In My Skin Chapter 2: Math, a glee fanfic

CHAPTER TWO

I wake up, dull and early, to the sound of my mom pulling out of the drive.

She's going to work, with Dean in the backseat all neat and ready for school.

Not too early, then. In fact when I finally manage to pull myself up and drag on some clothes, I realise I am actually too late to do anything but get ready and sprint to school. Even eat. I figure I can at least last 'til lunch on an energy drink out of the fridge. It's not healthy but hey- that's me all over.

And so I enter purgatory. And I know how teenager that sounds- the boredom! The pain! The hormone surges!- but that is how high school is for me. I can't remember actually enjoying a lesson since middle school. It seems to me that growing up just makes the world more and more hypocritical. Like you finally see it for real and don't like what you see.

God, I need caffiene.

At break I find myself mooching around on the concrete steps beyone the staff room, watching kids at picnic tables and filing my nails down to perfect crescents, just for something to do. I'm close to simply getting up and walking out of the gates when I suddenly hear voices. And not voices talking. I hear a male acapella 'bam bam baaaa', closely followed by female backing vocals. I recognise the chords- it's a chart hit I have heard over the kitchen radio a thousand times. The glee club must be trying to bolster their ranks again.

It's when the rapping starts that I immediately want to throw something. The kid in the wheelchair doing it must have balls, because everyone's looking at them like they want to tear them limb from limb. And this isn't because they're bad, (the shared opinion noone admits to is that the McKinley High glee club is sort of awesome), it's just because it is break. There are tests coming up in Spanish. And the glee kids should pick their moments more wisely. Did I mention that I fucking hate rap?

'Empire state of mind', I realise out loud, to no one. No one notices. But: that's what this damn song is. They've gotten onto the good part, the chorus and I'm actually starting to enjoy it. The girls are singing this bit, including affew who I'm fairly confident are cheerios. Two blondes. I wonder why they are in glee club at all. But hey- who am I to judge? I'm the one possibly joining the chess club in order improve my social skills.

I catch the eye of one of them as she gets up on one of the picnic tables, scattering lunches. For once no one seems to care because she is dancing like a beast, flicking her hair and generally being very very sexy. Her eyes are light blue which means they catch the sky as they flick my way. Just for a second. Then I look down and shove my hands deep into my pockets and cough nervously. Because her eyes are probably the best eyes I've seen, and that sounds weird, especially as I generally avoid eye contact, but it is true. They are so blue they almost look unreal, like she is too good to be true.

I cut break short and head off to class before the song finishes.

In third period math I find a shadow blocking the desk and a female voice asking whether she can sit there.

Let's get this straight now: people don't sit next to me, unless directly ordered to by a teacher (and Mrs Robinson's still outside chatting with some senior math homeboys, so that can't be what is happening).

I look up, hoping I can scare whoever the hell it is away. Just to clarify: I like this system. I like not having to make idiotic small talk in a desperate attempt to make the school day gel. And it works. In this school, people, especially so called 'cool' people, leave me alone, as I am considered weird in the most extreme way, particulary after a letter written by my ex-friend Puck to the school newspaper (more on that later). But before I can channel my Lima Heights death glare to automatically clear the vicinity, I see who it is, and simply gape for a second at the blonde cheerleader with her hand on the chair. Blue eyes.

I can usually go for days without talking to anyone (apart from teachers. But hey, they don't count). It becomes sort of a game, staying silent, staying the same. It's convienient as you can play it literally everywhere. At school. In the shower. In the discomfort of your own room. My record is I think a month. Miss Pillsbury wasn't impressed with me, I can tell you.

Anyway. I'm not the best company and people know that. Yet here is a tall, athletic blonde asking if she can share my desk and oxygen when there is still three quarters of the room to be filled and others are motioning to her, eager to reel in some enviable math-long muttered conversation.

I shrug, and she grins happily as if I'd just given her a dollar or something and sits down enthusiastically in the other chair. Don't ask me how someone can sit down enthusiastically- she manages it.

'I'm Brittany', she says.

Here is what goes through my head: this is a dare from the other cheerios to prank the freak, meaning I'm about to get spat on. Warmly, as well. Which sometimes hurts more. I grunt, which is polite for 'fuck off'. She is clearly not peturbed by this. She's so bubbly and blonde- to the point of stereotype.

'We've never actually spoken… I moved here a month ago. We only share this lesson'.

I look back at her, thinking (and I may be wrong) that she had not only noticed me in this lesson, but noticed my absence in others. Ok.

I hadn't noticed her at all. This was an example of me adhering to my two rules to surviving in High School: 1. Shut Up. 2. Don't care about other people.

