The dirt is different here than in the States. It's redder and smoother. As you run your fingers through the dirt, its slickness reminds you of clay. It sticks to your hands like glue, but it doesn't crumple like the dirt back home.
Dirt isn't the only thing that's different about Mexico though.
A lot of things are different; the people, the sites, the language, the water, the food, the sun, the sky, the stars, the atmosphere.
Quinn seems to notice as well, because she can never stop talking about it; how the ocean is so clear, you could probably see straight through it; how the people are much friendlier here; how the food tastes so much better; how the wind feels different on her bare skin; how the sun shines so much brighter.
Quinn's an anomaly. You haven't yet gotten a grasp on her. She's hard to figure out, and you suppose that's what you like about her. She's not easy to read, easy to have, easy to get. She's so simple, yet complicated.
You'd love to be the one to get a chance to navigate her complex thoughts, travel through her brain and learn all about her; her quirks, her deepest, darkest secrets, her favorite color, her best memory, her first kiss, her greatest treasure.
You want everything Quinn has to offer.
(Is that greedy?)
Quinn loves her Polaroid camera like a sex-addict loves orgasms. Every time you look around, Quinn's snapping a picture of something; a beautiful setting, a colorful bird perched on top of a palm tree, a kid licking his ice cream, or...just a candid of you.
Whenever she focuses her lenses on you, you always try to play it off like you're not paying attention, but you notice. Of course you notice; it's hard not to notice, sometimes. And it's hard to suppress your smile whenever you catch her in the act, but you try, and more than not, your mouth ends up hurting by the end of the day from holding back a bashful grin.
Sometimes the two of you sit in front of a historical site and wonder. You think about the people who were alive back then; the Indigenous people of Mexico, what struggles they faced, how they overcame their hardships. You wonder if they had troubles like you; faced the same issues you've stumbled upon throughout the years.
Your history teacher, Miss Paxton, once said during class that, "The future always repeats itself. There's nothing new under the sun." As you look at the crumbled monuments and deserted, abandoned buildings that hold so many stories, you wonder how true all of that really is.
You spend the next few days together; just Quinn and yourself. No Sam and his thoughtful, green eyes. No Mike and his sugar-loaded body. No Puck and his wolf-like scowl. Just yourself and Quinn, and it makes you nervous in a way as you follow her through the streets and take in the sites surrounding you. Whenever alone, you would always stick to the main pathway, but Quinn takes you to places all over town you never even knew existed.
As you walk side by side, hands brushing every now and then, Quinn tells you things she never told anyone; stories about her life back home, why she chose Mexico of all places this summer, what fields of study she's taking at UCLA, how her dog thinks he's a human being.
You can't help but listen as she speaks. Whenever she talks about something she's truly passionate about, her eyes light up, brighter than the sun burning above you. She's been to Haiti, Ghana, Chile; multiple places all around the world, teaching children English, handing out food packets to those in need, rebuilding old and abandoned structures.
She loves to travel, and she loves to help people. "This way, I can kill two birds with one stone," she concludes, the corner of her lips twitching up into a smile. She's admirable, and true, and everything about her is beautiful, and you're mad at yourself for falling even deeper.
The way she wants to save the world one country at a time, how she can fluently speak three languages, the astounding stories of her travels and all the people she's met and helped; it just blows you away and leaves you wanting more, more, more.
"Can I ask you a question?"
You're not usually so hesitant around people, choosing to ask whatever you want, whenever you want, but with Quinn, it's different.
Quinn glances at you from out the corner of her eye as she tries on a pair of sunglasses. "You just did," she replies evenly, pursing her lips in the mirror across from her. When you send her a pointed look, Quinn sighs, blowing a strand of hair out of her face, and pulls off the pair of shades. "Sure, S, ask as many questions as you want. Fire away."
You glance down at the Polaroid hanging from her neck. It always seems to be there, resting right on her chest. Quinn's wearing a lavender tank top today, so you can easily see the protrusion of her breasts whenever you look down.
"Why a Polaroid?" you wonder aloud, lifting your head. When you catch Quinn's eye, she gives you a look, and you're pretty sure she just caught you ogling her breasts, but it hasn't been the first time, so you simply shrug it off and wait for her response.
