Chapter 37 – The Days We Lived
Santana P.O.V.
My alarm wakes me up after not nearly enough sleep.
Last night had been a long one. Between tossing and turning all night, and that bizarre interaction with my mother, to say that I got an hour or two of sleep would be liberal. Either way, I had been the one who argued that we go back to our normal routine this morning, so when my alarm goes off at 6:30, prompting me to get ready for school, I do so without an argument.
I roll out of my bed and flop into the hall. Rachel's bedroom door is still tightly shut. It is not like her to sleep this late, especially not on a school day, but I choose not to wake her up.
A couple steps into the hallway, I start to smell something burning.
"Mom?" I question, rushing the last couple of steps into the kitchen where I find my mother standing next to the oven. Which is on.
A soft sheen of smoke hangs in the air. It is not nearly enough to set the smoke detectors off, but the fact that my mother is attempting to cook is alarming enough. I know that she is desperately trying to prove that she is capable as a mother, but this seems extreme.
When she finally turns to me, things only get weirder. She has a spatula in one hand and a wooden spoon in the other. She is even wearing an apron around her waist. I didn't know we owned an apron…
"Santana, I didn't see you there," my mother jumps, turning around to reveal a frying pan full of scrambled eggs that somehow look raw and burned at the same time. "Do you want some eggs?"
I glance uncertainly at her. I notice for the first time that underneath her apron, she is wearing a light purple dress that cuts off at the knee. She has taken a shower, brushed her hair, and has even put on makeup. She still looks exhausted, though.
"Sure," I agree to try her breakfast despite my better judgment because she looks proud that she at least tried.
I lower myself into my regular chair at the dining room table and let her make me a plate. The eggs taste like nothing I have ever tasted before, but with a generous helping of ketchup, I barely notice the unexplainable flavor.
"Are they okay?" my mother asks, sitting down across from me. She doesn't have a plate of her own, only a steaming mug of coffee.
"They're fine," I tell her, taking a bite as though trying to prove myself. I chew slowly, watching her take generous gulps of her coffee.
"Is your sister awake yet?"
"I don't think so. Her door was still closed when I woke up."
I watch my mother swallow as her eyebrows raise in a strange combination of both concern and surprise. Rachel is usually the first person awake out of any of us.
"What time is Quinn coming to pick you up?" she asks with a sigh. She is wondering whether she should wake Rachel up or whether to just let her skip school.
"In about thirty minutes," I reply, checking my watch.
The question of what to do is still dancing inside of my mother's eyes when Rachel's door opens, and my sister walks shyly into the dining room. She is already dressed, wearing a skirt, black tights, and a wool sweater that is big enough to cover the majority of the cast on her arm.
"What's going on?" Rachel fidgets, tucking a strand of chestnut colored hair behind her ear. "Are you cooking?"
"Breakfast," my mother beams proudly, ignoring the tone of skepticism in Rachel's voice as she shuttles my sister into the seat next to me and puts a plate down in front of her.
"Come on, it's not that bad," my mother insists, noting the tone of skepticism in Rachel's face.
Rachel looks down at the heaping plate. In a desperate attempt to put some meat on my sister's bones, my mother has given her enough food to last her the entire day.
After breakfast, I rush to dress myself and then waste ten minutes staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. My right eye is still deep shades of blue and purple where Andrew had hit me, but the swelling had gone down enough that I can at least open it again. The pain is not so bad anymore, either. I had almost forgotten all about it. Now that I am facing the prospect of returning to school, it is on the forefront of my mind.
A knock on the bathroom door effectively pulls me back into reality. I turn only to find my mother standing in the doorway with her makeup bag in her hands and a presumptive look on her face.
"Do you mind?" she requests permission to enter. "The light just went out in my bathroom."
"Sure," I shrug, shifting to make room for her at the counter.
The two of us look at our reflections simultaneously. I notice for the first time that my mother and I are the exact same height. I always assumed that I was shorter, but that is only because I slouch, and years of theater training has given my mother a posture well-suited for the Gods.
It makes me wonder why we have never done this before as a family, done each other's makeup, picked out clothes to wear, watched corny movies on television while binging on terrible-for-us food…
Every other mother-daughter combination seemed to do this. Even Noah did this with his mom. Briefly, I wonder whose responsibility it is to create those moments, mine or hers.
"Do you have any recommendations for a black eye?" I ask her after a moment, eyeing my imperfection closely through the mirror.
"Oh honey…" my mother breathes uncertainly. "Maybe we should wait another day or two before sending you and Rachel back to school. We can wait until the two of you are completely better."
"We're ready mom," I insist. "We'll be fine."
"Okay then," my mother nods through a deep breath. She still doesn't sound so sure. "I guess that I'm just a little bit nervous is all."
"I'll watch out for her."
"I know you will," my mother nods. "But who's gonna watch out for you?"
I swallow. "I'll be okay," I tell her, but my voice has grown meek. "We have to do this eventually."
"That doesn't mean it's not gonna suck." She smirks at me, nudging me with her hip. I nod my head, but fall silent, allowing the two of us to focus on the messes that have become of our faces. Neither of us do a particularly good job. We might as well have not tried at all.
The familiar honk of a BMW coming from the street has me rushing to finish up. Rachel has been ready since she had come out of her bedroom. She is still sitting at the dining room table, picking at the last of her breakfast as I race out of the bathroom with my mother, the two of us running in circles trying to gather the last of our belongings.
The chaos is honestly a nice change of pace. It makes things feel like they are finally going back to normal again, even though we all know that they are not.
