A/N: First time writing Quinntana. I'm not done with Spanner yet, so don't worry. I'll get back to that soon. Just wanted to try my hand at something new and more challenging.

Some of the dialogue is in Spanish, but it's not really necessary to translate it considering Santana doesn't understand what's being said either. Also, the town of Mexico that Santana is visiting is totally made up.

Chapter 1: Para Usted

"Before you go outside, put on the sun block I packed. It should be in the pocket inside your blue suitcase."

"Okay, Ma."

"And your cell phone, make sure you keep it charged just in case I need to get into contact with you."

"Okay, Ma."

"Did you program your number into Abuelita's phone?"

"Yes, Ma."

"Just one more thing."

"Mhmm."

"Actually spend some time with her, Santana."

"Okay, Ma."

"No, don't okay, Ma me. Get off that laptop of yours and spend some actual time with your grandmother," she demands, and you roll your eyes, because her voice is even more nagging when it's seven hundred miles away.

"I'm not on my laptop," you mutter guiltily, shutting your laptop and pushing it across the kitchen table.

"The reason we sent you down there in the first place is so you can get to know her better and learn about your roots."

"And because I got caught shoplifting at a drug store," you add on, shrugging a shoulder as you admire your nails. "Which wasn't even my fault."

Your mother sighs and ignores your complaining, continuing with, "Have you even spoken three words to her yet?"

Craning your neck, you glance down the hallway of your abuelita's small home and find her sleeping soundly in her napping chair. Her head is bent back, mouth wide open, and you grimace when a drop of drool pools out of her mouth and slowly slides down her jaw.

"I said hola when she first opened the door," you mention offhandedly, furrowing your eyebrows when one of her eyes begin to slowly open in her sleep.

"That's it?"

You huff, rubbing the back of your sweaty neck in disgust, because it's hot as balls in here. "I can't understand a word she says, Ma," you tell her, getting up from the kitchen chair as you head out of the house to stand on the front porch. "She speaks way too fast, and I just can't keep up no matter how Mexican I am."

"Then I suppose this is a good time to brush up on your Spanish."

"No, this is a good time to send me a plane ticket so I can get out of this humid hellhole."

Despite your agony, you mother actually laughs. She doesn't care about you or your well-being, or else she wouldn't have sent you to this horrible place.

(Her laughter is enough proof she's enjoying this way too much.)

You've only been here for a day and a half and you already think you're going to go insane if you spend another minute in this shack they call a house. Last night, you were forced to sleep on a soggy mattress that spelled like old cows. You tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable because of the sweltering heat.

And that damn bird. It took you what felt like hours to fall asleep, and when you finally did, some damn bird outside your window started chirping an annoyingly cheery song that made you want to pull your hair out of your scalp.

Although Santo Amor, the small town of Mexico your abuelita's from, is beautifully exotic and only about a half mile away from the shore, it's also one of the poorest areas in this part of Mexico.

The streets are unpaved and ragged. People hang around outside on their porches, hoping to get away from the swirling heat melting the inside of their homes. Men walk around without shirts all of the time, their tanned chests red and burnt by the end of the day from being out in the hot sun for so long.

Little boys play soccer in the grassy fields. You watch them as they kick the ball around with their bare feet. The houses are so close together, you can hear the mother's muffled voices scolding their sons for their dirty toes in the evenings.

You're envious to admit some of them are better than your own teammates back home in Houston, and their only about seven or eight years old.

If you thought Houston was hot during the summer months, well, Mexico is about ten thousand times that. You can feel sweat everywhere, pooling between your breasts, under your armpits, in your hair, even between your toes. Good thing it's just you and your abuelita staying in this house for the summer, because you're sure you smell like shit right now.

"Santana?"

"Hm?"

"If you're so vain that you actually think some girl down there will care about your odor, just take a bath."

Quirking an eyebrow, because did you just say all of that aloud, you sit on the bottom step of the porch and mumble, "Even if I did meet a girl down here, I'd probably have to pretend like I know what she's talking about half the time, which is usually what I do anyway, so..."

"Concentrate on understanding your abuelita before flirting with some town girl," your mother continues to tease you, chuckling into the speaker. "And before I go, let me speak to her real quick?"

"She's sleeping."

"Wake her up," she says flippantly. Sometimes you forget you are your mother's daughter.

(The apple doesn't fall too far from the tree.)

