This is a Quinntana fic, but quite AU. Touches on child abuse, so if that upsets you in anyway, please don't read it. Multi chapter. Enjoy!

Everyone has secrets.

Like me.

Or like my mother, who has a lot of secrets, probably too many to list right here, right now.

I think the best part of having a secret is the fact that no one knows; no one even suspects that you have a secret. It's like when you find an amazing new band and only you, out of all your friends, know about it. But it's a bit more exclusive than that. I think of secrets as a VIP room, you know, the ones in clubs. Everybody has at least one VIP room to their self, and no one's allowed in your VIP room until you let them in on the secret. But then again, I don't think it can be called a secret after someone else knows about it.

Sometimes I wonder if there is actually anybody in the world who doesn't have a secret, and who is quite willing to just shout all their feelings from the rooftops. But I think that's just stupid. Because I think everybody has a secret, at least one, even if they don't realize it. Like experiencing something and then just not bothering to tell anyone, or not having anyone to tell.

Maybe a secret isn't the right word for that definition though. That's more of a personal story, I guess.

"This is your locker." The redhead chick that was showing me around tapped me on the shoulder. "Hey, I said, this is your locker." She was becoming increasingly irritated as I zoned out. She huffed and stormed off down the hallway, her startling red ponytail swinging.

I never learnt her name. I didn't think there was much point; she wasn't going to be my friend.

I sighed and opened my locker. I had already memorized my locker combination, so there was no need to write it down on a piece of paper like the principal or the redhead chick had suggested. I stared at the emptiness, my hand lingering over the dents of the door. I have nothing to decorate my locker with. No pictures. No trinkets. I don't even have any books yet, so my locker, Locker 443, is to remain empty and cold till I get my first book.

"Excuse me." Someone taps on my shoulder, and I'm fully convinced it's the pissy redhead again till I turn around and come face to face with an unnaturally short brunette. She grinned at me, her smile toothy and bright. Like, Hollywood bright.

"Hello, I'm Rachel Barbra Berry." She extended her hand and I tentatively shook it, swaying on the spot awkwardly. Her smile unnerved me, and it didn't ever drop, not even the slightest. She just had this massive grin plastered on her face, and I swear to God I didn't see her blink even once.

"And you are?"

"Santana Lopez." I told her, pulling my backpack back over my shoulders.

"Nice to meet you, Santana. I saw Penelope just abandoned you, so I took it upon myself to be your guide." Rachel leant in, her disturbing smile growing ever bigger by the second. "No need to thank me."

"I wasn't going to." I muttered to myself, but she's much too busy looking around the hallway and flattening her bangs to take notice of what I'm saying.

"Have you got Math first?" She asked me, and I nodded in response. She brightened up immediately, the creepy smile returning.

"Same!" She squealed, turning on her heel and leading me down the hallway. I rolled my eyes but follow all the same; sure, I have a map, but I'm crap at map reading and seeing as 'Penelope' went off, maybe this Rachel chick would come in handy.

She practically skipped down the hallway, and I couldn't help but cringe at how terrible her dress sense was. Little pink ballet flats, lilac plaid skirt, baby pink shirt and a girly animal sweater on top. I kept my thoughts to myself, instead settling for wincing and cringing at her little girl outfit when she wasn't looking. Which was pretty often, seeing as she was too busy babbling on about Barbra Streisand and musicals and decorating her locker. I could already tell, what with her loud personality and love of talking that she was a girl who probably had secrets, but ones that weren't particularly scandalous. Just things like she still slept with a stuffed toy, or she hated the dark. Nothing big or shocking.

"Here we-" Rachel's sentence was cut short when a 6ft jock chucked a red slushie drink right in her face. She gasped, the drink dripping down her face, into her mouth, onto her sweater. All I do is watch, shifting awkwardly on the spot.

I learnt over the years not to help-it just makes it worse.

I looked around and spotted a blonde girl, a few inches taller than me, giggling away by her locker. Rachel looked over at her too, her eyes brimming with tears by now. The blonde girl stopped her laughing momentarily to smirk at Rachel, standing with her hands on her hips. It's only then that I realize she's clad in a red WMHS cheerleader uniform. From her superior stance, bold uniform and smug smile, it's obvious to tell that she's head honcho.

It's not hard to see she's keeping a lot of secrets.