Before we leave, my mother hugs us both for so long that Quinn has to honk again just to get her to let us go. I can tell that she is nervous and disappointed that we have to part ways. When Quinn pulls away from the curb, she stands in the driveway and waves us off until we disappear down the block. Somehow, the further away we get from her, the sadder she looks. I can tell this whole thing is killing her.
Quinn talks to us continuously throughout the entire drive. The conversations are all one-sided and full of meaningless banter. I can tell that she is trying to distract us and that she doesn't even mind that nobody is answering her, she just continues to chat away about absolutely nothing. By the time we get to school, and she stops, I find that I actually miss her voice, which has become a strange symbol of comfort.
At school, we are a little late, so the parking lot is already packed. Luckily, Noah had unofficially reserved Quinn a spot, threatening anybody who took it with physical violence.
It is starting to get cold outside, meaning less people are lingering outside, which is a relief. Still, there are a few people fighting the changing seasons. I spot the popular kids, dressed in their letterman jackets and winter Cheerio uniforms, the goth kids chain-smoking in the corner next to the Welcome to William McKinley sign, and the band geeks lugging heavy instruments through the side door of the arts wing…
The day seems so normal, but normal has become an impossibly fine line for me lately. The only purpose these kids serve me now is to remind me that time has actually not stopped in the last week. In fact, it only seems to have moved faster.
Quinn gets out of the car first. Rachel and I move slower than normal because every few steps, Rachel has to stop to pull her oversized sweater a little bit further down her cast, making sure it remains hidden. She is wearing a hat, which she never does, to hide the bandage covering the stitches in the front and back of her head. Quietly, I thought that a baseball hat would only attract more attention to herself, but I didn't tell her that because she doesn't need to hear it today.
"Relax," I whisper, falling into step with her.
"I'm fine," she tells me, but the fear is prominent inside of her voice.
"And I'm Barbra Streisand," I roll my eyes, but utilizing her idol seems to have its desired effect as her face softens.
"You hardly have the range," she smiles sheepishly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. I smirk at her. This is the Rachel I know.
"You'll be fine today, you know," I tell her, wrapping my arm around her shoulder and pulling her in close to my side.
"How do you know?"
"Because you're Rachel Corcoran, that's why."
My answer is not an answer at all. Rachel shoots me a hesitant look. Sighing, I stop walking. I turn Rachel around so that she has to look me square in the eye. I look at her, really look at her, for the first time all morning. She looks so nervous that I'm afraid she might cry.
The closer we get to the school, the more I notice the way that everybody seems to be staring at us. I turn Rachel's back to the crowd, but she seems to notice it anyway. Her face has turned bright red.
It used to be that Rachel was one of those kids who could slip through a school day relatively unnoticed. Still, there is a fine line between being unique and being odd, and this latest incident seems to have catapulted Rachel straight over the edge of it. Small towns may not come equipped with a lot of people, but for what they lack in population, they seem to make up for with gossip. I have no idea what my classmates know.
The moment that thought crosses my mind, I realize that it is not Rachel the onlookers are staring at, it's me. I had almost forgotten. This is my first day back at school since turning Lindsay Constigan's face into minced meat. Bizarrely, the thought comforts me. Maybe they don't know anything about Rachel at all. Hell, I wonder if they even realized that she was gone.
"It's me…" I breathe, turning to Rachel, a vast smile of relief on my face that makes my sister look at me like I am crazy. "You'll be fine, Rachel. It's me that they're staring at, not you. I bet everybody will be too busy trying to get me back for Lindsay to worry about you."
Rachel swallows heavily. "What if they hurt you?"
"Don't worry," I smirk at her, shaking my head. "They can't touch me anymore."
Rachel stares up at me and nods. I don't think she ever considered things from this perspective, but she realizes that I have a point. To put things into perspective, high school is nothing.
The bell rings overhead. I haven't even made it to my locker yet to pick up my books. I look regretfully towards Rachel, apologetic that we will have to turn our separate ways so quickly. I suddenly find myself wishing that Rachel was a little older or I was a little younger, so we could at least have some classes together. At least she will have Quinn.
"I guess I'll see you later," Rachel waves me off, trying to sound stronger than her nervous expression implies.
"If you need anything, call me, okay?"
"I'll be fine," she insists.
"Just in case," I shrug, reiterating because I know that she is way too stubborn to ever do it.
I watch as she walks slowly down the hall and disappears into the crowd much too quickly for my liking. After that, I am on my own.
I walk slowly towards my locker. The late bell hasn't rung yet, but the crowd in the hallway is already starting to thin out as people head to their homeroom.
Through the corners of my eyes, I find myself searching for a familiar face, but I feel my heart drop a little more with every step that I take without seeing anybody.
"Who socked you, Corcoran?"
I turn over my shoulder, struggling to control a gasp when the first familiar face I see isn't one I want to see, but a group of Cheerios.
I recognize the one who had spoken as Courtney Maddow, who has always been Lindsay's right hand.
"Hello, are you deaf?" Courtney asks when I do not say anything. "I asked who punched you? I want to know so I can shake their hand."
She taunts me, punctuating her words slowly, articulating every syllable like she is speaking to a toddler.
I roll my eyes. Most days, I can easily ignore the Cheerios, but today I am having an off day, which means that Courtney gets under my skin immediately.
I feel my blood begin to boil as my fingers twitch and clench into fists. There is no way that I can do this again. I can't fall for their bait or let my emotions take over. If I get suspended again, who knows what CPS will do, never mind the fact that I will probably get expelled…
"Whatever," I breathe, rolling my eyes. I turn my back on Courtney and her friends, trying to walk away while I still can.
