Santana will have nightmares in this chapter and some of the following chapters. They are frightening, but not overly graphic, by most standards. Still, proceed with caution.

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My mom and I stayed up late into the night drinking tea and talking. It was the first time we had talked about anything serious in months. I drank three cups of tea, holding the mug in both hands to warm them. I shivered all night, despite the long-sleeved shirt and the flannel pajama pants on my legs. My mom never changed out of her scrubs.

I talked at her and she listened, and it was the first time I could clearly recount the events of the day without breaking down or throwing up. It was progress. Then she talked to me, telling me that she planned on calling the hotline as soon as she could to see what law enforcement required from me for the investigation that was sure to follow the shooting. She told me that it was likely they would provide some psychological counseling session, and that if they didn't, she had connections at the hospital that could help me; we certainly couldn't afford therapy on our own.

Some resistance nestled into my mind at the idea of therapy; I had some preconceived ideas about how it worked. I thought that it would be a waste of money and a waste of my time. I could talk to my mom, and I now had Brittany to talk to as well, or at least I thought I did. We didn't need to pay someone to listen to me. I told my mom this, and she insisted that I just go to one session. After that, we could decide whether I should begin to go regularly or if it was okay for me to heal on my own.

I could tell my mom was exhausted by the way her eyelids began to droop around 3 am. Her hands would slip on her cooling mug of tea, and she often trailed off mid-sentence and forgot what she was saying. I had to remind her what she was talking about. Even after reminding her, she sometimes couldn't continue the thought. It was frustrating for both of us, because I had too much adrenaline to think about sleeping. Around 3:30, I convinced her to go to bed, after her exhaustion became too extreme for normal conversation. She decided she would call her boss and go into the hospital late in the morning. My mom told me that she might have to work some overtime the next day to make up for missed time, and that she might have to take on a few more shifts to potentially cover the cost of therapy.

"We'll see," she said. I could only nod.

"Are you okay if I go to bed?" she asked. It was unspoken that I wouldn't go to school the next day. If school was even an option. Neither of us knew.

"Yes, mom. You have to work tomorrow," I told her as I placed my empty mug into the sink.

"Will you be okay home alone?" She was overly concerned about me being alone. I had been spending afternoons after school and entire days alone in the house since I was ten. "I could take you to a friend's. Brittany's, maybe?"

The idea of going to Brittany's house sounded extremely appealing, but I didn't want to infringe on her family's hospitality. I shook my head. "No, I'll be fine here. I have her phone number if I change my mind."

My mom nodded begrudgingly and raised herself from the couch. She looked older. Her joints cracked when she stood, and I could tell her neck was bothering her. Her skin was grayer and looked more wrinkled. I couldn't tell if I was being more perceptive now or if I had been ignoring her aging, but now she looked older. It was scary. What else had I missed?

Deep inside of my heart, where no one could see, I was grateful to have met Brittany, and grateful to be on my way to repairing my relationship with my mom. I was not grateful for the shooting, or the deaths. But I was grateful to have a reason to improve my life and myself. I realized that if I had died that day in the library that I wasn't leaving many people I loved behind. There was really only one person who probably would've cared about my passing, and that was my mother. Some of my teachers might have mourned my loss, but even of that I couldn't be sure. That, I realized, would need to change. I needed to grow up, to build something for myself besides an academic profile. So that one day, if the time came, I would be proud of what I was leaving behind. I was grateful that the tragedy had opened my eyes.

I got ready for bed the same way I did every night, finding comfort in the mundane routine. I brushed my teeth, washed my face, and brushed my hair. I decided I would shower in the morning. Brittany's pajamas never left my body; I left them on, wanting to smell lavender as I fell asleep. Besides, they were warm pajamas.

My room was small, dark, and messy, and I missed the blue of Brittany's room and the pink quilt on her bed. I sighed as I kicked some of my dirty clothes out of my way and crossed the floor to my bed, whose black sheets were disheveled. The wood floor creaked beneath me, and I started to regret picking black wallpaper for the entire room. At that moment, I needed light and color, like Brittany's room had. It embodied her personality. To some extent, my room did the same. I was closed off, dark, but behind the darkness was a more intricate pattern. It was on the sheets, the wallpaper, my lamp. The room was me. Now, the black felt claustrophobic and pressing. It was too dark. Overly aware of anything hiding in the closet or under the bed, I rushed over to my closet door to close it, pushing the door shut with a thump. I fell into my unmade bed and pulled my black silk sheets up to my neck, but decided I was too hot in the pajamas and kicked the sheets off. I sighed, knowing I was acting strange. I hadn't been scared in my own bedroom since I watched the second half of the Shining on late night TV when I was twelve. That fear seemed ridiculous now in comparison to the tremors beginning to rack my body.

I took deep breaths, pushing the scary thoughts out of my mind. I gripped at the sheets bunched at my feet with sweaty hands, wishing Brittany were there to hold my hand and tell me it would be okay. I don't know why I believed her when she told me that, because, really, how could she know? But I believed her anyway, despite her lack of credibility. It was something to hold on to besides bedsheets. Something comforting.

I couldn't stop thinking about her. It was almost 5 am, my digital clock told me, and it was becoming ridiculous how she plagued my thoughts. I would think about the library, and there she was, her arms around me. I would think about movies, and Forrest Gump was in my head, and Brittany's hand was around mine. I would think about simple tasks like eating food, and there was Brittany, her mouth full of spaghetti, playing footsie with me under the table. She was everywhere.

Any ordinary day I would find it unusual that I was thinking about someone so much, especially at such a late hour. Even boys that I might have liked a tiny bit didn't spend so much time occupying my thoughts. Sometimes the boys in my AP classes would approach me, pushing their glasses up on their noses, running a hand through gelled hair, their hopes as high as their slacks. Dorks, as cheerleaders or jocks might call them. Nerds. I would patiently listen to their stuttering questions. Some of them were smoother than others, asking me right away if I wanted to catch a movie sometime. Others were ridiculous about it, asking for my number "in case I have homework questions." I always turned them down with a lie like "My mother doesn't let me date" or "I'm allergic to popcorn and horror movies" or "I'm busy every night for the next two years." Something along those lines. The number of dates I had been asked out on had dwindled from almost one a week to zero in the last few months. People had lost interest in me. I was no longer untouchable, I was just impossible. And nobody wants impossible. Not even nerds. Except Brittany, apparently. Brittany, who wanted to take care of me.

All of my thoughts came full circle back to her. Brittany and her blonde hair, her blue eyes, her voice, her laugh, her arms, her-

Stop it.

I needed to stop thinking about her, being dependent on her. But she made me feel safe, and being safe gave me the ability to be happy. I had spent the entire day with her and I was missing her like hell. I was afraid to sleep, knowing that I would have nightmares that I couldn't control, knowing that Brittany wouldn't be there to hold me when I woke up. My hands shook. My lips trembled. Unshed tears weighed down my eyelids. The trembling became full on shaking, and I was biting my lower lip and tilting my head back to keep the tears at bay. My breathing was labored. I was in pain. I was scared.

I don't know when I fell asleep, but I knew that I had started crying before the exhaustion took over. I've never been good at waking up from dreams. I get stuck in them, like I'm glued into the story and I can't wake up until it's finished. My nightmares work the same way.

I was in the library again, but Brittany wasn't there. I was alone, and it was nighttime. The lights were off. I was wearing Brittany's pajamas. I stood absolutely still, listening to see if I was alone in the library. I believed I was. Something in my subconscious told me to get out of the library, that I wasn't safe there, but I couldn't move. I willed my legs to work and I took a step forward, and then another. I walked slowly out of the reference section, and I noticed that my feet were bare. Why had I come to school without shoes on?

When I got to the main area of the library, I stopped. The texture of the carpet had changed. It was water logged, sticky and wet beneath my feet. The carpet squished. I knew what it was before I looked at the bottoms of my feet. I sprinted back into the rows of shelves, leaving red footprints behind me. Panic settled in my stomach. I ran until I reached the end of the bookcase, where I ran smack into another person. I wasn't alone.

