Full Summary: When the history teacher at William McKinley Prep reaches his wit's end at his students' inherent disregard for all things from the past and complete disrespect for the luxuries of the day, he decides to put them through a social experiment. What happens when the students of McKinley are transformed into a European court straight out of the history books? How far will things go when a select few are granted far more power than they can handle?
A/N: So, a couple updates back, on my other fic, I mentioned having a surprise. Well, here it is, a brand, spanking, new fic. About the title: so many puns, I just couldn't not use it, lol. Anyways, hope y'all enjoy it. And whether you do enjoy it or you don't, please comment. Facing critique is the only way for a writer to truly improve.
+++TWT+++
A bump against her shoulder served as enough of a force to knock her precariously balanced books out of her hands as she dug through her locker for the elusive history notebook she would need for her next period. She had already been late to class her fair share of times precisely because of this predicament—her inability to locate the composition that was currently missing in action. Granted, if she had bothered to straighten out her locker at least once since she was forcibly transferred to this boarding school in the middle of Nowhere, Ohio a month or so back in the middle of the second week of school, it would probably be a hell of a lot easier to pinpoint her notebook's current location, but she preferred to place the blame on the course itself rather than on her inattention to organization in her locker. In her mind, the composition was merely hiding from the class to which it was subjugated, and frankly, Santana couldn't blame it. She had never been in a more taxing class with a more under-qualified teacher.
"Sorry."
Santana looked up to find the frumpy oaf of a quarterback, Finn Hudson, offering her an apologetic smile as he lumbered down the hall with his fellow incompetent teammates, their bright red letterman jackets a vivid contrast to the sea of white, navy, and powder blue uniforms navigating the hallways. She tilted her head to the side, effectively cracking her neck before a smirk that was more sneer than smile adorned her features.
"Oh, please," her smirk grew as the group of boys stopped at the sound of her voice, several of them turning to her with looks that could only be described as delightful anticipation. It seemed that she had already garnered quite the reputation in the few short weeks she had been attending school there. "If you were truly sorry, you would stop gorging yourself on chili dogs and sloppy joes in the cafeteria long enough to get off your fat ass and do some kind of exercise so that you don't take up the entire hallway every time you come stomping through it like an elephant in China. Or better yet, why don't you do us all a favor and finally go bra shopping so that you can strap those succulent babies down because, really, letting them run free like that is just a public safety hazard."
The clique of football players erupted in laughter, playfully pushing a red-faced Finn Hudson as they turned to continue on their way. A hand patted her on the shoulder with a, "Classic, Lopez" thrown her way, but she merely rolled her eyes.
"Or, if you were truly sorry, you would have actually helped me clean up the mess you made," Santana mumbled to herself as she knelt down to gather up her books. She went to pick up the last one, Advanced Chemistry, when a foot struck out, kicking the book down the hallway.
"Oops."
Santana looked up to find Bitch Fabray, the head of the cheerleading squad-in case anybody was wondering why she and her ho posse were able to constantly run around out of uniform (out of William McKinley Prep uniforms, that is) and in skankily short red and white skirts and too-tight halters—and a right pain in her ass, looking down at her.
Santana gritted her teeth as she glared at the hazel-eyed blonde, thoroughly ignoring her followers and their incessant giggling.
"What?" Quinn-as her mother called her-smiled as she crossed her arms. "Not so quick with your words when faced with someone more on your level, huh?"
"So you admit that your boyfriend is an illiterate dumbass?" Santana fired back. She swallowed hard when the group of cheerleaders stepped closer, effectively cornering her against the row of lockers. It wasn't that she was scared of Quinn Fabray, no, Quinn Fabray on her own was nothing more than a sad little girl with daddy issues; it was more so that she wasn't stupid. Her, on her own, pitted against Quinn Fabray and her army of athletically trained minions was not exactly her idea of a fair fight.
"What was that?" Quinn pressed.
"You heard me," Santana replied, though her voice was nowhere near as sure as it had been seconds before.
"You know," Quinn stepped closer still, and Santana realized she wouldn't even have enough room to stand up if she wanted to…definitely not a fair fight. "I could make your life a living hell."
"So you've been telling me every day, since I started school here," Santana rolled her eyes. Sure, she may be cornered and outnumbered, but she was not about to beg for mercy; it just wasn't in her blood.
"I would watch that botox injected mouth if I were you," Quinn's eyes narrowed.
