Tuesday, August 16 / 9:19am

Santana woke up with a start, and found herself on her stomach, clinging to her pillow with one hand and a wrinkled bunch of the sheet in the other. She held her breath, flattening herself against the mattress.

Okay – it was okay, she decided after a moment of steadying herself. She felt normal, not hot and dry and dizzy.

Santana rolled over onto her back, clutching the pillow against her chest. She turned her head to her left, where Brittany still slept soundly. The familiar ache that seemed to have greeted her every morning this summer welled up in the pit of her stomach.

She touched Brittany's cheek lightly with the back of her hand, letting her fingers fall across Brittany's lips and feeling her warm breath against them.

My mama doesn't know about you.

It was a realization that Santana had to have anew every single morning, and every single morning it felt like a fresh wound.

It was a lie, a sin by omission that was growing bigger all the time, like a snowball on a hill. It grew every time she and Brittany spent the night together, and every time they had a talk that brought them closer. It was a lie that was beginning to take over her whole life at home, causing fights over curfews and tears at night and panic attacks in the wee hours of the morning. It split her into two different people, neither of whom was quite real.

The movement of Santana's fingers against her face fluttered open Brittany's eyelids. She rolled onto her side, taking Santana's hand between hers.

"Are you okay?" she asked automatically.

Santana smiled sadly. How much longer could she ask Brittany to wake up like this, to a girlfriend wracked with nightmares or weepy with despair or mad at the world?

It wasn't even a decision, really. She just couldn't do it anymore.

"Yeah. I'm okay," she said.

"You seem weird," Brittany said, morning grogginess making her even blunter than usual.

Santana smiled again.

"Yeah. It's because I'm calm."

Brittany regarded Santana for a few seconds, puzzling over this unfamiliar state of things.

"When do you want to do it?" she asked, finally.

"Not today," Santana said quickly. "Too fast. And not tomorrow – she has a deadline tomorrow and she'll be tired. Thursday," she said firmly. "How about Thursday?"

Brittany squeezed Santana's hands.

"Whenever you want," she said. "I'll call Rachel today."

...

Wednesday, August 17 / 7:12pm

Quinn sat at her desk, thumbing through a stack of library books that somehow seemed like they must be even heavier than the trees they came from. The flashing cursor in the middle of page 18 of her summer research paper taunted her from the computer screen.

Her phone vibrated, clattering against the desk so loudly in her quiet room that she gasped in surprise. She flipped it over to see who it was, and held it in her hand, frozen.

Staring back at her in white block letters was the word "Archie." God, she really needed to change Rachel's name back to normal in her contacts.

So this was probably a pocket dial, right? There wasn't any good reason Rachel should be calling on purpose – what needed to be said at this point that couldn't be done through texts or something? Unless. . . was Quinn supposed to have responded to Rachel's Facebook message last week? She hadn't felt like doing that, the words about "moving on" leaping out at her the way they did.

Quinn sat unmoving until the phone stopped buzzing. She held her breath, waiting to see if there would be voicemail. Instead, she heard the familiar chime of a text message notification.

Can you please pick up? Not going to yell at you.

A second one came right on its heels. It's important.

Quinn's phone rang again immediately. Barely breathing, she answered Rachel's call.

"Hi," Quinn said, noting with annoyance how the quiver in her voice could show itself through one measly syllable.

"Hello, Quinn."

"Hey, Rach. . .uhh, Rachel. What's up?"

Quinn winced at the sound of her own voice. Could she sound any more fucking stupid? The answer was no. No, she could not.

"How are you doing, Quinn?" Rachel was asking. "I was glad to see you back at Bible school this week."

"I'm . . . uhh, okay. Keeping busy, I guess."

"Good. That's good. Me too. Listen, Quinn, I'm calling because I got a call from Brittany yesterday morning."

"Oh?"

"Santana's coming out to her mother tomorrow. Brittany wants us to be there for moral support."

"Oh," Quinn said, swallowing her startled reaction. "She wants us to be, like, in the room? When it happens?"

"I don't think so. Just, around."

"Okay. Yeah, of course. I'll be there."

There was a pause on the other end of the line.

"Obviously, we'll have to leave any tension between us at the door," Rachel said.

"Right," Quinn said. "Obviously."

"Okay, so Brittany says we should probably go there in the afternoon to keep her company until her mom gets home from work, so she doesn't freak out."

"That makes sense."