"Where the hell do you think you're going, Corcoran?" Courtney grabs me by the shoulder, pulling me back to finish what she had started.
Understandably tense about anybody putting their hands on me these days, I rip myself quickly out of her grip and shove her away from me.
"Not today, Courtney," I warn her. I almost add a soft please to the end of my sentence but swallow it at the last moment. The last thing I need to do right now is to come across as desperate in front of this lot.
For the first time, I notice that Lindsay is here too. She looks terribly uncomfortable, probably because she knows exactly who socked me, as Courtney so gracefully phrased it. I can tell just by looking at the other Cheerios that Lindsay hasn't told a soul about my story. Somehow, our mutual understanding helps to calm me down.
"You're psychotic, Corcoran," Courtney presses her face into mine. I somehow refrain from reminding her that she is the one who had started this, unprovoked.
"You're welcome to your opinion, Courtney," I roll my eyes. "Like assholes, everybody has one."
The dark-haired girl's eyes narrow, perplexed. It takes her a moment to piece together the fact that I had been making fun of her.
"Do you want to say that again?" she challenges as soon as she figures it out.
"Do you want me to talk slower this time so that you can understand all the big words?" I taunt.
Courtney steps forward with a look on her face like she is preparing to hit me, but before she can, Lindsay steps forward and intervenes.
"Shut up, Courtney."
Lindsay steps forward and defends me in front of all her friends. Being a bearer of truth always has a tendency to make your backbone a little bit stronger. I learned that a long time ago. Lindsay knows it now.
"What, you're defending her now?" Courtney gasps, turning away from me and towards her best friend with a shocked expression on her face.
"It's just getting a little played out, isn't it?" Lindsay asks.
"But… but what she did to you…" Courtney stammers. "How are you siding with her?"
"I'm siding with whatever doesn't get what's left of my Cheerios squad suspended for the rest of the season a week before Nationals," Lindsay retorts.
"Whatever," Courtney rolls her eyes before turning away from her captain, so fast that her hair whips around and smacks her in the face.
She storms off down the hallway. Half of the Cheerios follow her. The other half wait for Lindsay's instruction, guiding her. On the way past, Lindsay turns over her shoulder and smiles sadly at me, like people do to silently say I'm sorry.
After they are gone, I stand in the middle of the hallway for some time and fume quietly, trying to control myself before I can lose it completely.
"Santana Corcoran!" I am just building the energy to make my way to class when I hear a familiar voice calling my name.
"I know, I know, I'm running late, I'm sorry, Coach." I turn towards Coach Sylvester, anticipating an earful.
"It's not that," the cheerleading coach waves off my tardiness. This somehow worries me even more. "I want to see you in my office."
"Right now?" I scowl. I wonder if she is going to yell at me for getting into it with her Cheerios. Again. I wonder if she is going to say anything about the fact that it had been her who had initially called CPS. I wonder if she even knows we know.
"Yes, right now," she tells me, wavering forward. "Come on, your sister is already in there waiting for us."
I feel the blood rush out of my head and down to my feet, leaving me dizzy. My heart immediately starts to speed up, so fast that I wonder if I am having a heart attack.
"What happened?" I ask, my voice tight.
"She's fine," Coach Sylvester adds quickly, trying to settle me down. "I just want to talk to the two of you."
I push past the coach without another word. She had been the one to invite me to her office, but I am the one who ends up leading her.
I push into Coach Sylvester's office, which somehow feels different. I have been in here a million times before, but usually, it is only to be yelled at. This time, while the mood in the air is still thick, it is thick in a somber way as opposed to the usually angry one.
In front of the coach's desk, Rachel is already sitting down. She is sunk low inside of her seat. When she turns over her shoulder to look at me coming in, I notice that she looks terrified.
"Sit, Santana," the coach invites, gesturing towards the empty seat besides Rachel. I swallow, but accept it, watching Coach Sylvester very closely as she goes to walk behind her desk.
While her back is turned, I risk looking over towards Rachel. My eyebrows are raised, silently asking her what this is all about. Rachel reads the question in my eyes and shrugs.
"I'm sure you know why I called you in here today," the coach states, her voice remarkably neutral as she makes herself comfortable inside of the ridiculously oversized chair that she keeps behind her desk.
"Um… I actually don't think we do," Rachel answers quietly for the two of us.
"I know what happened," Coach Sylvester tells us, painfully blunt.
I freeze, stunned silent by the revelation. Next to me, Rachel has also tensed up.
"The school received a call from Child Protective Services on Friday afternoon."
I swallow and look at Rachel again. Somehow, she looks even more confused than she had before.
"No offense Coach, but why is it you that we are meeting with?" I ask. I don't mean to sound rude. Honestly, I am just curious as to why Rachel and I are sitting here discussing this with a cheerleading coach when a guidance counselor or the school principal might seem more appropriate.
"I am not supposed to be having this conversation with you," she admits. Her bright blue eyes pierce deeply, somehow into both Rachel's and mine at the same time. "The school would prefer that we all go about our days pretending like nothing happened to the two of you. I disagree with that logic."
"How much do you know?" I stumble over the question. It is my way of testing the waters. I need to know what she knows. More importantly, I need to know what the rest of the school knows.
"Not very much," the coach admits. "Just that the two of you were in the hospital, and that CPS was involved."
"So why are we here?" My tone is rather rude, tinged with a semblance of annoyance. I honestly do believe that it is not Sue Sylvester's intention to humiliate us, but I am not taking any risks, especially with Rachel sitting right next to me.
"Who was it?" she asks, answering my question with a question of her own.
