Chapter 2: Acuerdo

Your laptop died about three days ago. Abuelita refused to let you charge it, saying it was using up too much of her precious energy.

(At least that's what you think she said.)

Since you can't continue writing in your laptop about your visit, you decide to record your stay in a journal. You found it in your abuelita's shed after helping her plant some flowers in her garden one evening. You went into the shed to put away the extra soil and watering pale when you found a dusty, old journal on the top shelf.

There wasn't a lot of writing in it, just a few pages with some scribble like the person was testing if their pen worked, so you took it and claimed it as your own. You like to write. Get your mind off of things by entering a whole new world, full of wonders, made-up lands, and fictional beings.

You like to tell stories, mostly. Escaping from the world you know of now, a world where your parents ship you off to unknown territory, where your brother leaves and never comes back, where love is so easy to obtain, yet once you have love, it slips away just as easily, right through your fingertips.

Your abuelita was smart in choosing the fisherman over the boat keeper. You don't have anything against boat keepers, of course. It's just...love. Sometimes you try to act superficial and tough and emotionless, but no one can escape love. You're a sucker at heart. You'll never admit this to anyone, but you fall in love easily.

You're still battling off your last heartbreak. You have no reason to feel as downcast as you do about the whole situation. You have no right. What happened three months ago, happened. There's no going back in time. There's no fixing the mistakes that were made.

(What's done is done.)

This is your first time keeping a journal. At first, you don't know what to write about. You sit in the rocking chair on the porch and stare off into space. The distant sound of kids yelling and dogs barking drift through your eardrums. Other than that, you're lost in thought, searching for something to write; words, sentences, poems, verses, feelings. After a moment of hesitation, your pencil lands on the lined paper.

Dear Journal,

It's been exactly eighty-five days. I'm not sure how to feel. She's still in my mind, but as the days go by, I'm finding it easier to move on. She's still in my heart, unfortunately. This, I find, is harder to let go of. Although I don't think of her as much as I used to, I can still feel her in me. It's the same with my brother. I don't know how long it's been since I've last seen him. I wonder where he is. Is he thinking about me? Does he ever think about home? Does he even want to come home?

I want to be mad at both him and Skye. Why can't I be mad? Why can't I scream or cry or throw a fucking fit like a toddler having a tantrum? I get angry over the smallest, most miniscule things, but when something actually worth getting upset over occurs, I shut down and act as if I don't give a shit.

Jose used to say I was just good at controlling my emotions, deciding when it was best to blow up, or when it was best to burn out the fire, but...I think Jose was wrong. I think I'm the opposite. I can control my feelings. I know how I feel. It's just hard to tell the difference between my emotions sometimes. Like with Skye, when I-

"Ow!"

You wince when a soccer ball hits you in the side of your head. Standing up from the rocking chair, you fix your eyes on the soccer field and shout, "Okay, who the fuck did that and thinks they can get away with it?" It feels good to yell. Flaring your nostrils, you let out a long sigh and count to ten.

As you stand their looking between all of the little boys, they avert their eyes and pretend the ground is the most interesting sight they've ever seen.

(Bunch of pussies.)

Rubbing the side of your head, you mutter under your breath and contemplate cursing each one of them out when Mowgli comes out of nowhere, running up to you with his messy hair and big brown eyes. He doesn't make eye contact as he picks up the ball and tucks it into his side, softly mumbling, "Sorry."

Before he can run off, you jog down the rest of the steps and grab his forearm. His posture stiffens when you touch him. You wonder what's going through his mind. He probably thinks this is the end; now that you've caught him, it's time to drag him into your lair and throw him in the pot to boil.

You roll your eyes at your unconventional thoughts. Sometimes you're surprised by your own vivid imagination.

Mowgli stares up at you, his eyes narrowed suspiciously. You slowly retract your hand from his arm and tuck it into your pocket. You can't believe you're about to apologize to some little boy for being wrong, but here you are, doing just that. The blonde you met a few days ago, the one with the laugh drizzled with honey, helped you realize how stubborn you were acting when you basically embarrassed yourself in front of her at the marketplace.

