A/N: Yes, that was scissoring. ;) Thanks for all the support, guys, I really REALLY appreciate it. Love to all of you who are dissecting my words and pulling the symbolism and subtext from them. It's nice to know it doesn't go unnoticed.

Every afternoon for the next three weeks, I got a phone call from Santana. Sometimes I answered, sometimes I let it ring and called her back a few hours later, just so she knew I wasn't waiting by the phone for her. Even though I was waiting, I knew seeming overeager to hear her voice was not conducive to either of us getting through the sex to maintain our friendship.

I was only just starting to understand the term 'friends with benefits', and I wondered how so many people had found the proper balance of sex and friendship. It took me physically removing myself from her presence to render myself capable of intelligent thought once more. Was no one ever jealous, an emotion that both of us had obviously been prey to? How would I look her in the eye when she got out of Puck's car, her ponytail slightly askew, and I would know that he had probably just fucked her in the backseat?

The problem was that I couldn't look her in the eye. So I kept my distance, getting a fix from the sound of her voice once a day. I still had a friend, and she made sure I knew it, even though I was doing my damnedest to make it feel otherwise.

At first she tried pushing the issue at hand, asking me repeatedly why I'd acted so strangely. She asked about my meds and threatened to call my mother, just like she had when we were twelve. I knew she wouldn't, but the threat of it reminded me she cared. When she realized that I wasn't ready or willing to talk about it, she backed down. She didn't force me when I refused to see her during those last weeks of summer, instead spending a precious hour or two every day on the phone, just talking, like friends ought. She talked about lifeguarding at the community pool, about Puck, about Quinn and Finn and how disgustingly adorable they were together. I knew the tone she picked up when she spoke of them was laced with bitter jealousy. She and Puck were not the cutesy kind of couple, but when she talked about Quinn and Finn, it almost sounded like she wanted to be. Maybe not with Puck; she had greater goals than settling down with another Lima Loser. That was another thing she mentioned frequently during our conversations.

"One of these days, B," she'd repeat on a loop. "I'm gonna get out of this hick town. No more Lima Losers. I'll graduate, go to college, get a job and make a ton of money ordering people around."

"Sounds like you've got it all figured out, San," I would reply, knowing that I probably wouldn't go to college. I would be lucky to graduate from McKinley, at the rate I was going. I'd probably get back together with Karofsky. We'd get married at 19 and he'd work as a middle manager at a hardware store while he went to community college at night. I'd raise three kids in a house that always needed work, and we'd be divorced by the time we were 35.

See, I had big plans, too.

I often imagined the way she was sitting while we talked. I could hear the expansion and contraction of her body in her voice when she moved, heard the rustling of her sheets or the creak of her window as she opened it. I could tell when she was sitting on her bed cross-legged, and when she was in her bay window, her knees brought up to her chest. At the same time, she chided me through the phone for biting my nails, and scolded me for throwing my clothes on the floor rather than hanging them up or putting them in the hamper. This comforted me, how well we knew each other. I could hear frustration or fascination in a single breath, and she could calm me with a word. I was so sure that all best friends had this sort of sixth sense about one another. It just felt natural.

My excessive laziness (brought on by being excessively high) during the summer had kept me away from my dance studio for a few months, but in the weeks leading back to school I'd found it easier to go, especially after talking to Santana. I managed to pull myself into the studio a few times a week to train, washing away the fog of self-medication. Free form dancing was, for lack of a better term, freeing. The other students and I swayed to synth beats, our spines and arms and legs like jelly, finding a simple rhythm and just moving with it. There was no structure, no instruction, and no rules. Best of all, there was no Santana. It was my time, to shut out the entire world and forget for one moment that I was different. Just how different, I couldn't yet articulate. But I knew, especially in those beautiful moments of clarity while I danced, that something about me was different from other girls. And it revolved very heavily around Santana.