"What?" I ask, so surprised that she had come right out and asked that question that I struggle to even process it.
"Was it that man?" she pushes, ignoring my question. "The one who I met at your house that day?"
I swallow. Any tactic of avoidance I had been planning balls against my tongue. It is the first time I have heard Coach Sylvester mention that incident. I thought, or maybe I had hoped, she had forgotten all about it. I knew I shouldn't have gotten my hopes up.
"It was him." Rachel surprises me by being the first to answer.
The coach's expression doesn't change. She nods her head but doesn't look all too surprised. I can tell that she had only asked us this question to confirm her suspicions.
"I'm sorry that I couldn't stop it." Her voice is laced with honest disappointment. It is probably the least Sue Sylvester-like thing that I have ever heard her say in my life.
"It's fine," Rachel sinks uncomfortably, squirming inside of her seat.
"It's not." Coach Sylvester refuses to let Rachel undermine her circumstance. Her eyes are staring so hard at us that I can literally feel them. I have to work very hard to avoid them for fear that they will turn me to stone. "That is why I called the two of you in here today. You're here because I need the both of you to know that this school will be a safe place for the both of you. If anybody tries to come in here and bother you then they will have to come through me first."
"I… um… thank you, Coach," Rachel finally says after taking a moment to find the right words. She is not sure what to make of Coach Sylvester's promise. To be honest, neither am I.
"I want to help you both start to move forward," she tells us.
"No offense Coach, but we don't need a bodyguard," I tell her. Her offer seems genuine, but I am understandably reluctant.
"Luckily for you, I'm not interested in being one," she tells me. "I dabbled with the job once in East Germany, working security on the Berlin Wall. It was terribly cold, and you wouldn't believe the people. After that, I declared that I would never work security ever again, and I never have. No, Santana, I am not here to be your bodyguard. I am here to offer you anything else."
I consider her offer, realizing that there are worse things in this world than having carte blanche with Sue Sylvester.
"Maybe you can find us a hitman…" I am only half joking. The way that Sue Sylvester looks at me, I realize she understands that.
"I was thinking more along the lines of finding you a tutor," Coach Sylvester clarifies. She is staring at Rachel, who cocks her head to the side curiously. Her expression is a perfect combination of curious and nervous.
"What do you mean?" she asks. She sounds offended.
"I mean that you're a smart girl, you need to start working on your grades," Coach Sylvester clarifies. "Your sister might have been able to make it through life using her body if she'd stayed on the Cheerios, but you Rachel, you're going to have to rely on your intelligence."
"Is that a compliment?" Rachel asks, cocking her head curiously. We all know that Sue Sylvester tends to hide what she is really thinking through insults, but even Rachel and I are having a hard time reading through the lines on this one.
"The point is Rachel, you have been through a lot, but you can still bounce back and improve your GPA enough to ensure that you move onto your sophomore year."
"Wait, they're trying to hold her back?" I ask, gaping at Sue Sylvester like she is crazy. Rachel is a smart girl. She is one of the smartest people I have ever met. Hell, she has been doing my homework for me since I was in the fifth grade and she was only in the second. Her marks on her upcoming report card would hardly reflect the type of student she is. Couldn't this school just cut her a break? Why would they want to add something else for her to worry about if they knew everything she has been through?
"I'm just saying Rachel, you don't want to be a freshman forever," Coach Sylvester tells my sister. "I hear that it's even less fun the second time around. Trust me, I have several Cheerios on my squad that can vouch for that fact. Now, all your teachers have agreed to report to me about your grades directly. I have also taken the liberty of signing you up at the tutoring center. You will be assigned a tutor and you will work with them every day after school starting tomorrow. Don't worry, I've already e-mailed your mother a copy of the schedule. She is expecting you late."
"Is that legal?" Rachel asks skeptically. She wears an annoyed sort of tone that indicates just how displeased she is with the plan. I can hear the wheels churning inside of her head as she searches for a means to get out of this.
"Oh, it's legal. It's also mandatory." Coach Sylvester tells her seriously. In a sense, I get the impression that it is only mandatory under the hierarchy of Sue Sylvester. I doubt very much that the school had any say in this.
Rachel turns a remarkable shade of bright pink, but she falls silent as she sinks further into her seat.
"No offense or anything, Coach, but why are you pushing this so hard?" I ask the question that Rachel is too embarrassed to ask for herself. The question seems obvious. Sue Sylvester has a reputation around this school, and that reputation does not involve providing emotional support for the students of William McKinley.
"Yeah, you don't exactly come across as the caring type," Rachel pipes in. Coach Sylvester narrows her eyes at her.
"And what is that supposed to mean, exactly?"
"Nothing," Rachel swallows, feeling her boldness falter under Coach Sylvester's intense glare. "We'll be okay, that's all I was trying to say. Can I leave now?"
Rachel doesn't wait for the coach to answer. She shoots up to her feet and makes her way towards the door, tired of this conversation.
"Rachel!" Coach Sylvester stops my sister dead in her tracks. Uncertainly, Rachel turns around, just at the door. "Be at the library for your first tutoring session at fifteen hundred hours, starting tomorrow. And don't think I won't remember."
"I will Coach, and I won't," Rachel sighs, but wastes no more time. She is out the door before I can blink.
I think about chasing after her, but hesitate, turning back towards Coach Sylvester.
"Are you okay, Santana?" the coach asks me after a moment. I shrug my shoulders because this is a very vague question for such a complex answer. I am feeling quite a lot of things right now, but none of them seem even remotely close to okay. Of course, I don't want to take the time or the effort to explain myself to my former cheerleading coach right now.