"So will you be out of the lab by 3 o'clock?"

"Oh. I'm – I'm done there. Yeah, it was only an eight-week project, so. I'm done."

"Great. So I'll see you th—"

"Do you need a ride, Rachel?" Quinn was suddenly saying, to her own immeasurable horror. "You're on the way from my house to Santana's, so, I could . . . grab you on the way."

"Grab you on the way?" What, Quinn?

"Thanks, Quinn, but I'll be coming from rehearsal in Findlay, so I think someone from there will probably drop me off. But I'll let you know if not."

"Okay, no problem. See you tomorrow."

"Bye, Quinn."

"Bye," Quinn said as the call clicked away.

Rachel stared at her phone until the picture went dark in her hand. If the tension in Quinn's voice hadn't given it away, the offer to drive her around would have.

Santana is right, Rachel realized. She wants me back.

...

Wednesday, June 22 / 10:15pm

Santana was buzzed. She knew she was, because she didn't even care that her new leather boots were getting drenched in this fucking rainstorm. She would be pissed off tomorrow, but right now she leaned into Brittany, kicking up puddles as they made their way down the sidewalk toward Britt's house. Brittany reached around her hip and slid her hand into Santana's hip pocket, pulling her close.

"You're splashing me," Brittany said, digging her nails into Santana's hip.

"I like you wet," Santana said. She yanked the umbrella out of Brittany's hand and held it off to her left, letting Brittany get rained on.

In the ensuing struggle, beyond the rain and the giggles and the shouting, they didn't hear the bass booming from the stereo of the oncoming car.

That is, not until the guys inside started yelling out the windows. Most of it was garbled nonsense, a mix of two or maybe three voices. Brittany pulled her hand from Santana's pocket, and Santana stood up straight as the headlights of a rusty, beat up car swept over them.

It wasn't like either one of them was new to being catcalled. Usually, Santana welcomed it, for two reasons. One, she liked to be reminded of how hot she was. Two, it almost always gave her the opportunity to verbally bitch-slap some douchebag who was long overdue.

Nobody had ever catcalled them with, "HEY, GIRL ON GIRL!" before, though. Santana's ire went up as soon as her ear picked those words out of the rest of the bullshit they were yelling as they drove past.

Then the car stopped, and white lights beneath the tail lights lit up. Without a word, Santana and Brittany turned and started walking away.

"Heeeey ladies," a guy, somewhere in his early to mid-20's, leered from the passenger side window as the car pulled up beside them, a can of beer in his left hand. The car inched backwards to keep pace with Santana and Brittany as they walked. "Where y'all heading?"

Brittany stared straight ahead; Santana gave him her best "fuck off" glare.

"Whoa, what's that for?" he asked.

Santana's mind raced. She did not like this at all. What did they say to do in situations like this? Should they leave the sidewalk, cut through someone's yard?

"Imma talk to blondie, I think she's nicer," the guy slurred to his buddy in the driver's seat. "Hey blondie, this your girlfriend?"

"No," Brittany said.

"So were y'all just doing that touchin' and shit to get my attention? It was fuckin' hot, whatever it was."

"Go away," Brittany said.

"Well if she ain't your girlfriend, can I take her for a ride?" the guy asked, ignoring Brittany's command and laughing like he was the funniest fucking thing in the world.

"Why don't you go make nice with your right palm, Lurch?" Santana spat at him. "She said to go the fuck away."

The guy laughed and turned to his friend. "I think this one's the dude in the relationship, yo."

Santana's insides fell into her feet.

"I'm calling the cops if you don't leave right now," Brittany said, taking her phone from her pocket. "I can see your license plate."

"Yo, whatever," the guy said, but the driver applied the brakes. "You're lucky I don't shove that phone up your ass right now, bitch."

Santana and Brittany exchanged a look of relief as the car accelerated away. But as they turned to run down the sidewalk, there was a clang of metal against the sidewalk and a spray of cold liquid coated the backs of their legs.

"Fuckin' ugly DYKES!" the guy yelled out the window, at the top of his lungs.

...

Wednesday, June 29th / 10:35am

"Why do you have to file your nails everywhere you go?" Quinn asked Santana as they waited for the kids to arrive in the library for story time.

Santana looked at Quinn witheringly. "Well, it's not like I can smoke in here. How else am I supposed to look nonchalant?"