A smirk found its way back to Santana's face as she mentally thanked Quinn for giving her such a perfect window of opportunity, "Sorry, but these babies are all natural," she motioned to her lips. "You see, unlike some people here, I have been graced with natural, God given good looks, and I don't have to go crying to my daddy once a month in order for him to pay to have my latest imperfection zapped away."
Quinn's hands clenched, and Santana knew she had hit a nerve.
"Oh, please," Quinn snarled. "Everybody knows the only reason you don't go crying to your daddy is because he is probably some deadbeat drunk passed out in the gutter somewhere, you scholarship case."
"You don't know one fucking thing about my father," Santana growled, starting up off the ground. As she straightened up, however, she realized a second too late that she was leaving herself exposed and was granted a firm knee to the stomach as a result. She crumpled back to the floor, arms around her midsection as she tried to recapture the air that had been forcefully expelled from her lungs.
"You just make it too easy, Lopez," Quinn shook her head.
"Hey guys, what's up?" a careless voice greeted them.
Santana looked up to find a tall blonde, in matching red and white, approaching the group, her catlike eyes, shining a curious blue as she took them all in.
"Hey Britt," Quinn greeted her with a smile, her arm held out. "Just dealing with a few things."
"What things?" Brittany asked as she linked her arms through Quinn's.
"Petty things," Quinn shrugged.
Brittany raised an eyebrow. Her eyes drifted from Quinn to Santana who was still on the ground, holding her stomach as if trying to keep all of her innards from spilling onto the floor. "You are very pretty, Santana."
Santana bit down on her bottom lip to keep from laughing as she watched Quinn struggling against the urge to snap at her as Brittany turned back to face her.
"Ready for class?" Brittany asked.
"Let's go," Quinn replied through her teeth.
Santana watched as the group of cheerleaders walked away with a sigh. The swish of their skirts reminding her just how accurate Quinn had been with her threat of making her life miserable. This was a collegiate preparatory school where there was just as much an emphasis on extracurricular activities as on academics because what is a college applicant without extracurriculars? And of course, when it came to extracurriculars, sports ruled the world, meaning the athletes—cheerleaders included—could probably get away with murder if they so desired. Sure, people laughed as she lashed out at Finn, but did anybody come to her rescue when she was cornered ten to one against the lockers?
And no, Brittany didn't count, because it wasn't as if she had walked up to them with the means of helping her. The girl had just been in search of Quinn, so they could get to class—it was common knowledge that the oft confused blonde had a tendency to get lost on her way around campus—and Santana just so happened to be there in the way. Sure, she turned out to be helpful—whether or not she meant to—but Santana knew that that didn't serve as a determination of her character. From what she's heard, Brittany was exactly like all of the other cheerleaders: elitist, bitchy, and nonplussed by those around her. There was even a rumor going around that she had pushed the wheelchair kid, Artie Abrams, down a flight of stairs, and that is why he hadn't been in school all week.
The soft scuffling sound of an object gliding across the linoleum tiled floors reached her ears a second before her Advanced Chem book slid into her line of vision. Santana looked up to find Brittany turning back to face forward as she continued down the hall with the group of cheerleaders.
+++TWT+++
The tardy bell gave a shrill ring as Santana hurried into class, her history composition and textbook secured in her book bag that was flung half hazard over her shoulder.
"Finally found yourself a watch, I see," Mr. Schuester nodded from where he stood at the front of the room. He was leaning back against his wooden desk that sat before the class, one foot in front of the other, trying to appear casually cool, as if oblivious to the fact that each year that passed widened the age gap between him and his students.
Santana's eyes fell to the group of four cheerleaders who were seated at the front of the class. Quinn Fabray smiled, ecstatic at the idea of Santana being embarrassed in front of the entire class. The two cheerleaders at the table behind her didn't even bother to hide their giggles behind their hands. The cheerleader sitting next to her, however, was doodling across her notebook page, seemingly in her own world. Brittany. Santana suddenly found herself wishing for the tall girl to focus back on the present, so that she could shut Quinn up once more, but Brittany just kept on doodling. A soft melodious sound reached her ears, and Santana realized that the girl was humming as well. Of course.
The giggling grew louder, and Santana snapped out of her thoughts, realizing that she was standing at the front of the classroom with her mouth open like an idiot, waiting for some dimwitted cheerleader to come to her rescue. She rounded on Mr. Schuester who was smiling broadly, thinking that the laughter was based on his witty retort rather than the person his retort was aimed towards.
