What are Friends for Ch. 01

//Author's Note: This story is part of a small collection of Lesbian stories I'll be uploading this week. This particular one is an edited resubmission of a story that was previously posted on Literotica. Apologies if you've already read this (although, given the low view count before, that seems unlikely!). This one was posted in a different category, so overlap is unlikely.

Enjoy!//

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Quinn whined as she tossed her phone down into the cup holder. As if the droning voice of her mother in the back of her head wasn't enough to make her pay attention to the road, she also found that her memory of the neighborhood was lacking now that she was trying to drive through it. She distinctly remembered using two blue houses on different streets as markers when she used to ride her bike, but either one of them had since been repainted or she was completely in the wrong area; they seemed equally possible under the circumstances.

She sighed and tried to mellow. She was not in the complete wrong area. She'd ridden her bike to Trish's house a few thousand times. She knew the way. She knew she was close, and just needed to stop doubting herself for ten freaking seconds.

And then she was there. Quinn gave a small surprised laugh as she pulled up to the curb and put her little Volkswagen in park. Trish's house was whiter than she remembered, and it took her a few seconds to realize that the big tree in the front yard was gone. Her phone buzzed in the cup holder, and she sighed as she picked it up again.

R u srsly outside my house rn?

"Yes," she said aloud, as she typed the same and pressed send. She unplugged her phone, slipped it into her bag, and took a long, deep breath. And then another one. And then another one. Her throat tightened as she opened her door and stepped out into the street. Butterflies swirled in her middle as she rounded the front of her car. Same color BMW 3 series parked in the driveway, though the one she was looking at was newer than the one she remembered them having.

"Well!"

Quinn gasped, nearly falling back off of the first step to the porch, and pressed a hand against her chest to calm herself. Trish's mom stood there, propping open the screen door with a big smile.

"It is lovely to see you again, Quinn!"

"Hello Mrs. Smith."

"My goodness! How many years has it been?"

She bit her lip as she stepped through the front door. "I'm... not really sure?" That wasn't true. Quinn knew exactly how long, almost to the day.

"Well, I'm sure Patty will be really happy to see you. Was she expecting you?"

"Um..." Quinn ran a few fingers over her temple to gather some stray blonde bangs. "Sort of. We got assigned to do a presentation together."

"Ok!" Mrs. Smith said. "I think she's up in her room. You remember the way, don't you?"

"Yeah, I-I do."

Mrs. Smith smiled and headed deeper into the house, leaving Quinn alone on the landing. It felt like she stood there, with her hand on the railing, for an eternity, but it was only a matter of seconds before she was upstairs and moving down the hall.

"Jesus," Trish yelled, before Quinn was done knocking. "Yes. Come in."

It was surreal to be back. The walls were covered in different posters and the furniture had been moved around a little bit, but it was still Trish's bedroom. Just like that, she was ten again. So many sleepovers. So many memories. But then Trish spun around in her chair.

"Not cool," Trish said, her eyes flashing dangerously. "Not cool."

"I know." Quinn blushed as she shut the door behind her. "I'm sorry."

"Whoa, you're... you're sorry? Just like that?"

"Trish—"

"Why couldn't we just do this over Skype so I wouldn't have to look at you? I don't want you here, Quinn."

Quinn clenched her teeth and looked away. "Please?"

"Please? Are you fucking kidding me?" Trish launched herself out of her chair, and though her voice lowered a little with every step she took toward Quinn, it lost none of its edge. "I can't stop you from riding my coattails to an easy grade, but I do not fucking want you here!"

"I want to help!" Quinn said, matching Trish's volume. "I don't want to... ride your coattails! I don't want to ride anything!"

"I know that's why you got Mr. Simmons to switch us."

"No, it—"

"Tran said it was his idea, but I don't buy it. I think you put the idea in his head."

"I-I... Ugh! I kind of did—"

"I knew it!"

"But not because Paula likes him! I did it because—"

"You did it because you need the grade. I know you're about to fail. Everyone knows."

"Trish, could you please—"

"—not happy about this! I mean this is my fucking—

"—said I'm sorry! I don't know what else—"

"—but of course you can't, because you're too fucking stupid."

"Yeah." Quinn slumped and hung her head. "Okay," she whispered. "I deserved that."

