Santana had transferred to Harrison Middle School at the start of sixth grade, so by the time cheerleading tryouts rolled around the following September, she knew most of the girls who showed up. She wouldn't have called most of them her friends – only Quinn Fabray, as snarky as she was and a lot meaner. Maybe also Brittany Pierce, a girl who was usually quiet but laugh-out-loud hilarious when she did talk, and who didn't seem to have any enemies at all.
She and Brittany were friendly – they sat near one another at lunch sometimes, laughed together in P.E., that sort of thing. But then again, Brittany did those things with anyone and everyone. She was the polar opposite of Quinn, who saw everyone as a potential threat, and almost as much of a contrast to Santana herself, whose jeering was quieter, but just as caustic. Santana was still the new girl, after all, and it would be nice to have more than one friend. So she toned down the sarcasm when others could hear.
So Santana was glad, but not at all surprised (she knew from P.E. that Brittany had enviable doses of both athleticism and grace) to see Brittany stretching on the floor in the lobby when she arrived to the first day of cheerleading tryouts. Quinn hadn't made it out of the locker room yet – despite Santana's teasing that this was a sports team, not America's Next Top Model, she'd insisted on completely re-applying her makeup – so after Santana plunked her ratty duffel bag near the wall, she walked over to Brittany and sat down next to her amiable classmate.
"Hey, Santana! I didn't know you were gonna try out."
"Yeah, well. I stink at volleyball and Quinn's really into cheering, so I thought I could try. I've never done it before, though." She paused. "Have you?"
"No, not really. But I've been dancing since I was like three and it seems like there's lots of dancing so I thought it would be fun. Plus, no one from this school goes to my dance studio, so it'd be nice to do something with friends, y'know."
"Yeah." Santana knew, more than she let on. Instead of saying so (she didn't advertise her lack of friends), she just watched as Brittany extended her lean body down over one leg, until she was lying flat with her face on her knee. Looking around at the other girls who were beginning to stretch out, Santana realized that many of them had no trouble getting into a split, or folding (unnaturally, she thought) in half like Brittany was doing.
Santana could barely touch her toes. For the first time, she started to worry about this tryout. She was great at school and rarely had to study for a test (not something she advertised, either), and pretty decent at most other things, so she'd kind of assumed that making the team would be no problem. Now, sizing up the competition, she wasn't so sure. Still straining to coax her body into a non-lame looking stretch, she looked at Brittany again. "I'm jealous. You're so flexible. I hope I can get the jumps." It was as close to the truth as she could manage.
"Oh, you will." Brittany sat up out of her stretch to look at Santana with a curious smile. "You're good at everything," she added brightly and a little puzzled, as if reminding a confused Santana of a well-known fact. This caught Santana off-guard. Yes, she would admit, this was what she secretly thought of herself. But to have someone else think it, and to say it – she blushed and started to let out a strained little laugh while reaching for her toes again – but Brittany was still talking.
" – and if you want, you can come over to my house to practice before Friday."
Santana smiled eagerly before she could remind herself to be cool. "Really? Oh – okay." She was still trying to push past her excitement to think how to continue (she hadn't been invited to anyone's house but Quinn's since she moved!) when Quinn walked over at last, ponytail freshly sprayed, lip gloss smoothed in a perfect sheen, and sat between Santana and Brittany. Two women who Santana assumed were the coaches followed almost immediately, so Santana only had time to smile across Quinn and mouth "Thanks." Brittany smiled radiantly back before turning to listen to the coaches.
VVV
The head coach, Jenny, was about 24 or 25 years old. The high, tight ponytail of curly auburn hair and her muscular arms made it easy to believe that she had been the star of the Cheerios at McKinley High just a few years before. Now she taught kindergarten at a nearby elementary school, but it was clear she'd never left cheering behind. Even her "Hello, girls!" had a snappy, slightly-too-loud quality to it.
The assistant coach, Tasha, was much younger, just a sophomore at McKinley who was helping coach after an injury put her off the Cheerios. Santana knew all this from Quinn's obsessive yammering – Quinn went to all the high school games and observed the social patterns there like she was already a part of them – but she tried to look interested, anyway, to make a good impression (and also not seem like a stalker). Plus, it wasn't hard to listen to these two. They both seemed nice enough, excited about coaching a bunch of newbie middle schoolers, and they were both pretty. (It was okay for Santana to think they were pretty; she and Quinn talked about what older girls were pretty all the time.)