"I see you finally found a twelve step program that was willing to take up the daunting task of helping you with your hopeless addiction to the horrendous sweater vests you insist on torturing our eyes with day in and day out, oh wait…" Santana let her gaze fall to the vest currently adorning her teacher's torso where she stared pointedly. "Guess not. Well, there's always tomorrow, Mr. Schue."
This time the entire class erupted into laughter, and Santana smiled at her teacher, as if to say, 'See, that's how you do it'.
"And there is always detention, Santana," Mr. Schuester called after her as she made her way to her table in the back of the class where she was forced to sit next to a boy with a sad excuse of a Mohawk that was clearly against uniform regulations, but the letterman jacket slung over the back of his chair allowed him to get away with.
A teasing 'Ooo,' resounded through her classmates, but Santana just shrugged it off as she took her seat. She didn't mind detention. It was a quiet place where she was able to get her homework done without the incessant talking of her roommate. In fact, sometimes, she went so far as to purposefully get detention when she a had a big project or paper to work on because she knew it was the only way she would be able to do her work in peace.
She took out her five subject notebook from her book bag. Barely two months into the first semester, and she was already working her way into the fourth subject, various sticky tabs and note cards stuck out from the sides. Santana liked history. The mass of scribbled notes throughout her composition should not serve as any accurate measure of the current class in which she was seated or its teacher, though. She would take semi-notes during class as she drifted in and out of the lecture as Mr. Schuester droned on about things he only sort of knew yet tried to pass off as if he were the expert on the matter. How did she know this? The same way she managed to fill up the majority of a notebook in a few weeks' time: she took her semi-notes back to her dorm or the library and did the research herself. It was the only way for her fixation with the past and the millions of stories it possessed to be quelled. Granted, there were times when her attention would begin to wane, and she would go from researching the Goths and their ability to go from a barbarous tribe to the group that would lay the first chink in the Roman Empire's seemingly impenetrable armor and effectively go on to play a massive role in the Empire's destruction to watching hours of Youtube videos of Amy Winehouse, Rosemary Clooney, Jessie J, Patty Griffin, Sarah Vaughn, and Lady Gaga—her current musical obsessions.
This habit would undoubtedly lead to some of the finer details of her research being lost amongst the music, but it wasn't as if they actually talked about the Gothic Wars in class. They had only a year to go over the world's history in its entirety, meaning Mr. Schuester had gone from name dropping Constantine to a brief Great Schism reference to the medieval period in Western Europe. Now that they were near the Renaissance, they were appearing to slow down, but Santana could only guess how long that would last. She also couldn't help but wonder how much of the brief introduction and stalling midsection had to do with time constraints and how much had to do with Mr. Schuester's lack of knowledge about the early world and its inhabitants.
"Alright, class, please turn to Chapter 8 in your text book, and we will continue on with our discussion of The Hundred Years War," Mr. Schuester instructed. About two-thirds of the class shuffled half-hazard through their textbooks, only half of those actually bothering to find the correct chapter. The rest didn't even bother with the pretense of opening their books. Next to her, Noah Puckerman, the douche with the balding Mohawk, was already face-down on the desk, drooling in his sleep. Santana grimaced and scooted her chair and books as far down the table as she could.
"Now, who can tell me why Joan of Arc is a well known historical figure? What did she do?" Mr. Schuester prompted, his eyes darting around the room, hopeful for a raised hand. One hand shot in the air, but he purposefully ignored it, looking for anyone else to step up to the plate. When nobody did, he sighed, and nodded, "Yes, Brittany, do you have a question?"
"No, I have an answer," Brittany replied, the smile in her voice evident even from where Santana sat at the back of the room.
Santana straightened up so that she had a better view of the front table. Brittany was sitting up straight, her arm still held high in the air as Quinn slouched next to her, shaking her head softly.
"Okay…" Mr. Schuester said wearily. "Why was Joan of Arc important, Brittany?"
"Because she was the title character of a semi-popular show that ran from September 2003 until April 2005," Brittany replied surely.
Santana cringed as the room erupted in laughter. Brittany slowly pulled down her hand. Quinn snorted loudly next to her, and Brittany turned to her with a look of such hurt that Santana briefly felt herself starting to feel sorry for the tall girl, but then she remembered who she was talking about, and settled for rolling her eyes instead.