My third day back in the studio found me on the bar against the wall, watching my own motions in the floor-to-ceiling mirror. My back leg extended behind me in a long, luxurious stretch that felt like a demi arabesque. Where my front leg should have been on the floor, it was extended high in front of me, with my ankle propped on the bar. It was later in the evening, after all the classes had ended, and when I liked to be alone. The teachers usually stayed until after 10, talking to one another and relaxing after a day of young prima ballerinas prancing around their studio, so they jumped at the chance to let me use the studio without needing to supervise. I worked silently, hearing the music through the earbuds I put on when I entered. I took my leg down, switch positions, and began a quick succession of pliés to the the beat of my music, my feet planted heel to heel and my toes outward. My eyes were closed as I began to slink across the floor, low and loose, using the little I knew of ballet to chassé across the floor, one foot chasing the other in quick, deliberate movements. At the end of the room I spun sharply, hands crossed at the wrist above my head. Once, twice, three times... only to come face to face with a young Asian boy I recognized.

I stopped mid-turn and stared at the boy, who stood in the doorway of the studio with a duffel bag over his shoulder, grinning. He was barefoot, like me, wearing a tight tank top that revealed sculpted abs and sweatpants that had been cut off at the knees.

"You're good," he said, setting the bag down in the corner. "But I'm better."

I pulled the earbuds out of my ears and tucked the iPod into the front pocket of my ripped sweatshirt. I wiped my hands on the thighs of my leggings and sniffed indignantly. "I wasn't even trying. You're Mike Chang? You go to McKinley. Don't you play football?"

He nodded as he moved in front of a mirror and bent grandly into a stretch, touching his toes. "Yeah, but this is more fun." He put his hands on the flat ground and did a standing flip, ending in a twist and returning to a standing position to face me, that grin still plastered in place. He went over to the audio system on the far wall and turned on the speakers, a heavy bass beat emanating from them, followed by the deep voice of a hip-hop artist. "Brittany, right? So, Brittany, are you just going to stand there, or do you need an invitation?"

He held out his hand, and I crossed the room on my toes, like a dancer ought, and took it. He spun me faster than I anticipated, and I fell into a dip, his arm holding me up. Again, the grin. He was disarmingly charming. I arched my back to stand again and bore down on him, challenging him to dance against my lead, but he pushed back. Our bodies moved together, his hands on my hips as we both gave and took against rhythm of the music, playfully fighting one another for dominance. It was fast, heady, and unlike anything I'd experienced. I felt so confident and comfortable at the same time, like nothing outside that studio mattered.

The music ended abruptly and he pulled me into him, my hands on his chest and his arm holding me across my lower back. I looked up at him. He was taller than me, but without the girth and grit of Karofsky. He felt strong, but not rough. He was breathing hard, and the grin had faded. I realized that I, too, was out of breath. How long had we been dancing? I looked up at the clock. It was after 11, the instructors would have gone home by now, leaving me to lock up. I took a quick step back when I noticed I was still touching him in the silence.

"Wait, don't go," he begged. "Things were going really well."

"You're a great dancer, Mike," I stated quietly, backing up and feeling with my feet for my bag. "Maybe I'll see you around."

"Brittany..." He followed me and took my hand. He was surprisingly soft. I looked up at him, and I wasn't scared. I had never been alone with a boy and not been terrified before, but Mike felt nice. He felt calm.

Before I realized what I was doing I was kissing him. He was surprised, but didn't stop me, and soon he was kissing back, his hands on my waist. I needed someone - anyone - to touch me and make me believe they cared, even if it was just for a moment. He lifted me easily, putting hands under my thighs and pushing them up around his hips. He walked a few steps and then knelt. I fell backward onto one of the workout mats, him on top of me, still kissing fervently. The difference between his fingers as they pushed down my leggings and Karofsky's pushing up my skirt was stark. Karofsky has been clumsy and rough. Mike knew what he was doing, and was gentle about it. He lifted my hips for me, applied light pressure on the small of my back, and I allowed them to slip effortlessly down my thighs. He was up on his knees, looking down at me and panting as he started to undo the knot in his cut-ff sweats.