After the introductions came the part Santana was actually waiting to hear: what tryouts would be like. Jenny told them: Over the next four days, they'd learn one long floor cheer, two chants (Santana knew from browsing Quinn's ever-present American Cheerleader magazines that those were the short ones you did from the sidelines), and a dance, all of which they'd perform in groups for judges on Friday. In addition, they would be practicing stunting (again, Thank you American Cheerleader, thought Santana, who would might not otherwise have known "stunting" to be cheer-speak for building human pyramids) and jumping throughout the week. Anyone who could tumble – from cartwheels up to backflips – could do so for extra points, but it wasn't required. Finally, all week long, they should show that they could get along with the other girls and follow coaches' directions. At this, Santana glanced at Quinn. Girl'd have to keep her mouth shut for once.
Jenny finished by saying (cheering): "You might be new at this, but you're still going to do it well, and we're going to have the best squad in the conference this year! C'mon!"
High expectations were a challenge Santana enjoyed rising to meet. She was pumped as they launched into team stretching then tackled the dance, since Jenny said that would probably be the toughest thing for most of them. Santana kept up, but barely, trying to stuff all the knowledge in her head so she could practice it and have it by tomorrow. (This tryouts business was really exposing her competitive side.) Next came jumps, three of them, which confirmed that Santana needed to work on her flexibility like whoa.
Finally Tasha announced that it was time to move on to the thing that everyone was anticipating most: stunts. The girls responded with cheers of glee and a few groans.
Santana was scrawny and short, so she was tagged as a flyer (or as Quinn called it, top of the pyramid), as was Quinn. Brittany, taller and stronger, was told to try lifting as a base. Quinn was thrilled to be "on top," but Santana thought she might have been happier on the ground, or at least in a group with Brittany or Quinn. She didn't say so though, remembering what Jenny had said about being a team player, and took her spot between eighth graders Sarah and Allie. She caught on pretty quickly to the simple, first-try stunts, willing her body to remember all the different ways she learned to keep her balance and keep the stunt solid.
As the day ended, Brittany skipped over to Santana, a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead from the effort of the final sit-ups and pushups. "You were a great flyer, Santana. You don't need it, but if you still wanna come over Thursday night, remember to ask your mom." Santana dropped her eyes before she could catch herself; she must be tired from tryouts. Brittany noticed and belatedly continued her sentence, "or your dad–"
"Thanks." Santana cut her off; she knew it was best to end the guardian guessing game ASAP. "I'll talk to my grandma, I'm staying with her this week." She would wait to tell Brittany that she stayed at her Abuela's a lot of weeks, and why. For now, she was exhausted, ready for a hot bath, and in need of some solo practice on that dance. She headed for the door, grateful to see Abuela's car already waiting in the parking lot, so she just waved to her friends – plural now; she was sure of Brittany – before collapsing into the passenger seat.
VVV
The next morning. Pain. Physical pain like she'd never known. Santana was barely able to haul herself out of bed and to the yellow Formica table in her Abuela's kitchen for breakfast.
"Morning, mija."
"Mornnnumph." Santana plunked her aching body into a chair and laid her forehead on the table with a thump.
"Wow. I can see that this new activity is just doing wonders for your attitude. Are you okay?" Abuela had a way of talking to Santana that was equal parts good-natured sarcasm and kindness that made Santana know she was loved, but didn't make her want to shut down.
"Yeah, just sore, like, in places I didn't know I had muscles."
Abuela grinned, and said softly, "Are you sure you want to do this? I don't want my beautiful girl to get hurt."
Santana straightened up. The last thing she wanted was to be forbidden to cheer because she was too fragile or some shit. "Yes! I am sure. I'm just, out of shape. I'll get better." She smiled to prove how okay she was, and Abuela laughed.
"Okay, mija, I just want you to be happy. You know that, I hope." Santana smiled. She loved that her grandmother called her by the same name as her mother: "mija," as if Santana were her daughter as well.
"Si, Abuela." Santana knew that responding in Spanish, even a short sentence, was a surefire way to get what she wanted. Abuela knew that Santana knew this, so she smiled and shook her head at their game as Santana wolfed down her cereal.
At school that day, Santana was thankful to have Quinn and Brittany to commiserate with; it seemed even in-shape Brittany was sore from the new challenge of stunting. The three of them sat together at lunch, trading shoulder rubs then going through the dance motions in their seats. Santana and Quinn had both forgotten chunks of the choreography, but Brittany seemed to have absorbed it like a sponge, and she set them straight on the more complicated 8-counts.
