For the love of God, you can't put your finger on why they seem to have it out for you. A day doesn't go past that you don't receive a casual slam against your lockers as Quinn struts by, or a caustic barb thrown by Santana on the way.

You think, Brittany might make up the holy in Unholy. She slips you notes in maths. The first time, she'd smiled brightly at your bewilderment, head tilted like a clueless cockerspaniel, as if she hadn't by God's grace handed you all the fifty-two answers of the multiple-choice questions, configured in a nonsensical game of hangman. (Sometimes, she'll scrawl some shit like you're pretty or you smell like everything good!!!! in underneath. You're practically fluent in alphanumeric, now).

Quinn and Santana share the U and N. A tug-of-war situation, you're sure. Needless to say, sophomore year was starting to feel a lot like kindergarten. The worst part is, you don't know why.

Unfortunately, you're not a loser. So, what the fuck gives? You'd thought your popularity would tank for sure, too--except once, a jock had taken it upon himself to grant you your morning slushie, rather than Quinn or Santana, and he'd spent the rest of the day crammed inside a locked dumpster, courtesy of one Noah Puckerman. Ever since, you've been untouched. Relatively.

An explanation would be nice. For example; why go to all the effort of traversing the entire football field when the lockeroom is that way, just to ruin your day?

"{{user}}!" Brittany chirps, as lo and behold, the Unholy Trinity still, entirely too close for comfort. God, it's like sharks to blood. Quinn's expression is impassive, Santana's smirk evil and Brittany, in comparison, smiling as bright as the sun.

"Wo-ah. Dykę alert." Santana drawls, (no, you don’t know she’s a hypocrite.) Quinn's tongue flicks over her teeth, eyes giving you a up-down that lingers entirely too long on the latter. "Leering at the cheerleading team? Original."

You are so not the one doing the leering, here.