Quinn doesn't answer; instead, she raises an eyebrow, confusion written all over her face as she grabs a floppy sunhat from off a rack and tosses it on top of her head. "What do you mean?" she asks you, head tilted to the side as she inspects her reflection.
Quinn must not like what she sees, because the next thing you know, the sunhat is back on the rack, and you're standing alone, watching as she heads down another aisle in the tiny shop.
"I mean, you're a photography major," you begin, hot on her trail as she slips through a small space between shelves and strolls down another aisle. "Shouldn't you have some fancy digital camera and complicated equipment or something? Like a Nikon?"
Quinn cracks a smile as she comes to a stop in front of a rack of colorful clothing. "I've been kinda into vintage lately," she says simply, shrugging her shoulders, but you know it's more than that, so you boldly tug the red poncho she's feeling up right out of her hands, claiming her undivided attention.
Quinn smirks and rolls her eyes at your display of assertiveness. You have a standoff, both holding the poncho in a tight grasp. After about five seconds of utter silence between the two of you, Quinn loosens her grasp and ends up dropping the piece of cloth in your hand. You smile victoriously. Again, Quinn rolls her eyes, but you're pretty sure she finds you adorable, so it's okay.
She hums under her breath, turning her head to look at something, anything but you. "There's nothing like catching that perfect moment," Quinn whispers, and you notice immediately how wistful she sounds, how melancholy, longing, and yearning she sounds.
You hadn't meant to make this moment feel so intimate, so significant, because it really shouldn't. You were just curious and wanted to know why she loved that Polaroid camera so much, but the way she held off from answering your question, like she had some sort of secret, had only spiked your curiosity even more.
Cocking her head to the side, her chin at the perfect angle where you can easily admire her defined jawline without looking like a creep, Quinn licks her lips and says, "Polaroid photographs can't be deleted, altered, stored, or edited. These photos can't be posted on the Internet or saved to some stranger's computer," she explains, biting her upper lip, and God, you can't stop looking at her lips now. "The only people who can see these pictures are those of my choosing."
Quinn picks up her camera and looks through the lenses, right at you. You don't move a muscle, just stare straight ahead, a small smirk playing at your lips.
"The sunlight through Polaroid lenses are better than any artificial light or editing can mimic or manipulate," she whispers, and a shiver crawls up your spine at the breathy tone to her voice.
She tilts her camera at an angle, and your eyes follow her every move as she crouches below you on the floor and kneels on one knee.
"It's all up to the photographer's skill and vision that decides what's going to be forever captured." You quirk an eyebrow when she stays low and takes a few steps back, continuing to tilt and angle the camera until the vision she plans to capture is perfect.
You know she's got it when that goofy smile reappears on her cheeks as she singsongs, "Smile," and snaps the photo.
Dear Journal,
I feel guilty. I suppose I was with Skye for so long that it now feels wrong to gain feelings for another girl. I don't mean to sound like a hypocrite or anything. I know that most of what happened is my fault. Maybe if I was honest with her, things would have been different. Maybe I wouldn't even be in Mexico in the first place. Maybe I never would have met Mowgli. Maybe I would have never met Quinn.
It's hard to make a choice sometimes. I know I don't really have one anymore, but at times I find myself wondering which direction I would take if I could see the future. Who would I pick, where would I go, what would I do?
Just one decision could change everything.
I think I would pick Skye. She wasn't just my girlfriend, after all. She was my best friend, and when we broke up, I couldn't even remember what it was like to be without her. Truthfully, it's the best friend things I miss the most.
Skye was my free therapist before I needed a real one. She was the one who reminded me to stop being a bitch, the one I did my homework with, the one I'd blame my farts on, the one I'd lose track of time with, the one who's mind I could read with just one look.
Sometimes, I miss my ex-girlfriend. But I never stop missing my ex-best friend.
Whenever Quinn has a day off, or her shift is done for the day, she knocks on your door with this smile, and you just want to;
a) kiss her
b) tell her how you feel
c) admit that you think about her all the time
d) confess that you're falling for her
e) proclaim that every time you see her, you forget who you are
You want to tell her everything and just spill out your guts. You want to tell her about yourself, about your family, about your soccer team, about your brother.
(And you never tell anyone about your brother.)