"Look, the other day was suckish," you huff indignantly, shrugging a shoulder. It's the closest thing to an apology that will ever leave your lips; apologizing has never been one of your strong suits anyway. "It wasn't cool of me to lose my temper and say curse words, because curse words are bad and you shouldn't say them."

Mowgli quirks an eyebrow, probably surprised by this admission considering the way you treated him. "It's...okay. I'm sorry, too," he murmurs, and you roll your eyes, because you never even said you were sorry. "It's just," he continues, ignoring you. "I guess I know how you feel."

You bite your bottom lip, half-amused, half-annoyed. "And how does that work?" you question, placing a hand on your hip. "You're bilingual. At least you can blend in around here."

Mowgli shrugs a shoulder, turning his head when one of the boys calls his name. Huffing under his breath, he throws the ball back towards the field. "I just know how it feels, being the outcast and all," he admits, brushing a strand of hair out of his face, looking longingly at the other kids as they easily kick around the ball like it's second nature.

Something strange and unfamiliar clenches in your stomach at the sadness in his big brown eyes. "Hey, kid," you begin, catching his attention again when an idea comes to you, and yeah, you're feeling pretty brilliant for coming up with such an awesome plan. "How about I help you out, and you help me?"

He considers you, his lip curled up in a look of caution. "How?" he asks curiously, leaning against the wooden post.

"If you teach me how to speak Spanish, I'll turn you into the best soccer player this town has ever seen."

Mowgli looks at you like he wants to call bullshit.

You shrug.

(It seems like a pretty good deal to you.)

He purses his lips in thought, brown eyes glancing back and forth between you and the field. "You can play soccer?" he asks skeptically.

"You're looking at the national champion of 2011 right here," you brag, playfully brushing off your shoulders. Mowlgi chuckles, and you'll never admit it aloud, but you think you like it when he smiles.

He narrows his eyes on you, a slow smile forming on his lips as he considers the idea of being one of the best. Reluctantly, he nods his head and holds out his hand. "Usted se tiene un acuerdo. Which means, you've got yourself a deal."

Mowgli's hands are caked with dirt, so you punch him in the shoulder instead. "Alright, Mo," you affirm, grabbing your journal from off the wooden step as you make your way back onto the porch. "Meet me back here tomorrow morning. And get a goodnight's sleep, because we're starting bright and early."

That night, you dream. You're not sure how it starts or ends. You don't even remember closing your eyes and drifting off to sleep. You see colors behind your eyelids, and then, the dream begins.

You're standing at the end of a tunnel. It's damp and humid; the sticky kind, where you feel itchy and uncomfortable all over. You hear drops; plop, plop, plop. It's probably raining, but you can't be sure.

"Santana," you hear. It's a whisper, yet it's still so loud. You look to your left. You look to your right. All you see is cold, blue stone. The tunnel goes on forever. There are puddles and rats and roaches and garbage all over the ground. Your nose crunches up at the stench. "Santana."

There it is again. The way it's being whispered; it almost sounds like a secret. Something you're not suppose to know about. Something being kept from you, for your protection, for your safety, for your peace of mind.

"Santana." At the other end of the tunnel, you finally see. He's standing up straight; his perfect posture is strange. Considering the last few times you've seen him, he's always been slouched over, a side effect of all the drugs and alcohol in his system. His hair is short; cut neatly and trimmed at the edges.

You haven't seen him so put together in ages. You haven't seen his eyes shine so bright without that underlying fog in such a long time. You almost want to cry at the sight of it, but you never cry, so you just watch.

He doesn't move and neither do you. Does he even see you standing here? Does he even want to approach you? You try to take a step forward, but something, some powerful force, hinders your movement and keeps you back.

You blink slowly and stare down at your feet. They're trapped in a murky puddle. Rats and cockroaches swim through the water, over your feet, and around your legs.

"Santana."

