Okay, so. This is basically me telling the story I originally wanted to tell when I started Pink, had I been equipped with Actual Writing Skills and a fantastic beta and a Plan. Now that I have those three very important things, here is (I hope) the bigger and better version. Same universe, same concept; just moar details and thought and logic. I'm going to work my way back through the entire fic and eventually end up where I left off, then continue from there. HAPPY READING, MY FRIENDS.

"Give me your lunch money."

The demand is bored, almost emotionless, and her voice is gravelly and weak from all of the smoking, but the freshman hands over a few crumpled dollar bills like she's being held at gunpoint. Quinn smirks as she takes the cash and turns away; her work here is done.

She counts out their profit on the side of the sink, tuning out the other girls' taunts for the most part, and her face remains completely impassive when she hears the flush and some weak gurgling noises. She's proud of herself for not flinching anymore.

They release the girl and snicker as she flees the room and The Mack whips out a celebratory pack of cigarettes.

"How much we got?" she asks as they light up.

Quinn takes a long drag before answering. "We're at eighteen bucks now." The Skanks put her in charge of "finances," since she's good at math and they're… well… not. She stuffs the wad of bills into her pocket and inhales deeply again, stifling a grimace as the smoke fills her insides with a dull burn.

The bell rings and they put out their cigarettes in the sink before leaving the bathroom, the stench of fresh tobacco rolling over everyone they pass like a storm cloud, and Quinn loves the dirty looks they get. Honestly, the disgust is a welcome change to the judgment and pity she's used to. It's a relief, pressure off her back, because since she traded in the red-and-white spandex for ripped black t-shirts, got her nose pierced, and dyed her hair, nobody has been talking about her pregnancy or her failed relationships or how much of a loser she is for being in glee club. Now they gossip about this new look of hers, and how she only goes to half her classes, and how she smokes under the bleachers with the most feared group of girls at school.

She's changed the conversation, and that's all that matters.

They turn the corner and her smirk shifts to a glower; Finn is standing by Rachel's locker, smiling his usual Good Guy smile as he waits for his girlfriend to arrive, and now she wants to hit something.

"Quinn, you ditching?" Sheila asks when they stop to write something vulgar on a locker.

She leans against the one next to it, her arms crossed as she rolls her eyes at Ronnie's Sharpie artwork. They're doing it out here in the middle of the hallway where Figgins could walk by at any moment… And come on, a curse word? As ferocious as Ronnie's jagged block letters are, Quinn can't help but think back to her one and only masterpiece, which she had the brains to draw in the privacy of the bathroom.

She recalls the finer details of her drawing and her breath catches in her throat when she looks up to see the real thing, as Rachel strides down the hall to greet Finn. They're oblivious to her glare as they exchange a peck on the lips; Quinn clenches her jaw and her fingers curl into fists and her blood is boiling just like it does every time she sees them together.

Quinn drops her gaze to the faded red and white tile floor, biting her lip so hard she might be splitting it in half. But then she's looking at Finn and Rachel again and her heart skips a beat when Rachel happens to meet her eyes. She immediately looks away and turns her back to Sheila. "Let's get out of here," she growls, looking anywhere but there as they head down the hallway and through the double doors to the parking lot.

.

She really does hate smoking. It burns her throat and lungs, and tastes disgusting, and the cigarettes are expensive as hell.

(A small part of her wonders if it will affect her voice. A very small part.)

But it gives her something to do besides talk to the Skanks, which she rarely does. Their conversations are always about ketchup-y tampons and rigging water fountains and setting things on fire, and she couldn't care less about any of it.

She cares that when she's with them, nobody tries to talk to her. She cares that the Skanks are like camouflage, that they make her invisible to most of the student body, that her pink hair and nose ring and mismatched clothes let her drop off the grid.

She's Quinn Fabray, and that means nothing anymore.

"You want some?" Ronnie asks, offering her the bottle of vodka they're passing around.

Quinn keeps her eyes on the concrete wall a few yards away, examining the path that each crack weaves around the others. "I'm fine."

