Title: Tomayto, Tomahto
Author: slacker_d
Fandom: Heathers/glee
Pairing/Characters: Rachel/Quinn, slight Tina/Finn, Brittany, Santana, Puck, Will, Emma, plus cameos from pretty much everyone else
Rating: R for language and violence
Summary: "No. My life's not perfect. I don't really like my friends."
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Word Count: 14,000+
Spoilers: For Heathers, but none for glee
Warnings: Character death, murder, suicide attempts, blackmail


…

Dear Diary, Santana says she teaches people real life, that real life sucks people dry and that if you want to fuck with the eagles you have to learn how to fly. I said, so you teach people how to spread their wings and fly? She answered, yes. I told her, you're beautiful.

It's lunchtime at McKinley High School and I'm journaling on the steps in the main hallway. Just as I'm about to really start another rant about Santana's cruelty, a knee to the shoulder makes my pen skid across the page. I look up to find myself boxed in by Brittany and Tina.

"God, Tina," I say. "What's your damage?"

"Don't blame me," she replies. "Blame Santana. She said she needs to see you in the caf ASAP. Back me up Brit."

"Yeah, she really wants to talk to you, Quinn."

"Fine. Whatever. I'm going." I grab my books, stand and follow them into the cafeteria.

We find Santana at our usual table, ignoring the losers that surround us on a daily basis. Her words, not mine.

"Quinn, finally," she says, seeing us. "I got a hold of a note of Puck's. I need you to forge a hot and heavy, but low key love note from him to Mercedes Dumptruck. T can slip it onto her lunch tray."

"Why?" I ask. "I have nothing against Mercedes Dunnstock."

"And you have nothing for her either," Santana replies. "Come on, it'll be very. The note will give her…shower nozzle masturbation fantasy material for weeks."

"I'll think about it."

"Don't think. Do."

I follow her line as sight and the four us watch Mercedes in the lunch line for a moment. Apparently my silence is consent.

"Quinn needs something to write on," Santana says. "B, bend over."

Brittany does and Santana hands me her clipboard. I look at the note for a moment and then wait for Santana to recite the letter she's already got floating around in her head.

"Dear Mercedes, you're so sweet and…"

I write as Santana recites. Once finished, I rip it out of the notebook and hands it to the Latina, who hands it to Tina, who walks up behind Mercedes and slips it onto her tray when she's looking the other way.

Once the prank is pulled, we sit. And Santana reminds me that it's time for the weekly Lunch Time Poll.

"So what's the question this week?" I ask.

"Yeah, S, what's the question?" Brittany asks.

"God damn, B, you were with me in study hall when I came up with it."

"I forgot."

"Such a pillow case," Santana mutters.

"This wouldn't be that weird thing you were rambling on about last night, would it?" I ask.

"Of course it is." Santana stands and I follow. "I told Matt if he gave me another political question, I'd cut him."

Following Santana across the caf, I feel eyes on me. Looking over, I see the new girl sitting in the corner. She's a small brunette dressed all in black and she's smirking at me. I can't help but stare back, except I'm not looking where I'm going and manage to run right into Emma Pillsbury.

She looks up and smiles. "Oh, Quinn, sorry."

"Emma Pillsbury," I say. "Hey I'm really sorry I didn't make it to your birthday party last month."

"Oh don't worry about it," she tells me. "Your mom said you had a date. Hell, I'd probably miss my own birthday for a date."

"Don't say that."

"You know what? I was looking around the other day," she continues. "And I found these old photographs." She pulls two pictures out of her bag and hands them to me.

It's the two of us in Halloween costumes. She's dressed as a fairy and I'm a pirate. I have vague memories of us being eight or nine. "Wow. These are great."

Santana's lost her patience with me and literally drags me away. The pictures slip from my fingers as I tell her, "I was talking to somebody."

And so we start asking people the Lunch Time Poll question. This week it's, "You win 25 million dollars from the lottery. And the same day as you got to collect your money, aliens land and say they're going to blow up the earth in two days. What do you do?"

It's a ridiculous question, is all I can think. But the popular kids always have an answer ready.

"Easy. I'd just hand it over to my father. He is like the best broker in the state."

You just shake your head at that one.

"If I got that money, I'd give it all to the homeless. Every cent," Kurt tells us.

"You're beautiful," you tell him, before walking away.

Santana follows and snaps at me. "If you're openly going to be a bitch—"

"It's just, Santana, why can't we talk to different types of people."

"Fuck me gently with a chainsaw," Santana replies. "Do I look like Mother Theresa? If I did, I probably wouldn't mind talking to the geek squad."

"Does it not bother you that everyone at this school thinks you're a piranha?"

"Like I give a shit," she tells me. "They all want me as a friend or a fuck. I'm worshiped at McKinley and I'm only a junior." She glares at me, but I just glare back. "I can't believe this. We're going to a Dalton university party tonight and we're going to prepare by talking to the scum of the school."

I ignore her and head towards the most unpopular kids in school's table. She follows and we continue asking the Lunch Time Poll question. This time, I feel like we get more honest answers. Unlike the popular kids who are always trying to outdo each other.

"I'd travel. I've always wanted to go to Japan."

Emma: "I'd throw a big end of the world party."

Puck: "I'd pay the Olsen twins 10 million dollars, each, to sit on my face and ride it like the Kentucky Derby."

"Go to the zoo. Find a lion. You put a remote control bomb up its butt and push the button and then you and the lion die as one." Okay, so maybe talking to the stoners isn't the best idea.

We return to our table just in time to see Mercedes get up the courage to approach Puck. She slowly approaches his table and hands him the note. I feel sick, watching, while the others just smile and wait anxiously. Puck reads it and it isn't long before he starts laughing, loudly. Finn grabs it and starts laughing as well. Santana, Brittany and Tina are all laughing behind me and I look over at the new girl. She just shakes her head at me. Mercedes quickly got fed up with the laughing, as Puck's whole table is now in on the joke, and runs off.

Sensing my discomfort, Santana pulls me aside. "You wanted to be a part of the most powerful clique at McKinley. If I wasn't already in charge of it, I'd want the same thing."

I can only look at her with disgust.

"Whatever, Quinn. You used to have a sense of humor."

…

Tina, Santana and I are primping in the mirror while Brittany's attempting bulimia in the first stall. Finally after a few minutes, she calls out, "Quinn, could you come back here a minute?"

"A true friend's work is never done," I say, holding up my finger.

"Grow up, Brit, bulimia is so last year," Santana ridicules.

"You know, maybe you should see a doctor," I tell her.

"Maybe."

Santana's mockery just continues. "Come on Brittany. Let's take another look at today's lunch."

…

Returning to the cafeteria, my eyes just naturally find the new girl again. She smirks at my apparent interest.

"God, Quinn, if I didn't know better, I'd think you're turning Dykadelic on us," Tina says, coming up behind me. "Her name's Rachel Berry. She's in my American History class."

Not sure what I'm feeling, I start walking towards her, ignoring the not so whispered mockery behind me. I know they sometimes wonder about me, since I'm not really interested in dating any of the miscreants that roam our school. Previously, I was able to brush it off as not wanting to date high school guys, which is why Santana is dragging me to the Dalton party tonight. It's supposed to show me my options or something.

"Hello, Rachel Berry."

"Greetings and salutations," she replies. "And you are?"

"Quinn. Fabray. This might seem like a really stupid question."

"There are no stupid questions."

"You win 25 million dollars the same day that aliens land on the earth and say they're going to blow up the earth in two days. What do you do?"

"That's the stupidest question I've ever heard," she tells me. "But, I suppose if I had to… get a bottle of Tequila, my guitar, row out to the middle of a lake, watch the sunset and just mellow out."

"How very."

Santana comes up behind me. "Come on, Quinn."

Fighting the urge to roll my eyes at her, I just tell Rachel, "Later."

"Definitely."

…

That afternoon the school is all abuzz with gossip about the new girl pulling a gun on Puck and Finn because she told them to get lost when Finn asked her out and he wouldn't listen.

"God," Tina says. "They're not gonna expel her. They'll just like suspend her for a week or something."

"She used a real gun," Santana argues. "They should throw the bitch in jail."

"No way. She used blanks," I contend. "All she did was ruin two pairs of pants. Or maybe not. Can you bleach out pee stains?"

We're at my house, playing croquet in the back yard. Santana takes her turn, her ball smacking into Brittany's.

Looking edgy, Brittany asks, "So what now? You gonna take the two shots or send me out?"

Santana walks over to Brittany and their two balls. "Did you have a brain tumor for breakfast? First you ask if you can be red, when you know damn well, I'm always red." Santana pushes her red ball against Brittany's green one, places her foot atop hers and swings, sending the green ball across the yard and behind some bushes.

"Shit."

"It's your turn, Brittany," Santana says.

Brittany slowly walks over to her ball and surveys the situation.

"Easy shot, Brit," Tina calls out. "No way. No day."

