It took Santana about a week to conclude that her entire job at Breadstix consisted of (1) lying and (2) selling. That was it. Lie and then sell. It was kind of fascinating to watch the whole process. She felt like she had the smoking gun on the whole conspiracy of life.

First of all, the Breadstix ads stressed that people were supposed to come and sit and stay for a long time, enjoying the warm Italian hospitality. This was the first big lie that Santana uncovered. One of the main issues emphasized in training was that she was selling experience, not product, which was some weird way of saying that she was supposed to entertain people. She was supposed to be cheerful and friendly, as if she actually lived at Breadstix and the people at her table were unexpected but welcome guests in her living room. At the same time, she was told she had to get people out the door the minute they stopped ordering. If someone turned down a dessert or another round of drinks-bam! --she was to drop that check.

Then there was the selling. The entire existence of Breadstix seemed to depend on appetizers, desserts, and frozen drinks-and these were the things she had to push. When people first sat down, she was supposed to interest them in some soup and salads. And when they were done, after Santana cleared away the plates of pesto sauce from the pasta and the remains of the meat balls, it was time to put her hands on her hips and say, "Okay. I know somebody wants dessert!" She should have just passed out the phone number of a good cardiologist.

Just to make things a little more unpleasant, management kept a scoreboard in the staff changing room (a hallway with some boxes in it), charting exactly how much money every server made each shift. Most of the guys, she noticed, got really competitive about it, like selling ravioli bites and snow peach flavored tea was some kind of sport that required skill and prowess. Santana saw it as badgering people to buy things she didn't feel like waiting for at the bar all night, so she didn't bother too much. She felt that her soft stance on the endless breadstick issue allowed her to keep a little bit of her dignity, which was rapidly eroding because of the very worst part of her job: the birthday jig band.

There was no way Santana could have known that by answering "yes" to the bizarre question "Can you sing, play the piano or accordion?" on her job application, she would commit herself to becoming one of the official-and few- members of Breadstix's Birthday Jig Band. She soon came to the conclusion that her glee club participation and her smoking hot body were probably the only reason she was hired in the first place, since she didn't exactly seem to have the warm and friendly personality that Breadstix's was looking for. That was all Brittany. Brittany, with her bubbly and contagious personality. Brittany with her long soft blonde hair and crystal blue eyes that were warm and inviting. Brittany was perfect for this job. Santana was abruptly pulled from her thoughts when she was called into action when she heard a whooping noise and then the heavy beat of a mechanical bass drum that was mounted on the wall by the front vestibule.

She was hearing it right now, as a matter of fact. This was Breadstix's Birthday Jig Alert.

Santana swerved around a busboy carrying a heavy load of dirty dishes and ducked into the pantry. If she could just slip through and get out the fire door fast enough, she could claim she was taking her five-minute break and never heard the alert.

Brittany was right on her heels. Santana stuck herself in the corner, next to the ice cream freezer, and jammed her hands into her apron pockets.

"I'm not doing it this time," she said under her breath.

"But this one's my table," Brittany pleaded. And with that small pout Santana couldn't resist.

"I'll make you a deal."

"What?"

"Come with me to Puck's tonight," Santana said.

The alert was still banging and whooping in the background. Brittany glanced through the doorway nervously and looked at the group of other servers, who were clumping together and all looking a little pained at the thought of having to sing.

"Come on Britt-Britt…" Santana scrunched up her face. "You know you want to."

Big parties always freaked Brittany out, and she tried to get out of them whenever she could. But now that Santana had Brittany on her own, she'd found that she had a lot of leverage. It had gotten incredibly easy to convince Brittany to do things in the last week or so, now that Quinn wasn't around to protect her.

"I guess…" Brittany said.

"Say you promise."

"I…promise"

Santana held up an extended pinky to Brittany. She looked at it for a second and then latched hers with Santana's. Santana gave her a quick squeeze.

"Okay." Santana said. "Let's go."

Brittany borrowed Santana's lighter to light the candles on a small chocolate cake that was waiting on the prep counter. Santana headed out onto the floor and took her place in front of the microphone on a small raised platform in a corner of the room. Santana began belting out the tune automatically, keeping her eyes trained on Brittany as she brought out the cake. The other servers fell in behind her, letting her lead them to the birthday table. The small glow from the candles illuminated Brittany's face with such delicacy. Her baby blue eyes sparkled as she reached the table. You could always tell which one it was by looking for someone trying to slide down out of sight or covering his or her face with a pair of hands. Sure enough, there was a group of women in one of the booths, and one was slinking down, looking liker her cover in the Witness Protection Program had just been blown.