The Mack grunts. "Y'know, for a bitch, you're really fucking boring."

She inhales on the cigarette as long as she can, then gently shoves off the railing she's leaning against and walks toward The Mack until their faces are an inch apart. "Fuck you," she breathes, the words leaving her mouth as wisps of smoke that almost hide The Mack's smirk, and walks away from the group.

"Maybe later," The Mack replies just as Quinn is about to disappear around the corner.

She clenches her jaw, puts out her cigarette on the hood of Principal Figgins's car, and heads to the auditorium.

.

It's been a week since Rachel talked to her under the bleachers, and she hasn't tried anything since. Quinn's not sure why she's thinking about this right now; maybe not thinking, just… acknowledging. It's just a thought that's in her head, along with how many classes she's skipped since school began (sixteen), how her new combat boots give her blisters, and how her mom hasn't been able to look her in the eye in months.

The piano bench is cold and hard as she takes a seat and begins to unlace her boots, keeping her eyes peeled for any movement in the auditorium, any sign that she isn't alone. All she sees is still darkness, so she kicks her shoes off and flexes her ankles, feet, toes, wincing at a spot on her heel that the leather's been rubbing against all day.

Quinn takes a deep breath in and out, savoring the absence of smoke in her lungs, and sets her fingers along the piano keys one by one. She checks, double checks, triple checks that she has the right chord, then begins to play; slowly and quietly, because this is for her and no one else. No one's here to tell her she's doing it wrong or to practice her technique or to work harder. There's no goal to aim for, no Regionals or Sectionals or tournament or showcase, no audience.

No watching. No scrutinizing. No judging.

How do people even get enjoyment out of performing for others? Now that she's quit, she doesn't understand why she did it in the first place. Why would you invite others to tell you everything you're doing wrong, to make everything about your imperfections? Rachel's an idiot for wanting to make a career out of it.

She clenches her jaw and starts to play louder, faster, because thinking about Rachel always leads to thinking about Rachel-and-Finn, which always leads to vague feelings of nausea in the pit of her stomach. She's over him, and over him leaving her for Rachel (twice), but they're not even good for each other, for God's sake. Their relationship turns them both into whiny, selfish infants, and it's a pain in the ass to watch every day.

Not that she watches them. They're just there, and she sees them, and that's it.

Quinn is playing even harder now. How dare Rachel approach her, venture into Skank territory to tell her blatant lies about how much glee club needs her, how much she's missed, because she knows none of that's true. Rachel might like to think they're all family, but where was everyone when Quinn got pregnant, after she had Beth, during her meltdown in New York? Yeah, there was "Keep Holding On" and Santana deciding a haircut would solve everything… but no one was really there. There's a difference between singing "Lean On Me" and actually being there to lean on.

She stumbles on a note and immediately her fingers freeze mid-stroke. Her breaths are coming out in audible huffs and every muscle in her body is tense, ready for something, though she's not sure what.

After a long moment, Quinn deflates; she lets the air out of her lungs, lets her posture sag, lets her hands fall into her lap. Her eyes are burning but she refuses to let the tears come, because when you cry it means you're sad or upset or scared, and she isn't any of those things.

She stuffs her feet back into her boots and leaves the auditorium without looking back.

.

Quinn makes herself go to English, because if she skips three classes in a row they'll call her mom, and she really doesn't need that kind of attention.

(Plus, if she's being honest, she actually likes the book they're reading.)

She gets there early so she can sit wherever she wants, and she opts for a desk in the back by the windows. She takes out The Metamorphosis, flips to a random page, and begins to read. The book isn't new to her—she read it on her own a few years ago—but she thinks it might be one of those stories that changes a little each time. When she was a freshman, it was about a guy with awful luck who tried his best to stay positive and work with what he had. Now, it's about someone with no control over their body who gets ostracized by their own family for not being normal.

Quinn may not be living life as a gigantic bug, but she can definitely relate.

"Hello, Quinn."

Her eyes lift and she finds Rachel sitting a few yards away, smiling at Quinn over her shoulder.

