Furthest from the Truth

by spiercemint

Santana Lopez met Brittany Pierce in her school's library on April 20th, 1999. They both survived the Columbine Massacre, one of the worst school shootings in history, and Santana and Brittany developed an extremely close bond. The event and Santana's new friendship began a struggle with her sexuality and the emotional scarring that the shooting left on her mind and her heart.

4. Chapter 4

A/N: To address one review in particular (allilurks), but this is relevant to anyone who cares:

I was intentionally vague in the summary of this story so that I did not give away too much of the plot, but I see now that that may have been a point of confusion for some readers, especially because the summary is in third person and the story is in first. When I say that Santana becomes confused about her feelings for Brittany, I mean that Santana herself initially believes that her feelings for Brittany are just sparked by some confusion, and that they're only feelings of safety that she has perceived as something else. Santana will figure it out, but I don't want to give too much away. Also, Brittany has some secrets of her own that will be revealed in a later chapter, and that will change their relationship significantly. Like I said earlier, this is a love story, and it won't be unrequited. Thank you for pointing this out, allilurks, I really appreciate it. Does anybody think I should change the summary?

The reviews blow me away, really. Keep it up.

---

I had never been a lucid dreamer, so when I was dreaming, I didn't know it. This time, I was the one holding the gun. The thing was heavy, much heavier than I expected a gun to be. Who would ever want to carry this thing around for any period of time? It wasn't dark anymore, but the only light in the school hallway came from the daylight filtering in through the open classroom doors and the windows at either end of the hallway.

I didn't know what to do with the gun. Deciding I would keep it with me and return it to whomever it belonged to, I cradled it carefully in both hands. Leaving it by itself against a row of lockers sounded like a terrible idea. I had no idea if it was loaded, or who else was around. I didn't know much about guns at all, but it looked like an old shotgun. I knew enough to keep my hands far away from the trigger and the barrel. The school seemed to be empty, but the hallway was a mess. Lockers hung open, papers were strewn everywhere, and some backpacks were just sitting on the floor, some open and overturned. My bare feet itched on the dusty linoleum floor.

Where the hell is everyone?

There must've been a fire drill. Or a real fire, but I didn't smell any smoke. Why else would the hallways be this messy? I looked at the gun again, but this time, there were bloody smears all over it, and my own hands were covered in blood.

What the fuck?

The blood didn't appear to be mine; I didn't feel any pain from any wounds that I could be bleeding from. I turned the gun over in my hands, searching the metal and the wood grain for an answer. I still had no idea what was going on. I spun in a slow circle, looking for clues to give me answers, and still finding nothing but school supplies and open lockers. Upon picking a few pieces up, I found that every single paper in the hallway was blank. That was odd. I walked towards one end of the hallway.

"Hello?" I called. I heard no response. The gun felt heavier in my hands, and I really, really wanted to put it down. My hands slipped against the still-wet blood and my heart skipped a beat.

"Where is everyone?" I yelled, and my voice reverberated off of the walls. My slow walk had brought me to the end of the hallway, where the window providing most of the light in the hallway was located. There was still no response. Confused, I looked out the window, expecting to see the entire student body outside, and worse, laughing at me. But all I saw when I looked out was white. Blinding white, like a reflection off of snow. Nothing else was visible.

I ran to the other end of the hallway to look out of the other window. The metal of the gun hit my hips and dug into my skin as I ran. My feet thudded hollowly against the floor as I came to a stop in front of the widow at the opposite end of the hall. I breathed heavily, resting the gun on my knees to catch my breath. I was wearing Brittany's plaid pajama bottoms. Traces of blood appeared on my legs when I pulled the gun away; I instantly worried that I would stain Brittany's pants.

Looking out of the window, I saw nothing but white, the same as before. It didn't appear out of the ordinary from a distance, but up close there was an untouchable bright whiteness radiating from just outside of the windows. It washed out the color from my hands and my arms, like a fluorescent light, leaving my skin unusually pale and oddly translucent.

Behind me, where there had previously been silence, was now a sound. A shoe, it seemed. It squeaked on the linoleum. I whirled around, hoping to catch the wearer of the shoe and demand an explanation. It was possible, however, that the shoe wearer was after me. Maybe that was the reason for the rifle. I didn't trust myself enough to use it properly, so I didn't move it from its position in my hands as I turned to see nothing but a single sheet of notebook paper falling through the air, out of a locker, disturbed by something I hadn't witnessed. The panic set in. It was that heavy unfamiliar panic that came with not having all of the answers. Like sitting down to a test and having no idea how to answer the essay question. It was that, but magnified by a thousand. And I wasn't holding a pencil, I was holding a gun, and my hands were bloody.

I blinked to clear my head, and then the hallway was filled with fluttering papers. Among the papers were eight faceless men, clad in black from head to toe with SWAT uniforms. I counted the barrels of their guns quickly, which was easy, because every single gun was pointed at my body. Red lights appeared on my chest, wavering as the gunmen found their targets.

And then it clicked. Bile rose into my throat immediately.

"It wasn't me," I said, choking back a sob. "I swear to god, it wasn't me. I don't know what's going on. Please don't shoot." I tried to move backwards, but my feet felt stuck to the floor.

The guns didn't move. One faceless man turned to an identical blank face, and nodded. I dropped the gun in my hands to the floor, where it landed with a heavy thud. I nudged it with my foot, hoping to distance it from myself. The red lights followed my every move. The gun I had been holding slid a few feet from me, and I stood up straight again, waiting, guilty.

"I didn't do it," I cried. I held my bloody hands over my head in surrender.

And then, in slow motion, every single gun fired at me.

---

April 22, 1999

I didn't wake up screaming this time, but I was breathing hard and a cold sweat had broken out all over my body. My hair stuck to my forehead. I lay panting for a few minutes, trying desperately to breathe normally and to rid my hands of their trembling. My room was still dark when I tossed my covers off of me, shivering when the cold morning air hit my legs. My alarm clock told me that it was just past 7 am. I debated going back to sleep, but I knew that I wouldn't be able to. Eleven hours was more than enough. I'd had enough of the nightmares, too.

Analyzing the night terrors was something that I couldn't do, so I vowed not to think about them. The nightmares represented knowledge about myself that I didn't want; I didn't want to know what they meant. I knew why they were happening, but I just wanted them to stop. Decoding them wouldn't make me feel any better. I wanted to tell Brittany about the most recent one, knowing that she could help me forget.

Having nothing else to do at 7 am and feeling like I needed it, I went to my bathroom to take a shower. The lights in my mom's room were still dark. In the bathroom, I peeled off my t-shirt and underwear and turned on the shower, turning the hot water knob as far as it would go. While it warmed up, I stood on the cold tile with my arms crossed over my chest and shivered. Goosebumps appeared across my stomach and down my legs, creeping around my shoulders and down to my wrists. I rubbed my arms to warm them up.

When I stepped into the shower, the hot water warmed my back immediately, and I just stood there for a few seconds, waiting and breathing and letting my hair get wet. This time there were not grime and tragedy to wash away, only dried sweat and grief. I leaned my forehead against the cool tile, trying not to remember my nightmares. There were faceless men and blank paper and guns crawling into my every thought, every action, taunting me with terror. I needed distraction. I needed Brittany.

I shut my eyes tight while I massaged shampoo through my hair, holding back tears that I refused to let fall. With my eyes closed, I couldn't see the nightmares. I had to stop being so weak, I told myself. I had to pull it together for the police and for this therapist and my mom and for Brittany; but among all of those, only one seemed important. I wondered when I would get to see her.

After finishing my shower, I grabbed a towel from the rack on the wall. In the mirror, I looked infinitely better than I had the previous day. Some color had returned to my face, and my eyes looked less hollow and sunken in. Satisfied, I brushed my teeth and went back to my room, holding the towel up with a hand on my chest. My mother's room was still dark.

Back in my room, I wasn't sure what to wear. How does anybody know what to wear to a witness testimony? I felt the need to dress better than I normally did, to seem professional. I wanted to feel like an adult today, not some high school kid. This was important to everyone, especially to the families of those kids. I still didn't know the details of the event, either; it was possible that no one at all had died. The realist in me knew that it wasn't possible, and the pessimist in me was too scary to listen to. I was regretting watching the news, to some extent; I was scared to know who had died, or who was injured, or who the shooters were. Did I know them? Would I recognize their names? I shook my head, and droplets of water fell from my hair to the floor. I had to stop thinking about it.

I opted for black, wearing a simple pair of slacks and a light purple blouse. I made my bed to pass the time. After about a half hour, I had dried and styled my hair, brushed my teeth, and put on some makeup. I heard my mom stirring in her room and then I heard her footsteps as she went into her own bathroom. I could hear her moving around the bathroom through the thin walls, and then the sound of the shower being turned on on. It was only seven. I genuinely debated calling Brittany, knowing that she was awake for her own testimony, but I didn't want to wake up the rest of her family. I also knew that she was probably getting ready for her station visit.

Instead of calling Brittany, I killed time by putting away the clothes that I had folded before Brittany came over the previous. I stacked them neatly in my drawers, appreciating that there could be order in at least one part of my life when other parts seemed so chaotic. My mom knocked sharply on my door at 8:30, when I was sure that Brittany was sitting in some dimly lit interrogation room, talking to an investigator. The thought made me nervous.

"Santana, are you awake?"

I walked quickly to open the door, stepping into her line of view.

"Oh," she said. "You're up early."

"I went to bed early," I said flatly.