You look back up, and there he is, standing right in front of you, staring straight at you. And then he does something you haven't seen in almost a lifetime.

He smiles.

Mowgli's late. It's the first day of his personal soccer practice with a future college athlete, and he's fucking late. You're angrier than you should be as you pace back and forth on the wooden porch. The damn bird works as your own personal alarm clock, so you've been up for awhile now.

(Five o'clock on the dot, every damn day.)

You told Mowgli you wanted him here bright and early for a reason. The sun has already risen, and you can feel the temperature slowly rising as the minutes tick away. This is why you wanted him here before sunset. It's cooler during the mornings, making it easier to run and not drown in your own sweat.

You tug down on the bill of the Dodgers cap on your head to block out the sunlight when you see a figure approaching in the distance. The person is slowly shuffling their legs, shoulders slumped forward as they drag themselves toward you.

"I said bright and early, Mo," you sneer, rolling your eyes when Mowgli peers up at you through his tangled locks with sleepy eyes. "Not fucking-" you check your wrist watch "-nine o'clock. By the time we even make it to the shore it will be hot as fuck."

"You lied," Mowgli pouts, plopping down on the wooden step. "Yesterday you said you would stop cursing, but you're still cursing."

Raising an eyebrow, you stare forward in thought. "I never said that," you counter, crossing your arms over your chest as you descend the steps. "I wouldn't be able to stop cursing even if someone paid me, so I doubt I said that."

Mowgli's eyes slowly start to close as he leans against the wooden post, his jaw slightly hanging open. You almost don't want to wake him up, because he just looks so exhausted, but the two of you made a deal, and you really, really need to learn Spanish, so you nudge him in the ribs with your toe and watch as he jolts awake.

"C'mon, wake up." You hook your arms under his shoulders and pull him up, steadying him before you let go so he doesn't fall and smash his head against the concrete. "If we run fast enough, we might be able to make it to the market before ten. But first, we stretch."

Slowly, very slowly, Mowgli begins to wake up as you lead him through the stretches. He may be skinny, but the kid is as stiff as a piece of driftwood. Soccer is a fluid sport; you have to be able to move all parts of your body, twisting and turning here, jumping and sliding there. In order to make Mowgli an awesome fútbol player, you first have to make him limber.

As you jog along the shoreline, Mowgli gets distracted by the seashells and baby turtles in the sand. He does a great job of keeping up with you until you hit a mile. After that, he seems to fall back a few steps, dragging his feet in the sand as he tries to keep up with your steady pace.

Peeking over your shoulder, you let out a breath of air at the way Mowgli's hanging his head and coughing into his chest. "Lift your knees when you run," you instruct, inhaling through your nose as you approach a steep hill. "You build more muscles in your core if you keep technique and run straight."

"Santana, I'm tired," he whines, stumbling as he climbs up the hill behind you. "When can we take a break? I'm so thirsty."

You don't even have the energy to roll your eyes you're so exhausted, but you're supposed to be an example, so you keep on pushing. Plus, you only have a half-mile left before you reach the market, so you can't stop now. "We're almost there, Mo," you yell over your shoulder, wiping a patch of sweat off your brow. "Be a man and suck it up."

"I'm only eleven," Mowgli cries, gasping for air as he makes it to the top of the hill and onto the sidewalk. "If it hurts this much, I don't wanna be a man."

"Stop complaining," you mutter, turning around to jog backwards. Mowgli scowls as you run circles around him, literally, and ruffle his hair. "The more you talk, the more oxygen you use up, and the less you can breathe. Didn't you learn this in chemistry?"

"You mean biology?"

"Whatever." Lifting your head, a small smile stretches across your lips as you point ahead. "Look, Mowgli, land ho!"

Mowgli chuckles when he sees the marketplace just a few blocks away. Taking a deep breath, he lifts his head and pumps his arms, determined to reach the finish line next to you. You both sprint the last one hundred meters and stretch when you finally make it to town.

