Chapter 3: más rápido

Dear Journal,

I am Santana Lopez, and I am lost.

I am a seventeen year old girl growing up in Houston, Texas. I like to play soccer, eat pepperoni pizza, and watch reality TV. I like to laugh, I like to smile, I like to joke around with my friends.

Well, that was before I lost my friends.

I had a close group of friends until Skye happened. I had a lot of things before Skye happened, actually.

My family is a circus. My mother is the clown, my father is the lion tamer, my brother is the magician, my abuelita is the hypnotist.

And me? I am the ringleader.

Sneaking out the house isn't as easy as you originally thought it would be. Abuelita's fast asleep, but she's sitting right in front of the tv in her napping chair. The house is only one story, so you contemplate climbing out the window, but the damn thing is sealed shut.

Abuelita's a pretty deep sleeper, so you take a chance and tiptoe past her, clutching the Dodger's cap to your chest. She jerks in her sleep right when you make it to the kitchen. You freeze and hold your breath until she starts snoring again, then carefully walk around the table and out the screen door.

It's a cool night, so you roll down your sleeves and shove your hands into your pockets as you walk. You don't want to run into any of the creepy drug dealers or homeless men on the main pathway, so you take a different route around an empty warehouse. It takes an extra five minutes, but if it means escaping getting killed or kidnapped, then so be it.

Quinn's waiting for you right where she promised; on the corner of Calle Punto Rojo y Calle Pequeña Flor. It's already dark out, and you should be asleep in bed right now, but once you see the coy smile on Quinn's face when she sees you approaching, you could care less about where youshould be, because this is where you want to be.

The three guys from earlier today are standing with her. You already know Puck, so Quinn introduces you to the other two volunteers. You try to ignore the way Sam's eyes linger on you for a fraction longer than what would be considered appropriate.

He doesn't say anything when Quinn introduces you. Actually, if you didn't know any better, you'd think he was a little scared of you. Mike's the exact opposite of Sam. He shakes your hand enthusiastically and whispers, "Hi, I'm Mike Chang." He's hyper and jumpy and a bit exhausting as he dances around all of you as you make your way to wherever it is you're going.

Quinn stays at your side. You appreciate the way she tries to make you feel comfortable around her friends by including you in conversation, asking you questions about where you're from and why you're here for the summer.

You hesitate. "Well, see," you begin, running a hand through your hair. "There was this dilemma at a drug store, but-"

"It wasn't your fault?" Quinn cuts in with a smirk, leaning to the side to bump your shoulder.

"Don't believe me?" you ask, jutting out your lower lip teasingly.

Quinn smiles; the one that shows all of her pretty, white teeth. "I believe you plenty."

She doesn't even know you, yet she believes you plenty. It's a little sad, but that's the most faith anyone has ever had in you, and somehow, it means the world. You smile at her, somewhat shyly, and she smiles back.

There's nothing but darkness surrounding you other than the occasional streetlight, but you can see her bright eyes glowing, and that's enough to tell you she's happy. About what? You'll probably never know, but you suppose that's not the point. You've never been that person to make someone happy, so if you can offer a small part of yourself to Quinn and make her smile, hell, you're life is basically complete now.

Halfway to the bar, you decide you don't like Puck. It's a chilly night, so he takes this opportunity to wrap Quinn up in his arms to supposedlykeep her warm. That's what he whispers in her ear, at least, and it's obvious he wants you to hear his hushed words by the pretentious smirk on his face.

Your fists curl at your sides. What you'd give to knock him out right now. Closing your eyes, you breathe in and count to ten. Your body fills with calm as soon as you finish counting. You can't recall where you learned this technique, but it always helps with your anger issues, so.

Sam's the quiet one of the group. He walks a little ahead of you with his hands in his pockets. Every now and then, he peeks over his shoulder at you, but whenever you catch him looking, he always turns back around and kicks at the dirt.

He doesn't talk much, you notice. Probably because Mike is so overwhelming, and Quinn is so confident, and Puck hogs all of the attention. With so many large personalities surrounding him, how is even suppose to get a word in?