"Funny," Mr. Schuester frowned at her before turning and walking over to the whiteboard where he began writing. "Joan of Arc as we know her today is a semi-folk/semi-historical figure whose part in the Siege of Orleans is said to have helped turned the tides of the Hundred Years War. Even more important, though, would be Philip the Good whose signing of the Treaty of Arras played an even bigger part in France's victory."
Santana's eyes moved from watching Brittany turn in her chair so that she was all but blocking Quinn out of her view to raising an eyebrow at the man standing before the class. Wasn't Philip III the man responsible for Joan's execution? Of course a sleaze that couldn't pick a side would be considered to have played a bigger role than a simple, naïve girl. Of course.
"Philip the Good my ass," Santana mumbled. She spent the rest of the class drifting in and out of the lecture, checking in only long enough to jot down a few important terms: Joan of Arc: More than a tv show, Philip III: Judas Reincarnate?, Battle of Castillon: End of a Hundred Years of Nothing, Christopher Columbus: Idiot. Santana's head tilted as she looked down at the last name in her notes. Looked like they were going back to warp speed.
"Alright, seeing as most of you guys checked out over forty-five minutes ago, I guess, I'm gonna call it a day," Mr. Schuester sighed. The effect was immediate as the noise of compositions and textbooks being shoved into book bags filled the room. "But next time, I want you all to come with your learning caps on because we are going to be discussing the pan-European Renaissance and more importantly, King Henry VIII and how he brought the English Renaissance to its climax during his rule."
"Queen Elizabeth who?" Santana sighed as she put her own belongings back into her bag—looked like after detention, she would once again be making her way to the library.
"And Brittany," Mr. Schuester's voice rose to be heard over the shuffling of belongings and exiting footsteps of students. "I would like a five page paper on my desk by next Friday on Joan of Arc. Maybe then when it comes time for the test, you may actually have a clue who she is…or what class we're in," he chuckled at himself.
"Yes sir," Brittany nodded as she gathered her things.
Santana frowned as she made her way to the front of the class. She wasn't sure, but for someone who was obviously so far behind on their normal assignments, Santana didn't think adding to the pile would be helpful in anyway.
Quinn hurried to Mr. Schuester's desk, lowering her voice, "Mr. Schue, couldn't you reconsider? I mean, Brittany wasn't trying to be a nuisance or anything. She just…we've been really busy with cheerleading lately."
Santana paused to retie her already tied shoes, watching as Brittany hurried from the class, a hint of pink still dusting her cheeks.
"Would you reconsider the extra assignment if I promise to help her catch up?" Quinn batted her eyelashes, her voice sugary sweet.
"I don't know, Quinn…" Mr. Schuester began.
"I really don't think Coach Sylvester would take too kindly to you assigning her co-captain extra work the week before our district competition, Mr. Schue," her voice losing all sweetness from moments before.
Santana swore she heard Mr. Schuester gulp.
"Well, as long as you promise to help her…"
"I promise," Quinn nodded, all smiles again as she turned. "You heard, that, Britt-Britt? Brittany? Hey Brittany, wait up!"
Santana shook her head as Quinn hurried off after her co-captain. She mentally berated herself for feeling sorry for the blue-eyed blonde. She'd heard rumors about the cheerleaders and football players earning favoritism in class because of their status, but she hadn't ever been privy to its actual happenings before now. She felt an odd mixture of being cheated and disgusted.
"Detention, 3:30, Santana," Mr. Schuester called after her as she made her way out of the class.
"Bet if I was a skirt, I wouldn't have to go," she replied.
"What was that?"
Santana turned back to him, "It will be the highlight of my day, Mr. Schue." She curtseyed, and he waved her out, a slight smile forming on his features.
She walked out into the all but empty hallway, and she pulled out her phone to find they had been let out of class nearly twenty minutes early. She slipped her phone back into the side pocket of her book bag and made her way down the hall. She turned the corner to head towards the staircase, glad to not have to navigate its slender passage in the between class rush for once, but froze at the sound of an insistent voice that she unfortunately recognized. She stepped back around the corner and slowly inched her head around the wall to find Quinn and Brittany standing in the otherwise abandoned hallway, the shorter of the two wringing her hands anxiously as she spoke. For her part, Brittany seemed as if she could care less what the head cheerleader had to say.
