Fic: Summer Mornings (1/3)
Title: Summer Mornings-In Which Rachel Berry Finds a New Reason for Exercising Vigorously Every Morning-That Reason is Quinn Fabray-Jogging
Author: freshtilapia
Rating: G
Length: 3,890+
Spoilers: Season 1 *shrugs
Summary: (see: Title)
A/N: Long!title is long, I know, but I love Neil Gaiman. This was originally meant to be an Achele fic (because Lea Michele went for a run early this year and tweeted about it) and much dirtier (because in my mind, those runs almost always end with a booty call) but you'll get Quinn instead of Lea and no sex (sorry!). This was also partly inspired by two lines in kben's The Hardest Part About Saying Hello. And the first image that came to mind when I read them was of jogging!Quinn, who must be very tired by now. So this is what I came up with: a daily dose of drabble about Rachel's summer mornings right after sophomore year.
Thanks to the wonderful people who read my first fic for their words of encouragement and to jbluish & my co-workers, who waited impatiently for every morning, for being just as excited as I am in posting this fic during office hours. It's all your fault. Either that or something bit me. I hope that something is attractive. And smart. And funny.
The first morning
You wake up and it’s one of those days.
You sit on your bed in a snap, with your eyes wide open and sparkling as if you weren’t sound asleep just a second ago. And you can hear it in your head-you can hear the violins play.
You throw the covers off of you and you turn off your alarm a minute before it goes off. It’s 5:59 in the morning and you are positively beaming.
You spring off your bed and twirl yourself around your room until you reach your window, with your arms outstretched and the music swelling into a crescendo.
You dramatically open your curtains, bask in the streaming sunlight, and place your palms closely against your chest. The music stops and-
“The hills are alive...with the s-“
Wait! Is that Quinn Fabray?
You lean closer to the window.
It is...huh!
Well, clearly, she has deliberated the merits of a good exercise and has chosen running as the means for improving her physique-no-her health, especially having gone through a very demanding time in her life, both physically and emotionally. Yes, that’s it.
Good for her!
You hurriedly get on your elliptical in front of a goofy face printed on a piece of paper attached to the pillar in the middle of your room with the words: A Romantic Night-Out with Finn.
And you work out with a renewed vigor that wasn’t there yesterday.
The second morning
It happens again.
With a wide grin on your face, you launch yourself off your bed, put on your bunny slippers, scurry towards your window, and burst into song.
“Midnight…not a sound from the pavement-“
As if on cue, she appears, sprinting on the pavement right in front of your house-Quinn Fabray-in sweatpants, a shirt, and a ponytail that’s not in its usual pristine state.
You don’t realize that you’re tracking her movement along your street with your eyes until you hear your alarm sounding off.
You walk away from the window in a huff to hit the snooze button-deeming your alarm’s choice of song inappropriate for your sentiment this morning.
It’s six o’clock.
You heave a sigh and move towards your closet.
You take a peek inside, scan its contents, organized by item and color, and you find: argyle, argyle, argyle, argyle, argyle, argyle, argyle, argyle, argyle, argyle, argyle, argyle, argyle, plaid.
Well, then. It is highly imperative that I procure a pair of Free City sweatpants this summer.
You nod to an imaginary mirror and you give yourself a mental pat on the back.
And you tackle the elliptical machine once again, with a vengeance.
The third morning
Your alarm picks the perfect song.
And you bat your eyelids with the tempo of the music.
”I’m a girl and by me, that’s only great!”
You open your eyes.
”I am proud that my silhouette is curvy…”
And you stretch.
Then your head can’t help but bobble up and down, side to side, as you bounce off your bed and skip towards your window.
And with your eyes closed, you inhale the sweet-smelling scent of summer morning.
You open your eyes once more and they immediately land on the unmistakable form of one Quinn Fabray, jogging in the distance, 36 feet past your house.
I would never have guessed that Quinn is just as disciplined as I am-or that sweatpants could ever be so flattering to one’s-you twist your upper body and turn your head to the left to look down at your-bottom.
You turn to the right and repeat.
You don’t see anything there and there.
That is not a good sign.
“I float as the clouds on air do…”
You glance at the clock.
It’s 6:01.
You’re one minute late in the pursuit of toning up your gluteus maximus.
The fact that your elliptical is merely for cardiovascular workouts and not for firming up some muscles doesn’t faze you at all.
The fourth morning
You lie awake and motionless in your bed for almost an hour, tucked underneath the covers with your arms resting outside, palms flat against the sheets.
There’s a blank expression on your face and a pout that’s too tired to reveal itself completely so early in the morning.
And you replay the event from last night in your mind.
You finally get a call from Finn Hudson. And you stop yourself from answering the phone the moment that you hear the first chord of your ringtone. But you can’t bear to wait until “Something has changed within me.”
He says hello. So do you.
And he asks how you are and you say you’ve never been better and you ask how he is and he says that he’s fine. Then a long, awkward silence comes along.
