Hello, readers of all species! OK, here's the information on the story: it's kinda part back story and part character study. It's about Santana, and it's a bit weird, but just bear with it - you might even like it! However, if you're intending to flame immediately afterwards, then just back away now. There are more beneficial things to do with your life.
I.
I am fourteen years old, three inches over five feet, and one hundred and twelve pounds.
Mamí wanted me to stop three pounds ago, but I couldn't.
I put on deep burgundy flannel pyjamas and a scarlet thermal underneath the open top, and slide on cherry and white wool slipper boots with wine coloured soles. Too warm. Just how I like it.
'You know, querido,' Mamí says, tugging my shirtsleeve smooth, 'a lot of boys would be very happy if they saw you naked.'
I can't help but feel that I am.
But, Mamí, I want to say, I don't want boys to see me naked.
I nod harshly and swallow around the lump in my throat.
My silence is the first lie I tell my mother.
II.
I am sixteen and my first kiss is a balmy summer night, gazing up at the stars and making jokes about wearing Orion's belt on the first day of school, and lime and Coke virgin Cubalibres and pretending we're drunk just for laughs. My first kiss is a secret I am not allowed to tell. My first kiss is Brittany.
For those who aren't in my mind or on the same cloud as my best friend, my first kiss was a senior, and he's now in law school or some shit.
I don't care.
I just count the fireflies, using them as placeholders for seconds until I see the sun.
III.
My first time is disappointing.
I lost weight. I can count my ribs like blocks of pavement and the space between like cracks in glass; I can pour water down my clavicle and watch it pool between my hips; I can play piano with fingers as long and thin as keys.
Puckerman is not the legend he would have you believe, and it hurts, so I run to the one person who can make it better.
Brittany smells like lavender and fabric softener and hot, sweet apple cider. Like rain and burning wood and leaves that crunch under your feet. Her slim arms are my fortress, my castle, my home.
In here, I can be a queen, a warrior, a broken girl who just wants to cry, and the amazing thing is that Brittany accepts it all.
She is my bascilica, and within her I worship the only being good enough to care about a broken clockwork toy, in the way I have just learned.
In the way of whispers and sweat and pounding hearts, I give her the only thing I can think to give-me.
It's not enough. That's the only thing I fear-that for all she has given me, and done for me, what I have given her will never be enough.
Puck gets her a week later, and all I can do is cry.
IV.
I will never be perfect. I will never be loved by all. I am not that girl.
I am, however, a sum of my parts.
I am red pyjamas and slippers too warm for the season.
I am a first kiss of fireflies and stars and secrets and a hint of lime.
I am a disciple of the girl whose mind never ages.
I am a lover, a fighter, a friend, a daughter.
I am disappointed.
I am a second chance and a soul struggling for one.
I am a clockwork toy: wind me up, fix my mechanics, and watch me run.
Just you watch me.