Dramatically huffing as you stand back up, you stomp up the wooden steps and push through the thin screen door, wincing when it slams loudly behind you.

"¡Si usted rompe mi puerta, usted está pagando por ello!"

"She's awake," you mutter into the phone, dragging yourself down the hallway until you're standing in front of your barely awake abuelita who's sleepily glaring at you like you just stole her last peso. "It's Ma. She wants to talk to you."

"¿Qué?" Abuelita sits up in her napping chair, head cocked to the side.

"Ma...it's Ma," you say a little louder, hoping the increase in volume will help her understand.

Abuelita just stares at you for a moment, looking back and forth between you and your cell phone. "¿Qué?" she mumbles eventually, raising an eyebrow.

Sighing, you pull your phone away from your ear and point at it. "Es mi madre. Um, she quiero habla to you," you slowly tell her in your best Spanish. If anybody else saw this, you're sure you'd look like a total moron; you can't even say a simple sentence in your family's native language.

Both your parents know how to speak it, almost all of your cousins, and even your older brother, who learned overseas when he went to Spain for some college exchange program. You've always refused to learn, thinking you'd never have to use it, that it'd just be a waste of your very limited time.

(Well, it seems that came back to bite you in the ass.)

"¿Qué?" Abuelita's still staring at you like you're speaking another language, which you suppose you kind of are. "For...me?" she questions, pointing at the phone you're pointing at.

A slow smile cracks across your cheeks. "Sí, sí," you say, nodding your head and feeling oddly proud that you and your grandmother are actually communicating for the first time.

(This is going to be a long summer.)

"Santana," you hear, coming from the speaker of your cell. "Just give her the damn phone."

Rolling your eyes, because why didn't you think of that, you hand your abuelita the phone with a huff and watch as a broad grin forms on her lips. She starts talking a mile a minute, chatting on the phone like she's been dying to talk to someone who's not stupid for days now. Her native language rolls off her tongue as she laughs and sighs and chuckles, and you're not sure, but you have a feeling they're probably making fun of you.

When Abuelita speaks, it's actually quite beautiful to listen to; Spanish is the language of romance after all. You don't even feel bad for eavesdropping, because you can't understand a word she's saying anyway. You think you may catch your name in their every now and then, but she could easily be saying mañana, which just makes you dread what you'll be doing tomorrow.

(Your abuelita is your father's mother. Your mother and Abuelita are really close though; closer than most mother and daughter-in-laws.)

After what feels like a century (your abuelita can really talk when she wants to), she hangs up the phone and hands it back to you. With a hesitant smile, you tuck it back into your jeans and stand there, waiting for her to say something.

Abuelita looks up at you, her eyebrows raised in contemplation, and you wonder what her and your mother just discussed, because this is the first time she's looked so deep in thought since you arrived yesterday morning. You would go back outside and sit on the porch, but it's already getting dark out, and there's no streetlights, so you're pretty sure that could be kind of dangerous.

You've spent your first day of the summer in Mexico doing literally nothing. When you woke up at about five o'clock because of the heat and that damn bird, you went straight into the kitchen and started up your laptop. There's no internet connection, so you just began typing random things about how messed up this trip is and a bunch of other teenage angst stuff.

After awhile, the complaints you were typing up slowly turned into what looked like a journal of your stay, so after a second of thought, you decided to keep a journal of the rest of your visit. You know your mom will be proud you did something productive while you were down here, and it could also be good for your college essay, so you thought, why not?

You're staring contest goes on for what feels like another fifteen seconds before your grandma abruptly stands from her chair, startling you into taking a step back. She's a few inches shorter than you, which is strange, because you're so short no one is ever shorter than you, but you do find it a little amusing when she sets you with a glare before turning towards the kitchen, yelling, "Viene ahora!" over her shoulder.

She breezes around the kitchen like a storm, pulling fresh lettuce out of the refrigerator, taking seasonings and spices and a bag of yellow rice out of the cupboard, and throwing down a giant fish on the counter right in front of where you're sitting. You turn your nose up at the dead sea creature and raise an eyebrow at your grandma when she places a knife in your hand and points at the fish's head.

"Are you loco?" you mutter dryly, slowly placing the sharp knife on the countertop. "Yo no sé cook fish, Abuelita."

