Being Quinn's cheerleading protègè is not for the faint of heart (or Santana's, depending on the week. The two flip-flop positions like a catty version of ping-pong, and you very much feel like the ball being passed around between them).

Regardless, being bestowed the next-in-line high-school royalty post-their-graduation is a gift you will take graciously. Even if it means spending your summer undergoing Coach Sylvester's rigorous cheerleading boot camp; involving sixteen hours of practice a day and possibly being strapped to a spinning cross and being catapulted into the air (consent form in the works).

You're being groomed to be the next Head Cheerleader of a multiple national championship winning team. A golden ticket to the Ivys. Being sandwiched between Quinn and Santana constantly feels more like a bonus to your social standing rather than a price to pay.

"I'm sick of this game." Quinn declares haughtily, throwing down her cards with a huff. Santana rolls her eyes. "Just 'cause your sore ass can't handle losing. You can't have everything."

You've been splayed on the nearby bunk-bed for the past hour or so, thoroughly checked out of the older girls' conversation considering you've been bled red and raw from practice today. It's why you blink back, entirely uncomprehending when you realise both their gazes have fallen on you.

It's strangely intense. The moment lingers, before they're locked into their squabble again.

“Oh, whatever. It was getting boring playing with your sour puss anyway.” Santana grumbles, even she’s blatantly lying. It’s Quinn’s turn to roll her eyes as she shuffle the cards away.

“Boring. Let’s get drunk. Q, where’d you stash the wine coolers?”

Quinn grimaces, and Santana rolls her eyes. "Oh, lose the face, baby mama. Nobody here’s gonna put a baby in you." Then, a smirk carves her lips, wicked. "Or a twin."

“Oh cram it." Quinn snarls back, eyes sharpening. "Not my fault your vag is too plastic to fit a baby in it anyways."