Catalyst

Chapter 1

But Rachel didn't talk to anyone except the teacher, Mrs. Hollis, and Karofsky, though that was mostly to tell him to leave her alone. There was no recital in fifth grade. In fact, there wasn't any recital again at OrvilleWrightElementary School. And then, before she knew it, fifth grade was over, and the only real accomplishments she'd made was learning fractions, and watching Bambi and not crying for the first time, because she knew what real sadness was.

Quinn didn't see Rachel at all during middle school, because four blocks made a big difference in bus routes. Matt and Mike went to the same school as her and a casual mention of Rachel's name showed that they were only friends based on convenience, leaving her to traverse the road of middle school by herself. She hoped that Rachel learned to speak up, to show more interest than in singing. She'd hoped those kids were nicer and that she was well, and prayed for it, until her mother found out one night. She had started praying out loud because she'd read in an article somewhere that a person could only have enough space for one hundred twenty close friends, people that they cared for and thought about without knocking someone else out. The girl stopped praying at number seventy though, because her pastor said it represented human leadership and judgment.

Judy tended not to speak on matters Russell had already decided, unless it was in direct violation of his rules. So, hearing her daughter pray specifically for someone her father told her not to even think about was sacrilege. She didn't beat her, but did need to talk to her about it before Russell found out. The blonde mother said, slightly disapproving, "Quinnie, dear, were you praying for those heathens' child?"

Quinn had to look up to her, from where she was kneeling. The hall light was on, still, so her mother's face was shadowed in the darkness of her room while the rest of her had a sort of golden halo. She responded, "Yes, mom." She quickly added, feeling defensive, "It's not her fault. It's not fair that I have you and daddy and our church, and Rachel has those men."

Judy sighed, and got down so they were side by side, "I know, dear. It's really not fair, but the Lord has a plan for everyone. One day, that child will have to renounce them, and it's not up to you. It's up to her and Jesus. She'll have to find the path on her own."

Quinn bit her lip, looked down, and practically mumbled, "But I want to help her."

Her mother pulled her closer, to her side, until she felt like a little kid again, smelling her light perfume of roses and flour and comfort and something distinctly mommy, the same something Brittany's mom and Santana's mom smelled of and basked in her warmth.

Judy smoothed her sandy hair back, breathing her in, "I know, honey. But adversary can either make the soul stronger or break it. And I don't want you getting hurt, so I'm not going to let you. You will leave that girl out of your prayers and your thoughts."

And that was her first real lesson in life, at eleven years old with slightly crooked teeth: Leave the unusual, kill the weak. Social norms are all. She got braces later that year.

So she did as she was taught. Or rather, she attempted to. She tried to leave Rachel out of her thoughts, tried to let the name and image of her age until it was ash, to be swept and thrown away.

Still, when she rode her bike to the Dairy Queen or the community pool, she passed the bright home, whether it was clean with a cat on the doorstep or covered in eggs or toilet paper or derogatory slurs, or, once, Christmas Eve, on the way to the corner store for milk, affluent men, laughing and cheerful as a fire started in the well-pruned garden and a loud yowling that brought tears to her eyes, right in the middle of the afternoon, and she thought of the girl in fifth grade with the curly hair that looked impossibly soft, like a bag of feathers, and big eyes, who never opened her mouth. She'd pray, then, a quick, soft one, "Be with her, Jesus."