Sports!-you reckon-is a subject that will entice him to speak to you again and you’re right.
He launches into a full-blown, animated chatter about tennis and a grand slam and girls’ names ending in -a, with last names ending in -ova. And you have no idea what he’s talking about.
In an attempt to prolong the conversation, you ask when the next, uhm, game…is.
He exclaims, thanking you for reminding him that replays of last year’s matches will be starting soon, and tells you to go to a particular channel then asks you to watch it with him.
It’s somehow sweet, but only in theory.
He doesn’t say a word for the next 30 minutes. You finally give up and hang up the phone.
He doesn’t call again.
Fuming, you open your laptop and Google all the -a’s and the -ova’s. And what you discover only fuels your anger.
What could tall, gorgeous blondes possibly have that boys find so…appealing?
Your alarm cuts off your thoughts as it starts playing “On My Own” and is seriously mocking you. You shut it down after only hearing the first three notes.
It’s six in the morning and three words linger in your mind.
Tall…gorgeous…blonde…
You wonder…
You slowly get up and wander towards your window.
And there she is-the most gorgeous tall blonde you know, dashing through your street, still in sweatpants, a ponytail, and a t-shirt that seems to be tighter than the previous ones.
Okay, that is it! You don’t want to think about tennis again or tall, gorgeous blondes. In the future, however, you will remember to root for Ana Ivanovic.
You turn sharply towards the pillar in the middle of your room and rip the paper off of it to pieces.
You promise yourself that you will make up for the lost minutes on your elliptical as you print out your new short-term goal.
The fifth morning
You act as if nothing is wrong when your alarm sets off.
“I gotta take a little time, a little time to think things over…”
That’s cool.
You’re cool…and calm…and collected. Or at least, you appear to be, as you get out of bed to take a few strides across your room.
But something brings you to a halt. Your window is softly calling out to you.
So you thoughtlessly amble forward to look over it and catch a glimpse of the now familiar figure running through your mind street.
It suddenly occurs to you that Quinn is always on time-but you dismiss it just as quickly. You don’t think much of it as you turn your back on your window and head off to start your morning ritual on the elliptical.
After a while, you find yourself vaguely humming along to the tune of your alarm. And you are pushing and pulling and pedaling to its rhythm.
By the time the chorus comes, your eyes are closed, your head is tilted back, your hands are gripping the handrails tightly, and your voice is reverberating throughout your house. You are almost in tears as you sing.
“I wanna know what love is…I want you to show me…”
Are you sure?
“Yes! I wanna feel what love is…”
It’s all just so confusing.
The sixth morning
Your dream is cut short by your alarm.
It’s a particularly good dream, too. But you can’t remember anything about it, which frustrates you because what you do remember is feeling butterflies in your stomach and all the other clichés people say you’ll feel when you’re in love.
Your alarm’s musical pick isn’t helping.
“Look at me now…Will I ever learn? I don’t know how…But I suddenly lose control…”
You subconsciously resist the urge to look out your window.
“There’s a fire within my soul…Just one look and I can hear a bell ring…One more look and-“
You forget everything.
It’s the best course of action.
You don’t want to get bogged down by dreams that are not even remotely possible when you already have dreams you are certain will come true.
You jump on your elliptical and concentrate on the words before you: Get another Call from Finn.
You double your efforts in working out and channeling all your psychic powers into making your present goal a reality.
The seventh morning
You’re sitting in the middle of your bed with your arms wrapped around your legs that are drawn up closely to your chest and you’re rocking yourself back and forth.
You glance at your clock. It’s 5:32 AM. But everything is still blue and gray outside.
And you feel totally and utterly dejected.
Even the knowledge that your psychic abilities really work isn’t consolation enough.
The call you get from Finn last night is nowhere near what you’ve been hoping for.
He starts his call with the usual hello’s then asks you if you’re watching “the slam,” spends the next three minutes updating you with what’s been happening to his favorite tall, blonde players, and wastes your next 29 minutes with whoops and groans and the predominant silence.
You end the call without saying goodbye. And as soon as you hang up, you let out an earsplitting grunt as loud as Maria Sharapova’s.
When your daddy rushes to your room, you apologize profusely for the momentary state you put him in and reassure him that you’re just trying a new vocalization technique.
He breathes a sigh of relief, still clutching at his heart. You breathe a different sigh when he leaves.
You don’t hear from Finn again.
All through the night, your mood swings back and forth from being upset to crestfallen to furious. This morning when you wake, you feel absolutely miserable. But the feeling is gradually turning into something else as you recount the few days and even fewer nights you have been spending with Finn.
Why do you even bother to mope around for this guy?
We have made a connection and he’s on his way to becoming a solid vocal lead. So what if he is? Well, I certainly will not be interested in anyone who is not even musically inclined. Being a show choir’s leading man, and having the guts to be so, earns him a lot of brownie points. But other than that-he’s a decent human being-half the time-and he’s nice to me-again, just half the time.