"Going somewhere?" The figure asked, touching my cheek. His hand was large, but smooth, as it ran along my jaw.

"Don't touch me!" I hissed, blindly swiping at his arm, but not connecting.

"Going somewhere?" he parroted. "Going somewhere?"

"No. Yes! Yes. Let me leave," I sobbed, beginning to cry. "Please."

"Going somewhere?" He cocked his head.

"Going somewhere?"

"Going somewhere?"

"Going somewhere?"

"Going somewhere?"

"Stop it!" I shrieked. I couldn't see his face, only his white teeth, grinning. I had thought it was Finn at first, but now I could see that it wasn't. The shape of the mouth wasn't right, the teeth were too crooked, the shoulders too narrow.

"Santana! A voice was saying behind me, back under the tables. "Help me, Santana!"

"Help me, Santana!" The shadowy figure mimicked, raising his voice to copy the female one.

Brittany. It's Brittany.

I spun around, whirling into the bookshelves, knocking books onto the floor. I didn't stop to pick them up. He chuckled. I ran back into the table area, ignoring the bloody floor and trying to maneuver around the tables in the dark.

"Brittany!" I screamed. "Brittany!"

The man chuckled. "Going somewhere? Going somewhere? Going somewhere?"

"Santana!" Brittany screamed.

"Santana!" He mocked, "Santana, Santana!"

I ran into a table and fell to the floor, hitting the ground with a thump.

Combat boot footsteps. Closer.

The voice moved towards me, and now the man was looming over me, hands balled into fists. He leaned forward.

"Brittany!" I screamed. "Run!"

But there was no reply.

"Santana, guess what?" He said. "Guess what?"

"What?" I sobbed. "What do you want?"

"Peek-a-boo."

Then, a gunshot.

April 21, 1999

I shrieked even louder this time I woke up. I was drenched in sweat from head to toe. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't speak. My door burst open and hit the wall with a bang, startling me into a sitting position. Pale morning light struggled into the room through my thick curtains, leaving long shadows against the walls. Light from the hallway outside backlit my mother as she raced into my room, her nightgown flowing behind her and her graying hair tangled where it rested on her shoulders. I could only stare at her and shrink back into the headboard as she ran towards me. Brittany's shirt stuck to my chest, hot and sticky with sweat.

She stopped at my bedside on my left, panic in her dark, tired eyes. "Santana? Are you okay?" She asked me, reaching out her hands to brush my hair away from my face.

"Don't touch me," I moaned, pulling my legs up to my chest. I wrapped my arms around them and rested my head on my knees. She backed off, holding her hands in the air in surrender, just like I had when I exited the school yesterday. She sat slowly on the edge of my bed, putting enough distance between her and my feet that she didn't frighten me. She rubbed the sleep out of her eyes and massaged her temples.

"Did you have a nightmare?" she asked, her voice still thick with sleep.

"Yes," I managed. Tears rolled down my cheeks, onto my shirt and down my chin and my neck.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Her eyes looked black in the pale morning light. Her silhouette was still illuminated by the hallway light. I closed my sensitive eyes against the harsh artificial light. Colorful shapes danced on my eyelids.

I shook my head and opened my eyes, curling further into myself. "No," I whispered. "I can't."

She seemed to accept this as a plausible answer and stood from my bed with a sigh. The movement made the floor creak. "Do you want tea? I guess I'll just get up now and go to work. I won't be able to fall asleep again. But I'm having second thoughts about leaving you home." She ran a hand through her hair.

"I don't want tea. I'll be fine," I snapped, looking away so I wouldn't see the hurt and shock that I knew would be visible on her face. She left the room silently, her bare feet noiseless on the floorboards. I heard her put water on the stove downstairs for her own cup of tea. I wiped the tears from my eyes.

I decided to get up too, knowing fully well that I wouldn't be able to sleep again. I didn't want to put myself in a position where I could fall asleep, either. That was dangerous. I stripped out of Brittany's clothes with trembling hands and laid them on my bed so I would remember to wash them.

My mom had stopped bothering to tell me to clean my room months ago, right around the time where I stopped bothering to spend time with her. Bottles of hair product and lotion littered the top of my dresser, and clothes in various degrees of cleanliness were strewn all over the room. I turned the lamp on my dresser on and began to clear some of the trash off of it into the silver wastebasket next to it. My room was too small to fit much other than the bed and the dresser. Still in just my underwear and the bra I had neglected to take off the night before, I walked around the room and picked up the clothing, not bothering to figure out if it was clean or not. I tossed the clothes into my laundry basket, which I kept on the floor of my closet. It had been empty for weeks. I only did laundry when I ran out of clothes to wear, which hadn't happened yet.

After the floor was cleared of all of my clothes, I tossed the ones I had borrowed from Brittany onto the top of the dirty laundry in the basket. The bright colors and plaid looked out of place in the pile of my plain, neutral clothes. I sighed. I was thinking about her again.

My mom knocked on my door. "I need to leave for work," she said, her voice muffled by the door. "Call me if you need anything."

"Okay," I called back. I heard her retreat down the hallway and down the stairs.

"I love you," I said, raising my voice so she could hear me. If she did, she didn't respond. I kicked my dresser, angry with myself for pushing her away.

I just want Brittany.

I busied myself to stop thinking about her, about my mom, about the nightmare, about the day before. I heard my mom pull out of the driveway, so I carried the basket of laundry to our tiny laundry room on the first floor and began to sort it. I was still undressed, and the sheen of sweat from the nightmare had cooled on my body, leaving me freezing. I shivered.

After I started a load of darks, I ran upstairs to my bathroom, which I had all to myself. My mom had her own bathroom. I turned the water on in the shower, hopping back and forth to stay warm in the cold bathroom. It was only 7:30 am. I stripped out of my undergarments and stepped under the hot water stream slowly, letting it wash off the dried sweat and grime and dirt. The water was cleansing. I ran my fingers through my tangled hair, letting my muscles relax. I massaged shampoo into my scalp, trying to rid the events of the past day from my body and down the drain. I conditioned my hair next, pulling my fingers through the tangles in my hair, trying to get the thick locks in order.

I thought of Brittany. I wondered what shampoo she used, and if it also smelled like lavender. I shook the thought.

The shower began to run cold after half an hour, ruining my therapeutic session with the hot water. I sighed and turned the water off, pulling my towel tightly around me while my hair dripped onto my back. The mirror was foggy, so I ran a forearm across it so I could look at my reflection. In the mirror, I saw a shell of myself; I looked exhausted, weary, ill, even. My eyes were red from crying through the night and my skin had none of its usual bronze color. I had bags under my eyes. I looked awful. I didn't look back in the mirror while I brushed my teeth and combed my hair.

Back in my room, I let the towel drop to the floor as I found a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt to pull on. When I was dressed, I walked back downstairs to the laundry room to start another load. I then made my bed and organized all of the stuff that had collected on my dresser. When that was finished, I had no idea what to do with myself. I stood in my room, Brittany's phone number post-it in my hand. I stared at it.

I wanted to call her. So badly. But it was only 8 am, and I didn't want to seem desperate. So I decided I would wait until 11:45, when she would surely be awake. That was an appropriate time to call someone. Or at least I thought so.

"Yes," I said out loud. My voice sounded loud in the empty house. "Yes. 11:45."

But I had to occupy myself for the next four hours. During the school week, I often had enough homework that any down time I had could be spent studying or writing papers or creating graphic organizers. Because that was a thing I did. But now my bag was at school, with my stuff for my essay. I imagined my notebook in one of those plastic bags marked "EVIDENCE." It was a sorry sight.

My books on Yugoslavia were also in the school library, even though I had little desire to read them. They were with my bag, which had all of my other schoolwork in it. And I was pretty sure I wouldn't be getting that bag back in the next four hours. And I sure as hell wasn't going to sleep.