"Are you sure?" he asked, pausing. When I nodded he deftly untied the knot and reached into his duffel, pulling out his wallet and with it, a condom. I pulled him down by his tank top, making him kiss me again. As much as I wanted to feel this, to feel something, anything, I didn't want to see him naked. I hadn't seen Karofsky and it had been easy separate him from myself. If I didn't look, then it didn't have to matter. We didn't have to be having sex. It could be something else.

He pressed his hips into me and I yelped unexpectedly. He was bigger than Karofsky, but he stopped when he heard the noise, and waited. "Do you want me to stop?"

"No."

He kissed me along my jaw and down my throat to my collarbone as he moved inside me. He lasted a few minutes, then groaned and went still on top of me. I hadn't felt the overwhelming sense of satisfaction that he had, but at the same time it hadn't been the agonizing experience it had been the first time. I called it a wash and waited until he rolled over onto his back on the mat to reach for my leggings. I slid them on and stood, grabbing my bag.

"Off so soon?" he smirked, pulling his own pants back on and tossing the condom in the garbage.

"It's late," I replied tonelessly.

"Right, I see that... You should come to the end of summer party this Friday. Matt and I are hosting. You could... be my date."

I had no intention of dating Mike. I hoped, secretly, that he would transfer schools before the year started, but I knew that was an unlikely scenario. I was even less enthused about attending a party as his date. If other football players were there, then all the Cheerios would be invited, too, which meant Santana would be there. I needed more time.

"I'll think about it," I said, inwardly promising not to be within a 10 mile radius of that party, but still sounding outwardly hopeful. "Keep this to yourself, okay? Santana wouldn't be very happy with me for, um... well, you know Santana."

He smiled, nodding. "Yeah, I get your point. Just between you and me. As long as you at least consider coming to the party."

Mike left, kissing me on the cheek as he went, and I stayed to put things back in order. It was part of my deal with the instructors. I could stay late, but I needed to straighten up. After a romp on the workout mats with Mike, things needed straightening. My head needed straightening. Nothing about what had happened in the studio felt right. The dancing was wonderful, even liberating, but what it had led to felt indescribably wrong. It had been easy, yes. Easy to fall into that rhythm of take and give, then nothing but take, take, take from Mike as he was inside me. It hadn't hurt, that much I was happy about. But it hadn't felt good, either. I'd heard these stories from girls at school, talking about how good their boyfriends made them feel. Was it because he wasn't my boyfriend? I didn't know him that well, maybe that was a factor. Maybe I needed to love a boy before it felt good. But plenty of those girls didn't love the boys they slept with, so I just didn't know what my problem was.

I walked home in silence, trying to use the quiet to clear my head. There were too many thoughts, too many theories and ideas. I got home, took three pills, and fell into a dark, dreamless sleep.

Friday arrived, and I still had no intention of going to Mike's party. Santana called me as usual in the afternoon, and we talked for a while before she sighed heavily.

"There's a party tonight," she said casually. "Puck asked me to go with him."

I tried to sound surprised. "A party? Really? Are you gonna go?"

"No. My parents are taking me out to my grandmother's in Cleveland for the weekend. We're leaving in a few hours. I won't be back until Sunday."

"That sucks, San," I replied, suddenly wondering if I should go to the party after all. "I hadn't heard about it before now, so I guess I wasn't invited."

"It was going to be lame anyway," she muttered, sounding slightly indignant. "Mike Chang is hosting. That kid has zero game."

I let out a small snort and it made her giggle as well. We were laughing at two very different things, but it still felt good, laughing with her. I cleared my throat and said, "Call me when you get back, I guess."

We hung up and I considered, once again, going to the party. The only reason I'd been hesitant before was because I'd assumed that Santana would be there. Knowing that she wasn't going made my decision a little easier. I could go, make sure Mike knew that he wasn't my date, and have a good time.

I took a couple pills before I left my house, and wandered over to Mike's in a haze. I got there late, just before midnight, and the house was thudding. The music could be heard halfway down the block, but no one inside seemed to care. I wandered in, a little off kilter, and was immediately handed a drink by Matt Rutherford, Mike's co-host for the night. I sniffed it, but my senses were dulled by the pills, so I upended the cup and swallowed its contents without really tasting it. Matt gave a loud cheer and slapped me on the back when I'd finished, then handed me another before returning to the party.