Why are you arguing with yourself?
You start pacing around the room with your arms crossed.
What other qualities does Finn have that makes you think he’s your Prince Charming?
For one, he is charming. Okay, well, that’s true. Two, he’s an athlete, which means he’s popular and muscular, both of which are essential attributes in defending my honor against vicious attacks by his chromosomally-challenged friends armed with flavored frozen drinks. That’s who his friends are? That is not the point. Not counting those very agreeable qualities that I have already mentioned, he’s very good-looking. But is he romantic? Did I mention he’s good-looking? Is he smart? He’s very good-looking. Is he witty enough to comprehend jokes with pop culture or musical references? Next question…
Is he a good kisser?
Your alarm saves you from answering your question.
“First I was afraid, I was petrified.”
You freeze for a split second then come charging straight to your window to glare at the girl you know for sure is there.
“…thinking how you did me wrong…I grew strong…I learned how to carry on…and so you’re back-“
Quinn Fabray…
…with her magnificent, long blonde hair in an unkempt ponytail bouncing across her nape, her flushed cheeks ever so radiant, and her-
Quinn Fabray is so infuriating. Why does she have to be so…hot? Ugh.
You storm away from the window, stomping your feet very hard.
Then you take it out on your elliptical, which is so unfair because all it ever does is support you, literally and figuratively.
The eighth morning
You slowly gain consciousness as you turn to your side, facing your bedside table with your iPod dock.
You open your eyes. It’s 5:54 AM.
You whine, not about the earliness of the time but the nearness of the hour. Your eyebrows furrow and you turn to face the other side of your bed.
You close your eyes and try to go back to sleep. You don’t want to get up just yet. You grab a pillow, hug it tightly, and curl your body around it.
Your mind is empty but you feel as if you should be thinking about something.
You take a quick look back at the clock. It’s 5:55 AM.
You close your eyes and groan and slip back into your previous position.
You have five more minutes-five more minutes before your alarm forces you to get out of bed-five more minutes before you start a day that you are not looking forward to for the first time in your life-five more minutes and if you look out your window-
Your eyes pop wide open and you turn to stare at your window.
You take a deep breath then you find yourself pondering about the girl who keeps on resurfacing in your mind street at every single one of your waking hours this summer.
Another peek at the clock tells you that it’s 5:56 AM.
Why are boys so fascinated with Quinn Fabray?
Why are you?
Clearly, I am only fascinated by their fascination and not the object of their fascination.
You want to slap your forehead because of how stupid that sounds.
The fact of the matter is, you’re not just thinking about any boy-you’re thinking about a boy named Finn who is probably still thinking about a girl named Quinn whom you unavoidably are also thinking about with all this thinking.
You admit to yourself that he must have adored her and she, in turn, must have felt that adoration.
You desperately want to feel the same way.
Why can’t I feel the same way?
A fleeting look at the clock lets you know that a minute has passed.
Why are the minutes ticking by so slowly?
You exhale noisily and return to your musings.
Then there’s Puck, who simply wanted to get into my pants-not that I wasn’t thrilled at all by the gesture-but he obviously cares so much more for Quinn…
Then you realize that the only boy you and Quinn don’t have in common is Jesse. But you also realize that Jesse is pompous enough not to fancy being with someone who is prettier than he is-and Quinn is prettier than everyone you’ve met.
What is it about her-? There’s definitely something about her…
Whatever it is, you’re dying to find out.
Apart from your powers of telepathy, you take pride in your powers of observation.
You turn just in time to see your clock’s display changing from 5:57 to 5:58 AM.
You jump out of bed, pause the moment that you’re on your feet, and walk leisurely to your window.
You stand right where the frame meets the wall on the right side of your window with your cheek pressed against it to get the best possible view when Quinn finally turns up in your street.
It’s no big deal, really. Wanting to see her immediately the second she appears means you have ample time to observe her, right?
You fix your eyes on your street.
Several seconds later and there’s still no sign of her.
Another glance at the clock tells you that it’s still 5:58 AM.
But when you look back, she’s there, instantly recognizable-the inimitable Quinn Fabray.
You can’t help but admire her running form from afar. And although research shows that it’s best to lean a bit forward when running, her upright posture is befitting of her status, not to mention it makes her look even taller, which makes her even more intimidating.
Maybe that’s one of the reasons why the boys are into her. They like being whipped and ordered around.
She is bossy. But so are you.
Well, who knows? Maybe underneath all that bitchiness is a sweet and caring girl.
That only makes her more intriguing.
If that happens to be true then it’ll be huge surprise.
She’s getting closer.
You notice that she’s now wearing a white sleeveless v-neck shirt and a tight black running pant with the Swoosh. Her hair is still in a messy ponytail, which you find very refreshing. And she’s still using the same white running shoes.
Maybe they just want her for her body?
You can’t blame them.