The town looks different at night. You've never been out this late before, but you're not scared. Maybe it's the fact you're walking with a group of people, or maybe it's just Quinn's reassuring smile and breathy voice that comforts you.

You like the way she talks, so you listen without a problem. She tells you more about the volunteer program she does every year, a little about the other countries she's traveled to, and a lot about how she grew up in Los Angeles where she goes to school now at UCLA.

Ignoring the way Puck's arms wrap possessively around Quinn's waist from behind, you listen with great interest as she smiles at you and tells you about her classes as if Puck's not even in the near vicinity.

She tells you about her photography exploration class, and her jackass of a teacher, Professor Harrison, and her strenuous global studies courses, and how she barely ever has enough time to hang out with her friends or keep up with the Dodger's season.

(You don't tell her much, because, well, there's not much to tell.)

When she mentions the Dodgers, you remember her cap, which is hanging off the belt loop of your shorts. You don't want to give it back, but keeping it would probably be like stealing or something, so unhook it and hold it out to her. You're only mildly surprised when she takes it out of your hands and tugs it back on your head, telling you to keep it.

You catch Puck's expression out of the corner of your eye; he doesn't exactly look angry, just taken aback, as if you stole something that belongs to him, and you're not talking about the cap.

Because of that envious look on his face, you don't get a chance to talk to Quinn for the rest of the night. Puck makes sure of it. Once you enter the bar, everything seems to happen all at once. Sam completely disappears like the recluse he is, Puck and Quinn squeeze through a throng of people towards the back of the bar, and Mike grabs your hand with a bright smile and buys you a drink.

You briefly wonder if he has ADHD or something, but the thought doesn't linger once you spot Quinn and Puck sitting at a booth in the corner of the bar. The way they're facing each other, whispering lowly with smiles on their faces; it almost looks intimate, too intimate.

You don't own her, you're not the possessive type, and you're totally not jealous, but something about their connection makes you wish you were him. You don't even know her, so why does it hurt when Puck leans in to whisper something in Quinn's ear, making her giggle bashfully? It could be the alcohol, or it could be the rush of hanging out in another country, way past curfew at a dingy bar on the outskirts of town, but whatever it is, you don't like it.

Flaring your nostrils, you take a deep breath and count to ten.

The bar is grungy; it's the best word you can think of to describe this place. You suppose it's clean enough according to health inspector standards, but you'd never eat any food off these counters. The tables are dusty, the metal stools are caked with rust, the floors are stickier than a piece of chewed gum, and the people in here look like they haven't bathed in ages.

Mike's wide grin remains plastered on his face as he talks and talks and talks, barely ever pausing to take a breath or sip his cold beer. You're having a hard time concentrating on whatever he's saying. After awhile, Mike seems to notice you're not listening to his never ending story about how he got his head stuck in a beehive, leaving you to talk to someone who'll actually care.

You're not planning on getting drunk. Hell, you weren't even planning on ordering a drink in the first place. It would be stupid to get inebriated in an unfamiliar part of town with a group of people you've just met. Plus, something about liquor always reminds you of your brother.

(It reminds you too much of your brother.)

You watch as a middle aged Mexican man stacks a row of glasses behind the bar. His cowboy hat shields his eyes and masks his face, allowing him to stay a mystery to any outsiders. This reminds you that you're still wearing the Dodger's cap. All of a sudden, it feels too tight on your head, so you quickly pull it off and place it in your lap.

You're wondering why you even agreed to come tonight when you feel a body sit in the stool next to you. You can tell it's Sam from out the corner of your eye. He doesn't look your way or even acknowledge your presence as he talks to the bartender and orders a drink.

It figures; he can speak Spanish too. Not as fluent as Quinn or Mowgli, but at least it's something. It makes you wonder how long they've been doing this program, how many times they've been to Mexico before, or to other countries around the world.

These people are strangers to you. They could be serial killers for all you know, but you risked all of this because of a mere attraction to a mysterious blonde who isn't even paying you any mind. It's like she doesn't even remember she invited you here as she laughs along with Puck and curls into his side.

(Yep, definitely a flirt.)

"Santana, right?"