Quinn didn't even bother to roll her eyes at Santana. They listened as the stampede of fifty tiny feet approaching in the hallway gave way to a hum of chatter which gave way to a hundred little conversations as the kids filed into the library from the cafeteria after morning snack.

As usually happened at this time of day, Cristofer made a beeline for Santana.

"Miss, Miss Santana! Hey, look what I got!" he said, sticking his arm straight out to show her what was in his hand.

Santana lifted her eyes from her nails and raised her eyebrows at Cristofer.

"So you finally got it, huh?"

"For my birthday," Cristofer beamed.

"So how did you fool your poor mom into thinking you were a good enough kid this year to get a new DS?"

"I didn't fool her - I am good!"

"Hmm, you could've fooled me. Well, mine's in my backpack," she said, indicating with a tilt of her head where it lay on the desk behind her. "You got Mario Kart, right?"

He nodded, narrowing his eyes at Santana.

"Mmmm," Santana smiled. "Then it's you and me, twelve-thirty, after lunch. And you're dead meat little man, the first time I get my hands on a turtle shell."

"Bring it on, Slow-pez," he said, his squeaky voice trying desperately to sound gruff.

"I'd go sit down and listen to your story if I were you," she said, casually picking up the attendance sheet that lay on the desk in front of her. "Because from here I could easily give you a paper cut on your accelerator thumb."

Cristofer grinned and ran to the center of the room, settling in next to his classmates. Santana smiled to herself, thinking of Brittany's little sister's Nintendo DS in her backpack. She returned her attention to her fingernails until the scuffle broke out.

"Hey, let me see that!" another boy said to Cristofer as he took a seat, and ripped the device from his hand.

"Hey! Give that back!" Cristofer protested, shoving the other boy and reaching for his new toy.

"Mason. . ." Quinn warned. "We don't take other people's things without their permission."

"I just want to see it," he grumbled, and switched it on.

"Give it BACK, fart breath," Cristofer said, drawing a round of giggles from the neighboring children.

Mason scrambled out of Cristofer's reach, but Cristofer leapfrogged two other students to pluck it out of his hands.

"Mason! Cristofer! Sit down!" Quinn scolded, to no avail. She looked desperately at Santana for backup, but Santana was smirking in amusement.

"I just wanted to SEE it, poop licker," Mason said, reaching across Cristofer's body to try to get it back.

"NO!" Cristofer shouted. "Get off of me, you dumb spic!"

Quinn's mouth fell open, and the smirk evaporated from Santana's face. She dropped her nail file to the floor with a clang.

"Wait, what did you just say, Cristofer?" she asked. A hush fell over the room as the kids picked up on the anger in Santana's voice.

Quinn gazed slowly from Santana to Cristofer, who had frozen in place.

"Be nice, Santana," she warned quietly. "He doesn't know."

"Yeah, well," Santana said, standing up and striding to the middle of the room to take Cristofer by the arm. "That's a problem."

She ushered Cristofer into the hallway, leaving Quinn to refocus the class on the book they were supposed to be reading.

In the empty hallway, Santana knelt in front of Cristofer. He stared at the floor.

"Cristofer, look at me," Santana said firmly. "I'm not mad at you, okay?"

"He started it," Cristofer began to defend himself anyway. "He took my DS!"

"You're not in trouble, all right? Just can it."

Cristofer stopped talking and looked at her, clearly puzzled.

"Cristofer, I want to know where you heard that word. That name you called that kid just now. Not. . . you know, fart breath. The other one."

Cristofer stared, reluctant to answer her.

"On the school bus," he said, finally accepting that a confession was inevitable.

"Did someone call you that?" Santana asked.

"No, but a kid on the bus – he calls my brother it."

"Cristofer, do you know what that word means?"

He shook his head.

"It's a mean name. It's a mean name for people like you and me," she said, touching his belly with her index finger. "Entiendes?"

The puzzlement in his eyes cleared a little. "Si."

"So, you can't say that word, Cristofer. And you need to tell a grownup if anyone says it to you or your brother or anyone, ever again. You have to tell your bus driver, or your teacher, or something."

"I didn't know what it meant," Cristofer said, tears welling up in his eyes.

"I know," Santana said, and hugged him. "But now you know. And you better not let anyone be mean to you for being like me, cause we both know I'm awesome, right?"

"Si."

"I knew you'd admit it," Santana said, pulling back from the hug and holding up her palm. Cristofer smacked it in a high five.