"Give it up girl," I add.

But Brittany keeps her head down and swings hard. The ball bounces off a tree and then another before hitting the ground and rolling through the wicket.

Santana can only stare at it.

"Holy shit," Tina say.

"That was incredible," I tell her.

Bouncing a bit, Brittany can't help but smile.

"So you two excited about tonight?" Tina asks.

"I'm giving Quinn her shot. Her first Dalton party." Santana spins and looks at me as I line up my next shot. "You blow it tonight, girl, and it's keggers with kids all next year."

Santana's next shot is once again to hit Brittany's ball.

She just looks her and asks, "Why?"

"Why not?"

Just then my mom comes onto the patio and calls, "Tina, you're mother's here."

"Come on, anyone who wants a ride."

The three of them leaving, leaning their mallets against a tree.

"Come on, Quinn," my father, Sandy, says. "Sit down and take a break." I sit and join in the little snack they're having. "So how was the first week of post spring break withdrawal like?"

"I don't know. Okay, I suppose."

"Isn't prom coming up?" my mother, Terri, asks.

"I suppose."

"Any contenders worth mentioning?"

"Maybe," I say, not sure how much I want to share. "There's a…dark horse in the running."

"God damn," my father interrupts. "Can anyone tell me why I read these spy novels?"

"Cause you're an idiot," I tell him.

"Oh yeah, that's right."

"Oh you two."

"Great pate, mom, but I gotta motor if I wanna be ready for that party tonight."

…

Santana picks me up in her BMW and we stop at Pump-n-Munch before hitting the party.

"Corn nuts!" she yells at me from the handicap space her Z3 is using.

"BQ or plain?"

"BQ!"

Inside, I easily find the corn nuts when I hear, "You gonna get a Big Gulp with those?"

I turn to find Rachel Berry walking towards me. "No, but if you're nice, I'll let you buy me a slushie. You seem to know your convenience speak fairly well," I tell her.

"Yeah, well, I've been around: Dallas, Baton Rogue, Vegas, Lima, Ohio. The one thing they have in common is a Pump-n-Munch. Being able to pop a chicken burrito in the microwave and feast on a corn dog, it keeps me sane."

"Interesting," I say. "That thing you pulled in the caf today was pretty severe."

"Well, I find the extreme always makes an impression," she replies. "Did you say cherry or Coke slushie?"

"I didn't. Cherry."

…

Outside, I can't help but admire her red convertible. "Nice ride."

"It gets me around. My mother says red is the color of winners. That red is leadership and power; respect and patriotism. It's a little gift from her courtesy of her construction company. You've seen the commercials. 'Bringing every state to a higher state.' "

"Wait a minute," I say, because I do remember the commercial. "Your mom is Sue Sylvester? Who runs Sylvester Construction? How come you don't have the same last name?"

"I have my other mom's name. They didn't want to do a hyphenate, for which I'm somewhat grateful."

"Oh," is all I can think to say. "It must suck moving all the time."

"Perhaps. But everyone's life's got static," she replies. "Your life perfect?"

"Oh yeah," I tell her, contempt in my voice. "I'm on my way to a party at Dalton University."

We hear a car horn. Looking up, I see Santana looking pissy and honking incessantly.

"No. My life's not perfect. I don't really like my friends."

"I don't really like your friends either," she tells me.

"It's like, they're people I work with and our job is being popular or whatever."

Rachel looks over at my agitated friend. "Maybe it's time to take a vacation."

…

At the party, I follow Santana as she searches out Rod, this college guy she's been "dating". I have this bad feeling that she's setting me up with some asshole, even though she told me just being at the party would be enough to earn me the right to return. I should have known better. Santana's such a fucking liar.

Rod introduces me to Dave, who blatantly looks me up and down before whispering in his buddy's ear. They bump fists and I barely hold back the urge to gag.

We separate. Dave gets me a drink, which I gulp, hoping to make this experience bearable. He just smiles and hands me another. Finally, with the third one of the night in my hand, I tell him I need the bathroom, but instead find an empty room to hide in.

I had hoped to hide there until enough time had passed and I could convince Santana to leave, but luck isn't on my side tonight as Dave finds me.

"There's my little cheerleader," he says, plopping down next to me on the couch. I inch away from him. "Come on. I know people in high school aren't so uptight."

"I'm not feeling so great," I tell him, pushing him away.

Ignoring me as I stand to get away from him, Dave flops onto his back. "Hey, let's do it on the coats. It'll be awesome."

"Yeah, great, listen. I have a little speech I like to give when my suitor wants more than I'm willing to give. Listen, blank, it's been fun, but—"

"Save the speech for debate team, honey. I just wanna get laid."

I yank my coat out from under him and storm out.

Santana finds me in the hall, trying to find the door. I need some air; I'm not feeling so great. Maybe drinking three glasses of their special punch wasn't the best idea.

"What's your damage? Dave says you're being a real cooze."

"Like I care," I tell her. "Can we jam? I feel like shit and I gotta get out of here."

"Hell no," she snaps. "We're at a fucking Dalton party and you wanna bail? Already? God you're just as pathetic as you were last year, aren't you?"

Not in the mood to be berated, I leave Santana and finally find a way outside. The cool night air and the quiet help a little and I take deep breaths until I don't feel so nauseous. It doesn't last though.

"You stupid fuck," Santana says as she steps into backyard with me.

"You god damn bitch," I reply.

"You were nothing before you met me! You were playing Barbies with Emma Pillsbury! You were a Brownie, you were a Bluebird, you were a Girl Scout Cookie! I got you into a Dalton party! I set you up with a college guy whose rep will make you worth knowing for years to come. And what's my thanks? You act like a frigid little bitch. I'm starting to think Tina was right. You are a fucking dyke."

"Not wanting to roll around on everyone's coats with some drunk Neanderthal you picked out doesn't mean—"

"Monday morning, you're history," she tells me. "I'm telling everyone about this. Transfer to Madison, transfer to Kennedy, no one at McKinley's gonna let you play their reindeer games."

…

Dear Diary, I want to kill and you have to believe it's for more than just selfish reasons, more than just a spoke in my menstrual cycle. You have to believe me. Oh Christ, I can't explain it, but I'm allowed an understanding that my parents or those Dalton University jack-offs have chosen to ignore. I understand that I must stop Santana. Emma Pillsbury was a true friend, but I sold her out for a bunch of swatch dogs and diet coke heads. Killing Santana would be like offing the Wicked Witch of the West, wait East, no West. God, I sound like a fucking psycho. Tomorrow I'll be kissing her aerobicized ass, but tonight, let me dream of a world without Santana. A world where I am free.

Feeling frustrated, I whip my journal across the room and ignore the clank as it hits something. I nearly have a heart attack when Rachel suddenly appears in my open second story window.

"Dreadful etiquette," she says. "I apologize."

I manage to sputter, "It's fine."

"I saw the croquet set up in the back. Wanna play?"

…

A bit later, we're curled up naked under my mom's picnic blanket, clothes strewn about the yard amongst the mallets, wickets and balls.

"Thank you," Rachel says. "That was my first game of strip croquet."

"You're welcome," I reply. "It's a bit more interesting than just flinging off your clothes and doing it on the neighbor's swing set."

"I don't know, there's a lot to be said for flinging off your clothes."

"What a night," I say. "What a life. I almost moved into high school out of sixth grade because I was some genius. We all decided to chuck the idea because I'd have trouble making friends, blah-blah-blah. Now blah-blah-blah is all I do. I use my grand I.Q. to figure out what gloss to wear and how to hit three keggers before curfew. Some genius."

Rachel stops my speech with a languish kiss. "Santana Lopez is one bitch that deserves to die," she says after we eventually pull apart.

"Killing her won't solve anything," I murmur. "I say we just grow up, become adults and die. But before that, I'd really like to see Santana puke her guts out."

…

The next morning, Rachel and I sneak into the Lopez house. Part of me wonders why the hell Rachel knows how to pick locks, while the other part finds it intriguing and kinda hot. Once the door is open, she hesitates before entering, but I confidently stride into the kitchen.

"Don't worry," I tell her. "Her parents are gone this weekend and Santana never gets up before noon on a Saturday, especially after a party."

"All righty then, we'll just concoct a hangover cure that will induce her to spew."

Looking in the fridge, I don't see too much to work with. "What's the vomit level for orange juice and milk?"

"I'm more of tidy bowl gal, myself," Rachel replies, holding up some toilet cleaner.

Taking out a carton of milk and a jug of orange juice, I tell her, "Don't be a moron. That'll kill her."

Rachel just looks at me. She turns and pulls a glass out of the cabinet.

"What about cooking some soup and mixing it with Coke. Gross, right? What's better? Bean and bacon or vegetable?" I ask pulling the cans out.

"Let it go, Quinn," Rachel says. "I say we go with big blue over here." She holds up the glass half filled with thick blue toilet bowl cleaner.