She does have a smoking hot body. And you’re examining every curve.
Without warning, your alarm gets going and the trumpets teasingly blow their horns.
All your coherent thoughts jump out your window.
“You’re just too good to be true…Can’t take my eyes off of you…”
A grin, that you are completely unaware of, seeps through your lips.
Music does that to you sometimes.
“At long last love has arrived…And I thank God I’m alive…You’re just too good to be true…”
You can’t take your eyes off of Quinn…
“Pardon the way that I stare…There’s nothing else to compare…The sight of you leaves me weak…There are no words left to speak…”
Your eyes never leave her until she has become a dot on your horizon.
You step away from your window feeling lighter than you’ve ever felt for the past few days.
You move to your elliptical, dancing and swaying to the music.
And you sing along with it at the top of your lungs.
“I love you, baby! And if it’s quite alright, I need you, baby, to warm a lonely night. I love you, baby. Trust in me when I say…Oh, pretty baby! Don’t bring me down I pray. Oh, pretty baby, now that I found you, stay. And let me love you, baby. Let me love you…”
It really doesn’t occur to you why you’re happy all of a sudden.
So much for your powers of observation…
The ninth morning
You open your eyes and check the time the instant that you wake.
It’s 5:58 AM.
You rush to the same spot where you were yesterday morning and crane your neck.
There is no one in sight.
Perhaps you’re still a few seconds too early.
Still, you stand, rooted to your spot.
But after some time, of more than just a few seconds, you look back at the clock.
It’s 5:59 AM.
That’s odd…She has never been late before and it is very safe to assume that she abides by her daily schedule but why isn’t she here yet? Did something happen to her? God forbid something slightly awful happened to her-no-I don’t want to entertain such unpleasant thoughts! Except…Isn’t she supposed to be here-about ten feet in front of my house-by now? I still haven’t come to a sensible conclusion about her…When is she planning to show up?
You continue watching your street intently.
And seconds pass by that are now too many to count.
Your alarm notifies you of the time as it begins to play the first chords on a piano.
“A simple choice…nothing more…this or that…either or…marry well, social whirl, business man…clever girl…or pin my future on the boy I love…”
Your eyes remain glued to your street throughout the intro.
“What kind of life am I dreaming of? I…say…gimme, gimme…”
You place your hands on the bottom frame of your window.
“Gimme, gimme…”
You hold your breath.
“Gimme, gimme…”
Then you sigh.
“That thing called…love…”
You wrap your arms around yourself.
“I want it! Gimme, gimme…”
You spin in place.
“That thing called love…”
And push your back against the wall.
“I need it!”
You bow your head down.
“Highs and lows, tears and laughter…”
You feel as empty as your street looks.
“Gimme happy ever after…”
You drag yourself back to bed and crumple in disappointment.
“Gimme, gimme…”
But you don’t acknowledge it.
“That thing called…”
And you forget that it’s-
“Love…”
-Sunday.
The tenth morning
You don’t want to get your hopes up but after seeing the time when you open your eyes, you’re out of your bed and standing by your window faster than you can say, “Go Cheerios!”
It’s 5:59 AM.
And she’s there.
This time, she’s wearing a tight black tank and a tight black Capri, holding her iPod in her hand, cords bouncing everywhere, her arms driving forward and backward, her calf muscles flexing with every stride, strands of hair sticking to her temple, and sweat trickling down her neck.
Your chest starts constricting and your insides keep twisting.
Then she lowers her gaze and smiles…wistfully.
And you are suddenly aware of your mouth hanging open and the drool that almost escapes.
You quickly close your mouth and gulp.
She’s so…beautiful, she’s…breathtaking…
And you miss…seeing her…
You retreat one step from your window and you don’t only get butterflies in your stomach, you have a sanctuary full of them.
It defies the laws of nature, you know. But then again, so does the reason for it.
No.
It can’t be…
You stagger backwards to your bed to sit, with your left hand on it to support yourself and the other on your knees locked together.
You release the breath that you’ve been holding and you start hyperventilating.
The hand on your knees moves over to your heart pounding violently against your chest.
And your eyes close on their own accord.
It’s overwhelming.
You can’t do anything but surrender to this uncontrollable yearning. You know the only thing that keeps you together is your skin. Everything inside of you wants to break free and you let them loose the best way you know how-you sing.
“New…and a bit alarming…Who’d have ever thought that this could be…True…that she’s no Prince Charming…But there’s something in her that I simply didn’t see…”
Well, who’d have thought-Lumiere-Well, bless my soul-Mrs. Potts-Well, who’d have known-and Cogsworth, too-who indeed-sing affectionately in your head.
The left arm holding you up gives way.
It’s so peculiar. Wait and see…
You’re falling…
A few days more…
…Sideways, down your bed, like crashing timber.
There may be something there that wasn’t there before.
You close your eyes, roll onto your back, lift your legs up your bed, cover your face with both hands, and shake your head in disbelief.
