Friday, April 23rd, 1999
To say I was confused when I woke up would be an understatement. I wasn't sprawled across my bed, as I usually was in the mornings. Most nights I slept on my stomach, facing the window, with my arms spread-eagle on either side of me. I took up the entire bed. This morning I was on my side, facing my dresser, and three hands rested on the rumpled sheets in front of my chest. Alarmed, I blinked rapidly, staring at the hands.
Two of them were definitely mine, and the third had long, white fingers. It was attached to a pale arm, which wound delicately over my waist. The hem of my t-shirt had ridden up to about my ribs, leaving a few inches of exposed skin, which buzzed warmly where the arm lay across it. A thumb rested on the back of one of my hands, and I could feel the definite shape of someone's front pressed against the length of my back. A toned calf was wedged between my slightly bent legs.
Brittany was still in my bed.
I don't know why I had assumed that she would've gone home in the middle of the night, but she hadn't. Now I was presented with the almost impossible task of hiding Brittany from my mother, who would certainly be getting up for work soon, based on the weak morning light filtering in through the still-open window. The comforter that had been over us the night before was no longer at our necks. I had probably kicked it off, which I did frequently; it was now crumpled in a gray-black heap over our intertwined legs. My motion must have disturbed Brittany, who sighed into my t-shirt, mumbling incoherently. Soft blonde hairs ticked the back of my neck and I couldn't help but smile.
Also confusing, but welcome, was the absence of a vivid nightmare. I had woken up of my own accord, and not screaming or crying or shaking. I didn't have very long to think about it, but I knew it was because of Brittany. Her theory the night before had been correct. I was grateful.
I heard the shower in my mother's bathroom come on, and the various sounds of her getting ready for work. I groaned inwardly. I didn't want to move from my intimate position with Brittany, and doing so could make her realize how close she had slept to me; it would shatter the blissful satisfaction I had laying in bed pressed against her. Knowing I had to be rational, I gently gripped Brittany's wrist and lifted her arm from around me, immediately missing the closeness. I rolled to the side, untangling our legs, and let her arm rest on the mattress in front of her. Brittany's pale eyebrows knitted together and she frowned, curling into herself.
Feeling guilty, I knelt on the bed next to her and nudged her shoulder. She stirred, but didn't wake up. A few seconds passed.
"Britt," I whispered. She didn't move. I pushed on her shoulder a little harder. "Brittany!" I said louder. She opened a blue eye.
"Hmph," she grunted, rubbing her cheek with a closed fist. "What time is it?" Her voice was thick from sleep. She looked around the room and yawned.
"It's almost six," I told her. She sat up, disturbing the sheets around her legs.
"Crap," she muttered. "I didn't mean to sleep for so long." She looked to the door. "Does your mom know I'm here?" She ran her fingers through her hair, pulling at the blonde locks.
"I don't think so." I watched her hands move through her hair, mesmerized. My eyelids still felt heavy, tired from the little sleep I got.
"Good. I should get going before my mom realizes I'm gone," she sighed, falling back onto her pillow. She stretched her long arms out behind her head. "I don't want to go home now."
I shifted uncomfortably. I didn't want her to leave either, but something prevented me from saying so. "When are your grandparents leaving?" I asked, changing the subject. "We need to get started on those driving lessons."
She smiled, turning her head on the pillow to look at me. Her hair splayed out in a blonde fan behind her, strands of white and dark blonde running through it. I took a deep breath. She had really nice hair. "I'm not sure. Maybe next week sometime?"
I nodded, distracted by her hair. "Sounds good." The shower stopped running, alerting me of my mom's presence just down the hallway. It was unspoken that we didn't want my mom to see that Brittany had spent the night; the information could travel back to Mrs. Pierce, who would likely be angry with Brittany for sneaking out to sleep in my bed. Brittany didn't know, but I had a hunch my mom would have a lot of questions for me if she found anyone sleeping in my bed but me.
"I should go," she reminded me, sitting up again so that our knees touched. "Before your mom leaves for work."
I agreed tiredly, getting out of bed to walk her to the front door. Knowing we had very little time before my mom came downstairs, I ushered Brittany out of bed. She put on her flip-flops and rubbed her eyes. As I reached for the doorknob, the sound of my mom's door opening reached our ears. Brittany's eyes widened, and the alarm was evident on her face.
