going to propose something similar, albeit with less stuttering and maybe a flow chart to illustrate the key points,” Rachel says, saving her from fumbling even more.
Quinn looks back at her chocolate for a few awkward seconds and then grins. “So--you weren’t just trying to get me to go to prom, were you? I actually won?”
“I don’t think you know how to lose, Quinn,” Rachel says, with a smile.
*
She doesn’t bother correcting Rachel by pointing out her plan for junior year has failed on pretty much every single point.
The truth is, she feels pretty victorious anyway.