Chapter 4: campeón del fútbol

It's midday. There's not a cloud in the sky as you sit on the bottom step of the porch and watch Mowgli play a game of soccer with the other boys. After awhile, you can't look anymore. It's pitiful. He has no technique, no skill, and no handle on the ball. Now you get why Carlos always runs right passed him. Now you get the sulking, lack of confidence, and insistence to actually use a ball during your workouts.

(In lack of better words, the kid sucks.)

Other than Mowgli, the soccer boys are pretty good, bouncing the ball off their heads and chests, rolling it between their feet, flicking the ball up with their toes as they kick it into the goal. To take your mind off the impossible challenge of teaching Mowgli how to kick straight, you look up at the sky. A distant noise catches your attention; a low buzzing, coming closer and closer.

Tilting your head up, you lift your hand to shield your eyes from the sun and stare at the straight, white line splitting the sky in half. The white line reminds you of chalk on a blackboard, the teacher's stern face as she tries to teach a class full of children how to read a multiplication table.

After awhile, the low buzzing sound of the plane begins to drift off into the distance. You want to stand up, wave your hands around, and yell, "Wait for me! Help! Help!" There's nothing you want more than to get out of this place. Go home. To your own house, your own room, your own bed.

Reaching into your back pocket, you pull out a brand new box of cigarettes. The pack is so new, the plastic is still wrapped around the box. You cradle the cigarette between your index and middle finger. Closing your eyes, you take a long drag and blow the smoke out through your nose. It burns your nostrils and makes your eyes water.

(It's the closest thing to crying you'll ever reach.)

The smell is pungent, the taste is bitter, but you've never been too fond of sweet flavors anyway.

Briefly, you wonder if Quinn smokes. Would she be disgusted by your habit, or would she think it's cool, sexy, arousing? Actually, you wonder a lot of things. You wonder if it's possible for a heart to break in thirds. Your heart has barely healed from your breakup a few months back, and now there's Quinn.

Quinn, with her golden hair and hazel eyes. Quinn, with her nasally voice and pink lips. Quinn, with her crooked smile and charming words. You can't be trusted around girls like her. Somehow, you always end up doing something stupid, something brainless, something emotionally harmful, to both the girl and yourself.

You hear the sound of high-pitched shouting coming from the soccer boys as they run up and down the field. Most of them haven't even reached puberty yet, the youngest being six, oldest being fourteen. You seem to be the only one interested in watching their games, excluding old Mr. Ramos across the street.

Your grandma told you about him. She's thinks he's crazy, but for some unknown reason, you like him. Maybe it's his spunk you find admirable. Not everyone is confident enough to come out of their house every morning with just a wife beater and a pair of red boxers to collect the mail. Sometimes he even yells at the soccer boys to keep off his grass, throwing the daily newspaper at them when they refuse to listen.

When he walks back up his porch, he always waves at you and shouts something in Spanish. The houses aren't spread too far apart, so you can hear him easily, though that's not exactly the problem. Understanding him is the big issue. You think he's telling you to say hello to your grandma for him, but you never do, because your grandma says he's a creep, so.

You're not sure what to think. If the dopey grin on his face every time your grandma steps out on the porch is any indication, you'd say he has a crush on her. The thought of old people falling in love makes you want to grimace and swoon at the same time.

You never knew your grandfather, so you're not sure what Abuelita's type is, but if she's anything like you, she wants someone who's bold and not afraid to get what they want, and that person is definitely old Mr. Ramos.

Dear Skye,

I am young and stupid. I am cryptic and dark. When we first met, I was a firecracker. That's what you loved about me. I have a hard time letting go. You should know this better than anyone.

We thought we were invincible, immortal. We thought we could beat the odds.

We thought wrong.

.

.

.

Sighing through your nose, you rip the piece of lined paper out of your journal and crumble it up. With a grimace, you watch as the balled up paper rolls across the carpet and under your bed.

Day 1

You wish you had a camera to take a picture of the beaming grin on Mowgli's face when you tell him you're not going running today. He can run a full mile without needing a break, he can touch his toes without bending his knees, and he has the perfect running technique, all thanks to you.