"You learn," she says firmly, grabbing the knife, and right before your eyes, your little abuelita brings the knife up high in the air and stabs the fish right in its eyeball, causing blood to spurt out and splatter across your sweaty white tank top. You don't even get a chance to feel disgusted before the knife is being placed into your hand again as your grandma smiles wickedly and says, "Now you."

Most of your cousins live on the other side of town. You don't know them. And you don't want to know them.

A long time ago, before your father was even born and your grandmother was a niña poco living here in Mexico, she married a fisherman when she was supposed to marry a boat keeper. Personally, you don't really see the difference or what the big deal is. She loved the fisherman even if he probably smelled worse than you right now, so she ran off a whole two miles across town and got married to Jose, your late grandfather.

You're not really sure how that worked, because they all still lived in the same town, just on opposite ends. Back then, two miles might have seemed far away, but you can run two miles in your sleep. They must have seen each other at the markets, at church, on the beach, everywhere. You can barely stand it when you see your ex-girlfriend at the mall, so you have no idea how your abuelita could keep going about her daily life whenever she saw her ex-fiancé.

But you doubt your abuelita loved the boat keeper as much as you loved Skye.

Skye.

(You don't really want to talk about it.)

Jose, your brother, who was named after Abuelo, obviously, says your abuelita kept her maiden name instead of taking her husband's name like most women did. Sure, she was proud of her decision to follow her heart, but according to Jose, your brother, Abuelita kept her name out of guilt.

(But your brother used to say a lot of things, so.)

You don't really mind not seeing your cousins. You probably wouldn't be able to understand them anyway. It's getting easier to understand your abuelita though. She mostly speaks in broken English, and you have to look up some words in your Spanish dictionary when she says a word you don't get, but over the last couple of days, it's been getting easier.

You're proud to say your Spanish has been improving, sorta. It's kind of hard not to when the language practically surrounds you everywhere you turn. Yesterday, when you went to the market on your own to pick up some papaya, mangos, and bread, you had the most complicated discussion with a salesclerk. Ultimately, you think he hustled you into paying extra for the lump that was stuck to the side of your papaya, but at least you got out of there with enough money in your pocket to buy a pack of cigarettes.

You're smoking one of the cigarettes now as you sit on the front porch and watch a group of little boys kick around a soccer ball in the dirt. You don't mean to sound egotistical or anything, or maybe you do, but you can kick circles around these boys. If you weren't here right now because of some stupid toddler at a drug store who likes to rat out thieves, you'd be at one of the best soccer camps in the country.

But instead, you're here, slowly killing your lungs in the Mexican heat.

It's still blistering hot, as usual, and you know you're not making it any easier on yourself by smoking this cigarette, but you've been craving the stuff ever since you got here, and your abuelita doesn't seem to mind, so.

When she saw you pull out the pack while putting away the food, she actually asked for one in exchanged for keeping it a secret from your mother. You're not sure if it was more of a secret pact between the two of you, or if she was just blackmailing you for some cigs, but you had just shrugged and handed her one, because it was her money you spent it on anyway.

"Carlos, por aquí," a fairly skinny boy shouts, jumping up and down near the sticks and string that's suppose to serve as a goal. "Estoy abierto!"

You pull the cigarette away from your lips and blow out the smoke through your flared nostrils, curiously watching the other boys ignore him and continue to play. Carlos, the boy who seems to be the best out of them all, dribbles the ball back and forth between his feet, smiling cockily as he runs right past the skinny boy and kicks the ball into the goal.

The soccer ball hits one of the sticks, causing the whole goal to fall apart. All of the boys groan, throwing their hands up in exasperation as they shout expletives in Spanish, but Carlos just laughs at the destruction of sticks and ropes like it's all a big joke to him.

"Son of a bitch," you mumble, holding the smoking cigarette between your fingers as it starts to burn out.

You study the skinny boy; his dark curly locks, hairless chest, big brown eyes. As he kicks his shoes at the dirt in frustration, he kind of reminds you of your older brother when he was a kid.

(Scrawny, short, clumsy, awkward.)

As he got older, he became stronger. Too bad wisdom doesn't come with age like some people say because as your brother got older, he didn't just get stronger, but he got dumber as well. Only a dummy would do the things he has and not learn his lesson after being behind bars.

Twice.