"What are you saying? Besides, she'd never drink something that looked like that, anyway."

"So…" Rachel looks in the cabinet and pulls out a coffee mug. "We'll put it in this. She won't know what she's drinking." She pours the contents of the glass into the mug and puts a lid on it.

"Get me another cup, weirdo," I say, walking over to her. I reach up and grab a second mug. "Hmmm. Milk and orange juice. We could at least spit in it, right?"

We both spit into the milk filled mug a couple times before I pour the orange juice in.

"See? Definitely puke worthy."

"Chicken," Rachel says as I put back the cleaning supplies.

"You're not funny."

"Sorry," she says, kissing me as I grab the mug and head towards Santana's room.

"Quinn." I hear her call after me.

"What?"

There's a slight pause before she says, "Never mind. I should probably carry the cup."

I let her catch up to me and I hand over the mug.

Santana's room is a lavish, expensively furnished room that just screams spoiled rich girl. She has an elaborate four poster bed, an elegant satin loveseat, and even a pretentious looking glass table in the middle of the room.

Standing at the foot of her bed, Rachel shakes a post as I say, "Good morning Santana."

She wakes easily and doesn't seem surprised. "Quinn. Treasure Trail. Una qué sorpresa. So I was right, seems you really are a vagitarian."

"Santana, I'm sure last night we both said some things we didn't mean."

"Did we?" Santana asks before turning towards Rachel. "How the hell did you get in here?"

Ignoring her question, Rachel tells her, "Quinn knew you'd have a hangover, so I mixed this up for you. It's…an old family recipe." She holds the mug out to her.

"What? You spit in it? I'm not drinking that shit."

Rachel just shakes her head. "I knew this stuff would just be too intense."

"Intense," she chuckles. "Grow up. Do you really think I'm going to drink it just cause you call me a chicken?" Santana climbs out of bed as Rachel and I exchange a look. "Just give me the cup, bitch," she says, swiping it out of my hand. She downs it without really looking.

Almost immediately she reacts. She looks like she wants to hurl as she starts walking and gagging. She stops in front of the coffee table, grabs her neck and sputters, "Corn nuts." And then she falls face first into the glass.

It shatters loudly making the following silence even more harsh. Rachel and I just stare at her collapsed body surrounded by glass in between a pile of Elles and Vanity Fairs on one side and some Cliff Notes for The Bell Jar atop a Life magazine on the other.

Gasping for air, all I can say is, "Oh my god. I just killed my best friend."

"And your worst enemy," Rachel replies.

"Same difference." Needing to sit down, I stumble over to her desk.

"What do we say to the police?" Rachel asks. "Sorry officer. Seems she just can't take a joke."

"Oh my god," I say again. "This is my life. Now I have to send my SAT scores to San Quentin instead of Stanford."

"A little distressed here, is all," Rachel says. "Least you got what you wanted."

"What I wanted?" I exclaim. "It's one thing to want someone out of your life. It's another to give them a good morning mug of toilet cleaner."

Rachel paces the room, obviously thinking. All I can do is concentrate on breathing and not completely losing it.

After a few moments, she turns to me. "We committed murder and that's a crime. But what if this was a suicide?"

"A suicide?"

"Sure," she assures me. "You've got Santana's handwriting down pat, right? Right?"

Instead of answering, I open the top right desk drawer, knowing that's where she keeps paper. I pull some out and start to brainstorm. "You might think what I did was shocking." I begin to write.

"Uh," Rachel jumps in. "To me suicide is the answer to the myriad of problems life has given me."

"That's good," I tell her. "But Santana would never say myriad."

"It's the last thing she's ever going to write. You don't think she'd want to cash in on as many $5 words as possible."

"But she got myriad wrong on the vocab test last week," I protest.

"Exactly. Another symbol of her academic failures."

"Fine, you're probably right," I concede. I start writing again. "People think just because you're beautiful and popular, life is easy and fun. Uh, no one understood I had feelings too."

"I die knowing no one knew the real me," Rachel adds.

I look up at her. "That's good. You done this before?"

…

"Any other principal would take the same position," Principal Dakota Stanley tells his faculty. "Business as usual.

"Santana Lopez isn't your average student," Tanaka points out. "She was very popular."

"Come on, Ken," Stanley argues. "If we release them before noon, we'd be fielding phone calls for hours."

"I must say how impressed I am," Figgins, her English teacher, adds. "With her proper use of the word myriad in her suicide note."

"I find it extremely disturbing," Schuester interrupts. "That we learn of the tragic destruction of youth and all we can think to talk about is the proper mourning period and misused vocabulary words."

"Christ," Stanley mutters.

"We must revel in this revealing moment," Schuester continues. "I think we should gather everyone, teachers and students, in the cafeteria and discuss our thoughts and feelings. Togetherness, that's what we need."

"Thank you, Mr. Schuester," Stanley says. "Tell me when the shuttle lands."

…

Despite the gossip floating around, we only get released one period early. In the locker room, all I can do is slouch against my locker and try not to feel guilty.

"It's so not fair," Tina says. "We should get a whole week off, not just an hour."

"Write the school board," Brittany says as she devours some chicken.

"Watch it, Brit," I say. "You might be digesting food there."

"Yeah," Tina adds. "Where's your urge to purge?"

"Fuck it."

"Look," Tina says. "Santana left behind one of her Swatches." She tosses it to me. "She'd want you to have it, Q. She always said you couldn't accessorize worth shit."

"Sorry to hear about your friend." I turn around to find one of the stones, April I think, standing behind me. "I thought she was your typical moronic bitch, but guess I was wrong. Guess we all were." And then she walks off, leaving me feeling sick to my stomach.

"What a waste," Brittany says between bites. "Oh the humanity."

I leave them and walk into the showers.

"Quinn?" Tina calls after me. "Quinn? What are you doing?"

I turn on the water in the middle shower stall and stand under it, still clothed. It doesn't help.

…

I have Mr. Schuester next period and I place myself in the corner, hoping to avoid what I'm sure is going to be intense discussion about our feelings. I hate the fact that he makes us sit in a circle, our desks all facing one another, but he also allows us to sit on the cushions and bean bags surrounding our desks, if needed. Today it's definitely needed.

"I'm just so…thrilled," Schuester announces. "To finally have such a fine example of the complex depth and emotion that a human animal is capable. That example is Santana Lopez. I have her note," she tells us, holding up a slip of paper.

"Oooh," the class murmurs.

"I'm going to pass this note around so you can all feel its pathetic beauty for yourself." She hands it to Kurt and he opens it up, reading.

"Meanwhile, I think this is the perfect opportunity to discuss the feelings that this suicide has incited within us all."

"I heard it was super gnarly," April says. "She drained a cup of blue toilet bowl cleaner and smash—"

"Uh, April, I'd rather not revisit the coroner's report. I want to get into how you feel."

"Uh, Santana and I went out once," Mike volunteers. "But she said I was boring. But now I know it wasn't me. She was just miserable and took it out on others."

"That's…lovely, Mike," Schuester says eventually.

Meanwhile, I can't take all this…forced emotion and let a laugh slip out, loudly. Everyone turns to look at me and so I place my head in my hands and pretend to cry.

"Are we gonna be tested on this?"

…

That afternoon at Rachel's house, we watch TV for any sort of Santana related news. What's most interesting about this "suicide" is people's reactions.

Currently, Brittany is on TV telling the reporter about her relationship with Santana. Of course, it's nothing like reality.

"…we were the same size and so we'd sometime mix our clothes. Santana always said it was like doubling your wardrobe…"

Next up is Mike, recounting their one disastrous date. "…and I remember I won her a stuffed bear…"

"Jackass. Mute him," I tell her.

She changes the channel. And there's Brittany again, saying basically what she just said to channel five.

"Jesus, Brit," I say. "How many stations did you run to?"

And then there's Kurt, "…it's just not going to be the same around here without her…"

"What are you saying?" I yell at the TV. "You hated her. She hated you."

Rachel shuts off the TV. "Santana Lopez is even more popular. I didn't think it was possible."

"Scary shit."

I look up to find Rachel's mom walking in.

"Well hello there, dear, didn't hear you come in," Rachel says.

"Hey, mother, how was work today?" Sue asks. She's dressed in a red track suit and walks over to the treadmill next to the couch and jumps on. "It was miserable. This group of old biddies doesn't want me to tear down some old hotel all because it's over one hundred years old. It's like Nebraska. You remember fucking Nebraska?"

"Uh, the one with the corn, right?"

"Save the trees or some bullshit. We showed those bastards, didn't we?"

"Fifty Fourth of July fireworks attached to the trunk. Arraigned, but acquitted."

"Golly gee, mother, I almost forgot to introduce my girlfriend," Sue says.

Rachel just shrugs. "Mother this is Quinn. Quinn this is my mother."

"Hi." I hold out my hand, but she simply waves and keeps walking.