Now, as you remember from yesterday, you need to teach him ball control. Mowgli was all over the place whenever he came into contact with the soccer ball. You had watched with a wince every time Carlos or one of the other boys came out of nowhere and stole the ball away from him with a swift kick of their foot.

It's around six in the afternoon, the perfect time to use the field since all of the soccer boys have been called in to eat their dinner. You bump the ball back and forth against your knees and on the top of your head as you walk toward the field, chuckling when Mowgli's smile gets even broader at the tricks you do.

After teasing Mowgli that he looks like a hyena for about five minutes, you finally let him hold your soccer ball. He stares at it as if it's a special crystal ball, and if he drops it, it'll shatter into a million pieces.

Day 2

You let him bump the soccer ball back and forth on his knees. Black and white hexagons swirl together as the ball flies into the air, spinning and spinning into a big blur of circles. Mowgli's movements are a little jerky and unpracticed. Every time he lifts a leg, it almost looks like he's doing the robot.

The ball probably flies about six feet in the air before landing yards behind him. Mowgli runs from side to side, desperately trying to keep the ball in front of him, but after about three bumps, the ball always lands in the dirt with a soft thump, brown dust floating up into the air, making you cough into your fist.

You try to demonstrate, repeating the words, "Keep your eye on the ball," as you bounce the ball back and forth. "It may seem tedious, but this is the best way to learn control," you tell him, wiping off a patch of sweat from your forehead. "Just make sure the ball stays within a foot from your knee, and keep your back straight to maintain balance."

You used to practice this all the time with your brother. You can see it now; home, in the front yard, young and healthy, warm afternoon. Jose, with his gelled hair and brown freckles. Jose, with his toothy smile and bushy eyebrows. Jose, teasing you whenever you fall on your back, but always there to help you back up.

You loved these summer afternoons the best. Until that car pulled up on the curb. A voice called out. You had ignored it, but Jose followed the voice. The car window rolled down, and all you could see was smoke. The car pulled away, Jose was gone, and you're left all alone. Bye, Jose.

Mowgli seems disheartened when he can't get it right. You hate the frown on his face. It reminds you too much of another frown.

"You'll get it, Mo," you promise, softly punching him in the shoulder. "You'll get it."

Day 3

The soccer ball finally touches the dirt. You can tell Mowgli's trying to contain his smile as you drop the ball to the ground and dribble it back and forth between your feet. His eyes go left and right, left and right, following your sneakers as if they have the solution to world peace.

Wiping his sweaty hair off his forehead, Mowgli takes a step forward. His movements are slow and obvious as he approaches you. Continuing to dribble the ball, you keep your eyes focused on Mowgli's expression.

He thinks he's being sneaky, he thinks he's being secretive, but you know better, because right when Mowgli strikes, sweeping a foot in between your own, you tap up the ball with your toe, grab it between your heels, and hop passed him with a chuckle, all in one quick motion.

He never even touches the ball.

Mowgli grows frustrated by the eighth time you fake him out. He's already tripped over his own feet twice and scraped both his knees when he finally gives up. His smile is gone as you both take a seat on the porch step and decide that's enough for today.

You hate seeing him sad like this, and okay, maybe you could have held back on the teasing, but Mowgli has to learn perseverance and determination, which will definitely come in handy when playing defense. If you give up on your man and let him score a goal, that doesn't make you a very good soccer player, does it?

You ask Mowgli this question as you sit on the porch. All he does is sigh in reply, but you know he gets the point by the way he stares at the ground in thought.

Day 4

You let him steal the ball. Mowgli's so excited, he jumps up and down with his hands in the air. All you can do is roll your eyes with an amused smirk and promise yourself you'll never tell him you let him steal the ball from you on purpose.

You could tell he was losing confidence in himself. And you don't want that. You want him to love the game just as much as you do, and you figure that's not going to happen if you keep tripping him every time he comes after the ball.

Day 5

You allow him to dribble the ball. His movements are clumsy as he runs through the grass with his head down, the soccer ball at least six feet in front of him. After awhile, you can't take it anymore.