I rarely watched TV unless I was hanging out with my mom, which had become a rare occurrence. I found TV sort of mindless. As a child I had always preferred books, wanting to imagine the characters and the story myself instead of having them drawn up for me on a screen. So when kids were talking about Ren and Stimpy and Doug and Rugrats at school, I had nothing to say. Which caused my group of friends to dwindle. I never really made an effort to get any of those friends back.

I paced in my room for a little while, debating whether to reread the Stranger or watch reruns of cartoons I had never watched as a kid. I knew they played practically all day on the children's networks. Cooking was an option, and so was performing mundane tasks like organizing my closet by color or sleeve length. There was also dusting that could be done in our living room. Or I could work out. As if.

I dismissed that option, having no interest in getting down on the floor to do any type of exercise.

At 11:38 am, after two relatively boring episodes of Doug, an entire reread and thorough analysis of the Stranger, baking a batch of brownies, six painful pushups, four loads of laundry, and a closet where my red cardigan hung on the left side of my closet, opposite from my light purple purple sweater, I stood in the middle of my room, not sure what to do. I only had to wait seven more minutes until I could call Brittany.

It then dawned on me that I would potentially be seeing Brittany that afternoon, and soon after that fact became apparent in my mind, I realized that I looked absolutely horrible. My hair was clean, but my jeans and sweatshirt combo would not do. I needed to look better for Brittany. I raced back into the bathroom and peeled off my sweatshirt, tossing it to the floor. I hastily applied the small amount of makeup I normally wore to school. My hands trembled in anticipation of the phone call, and I found myself rushing to get ready before 11:45 arrived. I pulled a brush and some product through my hair and brushed my teeth for a second time, despite not having eaten at all. My appetite was nonexistent.

I left my jeans on, but replaced the sweatshirt with a light floral t-shirt, hoping that I looked presentable. I took a deep breath, collecting myself. My hands had begun to feel clammy again, so I wiped them on my legs. Back in my room, I checked the time on the clock. 11:43.

There was a cordless phone in my room. I didn't use it often, except to call my mom when I got home from school. Today, though, the off-white phone felt heavy in my hands and the plastic slipped against my sweaty palms. I watched the clock, waiting for two more minutes before I typed in Brittany's number.

I had already had the number memorized. I had been looking at the post-it periodically throughout the day, just knowing that I was looking at her handwriting, at the ink from one of her pens. It was comforting, in a strange way. The clock changed again. 11:45. I listened for the dial tone on the phone and pressed it to my ear. I pushed my hair off of my forehead with a trembling hand.

Should I have waited longer? Isn't there a two-day rule for this type of thing?

I was beginning to lose my ability to think clearly. My nerves were taking over. I was about to end the call when she picked up.

"Hello?" she asked, her voice sounding exactly the way I remembered it. My nerves dissolved. I listened to her breathing for a few seconds, forgetting how to speak.

"Hello?" she asked again. I regained my composure. The line hummed, mixing with the sound of her breathing.

"Hey Brittany, it's Santana," I forced out, all in one breath.

I heard her smile into the phone. "Hey, Santana, I was beginning to wonder why you hadn't called yet."

Well I just wasted four hours.

"Yeah, sorry, I was a little busy," I lied. Busy distracting myself from you and my nightmares and my mom.

"No problem," she said. "What's up?"

"I wanted to see if you were doing anything. If you want to like… hang out," I proposed, wincing at my delivery.

"I'd love to," she said, smiling again. "What time?"

I hadn't really thought much about the when. I had just assumed she wouldn't be doing anything for the entire day. "Uh… whenever you want," I answered. I winced again. I was so bad at this.

"How about right now?" I was glad Brittany had taken charge of the conversation.

"Yeah, sounds good," I agreed, about to ask if she could come pick me up to take me to her house, but Brittany interrupted.

"Hey, Santana, would you mind if I came to your place? My parents have been on my ass all day about what happened. We've just been sitting around and they've been pretending to be psychologists. I really need to get out of the house," she admitted, lowering her voice as she spoke. I could tell she was nervous about her parents hearing her, even though she was probably alone in her bedroom.

"Yeah, sure." I agreed without hesitation, not caring if we got together at the shady bowling alley a few miles away or on the fucking moon. I just wanted to see her. I was glad I had taken the time to clean my bedroom. "When will you be here?"

"How's fifteen minutes? My mom can drop me off."

"Alright, great. See you then," I said.

"Bye, Santana," she spoke, and then the line went dead. I replaced the phone in its cradle, smiling widely.

Fifteen minutes later I was sitting on the fourth stair of our staircase, watching the window next to the front door, waiting for Brittany. Every time a car passed I would jump up to wait at the door, but none of them were Mrs. Pierce's Buick. I was frantically brainstorming things for us to do in my tiny townhouse while I waited, overly self-conscious about boring her. I was also conscious of the glaring difference between the size of my house and the size of Brittany's; we came from completely different worlds. I didn't exactly live on the bad side of unincorporated Littleton, but it wasn't Caley Place.

I picked at my nails.

Thirteen minutes and six seconds after we hung up on the phone, the Buick was on the street in front of my house, and I suddenly realized that no high school junior ever sat on the steps and waited for their friends. That was something someone Emily's age would do. Brittany was still walking up the front walk, so I ran into the kitchen, which wasn't visible from the front porch. The doorbell rang.

Be cool, Santana. Be cool.

I walked slowly to the door, not wanting to seem too eager. I opened it with a wide smile. She looked out of place on my front porch, which was gray and dingy compared to her radiant skin and her sunshine hair. She wore a black sweater decorated with a hot pink elephant pattern over jeans not unlike my own. She smiled back at me, her blonde bangs pushed off of her forehead with a simple, thin black headband.

"Hey Britt," I said. "I like your sweater."

She grinned. "Hey, Santana. And thanks."

I moved to let her into the house. I hadn't had a friend to the house in years. It was a social interaction I avoided at all costs. If I was invited to go somewhere, which was a rare occurrence, I rarely reciprocated the favor and invited the person to my house. Dealing with the social anxiety of making plans with Brittany was causing all of my habits in previous friendships to resurface, and I was beginning to see that I must have been a nightmare to be friends with. I worried that she wouldn't like me as much as I liked her, even though she said she liked me just the day before. I resisted the urge to pick at my nails.

Most of my senses were far from their finest when I had visited Brittany's house, and now that she was standing in my house, right in front of me, I realized how tall she was. She had a good three or four inches on me, and her beat up black Chuck Taylors gave her an added height advantage. I liked that she was taller than me, especially when she attempted to disperse the lingering awkwardness in the room by giving me a hug. She gave me a lopsided smile before she stepped forward and wrapped her arms around my midsection, just as she had before I left her house the previous afternoon. I melted into her, wrapping my own arms around her neck, our unspoken greeting melting any tension arising from her presence in my house. She breathed out against my hair, tickling my ear.

Her hair was pin-straight and impossibly soft where it brushed my cheek, which I rested on her shoulder. Her thumbs rubbed the base of my ribcage, which sent tingles up and down my sides. I grinned into her hair where she couldn't see me. She still smelled of lavender, and her hair of shampoo. And mouthwash, the same brand I had used the previous day. I didn't want to let go.

But I knew we had to, and after a few glorious seconds, Brittany's arms were no longer around me. I still wanted to touch her, but I didn't know the boundaries yet. I knew yesterday was different, because of what happened, because of the fear. Today was different. The air was tinged with grief, but it wasn't the all-consuming sadness and indomitable fear that had gripped me the day before, and I didn't need Brittany's arms around me, I just wanted them there. It was what I was familiar with. I had no idea what Brittany usually did around her friends. Imagining her with the other cheerleaders proved to be a difficult task. She seemed so unlike them, out of uniform, in her sweater and her Chucks. I liked it.

I smiled at her like an idiot, trying to think of words to say. "Want to see my room?" My voice cracked and I cringed internally. I sounded a pubescent teenage boy.

"Sure," she said, smiling. "Lead the way." She stuck out her pinky.

I didn't smile as wide as I wanted to when I curled my pinky around hers and started up the stairs. Her sneakers were louder on the wooden stairs than my bare feet were. We reached the landing at the top of the stairs and turned left, following the short hallway past my bathroom and into my bedroom. I tugged her through the doorway and dropped her little finger, gesturing at my room with a sweep of my arms.