You almost forgot Sam was sitting next to you. Tipping the beer bottle against your lips, you nod your head and mumble, "That's me."

"I'm Sam," he tells you, lifting his arm over the counter, his palm open towards you.

You stare at his calloused hand with an arched brow. "I know," you say, taking a sip of your beer.

Sam puts his hand flat on the countertop when it's clear you won't be touching him anytime soon. "I like this song," he murmurs, absentmindedly tracing a picture into the moisture of his beer bottle.

You hadn't even noticed there was music playing in the background. "Do you even know what they're saying?" you wonder skeptically.

When Sam smiles, it's like his whole face breaks in two. His lips are already wide and floppy to begin with, but when he grins bashfully like this, you can't help but compare him to a fish. "I can only understand the chorus," he admits, shrugging a shoulder. His head is bowed, eyes downcast; making eye contact is awkward for him, that much is certain. "Nos caen más rápido que subimos. Which means, we fall faster than we climb."

"Depressing," you mutter, distractedly peeling the label off your bottle of beer.

Sam chuckles and runs a hand through his dirty blonde hair. "It doesn't have to be. Depends on how you look at it." When you give him a quizzical glance, eyebrows raised in confusion, he smiles knowingly and adds, "Maybe if we climb fast enough, we can get to the top before we fall."

Blah, blah, blah; that's literally all you hear. Sure, his words are encouraging, but you're more concerned with what's going on behind you in that small booth in the corner.

You're trying not to care. You really are. But when Quinn's laughter floats toward your ears over the music, you can't help but look. Quinn's definitely drunk, that much is obvious, and it seems Puck is taking full advantage of this situation by planting sloppy kisses all along her jaw and down her neck.

You watch with a grimace, but when Quinn opens her eyes and catches you staring, your whole face sets on fire. Your cheeks are red and your mouth is parted in disbelief as she sends you a flirty wink, even as Puck continues to suck on her neck, no doubt trying to leave a mark.

You quickly turn back around and ask the bartender for a glass of whiskey in your best Spanish.

Sam glances worriedly at you from out the corner of his eye, but you ignore the look in favor of gulping down the liquid, wincing when the alcohol burns your throat, and then you ask for another, then another, trying to keep the image of Jose out of your mind as you do so.

Tapping his fingers on the countertop, Sam clears his throat and says, "You remind me a lot of my ex, you know." You didn't know, obviously. You've never even met him nor his ex, therefore, you don't know squat. "She'd always look okay and seem stable when you saw her, but...there was this underlying gloom to her."

"Calling me gloomy, Sam?" you mumble, feeling a bit defensive. He doesn't know you, and you don't know him, nor do you ever want to.

Sam shakes his head. "No," he whispers, his leafy green eyes earnest. "I'm just saying, there was more to her than meets the eye. It's been months, but I'm still not over her. Ex's always seem to have this claim over you." He shrugs his shoulders, looking off at nothing in particular. "But you fall faster than you climb, you know. Maybe it's time I start falling in a different direction."

(You don't like the way he looks at you when he says this.)

You think of Skye. If there were ever a time to talk about her, this may be the best opportunity to get everything off your chest.

Skye.

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

When you choose not to respond, Sam finally leaves you alone, though he remains silent at your side for the rest of the night.

You're not exactly sure what happened to Mike, and personally, you don't really care. With all of his uncontrollable energy, he's kind of annoying; like a swarm of gnats all up in your grill when you're trying to eat.

You don't think this night can get any worse, but when Quinn and Puck leave together without even saying goodbye, you accept Sam's request to walk you home.

Maybe it's the fact you're boarding on drunk, maybe it's because it's dark out and you don't want to get raped, or maybe it's because you're feeling insecure about misreading Quinn's intentions, but you let him take you home, and somewhere along the lines, everything goes black.

For the first time since you've been here, that damn bird doesn't wake you up. Somehow, you sleep right through its chirping. You're not sure if you're alive. There's this dull ache in the back of your skull going bah-bump, bah-bump, bah-bump.

You wish you could tell the noise to shut the fuck up, but your throat is so hoarse, you can't even open your mouth. Moving is another thing you can add to the list of actions you can't do. All of your limbs still seem to be attached, but you won't dare open your eyes to check.

