Marley doesn't know what to make of Santana. The young woman constantly wears a leather jacket, tight fitting tops, and jeans that accentuate her curves. She has snakes tattooed on both of her arms and a butterfly on her left toe. Around her fellow music majors, she acts tough and tells people exactly where they can shove their hideous tastes in clothes, music, and whatever else she happens to dislike at the current moment.

Yet there is another side to the Latina. There are times when she will play the piano for Marley and the tough bitch exterior that she seems to be cultivating melts away. In front of those eighty eight keys and the sleek shine of a Steinway, Santana Lopez becomes unrecognizable. As soon as she begins a Schubert sonata or a Brahms intermezzo, her tense face becomes her peaceful as she closes her eyes and begins to sway to the rhythm.

Her entire body becomes attuned to the music that she is playing. Many times Marley sits in the darkened auditorium and feels it washing over her in waves. Santana is trying to speak to her through someone else's creation, but she only hears everything at face value. She cannot look into the depths because the dark-haired Latina has never told her what it is about this music that speaks to her. She only gives her the messages and thinks that the brunette will be able to decipher them for herself.

One afternoon in late November, the two of them are sitting in a Mexican restaurant close to campus. It is the kind of place that has sombreros and statues of the Virgin of Guadalupe as part of its décor. The food, however, is delicious and the steaming potato burrito in Marley's pale hands is one of the best things she has ever tasted.

It's so mouth wateringly good that she can't restrain herself from ordering a second while Santana is still working her way through a fish taco.

"Don't they have Mexican food in Lima?" Santana asks as she watches Marley stuffing her cheeks with the burrito.

"They do," Marley smiles, "but I don't think that you can call Taco Bell a Mexican restaurant."

"No," Santana laughs. "You can't. I know. I'm Mexican."

"You don't say?" Marley laughs.

"Yo soy Mexicana," Santana sneers as she points at herself. "Or that's what people tell me I am, anyway."

"Has your family always lived in Los Angeles?" Marley asks out of curiosity.

"I guess," Santana shrugs. "We were here long before the white people showed up and took all of our land."

"Your land? I thought California belonged to the Indians."

"That's what they teach you in public school," Santana notes sarcastically, "and, yes, some of it was Indian land before the whites showed up, but my ancestors owned large tracts of land here in California that were deeded to them by the royal viceroy in Mexico City."

"How much land did they own?" Marley's eyes grow wide.

"A lot," Santana's reply is laconic. "Not the entire state, of course, but they owned a lot. Then the Forty Niners showed up, squatted on it, and took most of it away. I mean almost all of Los Angeles was owned by a dozen families that settled here in the eighteenth century."

Marley doesn't know what to add to this. She knows very little about California's history. She learned about the Gold Rush in elementary school and she has some knowledge about what happened to the Indians because she watched a movie about Ishi, but this is completely new territory for her. Nobody had ever told her that the land on top of which she and Santana were sitting had actually been owned by the Latina's family centuries before and that it had been taken away when the Americans had swept into the basin after 1849.

She wants to know more, but she hesitates to ask more questions. There is something in the way Santana constantly crosses and re-crosses her arms that tells her to stay away. There is probably too much pain, she thinks, or there might be some unfathomable darkness that she won't be able to plumb. Perhaps, a secret that cannot be talked about simply because it would be better off forgotten.

"You play the piano really well," Marley changes the subject. "You're a different person when you're in front of it."

"I take out all of my anger on the ivories," Santana shrugs. "Believe me, I have every right to be angry."

"Yet you seem so peaceful."

"That's what music does to people. Calms you down, straightens out your nerves, and then you can do whatever the fuck you want. It's like therapy except it's free. Hell, the only money that you ever have to spend is for sheet music and, around here, you can get it dirt cheap if you know where to look."

"I only play what I brought with me from Lima," Marley shrugs. "There's that Philip Glass piece you hate, some Schubert, and some other stuff."

"I love Schubert," Santana's eyes widen. "I've played his music my entire life. I can't get enough of him."

"It's good."

"Are you fucking kidding me, Marley? It's not just great. It's some of the best music ever written."

Santana turns into an evangelical preacher before Marley's eyes. She talks about Schubert for hours. She has recordings at home of every piece he ever wrote. "Music flooded out of him," she explained. "I mean it was like a virtual flood. Once he started writing, he didn't stop until the day he died and music was like therapy for him too."

"Maybe that's why there's so much longing in it," Marley suggests.

"It's not just longing," Santana becomes annoyed. "There's also a lot of sadness in it. Darkness, too."

"He doesn't seem to have had a happy life."

"Ya think? His mother died when he was young, his father hated him because he chose to do what he wanted, he couldn't get married because he was poor, and his friends all left him when he became sick."

