soft, as it began
Later, Quinn will look back on her life as two separate, distinct halves; the before you, and the after. The before ended and the after began in ninth grade, when the two of you were partnered together in English Literature.
Or, how Quinn and the reader became friends.
AN: I hope you all like this! I had heaps of fun writing it. If there are any more moments you'd like to see in Quinn and/or MC's life before RTC, send your ideas my way!
âYouâre sitting over there, Quinn,â Mr Ward says, gesturing to the back of the classroom. âThereâs a packet already waiting for you on the desk. Iâve paired you with one of the more talkative students â gotta draw you out of that shell somehow, huh?â
He laughs and Quinn fights the urge to shrink into her hoodie like the very reptile sheâs being compared to. Sheâs perfectly happy in said shell, thank you very much, and being stuck for an entire semester next to some asshole â talkative is code for asshole, obviously â sounds like her own personal version of hell.
âYes, sir,â she says, rather than protesting. She holds her bookbag a little tighter to her chest and weaves between the desks, heading to her assigned seat. Her partner, whoever they are, hasnât deigned to arrive yet; thereâs less than five minutes until class starts according to her old, cracked Casio watch. Thatâs running late by her standards.
She sits and watches with increasing trepidation as the seats around her begin to fill, though the one directly next to her stays empty. Each new face through the door sends a new thrill of anxiety surging in her chest. Will her partner be James McKinnon, the guy who egged the Principalâs car over the summer? He probably doesnât even know who she is.
Maybe itâs Brittany S (not to be confused with Brittany C, who is actually quite a nice girl), who spends all of her time giggling in the back of the classroom and going to the bathroom every ten minutes. Quinnâs going to be forced to do all of the work if sheâs stuck with her.
Or, worse, what if itâs Anna Haas? The thought makes nausea roil in her belly. Anna probably doesnât remember but in fourth grade sheâd called Quinn firecrotch and Quinn had cried about it for a day straight, even though she hadnât really even known what it meant. And then sheâd gone home and asked her mom to explain, and that had caused a whole new world of trouble.
But James, Brittany S, and Anna all end up sitting elsewhere to her relief and soon, the entire classroom is full, save for the seat next to her.
Disquiet prickles at the back of her neck. She knows itâs ridiculous and theyâre all literally in their assigned seats, but it feels like everyoneâs purposely giving her a wide berth, like she smells bad or something. And she definitely doesnât; sheâd woken up super early this morning to shower and get ready before her dad woke up. She smells like jasmine and vanilla, if the description on her bottle of Dollar Store shampoo is to be believed.
Her Casio shows nine on the dot and Mr Ward stands up, right on que. âAlright, ladies and gentlemen, welcome to English Literature. I have very low hopes that all of you have actually finished your assigned readings, but-.â
The room to the classroom flies open and someone stumbles through, their chest heaving as if theyâd sprinted from the other side of Brookside High. Their left shoe is untied and their hair is in disarray, but theyâre smiling, lips curling around the puffs of their panting breaths.
âFashionably late as ever, I see,â Mr Ward says wryly, regarding the student with a raised brow. âI thought we were turning over a new leaf this semester?â
âSorry, Mr W,â you say, wiping your hair from your forehead. âConsider my leaves turned, I swear, it wonât happen again.â
Quinnâs heart does a terrifying flip in her chest. It does another few loops as Mr Ward gestures towards her desk, like itâs on the worldâs most terrifying rollercoaster.
âYouâre lucky Iâve already got a headache and donât feel like filling out the paperwork to give you a late slip. Go, sit, and keep your mouth shut until I say you can open it.â Mr Wardâs trying for stern, but thereâs the hint of a smirk pulling at his moustached upper lip.
You mime zipping your lips and then half-walk, half-jog to the back of the classroom, waving at a few other students as you do. Quinnâs heart is beating staccato in her chest and when you pull out the chair next to her, sheâs worried that itâs so loud that youâll be able to hear it.
You offer her a little wave too, as if youâre friends, despite the fact that the two of you have never even spoken before. Quinn goes to wave back, an aborted flutter of the hand, and feels heat in her cheeks at the awkwardness of the motion.