"Welcome to my room," I said, possessing all the showmanship of a paper bag. She giggled, and I beamed. "Would you like a tour?" I asked.

She stroked her imaginary beard. "I would love a tour." She slapped her hands on her thighs. I rolled my eyes, but kept smiling.

"This," I said, pointing to my dresser, "is my dresser. It is not an antique."

"I love the stain on the wood," she remarked, running her hand along the ridge of the dresser. "That is top-notch, right there." The dresser was from Ikea.

"I only settle for the best," I told her, winking, all of my awkwardness gone. I loved that she was playing along, making a game out of doing something as ordinary as sitting in my bedroom. She laughed. It rang through the small room, filling it. It was so easy to forget everything with her, to be normal. I could laugh and smile and not feel guilty for breathing.

I crossed the small room in two steps and pointed to my bed. "This is where I sleep," I explained, grabbing a fistful of my comforter in one hand and taking her wrist in my other. I pulled her hand towards the comforter, pulling the material of the bedding so that it brushed against her knuckles.

"That," she said, feigning amazement, "is some high quality bedding."

I nodded, moving towards my closet, which was only a few feet away. Brittany followed me. "And for the grand finale, I present to you... my closet."

Brittany smiled wide, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "May I see inside of this closet?" she asked, pointing towards the door. Her left eyebrow was raised, perfectly quirked above a curious blue eye. I chewed on my bottom lip, debating to let her see my collection of cardigans, sweaters, and slacks. Arranged by color. I was hesitant.

Brittany took my silence as a yes, for whatever reason, and was walking past me. She pulled open the closet.

"Look, a rainbow!" She exclaimed, and I slapped my palm to my forehead. That was not the reaction I had wanted. It could've been worse, I supposed.

She was looking at each top, absolutely making herself at home. She looked odd, in her elephant sweater, rifling through my closet. She laughed occasionally while I remained beet red. I just watched her and smiled close-mouthed through my embarrassment, glad that she was there to keep me company, even if she was tearing apart my newly organized closet. After a few seconds she pulled out a black pullover sweater that my mom had gotten me for my sixteenth birthday. It had multi-colored threads running through it, and it was the loudest thing in my closet. It wasn't unlike the sweater Brittany had on, minus the elephants. My mom had thought she could force me to change my style sophomore year. I had never worn it, and that much was completely obvious; the tags flipped out of the shirt as Brittany pulled it out of the closet.

"This," she said, completely serious, "probably looks great on you."

I frowned. "It's not really my style." Of course Brittany was attracted to the most colorful thing in my closet. "Come on," she said. "It's so cute!"

"I… uh… I don't…" I stammered.

Brittany laughed, tossing the sweater onto my bed next to me. "Wear that sometime, okay?"

I smiled fully at that, excited that she cared what I looked like, that she noticed.

Maybe I won't have to spend this whole summer with my mom after all.

She seemed satisfied that she had seen my entire closet and closed the door. She walked over to sit next to me and I felt her weight on the bed as she sat only a few inches to my right. The toes of her shoes scuffed the wood floor where she swung her legs back and forth.

She looked at my face, and I at hers. She was studying me, carefully, like I might have studied a microscope slide in freshman biology. I couldn't tell what she was thinking. My hand itched to find hers. Apparently her hand was itching too, because after just a few seconds of staring she was intertwining our fingers and a faint smile was creeping onto her face.

"Are you okay?" she asked, rubbing the back of my hand with her thumb. I was confused at first, not sure why she was asking. And then I remembered. Brittany was proving to be a worthy distraction; I had practically forgotten for a while. I looked down and cleared my throat, which she took as a suggestion to elaborate. "I mean… I know you had that nightmare yesterday, and I was thinking about you last night."

She was thinking about me last night?

"And I thought you might have another nightmare, but I wasn't sure, or if you could sleep, or what," she rambled, looking at the floor. I felt her hand begin to sweat.

"Brittany," I said, not harshly, but firmly, to silence her rambling. She looked up at me.

"Sorry," she said sheepishly. "I was just worried. I am worried."

"I'm okay," I told her. "But I did have this nightmare last night." I looked into her eyes, searching for a reaction, hoping she didn't overreact, and hoping that I wouldn't push her away.

She didn't look uncomfortable, just unsure how to proceed. "Do you want to talk about it? Maybe explaining it will make it seem less scary. That's what I always have Emily do when she has a nightmare."

I smiled when I thought of Emily. Brittany must've been a really, really good big sister. I was about to refuse; the response was reflexive. The 'no, thank you' was at the tip of my tongue, ready to enter the conversation, but I stopped myself. I stopped to think. "Actually… would you mind?" I was a little embarrassed, but Brittany was probably right. If I talked about the nightmare, it would feel less real.

"Not at all," she insisted with a smile. She pushed her sneakers off of her feet with her toes, revealing two mismatched socks. One was argyle, the other polka-dotted. They were ridiculous. The black shoes hit the floor with a muted thump. She swung her legs up onto the bed, folding them in front of her like I had seen her do multiple times before. It seemed to be a position that was a favorite of hers. Her toes wiggled. She never let go of my hand.

I adjusted myself on the bed so I could face her, which required pulling my own legs up onto the bed. I faced her.

"Ready?" She asked, rubbing circles around my knuckles. I took a deep breath, steadying myself.

"Yeah, I guess," I chuckled nervously, releasing air through my nose. "So I was in the library, like in my nightmare yesterday," I told her, holding her hand tighter. "And I was in the same row of shelves we were in." She nodded attentively, never breaking eye contact, never letting go. "And I turned around and ran into this… wait, no, hold on," I backtracked, trying to remember. "Oh yeah, I remember now." She waited, never interrupting. "I walked back to the tables, where my stuff should've been. It was dark, like nighttime," I explained, more of the details coming back to me as I retold them to Brittany. "And I stepped on the carpet, and my feet squished into it, and the floor was covered in blood. I just knew it was blood. So I got scared and turned around, and ran straight into this man." Brittany's hand never stopped rubbing circles into mine, and it was soothing. "And he kept asking me if I was going somewhere, just over and over again. He just kept asking me where I was going. And I didn't know!" I gestured in the air with my free hand to show my confusion. "I had no idea what was going on!" Her blonde hair slid off of her shoulder when she nodded again, her blue eyes intense with understanding. I watched her hair, how the light from my window reflected off of it, and forgot where I was in my retelling of the nightmare.

I blinked, struggling to remember. Brittany waited patiently for me to collect my thoughts. "I didn't know who the guy was, and then someone was calling for help," I said, remembering. I debated not telling her that it was her calling for help, not wanting to frighten her, or remind her of what happen. But it was inevitable, I figured, and the dream made less sense when it wasn't her. "It was you, calling for help."

She seemed surprised to hear that. Her gaze wasn't any less understanding, but it became more curious. I paused, waiting to see if she would comment, but she didn't. I kept going. "So I ran to go find you, but he followed me, and he kept mocking your voice and asking me where I was going." My hands began to tremble, and Brittany stilled them with a gentle touch of her hands. "And then I fell down, but I don't remember how, and then he was above me, and then there was a gunshot and I woke up." I said the last part in a single breath.

Brittany's eyebrows knitted together. She was deep in thought, I could tell. Her thumb followed the circular pattern she had mapped out. "Did he shoot you?" she asked.

If I were honest with her, I'd tell her I thought it was her that was shot, because of the direction the sound came from. "I don't know," I lied, avoiding my eyes. "I woke up too soon to see."

She nodded, but I saw some doubt flicker in her eyes. "I see."

There was silence, and Brittany's perfect eyebrows told me she was still thinking.

"What happened when you woke up?" She asked.

I really didn't want to tell her that part, about pushing my mom away. I didn't want her to know how bad things were with my mom or how difficult I was to be with. But the words poured out, like she was forcing them out of me.

"My mom came in and I wouldn't let her help me. I told her to leave."