"Santana," you hear; it sounds distant, like someone whispering through a long tube. "Santana, wake up."

Peeling your dry eyes open, you warily gaze up, but all you can see is a blurry blob staring down at you. "Abuelita?" you rasp out.

"It's Gabriel," the voice says, and you knit your eyebrows together, because who the fuck is Gabriel? You don't have much time to think this over, because suddenly, the sheets are being pulled off your body, and you groan throatily. "What the hell is wrong with you?" the voice asks incredulously. "You look like shit."

Your vision slowly starts to clear as you blink your eyes and rub the sleep out of them. "Mo?" you whisper, clearing your throat.

Your voice sounds like you swallowed a bale of hay, your temples are throbbing, your stomach feels like its sinking in on itself, and there's this lump in your throat that won't go down no matter how many times you swallow.

You don't know what's happening; all you know is that the back of your head is killing you as Mowgli grabs your wrists and pulls you out of bed. The room is spinning, and you wrap your arms around your stomach when the overwhelming urge to throw up tickles at your throat.

Mowgli is a fuzzy blur as he tugs you through the house and into the kitchen, holding you steady around your waist so you won't fall.

The sun is shining through the windows in the kitchen, making your headache ten times worse. Clenching your eyes shut, you let out a dry moan and pray to God this isn't the end.

Mowgli dumps you into a chair at the kitchen table with an exhausted huff. "You are way heavier than you look, fat ass," he groans, sighing in annoyance when you slump forward and rest your head on the cold tabletop.

(You don't even have the energy to feel offended.)

As you dwell in your hangover funk, Mowgli ransacks the kitchen, pulling random ingredients out of the refrigerator and cupboards. Three minutes later, a glass of gray gook is set in front of you. Green chunks float at the top, and you almost gag at the heady stench.

"This is an old family recipe to get rid of hangovers," he explains, sliding it closer to your face.

Groaning, you push it away and shake your head. "I'm not hungover."

"I'm eleven, not stupid," Mowgli scoffs, unamused. "Just close your nose and chug it down. It'll be over before you know it."

"My taste buds aren't encouraging me to put that crap down my throat," you mumble, pushing the evil glass of gray gunk across the table again.

"Hey, we made a deal," Mowgli exclaims, pushing the glass back in front of you. "Whether you drink this shit or not, we're going running anyway, so suck it up and be a man." Despite your tremendous headache, you chuckle dryly, remembering when you said those exact words.

(The kid learns fast.)

Sitting up, you swallow thickly and stare at the hangover remedy with a look of dejection. Not only does it look awful, but it smells like a city dump mixed with baby poop. Clamping your nose shut, you pick up the glass and hold it to your lips.

This shitty drink shouldn't even be considered a liquid, you think to yourself, as the slimy chunks slide down your throat. Your face screws up at the taste, but you struggle through it and hope to God this works for Mowgli's sake.

Setting down the empty glass, you wipe your mouth with your forearm and stare at the table in concentration in order to keep the drink down.

"You okay?"

"Do I look okay?" you snap, standing up from the table. To your surprise, the room doesn't start spinning, your eyes remain focused, and your stomach doesn't turn, so maybe this crap actually works.

(You would recommend it to your brother if he wasn't already immune to hangovers.)

"Actually," Mowgli muses, crossing his arms over his chest. "You look a whole lot better than you did five minutes ago." Smirking, you punch him hard in the shoulder as you head towards the refrigerator. He stumbles to the side with a chuckle. "Hey, you better be nice to me or I'll tell your grandma you left the backdoor open...again."

You narrow your eyes and scratch the side of your head, confused. "Why would the backdoor be open if I didn't even..."

The color drains from your face and everything comes rushing back to you like a whirlwind of foggy and jumbled up memories full of beer and liquor and blonde hair and country music.

"Shit," you curse under your breath, averting your eyes to the ceiling in frustration.

"Shit is right," Mowgli chuckles, shaking his head. "I remember what happened the last time you left the door open. You're lucky I came and locked it before she woke up. Maybe I should've left it open though. When your grandma gets mad, it's really funny. Especially when she starts yelling in Spanish and you have no idea what she's-"

"Shut up, Mo, I'm thinking..."