Oh, no…
Perhaps there’s something there that wasn’t there before.
The eleventh morning
Author: freshtilapia
Rating: G
Length: 3,890+
Spoilers: Season 1 *shrugs
Summary: (see: Title)
A/N: Long!title is long, I know, but I love Neil Gaiman. This was originally meant to be an Achele fic (because Lea Michele went for a run early this year and tweeted about it) and much dirtier (because in my mind, those runs almost always end with a booty call) but you'll get Quinn instead of Lea and no sex (sorry!). This was also partly inspired by two lines in kben's The Hardest Part About Saying Hello. And the first image that came to mind when I read them was of jogging!Quinn, who must be very tired by now. So this is what I came up with: a daily dose of drabble about Rachel's summer mornings right after sophomore year.
Thanks to the wonderful people who read my first fic for their words of encouragement and to jbluish & my co-workers, who waited impatiently for every morning, for being just as excited as I am in posting this fic during office hours. It's all your fault. Either that or something bit me. I hope that something is attractive. And smart. And funny.
The first morning
You wake up and it’s one of those days.
You sit on your bed in a snap, with your eyes wide open and sparkling as if you weren’t sound asleep just a second ago. And you can hear it in your head-you can hear the violins play.
You throw the covers off of you and you turn off your alarm a minute before it goes off. It’s 5:59 in the morning and you are positively beaming.
You spring off your bed and twirl yourself around your room until you reach your window, with your arms outstretched and the music swelling into a crescendo.
You dramatically open your curtains, bask in the streaming sunlight, and place your palms closely against your chest. The music stops and-
“The hills are alive...with the s-“
Wait! Is that Quinn Fabray?
You lean closer to the window.
It is...huh!
Well, clearly, she has deliberated the merits of a good exercise and has chosen running as the means for improving her physique-no-her health, especially having gone through a very demanding time in her life, both physically and emotionally. Yes, that’s it.
Good for her!
You hurriedly get on your elliptical in front of a goofy face printed on a piece of paper attached to the pillar in the middle of your room with the words: A Romantic Night-Out with Finn.
And you work out with a renewed vigor that wasn’t there yesterday.
The second morning
It happens again.
With a wide grin on your face, you launch yourself off your bed, put on your bunny slippers, scurry towards your window, and burst into song.
“Midnight…not a sound from the pavement-“
As if on cue, she appears, sprinting on the pavement right in front of your house-Quinn Fabray-in sweatpants, a shirt, and a ponytail that’s not in its usual pristine state.
You don’t realize that you’re tracking her movement along your street with your eyes until you hear your alarm sounding off.
You walk away from the window in a huff to hit the snooze button-deeming your alarm’s choice of song inappropriate for your sentiment this morning.
It’s six o’clock.
You heave a sigh and move towards your closet.
You take a peek inside, scan its contents, organized by item and color, and you find: argyle, argyle, argyle, argyle, argyle, argyle, argyle, argyle, argyle, argyle, argyle, argyle, argyle, plaid.
Well, then. It is highly imperative that I procure a pair of Free City sweatpants this summer.
You nod to an imaginary mirror and you give yourself a mental pat on the back.
And you tackle the elliptical machine once again, with a vengeance.
The third morning
Your alarm picks the perfect song.
And you bat your eyelids with the tempo of the music.
”I’m a girl and by me, that’s only great!”
You open your eyes.
”I am proud that my silhouette is curvy…”
And you stretch.
Then your head can’t help but bobble up and down, side to side, as you bounce off your bed and skip towards your window.
And with your eyes closed, you inhale the sweet-smelling scent of summer morning.
You open your eyes once more and they immediately land on the unmistakable form of one Quinn Fabray, jogging in the distance, 36 feet past your house.
I would never have guessed that Quinn is just as disciplined as I am-or that sweatpants could ever be so flattering to one’s-you twist your upper body and turn your head to the left to look down at your-bottom.
You turn to the right and repeat.
You don’t see anything there and there.
That is not a good sign.
“I float as the clouds on air do…”
You glance at the clock.
It’s 6:01.
You’re one minute late in the pursuit of toning up your gluteus maximus.
The fact that your elliptical is merely for cardiovascular workouts and not for firming up some muscles doesn’t faze you at all.
The fourth morning
You lie awake and motionless in your bed for almost an hour, tucked underneath the covers with your arms resting outside, palms flat against the sheets.
There’s a blank expression on your face and a pout that’s too tired to reveal itself completely so early in the morning.
And you replay the event from last night in your mind.
You finally get a call from Finn Hudson. And you stop yourself from answering the phone the moment that you hear the first chord of your ringtone. But you can’t bear to wait until “Something has changed within me.”
He says hello. So do you.
And he asks how you are and you say you’ve never been better and you ask how he is and he says that he’s fine. Then a long, awkward silence comes along.
Sports!-you reckon-is a subject that will entice him to speak to you again and you’re right.