Brittany nodded, understanding, and judgment never crossed her features. I relaxed my shoulders, which had become tense while I was remembering the dream.

"I would've done the same thing," Brittany said honestly.

I wasn't sure that I believed that. I saw how Brittany and her family acted, how close they all were, and I couldn't imagine her pushing any of them away. I decided not to mention it and just enjoy the fact that there was someone listening to me.

"Do you think you'll have another nightmare tonight?" she asked me. I hadn't thought about the night; I was taking the hours as they came.

"I have no idea," I told her. "I'm scared to go to sleep." I whispered the second part. Part of me thought that if I said it quietly it would sound less pathetic and less desperate.

"I'm sure everyone is," Brittany said earnestly. "I can't imagine anyone is sleeping easily in this town, you know?" I nodded, feeling only moderately comforted.

We sat quietly for a few more seconds, and Brittany was still thinking.

"Have you called that hotline yet?"

A crease formed above my own eyebrows. "No, my mom said she would when she got a chance, but I didn't ask her about it before she left for work. Why?"

"You should call. They had all this information about how we need to go in for questioning and stuff, and how the state is providing psychologists to talk to us individually about everything after the questioning. My appointment is tomorrow morning."

I took a shaky breath. I had already told the story twice; once to Brittany's mother, once to my own, and variations of the event were recurring in my nightmares. The absolute last thing I wanted was to have to answer questions about what it was like to be in the middle of a massacre. It wasn't going to be easy.

Her warm hand found mine where it rested on the bedspread, and I refrained from holding onto it for dear life. I struggled to keep my hand relaxed in hers. I could feel my fingers twitching, threatening to tremble. Meanwhile, the anxiety over what happened the previous day blossomed in my chest. Being around Brittany was helping me think of things besides the shooting, but I knew I couldn't bring her with me to the psychological evaluation or to the interview with the police. She knew what I was thinking. She was good at that.

"You'll be okay. Do you want to come over for dinner tomorrow? After all of our stuff at the police station?"

I didn't even think of any answer besides yes. I told her that yes, I would come over. She smiled, glad. "Just make sure you call soon, okay?" She told me, still holding my hand. "They sounded pretty busy, I just want to make sure you get it over with as soon as you can, it might help with the nightmares."

"I'll tell my mom as soon as she gets home," I vowed. Brittany seemed happy with this. I was happy that she cared about me and my nightmares.

Brittany only acknowledged my reply with a quiet murmur. We laid together on our backs on my bed for a while, and the thinking lines that had appeared on her face had faded into smooth, ivory cheeks and her equally pale forehead. She didn't let go of my hand, and I didn't even think of letting go of hers. I didn't think about anything except for her; I watched her discreetly, memorizing her constellations of freckles, her chin, her jawline, her pale eyelashes, the way her throat moved when she swallowed.

My mouth was dry the next time I tried to swallow, and I ended up gulping unattractively. Brittany turned her head to smile at me and I blushed deeply. Her blonde hair splayed out across my black comforter, starkly different from the dark world of my bedroom. I looked away, focusing on the hairline cracks running through my ceiling.

"Are you hungry?" I asked, realizing that it was probably lunchtime and that I hadn't eaten since dinner at Brittany's house the day before.

She smiled wider. "I thought you'd never ask. Lead the way?"

I sat up and stood, pulling Brittany's hand to help her off of my bed. I led her out of my room and back down the stairs by her hand, even though the small house was easy to navigate. I dragged her through the living room and into the kitchen, with its yellowing appliances, hideous vinyl tile, and faded off-white paint. Brittany's kitchen was so completely different, but she either didn't notice or didn't seem to care. She sat casually at the ancient wooden four-person table in the center of the kitchen and crossed her legs at the ankles.

"What's for lunch, Chef Santana?" she asked, grinning stupidly, knowing that she could always make me smile.

I did exactly that, and my grin appeared with a dramatic eye roll. "I can make mac n' cheese," I told her. "Or peanut butter and jelly. Your call." I shifted my weight to one leg and crossed my arms.

Brittany feigned deep thought and rubbed her thumb along her chin. "Do you make your mac n' cheese with elbow noodles?"

"Um… yes? I think so?" I didn't know anyone that was particular about noodle shape. But then again, my social circle was pretty nonexistent.

"Good, elbow noodles are my favorite," she said seriously, placing both of her hands palm-down on the tabletop with an air of finality quite unsuitable for the topic of the conversation.

"Can I ask why elbow noodles are your favorite?" I knew we had elbow noodles, and I would certainly make Brittany mac n' cheese with elbow noodles if she preferred them.

"I like foods that have body parts for names. Like angel hair pasta, or ladyfingers. And elbow noodles. Did you know they named elbows after those noodles?"

I snorted with laughter at that, knowing she was kidding, but also realizing that most of what Brittany said had some truth to it. Especially her jokes. I rolled my eyes again. "I'll get your elbow noodles."

She smiled and propped her elbows up on the table. She rested her chin in her palms. I turned around and opened one of the dark wooden cabinets where we kept the noodles. I couldn't see them in the cabinet, but I knew that they were on a higher shelf with the spaghetti and the rice.

I grunted as I pulled myself up onto the laminate countertop. The knees of my jeans slid forward, threatening to topple me off of the surface.

"Do you need any help?" Brittany asked from behind me. I could hear her shuffling in her chair.

"No, I'm good," I replied, stretching my arm as high as I could to reach the blue box, which was visible on the top shelf. My shoulder muscles groaned in protest.

The legs of Brittany's chair made little noise when she scooted back to stand, so I didn't hear as much as I felt her presence when she walked towards the countertop I was perched on. It was just like the previous day in the library, when I was kneeling by the bookshelf and she approached me from behind.

My fingertips brushed the edge of the box and it moved slightly towards me, protruding enough from the shelf that I could grab it with a few of my fingers. My arm ached. As my hand closed around the side of the box, the denim of my knees slipped again against the laminate and my balance was gone. I was falling backwards, the noodles forgotten as they crashed onto the countertop and onto the floor. Elbows skittered across the vinyl as I flailed my arms in front of me, trying to right myself and ultimately failing. In the next tenth of the second I had resigned myself to a concussion at the least.

But instead of hitting air on my way down, a pair of solid arms were around me, holding me up. They belonged to Brittany, who was standing behind me. The sleeves of her elephant sweater were warm around my waist. I sighed in relief as I relaxed into her. My pounding heart slowed and she didn't let go.

"You should've asked for help," she whispered into my ear, reprimanding lightly. My hair moved slightly where her breath met my ear. But that only caused my heart rate to speed up again, and I felt that tingling feeling again, like when she had tickled me the night before. I smelled lavender.

"I'm going to let go," she said. "Okay?" My head reeled and I struggled to catch my breath.

I murmured in agreement and used her arm strength as leverage to right myself on the kitchen counter so I was kneeling again, facing the open cabinet. Brittany stepped back, and I heard a crunch.

"We should probably pick up these noodles," she said, kneeling cautiously on the floor as I lowered myself onto the tile, careful not to step on any. I closed the cabinet door. Brittany's long, shiny hair hung in her face as she used one hand to scoop elbows into a pile in front of her. I placed the box upright on the counter above me, finding that there were still enough noodles left in the box to make the mac n' cheese, if we had to throw out everything on the floor. I knelt down a few feet away from her and started to pick up the pasta, collecting it in a pile in front of the stove.

"There's still enough to make mac n' cheese," I told her as I slid my hand beneath the edge of the lower cabinets, searching for stray noodles.

She smiled, mimicking my motion under the cabinets next to the oven. "Good. Can you do that without falling down?"

I turned away to hide my blush behind a curtain of hair. "I can try." A giggle escaped my lips without my consent.

I kept my head down to look for any other stray elbows. Brittany and I had picked up most of them and added them to the pile, and we continued to rove around quietly on our hands and knees to find any remaining ones. I spotted one lone noodle under the fridge and I crawled towards it, dragging my feet behind me. I reached for it, my fingers outstretched, and was surprised to find a pale hand and elephant sleeves outstretched next to mine, fingers close enough to touch. I turned my neck so I could face her, expecting to see a wide smile, but her face was different from the faces I had become familiar with.