She was already dressed too, in an outfit that she often wore to formal events for work. It was a simple black skirt that cut off just below her knees, and she always paired it with a short-sleeved white shirt that had some ruffles around the collar. She had been wearing that outfit for as long as I could remember; she was far too frugal to purchase anything else when she had perfectly fine formal wear. Luckily, I rarely attended formal events with her, so I had little reason to be embarrassed.

"Oh," she said again. "Do you want to go now?" Even in her black heels, she was shorter than I was.

"Why would we leave now?" I asked, donning a scowl to show my irritation. Couldn't she remember the time of the testimony?

"I thought we could stop at the diner for breakfast," she said coolly. "But if you don't want to go…"

I bit my tongue. "Fine," I conceded. "Are you ready?"

"Yes."

I found my flats on the floor of my closet and put them on as I walked down the stairs and locked the door behind me. I got into the passenger's side of the car quietly, ignoring my mom. Leaving the house to do something important was strange; the last time I had been out of the house was when I was at Brittany's two days before, and then when I drove her home. Aside from that, I hadn't had any interaction with the outside world for two days. And I knew that in the outside world, particularly at my high school, there was a lot going on that I was ignoring.

We frequented one place only when we went out to breakfast, which was a rare occasion in itself. Our restaurant of choice was always Louis' Diner, and we usually went right after church. Because we hadn't gone to church in months, I hadn't been to Louis' in a long time. It was my mom's favorite because they served traditional breakfast food infused with traditional Mexican dishes. Mexican breakfast at Louis' was a favorite of my mother's and mine, even though we weren't Mexican. She appreciated the liberty that the cooks took in using spices that reminded her of the authentic Puerto Rican food she ate back in the day. I loved it too, so I never complained, but sitting across from my mother in a worn leather booth over spicy hash browns and cheap coffee sounded vastly unappealing, especially when I didn't trust my stomach to hold down any food.

The car was completely silent as we pulled into the nearly deserted parking lot; I assumed that most people were either at work on a Thursday morning or that they had no desire to leave their houses after the so-called massacre. I still didn't know how severe the shooting was, and I was mostly filling in the blanks with my imagination, which had always tended to exaggerate the truth. I wondered briefly how much information I was entitled to when I made my testimony. We crossed the lot to the diner, and the bell on the door chimed to alert the staff of incoming customers. The sound of the bell usually irritated me, especially when I was eating. Every time the door opened, there was a ring, but now it was a comforting sound that reminded me of better times with my mom. She hardly reacted to the bell. A few scattered customers looked up as we walked in, most of them appearing to be over sixty, and diner regulars. They went back to their eating.

Aside from the sounds of forks and knives scraping against the plates, the restaurant was eerily quiet. My mom approached the counter to tell the hostess we would need a table for two, and I took the time to look around the small diner, which hadn't changed much since the last time I'd been there. I counted the months on my fingers, finding that it had been eight. I sighed. The walls were still painted a faded burgundy and remained decorated with tacky framed prints of sombreros and the flag of Mexico. The carpet in the dining area was as gray and dingy as ever. The booths were still made of off-white leather, and the tables between them still looked heavily used. It hadn't changed at all. The woman behind the counter, who I believed to be Louis' middle-aged daughter, led us wordlessly to a small booth and presented us with coffee-stained menus. She seemed distracted, and I wondered if she had kids. We sat up against the far wall, relatively isolated from the smattering of diner occupants. The waitress left us with the menus and returned with a steaming pot of coffee, ready to pour it into mine and my mother's mugs. She didn't introduce herself, but the nametag on her 1950s style uniform identified her as Sofia.

"Coffee?" she asked, her accent giving the simple question a hint of a lilt. My mother nodded.

"No, thank you," I said, and she poured the steaming brown liquid into my mother's cup. My mom reached for the sugar container and took two Splenda packets, tearing the tops off of both and emptying them into her mug at the same time with a practiced hand.

"May I get you anything else to drink?" Sofia asked politely.

"I'll just take a water, thank you," I said.

"I'll have one as well," my mother added. The waitress nodded and turned away, attending to another customer a few tables away.

I picked at the paper of the placemat, which was a habit I'd developed as a kid. Usually by the end of breakfast at the diner I'd have torn of at least a fourth of the paper and rolled it into tiny paper balls. I ignored the judging eye roll I received from my mother. The placemat was covered in advertisements for local businesses and organizations, and there was even a decent-sized square that said "Go Columbine Rebels!" in bold, gray letters; the entire thing was black and white. There was a distorted image of a Columbine rebel, charging into an ad for a disability claims lawyer. I slid my plate surreptitiously to cover the box. I didn't want to look at any Columbine rebels anytime soon.

When I looked up, my mom was reading the menu with a careful stare. She had to know the Louis' menu by heart at this point, but every time we came she insisted on reading the description of every item. I picked up my own menu. My hands slipped against the plastic cover from sweat that I didn't know had collected on my palms. I took a nervous breath.

Mom noticed. "Are you nervous for today?"

She seemed uncomfortable asking the question, as though she wasn't prepared to have a discussion with me if I was nervous. I decided not to lie.

"A little bit," I admitted. I closed the menu, not having looked at it. I always got the same thing at Louis', so it really didn't matter.

Sofia returned with our waters. I thanked her as she walked away, taking a small sip of the water. The cool liquid felt nice on my dry mouth.

"I don't know what happened, exactly, and I don't want to give them the wrong information. I hope they give me some information, actually," I elaborated.

She seemed to understand, and brought her cup of cooling coffee to her lips. "I think that it's their job to corroborate the evidence you present to them, and if it's wrong, it's wrong. It's all about perception. You just have to be as objective as possible."

I nodded. She continued. "They'll probably fill you in on what has been released to the media after your testimony, just so you're informed. Having that knowledge will probably make it easier to understand what happened. It'll probably help your mental state."

I bristled a little at her comment on my mental state. I wasn't unstable; I knew that. Granted, from an outsider's perspective, especially my mother's, I didn't seem all that stable. I kept making paper balls, and there was a growing pile next to my sweating glass of water.

Sofia returned again after delivering a plate of steaming eggs to a table near ours. "Are you ladies ready to order?" she asked politely, uncapping her pen and taking out her order book to take down our orders.

"Yes," my mom said, looking back at the menu to double check her breakfast order. "I'll have the huevos rancheros and the sausage." She spoke the Spanish words perfectly, eliciting an approving smile from the waitress.

"And for you?" she asked me.

"I'll have the blueberry short stack," I said, reveling in the familiarity of the order. Sofia jotted it down.

"Is that all?"

My mother and I nodded.

She turned on her heel. "Your food will be right out."

She disappeared behind the counter. I took a long drink of water, gulping down half of it in one sip. My mom sipped her coffee slowly, ensuring that it didn't burn her tongue. We made eye contact over our drinks.

"I don't understand why this happened," she said sadly, shaking her head. She replaced her mug on the placemat where a coffee ring had formed.

"I don't either," I said in reply. "I just wish it could've been a normal day." The current paper I rolled between my fingertips dropped to my lap as I glanced down. A small letter 'n' was visible on the paper.

"It was in God's plan, Santanita. You're so lucky to be alive," my mother said seriously, and I shifted uncomfortably. I was lucky, but not everyone was. I clenched my jaw. Her hands curled further around her mug, the tips of her longest fingers touching. She seemed to recede into her thoughts, but it was only a few seconds before she spoke again, this time quieter. "I don't know how this town is ever going to recover."

I shook my head, agreeing with her, but unsure what else to say. She was right; the town wasn't small, not by any means, but tragedy before this had been relatively nonexistent. The town was safe. Kids could go out alone at night on weekends and return home perfectly safe. There were no homicides that I could remember, and no burglaries that were more than petty theft. Automobile accidents were infrequent. Now there was this scar on the town, a fresh wound, really, still bleeding. It would need to be cleaned, stitched, bandaged, and it would need to heal. The scarring would surely take decades to fade. Now that the actual tragedy had occurred, the grief of experiencing the recovery still remained. There would surely be memorials to attend and safety seminars to sit through. I couldn't imagine ever going back to that library.

Mama and I talked quietly of the proceedings that would follow the incident, and she managed to squeeze a little more information out of me that I had pieced together since the night after the incident. She attempted to prepare me for the testimony by asking general questions she probably took from crime shows, but it only made me more anxious. It was strange, but I struggled to remember the details that had seemed so vivid and unforgettable at the time of the shooting. It was like I was repressing the things I didn't want to remember. The placemat grew smaller, and the paper ball pile grew larger, and my glass of water, now just melting ice, soaked the placemat with cold condensation.

Sofia returned shortly with our steaming breakfasts. We ate in silence, and though the blueberry pancakes were once a favorite of mine, I struggled to choke them down. They seemed too dry against my sandpaper tongue. I overcompensated by pouring copious amounts of syrup over the stack, drowning each pancake methodically in the viscous substance, making them completely inedible. They syrupy bite I took tasted only of sugar, so I decided I was finished after just one pancake. My mother seemed to have difficulty eating her own dish; she pushed around her eggs and her sausage, taking small bites between long sips of coffee. She only ate about half of her dish, leaving the rest of the Mexican-style breakfast in a pile on the side of the plate farthest from her.

"We haven't gone to church together in quite some time, Santanita," my mom remarked.

"I know, mama. I was thinking about that." I cringed inwardly; I was in no state to have a conversation on my less than devout Catholic ways.

She sighed, blowing gray and black hairs alike from her forehead in the process. "I think we should start going together again. It will help you heal."

I gritted my teeth. "Of course. Over the summer I'll have a lot more time."

"Santana," she began.

Here we go.

"I believe this is a sign from God. A sign that you need to renew your faith in him. God is eternal, but why wait until summer when you'll have so much recovery time in the coming weeks?"