On school days, my mom always came into my room to see if I was awake. I had a tendency to oversleep. Because I didn't need to wake up with her, not having to go to school, I had no reason to be up at sunrise. Even so, I had no idea if she would knock on my door or even open it to assure herself I was still alive. Frantic, I pushed Brittany towards the open closet doors. She looked at me with wide eyes as she stumbled into the small space, knocking down hangers. I winced at the clattering. Outside, my mother's footsteps grew closer. I crossed the room quickly and shut the closet door, trapping Brittany in the dark. I leapt into my bed and pulled the covers over me. They smelled like lavender. I burrowed into my pillow, closing my eyes.
Half a second later, the door creaked open. "Santana," my mother whispered, her face hidden in shadow. "Are you awake?"
I stayed quiet, trying to slow my breathing and my racing heart. There was silence, and I was confident she had left, but the footsteps crossed my room instead of leaving. I clenched my fists under the covers, willing her to walk out. The footsteps stopped in front of my bed, and then I could hear her grunt as she closed my window.
"Too cold in here," she muttered, before walking over to the side of my bed. I felt her fingers brush my hair to the side before the footsteps retreated out of the room and she disappeared. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Safe.
I turned my head to be sure that my mom had left. She had even closed my door behind her. The knob on the door turned, and Brittany's face peeked out at me from the narrow strip of darkness. She looked at me expectantly. Not moving from my position on the bed, I shushed her with a finger to my lips. She got the message and the door closed.
When I was sure that my mom had pulled out of the driveway and was well on her way to work, I tossed the covers off of me and pulled open the closet door. Brittany nearly fell into me on her way out, fanning herself.
"Your closet is hot," she complained.
"I'll get that fixed," I joked. She smiled.
"What time is it?" She asked for the second time that morning, clearly concerned about getting home in time.
I glanced at my digital clock, which was at Brittany's back. "Almost 6:30."
"I really need to go," she said apologetically. "Thanks, uh, for having me over."
"Do you want food or anything before you go? I can make you something." I cringed. I sounded like my mom.
"No, that's alright. My whole family will be awake in half an hour, so I need to get home fast," she explained.
"Alright," I told her. "I'll walk you out."
She nodded and followed me as we trotted down the stairs. I opened the front door for her, gesturing for her to leave. "When will I see you again?" She asked me.
"Call me whenever you want to," I said, shrugging. "I'll be around."
She smiled. "I will. Thanks again, Santana," she said, startling me with a hug. She was still warm from sleep or from the closet, I didn't know which, but she felt good. I relaxed into her. I pulled back to let her go, and I watched her retreating form as she made her way down our front walk and onto the street, where she began jogging. She looked ridiculous jogging in flip-flops, with her blonde hair blowing behind her.
"See you later," she called over her shoulder.
"How soon is later?" I whispered once I was sure she was out of earshot.
6:45 p.m.
"Santana, I brought Chinese!"
The sunlight outside of my window was dying as I heard the side door open downstairs. My mom yelled up to me from the kitchen, announcing that dinner was home. I heard the sound of plastic bags, and my stomach grumbled. I had hardly eaten all day. After Brittany left, I watched TV for two hours, too revved up to sleep. I ended up falling asleep on the couch for another two hours, and at 11 I went upstairs to read a book, but failed at focusing on anything but Brittany. I spent the entire day thinking about her, in my bed, sleeping against me, with her arm around my waist. It was strange, I told myself, to be thinking about her so much. But there was magnetism about Brittany that made it impossible not to think about her.
I wondered what she was doing for the entire day: what she was eating, who she was with, where she was in her house, and, most importantly, if she was thinking about me too. As someone that draws comfort from structure and planning, it was agony for me to not know when I'd see her next. Brittany was clearly a person that moved minute to minute. I could tell by the way she never seemed to hesitate; she was confident and bold. I acted on thought. Very, very careful thought.
But to avoid her judgment, at least for the time being, I waited for her to make the next move.
Dinner was fast. I ate lo mein out of a plastic container, making tenuous eye contact with my mom over the white rice and the sesame chicken. She ate beef and broccoli with chopsticks. Being left-handed, nobody had ever been able to teach me how to use them, so I ate my Chinese with a fork like a heathen. Eating Chinese food outside of the house was something I generally avoided. I asked her about work, and we engaged in small talk about the different kids from my school that were receiving treatment at her hospital. None of them were in ICU, which I was glad to hear, but most of the people with more serious injuries had been transported elsewhere.
I was mid-bite when my mom said, "We got a letter from the school today," and nodded towards the counter.