Trish stormed back to her chair and threw herself into it with a huff while the blonde sat gently on the edge of the bed.

"Don't sit there," Trish snapped. Quinn immediately jumped back up, but there were no other chairs so she stood quietly and shifted her weight back and forth. The silver lining, as far as she could tell, was that at least she was getting her money's worth out of her shoes. Or her mother's money's worth. If Trish decided to make her stand the whole time, she wouldn't be in agony. Eventually, though, Trish groaned in frustration. "Fine. Sit."

"Thank you," Quinn squeaked, as she sat. She pulled down on her skirt, feeling needlessly exposed. After a few seconds, she slid further back onto the bed and grabbed a pillow to put into her lap. It felt good to have a shield. Trish rolled her eyes and turned to her computer. "What happened to the tree?"

Trish sighed, her whole body slouching in irritation, as she turned back around again. "What tree?"

"The... what was it?" Quinn pointed out the window. "Was it an Oak? In your front yard?"

"Some kind of Dogwood," Trish said, as she spun back around and resumed typing.

"We used to spend hours in that tree. It was weird to see it gone."

"It's been gone for years," Trish said flatly. Again, Quinn hung her head. "It's a good thing you came over, though. The dead tree conversation will probably prove to be crucial to us standing in front of thirty kids and talking about Watergate for five minutes, and that simply couldn't have happened over Skype."

"I'm sorry, alright?"

Trish shook her head and continued to grumble under her breath as she typed furiously. When her computer dinged repeatedly, Quinn leaned to the side and was unsurprised to see Trish chatting. She couldn't tell with whom or what about, but she could at least make a guess at the latter.

Five minutes went by. Quinn sat quietly, red-faced and feeling increasingly uncomfortable while Trish typed and typed. Ten minutes. Fifteen.

"Ummm—"

"What?" Trish snapped.

"I just... I—"

"I was in the middle of something when you decided, on your own, to come over to my house, Quinn."

"I know."

"I'm almost done, and then we can get this travesty over with."

"Okay."

Quinn jumped, a few moments later, at a knock at the door beside her. Mrs. Smith came in right after, with a large plate held in her hand.

"It's a good thing you knocked first," Trish said without looking back. "Quinn and I were about to get indecent."

Her mother's smile never faltered as she set down the plate of carrots. "I just thought you guys might like some brain food while you work. They're low in fat, right Quinn?"

"Y-yeah," Quinn said bewilderedly.

Trish looked over her shoulder and frowned. "The low fat carrots don't taste as good as the regular ones."

"These are the regular ones," Mrs. Smith said. "Anyway, Quinn, it's good to see you again. I hope you come around more often!"

"Thanks," Quinn said, taking a carrot and smiling when she really didn't feel like smiling. Or eating. The older woman glanced at her daughter one last time before heading back out into the hall and closing the door behind her.

"She is just loving that you're here."

"Why?"

Trish exhaled loudly. "Are you kidding me? Do you know how many times she tried to pressure me into doing cheerleading too? Ooooh, you can hang out with Quinn more! Maybe date a wide receiver! A) because obviously I couldn't land a quarterback, and B) because this fad is probably going to be over any day now."

"Sorry," Quinn said, swallowing the tiny bit of carrot she'd forced herself to chew on.

"What is with you?"

Quinn couldn't keep it together any more. "I'm sorry," she cried, bringing her knees together around the pillow and curling forward. "I'm sorry."

"Jesus..." Trish grabbed the box of tissues from her desk and tossed them onto the bed in front of Quinn. Then, while the blonde was dabbing at her cheeks, she opened up the bottom drawer in her nightstand and pulled out a bag of mixed chocolates. She sat down at the head of her bed and held the open end of the bag out toward Quinn. "Eat. You'll feel better."

Whether it was Trish's bad British accent or the Remus Lupin quote that made her smile, Quinn couldn't say. She reluctantly took a mini from the top of the pile, one that had little rice crisps in it, and bit off the corner.

"Thanks."

"Did you see how she tried use you to trick me into eating that rabbit food? 'Look hon! They're Quinn-approved!' "

"Yeah, I'm... I'm sorry I said yes. I wasn't really prepared for that."

Trish shook her head. "I like carrots as much as the next girl who doesn't like carrots, but c'mon. That was bush league."

"Does she do that a lot?"