You hum a song under your breath after blowing out a puff of smoke. The song is familiar, but you're not sure where from. You picture yourself at home, sitting on the couch next to Jose, your brother, not your abuelo, as you watch a Disney movie. You can't remember the name of the film at the moment, but that skinny boy, the one who likes to kick at dirt, looks just like Mowgli; the wild child from the movie with that tiger and the bare necessities or something.

(Whatever, it'll come to you later.)

Mowgli seems to be the outcast of the group, and you watch him with a frown as he stares at the pile of sticks and slumps his shoulders before heading off in the opposite direction.

You look after him with a roll of your eyes, because damn, why do you even care? You seem to have an internal battle with yourself. Muttering under your breath, you sigh through your nose and stand up from the porch.

The boy just looks so sad and lonely, much like yourself, and you don't have anything else to do anyway, so you throw your finished cigarette into the dirt and stomp on it before following after the boy. The sun is already starting to set, and it's pretty dangerous at night, so you just want to make sure he gets home all right.

(At least, that's what you try to tell yourself.)

"Hey, kid!" you yell, speeding up into a jog. Mowgli doesn't turn around, continuing to scuff his shoes in the dirt with his shoulders slouched as he passes greedy merchants and old, homeless men and crazy bums on the street. Searching your brain for something Spanish to say, you continue to approach him and shout, "Esperar hasta, muchacho!"

Mowgli finally peeks over his shoulder, and when he sees you quickly approaching, his brown eyes widen, and he picks up speed as well, shuffling his feet hurriedly to get away from you.

You curse under breath when the boy starts running full speed ahead. You're not going to be that creep who chases kids all the way home, so you say fuck it. If the kid doesn't want your help, then you'll let him get mugged, but right when you're about to turn away, Mowgli trips over his untied shoelaces and falls to the dirt, scraping his knee on the hard ground.

"Fuck me sideways," you sigh, jogging up to the boy. He still looks a little frightened as you crouch down in front of him to take a look at his knee, but when he seems to realize you just want to help, his heavy breathing slowly calms down. He looks at you with wide, thoughtful eyes as you inspect the gash closely; the scrape's not too deep, just a little blood trickling down his leg.

Your father's a doctor, and whenever you'd get hurt playing soccer out in the backyard, he'd check your cuts closely. If there weren't any flesh or bones sticking out, he'd just say, "You're fine. Go back out there and get 'em, tiger," and ruffle up your hair before giving you a thumbs up.

"¿Por qué me estás siguiendo? ¿Quién es usted? Sólo quiero ir a casa," the kid rattles off frantically when you stand up, wiping the dirt off the back of your shorts.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa..." You raise your hands, pleading with him to calm down. "Me no speaky Espanol very bien. Por favor, slow down," you say, offering out your hand to pull him off the ground.

The skinny boy gives you a look, squinting his brown eyes. "I said," he begins slowly, patiently, as he scratches the side of his shaggy hair. "Why are you following me? You're not crazy, are you?"

"No, I'm not cra-" you pause, your pointer finger frozen in the air. "...wait, you can speak English?"

Mowgli nods, a small smile stretching across his flushed cheeks. "Yeah, we seem to be the only ones in this part of town who can," he points out with a shrug of his boney shoulders, looking up at you with an amused expression. "Who are you? I've never seen you here before."

You're not used to just giving your name out to tiny strangers, but this is the first person you've spoken to who can actually speak English in two weeks, so. "Santana," you say, continuing to walk when one of the merchants selling Gucci bag knock-offs gives you a strange look. "And I'm from Houston."

"Gabriel." He smiles up at you, limping on his hurt leg as you walk through the streets, the sun continuing to set behind the horizon. "And I'm originally from Florida. I come here every summer and stay with my grandpa."

You nod absentmindedly, not really concentrating on what the little boy is saying because you're more focused on the men hanging out on the curb, watching you with deep scowls on their faces. "Where do you live, kid? I'm gonna walk you home."

"You don't have to do that," he assures you, wiping a drop of sweat from his temple with his forearm. "I live all the way on the other side of town."

"These guys keep giving us sketchy looks," you whisper, bowing your head to keep from making eye contact. "I'm not about to just leave you here. Come on, walk faster, Mowgli."

"My name's Gabriel," he reminds you, sending you a glare that reminds you too much of yourself. "And I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, sure," you respond sarcastically, your eyes darting around as it starts to get darker out. "That bloody leg you're limping on totally shows how great that's going."