I put down my fork and looked to the counter, where the mail sat. I nodded slowly. "Okay." I restrained myself from standing up to open the letter.
My mom smiled a tiny smile. "You can go get it if you want, we should probably read it together."
I stood and retrieved the standard white envelope. It was stamped with Columbine's logo, a blue letter C, with a rebel printed inside of the C. I pushed aside my forgotten carton of food and opened the letter slowly. The contents were minimal, only two white sheets of paper. I put them on the table in front of me. My mom leaned forward eagerly.
I scanned it quickly, looking for words of interest. About halfway down the page, my mom interrupted. "Read it out loud," she urged. "I want to hear."
I breathed deeply, beginning. "To the parents and students of Columbine High School…"
As I read through the letter, I remained relatively emotionless, as did my mom. It outlined the tragedy without giving the gory details. After explaining a lot of what we already knew from the media, the letter contained some new information. Columbine High School students would be going to Chatfield Senior High for the last three weeks of school. Chatfield was the closest high school to Columbine, and our athletic rivals, but I doubted anyone cared about that anymore. School would be back in session May 3, and we would go until the 21st. Because of limited space, our classes would be shortened and we would only go in the afternoon, while Chatfield students would attend school in the mornings. I was okay with that, because it meant I could sleep late, and spend some time with Brittany in the mornings. If she wanted to.
Finals were to be given at the jurisdiction of our teachers. I ran through my schedule and thought about which teachers would probably give finals, and I concluded that I wouldn't have more than one or two finals to study for, which was a relief. I shook the selfish thought from my mind; it was disgusting for me to be thinking about finals and my grades when there were funerals being held for my classmates. But then again, it was disgusting for any of the teachers to give finals after such an earth-shattering tragedy.
There would be a school-held memorial for students and their parents on May 2nd, the Sunday before we went back to school. Nine days away. Nine days until I went back to school, and probably nine days until Brittany got bored of me. Nine days until she was just a cheerleader, and I was just Santana Lopez.
I sighed.
Attached to the letter was a list of each of the students that were killed and the dates of their funerals, if they were to be public funerals. Almost all of them were. Reading the list I felt unbalanced, overcome with vertigo, almost, and I placed my hands on the table to steady myself.
"Santana, are you alright? You're white as a ghost," came my mother's voice, but she was miles away.
I shook my head, and my balance came back. "I'm fine."
She eyed me skeptically. I pushed away the letter.
"Are you going to go to any of the funerals?"
"I didn't know them. I'll just go to the memorial," I told her.
"Fair enough," she shrugged, standing up to clear the table. I breathed a sigh of relief. I didn't want to go to any of the funerals. I would feel out of place and as though I wasn't doing or saying the right things. It was better if I didn't go.
I wondered if Brittany was going to any. Recalling the names, there were one or two boys that I thought might have been in the same friend group as Brittany. She hadn't mentioned anything, though. Maybe the next time I saw her she would tell me.
I missed her like hell.
10:30 p.m.
I went up to bed after a depressing evening of watching the news with my mom. We sat mostly in silence, watching the same footage over and over again, with the occasional murmured comment from each of us. I went to bed before she did after seeing Patrick Ireland fall out of the library window for the third time. It made my stomach lurch.
As I brushed my teeth, I remembered that my mom was going into work the next day. Another day of excruciating boredom at home, and probably no Brittany. Was it selfish of me to want her to ditch her grandparents?
By 11:55 I still couldn't sleep. I couldn't stop thinking about her.
Tonight it was her lips; they wouldn't leave my thoughts. I tossed and turned under the covers, thinking about the way she licked them before she talked sometimes, and the way she pursed them when she was thinking. I thought about how they were always pink and soft-looking and completely–
A loud tap against the window distracted me from my thoughts. I looked at the clock.
11:59.
My smile nearly split my face. She was prompt.
More excited than a kid on Christmas, I leapt out of bed, landing on the floor with a catlike grace I was not aware I possessed, and tiptoed down the stairs, grinning like a maniac. I opened the front door and leaned outside. She was visible in the shadows of the house, picking a rock from the shrubbery. I watched fondly as she tossed it with incredible grace and accuracy up towards my window, where it connected with the glass with a solid crack.
"Brittany!" I whisper-yelled.
She turned with a start, and I saw her eyes shining in the dark. Her smile shined just as brightly, blindingly white against the dark night. The spring night was giving me chills; I folded my arms over my chest to warm myself. My heart raced. Breaking the rules was fun.