Santana couldn't make out the exact words that they were saying, but their tones made the meanings of their words quite clear. Quinn's whispers rushed out frantically and were only met with short, clipped responses from Brittany. Santana's eyebrows raised as Quinn reached out to keep Brittany from walking away and Brittany turned back with an icy glare that made even Santana shiver. The glare slowly dissipated from an angry stare to a disappointed shake of the head. Quinn's head fell as she whispered much more softly than before. Brittany gave one more clipped reply and turned to go, Quinn following slowly behind, her head still hanging.
It wasn't until the two had turned another corner that Santana finally walked fully into the hall. "What the hell was that?" she muttered aloud as she made her way towards the staircase. What had made Brittany so angry at Quinn? Didn't Quinn tell her how she just saved her from having to do that essay? Another shiver ran down Santana's spine as remembered Brittany's cold eyes. They seemed so out of place on the girl's normally calm exterior. Sure, she was known to be a bitch, but to be that cold, that angry? It was unheard of. She climbed the stairs one by one, taking her time to wonder on what she had just been privy to witness. She silently thanked her disinterested class of teenagers for allowing them to be let out of class early, because there is no way the two cheerleaders would have ever had a discussion like that if they knew there were prying eyes and ears. Santana reached the top of the staircase and a scrawling smirk drew across her face at the thought of seeing Quinn chase after Brittany not once by twice today. Sure, Quinn may be the head cheerleader, but it was quite obvious that Brittany was the true queen of the school.
Born of a poor peasant farmer, Joan of Arc never learned to read or write, Santana read to herself from her history textbook before scribbling that note down into her notebook, drawing a star next to it, clearly marking it as something she would further research once she had access to a computer. She wasn't sure why, but the idea behind that sentence struck something deep within her, turning her stomach, yet raising her blood for action. Her eyes went back to skimming the text book when another sentence struck out at her: Joan first became aware of the 'voices' at the age of thirteen and set out to do their bidding at the age of 16.
"Sixteen," Santana whispered in awe. "She was younger than me when she set out to stop a century long war. Well, I recycled a plastic bottle this morning, so take that Joan."
Santana rolled her eyes at herself as she went back to paraphrasing the important information she found in her textbook, starring the lines she wanted to go back and look deeper into.
The desk beside her scraped along the floor as someone sat down and scooted closer. She didn't even have to look up to know who it was—the overpowering smell of Axe was evidence enough.
"Can I help you with something?" she asked with a sigh. A glance to the front of the room showed that the detention monitor had walked out.
"I just wanted to introduce myself," Noah replied with a smile that he clearly thought was charming.
"I know who you are; we have three classes together, one in which we share a table that you insist on drooling upon every single lecture."
Noah laughed off her response before holding out his hand, "The name's Noah Puckerman. My friends call me Puck, though, so you should too because I can see us getting real friendly in the near future."
Santana stared at him blankly for a second, waiting for the laugh that would prove this as some sort of a joke. When the laugh didn't come, she in turn scoffed, "Wait, are you serious? Is that your idea of a pickup line? If so, then I hope, no, I pray that you are never the last man on Earth, and the future of the human race never depends on you having to convince some poor girl to reproduce with you because mankind would not stand a chance."
Noah's smile flattened, "What? That line has a 97% success rate."
"On your hand, maybe."
Noah's eyes widened as he stared at her in shock.
"You act as if a girl has never turned you down before, which is hard to believe because with those moves, I can't see how anybody would ever do the opposite."
"Damn, when you knock a guy down, you just keep swinging, don't you?" Noah shook his head.
"Yes, well, you interrupted my studying for nonsense, so I feel it's deserved," she shrugged, turning back to her notes.
"Well, you study too much."
"Can you even spell 'study'?" Santana countered, her voice thinning as her patience waned. She glanced up at the empty desk at the front of the room. "Where is the monitor? Shouldn't he be in here keeping an eye on things, and by things, I mean you."
Noah just smiled in reply.
"For God's sake, lose the smirk. You look like a cheap Elvis impersonator."
"The monitor always ditches us fifteen minutes in to go on a twenty minute 'bathroom break', in which he bangs the school nurse," Noah supplied. "Which is something you would have known by now if you didn't study too much."
Santana couldn't think of a proper retort for that, so she settled with the simple yet always effective, "Do us both a favor, and go fuck yourself."