"Hey, as long as we're out here skipping Miss Quinn's lame story, you wanna go see if they have any leftover donuts in the cafeteria?" Santana asked. "I think I want sprinkles."

Cristofer's eyes lit up like a Christmas tree. "Can we race?"

"No way, Jose, you know the rules," she said standing up. "But you walk nicely, and I might let you have a bite before I eat them all."

...

Thursday, August 18 / 5:22pm

Santana refused to sit down. For a while, she stood at the picture window in the living room. Then she paced between the couch and dining room table. For a minute she came to rest with her back against the kitchen doorframe, but when she tired of that, she went back to the window.

Brittany followed Santana's position in the room at a safe distance. Because Santana also refused to say anything that wasn't outrageously mean, even for her.

"What the hell are you wearing, Quinn?" she asked out of nowhere. "That outfit looks like something you'd see on an elderly Amish woman with cataracts."

Quinn held her tongue on Brittany's pleading stare.

"What are you laughing at, you Israeli house elf?"

"Nothing," Rachel said, switching off her smile. "So when does your mother get here, again?"

"Any minute now," Brittany answered, as Santana swallowed hard.

As if on cue, they heard a car door slam.

"Group hug, everyone!" Rachel chirped, and leaned in to Santana with outstretched arms. Quinn followed tentatively behind.

"I will rip the light bulb out of that lamp, bust it, and slit your throats if you touch me right now."

They backed off, believing her entirely.

"I love you, Santana," Brittany said simply. Santana glanced over her shoulder and met Brittany's eyes before continuing into the kitchen, where her mother was just opening the door.

In the living room, Quinn, Rachel, and Brittany sat down and waited. Rachel held Brittany's damp, cold hand.

"Mom, can I talk to you for a minute?" Santana said tentatively.

"Is this about school?" her mother asked wearily, setting her purse on the table and emptying the contents of her grocery bags onto the kitchen counter.

"It's summer, Mama."

"I mean college."

"No."

"Why do you look ill, Santana Claus?"

"I have to tell you something. Can you, like, stop moving for a minute?"

Her mother turned toward her and put her hands on her hips.

"Are you pregnant?"

"No," Santana almost laughed. "Kind of the opposite," she muttered.

"Speak up, cacahuete, I can't hear you."

Santana sighed impatiently. This wasn't the vibe she wanted at all.

"Okay, can we go sit down?"

Santana's mother turned on her heel and walked toward the door leading to the back porch. She opened it wordlessly and held it for Santana.

In the living room, Rachel, Quinn, and Brittany exchanged a look, rose to their feet, and wordlessly tiptoed into the kitchen.

Santana and her mother sat down, Santana on a wicker bench, her mother on the porch swing.

"What do you have to say, baby? You're scaring your mother after a long day at work."

Santana sat up straight, her hands perched on her knees. She stared at the rug in front of her and took a few deep breaths, giving herself a moment to focus only on not throwing up.

"Is this about what happened Sunday night?" her mother prompted.

Santana nodded. "Yeah, actually. Okay. Okay, so mom? You know how I've been best friends with Brittany for a long time? Since we were little?"

"Is she pregnant?"

"No, Mama, no one's pregnant. And you know how we might go to college together next year?"

"For cheerleading."

"Yeah. Yeah, that's one reason. But there's another reason that I haven't told you about why we want to do that. About, why I'm always with her, and why I've barely been around here this summer."

Santana blinked, and unwelcome tears dropped from her cheeks to her lap.

"Mama, I love her. She's not my friend anymore, she's my girlfriend."

Santana drew in a ragged breath, and time stopped as she watched the expression on her mother's face turn from ambivalent concern to something entirely unreadable.

Her mother looked from Santana's face to the back yard and back to Santana's face.

"How long have you been keeping this from me?" she asked quietly.

"Um," Santana said, dabbing her left eye with her knuckle. "A few months. I mean, I wasn't sure until this year."

Her mother held Santana's gaze, and shook her head slowly side to side.

"I'm disappointed in this girl sitting here, Santana Luisa. This is not who I raised you to be."

And there it was – exactly what she had feared. Brittany was wrong, Santana had been right, and she wanted to die. She didn't know whether to defend herself and try to explain, to deny it and take it all back, or to get up and leave, to run to Brittany's arms.

Santana opened her mouth to speak, although she wasn't entirely sure what was about to come out. Her mother spoke first.

