CHAPTER ONE

Today, I think, I will find a gun and either I am going to die or everyone around me is.

I haven't decided yet. Maybe I'll flip a coin.

On the way out the door mom stops me the blunt end of a fish slice. She's flipping bacon for my kid brother Dean, who has not come down to the table yet.

'Have some breakfast first', she says, in Spanish, meaning it takes a second for me to process.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes at her. I have not had breakfast first since the day I figured out I could go to school without eating breakfast first.

'I'm fine', I say. English.

The whole ridiculousness of that comment lingers in the room like an awkward family friend. Mom is shaking her head at me.

'I'll eat on the way there', I say, because I want to leave before Dean comes in and will be forced to talk to me.

'Where are you going?'

School, mom. You should try it sometime.

'You really should brush your hair first'.

I shrug and open the back door. I can hear movement down the hall.

'Have you taken your pills this morning?'

I slam the door closed in her face.

/

Mackenzie isn't waiting for me before school, not exactly, but I know where she'll be, which is under the bleachers, and she knows that I'm probably going to turn up and, low and behold.

Mackenzie is like a friend you would begrudgingly make in order to break out of prison with, because they have the grappling hook. On the outside we would never even look at each other.

'Give me some coffee', I say.

'Get your own fucking coffee', she responds, and then passes her cardboard cup over anyway. What a friend. I take a gulp large enough to burn the roof of my own mouth. It certainly wakes me up.

Mackenzie 'The Mack', is the leader of the 'under-the-bleachers-in-crowd-that-won't-admit-it's-an in-crowd', called the 'skanks'. She sought me out at the beginning of the year, which I guess means I'm one of them. I think she thinks her 'don't give a fuck' attitude and my 'honestly no fucks to give' attitude make a good combination. Whatever. I get caffiene out of it.

'This blows', she says, and I wonder what exactly, as the day hasn't started yet and jesus christ I thought I was depressive.

I take another sip of coffee,' what?'

'Almost two hundred boys at this school and there isn't one I like'.

She looks at me from the corner of my eye as if she's expecting a specific response, and I know what it is. Since a party where I got extremely drunk affew months ago, and ended up making out with this senior cheerio (like, properly making out as well), Mack has been trying to get me to admit my sexuality to her. I have so far resisted. It's not worth it, not over some brunette cheerio who has subsequentally ignored me since the event. Plus, I don't want to come out, and least of all to the Mack. Don't get me wrong- I'm not ashamed or anything, I just don't think it is anyone's damn business. Least of all my prison friend.

I shrug.

Then the bell goes, a welcome relief except it means that I now have to confine myself to a room for six hours and learn mostly useless facts about mostly pointless people and events. That's the thing about my school day. I'm constantly relieved that at least one part of it is over. I take a last swig of coffee and hand back the cup, saying goodbye to Mack, who has made no movement towards class. I'd bunk with her, but to be honest I think I need better company to make it worthwhile. I cut across the fancy car park on my way to the school entrance.

/

I sit at the back out of direct eyelines. This is how the lessons roll- I mind my own business, the teacher's mind theres. Usually, this routine lasts me all the way home, all through dinner and homework and surfing the internet and taking my pills and brushing my teeth and bed. Usually. Then there are the days when it is a Tuesday and that means submitting to personal questions from the world's worst counseller. I'm talking about a woman called Emma Pillsbury. Oh- you're gonna love her.

Every Tuesday, as a desperate attempt for my mom to 'keep McKinley in the loop', I attend a counselling session with school counseller Miss Pillsbury. I don't mind it- I get out of late afternoon lessons and I'm generally adept at steering the conversation away from talking about my feelings. This Tuesday afternoon I sit down behind her desk and wait for her to arrange the pencil pot and the plastic trays full of flyers in perfect line. I tend not to mention how fucked up her mind must be, in the hope she won't mention how fucked up mine must. I tilt back the chair a little, attempting to look nonchalant, even though my pills haven't kicked in yet (couldn't find a quiet spot to take them at lunch) and because of this I really only want to curl up into a ball on the floor so tiny they would never be able to unwrap me.

'So Santana', she says, finally settling,' how are you?'

'Fine', I say.

'Okay, then. How's your mom?'

'She's good, thanks'.

'I wanted to talk to you- about joining some clubs'.

'Clubs?'

'I think it might help with some of your social issues'.

'My social issues are that I don't talk to people'.

'Yes well, I think, given the right… circumstances, you would be able to… come out of your shell a little, you know, really start developing friendships. I think it would be a big help'.

Here's what you need to know about Emma Pillsbury, and I know I've said this before: worst. Counseller. Ever. But having sessions from her means that I don't have to see someone else out of school. So I nod along as she explains the virtues of chess club and spanish language club, all the while throwing surrepticious glances out of the window, at the crowd, thinning now as people go off to their lessons. We talk. Miss Pillsbury tries to talk about the anti-depressants as if they are an everyday problem that we all go through; I tell her I've been eating fine, thanks very much; I assure her I am keeping up on my school work and she says she believes me, even though I know she will check later on.

'Now Santana', she says, a good twenty minutes later,' I think that's enough for the day. Do you have anything you want to talk about, anything at all?'

I look her in the eye for a moment, and I realise that she is expecting the answer no. I always answer no. But today, for some reason, I hesistate. I have a sudden desire to give her something back. I think it must be the pills finally kicking in but I suddenly feel gratitude, twinned with guilt. At the waste my own head is making of these sessions. But my mind is blank. I can't think of anything to say because it is all just too complicated. One loose fact, one idle strand of my problems will have to be followed through until eventually the whole thing is yanked apart. And I don't know where to start.

So I smile and I say,' no, thankyou'.

We swap byes and I trot off along the mostly empty hallways, into the sunset. It's an art mural from the seniors, a desert landscape with a low red sinking sun done in collage. I pause by it and wonder where to go now.

Math? Home? Math?

Home?

I decide on the road most travelled, the one I always take even after pretending to myself for these two stupid weekly minutes that this is a decision I can control. I skip math and I go home, to the empty house and the greeting mom as she comes in and then dinner and homework and surfing the internet and taking my pills and brushing my teeth and bed.

Relieved that at least one part of my day is over.