+++TWT+++
Santana sighed as the hot water poured over her. After detention, she had spent the rest of the afternoon and much of the evening in the library. She then followed it up by a stop at the campus gym which was opened to all students from the hours of 9:30 p.m. to 4 a.m., the only time period that it wasn't booked by either the football team or the cheerleaders, but mostly the cheerleaders. She found that nothing helped the inevitable crick in her neck and spinning in her head that occurred after long, consecutive hours of school work like a nice, hard run. She reached for the shampoo, squirting an insane amount onto her palm in order to lather up in her thick hair.
The sound of the heavy bathroom door opening and closing was barely audible from where she stood beneath a heavy stream of water. Soon, another stream of water joined hers from a few stalls down. Santana groaned, knowing there was only ever one other person that be in the showers this late on a school night.
The joy of communal bathrooms, Santana inwardly grumbled.
She had rinsed her hair and grabbed her conditioner—dime-sized amount, my ass, she rolled her eyes—when the inevitable singing started. Tonight's song choice: "I'm the Greatest Star" from Funny Girl.
For the first few times of the first couple of weeks that this had happened, Santana cursed, loudly, and in Spanish, then English, to make sure the singer understood her meaning. The past couple of weeks, though, when this happened, Santana smiled because she had a counter attack of her own. The singer would begin to belt some over the top song from a Broadway musical, and Santana would begin her own rendition of the most sexual song she could think of at the time.
"Well, I'm miffed cause I'm the greatest star. I am by far, but no one knows it," the singer sang.
Then Santana joined in, her voice smoky as she jazzed up and slowed down her favorite Cyndi Lauper song, "Hey…I've been thinking of a new sensation…I'm picking up good vibrations, Ooo, She bop, she bop…Do I wanna go out with a lion's roar? Yeah, I wanna go south and get me more…Hey, they say that a stich in time save nine. They say I better stop or I'll go blind, but Ooo, She bop, she bop."
The singer predictably raised her voice, magnifying her song, "When you're gifted, then you're gifted, these are the facts. I've got no axe to grind. Hey, what are ya, blind? In all of the world so far, I'm the greatest star!"
Santana, not in the least deterred, only sang louder, "Hey, they say I better get a chaperone, oh, because I cannot stop messing with the danger zone, oh no, no, no, no. But I won't worry, no, I won't fret because there ain't no law against it yet, Oh! She bop, she bop. She bop, she bop!"
The singer finally relented, and ceased her song. Santana smiled, turning off her shower victoriously. She stepped through the first set of shower curtains and grabbed her fluffy black towel, drying off as much as she could before slipping into her pajamas. She then gathered her things in her shower caddy and stepped through the second set of curtains and out into the long bathroom. She walked past the row of shower stalls, hearing the singer turn off her own supply of water, and headed over to the row of sinks and mirrors. She pulled out her comb, carefully running it through her hair, so as not to anger it—life was always easier that way—before locating her tooth brush and beginning to brush her teeth. The singer exited her shower stall and stopped at the sink farthest away from her.
Santana spit out her toothpaste heavily, causing the singer's rather large, hooked nose to wrinkle in disgust. Santana allowed a small smirk before gathering her things once more and heading out of the bathroom. She made her way down the long carpeted hall to her dorm room. She unlocked the door and walked in, not even bothering to turn on the lights. She made sure to stay on her side of the room—the right side—until she felt her hand grasp the foot of her bed. Her shower caddy was placed onto the floor, and she collapsed onto her bed. She briefly entertained the thought of falling asleep right there, as is, but didn't allow the dream to last long. Instead, she sat up, and reached under her bed, pulling out a flat Rubbermaid container, popping up the lid, and pulling out her blow dryer and large, rounded hair brush. By now, her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she was able to quickly find the outlet between her bed and the wall. She turned the dryer on low—once again, so as to not anger her hair—and set herself to the long task of drying her hair.
She had just finished and had finally been able to settle down in her bed, beneath the cool sheets when the door to her room opened, and her roommate snuck in quietly. She felt the smirk returning to her face as her roommate climbed into her own bed on the opposite wall. Santana began to hum the chorus to "She Bop" just loud enough for her roommate to hear. It wasn't often she got the chance to out annoy her ever-obnoxious roommate, so when presented with the chance, she always ran with it.
A loud groan emitted from the other side of the room, "Goodnight Santana!"
Santana laughed openly at her roommate—her roommate, the singer. "Goodnight, Rachel."