"I guess," I shrug, refusing to meet her eyes.
"Santana, do you feel safe at home?" she asks me after a long moment, just after I think that she is literally going to stare me to death.
"What?" I ask, finally turning to look up at her.
"I didn't want to ask you in front of your sister, because I wanted an honest answer," she tells me, her eyes narrowing seriously. "Do you think that you and your sister are safe in your home?"
"We're working on it," I shrug. "Really, Coach, me and my mom are handling things."
I can tell that she is not satisfied with the vagueness of my answer. Coach Sylvester looks at me hard for a moment, like she is considering something very carefully.
"I'm giving you my phone number," she finally says.
"What?" I ask, surprised. I need to stop letting Sue Sylvester throw me off guard today.
"My phone number," the woman repeats, jotting something down on a post-it-note. She goes to hand it to me. I reach out to accept it, still not believing it's real. I latch onto the end, but the woman doesn't let go right away. I look up at her curiously.
"Do not go giving this out," she warns, finally letting go of the note, releasing it entirely to me.
"Why are you giving this to me, Coach?" I ask, glancing down hesitantly at the number. It certainly does seem like a normal phone number from the Lima area. Then again, I don't know what a phone number from the Gates of Hell might look like, so I can't be sure.
"Just in case you need anything," she clarifies. "If you are unsure about a situation, or if you're feeling at all threatened and need a safe place to go, you call. Don't call me just to chit-chat. I loathe idle chatter."
"Um… thanks, I guess," I tell her.
"You can also call me any time you're thinking of doing something stupid," she tells me, ignoring the skepticism behind my voice.
"Stupid?" I question.
"You, Santana, have a temper," she reiterates. "And trust me, I have seen what you can do when you lose that temper."
"Can I go, Coach?" I ask, clutching the post-it-note.
Coach Sylvester stares at me for a long moment, but eventually, she nods.
"You may," she tells me, but then narrows her eyes seriously. "Just remember."
"Don't go giving this out to just anybody." I finish the sentence for her, waving her phone number in the air.
She nods firmly. Her eyes have grown cool again. This is the Sue Sylvester that I am familiar with. For some reason, I prefer her this way. It's closer to normal, and at this point, I can take all the normal I can get.
I move so quickly from the office that my sneakers squeak loudly with every step that I take. I still don't believe the interaction that we just had, not even a couple hours later when I see her pin Courtney Maddow up against a locker and promises a Cheerios practice from hell after school, along with the threat for a punishment she could not even comprehend if she ever sees her mess with me or Rachel ever again.
Compared to how the beginning of my school day went, the rest of the day proves to be dull.
My mother pulls Rachel out of school during third period for her therapy appointment and she doesn't return until after fifth. Meanwhile, for me, English is still boring, I still suck at Calculus, and I spend the majority of my lunch hour avoiding the obvious stares of our classmates.
I am desperate for a familiar face. I need a distraction from the flickering glares I have been receiving throughout the hallways all day long. The only redeeming factor in an otherwise strange morning is the fact that glee rehearsals have started up again to start preparing to perform in the annual holiday concert later in December.
"Santana!" Rachel finds me in the hallway right after the last period of the day, before I can start making my way to the choir room.
"Hey," I tell her, turning towards her. I haven't seen her since she's returned from school after her appointment. I try to read her eyes to see how it went, but she has become very good at keeping her face neutral. "How'd the appointment go?"
"Look at this!" she wails in a fit of frustration, ignoring my question and thrusting a paper into my fist.
"What is that?" I ask, genuinely confused as I look down at the paper, which is handwritten.
I recognize Rachel's small, loopy handwriting although it is much sloppier than what I am used to. She had written in cheap, ballpoint ink that has splotched the paper in several different spots. It is obvious that the paper had been written in haste. I can tell that Rachel had been bearing down hard as she wrote because the words from the pages above it are literally engraved in those below. I can feel them, bumpy along my fingers like she had written in Braille.
A handwritten research paper is unheard of for high school kids these days. That alone should be enough to warrant a failing grade. As I skim through the pages, I catch at least a dozen spelling and grammatical mistakes. The craziest part is that there isn't a single correction anywhere on the paper and on the very last page, circled in bright, red ink at the bottom is a big, fat A+.
I know the guy who graded this paper. He is my English teacher as well, because English is a bad subject for me and I am in remedial while meanwhile, Rachel was hoping to make AP by her sophomore year before her life went down the gutter.
Mr. Whitmer is pushing retirement age. He is an old-fashioned guy who frowns at kids as they walk by. I don't know why he bothered becoming a teacher. He is always muttering things under his breath and complaining loudly about millennials.
"It's an A, Rachel," I shrug, attempting to sound indifferent as I hand the paper back to her. "I don't know why you're complaining."
"I didn't deserve it, Santana!" she cries to me. "And today in gym class, when I gave Coach Beiste my excused slip, she told me to take all the time I needed, even if it extended beyond my doctors note. Just last week she was yelling at me about class participation. They know, Santana! Worse, they're all treating me differently because of it. That paper barely deserved a passing grade!"
I fold my lips around themselves, silent, because I know why Rachel is so upset. She might be getting an A, but Rachel is the type of girl who wanted to be known for working hard, not for her circumstances. Rachel has always had a lot of pride. She gets that from our mother.
"Listen, how about we go to glee rehearsal together," I suggest. "Maybe that will make you feel better."
I know that I am changing the subject on purpose, but I am hoping to improve Rachel's mood. Much to my dismay however, Rachel's face only falls further.