"So," Rachel continues. "Why don't you ask your little friend to stay for dinner?"

"I can't, actually," I say, standing. "My mom's making my favorite, tonight. Spaghetti. Lots of oregano."

"Lovely. Last time I saw my mom, she was waving from a library window in Texas. Right mother?" she says turning to Sue.

Sue stares back. "Right." She turns off the treadmill. "Rach."

"Right." I wave and head home.

…

"Come on, Quinn," my father, says. "Sit down and take a break."

I do.

"So," he continues. "What was the first day after Santana's suicide like?"

"I don't know. Okay, I suppose."

My father lights a cigarette as my mother hands me a pate filled cracker.

"Terrible, really," she says. "So, you going to introduce this dark horse prom contender?"

"Maybe."

"God damn," my father interrupts. "Can anyone tell me why I smoke this stupid things?"

"Cause you're an idiot," I tell him.

"Oh yeah, that's right."

"Oh you two."

"Great pate, mom, but I gotta motor if I wanna be ready for that funeral."

…

The funeral is a sober affair with dozens of students who hated Santana. She's wearing her prom dress. I recognize it since the four of us went shopping together. She's holding a bouquet of red roses and if I didn't know better, I'd almost think she'd been a sweet indivdual.

"I blame not Santana, but rather a society that tells its youth that the answers are on the MTV video games," the priest says. "We must pray the other teenagers of Lima, Ohio, know the name of that "righteous dude" who can solve their problems... It's Jesus Christ and he's in the book."

"Amen."

…

Emma Pillsbury kneels in front of Santana's coffin and prays. May Santana Lopez rest in peace even though she committed suicide. For-the-kingdom-the-power-and-the-glory-are-yours-now-and-forever-Amen. She stands, make the signs of the cross and exits.

Tina is next. She kneels and makes the sign of the cross. Oh God, this is a tragic thing and sometimes I have a hard time dealing with it and stuff. Please send Santana to heaven and all that. Thanks. I mean, Amen. She stands and exits.

Mike is next. He kneels. Dear God, make sure this never happens to me. I do not think I could handle suicide and that's the God's honest truth. Pardon the pun. Fast-early-acceptance-into-an-Ivy-League-school-and-please-let-it-be-Harvard. Amen. He stands and quickly leaves.

Finn is next and he seems extremely uncomfortable. Jesus God in heaven, uh, why did you kill such hot snatch. That's a joke, man. People are so serious. Hail Mary, who aren't in heaven, pray for us sinners...so we don't get caught. Another joke, man. He makes a clumsy sign of the cross and leaves.

Brittany kneels solemnly and makes the sign of the cross. I prayed for the death of Santana Lopez many times and I felt bad every time I did, but I kept doing it anyway. Now I know you understood everything. Praise Jesus. Alleluia. She stand with a small smile, which she quickly hides and exits.

…

After Brit's done saying good bye, I approach Santana's coffin and kneel. Hi. I'm sorry. Technically I didn't kill Santana Lopez but hey, who am I trying to kid, right? I just want my high school to be a nice place. Amen. Did that sound bitchy? I stand and look around for Rachel.

I find Tina using the baptismal water to de-static her hair.

"Quinn," she says. "You doing anything tonight?"

"I don't know. Mourning, I suppose. Watch TV or something. Why?"

We walk out as she explains to me that Finn wants to go out tonight, but he wants to double with Puck and he doesn't have a date."

"Tina, you know Puck and I don't get along at all. Besides, I'm…into someone else."

"Q, please, at a time like this, I don't care if you're a lezzie or not. I just need a fourth and you know Brit won't. So just please do this for me. It's just one night. I'll be your best friend."

"Fine."

We start walking towards her car as Tina assures me that tonight won't completely blow.

"Finn's been really sweet today," she tells me. "Consoling me and stuff. It'll be very. I promise."

"Whatever. I don't care as long as it's not just them getting wasted and then taking us cow tipping."

"No way."

…

Many hours later, I'm standing next to Tina as our two drunk, idiotic dates sneak up behind a cow. They're laughing and muttering to each other and all I can do is watch and feel annoyed. I can't believe I let Tina talk me into this. These guys aren't ever going to change. Not even Santana's "suicide" is going to make that happen.

"You ready?" Puck asks Finn. He nods. "One. Two. Three."

They both push on the cow's flank as hard as possible and the poor animal tumbles over; right into a pile of mud which splatters both Tina and I in the face. Now I'm just pissed beyond belief, especially since Finn and Puck just laugh even harder.

…

Finn's managed to persuade Tina into some serious groping. He's on top of her, floundering around drunk, while I make my escape from the very drunk Puck.

"When I get that feeling, I need sexual healing."

"Whatever, asswipe," I say stomping away up the pasture hill. Leaning against a tree, I see him collapse onto the ground. Seems I'm safe for the moment.

"What the fuck?"

I turn around to find Rachel on top the hill. I begin to climb up towards her.

"Sorry. It's a favor for Tina. Double date. I was gonna tell you post funeral, but you were already gone."

"Fucking fantastic.

Something's different, but I can't place it.

"Sorry. It's just I'm feeling a bit superior, tonight. Seven schools in seven states and the only thing different is my locker combo."

I don't know what to say to that.

"Our love is god," she continues. "Come on, let's get a slushie."

I smile as she helps me up the rest of the hill. Rachel kisses me when I reach the top and I can't help but kiss back.

…

The next day I head into the yearbook room, looking for Matt. "Hey guys," I say. "Came to check up on this week's Lunch Time Poll topic…" I can't say anything else because I've just noticed the two page spread Matt's apparently making to commemorate Santana's death.

Mistaking my disgust for something else, Matt has me sit. "Don't worry about it, Quinn. That funeral yesterday must have been pretty tough, huh?"

"Yeah," I reply, still trying to look at the layout.

"We were wondering if you had any poems, or artwork that Santana did that we can put in the Santana Lopez yearbook spread."

"The what?" I sputter.

"Take a look." Matt leads me back over to the table. "It's a two page layout with her suicide note up here in the corner."

I just sigh.

"It's more tasteful than it looks," he assures me.

"I don't know, Matt, this stuff leaves a bad taste in my mouth," I tell him.

"Like last night, Quinn?" Kurt asks.

"Excuse me? I don't get it."

"Well you did last night. Puck told us about your little date."

"And?" I reply. "I left him drunk, flailing in cow shit."

"I don't know. He was really detailed."

"Shut up, Kurt," Mike says.

"No. I wanna know what I exactly I did," I say.

Kurt just laughs.

"Come on, Quinn," Mike says, dragging me away. "I'll show you the Lunch Time Poll topic."

"What the fuck?"

"All right," Mike says. "Now normally, I ignore anything imbeciles like Puck say, but he said he and Finn had a nice little sword fight in your mouth, last night, if you know what I mean."

"Ewww. Nasty. That fucking asshole."

…

"Hello, Puck? It's Quinn. Fabray. Yeah, I didn't think I'd be calling either, I guess, my emotions are just taking over. I was wondering if you wanted all those things you said to really happen. It's always kind of been a fantasy of mine to have two guys at once. Sure, you can write to penthouse forum." Rachel's laughter from the end of my bed almost breaks my concentration, but taking a deep breath, I manage to not laugh. "Yeah, in the woods behind the school. At dawn. Bring Finn." Hanging up the phone, I finally let myself laugh.

"I don't understand the point of writing a suicide note when we're just shooting them with blanks," I tell Rachel.

"We're not using blanks," she informs me.

"What? No way. My Bonnie-and-Clyde days are over." I start to get off the bed, but she grabs me.

"Wait. Do you take German?"

"French."

"These are Ich Luge bullets," she says, holding one up. "My grandfather had a bunch left over from W. W. two. They're like tranquilizers. Only they break the skin enough to cause some bleeding, but no permanent damage."

"So the person looks dead, but they're really just unconscious and bleeding?"

"Exactly," Rachel says. "We shoot Puck and Finn, leave the note and then by the time they wake up, they're the laughing stock of the whole school. The note's the punch line. How'd it turn out?"

"First tell me," I say, holding up the faux suicide note and the sample note that Santana gave me last week. "That the similarity is not incredible."

She leans over and says, "Incredible similarity."

I read the suicide note out loud. "Finn and I died the day we realized we could never reveal our forbidden love to an uncaring and ununderstanding world. The joy we shared in each other's arms was greater than any touchdown. Yet we were forced to live the lie of Sexist-Beer Guzzling-Jock-Asshole."

"Perfect, but I'm pretty sure ununderstanding isn't a word."

"It's more believable this way. We definitely can't get away with using $5 words in this note." I set the notes down. "Hey, why would the Germans have bullets that don't kill? It was a war."