Brittany invited Quinn to join the sleepover on Thursday, which shouldn't have bothered Santana, but did, though she couldn't quite name why. When Quinn said she'd come over, but needed her "beauty rest" in her own bed the night before "the most important day of the year," Santana rolled her eyes and realized that she hadn't been angry at Brittany for asking so much as at Quinn for accepting. It was like, Santana did everything with Quinn and she was grateful to her best friend for including her in stuff, but she wanted to be her own person, too. She didn't always want to be the second half of QuinnandSantana. She also didn't want cheerful, optimistic Brittany to think Santana was as negative as Quinn. Now that Brittany had shown an interest in being actual friends with Santana, Santana was almost more determined to make the friendship happen than she was to become a cheerleader.
VVV
As the week went by, she became more confident in her ability to do both. Brittany seemed to skate over Quinn's more caustic remarks, and Santana found that being around Brittany actually quieted her own bitchy inner (and outer) voices a little.
The actual cheering was still tough, but fun. Santana had the dance steps down, and just needed to polish them. The chants were laughably simple – "Get the ball back, Cats, get the ball back, yeah!" Her competitive mind noted with astonishment that a few girls actually had trouble keeping the simple clap-and-stomp rhythm. Flying was becoming less scary but no less challenging, and that same competitive mind kept score of the number of times she fell out of stunts and found it to be a lot more than Quinn or eighth-graders Meghan and Ada.
Still, by the end of the final pre-tryouts practice on Thursday, Santana had stuck the chin-height elevator stunt five times in a row with minimal wobbling, leading Tasha to tell her she would get her liberty soon. In response to a couple of confused looks, Tasha explained that was when you stood on one leg in the stunt, with your other one tucked into your knee, kind of like a flamingo. Santana thought, Damn, I just figured out how to get up there on both legs, and now she wants me to just use one of them? before she realized with a grin: practice was almost over for today; "soon" would have to mean "after you make the team."
She headed to the locker room to find Quinn adjusting her ponytail and Brittany pulling a pair of track pants over her shorts. Despite her exhaustion, Santana was beaming as the three of them left together and piled into Brittany's mom's minivan. Brittany's mother, who introduced herself as Marian, proved as warm and good-natured as her oldest child. She and Brittany exchanged a multi-part handshake when Brittany told her how well tryouts had gone, and when she wasn't talking to the girls, she sang along with all the songs on the radio.
The family resemblance continued with Brittany's house – large, bright yellow with blue shutters, and literally open (the front door was ajar) – and her two blonde brothers who rushed outside to greet their mother. Brittany introduced them as Eric and David, though Santana didn't catch which was which. When her mother herded the boys in to help with dinner, Santana automatically asked what she could do to help.
Mrs. Pierce smiled at her. "Thank you Santana, that is so nice. But I hear you girls have some practicing to do. You have fun; I'll call you when spaghetti's ready, about half an hour."
They decided to stay outside, kicking off their tennis shoes to walk their sore feet through the cooling grass. Brittany led them toward the backyard, breaking into a run-turned-back-handspring that seemed to be just for the joy of it. Santana followed suit and turned her humble but solid cartwheel. Quinn hesitated, but brought up the rear with a neat little round-off.
They practiced the dance together twice, then decided to critique each other from the swing set. After Santana finished her solo performance, Brittany spoke up in an exaggerated British accent: "Maaaahvelous, simply maaaaahvelous, Santana. But – ah – could we have a little mooore of that goooorgeous smile?" When Brittany got up to dance, Santana played along, shouting, "Bravo! Bravo! I do say that was delightfully sharp, Lady Brittany!" Quinn rolled her eyes, but said with a weak but present accent, "Indeed."
They'd planned on practicing their jumps afterward – that was, after all, the reason Brittany had invited Santana over to begin with – but found they could barely motivate themselves off the swing set. So, plan amended. They headed in to dinner and resolved to just get some rest. After they devoured plates of spaghetti and salad (Brittany pointed out that her mom made her very own sauce from a family recipe), Quinn's mother arrived to pick her up. They said their goodbyes, then Brittany grabbed Santana's duffel bag with one hand and her wrist with the other and led her upstairs.
"So, this is my room. I like it 'cause it's just mine, the boys share, but I don't like the color." She wrinkled her nose at the pale pink walls. "I picked it when I was a little kid."
