She was nine when they moved to Lima, and the nightmares stopped. But she never completely forgot them. Sometimes, she would wake up in the middle of the night in a panic, remembering the dreams and thinking there was something she needed to do. On the advice of the psychologist her fathers took her to, she'd turned the memories into inspiration, of sorts.

Buried deep in her locked file cabinet, full of ideas and song lyrics, was an opera she'd started writing when she was eleven, inspired by one of her nightmares. About a girl with blonde hair who fought against a god to protect her sister. And her dramatic journey to heaven and tragic return. When she looked at it now, she blushed in embarrassment, thinking that, even for her, the dialogue and lyrics were too overblown. And five years later, she didn't think she'd ever finish it. And why did the sister have to have green hair anyway?

In the same file cabinet, were dozens of songs she'd written, trying to lock up her nightmares. Something she never planned on sharing. She liked to think she had an excellent grasp of lyrics and what made some special and others not, but the music that made the lyrics come alive, even after years of music and vocal training, and the music theory classes her fathers enrolled her in at the local OSU campus, just never came together. Some element, some level of passion was missing.

Rachel thought the missing passion would come if she found a boyfriend. Finn Hudson seemed like the perfect candidate. So she pursued him, risking the wrath of one Quinn Fabray, McKinley's own Ice Princess and Fallen Angel. But, as pleasant as he was, in his selfish, clueless bumbling teen boy way, his presence in her life didn't bring that missing something. But Rachel was stubborn. Maybe if she worked harder? There weren't a whole lot of other workable choices for inspiration, given that the only boys who would give her the time of day were in Glee, and then only if they were actually in Glee at the time.

The sign had been there for years. So long that it had faded, almost merging into the background. But Rachel liked to pride herself in noticing every little detail about her surroundings, so its disappearance shocked her. But only for a moment until she got her equilibrium back.

Rachel stomped up the stairs, grumbling to herself. She'd tried to get her dads to buy the building, it wasn't like they didn't have the money. Her Daddy had been a partner in a huge corporate law firm before Lima, and he still took big cases for them that had him flying all over.

Her dad could have the old Kung Foo office. He really needed more room than his tiny office near the library if he was going to take over the family architecture firm when her Grandpoppa retired like he'd said he was going to this summer in London. Daddy could take one of the offices on the top floor next to the one she'd earmarked for herself for her fan club when she became famous. But they hadn't gone for it. And now someone else had bought the building.

Quietly entering the studio, trying to ignore the voices coming from Madame M's office, Rachel waved at Brittany, quietly twirling away on the far side of the floor. She nodded at Santana as she stepped past her into the small locker room, receiving a grunt in reply while Santana remained focused on the dancing girl. They weren't really friends but the two Cheerios had been fixtures at Madame M's almost as long as she could remember.

Watching them practice their Capoeira after everyone had gone home was always fascinating. As long as she kept quiet and didn't bother them or ask any questions. She sometimes wished she could join them, but wasn't brave enough to intrude in their bubble. She'd spent time the year before researching it and thought it was the perfect self defense form for a future Broadway star such as herself, but her fathers hadn't agreed. Her Dad had been in the IDF, before college, and had taught her the basics of Krav Maga, but, for some reason only he and Daddy understood, refused to let her take any other more formal types of self defense.

By the time she'd changed, whomever was in Madame M's office was gone. From her expression, and slight distraction during the afternoon lesson, Rachel was concerned, hoping it wasn't about the building being sold.

After her third encounter with Coach Summers, this time to run the promised laps, after her dance lesson, Rachel wasn't seeing what was so special about her. Or why Santana, who was rarely impressed by most adults, considered her to be a 'badass' but maybe she didn't understand what that meant. She often found herself puzzled by the local teen slang. It sounded nothing like Grease or West Side Story.

But she really didn't have time. She still had to get home and get things ready for the dinner party. Stick either of her dads in a social setting and they ruled. But putting together social events, outside of their beloved jobs, was not their forte. She was just glad they'd let her plan the itinerary for their trip to London over the summer. Who knows what would have happened if she hadn't.