"This timid, scared girl sitting beside me is not who I taught you to be."

All the words Santana had been considering saying were stopped cold, like they ran into a concrete wall.

"What?" she squeaked.

"I taught you to be proud, no?" her mother said. "I taught you pride and how to give anyone hell who didn't like it, did I not?"

"I, uhh -," Santana stammered. "No, but, I am proud, Mama. I'm proud to be a woman and I'm proud of my family heritage. None of that is any different. I just - some parts I'm still working on being proud of, I guess."

"Listen to me, cacahuete," her mother said, leaning forward and extending her index finger toward Santana. "Nobody who loves you is going to take that away from you. You know better than that. And people who don't know you, they will not respect you if you don't walk around like they better. This world will not hand you respect."

Santana wiped the fresh round of tears from her cheeks. "Yeah, I – I know."

"And if what you are telling me is true, you're gonna need to be tough, baby. And I don't mean mean, I mean tough. There's a difference," she said, eyeing her daughter knowingly.

"Okay. I know," Santana nodded.

Her mother looked at her thoughtfully. "So you've been sleeping there all the time? In Brittany's room?"

"Umm . . ."

"You're too young for that, chiquitita. You are seventeen, that's too serious! You start coming home at night. And now I know where you are, too, and I will send your father to come find you."

"All right," Santana said humbly. Well, that sucked, but somehow this didn't seem like the moment to complain.

"Okay. Now get out of here. I need my mama time."

And that was it – it was over. And Santana couldn't feel her legs. She somehow managed to stand, but could do little more than wobble to the back porch door, through the kitchen and back to her friends, who had preceded her back into the living room by approximately 1.5 seconds.

Outside on the porch, Mrs. Lopez watched her daughter depart and then took her phone out of her jacket pocket and dialed.

"Gail, it's Alicia," she said, by way of a greeting. "How long have you known about this?"

...

Santana emerged from the kitchen with tears streaming down her face, and fell into Brittany's waiting arms.

"Is it okay?" Brittany asked.

"It's okay," Santana nodded into her shoulder.

"I'm so proud of you," Rachel said, tears welling up in her eyes, too.

Santana let go of Brittany and transferred her hug to Rachel, then to Quinn.

"Thank you guys for coming."

"Of course," Quinn said as they let go of one another.

"I would offer to tell you how it went, but I know you were all eavesdropping from the kitchen the whole freaking time," Santana sniffed.

Rachel and Quinn looked at one another sheepishly, confirming Santana's accusation.

"What's 'cacahuete' mean?" Rachel asked.

"It means none of your business."

"It means 'peanut' in Spanish," Brittany spilled.

"Oh my god, that is adorable," Rachel said, bringing her hands to her mouth.

"Fuck you all," Santana said, still wiping at her eyes.

"Okay, we'll get out of your hair," Rachel said. "I'm sure you two want to be alone to talk."

"Thanks again," Santana said. "Sorry I was such a bitch," she added with a touch of sheepishness.

"When," Quinn asked. "This afternoon or for the last five years?"

Quinn and Rachel loitered in Santana's driveway in the breezy evening sunshine.

"I think it meant a lot to her that you came," Rachel said.

Quinn nodded. "Yeah. I mean, I'm glad I did. She looks really happy."

"So how much did your heart drop into your stomach when she said 'it wasn't how she raised her'?"

"I thought I was going to either cry or pee my pants, maybe both," Quinn admitted.

"Well, I guess it can turn out okay," Rachel said quietly.

"I guess. For some people."

"You know, Quinn, I don't really feel like walking home. Do you think I could get a ride?"

"Yeah," Quinn said. "All right."

...

Saturday, August 20 / 6:04pm

Quinn stood by the kitchen table, rifling through the mail. She separated the bills from the junk mail and tucked the edges into two neat piles. Eyeing Judy from behind her sunglasses, she discreetly slid her hand into her messenger bag at her side. She pulled out a sheet of stickers and tossed it onto the table next to the mail.

"What's for dinner, mom?" she called out.

Judy emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a tea towel. "I made a casserole," she said, smiling. "It'll be ready in half an hour."

Quinn nodded and sat down, waiting.

"Did we get anything interesting in the mail?"

Quinn shook her head. "Just bills, really."

"Oh," Judy said absently. "Sweetie, what's this? Why do we have rainbow flag stickers on our dinner table?"