"Do what?" the brunette asked.

"Be weird about food?"

Trish sat up and pulled the bag back. "Why are you here?"

"We have to—"

"No no no. I mean, you're trying to what... empathize with me now? Asking me about a tree that's been gone for years, which you would know has been gone for years if you hadn't been off being... you." She bathed the word in such contempt, and Quinn couldn't help but deflate. "What do you want?"

"I wanted to see you," Quinn admitted, her eyes downcast. Pouring over the interlaced fibers of the pillowcase.

"Why?"

"I woke up the other day," she said, "and I realized that I don't like myself. Who I am. Who I've become. And really... I haven't liked myself for a long time."

Trish blew a long, slow breath through her nose as she sat back. "You can understand why I might be skeptical, right?"

"Yes," she said, softy. "And I'm sorry about that too."

"Yeah well, sorry now doesn't exactly unfuck that cluster, does it?"

"I know." Quinn's chin came to rest against her collarbone. Two of the bite-sized chocolate minis bounced off of her pillow. When she looked up, Trish had her arms and and legs crossed, but there was something in her expression that gave Quinn hope.

"Why did you want to see me?"

Quinn cleared her throat, more to try to fight back the tears than anything else. "Last umm... last Wednesday, after school, my uhh... My mom asked me if I wanted to come with her to an appointment and go shopping afterwards. It was... um... Dr... um... Watkins. Dr. Watkins. Her plastic surgeon."

"Your mom had more work done?"

She shrugged distractedly. "They... umm... They were talking about her having another lift," she said, gesturing from the sides of her breasts to her armpits, "and my mom asked me to um... She said I looked like her when she was my age, so she wanted me to... model. Like, a before to compare against."

"Okay," Trish said.

"I didn't really want to take my shirt off. She kept insisting that Dr. Watkins had seen, like, thousands of women naked. I don't know why that mattered, but she kept saying it over and over, so..." Quinn's voice got quieter as she went on. "And at first, it wasn't too bad. Stand like this. Now like that. But then he started marking on my skin... and they were talking about the different places that my mom's skin had stretched... and where my skin would stretch... and then, before I knew it, they were talking about me. Like, not 'me as a younger her'. Talking about where my body would start to get ugly. Or already was. He said my... my nipples are misshapen and could be really improved. They planned out my first three procedures."

"Fucking bitch," Trish whispered.

"I didn't really react? You know? I kinda just... I nodded and smiled. I laughed when he made jokes about my breasts, and where I could expect them to end up. I stood there, and turned that way, and I held my arms up, and I thanked him when it was over. I thanked him. And like, I had this feeling that something was wrong. Like... like I should be mad, but I didn't know why. Afterwards, we... you know... we went to The Pavilion and got lattes like nothing had happened, and I got her to buy me these." She extended her feet a little from underneath the pillow. "Four hundred dollar sneakers. I felt like I had really come out on top. Like yeah. Showed you. Make me feel weird? I'll spend your money.

"But... the more I thought about it, though, the more I just felt... sick. Really sick. And I didn't really know why. I mean, he didn't really touch me, but I felt violated."

"Of course you did!"

Quinn paused to unwrap another chocolate, and ate this one whole. "I faked a migraine on Thursday. I didn't want to go to school. Mom left me some Valium. Have you ever had Valium?"

"No," Trish said quietly.

"It's not for headaches," she said, shaking her head. "She probably knew why I was upset, but instead of talking to me about it she gave me a pill to help me stop worrying. She-she turned to me, right in the middle of the appointment, and said 'Don't you worry, dear. We'll make sure you're ready to get a man.'"

"Fucking bitch!"

"And it... it..." Quinn paused to swallow, which was harder to get down than usual. "It kind of hit me, the next morning, that that's what she thinks of me. That the best I can do is to go out and marry up, because... what else am I gonna do?"

Trish licked her lips and looked down.

"I spent, like, all day Thursday really upset. Because she's right. I'm... stupid. What am I gonna do? I'm not good at anything. I'm not smart like Trish." She paused for a minute, still looking down. "I actually said that. Out loud. And that was when I realized that I had fucked everything up. Everything. I had a friend I could've talked to, and I fucked that up. I told everyone about that kiss, and I... I fucked up.

