Summary: "'I'm Rachel Berry,' she says, walking over and holding out her hand with an air of professionalism. / 'Quinn,' you say, taking her hand awkwardly, feeling your new name leave your mouth with ease compared to previous weeks. 'Quinn Fabray.'—Faberry, Quinn's POV, freshman & sophomore year, AU

Rated: M

At the Crossroads

at the crossroads, as they say, which was the very instant you stopped looking for meaning and began rifling among the folds of feeling instead where things were to be made new again

- C.D. Wright "Like Something Christenberry Pictured"

1.

You knew William McKinley High School would be the fresh start you needed as soon as you walked through the front doors in a freshly pressed Cheerios uniform. No one knows Lucy Caboosey in Lima, but everyone had quickly learned that Quinn Fabray landed a varsity spot on the Cheerios two weeks before school started. Your determination and athleticism earned you a spot just below the senior captain on the literal pyramid. As Coach Sue Sylvester's obvious favorite, you knew you would have a lot of pull at McKinley soon enough, that next year you'll be the youngest captain of the Cheerios since Sylvester's reign began taking home every cheerleading competition trophy in the nation.

Brittany took a liking toward you immediately, claiming that you were probably long lost sisters because you both had blonde hair. (You never bothered to explain that you're naturally a brunette…) Santana followed shortly after. It was established as less of a friendship and more of an alliance—a "triple entente" of sorts—to leave McKinley High as legends. Lima Loser status was not an option.

A month into school and you've already passed seniors in the school's hierarchy. You've learned a lot about yourself and your potential in the past few weeks, and now you find yourself unfazed by the most domineering coach in Ohio (or world, for that matter) as she tells you to take a seat.

You make sure to sit down with poise, as to avoid misshaping the pleats of your Cheerios skirt and hide your fatigue from the brutal practice she just dealt the team. Coach Sylvester leans back in her desk chair, taking off her glasses as she looks at you. You're her pride and glory, and you know this because she's told you.

She starts rattling off a list of more leadership responsibilities she wants you to take on, and you nod and answer with a firm and clear, "Yes," when necessary.

"Look, Q," Coach Sylvester says, walking around to sit on the edge of her desk facing you, "If it were up to me, I'd send Lacey down a river full of alligators with the finest sirloins wrapped around her just so you could take her place as captain this year. But because of rather pointless federal laws infringing on state power and the Cheerleading Handbook rules, a change in captain without 'justifiable reason' is just not possible," she shakes her head, as if the political system is personally ruining her authoritarian rule. "Still, I'm priming you, Q. I'm not sure where you came from," she holds her hand up to stop you from reminding her that you moved here from Dayton, "but you're going to bring the Cheerios another four years of National championships."

She dismisses you, and you walk out of her office feeling powerful—important—and you never really felt that way about yourself until you left Lucy behind. Everyone looks at you as Quinn now—your parents look proud whenever you arrive home from school, classmates step to the side to let you pass without insults or whispers, boys try to talk to you (if they're brave enough). Everything is in the right place for success, and with it, you can bury Lucy for good and ensure Quinn—popular, smart, attractive Quinn Fabray—will be the person everyone remembers.

You lift your chin as you stroll around the empty school, as if taking in your domain, while you wait for your father to call when he arrives to pick you up. You pause and look at your reflection in front of the Cheerios trophy case. You tilt your head to the side as you examine your toned body and perfectly fitted uniform. You aren't losing Lucy, you decide; you're growing into a better, stronger version of yourself, shedding the parts of you that used to hurt, that used to send you running home crying—everything that made you hate yourself. You feel safe like this—confident.

You continue your way down the hallway where the sound of a few piano keys being tentatively plucked catches your attention. You slowly approach the choir room, and you can hear someone hum the notes and clear her throat. You stop mid-step once she begins singing; it's a terrible song, like a 70s ballad reject, but her voice is impressive—stunning, really.

You don't move from your spot outside the choir room. Your lips curve upward when you hear the girl abruptly stop, sighing an "Oy vey…" The piano bench scrapes along the floor briefly before she begins to actually play the piano. You recognize the song immediately as she plays the opening chords of "On My Own." You've heard the Les Misérables soundtrack and even convinced your mother to take you and Frannie to the local theater to see their production of the play, but the way you hold your breath and feel your ears tingle in anticipation tells you this is different. Although she sang the previous song well, a shiver runs down your spine as she begins singing—not an ounce of heart is missing from the words. Everything Coach Sylvester said is forgotten, and all you can think about is the aching and subtle desperation in this girl's voice.

"In the rain the pavement shines like silver. All the lights are misty in the river. In the darkness, the trees are full of starlight, and all I see is him and me forever and forever… And I know it's only in my mind that I'm talking to myself and not to him. And although I know that he is blind,
still I say, there's a way for us…"

Unable to resist, you approach the doorway to get a glimpse of the singer. You see her long brown hair is held back with a red headband, and you watch her fingers move along the keys of the piano.