When you're sure that you're all stretched out and won't pull any muscles, you give Mowgli the okay to search for somewhere to buy a drink of water. You make sure he goes nowhere near the saleswoman you met last week. Her angry glare and missing teeth still give you nightmares.

Mowgli orders your drinks when you find a food cart near a construction zone on the outskirts of town. He tells you he wants to check it out, so you say what the hell; you finished your workout for today, and it's too hot to continue running, so you follow Mowgli as he approaches the red cones and yellow tape.

There are a few signs with the words Warning and Do Not Enter. You try to tell Mowgli that you don't think you should be over here when you catch a glimpse of blonde hair. At first, you think it's just your imagination, that you're totally just seeing things, but when you hear that laugh, the one drizzled with honey, you know it's got to be her.

It's hard to see past all the caution tape and hazard signs, but if you duck your head low enough, you can see the way her eyes sparkle in the sun when she smiles, or the way her eyebrows raise as she jokes around with an Asian guy wearing a hardhat.

Another man with a hardhat approaches them with a stern look and points at the supplies surrounding them. Once the man leaves, they all get back to work, so you assume this is the volunteer program she told you about.

"Whatcha lookin' at?"

"Sshh..." You put a finger up to your lips and bend down even lower when she glances in your direction. Her hazel eyes linger for a moment before she gets back to work, dipping her paintbrush into a bucket of blue paint before turning around. "You see that girl over there, Mo?"

"The one with the blonde hair?" he asks, crouching down next to you.

You nod your head, a coy smile forming on your lips. "Yeah, her."

"What about her?"

Knitting your eyebrows together, you chew on your bottom lip and shake your head. "I...don't know."

Apparently, you and your abuelita are a lot alike.

When you were younger, your father used to tell you this all the time, but you always refused to believe it. Your brother met your abuelita many years ago when he was sent to visit her after getting arrested for a DUI. He told you she wouldn't leave the house, or smile, or even talk to him. He told you how she was mean and bitter and lonely, all because of the death of your abuelo.

(But your brother used to say a lot of things, so.)

Sure, most of these things about your grandma are true. She is mean, but only when she has to be. Like, whenever you forget to lock the backdoor at night, she yells at you in Spanish for a whole two minutes until it starts to make sense. She is bitter, but only on Wednesdays, because those were the days your abuelo would take her out to fancy restaurants and buy her flowers. And she is lonely, but only because her family disowned her when she chose love over money.

You suppose your father was right. You and your abuelita are a lot alike. You're mean when people are irritating, you're bitter when you think about love and the many lies it brings, and you would be lonely too if it wasn't for Mowgli.

"You see that bird right there?" He points up at a palm tree. Shoving a forkful of rice and beans into your mouth, you glance up at the bird and nod. "Say, I want to feed the yellow bird tonight."

Swallowing thickly, you purse your lips and stare at the bird as if that'll help jog your memory. You've been at this for three hours now, sitting outside a little restaurant in the heat, listening to a mariachi band play and replay the same songs over and over again as Mowgli points at random objects and tells you to translate them into Spanish.

"Um, yo quierar...dar de comer," you pause, biting your upper lip in concentration. Mowgli nods his head, urging you to keep going, so you reluctantly continue, already knowing you got the sentence all wrong. "Esta noche...pájaro amarilla?"

"Close," he says, smiling proudly, but all you can do is groan in response, because you're never going to learn this damn language. "You want to say quiero if you're talking about yourself. And amarilla should be amarillo. You get why?"

You nod, releasing a sigh through your nose as you try to block out the distracting noises surrounding you. "Pájaro has an O, so amarillo should as well," you mutter, grabbing Mowgli's glass of ice tea from across the table. "It's been five days of this shit and I'm still making the same damn mistakes."

"At least you're getting somewhere," Mowgli grumbles, snatching his glass out of your hand when he sees you take a nice, long sip just to bug him. "All we've been doing is stretching and jogging every morning. I want to play fútbol, not run track."