And this really had to go well if she was going to convince Coach Summers to get her out of whatever insane thing Coach Sylvester was planning. She was getting tired of being a pawn in the Sylvester-Schuester tango. Mr. Schuester she couldn't avoid, if she wanted to be in Glee and hone her singing group dynamic skills, but exposing herself to cheerleading, even if it included someone as skilled as Brittany and as charismatic, in an evil genius kind of way, as Santana Lopez, didn't fit anywhere in her life plans. To say nothing about her goal this year to avoid any and all contact with Quinn Fabray, outside of Glee.

Rachel was putting the finishing touches on the dining room, glad she'd prevailed on her fathers to let her take that Martha Stewart seminar on home entertaining in Cincinnati last spring, when the doorbell rang. Glancing up at the mantelpiece clock, she sighed with relief and headed to the front door. Looking through the peephole, she could see David Karofsky loaded down with bags from his family's restaurant. Smiling in delight she enthusiastically opened the door.

"Good evening David, perfect timing as always," she said, ushering him into the house.

"Kitchen?" he asked softly

"Yes, please," she said. She sometimes wondered if he had a spilt personality, "David", the soft spoken cook and delivery boy for one of Lima's best family restaurants, and "Dave", the cruel, abrasive jock and bully. In the hallways of McKinley she always kept an eye out for his large, slushie laden personage but when she ordered food from his father's restaurant, the person who showed up was the epitome of the friendly catering professional.

"Where you able to get the fresh tomatoes and avocados to make the gazpacho that I wanted?" she asked, following him into the kitchen.

"Yes," he said, quickly emptying the bags, "but this'll be the last until next spring, unless you want to use something from out-of-state or out of a can."

Rachel grimaced. One of the things she really liked about Karofsky's was their insistence that locally grown produce was the best, both in taste and appearance. And their willingness to make amazing versions of her favorite vegan dishes on request. "You're the culinary experts," she said. "I wouldn't want to mess with the perfection of your recipes."

He nodded as he started putting the half dozen dishes into the serving dishes she had ready. "You know how to keep these at the correct temperature before serving," he said. "Just remember not to wait too long."

Rachel blushed, remembering a disastrous dinner where she'd ruined a wonderful smelling spinach lasagna because she'd not paid any attention to his instructions. "Yes."

"What's the special occasion?" he asked, as he collected his insulated bags and boxes.

"Welcoming our new neighbors to the neighborhood," she said. He raised an eyebrow at her in disbelief, obviously not having missed the sudden addition of one of their signature frozen deserts to the order that morning.

"Okay," she admitted, knowing as his David persona, unlike Dave, he wouldn't laugh at her. "Turns out one of them is Sue Sylvester's new assistant."

"And you want to make a good impression with your new Sylvester buffer?" he said. "Understood. Here's hoping the new football coach does the same thing for the team."

"New football coach?" Rachel asked, curious, following him to the front door.

"Tanaka had a Sylvester inspired breakdown and joined the Peace Corp," he said.

"Have you met him?" she asked. "Finn hasn't said anything about a new coach."

"Her," he said. "She's making us all try out for our old spots. Haven't seen Hudson around this summer at any of the practices."

"Oh," Rachel said, keeping her surprise to herself. "Thanks for telling me." She was going to have to call Finn as soon as their guests left. They hadn't been really dating, with him working so much at his father's garage, but she liked to think he would have told her if he wasn't going to try out for football this year. And he wasn't arrogant enough, she hoped, to just assume he'd kept his spot with a new coach.

David nodded. "Don't forget to give us a call tomorrow," he said, continuing a tradition begun the first time Rachel's fathers had ordered food from Karofsky's, when they first moved to Lima.

"Assuredly," Rachel said, giving him a smile. "You don't think I would forget to let him know what my guests thought of your wonderful food, do you?"

"Rachel Berry? Never!" he said, winking at her. "Enjoy your dinner."

"From Karofsky's? Always," she said, giving him a small wave as he got into his car, before heading back to the kitchen. Assuming their guests arrived on time, as proper guests did, she had thirty minutes to finish up.