This face was distracted, and the pink mouth was parted slightly. Our heads were much closer than I had anticipated, and I expected a reflex to jerk my head back, but it never came. My heart pounded again when the scent of lavender reached my nose. I could smell the mouthwash, too, and I could see all of her freckles. She watched me. Her face was unreadable.

"Thanks for catching me," I breathed, unsure what else to say, but desperate to fill this silence, and unable to meet her eyes, which were boring into mine. Instead, I scanned her cheeks and her chin, the curve of her jaw and the lines of her nose. And her lips. After just half a second I managed to pull my own eyes up to meet hers. It was impossible not to look at them, even though saying they were the most captivating things on her face would be unfair to the rest of her flawless features. The blue was like a magnet. My own lips parted slightly, matching hers.

Her eyes flicked to my lips so quickly that I thought I might have imagined it. "Anytime," she whispered, and our fingers brushed as we both found the last piece of pasta at the same time. She smiled, breaking my trance, and I pulled my head back, blinking. I closed my hand around the final piece and tossed it onto our growing pile of spilled elbow noodles. I stood up and brushed some dust off of my knees and hands. Brittany hadn't moved from her position on the floor except to turn her head to watch me. She flicked some hair out of her face to rest on her shoulder and smiled fondly.

"What are you looking at?" I asked nervously, toeing the ground with my bare feet. I wasn't used to people looking at me.

"Nothing," she insisted, standing up to her full height and twisting her shoulders with her hands on her hips. "That hurt my back. And now I'm even hungrier than before."

My head, impossibly, was still reeling from the closeness I had experienced with her on the floor. I was an idiot about some social things, but wasn't that a little close for friends? Or for people that had known each other for a day? And why had she acted so strangely when I looked at her? She hadn't treated it like a big deal, so why should I? Rationalizing that I shouldn't dwell on it, I pulled out a pot to cook the noodles in. I filled it with water. The pot clanked as I placed it on the top of the stove and turned on the burner.

"Do you think it's safe to cook these ones that fell on the floor?" Brittany was asking as she stared at the yellow elbow noodles in their pile by the stove.

"I think so," I said. "Any germs will burn off, right?"

"You'd know better than I would," she admitted. "But alright," she said, stooping to scoop the pile of noodles into her hands. She placed the pile on the counter. She repeated the motion until all of the noodles were next to the stovetop.

"Thanks," I said absentmindedly while I retrieved a brick of cheddar cheese and a carton of milk from the fridge.

"Anytime."

And with that simple word, tingles ran down my entire body again, and I fought the urge to shudder. I busied myself with finding the ingredients, hoping Brittany didn't see my reaction. I didn't know how to explain my reaction to that word, so how could she?

Having friends like this was confusing.

We made the mac n' cheese without much hassle, except for some confusion when Brittany couldn't figure out the recipe. Though Brittany swore up and down she could taste essence of kitchen floor when lunch was finally finished, I knew she was kidding. Her bright eyes gave her away. I met those eyes every few seconds over the steaming, gooey noodles, and I didn't think once about the shooting or the impending struggle of recovery that I was sure I'd have to endure in the coming months. I didn't think about going back to school or about my finals or about touring colleges. I didn't think about my nightmares.

Neither of us had any grand plans for the rest of the day, so we settled for finding something to watch on the TV. After we washed the dishes, we walked into the living room, where I quickly wished that we had replaced the couch like my mom had promised to months before. Brittany didn't seem to mind the shabby piece of furniture, and flopped into the twenty year-old cushions like she had been sitting on them her entire life. I sat next to her, closer than I had sat the day before in her basement, but not close enough for our legs to touch. She crossed her legs on the coffee table while I flipped through channels, ignoring all of the news stations, which flickered past with pictures of the high school.

Toy Story was playing on one of the children's channels, but I didn't stop, having little interest in watching it.

"Wait, stop!" Brittany exclaimed, leaning forward so she could see the TV better. I had passed the channel that Toy Story was playing on. "I love Toy Story."

I looked at her curiously, but not judgmentally. Her cheeks pinked.

"I mean… it's Em's favorite, but I always watch it with her, because I like it too," she mumbled.

I laughed, and the blush spread to the tips of her ears. "Do you want to watch it?"

Before she could reply I had clicked back a few channels to where Toy Story was playing. It was early in the movie, and Buzz Lightyear was only just being introduced to the other characters. The delighted grin on Brittany's face completely made up for the fact that I was spending my afternoon watching a movie for kids.

By the time the toys found themselves at Sid's house, I realized with a start that Brittany's thigh was touching mine. She seemed too engrossed in the film to notice, but I observed that I had subconsciously moved towards her while the movie played. I had been at least half a cushion away from her when we first started watching, but now there was hardly any space between us, and Brittany's leg felt warm against mine. The tingling started again, and suddenly I wasn't thinking about the perilous situation on the screen, but of Brittany and I staring at each other on the kitchen floor. I immediately thought of her lips, of the way they were perfectly pink, and curved so gently around her so-white smile. My heart rate picked up. I didn't stop to think why I found myself so fixated on her lips; I only prayed that Brittany couldn't hear the way my heart thudded against my ribcage.

I wanted to move even closer, to feel more of her leg against mine. But now that I was aware of my subconscious movement towards her, I knew she might also be. But then again, moving away looked suspicious, like I didn't want to be near her. Brittany laughed at something on the screen and I almost jumped at the notion that she had figured me out. My palms became clammy. The crucifix around my neck stirred.

I told myself not to read so much into these little things. But even if I was reading, I wasn't understanding. I didn't want to understand why I was thinking about Brittany's lips. Jealousy, that was it. She had really nice lips.

I glanced at her leg, and back to my own, considering how much movement it would take for her leg to run the entire length of mine, from hip to kneecap. I wanted to move closer. Badly. I began to inch my foot towards her first, hoping to move against her while she was distracted by the movie. The plan worked so far, and she was completely captivated by the images onscreen. Just as my knee fell into place just above hers, since her legs were longer, the side door opened. I jumped onto my feet and whirled around to see my mom enter the kitchen, her keys dangling from one hand, her purse in the other.

Brittany tensed as she turned around completely to see who had entered the house, and relaxed a little when she saw that it was just my mom. I took a step to my right so I was further from Brittany. I don't know why I moved away, but I felt guilty standing so close to her. Caught for something I didn't know I was doing. I smiled nervously at my mom, who had noticed us in the room and looked surprised to see Brittany on our dingy couch.

"Hey mom, how was work?" I chirped, and I knew I sounded uncharacteristically cheerful.

She eyed me suspiciously, clearly not over our encounter that morning. I knew her to be a major grudge-holder. "It was fine," she said carefully, glancing between Brittany and me.

"Hi Ms. Lopez," Brittany interjected. That brought a tired smile to my mom's face, but the lines on her forehead still looked deeper than ever.

"Hi, Brittany. How are you? How's your family?" She placed her keys in the dish by the door and took off her jacket to hang it on a hook on the wall.

"I'm good, they're good," Brittany replied casually. She had moved her feet from the coffee table to the floor, probably so that my mom didn't think she was being disrespectful. It was astounding that she cared, really.

"Good, I'm glad to hear that." My mom moved around the kitchen to stand at the counter and watch us over the half-wall. I was still standing by the couch. Brittany was sitting. You've Got a Friend in Me played. I was suddenly embarrassed to have been watching Toy Story.

"Are you two watching Toy Story?" she asked, and I waited for the judgmental smirk, or the eyebrow, or something. But nothing came; she just pursed her lips and looked at us curiously.

"Yes we are," Brittany stated. I resisted the urge to slap a palm to my forehead.

"That's… nice," my mom said, and turned to busy herself in the kitchen. I breathed a sigh of relief for escaping her judgment and plopped back down on the couch, this time a few feet away from Brittany.