He launches into a full-blown, animated chatter about tennis and a grand slam and girls’ names ending in -a, with last names ending in -ova. And you have no idea what he’s talking about.
In an attempt to prolong the conversation, you ask when the next, uhm, game…is.
He exclaims, thanking you for reminding him that replays of last year’s matches will be starting soon, and tells you to go to a particular channel then asks you to watch it with him.
It’s somehow sweet, but only in theory.
He doesn’t say a word for the next 30 minutes. You finally give up and hang up the phone.
He doesn’t call again.
Fuming, you open your laptop and Google all the -a’s and the -ova’s. And what you discover only fuels your anger.
What could tall, gorgeous blondes possibly have that boys find so…appealing?
Your alarm cuts off your thoughts as it starts playing “On My Own” and is seriously mocking you. You shut it down after only hearing the first three notes.
It’s six in the morning and three words linger in your mind.
Tall…gorgeous…blonde…
You wonder…
You slowly get up and wander towards your window.
And there she is-the most gorgeous tall blonde you know, dashing through your street, still in sweatpants, a ponytail, and a t-shirt that seems to be tighter than the previous ones.
Okay, that is it! You don’t want to think about tennis again or tall, gorgeous blondes. In the future, however, you will remember to root for Ana Ivanovic.
You turn sharply towards the pillar in the middle of your room and rip the paper off of it to pieces.
You promise yourself that you will make up for the lost minutes on your elliptical as you print out your new short-term goal.
The fifth morning
You act as if nothing is wrong when your alarm sets off.
“I gotta take a little time, a little time to think things over…”
That’s cool.
You’re cool…and calm…and collected. Or at least, you appear to be, as you get out of bed to take a few strides across your room.
But something brings you to a halt. Your window is softly calling out to you.
So you thoughtlessly amble forward to look over it and catch a glimpse of the now familiar figure running through your mind street.
It suddenly occurs to you that Quinn is always on time-but you dismiss it just as quickly. You don’t think much of it as you turn your back on your window and head off to start your morning ritual on the elliptical.
After a while, you find yourself vaguely humming along to the tune of your alarm. And you are pushing and pulling and pedaling to its rhythm.
By the time the chorus comes, your eyes are closed, your head is tilted back, your hands are gripping the handrails tightly, and your voice is reverberating throughout your house. You are almost in tears as you sing.
“I wanna know what love is…I want you to show me…”
Are you sure?
“Yes! I wanna feel what love is…”
It’s all just so confusing.
The sixth morning
Your dream is cut short by your alarm.
It’s a particularly good dream, too. But you can’t remember anything about it, which frustrates you because what you do remember is feeling butterflies in your stomach and all the other clichés people say you’ll feel when you’re in love.
Your alarm’s musical pick isn’t helping.
“Look at me now…Will I ever learn? I don’t know how…But I suddenly lose control…”
You subconsciously resist the urge to look out your window.
“There’s a fire within my soul…Just one look and I can hear a bell ring…One more look and-“
You forget everything.
It’s the best course of action.
You don’t want to get bogged down by dreams that are not even remotely possible when you already have dreams you are certain will come true.
You jump on your elliptical and concentrate on the words before you: Get another Call from Finn.
You double your efforts in working out and channeling all your psychic powers into making your present goal a reality.
The seventh morning
You’re sitting in the middle of your bed with your arms wrapped around your legs that are drawn up closely to your chest and you’re rocking yourself back and forth.
You glance at your clock. It’s 5:32 AM. But everything is still blue and gray outside.
And you feel totally and utterly dejected.
Even the knowledge that your psychic abilities really work isn’t consolation enough.
The call you get from Finn last night is nowhere near what you’ve been hoping for.
He starts his call with the usual hello’s then asks you if you’re watching “the slam,” spends the next three minutes updating you with what’s been happening to his favorite tall, blonde players, and wastes your next 29 minutes with whoops and groans and the predominant silence.
You end the call without saying goodbye. And as soon as you hang up, you let out an earsplitting grunt as loud as Maria Sharapova’s.
When your daddy rushes to your room, you apologize profusely for the momentary state you put him in and reassure him that you’re just trying a new vocalization technique.
He breathes a sigh of relief, still clutching at his heart. You breathe a different sigh when he leaves.
You don’t hear from Finn again.
All through the night, your mood swings back and forth from being upset to crestfallen to furious. This morning when you wake, you feel absolutely miserable. But the feeling is gradually turning into something else as you recount the few days and even fewer nights you have been spending with Finn.
Why do you even bother to mope around for this guy?
We have made a connection and he’s on his way to becoming a solid vocal lead. So what if he is? Well, I certainly will not be interested in anyone who is not even musically inclined. Being a show choir’s leading man, and having the guts to be so, earns him a lot of brownie points. But other than that-he’s a decent human being-half the time-and he’s nice to me-again, just half the time.
Why are you arguing with yourself?