She was interrupted by Sofia's return; she appeared at the table, her expression blank. "Finished?" she asked, extending her hands to take our plates.

"Si," my mother replied, also distracted. "We'll take the check." She looked out the window, even though there was nothing to see except for the parking lot. I merely nodded, adjusting my fork to make it easier for Sofia to take my plate. She showed no sign of appreciation.

"All I'm saying," my mother continued, "is that this is your chance for salvation and a better life."

I wrung my hands in my lap. "Okay," I agreed. "Okay. We can go this weekend." I felt defeated, but I knew that putting up a fight would be absolutely pointless.

Sofia returned and handed the check to my mother, who paid the bill in cash. Mama then tossed a wrinkled five onto the table and stood up from the booth wordlessly, smoothing out her black skirt. She seemed satisfied by my response. I dropped the last tiny ball of paper on my pile before copying her motion, feeling tremors return to my hands as I brushed nonexistent crumbs from my own slacks.

"Ready?" she asked.

As ready as I'll ever be, I thought.

I nodded and we left, walking to the car in a heavy, nervous silence. My own mother's hands trembled slightly where she wrapped them around the steering wheel, her knuckles white. It was comforting to know that I wasn't the only one struggling with the idea of me being a source of evidence for this turn of the century investigation. It was a lot. We both knew it.

My seatbelt felt constricting against my already uncomfortable clothes as we drove the fifteen minutes to the Jefferson County Sheriff's Department. The radio was on, but I didn't listen to it. I normally loved to listen to the radio, and when I was sure no one was around, I even sang to it in the house. Today was an exception, and even some of my favorite songs didn't register in my head. They did nothing to alleviate my nerves. I couldn't think of anything that could ease my stress, except maybe Brittany. But even that was a stretch.

I didn't have much time to think about it; we were pulling up in front of the Sheriff's Department, which was bustling with activity. Police cars were moving in and out of the parking lot in front of the building, and the faces of the policemen and women looked ashen and tired. The brick building was short, but dark. Along with the squad cars, a few students I recognized from school exited the building with their parents. No one smiled.

I didn't make eye contact with any of them as I entered the building, and I knew for certain my mom didn't either. She rarely paid attention to high school kids, especially ones I never interacted with. As soon as we walked in, there were more officers, rushing across the small lobby. Many of them held large boxes or stacks of paper as they walked, careful not to bump into any of the other people in the lobby. It looked and sounded like a crime show.

I stopped short, startled by the activity inside of the building, but my mother grabbed my wrist and tugged me towards the reception desk situated in the center of the room. A few other students sat with their parents on uncomfortable black chairs against the walls of the lobby, murmuring in low tones. It seemed as though the chairs had been brought in to accommodate the waves of people coming in and out of the station. Most of the high school kids didn't look up as I scanned their faces; they seemed preoccupied. I assumed they were also waiting to make testimonies. I wondered where Brittany was, and if she had left yet. I wondered if she still wanted to have dinner.

My mother was waiting impatiently for the receptionist to acknowledge her presence. The receptionist talked quickly into her headset, typing quickly into a computer. My mother's heels tapped on the gray carpet, but they failed to make any noise except for rhythmic, barely discernible thumps. It was another thirty seconds before the woman finally said, "Jefferson County Sheriff's Department, please hold," and adjusted her mouthpiece while she put the caller on hold.

"How can I help you?" she asked, turning her attention to my mother and me. The woman looked to be in her mid-thirties, but her bloodshot eyes drooped with lack of sleep. A mug half full of coffee sat next to the computer on her desk, next to a coffee pot, which looked to be quite low on coffee. It was only 10:15.

"My name is Maribel Lopez, my daughter Santana is here to make a testimony. We called in yesterday about a time," my mother spoke quietly, trying not to attract any attention from those in the lobby, even though it was abundantly clear that everyone was at the police station for the same reason.

"Of course, one moment," the receptionist said, holding up a finger. At first I thought she was going to pick up the phone again, but she returned to her computer, typing extremely fast. Her fingers flew across the keys. She tapped her red nails against the countertop as the computer processed the information she typed in. When the page loaded, she scanned the screen.

"Okay, I have you in at 10:30, is that correct?"

My mother nodded. "Yes."

"Okay, Santana," the receptionist told me. "I'm going to have you fill out this questionnaire; we're a little behind schedule today, so it might not be until 11 that one of our officer's can take you in." She reached under the desk and presented a clipboard to me. A pen dangled from the metal part by a piece of yarn, and a few pieces of paper were attached to the clipboard.

"Ms. Lopez, I'll also need you to fill out a questionnaire," she said, presenting my mother with a similar clipboard. My mother blew some loose hairs off of her forehead with an exasperated huff.

"Did the person you talked with on the phone inform you of the free counseling sessions we're providing? They're optional, but we recommend them."

"Yes," my mother said curtly, "they did mention that on the phone. When can Santana go to one? Will it take place with a group of students?"

The woman shook her head. "Most of the students giving witness testimonies in our office today have been most affected by the events of Tuesday morning, either because of proximity to the violence or personal closeness to the shooters or the victims, so those experiencing this type of trauma are advised to participate in one-on-one counseling. A staff of therapists from nearby hospitals will be here for the week to discuss the events with anyone that requires guidance with the students and teachers I just mentioned receiving top priority. That includes you, Santana, based on our current report." She checked her computer screen again. "Would you like to meet with one of our therapists? It wouldn't be a group session, you'd be the only one there." She looked at me expectantly. My mother looked at me also, and her dark eyes told me to say yes. She didn't want to be the one to listen to me talk about my feelings.

"Yeah, that sounds good," I said, looking down at the floor.

"Alright, great," the receptionist said, typing more information into the computer. "We'll work you in when your testimony is complete. The forms for the therapist are on your clipboard as well."

I glanced briefly at the small packet in the clipboard and found a sheet titled Preliminary Psychological Evaluation before looking back up at the receptionist.

"Alright, honey," she said, reaching for her mug of coffee. "You're good to go. Fill out those forms for me and give the officer that calls you back will tell you what to do with them."

My mom followed me to two unoccupied chairs and we sat side by side. I uncapped the pen I had been handed and began to fill out some of the information on the top sheet of the clipboard, listing my name and our address and other important information.

"Santana, what are you doing?" my mother asked, snatching the pen away from me.

"Mama, I'm filling out the sheets," I said, grabbing at the pen that was clutched in her hand. "She told me to," I elaborated, nodding my head at the desk in the center of the room.

"Santana, this is important. Let me," she argued, swatting my hand aside and reaching to take my clipboard.

Rage bubbled up in my chest. "Give me the clipboard," I hissed. "I know it's important. I was there, mom, I know. I should be filling it out. Stop treating me like a child." She'd pushed me too far. I had snapped.

She retracted, and I saw her disappear inside of her thick outer shell. I sighed. This was no time to be pissing of my mother, but it wasn't an appropriate time for her to be acting like I was too young to deal with this on my own. I needed to deal with this independently, which meant filling out my own paperwork. I needed independence, especially from her. I took the pen from her softly, recognizing that it was best not to yank it out of her grasp. She quietly filled out her own paperwork, avoiding eye contact with me and positioning her body so her shoulders were tilted away from me. She had always been the passive aggressive type. I rolled my eyes and answered the standard medical questions on the forms.

I looked up every few seconds, hoping to catch Brittany on her way out. I had no idea if she was still at the station, but at the pace that it seemed the testimonies were moving, it didn't appear as though she could've possibly gotten out of there in less than three hours. I looked for her blonde hair, hoping to have some sort of contact with her before I had to meet with an officer. I was desperate for a lavender hug.

A half hour delay stretched into forty-five minutes, and I still hadn't spoken a word to my mother. She sat patiently with the finished paperwork on her lap. I fidgeted next to her, tempted to doodle on the forms, but well aware that they were for professional use, not my bored graffiti. I tried to people-watch the other students and their parents, but none of them held my interest for more than a few seconds. I barely knew them, and everyone seemed preoccupied with paperwork or hushed conversations. I wanted to see Brittany among them.

A burly officer that I had seen walk through the main area multiple times approached the desk and spoke quietly to the receptionist. She handed him a stack of paper. He looked at it briefly.

"Santana?" he called, looking around the room. It was like a doctor's office, the way it operated; I stood quickly, holding the clipboard tight in my hand so that it wouldn't slip against my sweaty palms. Mama was permitted to accompany me into the room I would be testifying in, so she stood behind me and we walked towards the officer.

"Santana Lopez?" he asked again. "And are you," he looked at the top sheet of the papers in his hands again, "Ms. Lopez?"

We nodded, and he stuck out a hand, to me first, and then my mother.

"Officer Gallagher," he said. I shook his hand; it was meaty and warm, but not the nice kind of warm. A thin layer of sweat covered his balding forehead, and his pasty, chubby neck was stuffed into the sweaty collar of a wrinkled gray police uniform. He wedged two fingers in the collar after shaking our hands and adjusted his tie. Just like the receptionist, he looked exhausted. "Thank you for coming in," he spoke. "Let's get started, we're on a tight schedule. Follow me, please."

I followed the officer's wide, retreating form down a narrow hallway buzzing with the sounds of ringing telephones and whirring fax machines. Every door was closed, and the frosted glass on the doors made it impossible to see into the rooms lining both sides of the carpeted hallway. We reached a door identical to the doors lining the hallway and Officer Gallagher opened the door for my mother and me. He tugged at his collar again.

A black chair just like the one I had sat in in the lobby was positioned in the center of the windowless square room, across from another chair at a simple wooden desk. A third chair sat isolated in the corner of the room opposite the door.