But you don't know if she feels the same way, so you keep your thoughts to yourself, grab your bag out of your room, kiss Abuelita goodbye, and head out the door for another unpredictable adventure with Quinn.
Sometimes you find yourself on the top of Quinn's motel roof and watch silently as the sun goes down. Quinn always pulls a small photo album out of her messenger bag and shows you pictures of what she's seen so far.
You laugh at the one's Mike took of her up close, her face practically smushed against the camera lens. You try not to roll your eyes at the photographs of Puck, a smug grin plastered on his face like always. You smile at the soft look in Sam's eyes as he tries to shyly dodge out of the camera's view.
You're happy Quinn is your friend, but somewhere deep in your mind you were maybe hoping for something more, something deeper, something concrete.
Quinn hasn't done anything to really give you a sign that she wants something more, that she wants you as more than a friend. Sure, she's a flirtatious little firecracker, but that doesn't exactly mean she's into that.
You really want to find out, but you have to be subtle about it, so one afternoon, as you're both sitting on the roof of her motel, you turn your head and ask, "Are you a virgin?"
Quinn's chokes on air.
Okay, maybe you could have been a little less blunt, but now that it's out there, you need to know the answer. Quinn has this look on her face; the one where she squints her eyes, curls her top lip, and scrunches up her nose.
For a few moments, you just stare at each other. You suppose it would be awkward if you didn't like staring at her so much. She raises her eyebrows, asking a silent question, but you're not sure what it is, so you raise your eyebrows too.
"No," Quinn finally answers, a small smile quirking at the corner of her lips. Good, she's amused. Maybe she'll just let it go as a random curiosity of yours. "Why?"
(Okay, plan B.)
Tilting your head, you tap your fingers against the shingles on the rooftop. "Just wondering..."
"Have you been wondering this for awhile?" Quinn inquires, that blasted grin still stretched across her cheeks.
You tuck your knees into your chest and release a shaky laugh, slowly lolling your head to the side in thought. "Maybe..." you drawl slyly, glancing her way before looking forward again.
"Well," Quinn begins, then stops, scratches the back of her neck, and chuckles to herself like she can't believe she's about to ask, "What else have you been wondering?"
It sounds like she's giving you some type of permission to ask her whatever you want. You're not exactly sure, so you face her, lift your eyebrows, and wait. When Quinn smiles, lifts her eyebrows back, and nods slightly, you wonder if there really is a God.
"Location," you state, and when a crease forms in between Quinn's eyebrows, you smirk and add, "Location of your first time."
"Ah," Quinn murmurs, seemingly amused with your choice. "UCLA dorm room."
You wait for more, but when she just looks away, gazing beautifully at the traffic on the street, you brazenly ask, "You didn't have sex until you were in college?"
You don't really see a problem asking these questions; after all, friends ask each other personal questions about love and sex and life all the time, right? It seems Quinn thinks so too, because she laughs and says, "Why do you sound so surprised?"
You hadn't realized your eyes were wide and wondering, or that your question had come out with a breathy gasp. You look away quickly and clear your throat with heavy shrug. "No reason," you squeak, and then clear your throat again, because dear God, you did not just squeak.
"What about you?" Quinn crosses her legs in front of her before looking your way with that expectant look of hers.
Still lost in a daze, you mumble, "What about me?"
"Virgin?"
She says it so easily, like it doesn't even bother her, like she's truly not that interested, like the fate of the world doesn't depend on your response. Despite your rapidly beating heart, you cough into your fist and murmur, "No, um..." Quinn raises an eyebrow when you fail to continue your thoughts. Rubbing the back of your neck anxiously, you decide to be honest and admit that, "I lost my virginity awhile back. To someone really special."
You can't help it; you think of Skye and that night and the way she felt under you. You think of her gasping breaths and your panting sighs and her half-lidded eyes and your grunted moans all mixing together as one into the night.
"How old?" Quinn asks, squinting her eyes curiously. You like how wondering she is; maybe it's not just you who insists on learning more about the girl you're spending your summer with. The thought is comforting. You don't want her to be wasting her time with someone she really doesn't care for, even if that someone is you.
You think about it for a moment; you'd even count on your fingers if it didn't make you look like a toddler. "I was...fifteen."