In what used to be Mike's living room, the lights were out and a throng of people were dancing to house music under a strobe light affixed to an empty bookcase. Feeling the effects of the obviously strong drink mixed with the pills I'd taken, I threw myself into the fray and closed my eyes, just feeling the beat. I pressed my body against anyone close to me, not caring who, and began reaching for more. A pair of lips pressed to mine and I opened my eyes. A female face was next to mine, her hands on my cheeks holding me in place. She was a Cheerio, a new recruit, but I didn't remember her name in the moment. She clung to me desperately, her vodka-soaked tongue roaming my mouth. She needed me, just like I needed to feel, so I kissed her back. The sensation of kissing another girl - a girl other than Santana - was breathtaking. I had experiences to compare it all to now. Kissing boys I didn't like, boys I did, and girls I was pretty sure I loved. Now this girl, whom I didn't know personally, but rather instinctively, kissed me and it was an entirely new sensation. The boys were okay, but I hadn't had any visceral reaction to them. They didn't make me feel like my spine wasn't there. Santana made me feel whole, like the when I was with her, kissing her, I didn't even need to breathe. This girl, with her hands roving across my chest, sent a shiver through my ribcage and a tingling sensation between my legs.

I pushed her away sharply, and she immediately latched onto one of the football players and resumed her desperate clinging. I stumbled backward, directly into Matt, who held me up and pulled me into the less crowded hallway.

"Are you okay?" he shouted over the music. I pulled him closer, so his mouth was in my ear, and he shouted it again.

"No," I said, not loud enough for him to hear me. "No, I'm not okay."

The strange girl on the dance floor had affected me more than she should have. It was just a kiss, and yet it felt like so much more. Kissing, I reasoned, shouldn't feel like anything. Kissing shouldn't matter. To prove my own point I pulled Matt close to me, pulling at his shirt so his body was pressed against mine and I was pinned between him and the wall.

"Kiss me," I demanded, yelling into his ear and smiling as a euphoric wave between drunk and high washed over me. "Kiss me, or I'll find someone else who will."

He did, and hard. The back of my head banged against the wall and bouncing and I saw stars. He fumbled as he stuck his hand up the front of my shirt and grabbed my breast roughly. I flashed back to Karofsky, with his sandpaper fingers, and I shoved him away. He stumbled and glared at me, wiping the saliva from the corner of his mouth before throwing his hands up and walking away.

Nothing felt right. The world was spinning. I needed to sit down. I found a staircase and plopped down, resting my head against the wall and willing my mind to stop working. Santana. Karofsky. Mike. The new Cheerio. Now Matt. I had that toxic feeling again, like I was coated in oil and floundering in open sea. I was drowning, and it was my own fault.

"Brittany!"

I felt a sharp slap to my face and my eyes opened. Mike was standing over me, concerned but slightly drunk. I could smell the beer on his breath. His hand returned to my face and I winced, not wanting to be slapped again, but he took my chin gently between his thumb and forefinger.

"Should I call Santana? To come get you?"

I shook my head violently and stood, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt to pull myself up. "I was never here," I hissed into his ear. "You make sure everyone knows... I was never here. If she found out..."

What? What would Santana do if she found out what I'd done at the party that night? I was unprepared for the answer, so it was easier - that goddamn word - to just make sure everyone understood that whatever it was Santana would do, it would not be good.

Mike took me by the elbow and stabilized me. "Of course," he nodded shakily. "I'll make sure."

I patted him on the shoulder and swayed. "You're a nice guy, Mike. You don't deserve this mess."

I kissed him on the cheek and stumbled for the door, wandering out into the night.

A/N: I'm seriously in need of a beta. This was originally going to go straight back to sophomore year, then I realized I had a whole facet of B's character to establish before we could get back to school. It was stressful. But, at least I now have another chapter nearly finished. Review, and it'll be up quicker. ;)