Mowgli knits his eyebrows together, mouth set into a grimace. "You're the one who made me fall in the first place," he reminds you, "Chasing me down like a fucking crazy."

"First of all, I'm not crazy," you insist, for the second time as you kick a small rock a few yards ahead of you. "And second, watch your mouth. How old are you anyway? Eight?"

"I'm eleven," Mowgli grumbles, crossing his arms over his bare chest. "And I heard you curse before. Why can't I?"

"Because I said so."

"You can't tell me what to do."

"I'm older and smarter and wiser."

"Smarter? Wiser?" Gabriel scoffs, shaking his head in disbelief. "You can't even speak your own native language."

You come to a slow stop, pursing your lips stubbornly as you watch Gabriel continue to limp along the dirty path, not even pausing to give you a second look. "I could learn if I really wanted to," you mumble, quickly catching up to him before you're left all alone in the darkness. "It's just always been irrelevant to learn. The language is basically useless to me."

"Sólo tienes que ir a casa o de vuelta a donde vinieron," Mowgli starts going off on a rant, and you're not sure, but it sounds like he's cursing you out. "Usted piensa que está ayudando, pero no ar. Y si no te vas a casa pronto, uno de esos tipos ahí atrás, probablemente te hará daño." He purses his lips and blows out a breath of air, his sweaty bangs flying up in front of his face. "Is it useless now? When you have no idea what someone's saying to you?"

You can't believe you're actually having a standoff with a little boy in Mexico when you could be chilling in your air conditioned home watching some good old reality television. Staring down at him, you refuse to be the idiot he's successfully making you look like just because you don't understand.

(You want to get it.)

(You really do.)

When your parents speak to each other in Spanish, you wish you could join in. When your abuelita laughs hysterically at something happening on her Spanish soap opera, you wish you could join in. When your drunken brother and his boozed up girlfriend from Spain come to visit, only speaking to each other in Spanish, you wish you could join in, even if they're both bashed and dead to the world half the time.

It's frustrating and annoying and extremely embarrassing, especially here; where everybody expects you to just know because of the color of your skin. Sure, you fit in enough because of your appearance, but it sucks when everyone just assumes you can speak the language until you open your mouth. You try to ignore the looks of disappointment or disgust when the merchants or town people can't understand. You always try your best to communicate with your broken Spanish, but it seems trying is just never enough.

"You know what?" you ask yourself, staring down at Gabriel with squinted, threatening eyes. You were just trying to help, and where did that get you? Standing in the dark with a half-naked little boy. "Fuck this. I'm going home, or back to my grandma's house, or wherever. This is fucking pointless."

Mowgli doesn't try to stop you as you walk off, so you decide he doesn't need you as much as you don't need him.

Your abuelita chews your head off when you finally get home. You're not really sure what she's saying, and that just makes you even angrier than when you left Mowgli out in the middle of nowhere.

Because you missed your curfew, she makes you do the dishes, scrub the kitchen floor, water her plants out in the backyard, and take out the horrid smelling garbage before she lets you take a quick shower and finally go to sleep.

After all of these chores, you promise yourself to always be home before sunset. You're not really sure if your abuelita's enforcing these rules because she wants you to learn your lesson, or because she doesn't feel like doing her own damn chores.

(For the sake of your relationship, you secretly hope it's the former.)

The next morning, that damn bird wakes you up again. It's woken you up at the same time every morning. You thought you'd be used to it by now, but that's just not so. You notice the sun is just beginning to rise when you peel your eyes open and take an irritated glance out the window.

Back in Houston, during soccer season, you used to wake up at around this time to go running. You haven't worked out since you've been here, and you don't want your grandma's home cooking to make you obese, so you drag yourself out of bed and decide to take a jog.

You leave a note on the fridge that says corriendo en la playa. Despite your argument with Mowgli yesterday, you actually feel quite proud of your note. You had to look up the word beach in your Spanish dictionary, but the rest you remembered on your own. You throw on your running shoes and tie up your hair in a loose bun before heading out, making sure not to carelessly slam the screen door and wake up your abuelita.

You jog along the shore, sand kicking up behind your heels every time you speed up. You're the only one out here so early in the morning. You're happy about this fact. The silence is calming, the only sounds being the waves as they crash against the shore. The ocean is so beautiful; a light turquoise mixed with a soft baby blue. Jose, your brother, not your abuelo, would love it out here. He loves the ocean almost as much as he loves alcohol.