Mr Ward continues to talk and normally sheâd be listening, even taking notes, but the thud of books and rattle of pens as you get comfortable is extremely distracting. Youâre still breathing a little heavy from your grand entrance, too, and Quinn is hyper aware of the rhythmic whistle of your exhales. Youâre sitting next to her, a sizeable gap between your bodies, but for some reason, she feels like youâre in her freaking lap. Her skin feels itchy, something funny settling in her stomach. She shifts a little in her chair, hoping to dispel it.
She forces herself to pay attention to the teacher and, through a combination of tuning in to the end of his explanation and flicking through the packet on her desk, she gathers that theyâre doing a project about the Great Gatsby, the book that they had read over the break. In their assigned pairs, they need to pick a topic from the list provided by Mr Ward and then write an essay about it. That sounds fine to her; she likes the book, had enjoyed reading it over the break, and scanning through the topics, thereâs several that she finds compelling.
She hopes that youâve read the book. Itâs not long, so surely you have. Worst case, Quinnâs pretty sure that thereâs a movie based on it, so she can always ask you to watch that just to get a sense of the story.
Mr Ward finishes speaking, and the entire class erupts into noise, students turning to their assigned partners. That means that she needs to talk to you now, too. Anxiety skitters up her spine, forcing her back ramrod straight.
She turns to you, a slow motion of the head, her fingers tapping a nervous beat against the desk. Youâre already looking at her. Your cheeks are still flushed and thereâs mascara smudged on your eyelids.
âHey, Quinn, right?â you say, leaning back in your chair at such a degree that Quinnâs shocked you donât teeter over. âNice to meet you.â
You introduce yourself, as if she doesnât know who you are. Of course she knows who you are; youâre not one of the popular girls, necessarily, but you go between different friendship groups like a party yacht in the Mediterranean Sea, welcome wherever you dock. Quinn hasnât been to many parties, but youâve always been at the ones she has, laughing, smiling, in the middle of the group. Your mother is a retired athlete of middling talent, a tennis player, the closest thing that Brookside has to a celebrity even though sheâd last competed over a decade ago. Quinnâs dad says that she had quit to get married and have kids, like all career women inevitably end up doing, even though your momâs career-ending shoulder injury is common knowledge in Brookside.
âNice to meet you,â Quinn says. It suddenly occurs to her that she might be able to make a friend here. You seem to be friends with half of the freaking school, after all; befriending you must be easy if everyone else has managed it.
Sound reasoning, but shit, what do people say to make friends?
All prior knowledge and instinct on how to interact with others like a normal person flies from Quinnâs brain with the grace and disastrous potential of an airplane on fire. All of her friends, the few that she has, have been her friends since preschool and she doubts that pointing at the sandpit and asking you if you want to play dinosaurs will win her any favour.
Compliments! She can give you a compliment. âI like your -.â She scans your upper half frantically, looking for something to comment on. âBracelet! I like your bracelet! Itâs cute.â
Said bracelet is a pretty, delicate golden chain, dotted with tiny purple stones. It drapes over your wrist in a way that sheâd normally find benign but for some reason, sheâs drawn to the way it sits on your skin, how it slides down your forearm when you lift your hand.
You grin at her. You have a pretty smile, she thinks, even though you have a mouthful of braces. âAw, thanks! My dad got it for me for my birthday. Hey, youâre good at this class, right? I remember reading a poem you wrote in the Brookside Verse last year; it was really good.â
A mixture of mortification and hot, sticky pride fills her belly. Mr Ward had insisted that she submit the poem to the schoolâs arts magazine: had she known that theyâd actually pick hers to be published, she never wouldâve agreed. The idea of anyone, but especially you, reading it, makes her want to throw up.
âI donât know if Iâd say Iâm good,â she mumbles, praying for the blush thatâs turned her face red to recede. Youâre going to think sheâs such a loser!
âWell, I would,â you say. âI really liked it. Will you have anything in the next one?â
âIâm not sure yet. I didnât know you read the Brookside Verse?â she blurts out and damn, that sounds like sheâs calling you an idiot, as if your interest in the artâs magazine is something wildly out of character, worthy of being questioned, and what is wrong with her?