She looked up at me and frowned at the difference in distance, her lower lip jutting out just slightly below her top lip. Lighter pink revealed itself, and I begged my eyes not to look. She wanted me closer. I noted that. I was saved by my mother, of all people.

"Santana, I hope you fed your guest?" I heard her opening the fridge.

I glanced at Brittany, who was smiling again. As cute as her pout was, I preferred her smile. I smiled back. "Yeah, mom, I did," I said back, raising my voice so she heard me in the adjacent room. "We made mac n' cheese."

She moved to stand in the arch separating the two rooms and looked at me, one hand holding a dishtowel on her scrub-clad hips, the other leaning up against the wall. "That sounds good. How'd it turn out?"

I prayed to God that Brittany didn't make a comment about me falling off of the counter. She opened her mouth and I cringed, but all she said was an enthusiastic "Delicious!"

My mom smiled and returned to the kitchen. The credits of Toy Story rolled. It was almost five. I looked at Brittany, who blinked back at me. We sat awkwardly, still a few feet apart on the couch.

"Brittany, will you be staying for dinner?" my mom called from the kitchen over the sound of running water. "I'm making tacos."

I groaned silently. We'd eaten tacos just three days earlier. Brittany smiled at my reaction. "I'm not sure, I'll have to call my mom. I'd love to stay though, tacos are my favorite."

The innuendo was lost on my mom, but not me; probably because only I saw the wink that she sent in my direction at the taco comment. My face flushed. Brittany made sex jokes? Since when?

Since you've known her for twenty-four hours, maybe?

Oh yeah.

I vowed to never, ever, ever let Brittany see me looking enviously at her lips. If she made lesbian sex jokes, she'd probably get the wrong idea. She smiled wide, proud of herself. I shook my head. It was probably the influence of all of the jocks she undoubtedly hung around. Being a cheerleader, that was sort of inevitable.

"Let's go to my room," I said, not bothering to take her hand. She could find her own way up the stairs.

I didn't bother to tell my mom we were leaving the vicinity of the kitchen. I wanted to get us out of there so we could avoid dinner preparation and awkward small talk with my mom. And Brittany needed to call her own mom. I entered my room right in front of Brittany, who came in and sat in the exact same spot she had earlier that day. I reached out to close the door behind her and I went to sit on my bed, but I didn't sit as close to her as I had earlier. Brittany noticed, but didn't make a joke out of it, like she had on the couch. Disappointment clouded her features, and her eyes got a little stormy. The gray streaks in her irises became more pronounced. Her soul and the brightness that had been there all day retreated a little bit, and became muddled. But she didn't say anything.

I scooted closer, eyeing the door so I didn't get caught by my mom. The clouds dissipated a little, which was good enough for me. Brittany reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out her cell phone. I watched her long fingers press the right buttons.

"Hey mom, it's me," she said calmly into the phone.

"Yeah, we had mac n' cheese and watched Toy Story," she said with a smile, cradling the phone against her ear. I could make out the buzzing of her mom talking, but not the words she was saying.

"So I was wondering if I could stay at Santana's for dinner, would that be okay?" Brittany chewed her lower lip while she waited for the response.

"Okay, yeah, hold on," she said. She turned to face me and covered the mouthpiece with one hand.

"Would your mom mind giving me a ride home?" She asked. I shook my head.

"Yeah, that's fine. I'll drive you home myself, actually. I have my license," I told her. She smiled and uncovered the mouthpiece to tell her mom.

"Yeah, she can give me a ride." A pause. "Yep, sounds good."

"Alright, love you too. Bye." She hung up and shoved the phone back into her pocket. They must've been pretty deep pockets to fit the phone; it was hardly pocket-sized.

"Do I need to drive you back after dinner, or can you stay longer?" I asked her, meeting her eyes. They were brighter.

"No, I need to be home by seven. Emily's bedtime is at eight, and I haven't seen her all day, so I want to read a book to her before she goes to bed," Brittany said, rushing her words together. She seemed embarrassed.

"Britt, it's okay, don't be embarrassed," I said, inching closer on the bed. She smiled sheepishly. "You're sister is adorable, and I think it's great that you want to go home and read to her. You should be with family right now, anyway," I admitted, suddenly feeling selfish for keeping her at my house for the majority of the day.

"What about you?" she asked earnestly, finding my hand on the bedspread. My fingers reacted immediately, twisting into hers. Her hand was warm, just like it always was.

"What do you mean?" I asked, my tone laced with doubt.

"I can't just leave you here alone, because you might have another nightmare," Brittany said. I opened my mouth to speak, but she shushed me with a single finger that she held between us. "Being by yourself is the worst when you're sad. And don't tell me you have your mom, because that's not true."

I hung my head in resignation. "Yeah, I guess you're right." She nodded. "But I do feel selfish for keeping you here.

Brittany smiled a small smile and squeezed my hand. "Don't be. I want to be here for you."

I smiled at that, and a comfortable silence settled over the room. I fell backwards onto the bedspread, and Brittany followed, studying the ceiling with bright blue eyes.

"Are you nervous about tomorrow?" She asked, reminding me of the visit we both had to pay to the police station the following day.

"A little. I don't want to talk about it with them, you know? I don't even know how much of it I can actually remember, just because I'm so scared to think about it."

She murmured in agreement and squeezed my hand. "I'm struggling with it, too. I'm okay, but talking about it isn't fun, ever. It never will be. Have you watched the news at all?"

"I only know what I know from my mom and what we saw yesterday," I told her. "And she told me that those two guys shot themselves. I have no idea what else happened. I don't really want to know what else happened."

Brittany nodded at this, her blonde hair moving against the dark comforter. "Me neither," she said. "I haven't been following it at all."

Quiet settled in the room, and we just laid there, listening to the sounds of our heartbeats.

"Later, I might find out everything that happened. But only when it's less scary," she said. "Right now it's too raw. It's like ripping off the band-aid before the cut is healed."

"Yeah," I whispered. "That's exactly it."

The room grew quiet again. Pots and pans clinked downstairs.

"Santana! Brittany!" My mom's voice floated up from the stairs. "Dinner!"

I sighed and reluctantly lifted myself out of bed. I let go of Brittany's hand, and it bounced on the comforter with a muffled thump. She groaned as I got to my feet.

"Come on, lazy," I told her. "Let's go eat those tacos you love so much."

She beamed and sat up, picking up the Chucks she had taken off earlier and pulling them onto her feet. I rolled my eyes. I descended the stairs with Brittany at my heels, and we both walked into the kitchen as my mom was setting a taco at three places on the table.

"Are you staying for tacos?" my mom asked Brittany, pointing to the plates on the table.

"Yes, I am," Brittany told her politely, smiling. "Thank you for dinner, Ms. Lopez," she told my mom.

My mom smiled widely. I couldn't remember the last time I had thanked her for dinner, and I assumed that she couldn't remember either. "You're always welcome, honey," she said, and took her usual seat with her back facing the kitchen. I sat across from her, with Brittany on my right.

Since eating a taco was a two-hand procedure, I couldn't find Brittany's pinky with my right hand, so I settled for poking the back of her calf with my toe. She smiled at me discreetly with taco juice running down her chin. It dripped onto the plate. I handed her a napkin from the stack in the center of the table.

"Thanks," she said, wiping her mouth with the napkin and placing it next to her plate. Still holding her taco, she faced my mom, who had stopped eating and looked like she was about to say something.

"I called that hotline today, Santanita," she said. I blushed at the childish nickname, but Brittany smiled. My mother didn't notice. "They want you to come in tomorrow, so I took off of work. We have to be there at 10:30 to start the witness investigations; they need a report from you because you were in the library. I spoke to one of the secretaries; she told me that the Jefferson County PD would provide some counseling after the questioning to follow standard procedure. But then again, there's not much standard about this, is there?"

I shook my head. Brittany tapped my foot lightly with her sneaker; it was the most reassurance she could give me at the dinner table. My mom took another bite of her taco, chewed, and swallowed.

"We'll probably be there for a while, they've had to schedule a lot of sessions. I really don't expect anything to be very orderly over there."