"Oh," Quinn said, feigning nonchalance. "I got them from Brittany. She and Santana got them at the Pride Parade a couple of months ago."

It was a lie, of course. She had gotten them from Rachel's nightstand back in June.

"But, why do you have them?" Judy asked carefully.

"I thought they were cute," Quinn shrugged. "And I support my friends."

Judy held Quinn's gaze for a moment, and Quinn held her breath.

"Well, put them away, please," Judy said, turning her back and heading back into the kitchen. "I'll need to set the table in a minute."

"Should I put away the mail, too?" Quinn called after her. She didn't get an answer.

Quinn smirked at Judy's receding figure. Well, there you have it. She slapped her hand onto the table and slid the stickers off the edge and back into her messenger bag.

...

Wednesday, August 24 / 11:47am

Quinn was wiping down the tables in the arts and crafts area after a lively session of macaroni gluing when she first heard the sound.

"Pssssst."

She turned and looked over her shoulder both ways, but saw no one. It must be one of the kids messing around, although it was strange that one of them would miss lunch just to pointlessly annoy her.

Then she heard it again.

"PSSSST!"

It was louder this time.

She stood up, threw the washcloth down on the table, and put her hands on her hips.

"Who is that?" she whispered.

No answer. She sighed and rolled her eyes, and returned to cleaning the table. It was probably that little shit Cristofer. Quinn knew he had to be trouble the moment Santana befriended him.

"PPPSSSSSTTTT!" she heard a final time. "Fabray, you asshole, over here!"

Quinn turned around to see Santana gesturing at her from the door to the ladies' restroom about twenty feet away.

Curiosity won out over annoyance. Quinn headed for the ladies room.

"Could you be less obvious, please?" Santana hissed. "Don't let anyone see you."

Santana held her index finger to her lips, and, once Quinn was inside, slid the wooden doorstop beneath the door so no one could open it from the outside.

"What the hell are you doing, Santana?" Quinn asked wearily, not actually expecting any sort of satisfactory answer.

"I need to talk to you," Santana said. "You have to do me a favor."

"I have to do you a secret favor?" Quinn clarified.

"That's right."

"I'm not interested," Quinn said, starting for the door.

Santana put her toe against the doorstop, holding it in place.

"You are certifiable," Quinn said matter-of-factly. "Okay fine, if it'll get me out of here – what's the favor?"

"Okay, here's the deal. I need you to follow Brittany and Rollerpants when they hang out on Friday night. But listen, you're gonna need to be a hell of a lot sneakier than you were with me just now, because he's hobbled but not deaf, all right?"

Quinn was already tired of this conversation. "Are you kidding me, Santana?" she asked. "You're asking me to spy on your girlfriend?"

"And her ex-boyfriend," Santana corrected her.

"But. . . why me?"

"Because this is your fault. You put this idea of closure in her head. Then one afternoon of talking to him turns into another, and before I know it she's asking me if I mind if they go to the arcade on Friday night."

"Okay, first of all, I didn't put that idea in her head, Santana. I gave her a word for the idea she already had. Second of all, if it bothers you so much, why don't you just say no?"

"Because I'm trying not to be a jealous bitch."

"And, you're doing that by sending someone . . .to spy on her?"

"Okay, look," Santana said, her shoulders slumping and the bravado draining out of her voice, "I can't say no. Okay? She's been amazing the past few weeks, with like, my mom and at tryouts and everything. She deserves for me to trust her."

"So then why not just trust her?"

"I do trust her!" Santana said. "That's the thing, I do. And I want her to have the bull shit she wants, like his friendship or whatever. I mean, just because I think it's disgusting doesn't mean it doesn't make her happy. But it's making me fucking crazy, you know? Like the better it gets with her, the worse it would be if I let it get fucked up. I just need you to follow them once, and make sure it's innocent, so I can stop climbing the fucking walls, all right? So why don't you do a good deed for once, to make up for fucking up everybody's summer?"

"Santana," Quinn said, a little more gently this time, "This is between you and Brittany. The last thing I need is to get involved in someone else's relationship drama."

"Oh, so you mean like how I totally didn't have to be involved in yours and Rachel's?"

Quinn chewed her bottom lip.

This request was a little fucked up, but it was possible that she owed Santana a favor.

"Fine," she sighed.

Santana smiled victoriously.

"His dad is picking her up at eight. You best be at the arcade by 8:15, you got that?"