"I faked it again on Friday, and my mom left me another Valium. And then she said maybe we could look into Botox to see if that would help. You know, because that can—"

"Yeah," Trish said, interrupting. "With headaches. I know."

Quinn nodded. "I... I hurt you. And not just the one time. I think I probably made your life a living hell, and I did it because it helped me be popular." Her voice caught in her throat as she tried to push on, and she had to cough to clear it. Shiny streaks across her cheeks. "But I was sitting there in the shower, Thursday morning, and I couldn't imagine who I would talk to about it. I wanted to talk about it. I needed to talk about it so that someone could tell me I wasn't crazy, but like... half the squad has already had something done, and the other half are... they're not... I couldn't talk to them about anything real. They're shallow, and they're... I just... they wouldn't...

"I didn't come today to... to... to get pity, or whatever. I just... I did this to myself. I did it by hurting you, and... and others but mostly you... and I thought you should know that I-I regret it. I regret all of it."

"Okay," Trish croaked.

After a minute Quinn nodded, took another tissue to wipe her cheeks, and then started to get up.

"Where are you going?"

"I thought—"

"Come here." The brunette held out her arms, and Quinn bawled as she walked across the bed on her knees and leaned in.

"I'm sorry," Quinn cried. "I'm so sorry."

"Your friends really are dumber than hair."

Quinn snorted in the middle of her sobbing, which only made her laugh harder.

"I'm serious. Trevor? He's got that cowlick that goes to the right, but he's always trying to comb it left. He's literally dumber than his own hair."

"He is," Quinn sob-laugh-cried. After a minute, when she'd calmed down a little, she said, "Do-do you remember when we were watching The Three Musketeers? And at the end of it, you had that tirade about there not being any actual muskets in it?"

"Yeah," Trish said, smiling.

"And how there weren't any ground-up punches in fruit punch? That was, like, the last time I really laughed. My sides hurt that night." She reached sideways across the bed to grab another tissue. "Like, not at a TV show or a movie. My friends aren't... they aren't funny. I laugh when they make jokes, but they're not... They're not."

Trish twisted to grab another pillow and laid it in her lap. "Here," she said, patting the pillow.

Quinn inched backwards across the bed until she could rest her head on the pillow, and laid there quietly for a few minutes. "I don't like myself," she said eventually. "I don't like the way that I act, or dress. Or treat people. I really don't like the way that I treated you."

"Okay," Trish said, running her nails across the blonde's scalp. "I appreciate wanting to change. I applaud wanting to change. I even agree with feeling guilty, but... there's diminishing returns on guilt."

"What does that mean?"

"Diminishing returns? It's like..." Trish squinted for a moment. "A certain amount of guilt was necessary to bring you here today, right?"

Quinn nodded.

"That's... that's good. That has you taking steps to fix things, and make changes. You know, in your life. If it was only a little guilt, you'd get over it and move on. If you keep adding more and more guilt, though, it'll stop helping. It can even start to become detrimental. You get so caught up in being angry with yourself that you never quite get to the change part."

"Diminishing returns," Quinn said softly. "Got it."

"I'm sorry I called you stupid."

"It's okay," Quinn whispered.

"It's not. And you're not. You don't give yourself enough credit."

"If you start trying to make me feel better, I'm going to feel even more guilty."

"Can't have that," Trish said, smiling. "Would it help if I neg you a little?"

"Maybe."

"You've always had terrible handwriting. It's atrocious."

"That... yeah," Quinn said, her eyes welling up again. "That helps."

"You're also a terrible speller."

Quinn snorted again.

"I don't know how you survive as a Cheerleader. Aren't they always spelling things?"

"Okay," Quinn laughed. "Okay."

"So you know you don't need surgery, right?"

"Yeah," Quinn said softly.

"Once more with feeling."

"I know."

"Well what about me. Do you think I need plastic surgery?"

"What?" Quinn shrieked. "No! No way!"

"I'm like a size ten," she said, holding her arms out.

"You don't need surgery!"

"Of course I don't, and you're way skinnier than I am. So what is so different about you that you need it and I don't?"

"I don't know," Quinn groaned. "Nothing?"

"I wish that saying it was enough." Trish smiled sadly, as she moved her hands to scratch at the back of Quinn's head. "I wish I could just tell you 'Quinn, you're a beautiful girl,' and it would click. You could see yourself the way other people see you."