"Have a seat here, please," Officer Gallagher directed, pointing at me and then to the black chair across from the desk. My mother sat in the corner chair and crossed her legs. "I'll take your paperwork."

We both unclipped our packets of paper from our clipboards and handed them to him. He glanced through them briefly to ensure that they were complete before placing them on the corner of the desk, which was empty aside from the papers the receptionist had given him and a nondescript black binder. Gallagher removed a pen from his pocket. I sat down in the black chair with my shoulders set straight against the back, my hands sweating with nerves.

---

Federal Bureau of Investigation

Defendant: Harris/Klebold

Date: April 22, 1999

Case Number: 99AO62

Investigator: Gallagher M.

Santana Lopez, date of birth November 17, 1981, 1013 W Fremont Ave, Littleton, Colorado 80218, telephone number (303)-923-9462, was interviewed at the Jefferson County Sheriff's Office in the presence of her mother, Maribel Lopez. After being advised of the identity of the interviewing agent and the nature of the interview, Lopez furnished the following information:

Lopez is a student at Columbine High School. Her first period class is an Advanced Placement Physics course taught by Mr. Branch. This period runs from 7:40 a.m. to 8:20 a.m. During second period, she has Calculus with Mrs. Luther. This class runs from 8:20 a.m. to 9:15 a.m. Second period is extended an additional five minutes to allow for the Rebel News Network announcements to be broadcast over televisions within the classrooms. Lopez does not specifically remember watching the announcements on April 20, 1999. She does not remember anything unusual about the announcements. Her third period class runs from 9:20 a.m. to 10:10 a.m. and is Spanish with Ms. Randolph. Fourth period Lopez has Geography with Mrs. Hagberg. This class runs from 10:15 a.m. to 11:05 a.m. From 11:10 a.m. to 11:40 a.m. Lopez has what is known as "A" lunch. Normally during her lunch period, Lopez would use the library to study or eat lunch in the cafeteria.

On April 20, 1999, Lopez remembers Mrs. Hagberg allowing her fourth period Geography class to use the library for research on a previously assigned paper. She believes she arrived at the library just after 10:30 a.m. She sat down at the table marked by number 19 on the attached diagram. She sat alone. Lopez had difficulty indicating at which tables other students were sitting when provided the same diagram of the Columbine High School library.

Lopez recalls working on the assigned Geography paper and leaving the table to look for a book in the reference section. Lopez remembers having a conversation with student Brittany Pierce regarding the location of a specific library book. Lopez and Pierce did not know each other before this interaction. The interaction occurred around the end of fourth period. Approximately five to ten minutes later, both students heard commotion from the floor below and a series of popping sounds. A female teacher later identified as Peggy Nielson then entered the library and yelled, "Everybody get under the tables! There's a kid out there with a gun!" Lopez provided a limited description of the teacher, recalling that she had brown hair and her shirt was bloodied. Pierce accompanied Lopez to table 20, the table closest to the reference section, where Lopez and Pierce sat under the table, with Lopez situated with her back to the northernmost table support. Pierce sat opposite Lopez. The two girls sat with their arms around each other.

Lopez heard a phone conversation between the same teacher that entered the library and what Lopez believed to be a 9-1-1 operator. Lopez cannot recall the exact details of the conversation, though she believes that the teacher was injured, which was later confirmed to be true. Lopez remembers hearing more popping noises and seeing smoke begin to fill the library, setting off the fire alarms. Lopez recalls hearing two males enter the library and demanding that everyone in the library to "get up" before revising their order to include only Columbine students wearing white hats. Lopez clarifies that athletes at Columbine High School frequently wear white baseball caps, a fact confirmed by many other students and faculty.

The gunmen began open firing within the library. Lopez cannot recall the exact number of shots fired, but she does remember the gunmen shooting at the windows on the west wall of the library. Lopez recalls hearing the two males laughing. She also recalls hearing one gunman say, "Peek-a-boo" before shooting under a table. Lopez was not in a position where she could see the events take place, but she can recall the sounds of the incident. Lopez remembers that the two gunmen spoke about blowing up the entire school.

Lopez believes that a person ran out of the library after a conversation with one of the gunmen, who continued to fire around the library. Lopez recalls seeing one of the perpetrators walk past her table, but they appeared not to notice Lopez and Pierce under the table. Lopez recalls that the suspect was wearing black combat boots. Lopez cannot recall the exact duration of the event. She believed the gunmen had left the library after hearing popping sounds from the hallways outside of the library. She assumed the gunmen had gone downstairs.

A male student then appeared on the east side of table 20, introducing himself as Finn Hudson. Lopez had not met Hudson before this time, although she does recall seeing him in school. Hudson helped Lopez and Pierce out from under the table. Lopez described him as being very tall and having brown hair. Hudson also had a white baseball cap tucked into the waistband of his jeans, which Lopez inquired about upon their meeting. Hudson explained that he had hidden his hat after hearing the suspects demand that all of the jocks stand up. Lopez believes that Hudson and Pierce knew each other before the event, but she is not certain. Pierce confirmed having previous contact with Finn Hudson in a separate interview.

Lopez recalls Hudson directing her and Pierce to the library exit and urging Lopez not to view the carnage on the floor of the library. Lopez then told Pierce not to look as well. The two exited the library through the main entrance with a small group of survivors. Lopez does not recall if group included faculty and students or just students. She cannot recall the names of anyone in the group with the exception of Brittany Pierce. She recalls that Hudson stayed behind to assist the injured in the library.

Lopez led the group to an exit on the west side of the school, which was the closest exit to the library. Lopez stated that the entire group walked quickly and did not speak. Lopez and Pierce exited the school onto the west lawn and ran to a SWAT team, who directed them to paramedics.

The information provided to the Jefferson County Sheriff's Department by Lopez is consistent with the testimonies of students Brittany Pierce and Finn Hudson. Lopez also stated that she has had very little exposure to outside media since the event. Despite being in close proximity to victim Cassie Bernall, neither Lopez nor Pierce indicated hearing any conversation between the gunman and Bernall when asked about the student.

Lopez described her backpack as a black two-strap bag with pink detailing, stating that the brand is known as Mobile Edge. She believes the bag contains approximately thirty dollars, her student I.D., and her notebooks and was left at table 19. Lopez also believes she left an open notebook on table 19.

---

Officer Gallagher was even sweatier when we finished the session, much to my alarm; the room was hardly warm enough to break a sweat, let alone produce the torrents of it that were sliding down his shiny head. He pulled at his collar even more frequently, grimacing as he yanked on his black tie. I sat uncomfortably while he asked me a series of incredibly formal questions. I answered them to the best of my ability, but it surprised me how much was difficult to remember. The questions helped me remember some things I didn't want to think about, but it was surprisingly easy to give a completely objective report to the overweight officer without breaking down.

Because I wasn't clear on most of what happened Tuesday, I asked him to tell me what he knew. It wasn't his responsibility for me to be informed, but he gave me the numbers anyway with a tug of his collar. Fifteen were killed, and twenty-one were injured. Twelve of the fifteen murder victims were students killed in the library, one was a teacher shot in the hallways of the school, and the final two deaths were the suicides of the gunmen. I received the news with numb acceptance. I knew that people had died; that wasn't news to me. I knew about the suicides. My reaction wasn't shock; I didn't feel an onslaught of tears or trembling, as I might have the day before or on Tuesday. I just met the new information with bitter affirmation. It couldn't be changed.

Mama sat quietly in the corner, but her presence was calming, despite our slightly less than agreeable interactions over the course of the morning. Knowing that I wasn't alone with this doughy officer was comforting. I heard her reach into her purse for a tissue at some points, but I didn't turn around to see her cry. This was hard for her. Officer Gallagher ended the interview abruptly after asking for a description of my backpack; I had never given a description of my backpack to anyone, and I stumbled over the details of the appearance and the contents of the bag. The officer explained that it was for identification purposes when we were permitted to collect our belongings from the school. I asked him when I would get my bag back, but he was unable to give me a straight answer. He estimated that we would return to school by the next week or the week afterwards and that the district was looking for other buildings for Columbine students to attend class in for the remainder of the year, but he did not know when the investigation would no longer need the evidence at the scene. He told me that the district would contact us as soon as more information was available.

We exited the tiny room and found ourselves again in the hallway, which was just as loud and as crowded as it had been before my witness report. An analog clock above the door leading to the main lobby told me that it was almost 12:30 pm. The receptionist was right when they said they were behind schedule. Officer Gallagher indicated that we should follow him, even though my mother and I knew our way back to the exit. She placed a bony hand on the small of my back, guiding me towards the lobby.

The officer was not walking towards the lobby, however; he continued deeper into the building, weaving through a maze of hallways. I attempted to remember the turns we were making so it was possible to backtrack, but we made so many that I couldn't remember them.

"Where are we going?" my mother asked. "Can't we leave now?"

"Aren't you signed up for the counseling? It says here you are," the tubby man said gruffly, pulling forcefully at his collar and gesturing to a paper in his black binder. I rolled my eyes; the man needed some looser shirts.

"That's today?" my mother asked, squinting her eyes. I was overcome with embarrassment.

"Yes, ma'am," Gallagher said, exasperated. "Unless, of course, you want to reschedule. But I don't see that being an easy thing to do with the amount of people we have coming through here." He shrugged and scratched his shiny head.

"Santana, are you okay to do the therapy now?" my mom asked. I nodded, sure that if I had made it through the testimony I would breeze through a counseling session. I had no idea what to expect from it, anyway.