"Wow," Quinn murmurs, incredulous. "That's really young."
(Not when you're in love, you think to yourself.)
You shrug, unsure of how to reply, leaving a giant hole in the conversation. Quinn bobs her head up and down to the sounds of absolute silence. Maybe she has a song stuck in her head. You wish the silence didn't bother you so much, then maybe you'd be able to just sit and think and breathe.
You have a problem. It's been following you around ever since you were a kid. As people on this earth, it is only human nature to tell the truth, to speak what's on your mind, to release whatever's in your heart.
Only in life do we learn to keep these feelings and truths and internal pains to ourselves, thus entrapping a bubbling desire to claw out and escape the plastic wrap hindering us from living our lives.
As a human being, it is only natural for us to say what's on our mind, so you can't really blame anyone but humanity and God for the next six words that bubble up your throat and exit your lips.
"Ever had sex with a girl?"
Quinn doesn't even flinch. Strangely, she looks the exact opposite of startled, as if she's been awaiting this question her whole life. Tapping her chin in contemplation, she narrows her eyes and tilts her head in thought. "Considered it," she says, smiling wickedly to herself, and you wish you could see what is happening in her imagination. "But no. Never had sex with a girl."
You're not sure if your heart just sank or got stuck in your throat. "Why not?" you wonder, unable to let this conversation drop until you have fully analyzed the words she's spoken.
Quinn shrugs, her shoulders lifting and falling slowly, as she actually considers your probing questions. "Opportunity wasn't there, situation wasn't right," is all she says, and it's better than hearing her say that's just gross, like, ew, because you've heard that before and it wasn't very pretty when your brother stepped in.
Quinn smirks, and you swear she can read your mind. "Anything else you want to know?"
You're not going to let this opportunity go to waste, no matter how gay the questions make you seem. "Ever kiss a girl?"
You're met with complete silence other than the honking horns on the street below. "Maybe," breaks through the distant noise, and you smile crookedly at Quinn's faux innocent expression.
"What do you mean, maybe?" you inquire.
"If you have to ask, then you'll never know."
Chuckling, because it's a wonder where she gets this stuff, you roll your eyes and sigh, "Alright, Gandhi..."
Quinn leans back on the roof and folds her arms under her head. You doubt those shingles feel very comfortable under her back, but she's sure making it look relaxing by the content expression on her face. "My turn to ask you a question now," she says, as if this is a game you've been playing all along. You smile and nod, silently telling her to ask anything she wants to know, anything except, "Are you a lesbian?"
Only one other person has asked you this question before, and it was Skye. Believe it or not, the two of you started out as friends. You met her in the fifth grade, became best friends in the sixth, fell in love with her in the eighth, and everything fell apart in the eleventh.
The inevitable end; it happened fast, like the snap of a stretched rubber band. The band was on its way to breaking for months before it snapped against your skin, burning your wrist, causing a welt the size of your broken heart to form right there as a permanent reminder of your self-destruction.
Quinn is still waiting, and more than anything, you hate making people wait. It was so easy to admit it to Mowgli and Jose, but this is Quinn, and you don't know how Quinn thinks or what Quinn wants or what Quinn believes.
Obviously she's sensed something, or else this question would have been a stupid question, but it's not a stupid question because it's true, so.
"Yeah," you say, as clearly and as calmly as possible, shrugging a shoulder, though it feels tense as it bounces off your body. "Yeah, I'm gay."
You're trying to play it off like it doesn't matter what she thinks; that it doesn't bother you, though sometimes you do get scared, and you do wish things were different, and you do flinch at the slightest homophobic joke.
Quinn doesn't make a joke though. She doesn't do anything actually, just smiles, and that's it; one measly smile then, poof, it's gone and she murmurs, "Thought so," before looking back up at the sky.
You like how she doesn't make a big deal out of it like some people tend to, but you were secretly kind of hoping a confession of her own would follow once she fully discovered you have a thing for the ladies.
"What made you think so?" you ask, nervously wringing your fingers together. Now could be your last chance to discover what she really likes without having to blurt out the words, Do you like, like me? You're not a first grader. You know how to handle your shit without losing your cool. All you have to do is take a deep breath and count to ten as you release a bundle of carbon dioxide.