All the servers locked arms and joined Santana in singing. When it was over, all the singers skittered away as quickly as possible, like roaches when the lights come on.

Back in the safety of the pantry, Santana grabbed a dessert fork and pressed it into Brittany's hand.

"If I have to do that again," Santana said, "I want you to kill me with this."

"You can do me too," said a voice behind them.

Brittany and Santana turned. One of the other servers had come in and was slouching against the wall, demonstrating his utter contempt for the official birthday jig. He was tall but had a young-looking face. His blonde hair had overgrown a bit, sweeping down over his high forehead in a thick swag that he kept pushing back with his hand. What really stood out, though, were his lips, which were a little two big for his face. They actually looked like he could fit at least ten tennis balls.

"Kill me, I mean," he added, after a moment's thought on his remark. "I trained nights, and they were even worse. We did the song about a dozen times every shift. I'm not kidding."

He leaned forward and stared at the nametag pinned to Brittany's white-collared shirt.

"It that a duck?" he said.

"Yes thank you. I'm Brittany," Brittany said. "This is Santana."

He glanced over and looked at Santana giving her a friendly smile.

"It's nice to meet you both. I just moved her about two weeks ago with my family."

Santana leaned forward to read his tag.

"You're Sam?"

"Sam Evans. Jack Ryan, you've just boarded the Red October." He said in a deep booming voice. Brittany and Santana looked at one another and then back at Sam.

"Sean Connery," he said. "I like to do impressions."

"Uh-huh." Santana said already bored with him.

Though he made occasional attempts to turn his head and look in Santana's direction, Sam's attention was really on Brittany. This was nothing new to Santana. All guys looked at Brittany. She was candylike, adorable. They were usually a little intimidated by Santana because she was loud and assertive and she ran everything. They took Santana as a challenge. With Brittany, though, guys developed instantaneous, epic crushes-the kind that caused them to want to iron their clothes and listen to lyrics of slow songs.

The kitchen bell rang.

"Thirty-nine up," yelled a voice from somewhere behind a small opening. Two plates of bruschetta were thrown down under the heat lamps. Sam pried himself from the wall and got the two plates. He took them over to the prep counter. He grabbed a tub from the cabinet, unscrewed the lid, and poured some of the contents into two condiment cups. It oozed out in thick chunky tomato chunks.

When Sam had taken his plates out to the floor, Santana reached over and retrieved her lighter from the front pocket of Brittany's apron.

"Looks like you have a new one," she said.

"A new what?"

Santana did her best imitation of Sam leaning in and looking at Brittany's duck sticker at a very close range.

"Shut up," Brittany said. Giving Santana a slight nudge.

"What? He's cute. He kind of looks like he's one of those guys who keeps going in Boy Scouts until he's legal."

"He's fine. He seems nice."

"Oh, you're not interested."

"In…what?"

"What kind of sign do you need?" Santana said, laughing. She grabbed Brittany and wrapped her arms around her, coming in close to her face. "I love you, Brittany Pierce. Can't you see I love you?"

One of the cooks peered through the narrow kitchen window.

"Nice!" he said. "You guys dating?"

"You wish," Santana said over her shoulder. Brittany still hung limply in her arms.

"I do wish."

"Tell you what, we'll kiss for ten bucks."

"Ten bucks?"

Santana nodded. She glanced at Brittany, who was looking at Santana with amazing calmness.

The cook was going through his pockets.

"I have…six," he said.

"Sorry."

"Hold on, hold on," he said, laughing. "I think I can get four more."

"Onetime offer," Santana said sternly.

"Damn." He slid over a large piece of lasagna and spaghetti. "Forty-six."

Santana released Brittany, who stood there, seeming a little baffled.

"I'd better feed my people." Santana grabbed the two plates. "But you promised, remember?"

"I remember."

"No take backs."

Santana winked to the cook, who was still peering through the window, his face glowing an eerie red under the heat lamp.

"Stay back," she said, nodding at Brittany. "She's mine, and I have claws."