"Keep your head up, Mo!" you call out to him, wincing when he glances up at you with a big grin and trips over his own feet.

Instead of wallowing in self-pity, Mowgli jumps right back up and starts kicking the ball around in circles. He tries to keep his head up as much as possible, and you sigh, because this may be harder than you thought.

Shaking your head, you suppress the smile tugging at your lips and yell, "Use the inside of your feet for better control!"

Mowgli gives you a thumbs up, his long hair falling into his eyes as he races passed you.

Day 6

You observe Mowgli as he plays soccer with the other kids. Ever since you've been stretching and working out with Mowgli, he's seemed to become more flexible, coordinated, and confident with his soccer abilities.

He kicks the ball sloppily and with no real direction when he's playing with the other boys, but at least he's running on his toes and picking up his knees when he runs, making him much quicker than the others.

They still don't pass him the ball, and you kind of don't blame them. Carlos, that son of a bitch, continues to hog the ball, showing off like the ass he is. The other boys don't seem to care, running back and forth, back and forth, as Carlos kicks the ball into their handmade goal.

Sometimes you wish you were obnoxious enough to join the soccer boys just to show Carlos up, but since you know you're better, it would only make you look desperate for a victory.

"Did you see that, San?" Mowgli shouts, waving his hands at you from where he stands on the field. "Did you see?"

Honestly, you didn't see a thing. Without even realizing it, your mind had drifted off along with your thoughts. You were daydreaming of blonde hair, watching the clouds turn into the shape of thin lips, thinking about hazel irises.

Mowgli's still staring at you and waving his hands, so you quickly dismiss the irrelevant images in your head, paste on a smile, and give him a thumbs up.

Footsteps; slow and steady.

Whoever's approaching is surely taking their own sweet time. Maybe you should be afraid. Maybe you should go inside to hide. It's already getting dark out, what if the person approaching is dangerous?

But you don't move. You're not scared. And you don't run and hide. You continue to scribble mindlessly in your journal, not really writing anything significant, just drawing doodles of farm animals.

A shadow hovers over you, blocking the sun. It's strange, but when you lift your head, you're not really surprised to see her standing there with a Polaroid camera around her neck. Her expression remains blank as she lifts the camera up to her face and snaps a photo of you.

The flash goes off, and all you can see is white spots appearing in the darkness surrounding you. You blink and rub at your eyes. Quinn smiles down at you and waves the photo between her thumb and index finger. You're too charmed by the glint in her eye to really be annoyed by her actions.

Once you get your sight back, you gaze up at Quinn and narrow your eyes. "What are you doing here?" You know she's here for you, but the obnoxious teenage girl in you wants to hear her say it.

Quinn runs a hand through her short haircut. She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out, so you wait patiently, head cocked to the side as you tap your pencil against your journal.

"I saw Gabriel in town," Quinn eventually answers, taking a seat on the wooden step next to you. She scoots closer, barely leaving any space between the two of you. "He told me where to find you."

That doesn't really answer your question, but whatever. Shutting your journal, you hold it close to your chest and mutter, "Course he did."

(You're going to kill Mowgli when you see him.)

Quinn bows her head, trying to catch your eye, but when you continue to stare forward, she sighs heavily through her nose, frustrated. "Is there something wrong, Santana? Did my friends and I do something to insult you?"

You will yourself not to look her in the eyes, because that's when you'll lose all resolve. You shouldn't be this upset over something so stupid. You don't know Quinn. She doesn't know you. So why do you feel betrayed and abandoned?

You know girls like her; they'll only break your heart in the end. They make you feel loved and needed, and then when you least expect it, they stab you in the back.

It's not always in the most obvious of ways; they could easily be doing it by mistake, but it hurts nonetheless. It hurts like a bitch.

"There's nothing wrong, Quinn," you mumble, leaning your shoulder against the wooden post. "I'm fine."

Before you have a chance to pull your hand away, Quinn's holding it tightly between her own. She's looking at you curiously, head tilted to the side with a slight frown ghosting over her lips. "Is this about Sam?"

You snatch your hand away, eyebrows raised incredulously. "What?"

"I think he likes you," she explains.