"I don't want to go to glee," she claims, folding her arms across her chest.
"Okay, now you're being ridiculous," I tell her. Even in the heart of everything that was happening with Andrew, I have never known her to voluntarily skip glee.
"What am I supposed to tell everybody?"
"You don't have to tell them anything if you don't want to," I point out. Rachel only gives me a look to say that it won't be as easy to fool the glee club as it had been the rest of the school. I silently agree but figured that we would just cross that road when we got there.
"They're your friends, Rachel," I tell her after a moment. "They'll understand. And who knows, maybe they can help you."
Rachel exhales heavily. I can tell that she is not particularly pleased by the idea. I can practically see her brain searching for a better plan. When none come, the disappointment only grows on her face.
"Fine," she settles with a tone that tells me she is not happy to be settling.
"Come on," I encourage her, wrapping my arm inside of hers so that I can pull her towards the choir room. "I'll walk you."
We walk into the choir room a couple minutes late, meaning that everybody else is already inside and they stare, searching for an explanation for our tardiness. Luckily, Mr. Schuester calls us to sit down before things can get too awkward. He must know what happened to us, too.
The two of us take our regular seats. I am in the back next to Noah, and Rachel is front and center. It is the first meeting of our glee club since we lost Regionals to my mother, so Mr. Schuester welcomes us all back, not just Rachel and I, which is a welcome relief.
The elephant of course, is prominent inside of the room. Rachel has to announce that she is not able to dance, and her singing will be limited while her ribs and arm heal. A handful of people know what is going on with her, but she makes up a lie about a car accident, which only slightly explains my black eye. Luckily, most of the kids in glee aren't observant enough not to fall for it.
"A car accident, huh?" Noah whispers into my ear. I hit him hard on the shoulder.
"Shut up," I hiss at him before anybody can overhear us. "Rachel isn't ready to tell people yet."
Noah only shrugs. He turns to me, watching me scan over the heads of the glee kids as Mr. Schuester opens the stage to brain-storming ideas for the holiday concert. I haven't seen Brittany all day. I was hoping that this would be an opportunity to run into her, but I still don't see her, leaving me to wonder if she had been in school today at all.
"Looking for your girlfriend?" Noah whispers.
I want to tell him to shut up again, maybe even to punch him again too, but I am looking for Brittany, and I hope he can give me answers, so I figure I better not get him on my bad side.
"She quit glee," Noah explains with a casual shrug of his shoulders. "Coach Sylvester has doubled-down on Cheerios practices with Nationals coming up. I heard that Coach Sylvester bribed her to quit glee to make room for Cheerios with a lifetime supply of Breadstix and the promise of a full ride to OSU."
"Coach Sylvester can't give her a full ride to OSU."
"Brittany doesn't have to know that," Noah shrugs. "Besides, glee is pretty much over now. Brittany isn't going to waste her time on a Christmas concert… I'm guessing she didn't tell you that."
"Things are… complicated," I settle to answer. It is a stupid, cop-out answer. I know that Noah knows this too, because all he does is roll his eyes.
"Girls are so stupid," he professes.
"Like you're one to talk, Puckerman," I accuse.
"I'm just saying, I thought that Brittany was more important to you than a couple of hot moms looking to cheat on their husbands are to me."
I pause and attempt to control my emotions as I allow Noah's words to soak in. They flood me with a sense of disappointment, mostly towards myself. I have done Brittany wrong in our short time together, a lot of wrong. I already feel like crap about it without having Noah rubbing it in my face. I just don't know how I am supposed to be expected to balance my home problems with my social problems right now. I don't even know how to begin with one of them.
"I sort of screwed everything up at the hospital," I admit, shame flooding inside of my voice.
"What happened?"
"I tried to sleep with her."
"Woah," Noah breathes. He almost looks impressed. "Bold move, Corcoran."
"Shut up," I hiss, punching him hard against his muscular shoulder. I watch Mr. Schuester look up in response to our bickering, pausing in his droning to narrow his eyes at us warningly. I shrink apologetically and settle back down inside of my seat.
"So, are you two back together again?" Noah asks, lowering his voice again so that Mr. Schuester won't hear.
"No… yes… I don't know," I sigh through my confusion. "I didn't really try talking to her. I just tried to make out with her and when she pushed me away I got mad and embarrassed and I… I haven't really figured out a way to talk to her again."
"Puck, Santana." This time when Mr. Schuester catches Noah and I gossiping, he calls us both out on it very publicly. All heads swivel around to stare at us. I feel my cheeks burn red with embarrassment.
"Just brainstorming ideas for the concert Mr. Schue," Noah flashes the teacher his famous smile that he still hasn't figured out radiates guilt yet.
"Well brainstorm up here, please," he tells me and Noah.
I fall silent, trying to concentrate but I am distracted by our club spitting ideas off each other without any sense of order. As the only Jews in Lima, me, Rachel, and Noah are encouraged to contribute, but the scope of Noah's Judaism is limited to what he can watch on television, and Rachel and I are only half and we hardly practice.
I don't have the capacity to think up Jewish holiday songs today. Instead, I am thinking about Brittany, who is not here. I am thinking about Sue Sylvester and her phone number burning a hole in my pocket. I am thinking about everything else that seems to have changed at this school since I have been gone…
In the end, rehearsal turns out to be a disaster. Nobody can agree on any ideas and without Rachel in her right mind to mediate anything, we end the day with a hundred suggestions and no agreements.
Quinn shows up almost thirty minutes into rehearsal. I feel bad. While I had been searching for Brittany, I hadn't even realized Quinn's absence. She has a strange look on her face. Something is wrong, but I have to wait until after rehearsal to try to corner her.
