Chapter 7

Her bedroom was full of black things, just like her jacket and book bag. There were black sheets on the bed, black pillows, a black dresser and a black chair at her desk, a black lamp, a big Sony Bravia on the side wall and a Che Guevera poster on the other. Even the walls were black. It was like an underground cocoon for a black butterfly.

"Wow, you're rich," I remarked.

Santana made a face, scratching the tip of her perfect nose with one finger. "No, my parents are rich. My father's a doctor."

She pulled the bedroom door shut and then we were closed in. In her cocoon.

I counted the pieces of clothing on her floor. One, two, three, seven. "Don't you have to clean your room?" I asked. "My mom gives me gold stars for every chore I do. When I get ten stars she buys me ice cream. The good kind."

"That's great," Santana said with a laugh.

"Yeah."

She bent down to pick up the stuff I was staring at. She tossed them in her huge closet, right back on the floor.

I was staring at her ass. Staring, staring, staring. I looked away and took a seat on the edge of her bed, pressing my shoes into the fake zebra skin rug beneath it. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?" I asked her.

She sighed. "Nope, it's just me," her sentence going up at the end just like it had for Mrs. Templeton.

"I have a sister."

"Great," she said. But her voice was tired. She didn't care. "Okay, quick, favorite band. Or singer." Santana gave me a grin, walking over to her stereo. "You know, since you're in the Glee Club you must know loads about music."

I shrugged. "Not really. I dance." I chewed at my index finger. "But I like eighties music, I guess."

"What? Seriously?"

"It's what my parents like."

She came up in front of me and put her palms on both of my shoulders. "Yeah, but what do you like?"

I didn't answer her 'cuz I didn't know. I'd always just followed what everyone else around me was into- my mom, my dad when he wasn't sick, Brosnan, Quinn...

"Okay, so it seems like the art education at McKinley is like superlacking. So I'm gonna play some music for you now," Santana replied, wandering back to her stereo and sliding a CD inside.

"Stevie Nicks?" I asked, gazing up at her.

She shook her head. "No. Something else." She pressed PLAY and the room filled up with the opening chords of a sad guitar and a sad piano, twin voices singing:

"You only know what I want you to,

I know everything you don't want me to..."

Santana gave me a soft smile and pulled herself alongside me on the bed, her narrow thighs scraping mine. She dug her palms into the black sheets and stared off into the distance as the song continued.

"I wish you'd hold me when I turn my back,

The less I give the more I get back...

Ooh, your hands can heal, your hands can bruise,

I don't have a choice but I still choose you,

I don't love you

but I always will..."

I turned my head to sneak a glance at her. Her eyes were on the stereo, the blinking numbers of the CD track, her dark eyes filling with tears. She pressed her fingers deeper into the sheets and hung her head. I watched one tear slide down her cheek and strike her chin. She sniffed, quickly wiping it away and rubbing it onto the bed.

I thought maybe she'd switch the song off then, but she didn't. The guy's voice and the girl's voice came together at the end, singing so hard and so beautifully that it sounded like they would start crying at any moment. Just like Santana.

"I don't love you

but I always will..."

And then it was over and Santana jumped up and ran over to the stereo to press STOP.

"That was beautiful," I whispered.

"Yeah, it's my favorite song right now. It's like those guys are inside of my head." She bit her lip and peered at me from across the room, pushing a black strand of hair out of her wet eyes. "Fuck," she spoke with a choked laugh. "I didn't mean to cry. That was fucking lame and loserish."

I stood up and tiptoed over her zebra skin rug. I placed one hand on her arm. "No, it wasn't," I said softly. She twisted her head into my hand. Her hair smelled like watermelon.

"Yeah, I guess Rachel Berry probably cries all the time in your stupid Glee Club. She's in my math class with that Finn guy. I swear, they are forever eye-sexing each other, but it's so not hot at all. She looks like she'd jump out of the window crying if he ignored her for one day." Her eyes caught my fingers, still settled on her shirt. "Whatever." She pulled away from me.

My hand fell in front of her. I stretched it out , an open palm. "Take it," I said.

"What?"

"Come on, take it."

"Why?" she asked, irritated.

"It's a dance. Come on."

"I don't wanna dance."

"Come on," I repeated.

She stared at my hand for what felt like an hour, then finally closed her fingers around mine. They rubbed little hot sparks over my skin. I swallowed down those memories of Quinn in the locker room.

"Okay, I'll show you what to do," I said, clearing my throat. My eyes on hers, I dragged her into me and lifted her other hand into the air. My left foot moved to the outside of her right one. I felt her ankle graze mine.

She glanced at both of our bare feet. "No, I can't dance," she spoke sharply, letting me go. "Anyway, you should go. It's like seven. Your family probably has dinner waiting for you."

I let my empty hands fall at my side. "Okay," I said. But it wasn't true. My mom was always too tired to cook and my dad was always in bed.

Santana moved towards her dresser, picking up a tube of gloss and smearing it over lips. Her back was to me. She kept her back to me so I couldn't see her face. "You know, I don't think your Glee Club is that fucking lame," she replied. "And I don't really wanna start a rock band. I hate everyone. Why the hell would I wanna sing with them?" She twisted the cap back on her gloss and dropped it on the dresser, next to her lamp. "I wish I could sing somewhere though. It's the only time I really feel happy."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"My mom hates my singing," she spoke softly. "She says it's fucking useless and stupid. But music is like the only place I can escape. You know? Like the only place I can be away from her and feel safe."

"What do you mean? Why do you need to be away from her?" I asked.

Her black hair fell around her shoulders, her fingers running themselves over the wood of her dresser. "Whatever. She just wants me to find some hot, rich guy and marry him."

"You don't wanna marry a hot guy?" I asked, my eyes drifting up off of the floor and onto her thighs. Her ass.

She whirled around and sneered. "I'm only sixteen."

"Oh..."

"I'll walk you downstairs," she said, picking up my book bag and handing it to me.

I took it by one strap and clutched it to my chest as she opened her bedroom door.