You shrug a shoulder, because yeah, that's probably true, but who the hell cares?

Quinn rubs her palms together and adds, "He didn't do anything to make you feel uncomfortable, did he?"

Ducking your head, you let out a dry scoff. "No, he didn't do anything," you mutter, brushing the dirt off of your shorts as you stand up abruptly. Quinn stares after you as you climb the steps up to the porch. "You know what, forget it."

"How can I forget what I don't even know?"

Quinn's looking up at you, lips pressed together, eyes bright under the sunlight, and you can't concentrate or even remember what her question was in the first place.

You can't remember what you were so upset about. The outline of her jaw is even more defined the way she's holding her chin up defiantly, waiting for a response, an honest answer.

Rolling your eyes, you cock your head to the side and mutter, "You didn't tell me Puck's your boyfriend."

Quinn does a double take, seemingly flabbergasted by your accusation. "Puck's not my boyfriend." You're pretty certain you just heard wrong until she repeats, "Puck is totally not my boyfriend." She seems disgusted by the thought, and inwardly, it makes you want to smile, but you don't.

You swallow thickly, fingers fumbling around with the hem of your tank top. "He's...not?" Great, now you feel stupid. You always do this, Santana. You act like a know-it-all, coming up with false conclusions, pretending one thing means something else entirely just to protect your fragile heart.

"No," Quinn reiterates, eyeing you curiously as she stands up from the porch step. "Why do you care though?"

You're a couple of inches taller than her for once as you stand on the porch. It gives you the upper hand; makes you feel stronger, or maybe just less vulnerable. "I don't," you claim with a careless shrug of your shoulder.

Quinn doesn't look convinced but she nods her head anyway, taking a step up the porch and closer to you. "So, if you don't care, why have you been avoiding me?"

She's patronizing you, Santana. Look at her as she lick her lips like she's in control or something. She's enticing you. Flaunting around, showing off her charm and wits, knowing you want her, knowing you can never have her.

This is what girls like her do. They try to get under your skin and creep towards your heart, and before you know it, it's too late.

You don't respond, just swallow thickly, glancing down at Quinn's heaving chest as she continues to approach. "Is it because...I'm a bit wild when I'm drunk?" she singsongs, smiling cheekily. "Or...could it be my wonderful way with words that have you spinning out of control?"

Quinn's wide grin is infectious, and you find yourself smiling along with her before you can even think twice. She seems to take this as a good sign, slowly ascending the steps until she's standing in front of you again.

You hope you're not smiling too wide. "Don't flatter yourself."

"Can't help it."

Your cheeks hurt from trying to suppress your grin, so you bow your head and look down at the wooden planks. "It's getting late," you murmur, grabbing the handle of the screen door behind you. "I should get inside, and you should get back to your motel before it gets dark out."

Quinn glances toward the sunset out of the corner of her eye before refocusing her light eyes on you. "You're not gonna invite me inside?" she asks brazenly.

"My grandma's napping," you tell her, raising your eyebrows challengingly when Quinn gives you a disbelieving look. "And she usually doesn't like company when she's wearing her curlers, so..."

Quinn nods slowly, seeming to get the point as she takes a step back, leaving you with enough room to breathe again. "Okay," she says, but something about the way she looks at you makes you believe she wants to say something else. Eventually, all she does is rake her teeth over her bottom lip and whisper, "Goodnight, Santana."

You want to say it back. "Goodnight, Quinn," is right on the tip of your tongue, but instead, you say nothing as you watch her descend the steps and walk away, and something flutters in your chest when she looks over her shoulder and smiles.

Dear Journal,

I don't know how to feel. This is nothing new, but it's still equally as frustrating. I don't know how much longer I can go on this way. Without my brother, without Skye, without any hope.

Quinn gives me hope. I don't think I'm a bad person. I might have done some bad things, but my actions shouldn't determine my fate. I suppose I deserved everything that came to me. I deserved the pain, the heartbreak, the isolation, the cold shoulder.

What I didn't deserve? Abandonment.

Knowing why a person is gone all of a sudden is one thing. But when you have no idea what you did to make someone leave you; that's when it hurts the most.