"Sure, I guess," I said, picking at my fingernails.

"Right, that's what I thought," Gallagher said, slowing to a stop in front of a door identical to the other doors in the building. "Here you go," he said, opening the door for me to enter. He also held out some papers, which I grasped in my left hand. "You'll need those, give them to the therapist," he explained.

My mom interrupted. "Do I get to go in with her?"

"Mom, I don't know if–"

"No, ma'am, I'm afraid not. The one-on-one therapy is for students with trauma. I apologize, but you are welcome to any of our services if you believe you require them," the officer told her, shaking his head firmly. His neck fat flopped over his collar. I shuddered.

"I'll meet you back in the lobby, I guess," I told my mom, patting her hand awkwardly.

"Okay," she sighed. "Good luck."

"I'll be fine, mama." I smiled, and it felt genuine. Her close-mouthed smile was tired and tight, but was still real. Satisfied, I entered through the doorway. The officer immediately closed the door, obstructing my view of my mother standing in the station hallway looking small. I took a deep breath.

---

"Hi, are you here for an appointment?" a voice asked from behind me.

I whirled around to face a small redhead behind a desk exactly like the one from the previous room. She was quite petite in comparison to the officer; unlike him, she looked proportionate to the desk. Her ginger curls were so surprisingly buoyant for the rising spring heat and they bounced lightly on the shoulders of a pink cardigan.

"Hi," I said warily. "And yeah, I am. I'm Santana."

"Hello Santana, I'm glad you've decided to join me today. I'm Ms. Pillsbury." Her eyes were unusually round and seemed to bulge out of her head, but there was genuine kindness in them and in the gentle lines around her mouth. She did not shake my hand, and I did not extend mine.

"Would you like to take a seat?"

I realized I was standing in the middle of the room, completely oblivious to the empty chair across from Ms. Pillsbury's desk. It looked just like the testimony room, except for the paperwork on the desk, a bottle of hand sanitizer, and a small potted cactus. I sat down in my designated chair, and she followed, sitting behind the desk. Also on the desk, stacked next to the cactus, were some generic-looking pamphlets about trauma, depression, and loss. The titles were centered above cartoonish looking pictures. They were strange pamphlets, but I was curious about them; I made a mental note to take one before I left.

I offered out the stack of paper in my hand and she took it from me slowly, pinching the stapled corner between her thumb and her forefinger. I watched her curiously as she placed the forms in front of her on the laminated tabletop. Her hands hovered over the papers, as if she was hesitant about touching them again. She seemed nervous as she reached for the half-empty industrial bottle of green hand sanitizer. She pumped some into her hand and rubbed it thoroughly around her palms and her fingers, which looked raw.

"You've already given your testimony, correct?" she asked, finally lifting the papers and sifting through them. Her light brown eyes studied me intensely. I watched her hands. A pungent lemon smell permeated the air of the tiny room as she rubbed the sanitizer into her hands.

"Yes," I mumbled.

"How did that go?" She looked back at the papers.

"It was fine, I guess," I said nonchalantly.

"Good, good," she muttered. I gathered that she was merely going through formalities. I sighed, doubting that this would be worth my time. I just wanted to go see Brittany.

"It says here that you're seventeen. Does that make you a junior or a senior?" She looked at me again. Every time she looked at me her eyes looked more normal. I supposed that was a good thing.

"A junior."

"Can you tell me a little bit about yourself? What's school like for you?"

I opened my mouth to tell her, but she held up a finger, stopping me. "Also, I need to put this out there before we start, it's required. Not one word of this session will be used for investigative purposes, and you are not being monitored. Any notes I take are for my own use in the event that you would like to meet with me or any other therapist again. Is that clear?"

I nodded, relieved. I felt a little more comfortable. In the back of my mind I had considered the possibility that my psychological evaluation would be used in the case.

"Continue," she instructed, waving her hand.

"Well, uh, yeah. I'm a junior at Columbine, and school is, uh, was, I guess, pretty good," I stuttered. She waited. I was content that my explanation was sufficient and I made no move to fill the awkward silence.

"I'm going to need more than that, Santana," she chuckled. "Friends? Grades? Boyfriend?" She placed her palms face-down on the tabletop and leaned towards me, adjusting her body language to appear more friendly. It did not go unnoticed.

I didn't reply to the boyfriend piece of the question. "I get pretty good grades. I study a lot. All the time, really. Friends," I paused, "not so much. I did make a friend pretty recently, though."

Ms. Pillsbury nodded in understanding. 'What's this friend like?"

"Her name is Brittany. We were under the table in the library together," I said, looking down at my nails. They were looking sore from my constant picking and biting.

Ms. Pillsbury paled at my bluntness, but never broke eye contact. I assumed that most of her other patients must have avoided talking explicitly about the incident, but I could've been wrong. "Did you know Brittany before this?"

"No, I didn't," I replied. She seemed surprised by this.

"Have you seen her since Tuesday?"

"Yeah, I have," I paused, thinking of the times I had seen Brittany and how great those times were. "I went to her house on Tuesday because my mom couldn't pick me up from the school since she was working." Ms. Pillsbury frowned at this, and I could see gears turning in her head; she was making assumptions about my home life. "She came over yesterday and we watched a movie and she stayed for dinner. I really like her," I said, smiling. "As a friend," I added quickly, though I didn't have much of a reason for it.

Ms. Pillsbury nodded slowly, a small smile forming on her lips. It was a knowing smile, and it made me a little nervous. "I'm glad you've come out of this with a friend. It's certainly in your best interest to be able to talk to someone who has been through the experience with you. Have you talked about it with her?"

"No, not really. We've mentioned it, obviously, but there's no need for details right now, especially because we're both still so damn scared."

She jotted something down in her notes. "Do you feel safe with her?"

I had to think before replying. I thought about sitting so close to her, and being comforted after my nightmare. I thought of borrowing her clothes and watching Forrest Gump and Toy Story and making macaroni and cheese. She had caught me when I fell off of the counter.

"Yes, I do," I said firmly. "Very."

"I'm a little glad to hear that, Santana. From what you've told me, it seems as though there's some dependency developing in your relationship with Brittany. Do you feel this way?"

I was offended, to say the least. Her tone made the idea sound like a negative one. Dependent? On Brittany?

It was mostly just scary because she was right. We both knew she was right.

"I guess," I admitted.

She nodded. "I know right now feeling safe is important, especially after the trauma you both experienced. Just be careful about how much you depend on others. Independence is important for recovery. But do not, under any circumstances, imprison yourself to isolation."

She was right. Completely right. I felt guilty, but I covered that up with anger.

"You don't know what you're talking about," I told her harshly, looking at the wall so I didn't have to see the look on her face. "You don't know Brittany." I was snapping, and she knew it; she had pushed too far. Just like my mom.

"Maybe I don't, Santana. But please think about what I've told you," she relented, trying to smile at me again. I ignored it and sighed. I didn't need her help. I definitely wasn't dependent on Brittany, I decided.

"Do you want to proceed? I have more questions to ask you," she said, trying to move away from the touchy subject of my apparent dependency issues.

"Yeah, whatever," I replied, knowing that I could leave the tiny room at any point, but still curious about what she had to tell me, especially about my nightmares and how to make them stop. That is, if I ever told her about them. I wasn't totally comfortable.

She cleared her throat. "What sort of reactions have you had to the events of April 20th? How has your relationship with your family changed?"

"My mom and I have been off and on. Sometimes we argue, sometimes we talk about it together," I explained. I still refused to look at her. "But not a lot has changed since before what happened," I said, avoiding actually putting a name to the tragedy. "Our relationship has always been kind of rocky."

"I see." She wrote something on a notepad. Her frown lines grew more pronounced, but the expression never filled her face, which remained blank. "Do you have a relationship with any other family members?"

"No," I said firmly. "My dad left, and my mom's dad died when she was younger. And her mom kicked her out when she got pregnant with me."

I looked at her this time, interested to see her reaction. She didn't seem to have one, which was frustrating. I didn't really want her sympathy, but I wanted some reaction or validation that my home life sucked as much as I thought it did. There was none.

"Do you have any feelings of resentment towards these other family members?" she asked.

"I've never met them," I said rudely, the acid words rolling off of my tongue. This was familiar. I had the power now.

Ms. Pillsbury sighed. "Many people can harbor feelings of resentment towards family-"

I interrupted her. "Well, I don't."

The expression on her face was unreadable. It was somewhere between a grimace and a hard line of disappointment, but it was shrouded by an attempt at indifference. This lady clearly had some issues disguising her feelings. Shitty therapist.

"Have you been having any disturbing thoughts in the last two days?" she asked, turning a complete 180 from the previous questions. Her pen remained poised above her notepad, waiting to record the contents of my head on a legal pad.

I looked down at my hands and twisted my fingers around each other. "Yes," I admitted, deciding in a split second of submission that I actually needed this help, even if it was state-issued.

"Do you want to talk about them?" I couldn't completely tell, but she didn't seem to expect a response from me.

There were clear positives and negatives of telling her about my nightmares; I didn't want her to know me, and I didn't want to open up. I didn't need her help, or anyone's. But this was her job, and it was free, and I was barely sleeping.

"I have nightmares."

"Can you describe some of them to me?"

"They're different every time, but each one has been about the shooting. I've had," I paused to count, "three." The word 'shooting' had felt taboo throughout the day, but when I said it, it didn't feel like a scary word. Ms. Pillsbury didn't react to my use of the word, which made me feel better about saying it. "In the first one it was just like a replay of what happened, but I keep hearing the one guy say 'peek-a-boo,' because he said that to one of the people under the tables behind us. I just keep hearing it."