"It was for them. They'd use it on themselves, so they wouldn't be captured or killed by the enemy." She picks up a flower covered gift bag off the floor. "Should we see what lovely homosexual artifacts I was able to procure?" She pulls out a magazine. "An issue of Stud Puppy. A candy dish. A Joan Crawford postcard. Some mascara. And this, I consider the pièce de résistance." She pulls a glass bottle out of the bag. "Mineral water."

"Please," I say. "Plenty of people drink mineral water. It's come a long way."

"Maybe, but this is Ohio. If you don't have a beer in your hand, you might as well be wearing a dress."

"Oh, aren't you smart?" I purr. "Wanna try out some of our own homosexuality before you go?"

…

Part 2

…

The next morning everything is set up. I wait for Puck and Finn, while Rachel hides in some nearby bushes.

"Hey, Quinn," I hear behind me. I turn to see Finn and Puck walking over, both hands in their pockets, looking excited.

"Glad you could make it," I tell them.

We stand there awkwardly for a moment while they try to figure out what to do next. Finally Finn asks, "So should we just whip it out?"

"Well, actually," I reply. "I've made two circles in the clearing here. Finn, you're there," I continue pointing. "And Puck, you're there." They both stand in the circle of dirt we created earlier. "When you get to the circle, strip."

"What about you?" Finn asks.

"I was actually, kinda hoping you'd just rip my clothes off me, stud," I say.

"Yeah. Good idea," he replies as he begins to get undressed.

Once naked, they both stand there, waiting. Taking a deep breath, I say, "Okay, then. On the count of three? One. Two."

"Three," Rachel says, stepping out of the foliage. She shoots and hits Finn right in the neck. He drops.

Laughingly, I aim at Puck and pull the trigger. I miss and he takes off running.

Rachel looks annoyed. "Did you miss him completely?"

"Yeah," I say. "But don't worry. It was totally worth it, just to see his face."

"Don't move," she replies, cocking her gun. "I'll get him back." And she takes off after him.

Waiting, I slowly make my way over to Finn. Stretched out on his back, eyes open and blank, he doesn't look good. I shake him a bit, but there's no response. I'm starting to freak out a bit when Puck comes running around a tree, back into the clearing. Looking up, our eyes meet as he takes in the sight of the prone Finn. A moment later, Rachel comes sprinting over and yells, "Now." I shoot and hit Puck squarely in the chest. He stumbles backwards and falls.

Quickly, we put the finishing touches out. Rachel sets out everything before walking over to Finn, wiping the gun clean of her prints and putting it in his hand.

"Puck doesn't look so hot," I tell her.

"He's fine," she assures me. "Just don't forget to wipe your prints off."

I nod and do so.

Suddenly, we hear voices as someone approaches. Jumping up, Rachel grabs my hand and we take off.

…

Officer Jacob Israel and Officer Burt Hummel are patrolling the area around McKinley High School when they hear something that sounds like a gun shot. Parking, they get out to investigate.

In a clearing behind the school they find two naked teenagers, apparently dead.

"Mother fucker," Burt says. "Calling it in."

Jacob turns and listens. "I think I hear something," he says, pulling his gun. "I'm gonna go check it out."

Burt pulls out his radio. "Yeah, this is Officer Hummel, I've got two dead bodies in the woods behind McKinley High."

…

We run through the wood, where Rachel's car is parked. We can hear footsteps behind us, so we duck and weave the best we can. When we make it to Rachel's car, we recline the passenger seat and begin making out. Rachel figures if only one of us is visible, they won't check too closely and our homosexuality won't be a problem.

The officer stops upon seeing us, but doesn't approach. He just pulls out his radio when his partner squawks. Still speaking, he begins heading back to the clearing.

…

Burt further examines the scene. He kicks the guns aside and starts studying everything surrounding the two boys. Finally, it's been a while since his partner ran off, so he radios him.

"Israel, can you hear me? What's going on?"

"Yeah. Yeah. I think I just heard a rabbit or something. All I've got here is a couple kids making out in a convertible. Want me to pull 'em apart?"

"No need. I've got all the answers I need, right here."

A minute later, Jacob walks up. "So what's the deal?"

"Suicide. Double suicide. They shot each other."

"Hey," Jacob notices. "That's Finn Hudson, the quarterback."

"Yeah and Noah Puckerman, wide receiver."

"My god, suicide. Why?"

"Does this answer your question?" Burt ask, holding up the bottle of Perrier.

"Holy crap, they were fags."

"Listen up," Burt says, reading. "We realized we could never reveal our forbidden love to an uncaring and ununderstanding world,"

"Jesus Christ."

"The quarterback was buggering the wide receiver," Burt sighs. "What a waste."

"Oh, the humanity."

…

The arrival of another car in the student parking lot, rouses me out of a doze. I'm in the passenger seat and Rachel's half draped on me. We'd decided to just park at school and nap until first bell. It was the easiest way to deal with what happened, which was not dealing with it. I shove her off and me and sit up. All I can do is stare at my lap.

"We killed them. Didn't we?"

Rachel just shrugs. "Of course."

I sigh. "Ich Luge bullets. I'm a fucking imbecile."

"Look, Quinn, you believe it because you wanted to. Your true feelings were too gross and wretched for you to face."

"I did not want them dead!"

"You did too!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Did not! Did not! Did not! Did not! Shut up! I did not!" I keep screaming, not wanting to hear her justifications or beliefs about what I did or didn't want. Rachel inches closer and gets more heartfelt. Finally, I just plug my ears and begin singing.

Eventually I get tired of yelling and Rachel seems resigned. "God damnit," I say.

"Look, Quinn," Rachel tries. "Football season is over. They're seniors. They had nothing left to offer this school but date rape and gay jokes."

"Fine. Whatever. I gotta go home and change before the funeral."

…

At the funeral, I sit next to Rachel and watch Mrs. Hudson stand over Finn's body and eulogize. "Son, if there's any way you can hear me, I want you to know, I'm proud of you. No matter what." She looks up at us. "My son's a homosexual and I love him. I love my dead gay son."

"How'd you think she'd react to a son who had a limp wrist with a pulse?"

I chuckle as quietly as I can. However, a sad little girl in the front row looks back us. I notice she's wearing Puck's letterman jacket and realize it's his little sister. Suddenly I feel very nauseous.

…

Dear Diary, my teen angst bullshit has a body count. The most popular people in school are dead. Everyone's sad, but it's a strange kind of sad. Suicide gave Santana depth, Puck a soul and Finn a brain. I don't know what it's given me, but I can't seem to control myself around Rachel. Are we going to prom or to hell?

…

"Now, I seem to remember being in a similar situation on Monday," Schuester says. "When I thoughtfully suggested we get everyone together for an unadulterated emotional outpouring. Instead it was just another opportunity to play laugh at the hippie."

"Will," Tanaka starts. "Why don't you—"

"Shut up, Ken," Principal Stanley snaps. "Now I've seen a lot of bullshit. Meth use, automatic weapons in lockers, sexually perverse photography exhibits involving tennis racquets. But this suicide thing…I think that's more on Will's wavelength. So we're just going to write off today and on Friday, you can hold your little love fest or whatever."

…

Friday during lunch, I enter the caf in sunglasses just in time to hear Mr. Schuester speaking into a bullhorn.

"May I have your attention please? This school has been torn apart by tragedy. I'm here to bring us back together. I want everyone to grasp hands. We need to turn this cafeteria into one mighty circle." He grabs students' hands and hold them together. "And look, here comes the TV crew. Lock your hands."

I turn around to see Andrea Carmichael from the WOHN channel 8 news enter with a camera man. They enter and start filming.

Mr. Schuester starts making the rounds in the caf, pulling students up and having them hold hands. It's sad how easy this is.

Brittany appears at my side. "Looks like Mr. Schue is on another one of his crusades. Usual success, of course."

Brittany watches for a moment and then walks over to join in. Andrea approaches her immediately asks her questions. Most of the students have stood and linked hands, raising them in the air. It seems like this time, Mr. Schue is going to succeed.

And then Rachel is at my side. "Is this as good for you as it is for me?" she asks.

I just glare back. She walks to the nearest table and sits, just watching. I survey my surrounds for a bit before storming out. This is just too much bullshit for me to deal with.

…

That afternoon at Rachel's house, she's fiddling with the radio while I seethe.

"That thing this afternoon? I'm so fucking pissed. It was chaos, fucking chaos."

"What are you ranting about?" Rachel asks, attention off the radio. "Today was incredible. Chaos is incredible. Chaos is what killed the dinosaurs, Quinn."

Sitting on the couch, I roll my eyes.

"Face it," she continues. "Our way is the way. We scare people into not being asshats."

"Our way is not our way," I tell her.

"Mmm hmmm." Rachel smirks. "Tell it to the judge. Better yet, tell it to Puck." She pretends she's being shot, clutching her stomach and groaning, which just pisses me off even more.

I stand and throw the first thing I can grab off the coffee table at her, a picture frame. She catches it easily. "I'm telling it to you," I snap. She just keeps smirking. "Why are you so fucking immature?"