"About?"

"Last night."

"Ew," Mowgli's face twists comically, his tongue sticking out. "Gross. Did you..."

"Did I what?" you ask, eyebrows raised.

"Have," he pauses, his voice lowering to a whisper, "...sex?"

Your jaw unhinges dramatically. "Never ever ask me that question again."

Mowgli grins stupidly. "Did you have..."

"Don't you dare say it," you warn, pointing a threatening finger at him.

"What? Do you mean," Staring you down with an evil smirk, Mowgli squints his eyes challengingly and whispers, "...sex?"

With a growl, you chase him under the kitchen table, around the living room, out of the house, and all the way down to the shore.

(Let's just say Mowgli gets the workout he wanted so badly.)

You're at the marketplace shopping for dough, or masa, as it reads on your shopping list. After hours of begging your abuelita in choppy fragments of Spanish, she finally agreed to cook empanadas tonight for dinner.

She didn't have all the ingredients for the dish in her kitchen, so here you are in the food market, glaring down harshly at an unreadable shopping list as you hold a heavy sack of pesos in your right hand.

You can't even read half of the items on this list. Like, what the fuck is cebollas? You really wish Mowgli was here right now.

At least you'd have someone to help you bargain and haggle with these greedy merchants who try to cheat you out just because you can't understand them.

Squinting your eyes, you scan through the shopping list and mumble, "Pimientos rojos..." You know rojo means red, so. "What the fuck does pimientos mean?"

"Peppers."

"Huh?" You turn around to discover hazel eyes looking back at you.

(Of...course.)

Quinn smirks as she strolls down the aisle, holding a straw basket in the crook of her elbow. "Hey."

You force a smile. "Hi." But it probably comes out as more of a grimace.

"We need to stop running into each other like this." She's standing close, really close, so you take a step back and avert your eyes to your shopping list. Quinn doesn't seem to notice as she purses her pink lips and leans against one of the metal shelves. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were stalking me now."

"Wishful thinking," you chuckle humorlessly, brushing a strand of hair out of your face as you slip past her and down another aisle. You try to ignore her as she follows you through the store and towards the produce section.

"You forgot to get the red peppers," Quinn points out, walking up beside you. She's still smiling; that irresistible, lopsided smile she loves to wear, and it's driving you insane.

The other night is still fresh in your mind. It's not Quinn's fault you have a stupid crush, it's not her fault you thought she was into you, it's not her fault she's a flirty drunk and allowed Puck to invade her personal space.

She probably doesn't even know about your attraction to her. The way Quinn's looking at you now, with that irresistible, quizzical gaze of hers, it's clear to you that she had no intention of stringing you along.

You always seem to do this; interpret small things to mean something bigger. You used to do it with Skye, and here you are again, even in a different country, doing it with Quinn.

When you choose to concentrate on your shopping list rather than her delectable, pink lips, Quinn grows impatient and snatches the small piece of paper right out of your hand. "What the..." you trail off, brows raised incredulously.

"Cebollas means onions," she tells you, peeking into your shopping bag. "You didn't get any of those yet."

"I'm working on it," you mutter, snatching the piece of paper right back.

Quinn's smile doesn't even falter as she nods her head and continues to follow you through the store. Ignoring her light footsteps trailing behind, you grab a few peppers and toss them into your basket.

"I can help, you know," Quinn offers, when she catches you looking at the list with a crease in your brow.

"I can handle it, thanks," you tell her, scanning your eyes over the display of onions on sale. "I know what the rest of the list says."

(Actually, that's a lie, but you know.)

Quinn's expression seems to fall when you brush past her yet again, but you have to admit, the girl is quite persistent. She's not as close as she was before, but you can still feel her presence behind you as you approach the counter.

"Did you have fun the other night?" she speaks up again after you pay the salesclerk.

Stepping out of the market and into the sunlight, you toss your shades on and start walking down the dusty path. "I had a blast."

Quinn clenches her jaw, seemingly growing agitated with your sarcasm and lack of enthusiasm. You don't know what she expects.