You miss your brother. You can't remember the last time you saw him. A year? Two years? You don't know. Is that bad?

(You wonder if he loves you as much as he loves alcohol.)

You don't want to say it, but you kind of like it here. Other than the lack of internet connection and the absence of your friends, you're starting to realize you don't really mind staying with your abuelita for the summer.

The only things is...you're kind of lonely.

(Just kind of.)

Although that Mowgli kid was a bit annoying and just as stubborn as you, it was kind of nice talking to someone you could actually understand for once, and who could understand you.

By the time you finish up your jog, it's much hotter outside, and you're sweaty all over. Judging by the sun, you assume it must be around noon, but you don't have a watch to check. Like usual, the sun is blazing, and you wish you would have listened to your mom, because your skin is starting to tingle and turn a little red from the hot rays. And your throat is drier than the Sahara Desert; you could really go for some ice, cold water right now.

On your way back to Abuelita's house, you tread through a rowdy marketplace. By day, the street is filled with fruit stands, fish markets, shopkeepers selling knock-offs in their suitcases, peddlers auctioning off expensive sombreros, hand-woven blankets and ponchos, and shiny jewels that sparkle under the sun. But at night, you have to be more careful, because once all the friendly merchants pack up and head home for the evening, that's when the drug dealers and perverted, old men come out.

You shudder just thinking about it as you approach a stand selling bottled water, digging through your pockets for some loose change. "Agua, por favor," you request confidently, holding out the coins in the palm of your hand, hoping the saleswoman will just take what she needs.

The woman smiles at you, missing teeth and everything, until she looks down at your hand. Squinting her eyes, she gives you a disbelieving look and mutters, "Eso no es lo suficientemente, chica poco. Usted necesita más dinero."

Here we go again, you think to yourself, licking your lips before repeating, "Agua, por favor. Take this dinero y give me some agua."

You take a step away from the stand when the woman sets her mouth into a frown and starts shouting, "Eso no es lo suficientemente. ¡Usted necesita más dinero, chica estúpida!"

Taking a deep breath, you swallow the vicious words begging to be released; it would just be a waste of breath since she wouldn't be able to appreciate them anyway. Sighing, you shove your money back into your pockets and get ready to leave when you feel somebody place a hand on your lower back and say, "¿Se puede excusar mi amigo?"

You look to your right, wondering who the hell thinks they can touch you. Your words die on your lips when you come face to face with the brightest hazel eyes you have ever seen.

(Again, you swallow your vicious words.)

Thin, pink lips quirk up in amusement at your dumbfounded expression. You will yourself to snap out of it and paste on an uneasy smile. The girl chuckles softly, drizzled with honey, and you inhale, your breathing a fraction off its usual pattern as the girl wraps an arm around your waist.

"Ella no habla muy bien Español." When the blonde opens her mouth and starts happily chatting with the saleswoman again, practically paying you no mind, you block everything else out in favor of listening to her voice.

It's light, breathy, with a pinch of rasp to it; there's also a slight nasal quality that you can't help but find endearing as the Spanish language floats off her tongue and into the humid air surrounding you.

While she speaks to the saleswoman, you can't help but admire her profound jaw line, the slant of her lips as she smirks knowingly, the length of her eyelashes as she bats them against her tanned skin. She glances at you for a beat of a second, and you quickly shift your eyes, pretending to admire the random knick knacks scattered across the top shelf of the cart.

"Aquí está el dinero extra." She reaches into her bag and hands the woman some more money, and you furrow your brow when the saleswoman hands the blonde a bottle of water in return. "Adios," the blonde says to the woman, tugging down on the bill on her cap. Seemingly pleased with herself, she holds the bottled water out to you with a kind smile. "Para usted..."

You narrow your eyes on the bottled water before taking it out of her hand. "Gracias," you respond eventually, kicking at the dirt with a clenched jaw. You can't believe some white girl can speak better Spanish than you. Maybe learning this language isn't as useless as you originally thought.

(That Mowgli kid might have had a point.)

"You're welcome," she says easily, her pink lips forming into a smirk. You're not surprised she can speak English. Not only because she's Caucasian, but because of her attire; the Dodgers baseball cap on her head and the thin white t-shirt with VOLUNTEER written across her chest is an easy indication that she's a tourist. Other than her dialect, she kind of sticks out like a sore thumb around this part of town.