Rachel turns, hearing the door open. "Keep it down," she says. "You kids are making too much noise."

A moment later, her mom enters, this time in a slate colored track suit and holding a DVD. She's practically buzzing with excitement. I hardly know her and even I can tell. "We beat those bitches." She puts the DVD in the player.

"Lovely," I say. "The beaver's home."

Grabbing the remote, Sue presses play. "The judge told them to shove it up their asses. It was magnificent. I put a Norwegian in the boiler room. Masterful. And when that went, it set off a pack of thermals I set upstairs." Watching the TV, she chuckles under her breath. She pulls the DVD back out and exits. "Some days it's great to be alive."

We both watch her leave and I have to ask. "Do you like your mom?"

"Never given the matter much thought," she replies, joining me on the couch. "Liked my other mom." She sighs as she looks at the picture in her hands. "They said her death was an accident, but she knew what she was doing. She walked into that building a mere minute before mother blew it up. She waved to me and then…boom."

Before I can say anything, she's distracted by the radio.

"Hey." She jumps up. "They're playing our song." She turns up the volume.

Teenage suicide, don't do it
Teenage suicide, shouldn't do it
Teenage suicide, don't do it
Teenage suicide—

The song comes to an abrupt end when Rachel pulls out a gun and shoots the radio. I can only recoil in response. "That's it," I say, standing. "We're breaking up."

"What?" She grabs my arm and uses my own momentum to circle me back onto the couch. "You can't bring them back. You know that."

"I'm not trying to bring anyone back," I tell her. "Except for maybe myself." I move to stand again.

This time when she grabs my arm, she pulls me into her and kisses me. I kiss back for a moment, but the anger surges up again. I push her away and try to slip out of her grasp. She just tightens her hold and resumes kissing me.

Managing to get my arms loose, a hard shove to the shoulders allows me to escape. I spin and face her. She looks almost…hurt.

"And to think there was a time that I actually thought you were cool. Man if you can't deal with me now, then just stay home and shoot another radio or blow up the microwave. Just don't come to school and don't fuck with me." I turn and stalk out, just barely hearing her, "You'll be back." before I slam the door shut behind me.

…

The next day at school, Rachel drags Brittany into an empty science room for a chat. She pulls an old photo out of a manila envelope and shows it to her. It's Brittany and Mercedes as six year olds wearing matching sweatshirts and hugging.

"Me and Mercedes Dumptruck?" Brittany asks. "Where'd you find this?"

"Oh, well, funny story," Rachel replies. "Had a nice little conversation with Ms. Dumptruck. She's quite the chatterbox once you get her going. Wanna see the Christmas one?"

"What? You're blackmailing me now?"

Rachel just smiles.

"I'll give you a week's lunch money," Brittany says finally.

"I don't want your damn money," Rachel tells her. "I want your strength. McKinley doesn't need any of that hand holding togetherness, it needs a strong leader. Santana was that leader…"

"But she couldn't handle it," Brittany finishes, smiling.

"However, I was thinking you might be up to the task," Rachel continues. "Moby Dick is dunked. The white whale drank some nasty plankton and belly floated into a coffee table. And now the helm is vacant for you to take."

"And the pictures?"

"Don't worry," Rachel answers. "In the near future, I'll need a favor. And it'll be simple, possibly something you'll enjoy. Then you'll get the negatives and everything back. But in the mean time? Strength."

Giving a mocking wave, Rachel leaves Brittany to contemplate.

…

The next day at school, I find myself drawn to Santana's locker. Ripping off the KEEP OUT stick that's been placed on it, I twirl the combo in. Santana had insisted that we know each other's combos. So she could dig through our lockers as she pleased and so she could make Brittany get things out of her locker that Santana was too lazy to get herself.

Opening it, I find nothing been removed or changed. Her books are still there. The picture of the four of us is still on the door. I grab the mini Ohio license plate with Santana's name on it. For some reason, it makes me feel guiltier. Though not as guilty as the 4 photo booth photos of the two of us she has hanging. Maybe she actually did like me.

And then there are hands over my eyes. "Guess who," Brittany's voice says behind me.

I turn to find her with a huge smile on her face.

"I can't believe they haven't cleaned this thing out yet," she says. "Hey, she still owed me $20, think anyone'd mind if I took something worth that much?"

Disgusted, I just shake my head at her and walk away.

…

That night, looking over my journal, I make a decision. Picking up my phone, I dial from memory.

I invite Emma over to play croquet the next afternoon. It's been a while, but I figure the best way to remove myself from the negativity of Rachel and Brittany is to embrace my old self, like my friendship with Emma.

"I can't believe it," she says, hitting the ball. "I'm winning."

"Don't get cocky on me, Pillsbury," I reply.

"I've missed you, Quinn," she tells me. "I know I might not be as exciting as your other friends."

"Bullshit," I say. "It's your turn."

"It's just," she says, hitting the ball. "I kinda understand why, you starting hanging out with them. I bet it was a lot more fun."

"Emma," I say. "Your daydreams are so much better than my reality. Trust me. But now, prepare to lose." I hit my ball into hers. Looking down, I decide to take the two shots.

"You can't just go for the two shots," Emma tells me. "Go ahead. Knock me out. It's the only way to win."

I shake my head. "It's not my style."

"Nice guys finish last," Emma says. "I should know."

I sigh and move my ball against her. Placing my foot against mine, I strike and send her ball rolling across the yard. We both turn to see where it ends up. Instead we see Brittany and Tina entering the yard.

"Bravo," Brittany says. "Bravo."

"So, I gotta get home," Emma tells me.

"Okay," I reply, taking her mallet.

"Thanks," Emma says. "Bye."

"Bye, Emma."

She leaves, walking by Brittany and Tina.

"Leaving so soon, Emma?" Brittany asks. Emma ignores her. Brittany walks up to me. "I'm red."

…

Walking into the living room, I find my parents watching the news. They're showing the love-in that Schuester organized.

"The McKinley suicides were difficult on us. However, we shared the pain of losing three very popular students. I went to the cafeteria and asked everyone to hold hands."

"Hey, isn't that the flake we met at the open house," my dad asks.

"…burst of cleansing spreading through us. And then a TV camera just happened upon us and just happened to catch this amazing out pouring of emotion."

"Out pouring of emotion?" I question. Mr. Schue is so full of crap, sometimes.

"Hey, look, there's Brittany," my mom says. "Where are you, Quinn?"

"Before a teenager thinks about killing himself," Mr. Schue says on the TV. "There are certain facts he should know. After all, this is something that affects all of us. And you only have one chance to get it right. Considering it—"

Not being able to stand it, I switch off the TV in a huff.

"Turn that back on," my mom orders.

"These programs are eating suicide up with a spoon," I snap. "They're making it sound like it's a cool thing to do."

"Are you saying it's not a time for trouble youth?" my mom asks. "Stand up straight."

"All we want is to be treated like human beings, not to…be experimented on like guinea pigs or patronized like bunny rabbits."

"I don't patronize bunny rabbits," my dad argues.

"Treated like human beings?" my mom asks. "Did I hear you right, little miss voice of a generation? Just how do you think adults act with other adults? What? You think it's all just a game of doubles tennis? When teenagers complain about being treated like human beings, it's usually because they are being treated like human beings."

"Well, then it seems like I picked the wrong time to be a human being," I reply.

"You'll live," my mom says.

An awkward silence falls on us.

Finally my mom asks, "Want some pate?"

I roll my eyes.

The front door slams and in walks Brittany.

"Hello, everyone. Door was open," she says walking up to me. "Quinn, have you heard the latest? We were doing Chinese at the food fair when it comes over the radio that Mercedes Dumptruck tried to buy the farm. She belly flopped in front of a car wearing a suicide note."

"Oh my god," I say. "Is she dead?"

"No," she replies. "That's the punch line. She's alive and in stable condition. One more example of a nerd trying to imitate a popular and failing miserably." Brittany turns to my mom. "Is that pate?"

I slap her.

…

Later, in my room, Brittany has an ice pack to her cheek.

"I said I was sorry."

"You're losing it. I mean, Santana and Puck were one thing. But Mercedes Dumptruck? Please, she's been pathetic from day one, I'm sure. I'm surprised it hasn't happened sooner."

"You're not funny," I tell her.

"Whatever. Mercedes couldn't take it, so she tried to bail. Imagine how wonderful the world would be if every nimrod followed her example."

"Shut up," I tell her. "Hot props is on."

"Shit, yeah."

I turn on my radio. The show's already started and we just catch the tail end of some weirdo's issues with Gilligan's Island.

"…I'm on that island too. And Gilligan can be so stupid sometimes."

"Yeah dude," the D.J., Henri St. Pierre says. "Just remember if it wasn't for the courage of the fearless crew, the Minion would be lost. And you are too. Next caller, you've got the dog catcher."