"Is your life like that?" Marley asks.

"Not really," the Latina shakes her head. "I mean I grew up in a bad neighborhood, got shit from my parents when I came out, but they approved of me being a music major. My mother said that I could always go to nursing school if it didn't work out. You?"

"My dad left us before I was born. My mom raised me by herself. I don't have any friends and I wish I could come out, but I can't."

"You just came out to me," Santana smiles.

"That's not the same," Marley shakes her head. "You're my friend and I feel safe around you, but there's someone in my life who would burn me like a witch if she knew."

"Your mom?"

"No. My roommate."

"Do you like her?"

"Yes," Marley admits candidly. "I like her a lot. She's a big help to me."

"Why don't you just tell her?" Santana has become very practical. Almost didactic.

"I can't just tell her."

"Why not?"

"She barely talks to me."

"Then get her to talk to you."

"What?"

"Look," Santana leans over the table. "If you really like this girl, you need to put your feelings on the damn table and tell her. If she doesn't want you, that's her loss."

"She's already told me that she doesn't think of me like that. She sees lesbianism as a sin."

"Please," Santana waves it away. "She sees it as a sin because she's never had any. Honestly, that's what I thought until I met my ex."

"How many exes have you had?" Marley cocks her head curiously.

"Enough," Santana shakes her head. "You?"

"I've only had one."

"And?"

"Her mother took her away."

"That sucks," Santana sighs. "Some people just don't get it."

"It's not like we did anything. We were just kissing in a closet when one of the janitors found us. We weren't even full on making out."

"I don't get it," Santana moves her head from side to side. "Other people can do whatever PDA they want wherever the fuck they want and yet we're always the ones that get the shaft. It's like we're not acceptable, but everyone else is."

"My therapist says that love and hate are two sides of the same coin."

"Your therapist?" Santana laughs.

"Yes," Marley's voice is matter of fact and quiet. "I've been seeing her for over a month. She's very good."

Marley doesn't know why it makes Santana giggle even harder. Doesn't everyone go to a therapist when they have mental problems? Isn't it common to ask someone else to help you out when you need it? She doesn't get angry as she watches her friend becoming convulsed in hysterics. She understands that there are some people who simply cannot accept that sometimes help is the only thing that another person needs.

Marley's become stony and Santana stops laughing. "I'm sorry," she says without a whiff of sarcasm. "I just don't understand."

"Understand what?"

"How you can go and spend one hour a week in the office of a complete stranger?"

"I have problems."

"What kind of problems?"

"I had a psychotic break," Marley says in a whisper so that nobody else can hear.

Santana inspects her finger nails for a moment.

"A psychotic break," she repeats.

"Yes."

"Did they pump you full of meds?" the dark-haired girl's eyebrows rise in concern.

"Yes. I'm on an anti-psychotic right now. I hate it, but I can't stop taking it."

"Of course, you can. Just take the pills and flush them down the toilet."

"I can't," Marley sets her jaw. "If I don't take them… I could be dead."

"Dead?"

"Dead."

They sit quietly for a few minutes and then walk towards the campus together. Santana stares at the ground the entire time. She doesn't say anything. Marley just vacantly stares at the houses and cars in the surrounding neighborhood. Somewhere out there, someone has turned up a stereo so that the entire block can hear their horrid taste in Ke$ha.

They reach Marley's dorm and Santana looks at her for a moment. "Be safe," she says as she squeezes Marley's hand. "If you need anything, call me."

Marley hurries up the stairs to her room and finds Kitty sprawled on the couch reading her chemistry textbook. As soon as she enters, the blonde looks up and stares right through her.

"Hi," Marley says as she opens the door to her room and drops her purse on the bed.

"I don't like your new friend," Kitty spits.

"I'm sorry?" Marley says as she comes back in.

The blonde is serious. Her cheeks are rose red.

"I don't like your new friend," Kitty repeats.

"Why?" Marley asks. "You don't even know her."

"She has tattoos," Kitty points out.

"That's it?"

"No. She's a bad influence on you."

"I just listen to music with her and we go out to eat sometimes, Kitty. How can she be a bad influence?"

"Are you stupid?" Kitty asks. "Don't you know that Santana Lopez has a reputation at this school?"

"A reputation?" Marley's eyes widen.

"Yes," Kitty nods. "She takes advantage of girls in delicate situations and dumps them when she's had enough."

"Kitty, she's just a friend."

"Just a friend?" Kitty laughs. "She's not just a friend. I saw the way she looked at you when the two of you were walking down the quad earlier this afternoon. She's a predator, Marley. Just stay the fuck away from her."

"Why do you care?" Marley asks stubbornly. "Until today, you never said anything about her. You didn't even talk to me."

"Just stay away from her," Kitty repeats.