The blonde chick kept reappearing. I swore to God she was stalking me sometimes.

Obviously she wasn't because, well, I'm me and she's…her. I didn't even know her name yet but she was quite obviously miles above me in the social ladder.

But then again, most people were.

I didn't officially meet her until Mr Schue paired us together in Spanish. I pretended not to notice the eye roll or the sniggers from her friends. I pretended it didn't hurt when she sighed loudly and asked to work on her own. Mr Schue hushed the class before speaking.

"No, I'm sorry, Quinn, but everyone is working in partners. Anyway, Santana is great at Spanish, so it's not like she'll be dragging you down or anything." Quinn. I looked over at said girl and I realized how fitting the name was. I couldn't imagine her with any other name.

Except maybe Bitch.

"But, Sir," Quinn whined, and I immediately braced myself for the insult. "You can see her socks when she wears roll-up jeans. It's common knowledge that when you wear cut off or roll-up jeans, you don't wear socks unless they're trainers socks, in which case, you can tuck them in. I'm sorry, but I'm not working with that." Her voice was acid, and she looked over at me angrily on the last word.

"Quinn! Enough!" Mr Schue put his foot down, glaring at Quinn. "You are working with Santana, and if you don't, then you will fail Spanish." He hissed menacingly. Quinn immediately shut up, as did her posse. She still made a 'you're dead' sign by slicing her hand across her throat when Mr Schue's back was turned though. I sighed, suddenly exhausted, and leant back in my chair, trying to ignore the glares of Quinn and her bitchy friends.

I didn't even flinch when the mohawked guy on the football team threw a slushie at me after Spanish. It was to be expected; after all, Quinn and him were pretty close, and I was sure boys would do anything for Quinn.

I wiped away the ice cold humiliation, my eyes stinging from the corn syrup. Even though my eyesight was blinded, I could still vaguely make out a large group of kids laughing and pointing. I pushed past them all and make my way to the toilets to clean up.

I saw Rachel Berry as I passed. She stood by her locker, watching me until Quinn appeared behind her. I hurried off, not wanting to see what was evidently about to go down.

"How was school?" My mom asked me. She was drinking from her water bottle again, the one that you can't see inside. She wasn't fooling anyone; it was obviously not water in there.

"Okay." I replied, heading straight to the cupboard. I pulled out the jar of Nutella before walking over to the bread bin and grabbing a slice of white bread. I don't even bother getting a plate; I just take a knife from the cutlery draw and spread the Nutella with the bread on my hand.

"Good." My mom took a swig of her 'water', still reading her Cosmo magazine. She doesn't bother asking any more questions; she never does anymore. She used to be full of joy, always interested in my life. Now she's just dull, lifeless, a carbon copy of all her friends at the Country Club. She's losing weight rapidly by the day now, so much so that you can see the bones of wrist protruding. She tends to wear baggy stuff now, ever since my dad commented on her weight.

I took huge bites of my Nutella slice as I climbed the stairs. I kicked open my bedroom door and head straight for my laptop. As I booted it up, I stared at the picture of me, my mom and dad on my chest of drawers. My dad has his right arm around my mom, and his left resting on my shoulder. We both have these insane grins on our face, the shit-eating kind. But it reaches our eyes, unlike all of our recent pictures. Those ones are painfully fake. My dad always looks uncomfortable as hell, my mom has a huge fake grin on (kinda like the Rachel Berry smile, but ten times more intimidating) and I just look incredibly bored.

I blame my dad. If he hadn't…

I heard a pinging sound come from my laptop. I looked back and saw I had a Facebook notification. I opened it up, groaning inwardly as I read the name; Rachel Berry.

"Hello, Santana. It was very nice to meet you today. I hope we can talk more and get to know each other a bit more as time goes by. Rachel ." I cringed yet again as I saw the star. Jeez, this girl was eccentric.

I was about to reply when another notification popped up. This time, a message from Quinn Fabray. I clicked on it, bracing myself for a torrent of insults.

"So I guess I have to work with you for Spanish. Are you free tomorrow? I can't believe I'm saying this but can I come over yours? We can make a start." I raised my eyebrow in shock. Quinn was actually being…civil. Sort of. Minus the first sentence.

"I'm free tomorrow. Come over after school."

I closed down my laptop without even waiting for her reply.