You start pacing around the room with your arms crossed.
What other qualities does Finn have that makes you think he’s your Prince Charming?
For one, he is charming. Okay, well, that’s true. Two, he’s an athlete, which means he’s popular and muscular, both of which are essential attributes in defending my honor against vicious attacks by his chromosomally-challenged friends armed with flavored frozen drinks. That’s who his friends are? That is not the point. Not counting those very agreeable qualities that I have already mentioned, he’s very good-looking. But is he romantic? Did I mention he’s good-looking? Is he smart? He’s very good-looking. Is he witty enough to comprehend jokes with pop culture or musical references? Next question…
Is he a good kisser?
Your alarm saves you from answering your question.
“First I was afraid, I was petrified.”
You freeze for a split second then come charging straight to your window to glare at the girl you know for sure is there.
“…thinking how you did me wrong…I grew strong…I learned how to carry on…and so you’re back-“
Quinn Fabray…
…with her magnificent, long blonde hair in an unkempt ponytail bouncing across her nape, her flushed cheeks ever so radiant, and her-
Quinn Fabray is so infuriating. Why does she have to be so…hot? Ugh.
You storm away from the window, stomping your feet very hard.
Then you take it out on your elliptical, which is so unfair because all it ever does is support you, literally and figuratively.
The eighth morning
You slowly gain consciousness as you turn to your side, facing your bedside table with your iPod dock.
You open your eyes. It’s 5:54 AM.
You whine, not about the earliness of the time but the nearness of the hour. Your eyebrows furrow and you turn to face the other side of your bed.
You close your eyes and try to go back to sleep. You don’t want to get up just yet. You grab a pillow, hug it tightly, and curl your body around it.
Your mind is empty but you feel as if you should be thinking about something.
You take a quick look back at the clock. It’s 5:55 AM.
You close your eyes and groan and slip back into your previous position.
You have five more minutes-five more minutes before your alarm forces you to get out of bed-five more minutes before you start a day that you are not looking forward to for the first time in your life-five more minutes and if you look out your window-
Your eyes pop wide open and you turn to stare at your window.
You take a deep breath then you find yourself pondering about the girl who keeps on resurfacing in your mind street at every single one of your waking hours this summer.
Another peek at the clock tells you that it’s 5:56 AM.
Why are boys so fascinated with Quinn Fabray?
Why are you?
Clearly, I am only fascinated by their fascination and not the object of their fascination.
You want to slap your forehead because of how stupid that sounds.
The fact of the matter is, you’re not just thinking about any boy-you’re thinking about a boy named Finn who is probably still thinking about a girl named Quinn whom you unavoidably are also thinking about with all this thinking.
You admit to yourself that he must have adored her and she, in turn, must have felt that adoration.
You desperately want to feel the same way.
Why can’t I feel the same way?
A fleeting look at the clock lets you know that a minute has passed.
Why are the minutes ticking by so slowly?
You exhale noisily and return to your musings.
Then there’s Puck, who simply wanted to get into my pants-not that I wasn’t thrilled at all by the gesture-but he obviously cares so much more for Quinn…
Then you realize that the only boy you and Quinn don’t have in common is Jesse. But you also realize that Jesse is pompous enough not to fancy being with someone who is prettier than he is-and Quinn is prettier than everyone you’ve met.
What is it about her-? There’s definitely something about her…
Whatever it is, you’re dying to find out.
Apart from your powers of telepathy, you take pride in your powers of observation.
You turn just in time to see your clock’s display changing from 5:57 to 5:58 AM.
You jump out of bed, pause the moment that you’re on your feet, and walk leisurely to your window.
You stand right where the frame meets the wall on the right side of your window with your cheek pressed against it to get the best possible view when Quinn finally turns up in your street.
It’s no big deal, really. Wanting to see her immediately the second she appears means you have ample time to observe her, right?
You fix your eyes on your street.
Several seconds later and there’s still no sign of her.
Another glance at the clock tells you that it’s still 5:58 AM.
But when you look back, she’s there, instantly recognizable-the inimitable Quinn Fabray.
You can’t help but admire her running form from afar. And although research shows that it’s best to lean a bit forward when running, her upright posture is befitting of her status, not to mention it makes her look even taller, which makes her even more intimidating.
Maybe that’s one of the reasons why the boys are into her. They like being whipped and ordered around.
She is bossy. But so are you.
Well, who knows? Maybe underneath all that bitchiness is a sweet and caring girl.
That only makes her more intriguing.
If that happens to be true then it’ll be huge surprise.
She’s getting closer.
You notice that she’s now wearing a white sleeveless v-neck shirt and a tight black running pant with the Swoosh. Her hair is still in a messy ponytail, which you find very refreshing. And she’s still using the same white running shoes.
Maybe they just want her for her body?
You can’t blame them.
She does have a smoking hot body. And you’re examining every curve.
Without warning, your alarm gets going and the trumpets teasingly blow their horns.