Still.

'Hi', I say and she beams. Good god.

This girl Brittany, when I dig through the mulch in my head which is a back-catalogue of unavoidable High School gossip, is actually pretty popular, in spite of being the new girl in a small-town high school. Sexy. Athletic. Blonde. It's the beautiful equation. She's a cheerleader as well, with the red and white WHMS uniform and the slutty skirts you weren't allowed to call slutty. I could picture her in a house in the suburbs with a post-prom queen mother and a father who was a doctor, or a lawyer.

She's still talking.

'I like your hair'.

I shrug and grit my teeth, because if there is anything as annoying as a popular kid, it's a popular kid paying you a compliment. It's right up there with a boy asking whether you are on your period. The thing is though, she says it with such… sincerity that I believe she means it, and I don't know what to do with that.

So I don't say anything.

This doesn't put her off either.

'Are you good at math?'

I consider for a moment, then slowly shake my head.

'Good! Me neither. I find numbers… confusing'. It's weird, this puzzled look crosses her face as if she has to physically express what she is saying, rather than just letting it stand. I suddenly find myself wanting to smile.

The bell goes, and I don't know whether to be relieved or not.

Throughout the lesson, I find myself glancing at her from the corner of my eye, and no, not like that. Just… because. Because people stay away from me. They just do. But it seemed like this girl Brittany hadn't gotten the memo.

When the lesson is over, I hang behind, forcing her to leave before I do. Luckily a cheerio posse come pick her up and they waltz off to next period. Jeez- god forbid they spend five minutes without talking to each other.

For lunch, I adher to rules 1 and 2 and sit with the smallest group of people I can find, which is a foursome in the far corner of the lunch hall talking about computers. I usually end up with these guys. They're boys and huge computer nerds, but I never get a once-over as I sit down which leads me to believe that computers is just about all they care about. Good.

Looking around the room, my eyes are drawn to a particular person.

I think, blonde. Then I think- shit.

I make eye contact for a second and she smiles. She really has awesome blue eyes. Then she looks as if she is about to come over and talk and that is just unprecedented. If this is a prank, it's taking a heck of long time to unfold. I look down quickly. I consider skipping lunch. Mack might still be under the bleachers. Then I think: what the hell? If I'm about to get bitch-slapped by a group of cheerios- (a gaggle of cheerios? a bitchiness of cheerios?) then I really don't care. I try not to care.

The blonde Brittany comes over. When she puts the tray down on the edge of the table the computer geeks look up in square-eyed shock. Clearly having a cheerleader within a foot of their table is not something that happens every lunchtime.

'Hi', she says breezily.

'Hello'.

'Can I please sit with you?'

'Yeah sure'.

She takes the seat opposite me, smiling sunnily at the boys, who look somewhat dazed. They are now looking at me with the same eyes as Brittany, and I realise I am now being appraised as a girl. And all it needed was a little context. Jeez.

I cough and glare at them until they withdraw into their own conversations.

Then I say,' what is it?'

She blinks, and looks up at me from her tray.

'What's what?'

I shrug, looking round to where two tables of cheerios are staring at me with wonder and- what? Annoyance? I'm starting to feel my heartbeat pick up with anxiety and this is not a good thing.

'Why are you-' but then I realize that's too rude so I say,' did you need math help?'

'Yes I do'. She looks confused though,' how did you know?'

I pause, as I try to make that brief, confusing exchange into something that makes sense in my head. She pauses too, then keeps talking, smiling and leaning in conspiritorally,' are you a psychic?'

'Erm… no'.

'That's what a psychic would say though'.

'I just… I assumed that's what you wanted to come talk about. I can't think of anything else you'd want to say to me'. I hate that I can actually hear bitterness in my own voice because, rule 2- I do not care that much. Honestly I don't.

'I didn't come to talk about math', says Brittany,' but you can if you like. Are you vegetarian?'

'Erm- what?'

Her eyes glance down to my plate, stocked with everything but meat and I realise,' oh, no. Well- I guess. I just don't eat meat if I can avoid it'.

'Why?'

'I want to be responsible for the least amount of deaths possible'.

She nods, slowly, and I abruptly wish I hadn't said it. It just came out, like things do. Beneath the table, I clench my fist so hard I feel the nails make little white crescent marks in my palm. Why I file them down so much I guess. I think of something to say to cover it up- anything.

'Aren't the cheerios going to miss you?' I say, nodding my head to the two tables that were glaring at me earlier. Now they have fallen back into their own conversations, thankfully.

'No', she says simply,' they don't really talk very seriously to me. I think it's because they think I'm stupid'.