Quinn squints up at the sun. She's not wearing her sunglasses today, which is a first, so her eyes are even more sparkly than usual. "I'm just..." she begins, and when she pauses, you hold your breath. "I'm just very perceptive, I guess."
(Very perceptive, my ass.)
She bows her head and smirks into her chest, and all you can do is watch and silently demand your heart to stop beating so hard against your ribcage before it breaks a bone. "And," she continues, nibbling on her upper lip with his coy smile. "I saw you checking me out once...or five times."
You gape like a fish out of water that desperately needs air. "I was not checking you out," you deny stubbornly, trying your hardest not to grin like a goof, because you always smile when you're embarrassed, and you think Quinn is beginning to catch on.
Quinn looks at you like she doesn't believe the bull you're spewing, which she doesn't, and that's probably why she's giving you that look. "San..." she drawls, because she wants you to tell her the truth, and your heart cracks a little down the center at her adorable pout.
You sigh, rolling your eyes at your poor resolve. "Okay, maybe a little," you admit.
Quinn still looks reluctant. "Mm..." she hums, quirking a disbelieving eyebrow.
"Or a lot," you blurt, getting it all out there before you forever lose your confidence. "You're very...attractive, okay? Happy?"
You don't think you should find her smugness so sexy. "Very much so," she singsongs, and you can't believe you just admitted to her that you're a lesbian who finds her hot without upchucking your lunch. "What kind of women wouldn't be happy to be called attractive?"
She teasing you, Santana, and if this was anyone but Quinn, you'd probably punch them in the throat, but this is Quinn, and although she's teasing you, in the back of your mind, you're hoping it's one of those underlying elementary school crushes that produce teasing instead of feelings, because feelings mean cooties, and cooties mean staying young forever.
(And who doesn't want to stay young forever?)
Quinn is sitting up again, her right leg tucked comfortably under her bottom as her left foot rests dangerously close to the edge of the roof, dangling right near the rusty gutter.
"So, what about you?" you find yourself asking after a significantly long silence.
Quinn licks her lips and looks your way, confusion in her eyes. "What about me?"
You have a feeling she knows what you're talking about, because she's got that look on her face. Wringing your hands together, you look at her, like, really look at her and-
"Quinn!"
And you sigh, because of course this would happen to you right when you're about to learn Quinn's sexual orientation. It's Sam, of-fucking-course, because it's always Sam who interrupts the two of you when something monumental is about to occur.
He's staring up at you both, eyes glancing back and forth with a crease between his brows, as if he has a feeling he just interrupted somethingagain.
"What, Sam?" Quinn calls down to him, eyebrows raised impatiently, and maybe, just maybe she was enjoying this horrifyingly awkward conversation about sex and life between the two of you.
Sam scratches the side of his head, lost for words, and you just want to lean forward and spit on his bleached blonde hair. Before you can, though, he gazes up, squinting his eyes at the bright sun, and yells, "I misplaced my book and just wanted to know if you've seen it."
(A book. He interrupted your heavily angst discussion for a dumb book.)
"Misplaced, or lost?" Quinn asks, pulling her knees into her chest.
You smile, but Sam doesn't. "I didn't lose it," he says, folding his arms over his chest. "It has to be around here somewhere."
"What book was it?"
"Looking For Alaska."
Quinn chuckles, but you don't know why, until she says, "You're looking for a book called Looking For Alaska, which you lost?"
Sam doesn't seem to understand the humor in all of this, rolling his green eyes under the hand shielding his vision from the burning sun. "Yes, Quinn. You hit the nail on the head with that one."
Ignoring his sarcasm, Quinn shakes her head with an airy laugh and yells, "Why don't you check Alaska?"
"Because I haven't been to Alaska recently, so I doubt it will be there, Quinn," Sam mutters, throwing his hands up in exasperation, and when you laugh, Sam sends you a death glare, so you figure he must really like this book.
You suppose Quinn senses this too, because she carefully stands up, and you following her as she climbs down the fire escape to meet Sam's scowl head on.
Sam's hand is out, palm open, his foot tapping on the pavement impatiently, and Quinn says nothing as she places her key in his hand. You follow them to Quinn's motel room, because you've never seen it before. Quinn must be notorious for stealing novels, because Sam seems pretty intent on discovering his book somewhere in her room, and all Quinn does is roll her eyes and groan behind him as Sam unlocks her door and barrels in.