"My name is Tina, no it's not Tina, it's…Tweety."

"Tweety? All right then, tweet."

"God has cursed me," Tina says. "The last guy I had sex with, killed himself the next day. I'm failing math, my whole life is a mess. I was supposed to be captain of the cheerleading squad…"

"She knows we listen to this show," I point out.

"Oh my god," Brittany says. "We're going to crucify her."

…

Brittany told everyone about Tina. Yes, Dear Diary I cut off Santana's head and Brittany's head has sprouted back in its place. Like some mythological thing my eighth grade boyfriend would know about. Brit's even doing the old note trick. I've seen Rachel's way. I've seen Mr. Will Schuester's way. And nothing's changed. I guess that's Santana's way. And what about Rachel? I can't get her out of my head. Wait, where's Tina going?

Mr. Figgins walks into the room as Tina exits. "Where's Tina going?"

"She's probably going to cry," Brittany says.

Everyone laughs.

Sitting there, I get more and more worried about Tina. Finally, I can't take it anymore and I sprint out of English.

"Now where is she going?" I hear Figgins ask behind me.

…

I find her in the bathroom trying to fill a glass with water with a mouth full of pills.

"Tina." I grab her head and shake her head, hoping to loosen all the pills. I'm mostly successful as a dozen or so fall to the ground. She spits out the rest to speak.

"What are you trying to do? Kill me?"

"What are you trying to do? Sleep?" I counter

"Suicide is a personal, private matter," she says, sliding to the floor.

"T, you're throwing your life away to become just another statistic. That's the least private thing I can think of."

"What about Santana, Puck and Finn?"

Sighing, I sat down next to her. "If everyone jumped off a bridge, would you?"

"Probably."

"Well, if you were happy every day of your life, you wouldn't be a human being. You'd be a game show host."

Tina smiles at me. "Whadda say we knock off early? Go shopping or something?"

"Okay."

…

That afternoon, Brittany grins as she burns the manila envelope containing all pictures and negatives involving her and Mercedes Dumptruck. She looks to Rachel, waiting for the request.

"Santana's thing was polls," Rachel informs her. "Yours is going to be a petition. As the favor. You're familiar with Big Fun?"

"Teenage suicide. Don't do it." She drops the burning envelope into a little sink in the table.

"Right. Well, some stupid teen mag says they want to play a prom. It could be McKinley if you can get everyone's John Hancock." She hands over a stack of papers.

"Consider it done," Brittany says, accepting the petition. "Oh. Here." She tosses a book at Rachel who manages to awkwardly catch it. "Won't be needing this anymore. Call it a gift."

…

The next week is spent by Brittany getting signatures. She's claimed her place at the top and no one's disputing it. Everyone she approaches signs, gladly. Okay, sometimes it takes a bit of persuasion, but nothing she can't handle. It isn't too long before it's nearly filled.

…

I find Brittany lounging on a bench in the west hallway. "Brit?"

"Quinn," she says, looking over. "Call me a genius. Almost everyone's signed my petition, even those who think Big Fun are toothless Euro fags. I am adored. You know, you haven't signed yet."

"You might be adored, but I don't trust you. Suzy Pepper said the petition was to put a hot tub in the caf. And Howard Bamboo said—"

"I like to tailor my approach to whatever someone needs. Because everyone's different. Whatever, just sign the damn petition."

"Don't tell me what to do," I snap.

"It wasn't my idea, anyhow," Brittany informs me. "It was Rachel's. She made out the petition sheet and everything. So you might as well sign it."

"No."

"Jealous much?"

I go to slap her again, but this time, she catches my hand, blocking me.

"God, Brittany, why can't you be a friend?" I ask. "Why are you such a mega bitch?"

"Cause I can." She smiles, shaking her head at me. "Quinn, why are you pulling my dick? Do you really think that if God made Emma Pillsbury cool, she'd still hang with her geeky friends? No way. Not even." And with that she walks past me, letting her shoulder bump mine as she passes.

I turn and watch her walk up the stairs, sighing. I momentarily close my eyes in defeat.

"Wanna go out tonight?" I look up to find Rachel walking down the stairs toward me. "A movie or maybe some mini golf?"

"Actually, I was thinking of slitting open Brittany's wrists and making it look like a suicide," I reply.

"That's my girl," Rachel says, smiling. "I could definitely be up for that. I've even already started underlining meaningful passages in her copy of Moby Dick." She wraps her arms around me, pulling me close. "I knew you'd be back, Quinn. I was positive, sure, absolutely." She moves to kiss me and I elbow her in the gut.

Moving away, I turn to face her. "It's over Rach, over. Grow up."

"What? I don't get it. You were wrong. I was right. Strength, damnit."

Scowling, I spin on my heel and stomp off.

"Ah, come on, come back," she shouts after me.

…

Arriving home from school, I find my mom and dad on the couch, waiting for me.

"Yes?"

"Your friend, Rachel Berry stopped by," mom says. "She was concerned. She said she thought you might try to kill yourself."

"And you have been depressed lately," dad adds. "Oh, she left this for you." He hands you a folded piece of notebook paper.

You open it and cringe. All it says, in your penmanship is, "Recognize the handwriting?". "Oh god," you say before stomping up to your room.

"He said we should keep you away from sharp objects," mom continues, not noticing I'm stomping out.

"And prescription medication…"

Upstairs, I stop before I can even enter my room. There, hanging from my ceiling fan is a Barbie Doll wearing a Big Fun T-shirt, with a noose around its neck. It's even blonde. I stare at it for a moment before crawling onto my bed and curling into a ball.

…

I wake up to Rachel's voice. "…lift me deepening down to doom. I saw the opening maw of hell, with endless pains and sorrows there; which none but they that feel can tell—Oh, I was plunging to despair." She pauses and considers. "I like it. It's got that anguish and hopelessness type of ambiance. Makes you just wanna throw yourself off a cliff. Right?" She's kneeling next to my bed. "Come on. It's Brittany's copy of Moby Dick." She sits on the bed and hands me the book. "Why don't you underline something?

"Get the fuck off my bed, you lunatic," I snap. "You think you're a rebel? Really? Because you're not. You're a fucking psychotic."

"You say tomayto, I say tomahto." She then grabs the book from me. "Wait, hey now, Eskimo. That's brilliant. I was just underlining whole sentences or phrases, but this, Eskimo. That's genius. It's mysterious." She underlines Eskimo in the book.

And suddenly we're at Brittany's house and Rachel is dragging me into the kitchen.

"Rachel, listen," I try as she begins digging through the cutlery drawer.

She whips around with a large cutting knife in her hand. "Why must you always question me, Quinn?"

"Look at that knife," I say. "It's filthy."

"So?" Rachel is incredulous. "I'm slitting her wrists not removing her appendix."

"Please," I reply. "I think I know Brit just a little bit better than you and there's no way she'd use such a dirty knife. If she was going to slit her wrists, it would be immaculate."

"Fine." Rachel grabs a dish towel and begins polishing it. "How this then?" She hold it up for me.

I just shake my head. "Tomorrow someone else is just going to step up. Maybe even me." And then I realize something. "Only one of us knows how to do Brittany's handwriting and if you think I'm going to write anything, you're wrong."

Rachel smirks. "You just don't get it. Society doesn't even blink at whatever horror the American teen comes up with. Trust me, no one will care about exact handwriting."

She sets the knife on the counter and goes to the phone. She grabs the pen and a pad of paper. Placing the pen in my hand, she uses it to write, "Life sucks" extremely sloppily; it's barely legible.

"See. Life sucks. It's perfect." She tears off the note and picks the knife back up again. "Besides, I also have a meaningfully marked up Moby Dick. What else does a suicide need? Now, I have something to do." And she's off and running into the bathroom where Brittany is passed out in the tub. The door slams behind her and I can't get it open. I bang on it and shout and eventually it does open.

And now I'm at Brittany's funeral. Everyone in the pews is wearing white choir robes with black arm bands and 3-D glasses. They're all solemn and morose.

"Eskimo," the priest intones. "Brittany underlined a lot of things in this copy of Moby Dick, but I believe that the word Eskimo underlined all by its self is the key to understanding Brittany's pain. On the surface Brittany was the vivacious young lady we all knew her to be. But her soul was in Antarctica, freezing by the way that fellow teenagers can be cruel. The way that parents can be unresponsive. And in the way that she so eloquently wrote in her suicide note, the way life can suck. We'll all miss Lima's little Eskimo. Let us all hope that she's rubbing noses with Jesus."

Leaning against the baptism water, I watch.

"Jesus Christ, what a pitiful turnout."

I turn to see Santana in her prom dress. She shakes her head.

"I had at least 75 more people at my funeral," she continues.

All I can do is stare. "Santana?"

"God, Q, my afterlife is so boring," she tells me. "If I have to sing any more fucking hymns, I really will kill myself."

"What are you doing here?"