When she finishes the song, you realize you're standing in the choir room, and the both of you jump when she turns around.

"Sorry," you say quickly, briefly making eye contact with the brunette before casting your gaze to the floor—a Lucy habit that hasn't quite left you. "I just heard you playing, so… I didn't mean to interrupt."

The girl clears her throat. "Well, I always enjoy an audience when rehearsing," she says, primly standing from the bench, straightening out her sweater with an elephant stitched into it and evening out the folds in her skirt. Her fashion sense would be horrific on anyone else, but it kind of suits her, you decide. "I'm Rachel Berry," she says, walking over and holding out her hand with an air of professionalism.

"Quinn," you say, taking her hand awkwardly, feeling your new name leave your mouth with ease compared to previous weeks. "Quinn Fabray."

You realize you've seen her before, mostly walking briskly to get to class early, and sitting in the front row in history class, rigorously taking notes. She keeps her head down for the most part, and you assume she's trying to avoid being a target while everyone finds their place on the hierarchy. You recall one of the junior Cheerios making a snide remark about Rachel's knit cardigan with a panda on it.

"Cheerleader Quinn Fabray," she says, her brown eyes opening a bit wider as she drops her hand back to her side. "Of course," she adds, noting your attire.

"Is that my title?" you ask, offering a smile.

"You're pretty big news here," Rachel explains, her cheeks turning a light shade of pink. "Word is that you're going to carry the Cheerios to another four years of championships."

You let out a small, modest laugh. "One can hope," you say, watching as she nervously fidgets with her hands. "So, you sing…" you say to break the silence, for once wishing you didn't have the uniform on so that Rachel would actually make eye contact with you. You imagine a phone booth—running in and reappearing as Lucy. You shake the thought from your head; the world needed a Superman, not a Clark Kent.

Rachel nods eagerly, excitement in her eyes as she explains, "I have a lot of ideas for this year's Rhythm Explosion performance at Sectionals. Unfortunately, Mr. Ryerson doesn't appreciate my artistic tastes very much, seeing that I'm a freshman. Regardless, I'm hoping to expand on the club's repertoire. It's rather lacking, at the moment."

You bob your head in understanding, relatively surprised by how much she said and how quickly she said it, considering her discreet behavior in school. You guess she knows to avoid making her presence known because you've only heard terrible things about the school's crumbling glee club. Apparently the teacher leading the group is perpetually stoned and chooses to devote more time to the male vocals who are bordering on tone-deaf. Basically: Rhythm Explosion is an unsalvageable mess.

You're about to ask if she sings outside of school, hopefully to share her talents with a more motivated group, when your cellphone rings. You give her an apologetic look before answering. While Rachel returns to her sheet music, you watch how her body moves—her hands flipping through the pages, her stomach slightly expanding and contracting as she breathes—exactly as a singer should.

You hardly listen to your father and just say a quick, "Be right out."

"Leaving?" Rachel asks once you hang up. She doesn't look up, just adds a few bright pink post-it tabs to some music arrangements.

"Yeah; my dad's outside," you say, playing with the strap on your Cheerios duffle bag. "Thanks for letting me be your audience, Rachel," you add.

Rachel looks up at this, a bright smile on her face. "You're welcome any time, Quinn."

When you get in your car, your father asks what the smile is for.

You shrug and simply say, "I kind of like it here."

Your father grins, giving your shoulder a supportive squeeze. Your stomach flips as you reflect on the day—not quite butterflies, but not quite the drop of a rollercoaster. When you ask yourself what it all means, your smile falters, so you decide to tell your father about your meeting with Coach Sylvester, that it means you're definitely going to be captain of the nation's best cheerleading team by next year. He says he's happy for you, and you believe him—you're finally the daughter he can be proud of. The stomach flipping stops, and your smile is back in its place.

2.

You used to find it annoying when your father would arrive a little late to pick you up after practice, but for the past month, except for game days, you've passed the time in the choir room with Rachel. You hardly speak to one another—you let her sing, and she lets you sit in silence. Occasionally she asks for your opinion on songs she wants to propose to the glee club, but most of the time you say you like whatever she likes. It works as a one-sided duet. You enjoy listening, and she appreciates her audience of one.

The past two days, however, your father decided to be punctual until you told him last night at dinner that practices will start running later to fine tune every routine for the Thanksgiving game half-time show and the first cheer competition the first week of December. Although Coach Sylvester has demanded longer practices, you may have slightly exaggerated the length of practice.

Once the last Cheerio disappears out the front door, you make your way to the choir room. When you find it empty, the familiar feeling of disappointment reminds you of elementary school, when supposed friends failed to show up to any of your playdates.

