Santana

For some reason, I'm just not feeling it lately. It. The magical aura that usually encases the beautiful body the dung heaps at McKinley High are privileged to see on a daily basis. And I can't put my finger on what exactly isn't the same. It can't be my special song-and-dance numbers behind closed doors in the men's locker room after hours; I haven't come home from one of those in weeks without trying to get the image of a weak-kneed, clown faced white boy out of my mind. Sam is kind about it I guess. He has the courtesy to try to avoid getting his talentless seed on me. Finn and Puckerman however seem to think it's a game to try to soak me with their tiny squirt pistols. Ugh, disgusting boys.

My It doesn't even seem to come out when I'm killing it in the choir room with the Glee misfits. Mercedes and I usually have some kind of weird musical chemistry where everything sounds holier than the Vatican when we sing. The only time I felt close to my usual height of royalty was when I sang "Use Somebody" by Kings of Leon today. It might have been because Mr. Schuester was clapping like a gay dolphin at the end of the song, but the slight high I had while singing quickly dissipated once I stopped. I caught Brittany's eye once during the chorus though and I think that totally helped me get my It on for a minute. We are best friends, after all. It only makes sense that she inspires me like that, right?

Anyway, I've spent most of my afternoons in the gigantic garage my father built years ago on a whim. He thought it would be cool to do rich dude stuff like fix up vintage cars, and I was all for it when I was younger because it meant I got to spend a few minutes every weekend in his presence while he showed me a few things about working on cars. However, that phase quickly blew over after my dad started getting too many business calls and stopped knowing what to do to get the cars running after a while. Once he stopped going out there, or being at home altogether, I would just go into the garage and pace around, just because the feeling was nostalgic. When simply being in the garage wasn't enough, I would pick up the tools and tinker timidly on the cars in there. Once I totally didn't know what I was doing when I picked up a nail gun thinking it was a sander and accidentally nailed a streak in the side of one of my dad's favorite cars. Three weeks passed and it never came up, and I knew I was safe to do as I pleased in that garage. Dad would never even notice the difference.

That's where I was yesterday afternoon when Brittany drove up.

"Hey! My dad said the air conditioning was going bad in my mom's van, and I figured you would know what to do. I already fixed it though I think. I poured some of my Sheer Blond into the air vents. That's the kind of conditioner I use, so I figure the mini-van won't mind."

Most people would take this comment as a sign that an imminent face-palm was coming. But I had known Brittany for years, and I knew this wasn't the height of good ideas gone bad in her mind. So I shrugged.

"Well Britt, I can't say that's the best way to handle it. Maybe you should let me take a look instead."

"Great!" she chimed. "I knew you could do it! Plus it's a great excuse to get out of the house. I can't wait till I get my own car."

"Yeah, this one does seem to be on its last leg. I'll see what I can do about finding you a cheap one. I've had my eye on a few used car dealerships lately anyway."

Brittany had this puzzled look on her face that I knew would be followed by a comment explaining what she thought was perfectly obvious. "Thanks San, but I don't think this car needs legs. It uses wheels mostly."

I laughed at the sincerity of her comment. A lot of kids at school make fun of the way Brittany sees the world, but I'd swear on Whitney Houston's grave that she's a hell of a lot more caring and sincere than anyone else in all of God forsaken Lima, Ohio.

"So what kind of cars have you been looking at, though?" Brittany asked.

"Oh, well since your family doesn't need drive around a caravan of soccer monkies since you and Lil' Squirt are done with that business, I was thinking something smaller than a mini-van. I dunno, we'll have to see."

Britt nodded in approval at my words and approached me. I was leaning on my hands at the front of an old fix-me-up manual Mustang from the 60s. I know she likes looking at all the shiny stuff under the hood, so I often let her watch me work on cars when she was over and Gossip Girl wasn't on. We hung out most week days and definitely every weekend, but lately she was too busy with helping her mom with piano lessons. Mrs. Pierce recently lost her patience with the snot nosed tater tots she was supposed to be teaching piano to. I don't blame her; if I had slimy kids greasing up my grand piano, I would blow a gasket sooner or later too! Brittany didn't want her mom to lose all her business though, so she had taken over and started teaching about 2/3 the lessons until her mom could regain composure and resist the urge to bitch-slap the next corndog shaped tween who came in for lessons.

"What are you gonna do with all these cars once they're all fixed up?" Brittany wondered.

I shrugged. I really didn't know what I was going to do once I fixed them. I'd been working on them all for so long and not a single one was done, I wasn't used to the idea of any of the cars actually being complete. "I'm not sure. What do you think I should do with them?"

"Well for one, make sure they have enough conditioner. Then after that, you should start your own car business! My dad loves sports cars! He could be your first customer!"

I smiled big at Brittany. She was always so encouraging. I wondered where she got all that spunk from, because it certainly wasn't me. I spend almost as much of my time criticizing people as I do out in the garage working on these cars. At least those are two things I'm good at. Damn. I need to get It back.