Her hand moved across her notes, leaving neat cursive in its wake. She waited to see if I was finished, which was a nice change from my mother, who always felt as though she needed to interrupt with her opinions. I decided to elaborate; I felt a need to fill the heavy silence. It was suppressing. "Brittany was in the second nightmare, and she needed my help. I think she got shot, but I didn't see it. And then last night," I looked down, remembering the terrifying dream, "I was in one of the hallways, and I was holding a gun. It was bloody. And then the police or something showed up and killed me."

"Your dreams sound extremely vivid. Dreams often contain symbols of struggles in your waking life. Do you think this might be true?"

"I don't know much about dreams," I confessed. "But probably." I liked the idea of symbolism. Symbols could explain the nightmares. I hoped to God that holding a rifle in my dreams didn't make me homicidal.

"Reliving the tragedy in your nightmares is normal, even common. Most of the people I've talked to this week have all had similar nightmares."

I nodded. I was glad that it wasn't abnormal, but it didn't make the reality of the nightmares any less scary, especially I wouldn't be any less alone after the sun went down.

"You being the one holding the gun indicates a search for control and authority. Do you feel as though you're lacking control in your life?"

"After Tuesday, yes," I told her. "I felt completely powerless. I still feel powerless. I feel guilty," I said, looking down again. "Guilty I didn't do anything, and guilty that so many people were killed and I wasn't." I was pouring my heart out to her now, and there was no turning back.

Fuck it, I thought. I need this. And I'll probably never have to see this lady again if I can get these nightmares to stop.

"Guilt is normal, Santana, but it isn't all that rational. You couldn't have done anything to help anyone, and I would say that you're lucky to be alive right now. The best thing you can do is to rectify the victims' deaths by living your own life to the fullest. Remembering the victims in your daily life is more than enough. Does that make sense?"

I nodded slowly, drinking in the information. She was right again. There really was no legitimate reason to feel guilty. And no legitimate reason for me to call her a shitty therapist. I frowned.

"You will feel guilty, all of us will. Tragedy does that to everyone. The nightmares will become less frequent as the trauma fades, which will happen with time. I don't see any signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, so I'm not worried about that," she said, waving a hand through the thick air. I murmured my agreement.

"The only things I can tell you to do are to keep a regular sleep schedule. Avoid alcohol and nicotine. They'll disrupt sleep patterns. Exercise and maintain a well-balanced diet, too. They'll help you sleep better. Understand?"

I nodded. Her eyes widened impossibly further with her smile, making her look like the cartoonish figures on her pamphlets.

"I'm a mental health professional, so I'm not really qualified to help you if your nightmares persist. I would recommend seeing your doctor for some sleep medication if the nightmares get any worse or their frequency increases."

I let the information sink in. "Okay," I replied, adjusting the hair on my shoulder so it laid flat against my neck, which was growing warmer the longer we spent in the windowless room.

After taking a few notes and shuffling her papers around, Ms. Pillsbury looked back up at me over the desk. She looked exhausted, but her bloodshot eyes were still wide open. "Do you have any other problems you want to talk about?" I shook my head. "You can tell me anything, really. Remember, this session is free." She clasped her bony pink hands together on the center of her desk. She sat up pin-straight, looking me dead in the eyes.

"Really," I insisted. "I have nothing to tell you." I folded my own hands on my lap, over my crossed legs. I was getting warmer and warmer.

"You still have ten minutes, but we can finish now, if you want," she informed me with a shrug, capping her pen.

"I think I'm done," I said slowly as I uncrossed my legs.

"Alright, I'll show you back to the lobby," she said curtly, standing from behind her desk. Her therapist smile remained plastered on her bright face. I followed her out of the door, turning to glance at the pamphlets next to the cactus. I didn't take one.

We exited into the hallway, which was only marginally cooler than the therapy room. Ms. Pillsbury led me through the maze of corridors, weaving around officers and students I recognized from school. These students I acknowledged; I didn't know them, but it was an unspoken fact that we were in this together, whatever 'this' turned out to be. It was communicated with a nod, but no smile. I passed three different students with three different officers; I didn't see the tubby officer that listened to my testimony.

As we approached the lobby, I slowed from a brisk walk to a stop. "Ms. Pillsbury?" I asked, hoping to get her attention. She stopped, and her pink and yellow skirt swirled around her legs as she paused.

"Yes, dear?" She smiled brightly. Her perfect curls bounced.

"Thank you, for, um, listening," I said. Her smile became warmer.

"Of course, Santana. If you ever need someone to listen again, give me a call."

I smiled back. The therapist reached into her pocket, brought out a single white rectangle, and placed it in my open hand. I grasped it tightly, careful not to misplace it, as my pants didn't have pockets. We entered the lobby, where I immediately looked past the secretary to see my mom sitting against the far wall next to a few other parents. She sat completely still straight, with her shoulders back, and her legs firmly on the floor, but she seemed to be withering within her hardened exterior. Her jaded brown eyes gave her away. One of her hands fingered the golden cross around her neck.

Ms. Pillsbury saw my line of sight and assumed a course of direction towards my mother, who stood to meet us when she saw me and offered her hand politely to Ms. Pillsbury to shake. The therapist completely ignored the intention of the outstretched hand, but compensated by sticking a contact card into my mother's palm. She looked at it, confused as to why she was getting a business card in lieu of an introduction.

"Emma Pillsbury," she said formally, drawing her hand back and clasping both of her hands behind her back. She smiled stiffly.

"Maribel Lopez," my mom replied, squinting at the redhead.

"It was a pleasure working with Santana today, you have a great kid on your hands," Ms. Pillsbury said. Her voice wavered slightly. She was intimidated by my mom.

My mother stood up a little straighter and looked the therapist up and down, sensing weakness. "Yes, I know," she stated, setting her mouth in a hard line. Ms. Pillsbury merely nodded. "We should get going, Santanita. Are we okay to leave now?" Mama asked Ms. Pillsbury, reaching to the floor to pick up her purse.

"If you took care of the rest of the paperwork, you're all set," she replied, nodding her head enthusiastically. Her curls bounced wildly and her brown eyes stared ahead.

"Okay, mija, let's go," mama said, taking my wrist in her bony hand. "I did the paperwork while you were with her," she said, gesturing towards Ms. Pillsbury, whose name she had obviously forgotten. She slipped her purse onto her shoulder as we walked towards the doors.

I turned around to make eye contact with the tiny redhead, who was watching us exit the police station. "Goodbye, Ms. Pillsbury, thanks again," I told her. My mother tugged on my wrist.

"You're welcome, Santana. Call me if you need anything," she said with a smile.

We exited through the sliding doors into the parking lot and my mom dropped my wrist. I rubbed the reddening skin and frowned. She had been gripping my wrist tightly.

"I'm glad to be out of there, that place is depressing," she said bluntly, clicking her tongue. Her heels clicked against the ground in time with her step. I lengthened my stride to catch up to her brisk walk as a police cruiser drove past.

"I know," I agreed. "I'm glad we left. What time is it?"

"Almost two," my mom informed me. "Are you hungry?"

"Not really," I told her as we approached the car. She unlocked it and climbed into the driver's side. I got into the passenger's side of the car and buckled my seatbelt.

"Good, because I need to go food shopping. There's nothing in the house," she told me. "I'll have to go into work on Saturday because I'm taking a personal day today," she said. "So I can't go when I usually do." I frowned. My mom never worked on Saturdays.

"Why aren't they making exceptions for parents of Columbine students? Don't you think you should be allowed to stay home with me?" I sounded desperate, and I knew it.

My mother shook her head and turned out of the parking lot. "Santana, you're a smart girl. If they let all of the nurses have time off, who would treat the victims?" She pointed to her temple and tapped it twice. "Think."

I responded by looking out of the window and resting my head on my hand. It sounded unreasonable to me, but I mostly didn't want to have to occupy myself for the entirety of Friday and Saturday. Mom would have the car, so I couldn't go anywhere, even if I wanted to. If I wanted to make plans I'd have to rely on Brittany to get transportation, which could be made difficult by her lack of a driver's license. I sighed. It was going to be a lonely week. I was beginning to miss school; it provided a distraction from this hellish in-between of waiting for answers.

"I assume you won't come with me?" my mother suggested, inflecting the sentence to guilt me into coming with her.

"No, I'll stay home," I told her, rubbing my jaw with my thumb. I hated grocery shopping, and she knew that.

"I'll drop you at home before, then," she decided. I watched the trees go by outside of the car and nodded into my hand.

I had tried to avoid thinking about Brittany all day, especially after what Ms. Pillsbury told me. I clutched her business card in my left hand. Brittany had invited me over for dinner, though, and I needed to call her. I was a little nervous about calling her, in case she had forgotten about the invitation, or changed her mind. She had invited me over for dinner casually, and we hadn't set any details. It was highly possible she hadn't met anything by it. After all, we'd seen each other a lot in the last two days, and maybe that was enough for her.

We turned onto our block and pulled into the driveway in front of our house. Yellow and white flowers in the dirt around the house had begun to bloom, and the afternoon sun was high in the sky, warming the pavement. The air was growing warmer as April came to an end, and I was growing uncomfortable in my slacks. My mom walked ahead of me to unlock the side door of our house and I followed her inside.

"I'm going to change and then I'll go out," she said, slipping off her heels as she walked towards the stairs.

I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. I doubted she was even expecting a response. I took off my own flats and went upstairs, taking the steps slowly. In my room, I slipped out of my slacks and put on a pair of cotton shorts and my Alanis Morissette t-shirt. Feeling infinitely more comfortable, I walked slowly back down the steps, towards our landline. The red light on the answering machine was blinking. I figured I'd listen to the message first and then call Brittany. My pointer finger found the button.