All your coherent thoughts jump out your window.
“You’re just too good to be true…Can’t take my eyes off of you…”
A grin, that you are completely unaware of, seeps through your lips.
Music does that to you sometimes.
“At long last love has arrived…And I thank God I’m alive…You’re just too good to be true…”
You can’t take your eyes off of Quinn…
“Pardon the way that I stare…There’s nothing else to compare…The sight of you leaves me weak…There are no words left to speak…”
Your eyes never leave her until she has become a dot on your horizon.
You step away from your window feeling lighter than you’ve ever felt for the past few days.
You move to your elliptical, dancing and swaying to the music.
And you sing along with it at the top of your lungs.
“I love you, baby! And if it’s quite alright, I need you, baby, to warm a lonely night. I love you, baby. Trust in me when I say…Oh, pretty baby! Don’t bring me down I pray. Oh, pretty baby, now that I found you, stay. And let me love you, baby. Let me love you…”
It really doesn’t occur to you why you’re happy all of a sudden.
So much for your powers of observation…
The ninth morning
You open your eyes and check the time the instant that you wake.
It’s 5:58 AM.
You rush to the same spot where you were yesterday morning and crane your neck.
There is no one in sight.
Perhaps you’re still a few seconds too early.
Still, you stand, rooted to your spot.
But after some time, of more than just a few seconds, you look back at the clock.
It’s 5:59 AM.
That’s odd…She has never been late before and it is very safe to assume that she abides by her daily schedule but why isn’t she here yet? Did something happen to her? God forbid something slightly awful happened to her-no-I don’t want to entertain such unpleasant thoughts! Except…Isn’t she supposed to be here-about ten feet in front of my house-by now? I still haven’t come to a sensible conclusion about her…When is she planning to show up?
You continue watching your street intently.
And seconds pass by that are now too many to count.
Your alarm notifies you of the time as it begins to play the first chords on a piano.
“A simple choice…nothing more…this or that…either or…marry well, social whirl, business man…clever girl…or pin my future on the boy I love…”
Your eyes remain glued to your street throughout the intro.
“What kind of life am I dreaming of? I…say…gimme, gimme…”
You place your hands on the bottom frame of your window.
“Gimme, gimme…”
You hold your breath.
“Gimme, gimme…”
Then you sigh.
“That thing called…love…”
You wrap your arms around yourself.
“I want it! Gimme, gimme…”
You spin in place.
“That thing called love…”
And push your back against the wall.
“I need it!”
You bow your head down.
“Highs and lows, tears and laughter…”
You feel as empty as your street looks.
“Gimme happy ever after…”
You drag yourself back to bed and crumple in disappointment.
“Gimme, gimme…”
But you don’t acknowledge it.
“That thing called…”
And you forget that it’s-
“Love…”
-Sunday.
The tenth morning
You don’t want to get your hopes up but after seeing the time when you open your eyes, you’re out of your bed and standing by your window faster than you can say, “Go Cheerios!”
It’s 5:59 AM.
And she’s there.
This time, she’s wearing a tight black tank and a tight black Capri, holding her iPod in her hand, cords bouncing everywhere, her arms driving forward and backward, her calf muscles flexing with every stride, strands of hair sticking to her temple, and sweat trickling down her neck.
Your chest starts constricting and your insides keep twisting.
Then she lowers her gaze and smiles…wistfully.
And you are suddenly aware of your mouth hanging open and the drool that almost escapes.
You quickly close your mouth and gulp.
She’s so…beautiful, she’s…breathtaking…
And you miss…seeing her…
You retreat one step from your window and you don’t only get butterflies in your stomach, you have a sanctuary full of them.
It defies the laws of nature, you know. But then again, so does the reason for it.
No.
It can’t be…
You stagger backwards to your bed to sit, with your left hand on it to support yourself and the other on your knees locked together.
You release the breath that you’ve been holding and you start hyperventilating.
The hand on your knees moves over to your heart pounding violently against your chest.
And your eyes close on their own accord.
It’s overwhelming.
You can’t do anything but surrender to this uncontrollable yearning. You know the only thing that keeps you together is your skin. Everything inside of you wants to break free and you let them loose the best way you know how-you sing.
“New…and a bit alarming…Who’d have ever thought that this could be…True…that she’s no Prince Charming…But there’s something in her that I simply didn’t see…”
Well, who’d have thought-Lumiere-Well, bless my soul-Mrs. Potts-Well, who’d have known-and Cogsworth, too-who indeed-sing affectionately in your head.
The left arm holding you up gives way.
It’s so peculiar. Wait and see…
You’re falling…
A few days more…
…Sideways, down your bed, like crashing timber.
There may be something there that wasn’t there before.
You close your eyes, roll onto your back, lift your legs up your bed, cover your face with both hands, and shake your head in disbelief.
Oh, no…
Perhaps there’s something there that wasn’t there before.
The eleventh morning