"You didn't have to do that," you tell her, scratching the back of your neck as the cold water bottle sweats in your hand.

She chuckles, shrugging her shoulders. "It's fine, really."

You nod and clear your throat uncomfortably, unsure of what to say now that you got your water and everything. Untwisting the cap, you take a long gulp of the drink, sighing in relief when the cool water soothes your scratchy throat.

"Good?" she asks with a cheeky smile, her light hazel eyes watching you the whole time.

"Great," you reply, chewing on your bottom lip. "Um, thanks again. If you didn't come when you did, I'd still be dying of thirst, so..." You trail off, wiping a film of sweat off your forehead. "I would pay you back, but I don't really have enough cash on me right now."

The blonde shakes her head and wraps her fingers around your wrist when you start reaching into your pocket. "You don't have to do that," she assures you, "Just here to help."

"I can see that," you remark, gesturing to her t-shirt with a smirk. "Volunteer?"

She chuckles, glancing down at the words with a roll of her eyes. "Yeah, I'm here with some of my friends for the summer. We're volunteering for a program at our university," she informs you, adjusting the cap on her head. "We go around rebuilding homes and handing out food packets to the less fortunate. Just a thing I do every summer."

"A really good thing," you nod, slightly impressed with the blonde standing in front of you. Over the last few weeks, you've seen the hardships these people face on a day to day basis. You see the starving people on the streets, the rundown homes, abandoned property; no wonder everyone's trying to escape this life via Green Card.

"It feels good to give back." She tries to play it off with a little shrug. "It's a lot of hard work, but nothing like what the people here have to go through every-"

"Q, where have you been?"

You smell him before you even see his smug grin.

The bristling stench has your face crinkling in distaste as you take in the confident smirk stretched across his sunburnt face. Side glancing at you, he raises a brow and slides his muscular arm over the blonde's shoulder.

It's way too hot out here to be so close to people like that, and his odor is too horrid for him to be sucking up all of the blonde's fresh oxygen. Sharing body heat is the last thing someone needs out here in the blistering heat.

"Me and the guys have been looking everywhere for you," the guy tells her, practically ignoring your existence. "You can't just run off like that, Q."

Scrunching up her nose, she shrugs out of his hold and takes a step away from him. "I'm fine, Noah," she mutters, glancing at you with a small smile. "I was just talking to my new friend..."

She looks at you with hopeful eyes, so you assume this is where you insert your name. You steel yourself, plastering on a fake smile. "Santana," you offer, holding your bottle of water up to your lips for a quick sip.

The guy nods with a crooked smile as he runs a hand through his mohawk; there's also some light stubble scattered across the lower part of his face, and you grimace, because the beard he's trying to grow just looks unnatural for some reason.

"Hola, me llamo Noah, but you can call me Puck," he says, winking in your direction. You really want to punch him in the face. Your hand tenses into a fist, but you keep it down and at your side. "Oh shit, I mean, pero tu puedes...Q, how do you say call?"

The blonde sends you an apologetic look. "She can speak English, Noah."

His eyes widen in surprise, and he looks at you with an arrogant grin. "Oh, why didn't you say so? Now I feel like an ass," he chuckles to himself like an ass, shaking his head as he looks back to the blonde. "Well, the bus is about to leave, so come on." He smacks her on the ass before heading off toward a small, white bus waiting on the curb of the street.

Pulling off her cap, she glares after him with a roll of her eyes. "Sorry about him, he's kind of..." she trails off, running a hand through her sweaty hair. You open your mouth to say it's fine when a red cap is placed on the top of your head. "You're face is turning red, and if you don't get out of the sun soon, you'll burn," she says in explanation when you send her a curious look. Her light hazel eyes squint under the sun now that she doesn't have a shield covering her head.

The cap is kind of sweaty, and you don't really make a habit out of wearing other people's hats, because hello, lice, but for some reason, you kind of don't mind her damp cap on your head when she smiles at you with that adorable, lopsided grin and says, "It was nice meeting you, Santana. Maybe I'll see you around."

You're not sure if it's because of your sunburn, or the blush on your cheeks, but your face feels warm all of a sudden as she sends you a shy wave before heading off towards the white bus.

"Yeah," you murmur quietly, taking another sip of your cold water. "Maybe."