You shrug a shoulder, unapologetic, and blatantly ignore the pout Mowgli's sending your way. "You're out of shape and you can barely touch your toes," you tell him, absentmindedly poking at the brown beans on your plate. "Once you can run a mile without passing out, maybe I'll let youhold my soccer ba-"

"Santana?"

That voice. You'd recognize it anywhere, even near a crowded restaurant with an annoying mariachi band playing way louder than what should be legally allowed. You don't want to look too eager to see her again, so you raise your head slowly, allowing an easy smile to tug at the corner of your lips when you see her approaching your table with a wave.

You're so entranced by her long, sun kissed legs that you barely notice the group of guys following closely behind her. Their presence makes your smile falter a bit.

"Hey, that's the girl from the construction site," Mowgli practically shouts in your ear, pointing a finger dead at her. You slap his hand down and fix him with a death glare. He seems to get the idea, immediately pressing his lips together as he zips them closed and pretends to throw out the key.

(This kid is going to be the death of you.)

"Don't say a word about that, you hear me?" you whisper, nodding your head, urging him to nod along with you. Mowgli nods slowly, a wry smirk twitching at the corner of his lips.

"Santana?" you hear again, and when you look up, the blonde is standing right next to your table, gripping on to the strap of her messenger bag with an arched brow. She smiles, and you think someone just stole your air supply, because you can't breathe. "Hi," she giggles, sliding her sunglasses to the top of her head.

"Hey," you smile, twirling your fork between your fingers. "It's you again."

Seemingly amused, she gazes down at you and places a hand on her hip. "Seems so," she chuckles, glancing back and forth between you and Mowgli. "And who's this handsome gentleman?"

Mowgli rubs the back of his neck as his cheeks redden noticeably. "I'm Gabriel," he murmurs, clearing his throat when it cracks, and dear God, did his voice really just crack? His face seems to get even redder, and he kicks your shin under the table when you laugh into your hand.

"But you can call him Mo," you add, hoping to hear Mowgli's voice crack again. Your parents used to scold you whenever you teased your brother about it, so you're not going to let this opportunity pass again.

"Mo?" She arches an eyebrow, her lips spread out into an amused smirk. "What does that stand for?"

"Mowgli," you supply, kicking your foot against his chair when he tries to stomp on your foot again.

She chuckles, running a hand through her tussled, blonde hair. "Oh, like, from the Jungle Book."

(So that's where you heard the name before.)

Nibbling on your bottom lip, you contemplate asking what her name is, because you're kinda tired of referring to her as the blonde in your head, but before you can even open your mouth, someone yells, "Q, let's go!" It's the guy from a few weeks ago; you think his name is Puck. He points at the restaurant you're sitting near and says, "We're going inside to order."

"Get me the regular," she tells him, shrugging a shoulder. Puck nods his head and leads the other two guys into the restaurant.

Raising an eyebrow, you purposefully make eye contact with Mowgli across the table and tilt your head in the direction Puck and his friends just went. Mowgli stares at you in confusion, a deep crease in his forehead as he looks between you, the restaurant, and the blonde standing beside your table. After a few seconds pass, his brown eyes widen and he seems to catch your drift, grabbing his half empty glass of ice tea and muttering, "I'm gonna get a refill."

You roll your eyes at his lack of subtly and nudge him in the shoulder when he walks passed, almost making him spill the rest of his ice tea.

"Your brother?" she asks, taking a seat in the empty chair, like you secretly hoped she would.

"Pseudo," you shrug your shoulder and narrow your eyes on her with a playful smirk. "Your name?"

She smiles at this, leaning her elbow on the table. "Q," she answers, resting her chin in the palm of her hand.

You lean back in your chair, watching her closely. "Just Q?" you ask skeptically. "It doesn't stand for anything, like..."

She doesn't insert a name into your empty space, just a coy smile. "Guess."

"Guess?"

"Yep."

Narrowing your eyes on hazel, you chew on the inside of your cheek and guess, "Qiana."

"Red." She shakes her head, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"Queen."

"Yellow."

Pursing your lips, you decide to just throw anything out there and hope its right. "Quincy."