She did kind of ditch you after all, leaving you behind with a guy you don't even know to walk you home while she went off with her boyfriend to do who knows what.

Her phone rings, and you try not to eavesdrop as you stop at a jewelry cart and admire a beaded necklace. It's brown and white with a little cross at the end. Jose used to wear a necklace just like this.

He received it at his baptism and continued to wear it ever since. You always assumed he wore the necklace for style, but maybe it was more than that.

"I'm at the market, Noah," Quinn sighs, annoyed, as she turns her back to you. "I'll be back at the motel in a few minutes. Sam is around here somewhere, so relax, I'm not gonna get lost."

Your body stiffens when you hear Sam's name. You can't recall what happened the other night after you left the bar. You can't recall him dropping you off. You can't even recall getting into bed that night.

You really, really don't want to run into him, so you put the necklace of beads back on the top shelf and turn around to walk home when you bump right into Quinn.

"Sorry," you both say at the same time. Quinn chuckles, amused with what just happened, but you can't find it in yourself to laugh right now. Her phone rings again, and you roll your eyes when it's Puck, again.

With Quinn's type of persistency, you doubt she'll easily let you go, so while her back is turned, you make your quick escape.

Sure, she's alluring and freakishly charming, but that's one of the biggest reasons you should stay far away from her. You have a thing for falling too hard and too quick, so maybe it's just better this way.

Merengue music plays on the radio as you help Abuelita do the laundry. You never had to concentrate so hard on doing laundry before in your life. There are just so many steps. Abuelita doesn't have a washing machine, so you're both in the backyard, standing over a large bucket of water.

Your back is starting to ache from bending down for so long as you soak the clothing in a water basin, rub out the stains against the scrub board ("Asegúrese de que no hay burbujas grandes, Santanita"), twist the fabric and wring out the water, shake it out roughly, hook it onto the clothes line, wait for the wet clothes to dry, and then repeat.

Abuelita stops working every now and then to shake her hips and dance to the music. Her smile is bright as she closes her eyes and moves her feet to the rhythm and beat. You can tell she's in another world whenever she's this happy.

She's imagining a time your abuelo was a young señorito. She's picturing all the good times they had together before he got sick and everything changed.

You remember when he died. It's not one of your most clear memories considering you were only four at the time. You had never met him, and you didn't really understand the significance of a funeral and why everyone was so sad. All you knew was that your father cried a lot, your grandma cried a lot, and that you were in a different country.

Your mother held your hand and made sure you stayed seated throughout the service. You were antsy in your tiny black dress and gray leggings, and wouldn't stop kicking your feet as you sat through the wake. Your seven year old brother, Jose, sat on your right and kept flicking you in the ear, telling you to stop squirming or I'll give you a Super Mario wedgie.

(Damn, you really miss your brother sometimes.)

"Eh, Santanita," your abuelita calls, pulling off her floppy gardening hat to wipe at her sweaty brow.

Bending over the wooden basin, you twist the water out of a soapy t-shirt and peer up at your abuelita as she hangs up a large pair of white panties. "Sí, Abuelita."

"Seventeen I was when met you abuelo," she tells you, moving towards the radio to turn up the volume as she continues to dance.

The music is blasting now, and you hope none of the neighbors bitch you out for playing it so loud.

She squints her eyes under the blazing sunlight and asks, "¿Tiene novio?"

Sighing, you wipe your wet hands on the back of your shorts and stand up straight. "No, Abuelita, yo no tengo un novio."

Abuelita pauses in the middle of what looks like a very intricate dance move. Her gray eyebrows are near her receding hairline. You've been waiting for her to ask this question for weeks now, so you've been practicing this sentence for even longer.

"Muy bien, Santanita," Abuelita exclaims, clapping her hands together in excitement. "You learn Español?"

"Yo entiendo muy poco," you shrug, hanging one of your abuelita's dresses up on the clothes line. Just like you planned, your abuelita es muy emocionado, and she forgets all about her original question, celebrating your accomplishments instead.

Dear Journal,

Quinn reminds me too much of Jose. I've already had one person leave me, I don't need another.