Summer comes hot and fast. Cheerios camp swallows your first two months. Quinn's popped out the kid and—you invite her to a sleepover after camp ends just to scope out—is already tightening up again, only with bigger tits from the baby.

So what's the deal with you and Brittany, anyway? she asks as you nurse your third matching set of vodka sodas. She's started drinking again now that the baby's out of the picture. Turns out you don't like drunk Quinn.

We're best friends, you say, a little too firmly. We've hooked up. What else do you need to know?

Nothing. Quinn's tone is mild, but you can almost hear the gears rolling in her mind. You know it's best to say nothing. The booze pushes you.

It's not that big a deal, you insist.

I know. I believe you. She sips from her glass and smiles like a sphinx.

There's a pit lodged in your stomach. It rolls around in the following weeks like grit in an oyster. You know Quinn's going to make a power play. Still, you know what you can't do: you can't stop being affectionate with Britt at Glee. That would make it seem like there's something more going on, something that you have to hide.

There isn't, of course. That's only Quinn's fertile imagination. Ambitious little bitch.

Since Cheerios camp is over and you have time to convalesce, you beg your father for a boob job. If Quinn's going up a cup size, so are you. Your parents cave more easily than you'd estimated. Well—your dad never puts up a fight for anything. He gives you things that cost a lot to pretend he cares more. Your mom hates it, but you give her an ultimatum: it's either that or you'll get a neck tattoo, courtesy of a friend of Puck's. That's enough for her.

I don't know who you're becoming, Santana, she says.

Britt's the one who drives you to and from your appointment. You're too groggy with anesthesia to pull yourself up the stairs of your house, so she literally carries you. You had no idea she was so strong.

For the next six days, she's your constant nurse. Your mother, who approves of Brittany as a good influence—she hates Puck and distrusts Quinn—is more than happy to allow her full access to the kitchen to prepare you juice and snacks to wash down your heavy pain pills. Britt props your head in her lap and strokes your hair while you watch stupid movies and whole seasons of TV shows. She changes your bandages and swabs the incision points with antibacterial cream, kissing your forehead when you wince. You surrender entirely to her. Under the drugs, your brain swims and bobs in a dark sea; thoughts come and go like bubbles of salty foam. She soothes you and never laughs at you when you say silly things.

When the new school year starts, she'll tell everyone she got lost in the sewers instead.

You love her even more for that.

Near the end of the summer, right before school starts, you want a test drive for the new tits. So you sleep with Puck a few times.

He's gotten better at sex. So have you. When he makes you come for the first time, you're so shocked you think for a moment that you might feel something for him.

You don't, of course. You don't have feelings for anyone.

In an attempt to spice things up, he makes you watch porn on his computer. You've never watched it before. You hate it. You hate the women's vacant stares, like they don't want to be there, like they're only there to be penetrated and humiliated. Almost less than human. You tell Puck that it's boring, to turn it off.

In a minute. Just watch one more.

He queues up a lesbian movie.

What the fuck is this? you ask, as one of the women with fake red fingernails dips her tongue to the dry clit of the other. She flicks the tip like she's flipping a switch on and off, over and over. It's so stupid-looking that you get angry. You've gone down on Britt and it's nothing like that at all. It's wet and sticky and you have to bury your mouth in to make it feel good. And Brittany's moans and whispers are real, not like the theatrical fake moaning the actress is doing. Britt's sound secret. They're just for you.

You feel yourself getting wet at the memory.

You're turned on, aren't you, babe? Puck looks so smug you want to slap him. Come on, I see it in your face. I hear you like that more than dick these days.

You flush with anger and shame. So that rumor is still alive. You'll have to quash it.

Keep watching, he urges. And you do watch, trying to absorb yourself in the fakeness of the women's moans, to reabsorb your arousal the way a cat retracts its claws. The last thing you want is to give him the satisfaction of thinking this disgusting ploy is working.

Just then, one of the women licks her fingers, smears it over herself and her partner, and fits the junction of her legs to the other woman's, locking them together, the way you can squeeze the space out from between your palms. The brunette on top starts moving, rocking her hips, and the other undulates beneath her. They close their eyes. You ignore their fake moans and watch their hips, sliding against each other, pressing, and despite yourself, you get wet again.

Like that, baby? asks Puck. Like to watch them scissoring?

You say nothing, but let his hand slide up your skirt.

A couple of days later, with Britt, you bring it up while you're making out. Britt's not sure, but she's up for trying it.

The fitting together isn't as easy as it seems. As you try to angle yourselves just right, your knee hits her solar plexus. Hers hits your chin. But you finally figure it out and lock yourselves together, and the backs of your eyes flash with fractal light.

To make it work, you hold her hand to steady yourself on top of her. It's awkward at first. You keep detaching. Britt starts giggling, and you join her. But then you get it right and start rocking together. The giggling stops. Britt's mouth opens and her eyes close. You take charge and grip her hand as you move.

When you come, you forget everything in the world but her body and your body. Until you come down from your climax and sink against her thigh, and find your hand still firmly clasped in hers. She smiles, and without thinking, you catch her eye and grin back.