"Quinn!" I chase her down the hall. The blonde looks like she doesn't want to stop to talk to me, but she turns to face me anyway. For the first time, I realize that her face is distraught.
"You were late for glee," I comment obviously, finally catching up to her.
"I had a phone call," Quinn swallows before she risks looking up at me. "With a woman named Lucy Sherman."
"What did she say?" I ask, feeling myself tense.
"Not much," Quinn shrugs. "She asked me about my relationship with you and Rachel. She also asked me about the gun and how I knew how to get into my dad's safe. Apparently, that's frowned upon even in the state of Ohio."
"Did she ask about your parents?" I risk asking.
"About them kicking me out of the house," Quinn nods. "And a few other things. She wants to have a meeting with me and them tomorrow after school."
"What about?" I ask, but Quinn only shrugs her shoulders.
"I have no idea," she admits and then pauses, like she is almost embarrassed about what she plans on saying next. "Will you come with me?"
"I…um… sure…" I don't mean to sound so uncertain. I just didn't think that Lucy would confront Quinn so soon. Then again, I don't know why I ever thought that.
"I just… I don't know how much I'm going to be able to say with my parents sitting right there," Quinn admits, her eyes pointed to the floor like she is embarrassed by the influence her parents still have over her. And although I should know to tell her not to be, I stay silent. "I figured that if you or Rachel were there it would help."
Quinn looks away from me. Her cheeks are a bright shade of pink that I realize has nothing to do with the cold outside. She is embarrassed about asking for help.
"Ms. Sherman is really nice, Quinn," I assure her, trying to silently indicate that she has nothing to be ashamed or embarrassed about. "She helped Rachel and I a lot. She made me feel like everything was going to be okay. I trust her."
"I don't know if she can ever make everything feel okay," Quinn admits. I nod. I understand the feeling well.
"Not everybody is bad, Quinn," I remind her. She looks up at me like she cannot believe that I can still believe this after everything I have seen.
"But not everybody is good, either," she points out. Wise words from Quinn Fabray, our terminal pessimist.
"Can I ask you something?" I breath suddenly, waiting for Quinn to nod her head at me, giving me the all-clear to continue. "What if your daughter's life turned out to be something you never thought possible?"
"I'm not keeping her, San," Quinn reminds me with a low voice to indicate that she doesn't want to be reminded of this fact. "I might never know what her life turns out to be like at all."
"I mean what if you're looking through a newspaper or something and you see a face that is yours and you just know it's her. And what if something terrible happened to her?"
Quinn pauses, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. "I really don't want to think about something like that."
"The point I'm trying to make is that if something like that could affect you without even knowing your daughter, maybe after your parents see everything you've been through they'll start to see things a little differently."
Quinn cocks her head at me. Suddenly, she looks not only confused, but alarmed by my words as well.
"Are you okay, Santana?"
"I'm just putting some things together is all," I assure her.
"Maybe try not to be so cryptic next time," Quinn smirks at me. I offer one in return, indicating that I can promise nothing. Cryptic seems to have become both of our middle names as of late.
"I should go," Quinn breathes, shoving her hands inside of her pockets. "I have a doctor's appointment. Do you and Rachel want a ride before I leave?"
"That's okay, we'll take the bus," I wave her off. Quinn nods her head dully but perks as though she is suddenly remembering something.
"Oh, and before I forget, tell Rachel that she should start meeting me at the library every day after school starting tomorrow."
"Why?" I ask, cocking my head.
"Because I'm her new tutor," Quinn smiles at me. "I'll see you later, Santana."
She waves me off, walking away from me and down the hall towards the direction of the parking lot.
"Yeah," I nod, quiet so that I know she hadn't heard me. I smirk slightly, shaking my head to myself, understanding that Sue Sylvester really was determined to make due on her promises. "See you."
The bus drops Rachel and I off at home a little after four where we are surprised to see our mother already home from work.
She is still in her work clothes so that I can tell she hasn't been home long, just long enough to ensure that she would be here when Rachel and I got back. Even from a distance, I can sense the nervous exhaustion in her eyes. She had probably spent her entire day just as worried as she had been this morning, if not more.
"How was your first day?" she asks us hurriedly just as soon as we are in earshot.
"Boring," I mutter, throwing my backpack onto the couch.
"How about you, Rach?" my mother swallows, struggling to interpret my answer.
"It was fine," she sighs, throwing her backpack next to mine and then throwing herself right down next to it, flipping the television on in an effort to avoid this conversation.
"Nice try," my mother, the queen of confrontation avoidance, snaps the television back off and stands in front of Rachel. "If you want to fake enthusiasm, you're going to have to pull your diaphragm up a little higher. Trust me, it does wonders for pitch."
"How do you-"
"Years of training, sweetheart," she cuts off my sister. "I've been teaching that one since before you were born. I heard you had a conversation with Sue Sylvester today."
"What, are you spying on me now?" Rachel asks, her face falling, hurt.
"Actually, Coach Sylvester is the one who called me," my mother points out. "And besides, it was your first day back. What did you want me to do? Hang up on her? I was worried about you guys."
"There's nothing to worry about," Rachel huffs from the couch.
"Are you sure about that?" My mother's voice is soft with understanding. "Because Coach Sylvester seems to be pretty concerned about your grades, which is why I agreed that it would be a good idea to set you up with a tutor."
"Santana told me that Quinn is my tutor," Rachel nods. "We start tomorrow."
"Well, I think that's an excellent idea," my mother smiles warmly. "Just so long as you girls actually do homework and not spend your entire session doing whatever it is you do."
