"Dude. It's time. Let's study." Puck rolled his eyes as Artie repeated it for the tenth time. Okay, fine. It was the first. I leaned against the bright lockers. I hate school, but I'm helping Puck with his final exams. It's too easy. I mean, what's the use of studying chemistry if I wanted to be an actress? I pulled out my Lacoste purse and took out my lipstick.
"That's mine." Santana strutted towards me, her eyes on the lipstick. I held it out to her and smiled as she snatched it. Same old Santana. "Where is she?" I asked.
"Mhm..? who?" Santana smeared it on, and then puckered her lips at me. I playfully slapped her face. "I meant Brittany. Where is-?"
"Holy cow…" Puck and Artie stared down the corridor with their mouths open. I swung around. Brittany and Finn were walking. .Holding hands. I heard Santana drop the lipstick. Oh shit. We're screwed.
"Hey Hudson, what the heck is happening?" Santana shouted. People were starting to stare. At us. Oh my god. She stalked over to them, which wasn't very far, because they were walking quite fast. I followed her. Finn looked uncomfortable. But Brittany was chirpy. As usual. How does she do it? Happy all her life.
I could actually feel the tension as I stood next to Santana. She narrowed her eyes and shook her head slowly. Like, the Bitch, I'm gonna kill you and throw you over Breadstix until you say "shit, I wish I just stayed in Berry's pants" kind of way. "Santana…" Puck placed his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off and stormed in the direction of the ladies'. Artie looked meaningfully at me and, sighing, I took my latte and went after her. As I walked away, I heard Brittany say, "A fairy godmother just pinched my nose."
"Santana?" I whispered, my heels clicking softly against the cold, tile floor. A muffled sob escaped from underneath one of the cubicles. I frowned and placed my latte beside the sink. There was no dignity in having a good cry in the loo. Maybe I should just, you know, leave. I snatched my latte and took about two and a half steps towards the door when my heart sank. I remembered when I was the one crying in the toilet, because of the whole Zizes-spilling-the-beans-about-Lucy-AKA-Quinn thing. Hadn't Santana been there for me? I exhaled loudly, placing the latte back.
"Hey Santana, you better come out before I tell everyone about how you're a Lima loser and broke down in the toilet because of some jealousy issue that Little Miss 'Lebanese' just couldn't handle." Taking a tiny sip from my cup, I crossed my fingers. I knew that no amount of pleading or groveling would work on her. I mean hello? This is Santana. Insults and bitching is practically her thing. So I used them. An eye for an eye. But I just hoped it wasn't too much.
"You are so…" she opened her cubicle door and came out, putting on her M.A.C eyeliner. She ignored me and continued on to the mirror. I leaned against the sink. "Are you okay?" I asked warily.
She rolled her eyes. "Look, I know it's still early in the day, but can you at least use your brain? Do I look okay?" I bit my lip and stared down.
"Okay… but, hey! Chill out." I held out my cup. "Want some?"
Santana stuffed her eyeliner back in her make up bag and zipped it up roughly; the zipper broke.
"Duh, Quinn. Latte has milk. Milk clogs up my throat. What is WRONG with you?" Santana straightened her outfit, staring at me like I was a pathetic beggar or something. My eyes widened. What was wrong with ME? So what about her? What the hell.
"Sorry…?" I muttered, shrugging indifferently.
"Sorry for the latte or sorry for being stupid?" she swung her bag over her shoulder as she walked past me, hitting me in the side of the head. I stood still and frigid for about a split second, I guess? Then I turned around, just in time to see the last of Santana's reptile green nails vanish, replaced by the flat, red bathroom door. I blinked. Well. That worked out. What's next? I checked my phone: Glee Club. I pursed my lips. Finn + Brittany + Santana = FML X 2.
And that's all I can say. I hope nothing happens. But this is McKinley High. Everything happens.