"You have two new messages. To listen to the first message, press pound."

I pressed pound.

"First message," came the automated voice. "Thursday, April 22nd, 11:46 p.m."

"Hey Santana, it's Brittany, it's almost 12, and I figured I should call you… I know I invited you over for dinner tonight, but my mom told me this morning that my grandparents are driving in from Carbondale to stay with us. I need to be with them for dinner, so I have to cancel our plans… I'm really sorry. I'm guessing you're still at the station. I'll call you again when I get the chance."

My heart both sank at the short message. Hearing her voice was nice, but knowing I couldn't see her was massively disappointing. I put the phone back in its cradle without even listening to the second message. My mom came down the stairs in more casual pants and a lighter shirt.

"Was that the answering machine? Who called?" she asked, slipping a pair of shoes onto her feet and taking her keys from the dish by the door.

"Brittany," I replied glumly, unable to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

"What'd she say? You sound upset."

"I can't go over there for dinner, her grandparents are visiting." I looked at the floor.

"Good, you can spend time with me. You can help make dinner when I get back from the store," she informed me as she picked up her purse and opened the side door.

I sighed, not looking forward to it in the least. "Okay, mama."

"Adiós, Santana."

"Bye," I responded flatly. I walked into the living room, angry and disappointed, but mostly lonely. I wasn't angry with Brittany, really, I knew she needed to spend time with her family. It was beyond frustrating that I wouldn't get to see her when I really wanted to tell her about my testimony and about Ms. Pillsbury.

Don't be dependent, Santana, I thought. You need to learn how to be alone.

I took deep breaths as I flopped onto the couch on my back. I balled up the material of the hem of my t-shirt in my fists as tears threatened to fall from my eyes.

Don't you dare fucking cry, Lopez.

Crying was for wimps. Instead, I took measured breaths and thought of anything but her. Unfortunately, anything but Brittany meant the shooting, which I had been repressing for almost two days. There was nothing else to think about. Desperate for distractions, I grabbed the remote from the coffee table and turned on the TV. It was still on the news channel, so I found a channel that was playing cartoons. I don't know how long I lay on the couch for, but after a while, I fell asleep to an episode of Angry Beavers.

The sound of my mom's car pulling into the driveway woke me up. Startled, I shot into a sitting position; I couldn't have been asleep for very long, but I hadn't had a nightmare, which was comforting. I was mildly annoyed for falling asleep, because now I had thrown off my sleeping schedule. Adjusting my shirt and pulling my fingers through my messy hair, I walked into the kitchen. The door opened and my mom stepped into the kitchen, brown grocery bags in her arms. She placed them on the countertop.

"What happened to you?" she asked critically, eyeing my appearance.

"I fell asleep on the couch," I informed her.

"Ah," she offered, clucking her tongue softly and shaking her head. I rolled my eyes. "Unpack these groceries and start putting things away, please," she instructed as she disappeared out of the side door for more bags. I took a carton of milk from one of the bags and placed it in the fridge. After removing some dry goods from another bag and placing them in the pantry, I glanced at the clock. It was already 5:30. My stomach rumbled.

My mom walked back into the kitchen with more brown bags in her arms. "What took you so long?" I asked her. "You were gone for over two hours."

"I went to church first," she stated simply.

"Oh," I said flatly. "That makes sense." Mama didn't reply. She went about removing the groceries from the paper bags as usual.

Burning with curiosity, I asked her, "What's going on at church?" My mother shot me a look that told me I shouldn't be asking so many questions. Good Catholics didn't ask questions.

"There were many people there praying. Some of the funerals will be held there this weekend. They are open to the public, if you'd like to go."

"I'll think about it," I said, but I had already made up my mind. I didn't want to go.

"I will be going, if you decide to join me," she said simply, placing a bag of carrots in the fridge.

I nodded.

---

We had spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. I made the red sauce while mom prepared and cooked the meatballs. We ate quietly at the kitchen table, and I missed Brittany's presence terribly. I wanted to poke her feet with mine under the table and see her red sauce smile, but there was no one in the seat beside me. I took a shower while my mom cleaned up from dinner before redressing in my t-shirt and shorts and joining her on the couch. She was watching the evening news, and pictures of my school flashed across the screen, but I didn't feel the need to get up and leave the room, as I had the previous night. I sat and watched, my wet hair on my shoulder, as students that I vaguely recognized were remembered by candlelight vigils at various Littleton landmarks. The killers' pictures were shown repeatedly. I hardly knew them, but I recognized them from classes in previous years. I looked away when their pictures were shown. Mom and I didn't discuss the images on the TV, we just watched.

Around 9:30, my mom left to go to bed with a stiff goodnight hug. Watching the news coverage by myself felt like watching a horror movie alone, so I turned the TV off and sat in the living room for a few minutes with nothing but the streetlamps infiltrating the darkness of the empty room. After the noises from the second floor stopped, I went upstairs into my own room. It was also bathed in the glow of the streetlamps outside. I decided not to turn on any lights. In my bathroom I brushed my teeth before returning to my bedroom and falling into bed on top of the covers.

I watched the hours change on my digital clock, unable to fall asleep. It neared midnight. I tossed and turned, trying to conjure up some exhaustion that would allow me to rest. My bed seemed too hot everywhere, and I couldn't get comfortable. I kept thinking about the faces on the TV, and Brittany. She hadn't called.

As my eyes were closing, a sharp tap on my bedroom window startled me. Figuring it had to be the tree in front of the house, I ignored it. But then there was another tap. And then two more, each sounding only a split second apart.

What the hell?

Nervous, I crawled to the foot of my bed, where I could reach the window. I pulled open the blinds, squinting into the darkness to see past my reflection. At first, I saw nothing. Suddenly, a pebble hit the window right in front of my forehead, making me go cross-eyed. Completely freaked out, I slid to the side and lowered myself down to my stomach, hoping to hide myself from view. Another pebble hit the window.

Who the fuck is throwing pebbles at my window?

Fed up, and confident that the pebble-thrower wouldn't hurt me, I grabbed the sill and threw open the window. It squeaked against its frame and slid open a few inches. Cool night air rushed in and goosebumps rose along my bare arms and legs. I glanced nervously at my door, hoping I hadn't woken my mother. Grunting, I put my weight on the glass and pushed up. The window slid up again, letting in even more night air. I leaned outside, looking around and down at the ground. The ground was invisible in the darkness below me.

"Who's there?" I hissed, straining to see any movement in the yard. There was none.

"Santana!" A voice whisper-yelled. It was hesitant. "Santana, down here!"

The voice was female, but otherwise unidentifiable. A glimmer of hope manifested itself in my chest. I looked down into the darkness, but there was no face to put to the name.

"Can you let me in?" the voice whispered, a little louder. It cracked in the middle. It was almost directly below me.

"Can you tell me who 'me' is?" I asked, a smile tugging at my lips.

There was a pregnant pause, during which a sliver of doubt was born into my brain, but then she responded. "It's Brittany!"

"Brittany who?" I asked, leaning on my elbows on the window and stealing a glance at my bedroom door.

I was well aware that smiles didn't make any noise, but I could've sworn I heard hers. She stepped back from the shadows against the house, and I could finally see her. Her shadow stretched in front of her as she backed into the light of the streetlamp. Her hair shined.

"Brittany Susan Pierce, of Littleton, Colorado," she said, and I could see her grin this time. Her face was still obscured in shadow, but I could make out her white teeth and the whites of her eyes.

"That should suffice, Ms. Pierce," I whispered down. Brittany giggled in reply. I leaned out of my window, watching her with a dopey smile on my face, until she started rubbing her arms.

"Do you think you could let me in? It's kind of cold out here," she said, jumping up and down in the grass to stay warm. Her bare legs were visible under a pair of pajama shorts.

I felt my face burning. "Hold on," I whispered down to her. "Go wait on the front porch."

The floorboards didn't creak when I crossed my bedroom floor. I opened my door, wincing in anticipation of a squeak that never came. I breathed a sigh of relief. A glance down the hallway told me that my mother was still in bed; her door was closed, as usual. I tiptoed quickly down the stairs, nervously adjusting my t-shirt and fixing my hair. I resisted the urge not to laugh in excitement. Brittany was here, visiting me at midnight, throwing pebbles at my window. My smile nearly split my face.

When I got to the front door, I waited for a few seconds to collect myself. I shook off my schoolgirl grin, which I hadn't thought twice about, and checked my breath on my hand. It still smelled like toothpaste. To make sure I wasn't letting a complete stranger into my house, I peeked through the window next to the door to find Brittany, in the flesh, with her back to me. She was watching my bedroom window. I knew it was Brittany by her blonde hair and her long limbs. Sure enough, when she turned to face the front door, I could make out the curve of her nose and her lips in the shadows. My hand found the lock and I turned it before grasping the bronze handle and pulling the door open.

She was only backlit by the streetlight, so I couldn't see all of her features, but I could see a glint where her eyes and her smile were. Before I could speak, she was practically on top of me, wrapping me in a bear hug. Startled, it took me a few seconds to hug her back. Her silky hair was cold from being outside, but her cheek was warm where it pressed against my neck.

"Britt," I laughed softly, "what are you doing here?"

"I came to see you," she whispered, stepping back.

"Why?" I asked curiously, fiddling with the hem of my t-shirt, nervous about making eye contact, even in the dark.

"I thought you might like some company, since I canceled dinner," she explained. "Sorry about that, by the way."