âI had an in-school three-day suspension in the library,â you say, âand I wasnât allowed to like, read any books or anything, and they obviously took my phone, but there were heaps of copies of the Verse around, so I read it then. I liked the bit that compared the girlâs lips to fruit.â
âOh,â she says, a little lost for words. She likes that line too, the bit about lips like an overripe fruit, ready to split and spill. âThank you. Iâm happy you liked it.â
âSo, wordsmith,â you say, and your words are teasing but in a fun way, not a cruel one, said like itâs a secret only the two of you share. If Quinn had been blushing before, sheâs outright on fire now. âDo you have any preference on what topic we do? I like the sound of one or four, but Iâm happy to do whatever.â
âFour sounds good.â The words come out more like a squeak.
âCool!â
The next ten minutes are spent working out the specifics of the assignment and sheâs pleased by the way the two of you split up the work; you seem more than happy to do your fair share.
âWeâll probably need to talk outside of class to work on this,â you say, tapping your pen against your lips. You both have notebooks open in front of you and whilst Quinnâs been taking detailed notes, youâve been aimlessly doodling in the margins. She does think she can see Gatsbyâs green light scribbled in one corner, though, and a little jotted car that may be his Rolls Royce, so at least youâre on-task.
âYeah, probably,â Quinn agrees. The assignment is extensive and youâre going to have to work pretty closely together.
âIâll add you on Facebook so we can message each other,â you suggest. Quinn does her best to hide a wince.
âI donât have it, sorry,â she replies apologetically. Social media is a big no-no in her house; her parents barely allow her to have her own cell phone and even then, she has to give the device up once a month for her mom to go through it.
âAll good. Can I borrow your phone?â you ask.
Helplessly, hopelessly, Quinn pulls out her cell phone and passes it across to you. Itâs an older model, a hand-me-down from her older brother, the screen cracked despite her best efforts. Thereâs no code on the phone; she isnât allowed to have one.
She watches your fingers fly over the screen and then jumps a little when she hears a ding come from your pocket. You pass her phone back, looking pleased with yourself.
âI just texted myself, so youâve got my number,â you clarify. âSo we can organise a time to work together. We can meet at my house? Or yours, if youâd prefer. Iâm easy.â
âYours is good,â she replies, too quick, the words tripping over themselves on their way out of her mouth. Let hell sheâll ever let anyone over to hers.
You brighten. âAwesome! Any afternoon works for me. If we end up working late enough you can have dinner at mine too; mom and dad always make enough food to feed like, a million people.â
You laugh and Quinn laughs with you as if thatâs an entirely relatable sentiment, when in reality, sheâs almost certain that her own cupboards are bare and that sheâll be scraping the sides of the peanut butter jar tonight to hopefully scrounge together a single sandwich.
Does all of this laughing mean that youâre friends now? She has no idea. Do people invite not-friends over to their houses for schoolwork and dinner? Youâre probably just this outwardly friendly to everyone; youâve probably got a rotating roster of friends barrelling through your door each afternoon, eager to spend time with you after school.
âHow does Wednesday sound?â you ask her.
âWednesday works great.â Lord knows that she hasnât got anything else on.
âGreat,â you say. âItâs a date. Iâll text you my address now.â
Your head ducks down to your phone, no doubt to send her your address. You therefore arenât privy to the flush that overtakes her at those words, burning red-hot from her ears all the way down to her chest.
Itâs a date. She tells herself to calm down and stop being so weird, because obviously you donât mean it like that, but the blush doesnât get the memo.
Quinnâs phone buzzes and then you look back up at her, smiling with your mouthful of braces. She looks at you, her cheeks still red, probably staring like a lunatic and thinks as soon as Iâm alone, Iâm going to pull out my notebook and write about this. Write about the way your bracelet hangs from your wrist and the way your braces glint on your teeth. The way that your hand is stained with ink from your doodling. The way youâre smiling at her, right now. The way it makes her feel like the only person in the world.