'You're not stupid'. Automatic response, right? Polite. But the funny thing is I actually believe it. And I want her to believe it. Because saying someone is stupid just because they are happy is incredibly mean, because it is so tied to truth, and to jealousy I guess. Who wants to be clever? Or grown up? Being clever and grown up equates to being aware and being aware means being sad.

'Thanks Santana', she says and smiles.

When the bell goes for the end of lunch I realise I had lost track of time. And that never happens, not at school, not when I'm awake. So I'm both slightly confused and slightly annoyed as the students around us turn into a surge for the dining hall's exit. I want to keep talking to her. I don't want this part of the day to be over.

She wishes me a happy class as she skips off to cheerios practice. I don't tell her that that would be an impossibility. I don't ask her why she gives a damn. I just return the gesture, then go to class, blinking slightly too fast to be normal.

After school, I find myself walking home with the Mack. She is- get this- being expelled, unless she gets her act together. So that's, apparently, why she has suddenly started attending class. We talk about general crap; guys, school, the other tiny fragments of our personality we are willing to reveal, then I ask for a stick of gum from the packet she is unwrapping and she figures that this is her cue to ask ridiculously personal questions.

'Are you a lesbian?'

'The fuck', I say, my heart missing a step even though my feet don't,' why?'

I put my hands into my pockets so I can clench them without her seeing. Shit shit shit shit shit.

'Because it would be totally cool with me if you were'.

'Oh thank god', I say sarcastically,' because that's the thought that has really been keeping me up at night- that you might not be ok with it'.

'Are you saying that you are a lesbian?'

'No, I'm not'.

'Not saying that or not a lesbian?'

'Those are one and the same, aren't they?'

'Just answer or not- stop avoiding the question'.

'No'.

I dodge across the road infront of traffic so she can't follow me, glad that this is where our routes divulge. She doesn't call after me as I go, which is just as well, probably.

I beast it home, let myself into the empty house and make cereal. It is too early for sleep but I don't want to do my homework so I find myself at the computer.

As it loads I eat cereal and think about The Mack. What had I done that made her suspect? Do I smell like a fucking golf course? I look for a second at my reflection in the mirror above the embarrasing school photos blu-tacked to the wall. I look the same as I always have; dark hair and eyes and skin, kind of angry looking all the time. I don't mind. Rage suits me.

The computer blinks into life and I click idly on the interent browser. As it ticks over, waiting to load I look at the icons on the desktop with absolutely nothing running through my head. My Documents. My Computer. Santana's Diary.

I sigh at that. That was a vague attempt by my mom to get me to talk about feelings. I never got past one entry. Just sat there, staring at the blank page until Dean asked if he could watch his DVDs on the computer and I said yes.

The internet finally loads.

My homepage is facebook, because it is all I use. I have a friend request from… Brittany S Pierce. I stare at the icon of her profile for a second. In the picture she is grinning widely, another head half in shot but mostly cut out. At least it's not a baby picture as a profile. That pisses the hell out of me. Now, usually I ignore friend requests from someone who I don't know. It seems to me that friendship means a hell of a lot more than that. You can't just click a link and bam- soulmate! But I figure, I actually enjoyed talking to her today, and if I had a choice I'd do it again. So I accept, and literally two seconds later, a chat window pops up.

Brittany S Pierce: Hello Santana Lopez.

I stare at her name for a second and consider just logging off. I'm not good with… conversation. But- fuck it.

Santana Lopez: hi

Brittany S Pierce: I didn't know your other name was Lopez that's so cool :)

Santana Lopez: why

Brittany S Pierce: It's nice to say. Santana Lopez.

Brittany S Pierce: Santana Lopez.

Brittany S Pierce: If I were you I would say my name all the time.

Santana Lopez: thanks I think

Brittany S Pierce: Definetly a compliment.

Santana Lopez: sorry. thanks then :)

Brittany S Pierce: :)

The thing is, my rules of surviving High School extend to all textual communication, so I'm strongly tempted right now to just kill the window and go find something to do until bedtime. But I don't, because she is already typing, and I feel compelled to see what she has to say. Thinking about it, she is probably the most interesting person I have so far encountered at McKinley High. For that alone, she has my attention.

Brittany S Pierce: I have a surprise for you tomorrow :D

Santana Lopez: what

Brittany S Pierce: I can't tell you now silly! It's a surprise :)

Brittany S Pierce: meet at my locker before class?

Brittany S Pierce: it's opposite the cheerios locker room

Brittany S Pierce: pretty please?

Santana Lopez:

Santana Lopez: ok.