"It's not awful," Santana assured her. "Plus, you have enough of it covered up." Brittany had posters on every wall. Two more on the ceiling intermingled with stick-on glow in the dark stars like modern-day constellations. Santana noted the variety – U.S. Olympic gymnastics team action shots, a Grease movie poster, several unfolded inserts from CDs. A large bulletin board that hung over Brittany's messy desk held a cluster of blue and red prize ribbons, Santana assumed from dance, and photos of Brittany and her family.
"My bed's getting a little small, too, but I promise it's comfy. Or you can sleep on the couch. It's a pull-out, but it's too springy-poky I think."
"Nah, we'll fit, right? If that's okay with you. I still have my old twin bed too," Santana assured her.
Santana accepted Brittany's offer to shower first, relishing the hot water pounding on her tender back and arm muscles. After she'd been in there as long as she thought was acceptable – they were a big family; she shouldn't use all the hot water on her first stay – she padded back to Brittany's room wrapped in the colorful oversize beach towel Brittany had supplied. (She checked in the steamy mirror and assured herself it was large enough that she didn't need to feel self-conscious wearing just the towel out of the bathroom.)
While Brittany took her turn, Santana put on her cotton sleep shorts and a tank top then took a closer look at the photos and memorabilia all over her new friend's room. One group of photos which all seemed to be from the same beach vacation elicited a pang of envy. Brittany with the youngest brother on her shoulders. Mr. and Mrs. Pierce standing in the waves together. All three siblings building a sandcastle together. The Pierces were like a sitcom family. Santana waited for the laugh track to kick in.
It was finally starting to cool down outside, and the breeze from the open window had Santana almost cold, so she helped herself into Brittany's twin bed. Beneath the almost-threadbare quilt (pastel-printed squares that matched the walls) she found purple t-shirt sheets, soft and inviting. She was sitting up in bed letting her hair air dry when Brittany re-entered the room, also, Santana noted, wearing just a towel, but a much smaller one than Santana had used. When Brittany dropped the towel to the floor to wiggle into her own pajamas, Santana averted her eyes (to the Grease poster – what was the name of the woman who played Rizzo again?), but Brittany didn't seem to notice or care whether Santana was looking.
"I'm so tired!" Brittany said, somehow still cheery. "Do you mind if we just go on to sleep tonight? We can stay up and play Nintendo or something next time."
Santana smiled a little at "Nintendo;" bigger at "next time."
"Sure," she said, scooting further toward the wall to make room. Brittany flipped off the lights and bounded onto the bed like a lion cub, giggling when Santana the sudden dip and bounce in the mattress made Santana squeal. She burrowed into the covers like a much smaller kitten, laying her damp head on the one pillow right next to Santana's, and Santana marveled at the familiarity this girl showed with someone staying over for the first time. She wondered half-consciously if Brittany was like this with everyone or if she might be special. Either way, it suddenly felt important to tell her friend how much she was enjoying being here, so -
"Thanks so much for inviting me to sleep over, and for hanging out this week. It – it means a lot to me," she spoke to the ceiling. (One of the reasons Santana loved sleepovers was that she'd noticed it was easier to talk – about anything – in the dark. Something about the lack of eye contact or even of body language let the words come more freely.)
"No, thank you," Brittany replied emphatically, turning to face Santana. "It's been forever since I had a friend sleep over. I'm glad you're here, and I'm glad you're here." Santana grinned, both at the sentiment and at the wordplay. But wait –
"You're friends with everyone, though. I'd have thought you have people over all the time."
"Hm." Brittany seemed to be considering what Santana had said as all-new information. "I guess I do have lots of okay friends. But not really any like, good friends. No best friend. With dance, I guess…" she trailed off sleepily.
Santana searched awkwardly for the next thing to say. She didn't really want to bring up her own absent best friend, so instead she said, "I wish I had more good friends, too. And, hey, no pressure, but I'll come over anytime. I love Nintendo." The last part was a big admission on her part. Quinn thought Nintendo was lame and also just for boys.
"Good friends?" asked Brittany. Santana could picture the smile that colored the words. (How was it she could already picture this girl's smile? Maybe they were better friends than she thought.)
"Good friends." The confirmation earned her a hug from Brittany. She squeezed back once, then again when Brittany didn't move back to her side of the bed, but whispered, "P.S.," (as if their verbal heart-to-heart had instead taken place via pen-pal letters) "We're both gonna kill it at tryouts tomorrow." Then Brittany rolled back over, and in an instant both were asleep.