"Friends," you scoff to yourself. You have plenty of people to choose from; there's no reason to feel let down.

You turn to leave, phone in hand to call your father, when you see curvy handwriting on the whiteboard—auditorium :)

Rachel looks up from her music when she hears the door close behind you.

"I thought I lost a fan," Rachel says, cracking a small smile.

"Nope," you say, grinning easily. "My dad finished up early at work the past couple of days." You don't ask yourself why you lie. "You relocated?"

"Better acoustics," she says, motioning vaguely around her.

You walk up to the front row and place your bag down.

"Despite the inconsistency of your father's timekeeping, I'm glad you're here," she says as you slip out of your jacket. Rachel clears her throat and you hear her shuffle through some papers, "I need your opinion."

You chuckle, tucking your jacket away, "How can I be of service?" you ask, hopping up onto the stage with little effort.

Rachel makes you choose a song to perform for the perpetually shrinking glee club. She looks disheartened when she explains that the group is only half the size necessary to compete in Sectionals. All of the members that still attend rehearsals are students in need of an extracurricular activity to add to their resume. You don't laugh when she confesses her theory that most of them, including Mr. Ryerson, appear "high as kites" at meetings that she's taken the responsibility of arranging.

You sit beside her on the piano bench and give her a sympathetic smile, "Aren't there other choirs you can sing with?"

She shakes her head, "No. They all require a drive, and with my dads' work schedules, they can't drive me to their rehearsals."

You nod. You learned Rachel has two dads from a couple of Cheerios who attend the same church as you; they both claimed their parents were concerned with "the liberals and gays" bringing their "agendas" to Lima. You've never said anything to Rachel, but you figure she knows everyone already talks about it.

"Don't you have a vocal coach? Can't they arrange something?" you suggest.

"Do you think I need a vocal coach?" Rachel asks, turning to you with a hurt expression.

"No! I don't—I just…" You see her façade start to crack, and soon she's laughing lightly. "Rude," you mutter.

"I had one since I learned to talk," Rachel explains, running her hand over the piano keys and tapping a few, "but the last vocal coach I had said I exceeded her abilities and that I'd be better off moving to New York to prepare for Broadway… Or Columbus at the very least."

You smile, knowing how desperately Rachel wants to be on stage, based on her song selections and her spontaneous quoting of Barbra or Liza or Julie. "You'll figure something out. I have confidence in you."

Rachel smiles brightly and sings, "I have confidence in sunshine! I have confidence in rain! I have confidence that spring will come again! Besides which you see, I have confidence in me!"

You laugh. "Okay, Maria."

Rachel opens her folder and hands you her selection of songs. You eventually choose a song by Adele, always enjoying Rachel's take on pop songs.

You're all smiles when Rachel starts, but it turns into awe when she reaches the chorus.

"Should I give up? Or should I just keep chasing pavements, even if it leads nowhere? Or would it be a waste, even if I knew my place? Should I leave it there?"

Something in your chest tightens. You take a shaky breath and run a hand through your hair. You continue to watch Rachel sing, and you watch her lips move and admire her long eyelashes as she closes her eyes.

"What did you think?"

You blink a few times and lick your lips. "Perfect," you practically sigh out.

"Thank you," Rachel says, grinning, "I'm glad someone appreciates my natural talent," she adds, flipping her hair in an exaggerated fashion, lifting her chin up.

"And your modesty," you comment, making Rachel's jaw drop in mock outrage.

You try and hide your disappointment when your phone goes off. You hang up after a brief exchange of words with your father. "That's my cue."

Rachel nods. "Tomorrow?"

"Same place?"

"Same time."

Everything hurts as you practically limp your way off the field.

Coach Sylvester was not pleased with anyone's performance last week, and since then, she's ordered everyone to run two miles at the end of practice, and an additional mile for anyone who doesn't run the first two in under fifteen minutes. Normally, every Cheerio could run a five to six-minute mile at their best, two miles in twelve to thirteen, but between morning practice, school and an already demanding afternoon practice, almost everyone ended up running at an eight-minute-mile pace. Because of the additional running time, you haven't been able to watch Rachel practice, especially with so many Cheerios making slow exits.

You almost said something to Rachel in school, but as you made your way toward her, Santana warned you that "Hobbits like her spread disease." You didn't argue with her, and instead made it seem like you were walking toward your own locker. As you pretended to sort through your bag, you finally understood why Rachel never approached you in school and kept her head down—it was for your sake just as much as hers.

"Chin up, Q," Coach Sylvester says as you grab your duffle bag from the sidelines.

You give her a strong nod and "Yes, Coach," before you pull your phone from your bag and make your way into the school.

Your mother and I got caught up at the country club to prepare for the charity auction. I can't get there until 6. Sorry, Q.