Brittany nodded at this, swallowing the bite of taco that she had been chewing. "My session is scheduled for eight, so I have to get up pretty early," she said.

I wished that my mom had called the police earlier to schedule a time for me to come in. I didn't want to have to sleep for any longer than I had to, and I knew I would just end up sitting around the house with nothing to do for a few hours once I woke up. I sighed. My mom didn't notice, but Brittany did, and she tapped my foot twice with the toe of one of her Chucks. I appreciated that she had noticed. Her observant nature was unusual, but it was something I believed I would grow to love.

My mom had finished eating and got up to begin cleaning up the kitchen. Brittany and I finished our own tacos. I crumpled up my napkin and placed it on the plate and carried it to the sink, along with my empty glass. Brittany followed suit.

"Mom, can I take your car to drive Brittany home?" I asked.

She was still wearing her scrubs, and they looked bright against the dated kitchen. She placed her wrists on her hips, but not her hands, as they were dripping with soapy water. Droplets of water hit the vinyl floor near her socked feet.

"I'd rather drive her home myself, Santana," she told me, brushing her graying out of her face with a dry forearm. "I don't know that it's safe for you two to be out alone at night yet."

I wrinkled my nose in defiance. "Mom, it's fine. Really. I don't want to bother you to take her home."

I could see her weighing her options. She had never had a problem with me driving at night before, and certainly not alone. I'd already had my license for over six months, and she let me borrow the car to run errands or go to the local library. I knew the internal debate she was having; she didn't want to seem too controlling, especially in front of Brittany, but she was genuinely concerned for our safety.

She turned her back to us and began to run a soapy sponge across a plate. "Be safe," she said, conceding.

"Thanks, mom," I said. "I'll be back in ten minutes."

She didn't reply, just continued washing the dishes. I walked Brittany to the door, where I remembered that I needed to return the clothes she had lent me.

"Hold on," I said. "I'll be right back, I'm just going to grab those pajamas I borrowed."

She nodded and stood in the doorway. I ran to the laundry room and grabbed her clothes off of the stack of folded laundry in the basket on the floor. I returned to her and held the pajamas out. She took them and held them to her chest with one arm while she muttered a quick thanks. I grabbed the car keys from the key dish, slipped on some shoes, and we exited through the side door into the spring air, which was damp and cool. I unlocked the car, getting in on the driver's side. Brittany sat opposite from me in the passenger's side, quiet. She shivered. I looked in my mirrors and swiveled to glance behind me as I backed out of the driveway in front of our townhouse complex.

"Is driving easy?" Brittany asked abruptly, looking small as the sunset shadows passed across her face. The dashboard clock blinked 7:14 in glowing red. The street lamps were beginning to come on along South Pierce Road.

"Have you driven before?" I asked her, keeping my eyes on the road so I didn't get distracted by Brittany. I didn't ask her for directions; I remembered the route to her house fairly well.

"No, I haven't," she admitted. "My mom doesn't think it's a very good idea."

"Why not?" I continued driving on the main road.

"I get distracted easily, so she doesn't really trust me to not get hurt driving," she said. She sounded very sad. "Everyone I know knows how to drive. It just sucks, because I have to take the bus."

I didn't even think very much about what I said next. "I can give you driving lessons."

"You can?" She asked incredulously.

I laughed at her amazement. "Of course I can. What, you don't think I'm a very good driver?"

I turned onto Brittany's street, looking out of the passenger side window for her house. The sky was orange and purple. "No, that's not what I meant!" She defended, but I just laughed again, pulling to a stop in front of her neatly manicured lawn. "I have my permit, I've just never logged any hours. Teaching me to drive would kind of be a huge undertaking. No one I know would've offered, they don't have time. So thank you."

"I don't care," I said. "It'll give me an excuse to spend more time with you."

She grinned and unbuckled her seatbelt, still clutching the loaner pajamas to her chest. "Thanks for having me today. I had a really good time."

"Anytime," I told her, and she smiled at my word choice.

Seconds later she was leaning across the console, and my pulse was galloping into a sprint. My eyes widened of their own accord, and I watched her lips as she leaned closer and closer, and all thought in my brain ceased to exist. I stared at her numbly, waiting. She moved in slow motion.

And then she was wrapping me in an awkward, one-armed hug, but it wasn't awkward, because it was Brittany. I smelled lavender and felt her breathing into my hair that rested on my shoulder. Tingles ran up and down my body again, but they were the strongest at the base of my spine. It was a delicious feeling, but frightening too, because it was happening every single time Brittany touched me.

I wondered briefly if it was a mutual feeling, like electricity was flowing from her to me and back, with our skin as the conductors. I leaned into her, drinking in her scent greedily with my slightly opened mouth. Her arm was warm around me, and her neck was warm against my arms, which slid around her neck in the embrace. The hug was too long, and I knew that, but my heart said that it wasn't long enough.

"Good night, Santana," she said, letting me go and stepping out of the car and into the moist air. "I'll see you tomorrow, maybe?"

"Yeah, definitely," I whispered, still off-kilter from the hug. She smiled at me as she closed the car door and walked across her lawn and around the garage to what I assumed was a side door. She didn't look back. I missed her already.

I sat in front of Brittany's house for a little while, watching the lights in the windows. I figured out which windows were Brittany's. They were dark. I assumed Brittany had gone to read to Emily, and probably wouldn't be in her room for a while.

Deciding I was being creepy and I needed to leave, I put the car in drive and slowly drove out of Caley Place and onto S Pierce Road. There weren't many cars out. The sun set at the edge of the road, against the trees. I sighed heavily, depressed about returning home to my mom and an empty bedroom and nightmares.

She was watching the news when I returned home. I saw a shot of the school; similar to the aerial shot I had seen on the news the day before. I kicked off my shoes and dropped the keys in their bowl.

"Hey mama," I said, walking towards the bottom of the stairwell.

"Where are you going, mija?" she asked, twisting around so she could see me. She had changed into her pajamas.

"I'm going to go to bed. I don't want to watch the news," I told her, rubbing at my temple with my fingers. I yawned.

"Why?" she asked. "You need to know these things. They're important. This is your school."

"Mom," I told her, "I can't. I just can't do it. I'm not ready. Maybe tomorrow."

"Fine," she said flatly, turning back to the TV. "I'll change the channel." She reached for the remote.

"No, no, mama, you watch. I'm going to go to bed."

"Santana, it's not even eight o'clock. Why are you so tired?"

"I couldn't sleep last night," I told her. I punctuated the statement with another yawn. I really was exhausted. Without Brittany as a distraction, I had been able to ignore how tired and heavy my entire body felt.

"Oh, that's right," she said, her tone softening as she remembered the incident that morning. "You come get me if you need me, okay?"

"Okay," I said, starting to make my way up the stairs. "I love you," I said, not quite expecting a response from her.

"I love you too, Santana," she replied, her voice floating up the stairs over the sounds of the news anchor on the TV. Her voice didn't convey any warmth, but the thought was there in her reply. I knew her well enough not to expect any more.

I brushed my teeth and washed my face in the bathroom. In the mirror, there were bags under my eyes. I fingered the light shadows there, moving the skin back and forth. I pulled a brush through my hair. In my bedroom, I changed into an oversized t-shirt, took off my jeans, and slid into bed. I wished that I had Brittany's clothes to wear, so I could fall asleep smelling lavender. If I tried hard enough, I could still smell it on the sheets, but I could've been imagining it.

I thought of her as I sank into my pillows and the final remnants of the sunset slunk out of the room, leaving it dark. I missed having her with me. Now, alone with my thoughts, I had begun to think of what had happened, and how I would need to recount it all to the police the next day. I didn't know I was crying until a quiet sob bubbled up from my chest and the tears reached the collar of my shirt. My pillow muffled the sound well enough. My tears ran down my cheeks and my neck. I wanted her there to wipe the tears away.

Despite being cripplingly afraid of falling asleep, the exhaustion overtook me in minutes, and I sank into that hazy in-between while the blackness sank over my eyes. Finally, I slept.