I shook my head. "Don't be sorry," I whispered. She shrugged. "But uh," I paused, collecting my thoughts, "how did you get here?"

"We really don't live that far apart, Santana," she told me. "When you drove me home last night I memorized the roads so I could walk here if I felt like it."

She said it so casually. It wasn't a big deal that she'd committed the route to memory, it was just something she'd wanted to do. I beamed, and my heart nearly exploded. Brittany was already proving herself to be a fantastic friend.

"You didn't have to do that," I told her, smiling at the floor so she couldn't see me blush. She shrugged.

"Does that matter? I'm just glad you're awake," she admitted. "Wait, you were awake, right?"

Briefly, guilt flashed across her dark face. "Yes, I was. I couldn't sleep."

"Me neither," she breathed. "I thought, uh," she paused and scratched the back of her neck. I raised my eyebrow. "I thought maybe you'd let me sleep here? I mean you don't have to, if that's weird, but a lot of people say that being with someone else helps with nightmares, and I knew you were having nightmares," she trailed off. I waited patiently for her to finish rambling, curious about what she had to say. My smirk obviously wasn't visible in the dark, because she kept talking. "I mean like, I could sleep on your floor, or we could just talk all night, if you want. Or I could walk home."

"Sh," I whispered, taking a step forward to place a single finger on her lips. They were deliciously warm, and I was being deliriously impulsive. She glanced down at my hand and smiled. I pulled away. "I would love it if you stayed here. Sleeping or talking would be great. But my mom is upstairs, so we have to be really quiet."

"Awesome," she breathed, grinning. "Can we go up to your room?"

"Sure," I shrugged. "Tiptoe." I walked towards the stairs, testing my weight on the first step before proceeding with the utmost care up the staircase.

"I'm so good at tiptoeing," she whispered back, gripping the banister.

I shook my head fondly and repressed the urge to laugh. She was such a dork. I felt like I could relax around her, and I rarely felt like that. I would even venture to say I never felt like that around anyone. She already seemed to know me better than anyone.

We were soon in my bedroom, giggling quietly. Brittany fell onto her back onto my bed, which was disheveled from my tossing and turning. She spread her arms like she was making a snow angel and kicked off her flip-flops. She rolled over so she was face down on my comforter.

"Your bed is warm," she mumbled, running her hands over the bedding.

In a moment of extreme self-assurance, I asked, "Do you want to sleep there? It's big enough for the two of us."

She sat up, looking me in the eyes. The lighting in my bedroom was better because of the open window; the light from the street filtered in, illuminating her face. "Really?"

I smiled, relieved that she didn't seem to find my invitation weird. "Yeah, if you want."

She smiled back. "I'd love to."

"Cool," I murmured. I walked towards my bed. My heart pounded; mostly at the idea that I was probably disobeying my mother's rules. It wasn't like she'd ever banned me from sneaking people into the house; she'd never had to. But it was one of those rules that went unspoken, and I knew having Brittany tiptoeing up the stairs into my bedroom would probably merit some sort of punishment. That is, if she ever found out.

I disregarded the inevitable consequences and let myself feel excited for spending the night with my friend. I would deal with my mom in the morning. Brittany had moved over to the wall side of the bed and was propped up on two of my pillows. I laid on my bed a little less than a foot apart from her, not wanting to cross any boundaries. Brittany rolled onto her side to face me, so I did the same, bringing us slightly closer together. I felt drawn to her, like a magnet. It was almost as if I would fall straight into her if I weren't trying to put distance between us. She smiled at me, and I smiled back, reveling in the warmth that wrapped around my heart.

Brittany tugged the comforter, pulling it all the way up to her chin. She looked like a floating head on my headboard. "You warm yet?" I asked her, burrowing into my own pillow to stay warm. The cool night air coming through the window had left a slight chill in the air.

"A little," she murmured, but she shivered as she said it. "Why are you so far away?" She pouted, sticking out her lower lip.

Moments later I learned that Brittany S. Pierce was the biggest cuddler known to man. I felt awkward as I moved closer, but the effect of our closeness was immediate, and it was welcome; warmth from both of our bodies mixed between us, and I already felt the goosebumps on my arms and legs dissipate. She took the intimacy a step further and wrapped her long arms around my torso. They were strong arms, and I let out a content sigh as I sank into her. My right arm remained pinned against my own body, but my left hand found her side and my fingers rested on her ribcage. My fingers rose and dipped with her slow breathing.

She smelled of lavender, just as she always did. Tonight she wore a simple white t-shirt over shorts not unlike mine. I couldn't imagine walking the mile or two from Brittany's house to mine in a thin cotton t-shirt and shorts. The pajamas were still cold on her body. We remained at eye level, and the height difference between us left a good three or four inches between my bare feet and hers. I flexed my toes into her calf, and she giggled, wrinkling her nose.

"That tickles," she said, poking me lightly in the stomach. I smiled while she pulled me closer to her until our stomachs touched. Hers was flat against mine. My heartbeat stuttered to a gallop as she sighed deeply and nestled into my neck, her chin on my chest. Her hair brushed my jaw. Frozen, I hesitated to breathe with her so close to me. I was hesitant to even move, worried that one wrong movement would create distance between us. Her hair cascaded down her back, reflecting the muted yellow lighting. It was beautiful.

I felt incredibly tempted to slide my left hand from her ribs to her hair. I wanted to run my fingers through it, feel how soft it was. Every sigh that she breathed into my neck sent tingles up and down my body, and I dove into sensory overload. My breathing didn't match hers; it ran with my heartbeat.

"What are you thinking about?" she whispered into my neck, yanking me out of my daze. It was a struggle to overcome the feeling of her speaking onto my skin and to actually think about what she was saying.

Your hair.

"The police station," I fibbed.

"What about it?" She inquired, removing her head from the crook of my neck to make eye contact. I missed the physical contact, but when our eyes met, I forgot about it.

"Uh," I faltered, and lost my train of thought. I was totally lost in her.

"I don't believe that you aren't tired, you're so distracted," she laughed, nudging my shoulder with her own.

"I'm really not tired," I insisted. "I promise!"

She chuckled. "Whatever you say."

"Well to answer your question, smartass, I was thinking about my therapy session. Did you go to one?" She nodded her head, making her hair slide up and down the back of her cotton t-shirt. The light moved with it, and it was positively mesmerizing.

"What'd you think of it?"

"I thought it was pretty helpful," I whispered, still aware that my mom was sleeping just across the hallway. I also hadn't forgotten that Brittany's arms were still around me. "I talked to her about my nightmares."

"What was her name?" Brittany asked, adjusting herself under the covers, which caused our hips to touch. My pulse skyrocketed.

"Ms. Pillsbury," I managed. "She had these like…"

"Bambi eyes?" Brittany offered with a smile.

"Yes!" I laughed. "That's exactly it." Brittany's chest moved against mine as she laughed, and my breath caught in my dry throat. I'd never been so intimate with someone before. This time when she laughed, she scrunched up her nose. She always seemed so happy to make me laugh.

"I had her too," Brittany said through her smile. "She was cool."

I made my tone more serious. "She gave me some tips on getting rid of the nightmares. They seem pretty legitimate."

"What'd she tell you?"

"Exercise, eat well. Stuff I didn't really think of before, you know?" Her hands were low on my back, right around my waistband. Tingles erupted down my back, and I subconsciously pressed myself closer to her. I found my eyes sliding from her eyes to her lips, and back again. She was stunning, like a Greek goddess, and flawless. I was envious of it. I craved closeness with her, as if some of her beauty would rub off on me.

"Totally," Brittany said seriously, oblivious to my observing. "Do you ever go running?"

I laughed. "Not at all. I don't exercise much, but I probably should."

"Would you want to come running with me in the mornings? It can be my repayment for driving lessons. I can teach you how to run. It's fun," she insisted, and her face lit up at her foolproof idea. "Then I could help with your nightmares." She smiled widely.

"I don't know, Britt. I'm not much of an athlete, and you're a cheerleader," I trailed off. "I'd be holding you back."

Brittany's face fell, and I instantly felt guilty. I tightened my grip on her side, preventing her from drawing away. "Please? I'll make it fun."

I rolled my eyes playfully, all of my trademark stubbornness out the window. "Fine."

Brittany tapped my lower back with her fingers in excitement. "Score."

I smiled at her through the darkness. We stayed up until two a.m., discussing exercise, Brittany's grandparents, driving lessons, and summer. We talked about college plans and nerves about seeing our classmates again and what being back at school would be like. The tingles reappeared every time Brittany's hands moved on my back or her front moved against mine. A warm feeling settled in my lower stomach and radiated to my chest and my legs. My head buzzed all night, intoxicated with lavender detergent and Brittany's shampoo.

I can't remember which one of us fell asleep first, but as I was drifting off, in that state of barely there in-between, I mumbled, "I feel like I know you so well."

She held me tighter and murmured her agreement in my ear as I sank into a deep sleep.

---

A/N: For the record, I have no idea if Louis' Diner was built before 1999, but it does exist. Also, I believe the witness testimonies were given on April 20th, not the 22nd, and it has come to my attention that students were not allowed to leave Columbine with their parents after the shooting. They were bussed to one of the elementary schools in the area for many hours before parents were permitted to pick up their children. I apologize for the discrepancies in my telling of these events. However, the format in which Santana's testimony appears is accurate; I went through the FBI Columbine database, which is published online, to view the witness reports. The Columbine file doesn't have a table of contents though, so it took me quite some time to find the witness reports. From here on, there will be fewer historical elements to the story and much more of Brittany and Santana, which will enable me to write the chapters faster, and they'll probably be more interesting. Thanks for sticking with me.