Quinn cocks an eyebrow. "Hey," she mutters flatly, then goes back to reading. Out of the corner of her eye she sees Rachel face the front of the classroom again, and she grits her teeth just a little. That's it? "Hello, Quinn"? Rachel Berry, the girl who never shuts up during glee club, is satisfied with a three-word conversation? And why would she even say that to Quinn in the first place? Most of the student body is scared to even look at her, yet Rachel just—

She shakes her head and brings her thoughts to a screeching halt, because this is the last thing she should be worrying about right now. Rachel can do whatever the hell she wants.

Like date Finn.

(She wishes Rachel was sitting further away.)

.

Quinn doesn't follow her out of the room or down the hall when class ends; it just happens that they're both going in the same direction. She needs to dump her stuff in her locker so she can meet the Skanks behind the bleachers, and it's not her fault if Rachel just happens to be walking several paces in front of her the whole time.

She reaches her locker and twists the combination and yanks the door open, keeping her eyes straight ahead because it doesn't matter where Rachel is or what she's doing, so there's no use in looking around to see.

"Hi!" she hears Rachel greet from somewhere behind her.

She turns around without thinking, just in time to see Rachel stand on her tip-toes to give Finn a kiss.

Quinn slams her door closed and storms away, her boots clunking heavily against the floor, and she feels like she can't get away fast enough.

Even though she's not "getting away" from anything, because it doesn't matter what Rachel does, because Quinn doesn't care.

.

She ends up on the bleachers instead, because she has a headache and she knows the cigarettes will only make it worse, and because she's used up today's quota of patience for dealing with things she doesn't want to deal with.

She sneaks around the far side of the football field and takes a seat at the opposite end of the bleachers from the Skanks' hangout spot—the lowest bench, because her boots are so goddamn loud and she doesn't want them to hear her climbing up and down.

Quinn opens to where she left off in class, at the part when Gregor is insisting that he'll be able to go to work tomorrow, and a soft laugh slips from her throat. The poor guy is in complete denial that his life has changed forever, that he'll never be able to go back to the way things were, the way they're supposed to be. He has no idea that his parents won't even be able to look at him; he has no idea that he's completely alone in this.

"You didn't tell us you started a book club."

Her head snaps up at The Mack's voice and she sees the Skanks coming toward her, lit cigarettes in hand, and she really wishes she had some Advil. Quinn stretches and sinks back into her seat as if she's completely relaxed. "Didn't think you guys would be interested."

The Mack puts her hand on her chest. "That hurts, Quinnie. I totally wanna read about…" She reaches over and lifts the book up so she can read the title. "…A fuckin' butterfly," she finishes, unable to hold in her laughter.

Quinn takes a breath to correct her, but bites her tongue at the last second.

"Seriously," Sheila says, "I don't get why you waste your time with this crap. Come key teachers' cars with us."

She's not sure what would be worse: saying she's reading for class, or saying she's reading for fun. "I… can't," she mumbles, closing her book. "I have to go." When she stands up, The Mack is directly in front of her, so close that they're practically nose-to-nose and she has nowhere to move.

"Do you think you're better than us, Fabray?" Her voice is quiet, cold, and the tobacco on her breath makes Quinn want to gag; her head is pounding. "You're not. You'd be nothing without us. Understand?"

Quinn swallows but doesn't break eye contact. "Yes." The Mack's gaze dips to her mouth as she says the word, and something in her chest clenches.

"Good." The Mack brings up her hand and gives her two light smacks on the cheek. "Start acting like it." She steps away and Sheila follows her in the direction of the parking lot, but Ronnie lingers just long enough to look Quinn in the eye for longer than she ever has before.

But then she's gone too, and Quinn's alone again.

She counts to sixty in her head three times before getting up and heading for the auditorium as fast as those godforsaken boots will carry her, but when she reaches the door, it's locked.

"Fuck," she snaps, banging on the door once with her first, her eyes burning again.

There's no one she can fucking count on at this school.