Chapter One

Okay, so I will admit these have not been the best couple of months I've ever had. First there was, you know, kind of a rejection that happened. Then my original song, though obviously a work of superior artistic merit, didn't get picked for Regionals – clearly the result of Mr. Schuester running Glee Club like it's under communism or fascism or something. Then my DVR decided to delete the last three episodes of Jersey Shore before I could even watch them. So let's face it, things are way worse than anyone as smokin' hot as me should ever have to tolerate.

Although, I can't say life is a complete waste. Because today after Glee rehearsal, the one thing that always seems to make me feel better was bending over her laptop bag in a short skirt, filing away her sheet music. I could see high enough up those legs to know where her thigh-highs ended, so I really couldn't have been asked to suppress the smack I planted on her ass as I walked towards the door.

"See you for Idol tonight, Berry?" I said with a wink.

She stood up, smoothing her hands over her skirt, cheeks darkening a few shades as a smile touched the corners of her mouth.

"Yes," she said. "Oh! And Santana, make sure you're there by 7:30," she yelled after me as I walked out of the choir room. "I need your help putting together the appetizer platter!"

I was trying to process the idea of doing anything in a kitchen other than grabbing a bag of Doritos and heading back upstairs, when I was suddenly overcome by a stifling aura of judgmental buzzkill.

"Santana, what the hell was that?" Quinn demanded.

I turned around to face her, crossing my arms over my chest. "Can I help you with something, Babymama Barbie?"

She pursed her lips and stared into space a few feet above my head. "Could you please refrain from objectifying other female members of the Glee Club?"

"What, only the football players get to do that?" I asked, smiling.

"By doing things like that, you're no better than the boys who used to lift up our Cheerios skirts as we walked down the hallways," she said.

"Okay, first of all, you liked that," I pointed out. "Second of all, what are you even talking about? What did I do?"

"You. . ." she looked side to side before proceeding, and lowered her voice until it was barely above a whisper. "You hit Rachel's ass in the choir room."

I smirked. "I know, I just wanted you to have to say it. Anyway, third of all, I gots full visitation rights to that ass. You should see what I do with it when we're not in public," I said with a shrug.

"Please stop."

"You brought it up. Also, wouldn't it be Berry's job to tell me if I was out of line? Why is it that you're like the patron saint of unsolicited feminism? Does she pay you to be her knight in shining armor, or whatever you are?"

"Look," she said, rolling her eyes, "We all know I don't care about Rachel—"

"I don't know that," I interrupted her.

She narrowed her eyes into a glare. "I just think that as former Cheerios and the most popular female members of the Glee Club we should show a little more. . . class."

"Fabray," I said, leaning in close and looking her in the eye, "You see these extensions?" I pointed to my hair for effect. "I just got them. And thusly, I do not want your grubby mitts anywhere near them. So lucky for you I'm gonna pretend you didn't say that, and not clock you one. But you're pushing my buttons." I said, raising my index finger to within inches of her nose. "Last warning."

"Whatever," she said, shaking her head and turning to walk away.

Four hours later I was slouching into Rachel's couch sipping a virgin crantini because her dads were home, and choking down vegan mushroom paté and garlic artichoke hummus because she made me promise not to eat anything before I came over, "otherwise I'd have no motivation for culinary adventure."

"I really don't understand why we had to make all of this just for me to sit on your couch and watch reality TV," I said, eyeing the bedazzled silver platters on her coffee table.

"Someday, Santana, when you're hosting a party in Los Angeles for the hottest players in young Hollywood to honor my feature film debut, you'll thank me for forcing you to learn to make gourmet vegan hors d'oeuvres," she said matter-of-factly, flipping the channel to Idol.

"Oooh! Look," she said, hitting my thigh. "We're just in time, I like this one." She stared, smiling, at the television.

"His voice leaves something to be desired, but his smile is so sexy and his charismatic mastery of the stage gives him definite leading man potential."

"You mean front man?"

"Yes, whatever."

"I don't know," I said, "All I can think about when I watch this show is Sam and Steven Tyler cracking open their enormous jaws and tucking away food for the winter like the hamster I had when I was seven."

"Oh," she said, apparently taking that statement at face value. "We don't have to watch this. To be honest none of the contestants this year are all that remarkable. We could do so much better if we were on that stage."

She lowered the volume and then turned to face me, getting that excited Berry look on her face that says she's going to talk to you at great length about a subject of her choosing no matter your state of mental preparedness.

"So, what would you sing if you were auditioning? A few weeks ago I would have easily said with your look and voice you should so something R&B, but after that Trouty Mouth debacle, it's clear your calling is a modern-day Billie Holiday, maybe with some Adele thrown in for attitude and pop radio appeal—"

I've learned to interject with short, pointed answers.

"'No One' by Alicia Keys," I said.

She inhaled sharply. "Oooh, yes that's perfect!" she said, eyes widening at me. "Maybe slightly predictable, but you could mix up the arrangement. Do you have ideas? We could go next year if they have auditions in Chicago or Detroit or something." She paused for half a beat, then placed her hands on my leg and said sincerely, "Although we would have to discuss in advance ways to maintain our friendship once you got eliminated and I went on to win the competition."

I gave her a glare even though by now I was so used to that type of shit it barely even registered anymore.

"Yes, I have ideas. But I don't really play or read music very well yet. I'd have to ask Tina for help again."

She nodded pensively. "Or Quinn."

"Quinn."

"Yes, Quinn Fabray, maybe you know her," she said impatiently. "She has a surprisingly good knack for melody despite her lack of experience with songwriting. We had a few promising starts on original songs before she called me a silly schoolgirl and told me I'd end up alone forever."

She paused and raised her chin a little. "I don't understand her. But in a way I have to be grateful to her, since without her I could never have written my original song."

Now this was interesting.

I sat up straight.

"Wait, wait, hold up. Quinn helped you write 'Get it Right'?"

"Not technically, no. But she inspired me to access the emotion I used to write it."

"Wow," I said, leaning back into the couch cushions. "That's super gay."

"I'm not even sure whether she did it on purpose, because she's been all over the place lately. With her hot and cold act she's even more confusing than you used to be. I mean, at least I knew where you stood, but with Quinn it's like one day she's my best friend and the next day she's so mean it's like none of it ever happened."

Rachel continued, but by then I had tuned her out. Because suddenly something that had been rattling around in my brain for weeks had finally clicked into place. And I felt more alive than I had in a long time – because Santana Lopez had a plan.