"Green."

"That was close?" you ask, head cocked to the side disbelievingly.

She nods her head, crooked smile perfectly in place. "Really close."

"Qu..." you trail off, tapping your fingers on the table as you try to come up with another name. "Qu...Quinn?"

"Bingo."

"Quinn," you murmur, testing out the name on your tongue. "Quinn. I like it."

"Why thank you," she responds, biting down on her lower lip to suppress the lovely grin she's desperately trying to hold back.

You smile down at your plate of food, shoveling the rice around bashfully. There's a pause in conversation, but you don't feel the urge to fill the silence with meaningless chatter. Quinn seems content to just sit across from you and listen to the music while she waits for her friends.

You're not really hungry anymore; you're not sure what it is, but there's this strange flutter in your stomach, and Quinn's smile is way more appetizing than the rice and beans on your plate anyway.

"You're not from around here, are you?" Quinn wonders aloud, breaking the silence.

You smirk, setting your fork down in your plate. "What gave me away?"

"Everything," Quinn shrugs a shoulder.

You laugh, shaking your head in amusement. "Everything?"

"Almost everything. You don't speak Spanish very well," she points out, lifting a brow challengingly, and you try not to blush. "And everyone around here seems to walk with a sense of purpose, but you..." Quinn's eyes narrow thoughtfully, a ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. "You're so relaxed and...carefree compared to the natives."

You've never heard anyone refer to your personality or attitude as carefree, but you'll take what you can get. Squinting your eyes, you regard her closely. "Have you been stalking me?" you tease, arching a brow.

Quinn doesn't even falter. "Maybe a little," she says, pursing her lips.

Her lips are pink.

Your new favorite color is pink.

She's flirting with you; you'd be stupid not to notice. Insane not to notice, especially since you're straighter than a circle.

You're not going to be one of those girls who overanalyze everything; take simple words and make them mean something else. You've done it countless times before with Skye and other girls you've known in the past. More than likely, they always end up having a boyfriend, or worse, being straighter than a rainbow in denial.

The worst thing about being attracted to women is that you're never certain if they're into that unless you flat-out ask, which you'll never ever be bold enough to do, so all you can really do is just watch and wait. Women like to flirt, no matter what the gender.

(It's the cold, hard truth.)

Her head is turned as she watches the mariachi band sing and dance around with their instruments happily. Unlike you, she seems to be enjoying the music. Her head bobs up and down. You smile at the way she tries to suppress her smile.

Now that she's distracted, you allow your eyes to wander. No more is she wearing the white VOLUNTEER t-shirt from last week. Today, she's dressed in a white, strapless sundress which stops at her knees. With her tanned skin and bright dress, Quinn looks like an angel.

You remember when Skye used to look like an angel.

Skye.

(You still don't want to talk about it.)

"Where's your volunteer shirt?"

Quinn looks surprised at the change in subject for all of two seconds before she glances down at her outfit, eyebrows raised as if she forgot she was wearing something different herself. "Oh, we get a day off twice every week," she explains, fiddling around with her sunglasses. "Speaking of, some of my friends were talking about hanging out at a bar tonight." She pauses and smiles down at the table. You sit and wait, hoping she finishes her thought process, because you really want to hear what she has to say. "Care to join us?"

You're happy you waited. You've never been the most patient person, but it seems you're learning a lot more than just Spanish this summer.

Your first response is hell, yeah. Like, who in their right mind would brush off this invitation? Certainly not you. Especially with the way Quinn's staring at you; eyes shy and cautious, head tilted sideways, lips slightly parted as she waits for your answer.

Your abuelita would kill you if you weren't home before curfew, but you really want to go, especially when Quinn raises a coy eyebrow, her hazel eyes peering up at you from under her eyelashes, and before you can even properly think it over, words, words, and more words are flying out of your mouth.

(Curse word vomit.)

"Okay, yeah. Sure, I'd love to go," you answer, already knowing this is not going to end well. "Where should I meet you?"