You groan, wanting nothing more than a hot shower and your bed.

You decide to take a shower in the locker room since you have your things from morning practice and you'd like to fall into bed as soon as you get home.

You attach your phone to the small stereo in the locker room, picking your morning playlist in an attempt to avoid falling asleep standing in the shower.

You hum along to the first song, pulling your sweat-soaked uniform from your body. While you like not having to worry what to wear on some occasions, you would enjoy wearing thick tights, a loose skirt and a sweater to school as it gets colder. But Coach Sylvester didn't invest a large amount of the school's athletic funding in providing five uniforms per Cheerio for nothing.

You practically moan when the hot water hits your body, and you simply stand with your face under the stream for a few moments. Feeling slightly rejuvenated, you wash your hair and hum along to the music. When a familiar song comes on, you let yourself sing along, letting your voice resonate in the empty locker room.

"The trick is… you don't get on that interstate bus. The catch is… you stay and see what becomes of us. Shake! Shake! Shake! Shake the frame of this house, distress the wood, make it shout. Oh, oh, ohh, oh, oh! Oh, oh, ohh, oh, oh!"

You turn off the water and grab the towel hanging beside the shower stall, wrapping it around you as you wring out your hair. You keep singing along to the chorus as you make your way back to your locker for your clean gym clothes, happy to be putting on sweatpants and a t-shirt.

You're opening your locker when a voice makes you jump, "If I knew you could sing, I would've proposed a duet."

"Holy—Rachel, you scared the crap out of me!" you say, clinging to your towel and turning to see Rachel standing at the end of the row of lockers, both hands covering her eyes.

"I promise I'm not trying to be creepy," she says.

You let out a short laugh. "You just surprised me."

"Are you decent?"

"Um, give me a second," you say, slipping on your bra and underwear and pulling on your sweatpants. "Yup," you say, tugging your shirt over your head.

"Sorry," Rachel says, her face a bit flushed.

"It's okay. What are you doing here?"

Rachel lifts up a moderately-sized tote bag, "I was practicing a few songs, and I came in here to restock."

"Restock what?"

Rachel hesitates before responding, "Just… gym clothes and necessary toiletries," she says, taking a seat on the end of the bench, "So, Cheerios has kept you busy lately, huh?"

"It's been brutal," you say, packing your uniform back into your duffle and pulling your brush out. "A lot more running than I thought. Normally I like running."

"I've missed you at my rehearsals," Rachel says, kicking an open locker back and forth between her feet.

"I've missed being there," you say, and your voice sounds quiet, more like the voice you use in church than in school.

"I made a Myspace page," she says, her eyes still on the swinging locker door.

You laugh lightly. "You know there's this thing called Facebook, right?"

Rachel rolls her eyes and gives you a fake glare. "For my music, dummy."

"Oh, that's good."

"I figure I need some exposure. Need to build my fan-base," she explains, smiling, "You know, outside of my family, a few stoners, and you."

"So I'm not good enough?" you ask, grinning as you brush your hair, enjoying the feel of it free from its usual tight ponytail.

"No, you're great," Rachel says softly.

For once, it's Rachel's phone that rings first.

"Hi Daddy," she says when she answers. She sounds younger and… happier. You notice her face flush, "Um… yeah. No, her dad's picking her up…"

You purse your lips to keep from grinning, busying yourself with packing up the last of your things.

"Okay, I'll be outside in a second."

You can't help but give Rachel a bit of a knowing smirk when she hangs up.

She clears her throat and lifts her chin, but her cheeks are still tinged pink. "My dads think it's very nice that someone appreciates my talent," she says. "They think it's important that someone else from Lima acts as a future source of information for the press—when they need to interview people about my humble beginnings."

You roll your eyes. "Come on, Barbra, before your head gets too big to get out of here," you say, hoisting your bag onto your shoulder.

Rachel brushes by you and smacks your shoulder with her bag.

You watch Rachel trot down the front steps of the school and get into the passenger side of her car, giving you a small wave. You hold in a laugh when her window goes down and her dad calls out, "Hi Quinn!" Rachel looks traumatized, "You want us to wait until your dad gets here?"

"That's actually him," you say, pointing to the Lexus pulling into the parking lot, "Thanks anyway, Mr. Berry."

"Okay! Have a good night!" he calls.

"You too."

You chuckle to yourself when you hear him comment to Rachel, "So polite!" resulting in a, "Oh my god, can we go?" from Rachel as she rolls up the window.

You father pulls up a moment later as Rachel's dad drives off. You get into the car and give your dad a smile.

"Who was that?" he asks, watching the Berry's car turn out of the parking lot exit.

"Oh, um, no one really. Someone from another club after school," you say.

Your stomach flips, and this time you know it's because you're lying—you know something is wrong.