"We won't," my sister assures her and even manages a smile.
"Good," my mother nods with a sense of finality, clapping her hand against Rachel's knee. "Now go get cleaned up for dinner. I'm ordering Chinese."
Rachel nods her head and scurries down the hall to adhere to our mother's instruction. I turn to follow. I am exhausted and am hoping to get a nice nap in before dinner and before the hours of homework I have tonight thanks to having to catch up on the week of school that I missed…
"Santana," my mother calls back to me just as soon as Rachel is out of earshot. "Mind if I talk to you for a minute?"
"Sure mom," I nod and turn back around to face her.
"Coach Sylvester also mentioned a little bit more about the conversation that she had with you and Rachel this morning," she tells me with a serious look on her face. "I understand that you're looking for an outlet to talk to, but I don't know much about that woman. From what I understand, it's not great. I'm not sure that Sue Sylvester could be the person you're looking for, Santana. I don't think you realize how much can go wrong if the wrong person gets a hold of the wrong information."
"She just wants to help, mom," I insist. I shove my hands inside of my pockets, my fingers subconsciously toying with the post-it-note with Coach Sylvester's personal phone number on it that is still sitting there. "The rest of the school isn't trying to help at all. They're just ignoring everything and hoping it will go away. Coach Sylvester, she's actually doing something about this. She wants to help us. I think we should give her a chance."
"I just want you to be careful."
"She isn't going to tell anybody."
"She's Sue Sylvester, Santana," my mother reminds me with a tone like she is still not entirely convinced that this isn't all a trap. I stare at her hard, trying to reiterate what I had said before. My mother stares back, judging the look in my face. Finally, her face shrinks, defeated. "I trust you Santana, I do. It's just Sue Sylvester I'm not so sure of."
"Give her a chance mom," I plead with her.
"I will," she assures me. "But only because you trust her. I still want to speak with her. In person. I want to know what her intentions are when it comes to you and Rachel. I'm going to set up a meeting tomorrow."
"She won't let you down," I make the promise for Coach Sylvester.
"She better not," my mother warns me seriously. "Because if she does, that meant that she let you and Rachel down and I know that that woman has a reputation, but Coach Sylvester has no idea what the wrath of Coach Corcoran looks like."
"I'll make sure she knows," I grimace, because that battle sounds like it would be the rough equivalent of an atomic blast. I don't want to have to see it. Let's just say that the radius of the explosion would be unlikely to leave any survivors.
"I'm gonna go get ready for dinner," I announce, backing away slowly. This time, my mother just waves me off. She has nothing more to say.
I walk into the room with the intention of throwing myself into my bed for a quick powernap, but I am surprised to find Rachel already in there waiting for me.
My sister is lying on my bed with her hands behind her head, staring intently up at my ceiling. Whatever is going on inside of her head seems to really be bothering her because she doesn't even seem to notice me walking in.
"What are you thinking about?" I prompt her. She still doesn't look at me. I hate it when she gets all quiet like this. Given what happened the last time she was keeping secrets from me, who would blame me?
"I was just wondering if we made the right decision," she says vaguely. I furrow my eyebrows. I have no idea what decision she is referring to.
"About what?"
"Do you think I'll ever get out of Lima, Santana?" she asks me seriously, not an answer at all.
"Of course, Rachel," I answer, astounded that my sister, the founder of the Broadway dream, is even considering the fact that she will not make it. Besides me, Rachel only sighs. It is clear she doesn't believe me.
"I just feel like I'm stuck now," she admits. "What if Lima was my last chance and I blew it? What if I can never make it past this? What if I'm stuck feeling like this forever?"
I sigh and sit down on my bed next to her. I wonder what that stupid shrink said to her today to make her think like this. I thought therapy was supposed to help her?
"What if you're not?" I counter. I know that it is not the guarantee that she is looking for, but unfortunately, nobody can give her that. I just wish that I could make her feel her success inside of her heart the way that she used to before our father died, before she met Andrew. I wish she could feel it for herself the way that I still do for her. "What if instead, this makes you stronger than who you were before? What if you use it to push yourself harder than ever? What if it's the turnaround point that actually makes you successful."
"There's no way of knowing," Rachel breathes, uncertainty laced inside of her tone.
"Exactly, Rachel," I tell her. She makes the point that I am trying to make for her. Now, the only thing that I have to do is convince her to start seeing the world from an optimistic perspective again.
I roll over onto my back and look up at the ceiling alongside Rachel. She is focused on those glow-in-the-dark stars up there. She watches them glint down at her like they are taunting her. She is looking for their message, but the signal is so mixed up at the moment, that the only thing she is getting is more confused.
"You know, stars don't just belong in space, Rach," I tell her. It is something that our mother used to say to us all the time. Rachel always used to hold that advice close to her heart. I think that that is because she was born a star. She always has been, and always will be one. Her circumstances haven't changed her destiny, it will just make it that much more fulfilling when she finally reaches it.
"Well, they don't seem to be doing so well down here, either," she breathes.
I don't know what to say anymore, so I don't try. Instead, the two of us sit quietly for a long time, until my eyes grow so heavy that my vision crosses. Suddenly, the only thing that I can think about is how much – or more accurately, how little – sleep I had gotten last night.
I feel my eyes slide closed as Rachel pushes her body tighter into mine. I pull her in close, hoping that everything that she is feeling, she could rub off on me in my sleep. I realize that I will take it, permanently, if that's what it takes. I will take all of the pain that Rachel is feeling away from her, if only to make sure I never have to see this side of her ever again.