"I made your favorite," she replies. "Spaghetti. Lots of Oregeno." She lifts the lid off the baptismal water. "Dinner." Only she kinda sounds like my mom. She grabs the back of my head and pushes my face into the worms that have replaced the water.

My eyes snap open.

"Quinn! Dinner," my mom calls.

I sit up and walk to my desk. Sitting, I pull out my journal.

Dear Diary, last entry. No one can stop Rachel. Not the FBI, the CIA or the PTA. She once told me that the extreme always makes an impression. Well, now it's my turn. Let's see how the bitch reacts to a suicide she didn't perform herself.

…

Rachel climbs into Quinn's room with a ladder she swiped from their garage. Looking in, she sees the blonde's body hanging from the ceiling. She apparently hung herself with a noose she made from her sheets. Stepping inside, Rachel paces around the body.

"I can't believe it. You did it. I wasn't serious. I loved you. I was coming up here to kill you," Rachel says, pulling the revolver out of her pocket. "But first, I wanted to try and win you back with my incredible petition. It's a shame you can't see what our fellow students really signed." She grabs a scissor off Quinn's desk and cuts off a taped bit of paper. She reads it. "We students of McKinley High will die today. Our burning bodies will be the ultimate protest to a society that degrades us all. Fuck you all." She looks up again. "I know, it's not the most subtle, but neither is blowing up a whole school.This is a suicide pact. When our school blows up tomorrow, it'll infect our generation as a whole. It'll be like…a Woodstock for the 80s." Rachel stops circling the hanging body for a moment. "Damnit, Quinn, we could have toasted marshmallows."

"Quinn, dinner."

"Shit," Rachel says. She gives Quinn's body one last look and climbs back out the window.

…

I want to wait a few moments and make sure Rachel is really gone. However, my mom enters my room before I can move.

"Quinn—" She stops and is silence and then begins sniffling. "I-I should of let you take that job at the mall. It's just I-I was worried about you out late—"

I raise my head, cutting off her tirade. Reaching, I release the sheet that's been holding me up. I fall onto my bed with an umph. Looking up, I ask, "Hey mom. Why so tense?" I begin loosening the rest of the sheet that was wrapped around my chest and stomach.

…

There's a knock on Rachel's bedroom door. "Hey, mom, I could really use some help with my homework."

"Not now, princess," Rachel replies. "I'm a bit busy." She returns to wrapping together several pieces of dynamite.

…

The next morning, the students trickle into McKinley per usual. Scouring the halls, I look for Rachel. I run into Mr. Schuester instead.

"Quinn," he exclaims. "Rachel told me you killed yourself."

"Where is Rachel?"

"We should really talk, Quinn. Whether or not to commit suicide is a very big decision."

I shake my head in disgust. "Get a job." I turn and see Rachel coming up the stairs with a large duffel bag. I duck into the girls' room. I wait until I hear the bell and slowly exit. Looking around, it seems like everyone's in class. I slowly make my way down the hall.

…

Rachel sneaks into the gym and removes three bombs from her duffel bag. Using electrical tape, she attaches each one to the bleachers: one on each side with one in the middle. And then she finds the door marked, Maintenance and slips inside.

…

The bell rings again. Everyone begins filing down the hallway. I grab Howard as he walks by.

"Where's everyone going?"

"It's, uh, Friday," he reminds me.

"Fuck. Another fucking pep rally."

"Yeah, sucks," he agrees. "But at least it gets us out of class, right?"

"Right," I agree, absently. "Wait, Howard, what's under the gym?"

"The boiler room."

…

Rachel's just gotten the lock to the boiler room broke when I ask, "Can I see your hall pass?"

She looks up at me and at the gun I have pointed at her.

"I knew that noose looked too loose," she murmurs. "God damn you, Quinn."

I shake my head at her. "Like mother, like daughter. A series fuck bomb in the boiler room, setting off a pack of thermals upstairs." I don't get a response. "Okay, let's start by putting the bomb down on the ground." She drops the duffel bag. "Good. Yes. Now, put your hands behind your head."

We stare for a moment before she says, "You didn't say Simon says." And then her arm whips out and slams into mine. The gun drops to the floor. She grabs my hair and slams my head into the concrete wall behind me.

…

Looking down at Quinn's slumped body, Rachel just sighs. She grabs her duffel bag and the gun and goes into the boiler room. The faint sounds of the pep rally can still be heard. She finds the perfect place and begins attaching the bomb. Here, it should hit all three thermals upstairs very nicely.

…

I wake up with a colossal headache. Hearing the faint shouts of the pep rally, I manage to stand. Listening, I can hear Rachel tinkering. Looking around, I spot a fire extinguisher. I quietly remove it from its enclosure and inch towards her.

When I'm close enough, I move swiftly, but my shoe makes a noise and she turns. So instead of the head shot I was going for, it's a hard jab to the shoulder. She still falls. The gun goes flying and I go after it, but she grabs me. We struggle, rolling around on the ground and then she grabs my head. I'm afraid she's going to slam it into the floor and I brace myself. Instead, she kisses me. Momentarily lost, I kiss back. The daze quickly passes and I try to fight her off. She lets me break away before kissing me again. She's on top of me, so the only thing I can think to do is to knee her in the stomach. It distracts her enough for me to get both feet under her and push her off. I make my escape and go for the gun. Seeing I have it, she takes off, scattering things everywhere.

Gun out, I begin looking around for her. I make my way slowly through the boiler room, turning at every noise and pointing the gun in every hiding space. And then there she is, with a knife in her hand.

"You think just because you started this bullshit, you can end it?"

"I'll shoot you. I'll fucking shoot you. I swear to god." We glare at each other. "How do I turn off the fucking bomb, bitch?"

"Fuck you," she says, flipping me off.

I aim the gun and shoot, removing her middle finger.

We're both shocked and can only stare at the blood running down her hand.

She grabs at the wound with her other hand. "Shit. Shit." She slips to the ground.

"It's over, Rach, help me stop it."

She grabs a dirty towel from a pile on the floor and wraps it around her hand. Looking up at me, she shakes her head. "You want to clean the slate, as much as I do. All right, so maybe I'm killing everyone in the school. But nobody loves me. Let's face it. The only place that different social types can genuinely get along is in heaven."

"Which button do I push to turn it off?"

"Try the red one."

I look at the bomb. There are three large red buttons under the clock ticking down.

"People are going to look at the ashes of McKinley and say, now there is a school that self destructed, not because society didn't care, but because the school was society. It's pretty deep, right?"

"Which red button?" I snarl.

"The middle one turns it off. But I don't think that's what you really want."

"You know what I want?" I ask.

"What?" she exclaims, standing.

Surprised, I shoot, hitting her square in the chest. She stumbles back from the impact and her hand slams the knife into the bomb, stopping it. I shoot again. She stumbles more and then falls.

Pocketing the gun, I leave her there bleeding, the bomb beeping its protest. I make my way up the stairs and back into the gym. I feel dirty, bloody and sore and I'm pretty sure I look like hell. The damn rally is still going on. Everyone's oblivious. I smile, slightly and slip outside. I need some fresh air.

Another door opens behind me, as I inch down the stairs.

"Color me impressed."

I turn around in shock to find Rachel still hobbling around. Her hand is wrapped and soaked with blood and she's clutching her stomach.

"You fucked me up really well, Quinn," she tells me, stopping in front of me. "You, uh, you got power. Power I didn't think you had." She lifts her shirt, showing me the disarmed bomb strapped to her stomach. "The slate is clean." She turns it back on. The timer reads, 45 seconds. She begins to walk away from me. "Pretend I did blow up the school, all the schools. Now that you're dead, what are you going to do with your life?"

I still don't answer. I simply pull a cigarette out of my pocket and place it between my lips. And then I stand there, waiting.

She chuckles, though I can see it hurts her. She looks down, takes a deep breath and looks back up at me. Raising her hands and closing her eyes, she waits for the inevitable. Except the bomb begins beeping again. Sighing, she opens her eyes and starts fiddling with it until it stops.

I try not to laugh. Instead, I stand there, watching until the bomb explodes. It lights my cigarette and I take a long drag before dropping it on the steps. I head back inside the school.

Everyone else is exiting, while I'm entering, but they give me a wide enough berth to pass. It's probably because I look like shit. I pause when I see Brittany. She stops when she sees me.

"Quinn," she says. "You look like hell."

"Yeah? I just got back."

"What?"

"Brittany, dear," I reply. "There's a new sheriff in town." I grab her by the shoulders and plant a kiss on her check. Letting go, I keep heading down the hall. I can feel her eyes on me.

I see Mercedes Dunnstock wheeling down the hallway in the motorized scooter she's been given until her legs heal up. I smile at her.

"Listen, Mercedes," I say. "My date for the prom…isn't gonna show, so I was thinking we could hang out. You know, rent some movies, pop some popcorn."

She smiles. "I'd like that."

"Me too." I smile back.