Her motel room has no air condition, like, at all. Just from peeking into the muggy room, you can feel the temperature rise by a tremendous amount. It's uncanny how anyone could live or sleep in an environment considerably hotter than hell, but if anyone can do it, you know it's Quinn.
(At this point, you're pretty certain Quinn can do anything.)
You're standing outside her motel room, waiting for them to come back without a novel, because you don't believe Quinn could even steal a blank piece of paper if she wanted to, when you run into Puck, or Puck runs into you, literally. You hear quick footsteps running from around the corner, and then, boom, a hard body crashes into you.
Strong hands reach out and grab your waist. When you realize it's Puck, and when Puck realizes it's you, he immediately lets go as you try not to grimace at the thought of his grimy hands on your body.
He doesn't give you a mean glare and silently stalk away like you thought (and secretly hoped) he would. Instead, he squares his shoulders, looks down on you, and says, "Still pining after Quinn I see."
You don't think you've even spoken to him one on one before this moment. He stinks, like usual, sweat drenching his entire VOLUNTEER shirt, and you wonder if this dude packed enough deodorant for the whole summer, or maybe he's just allergic to the stuff.
There's dirt slashed across his face, grime under his fingernails, and this weird yellow crust right in the middle of his forehead, and you can't help but wonder what the hell this volunteer program puts him through everyday, and if it's legal.
You used to see Puck as your competition, but now you realize that's dumb, because Puck is stupid, and you should never in your entire life feel it necessary to waste your time competing against someone with less brain cells than a baseball bat.
"You find me threatening," you note, nodding to yourself, because it all makes sense. Yes, you, Santana Lopez, have found the meaning to life. "You like Quinn, and you're afraid she likes me back, so you find me threatening."
There's no smugness or bite to your tone, just confidence, which you have been fairly lacking as of lately. It feels good to be confident. Jose used to tell you confidence is just a state of mind; if you believe it, you can make anyone believe it.
Jose's random blabbering seems to have some truth behind it after all, because Puck recoils for a moment, and you see the dimness in his bright eyes for just a split second before he stands up straight again and scoffs, "Look, it's plain to see. You've got a thing for Quinn, but she's not likeyou."
You will yourself not to flinch at his icy words. Ice can do nothing but put out the fire, but that fire burnt out a long time ago, therefore, you have nothing to lose in this situation, as far as you can tell.
Nevertheless, you remember that discussion about fruits you had with Quinn in the beginning of the summer; about honeydew melon and bananas; about which one Quinn preferred over the other. You remember how she failed to answer your question properly, choosing pineapples when that wasn't even a choice in the first place.
You open your mouth to protest, but Puck waves you off with a roll of his eyes and continues with, "Don't try to deny it. You're so damn obvious, and let me tell you this before you get your little heart broken," he sneers, sizing you up, and you arch an eyebrow, because seriously? Is heseriously about to threaten a seventeen year old girl who's at least seven inches shorter than him to stay away from his woman? "She's not intothat. Quinn may like to flirt and touch, but she's as straight as they come."
You want to hit him. You want to curl your hand into a fist, grab that sad excuse for a mohawk and crack his skull against a brick wall. You want to knee him in the balls over and over again until his face turns purple and blue. You want to shove a whole slew of vicious words and cusses down his throat, and right when you start to question if these desires of yours are healthy, Quinn exits her motel room, Sam trailing not too far behind.
It's quiet for about five seconds as you stared him down, your dark eyes never wavering. You can sense Quinn and Sam beside you, looking back and forth, back and forth, unable to determine what exactly is conspiring right in front of their faces.
Puck has lifted his chin defiantly, staring down at you, and you would probably laugh at his attempt to scare you off if it wasn't for the hand placed on your shoulder. The anger and hate and unbeguiled loathing you have for Puck slowly unravels like a ball of yarn. You release a heavy sigh, but you don't count to ten, because you're so dizzy, you doubt you'd be able to count if you tried.
When you finally break out of your staring contest with Puck, Quinn gives you this look that says, What's going on?
You don't answer her, just brush pass Puck and wait until you hear Quinn's quick footsteps chasing after you.