After bounding over bushes and stumbling onto the porch, Brittany tripped into me and wrapped her arms around my waist. She hugged me quickly, energy radiating from her in waves. She was cold, just like the night before. She pushed me into the house, shutting the door behind her. Giddy with excitement and high on Brittany's energy, I held the material of her t-shirt in my fists and smiled at her. She smiled back.
"Hi," she whispered.
"You didn't call," I whispered back, my tone reprimanding.
"I think you knew I would come back," she said seriously, but I could see her smirk, even in the dark. "In my book, later means the same day."
"I like your book," I replied with a grin, tugging her towards the stairs. "Shall we?"
She gestured dramatically at the staircase. "Lead the way."
We took the stairs in heavy silence, and it took us twice as long as it normally would've to get to my room. I closed the door as quietly as possible, turning the knob so the door didn't click. When I turned around, she was already in my bed, on her side.
Her side. Just the idea of it made my heart feel like a hot air balloon.
Her flip-flops were on the floor and only her face peeked out at me from over the dark bedding. I couldn't smile wide enough. Walking back to the bed, I started to get nervous. I slid into bed, keeping about a foot between us, unsure if the lack of boundaries would exist 24 hours later. She seemed to know what I was thinking, because moments later, she took the initiative, and we were in the exact same position we had been in the night before. Her arms were around me, and our legs were tangled together. Her skin was so smooth.
I couldn't speak for a few seconds, so I just watched her, blinking like an owl. She seemed wide-awake.
"I'm glad you came," I told her, sighing contentedly into her t-shirt, which had warmed significantly where it clung to her stomach and her chest. She adjusted herself so more of our legs touched. I didn't complain; it was warm. And I was feeling tingly again.
"So am I," and then, after a comfortable pause, "Emily was asking about you today."
"Really?" I asked, incredulous, yet flattered. Brittany nodded, smiling, holding me tight.
"She wanted to know when you'd come over next. I think she likes you." Her eyes glimmered in the dark.
"Hopefully soon?" I suggested, toying with the hem of Brittany's shirt.
"You're always welcome, you know," she said honestly. "Emily would love it if you took her out for ice cream."
I thought of little Emily, with her mini-Brittany smile and her lemon-colored hair. She really was a cute kid. I laughed out loud at the proposal.
"Are you just saying that to get me to buy you ice cream?"
Brittany blushed madly. "Maybe."
I shook my head fondly. The mention of Emily brought a new sort of happy to Brittany's face, and it was beautiful to watch. It was hard to believe, looking at Brittany, that she'd lost her brother and been a recent survivor of a high school shooting. She was one of those people that really, really loved their family. I couldn't identify with it, but I wasn't jealous; I just wanted to be a part of it.
"I'll buy you and your sister ice cream," I conceded, rolling my eyes. Luckily, Brittany probably couldn't tell I was blushing. "What's your favorite flavor?"
"Rainbow sherbet."
I paused for a few seconds. "Why?"
She shrugged against me, and my shoulders moved with hers. "Because it's a lot of colors and a lot of flavors, all together. That way I don't have to pick one and make the other flavors feel bad." I had begun to feel the effects of exhaustion. I could barely keep my eyes open, and I could feel myself slipping into the heavy darkness.
I waited for a hint that she was joking, but she didn't seem to be. "I like rainbow sherbet too," I told her, resting my head on the pillow. She sighed into me. Miraculously, she didn't seem to be losing energy. My eyelids drooped.
I was almost half-asleep, so I pulled the comforter tighter around us. We spent a few minutes exchanging favorites; colors, movies, music. Our taste in music was similar, but Brittany seemed to like all music. She refused to pick a favorite color. Her favorite movie, of course, was Toy Story, which made me smile, even though I was already sliding into sleep.
Just as I was losing all consciousness, she asked me a question. "Will you go to the memorial with me?"
Foggy from exhaustion, I didn't quite know what she was talking about. "Sure, Britt," I agreed. "Sure."
I'd go anywhere with you.
And then I was out.
Sunday, April 25th, 1999, 1:39 a.m.
"Brittany?" I whispered, checking to see if she had fallen asleep. We'd been talking for almost two hours, about nothing and everything, all at once. I'd been watching her for almost five minutes; her breathing was even, and her eyes were closed. Her arms were relaxed around my waist. She was beautiful.
"Mm?" She mumbled, opening her eyes to blink.
"Are you awake?"
"I am now," she sighed, but not one of contempt. She pulled me closer to her. She was so warm.
"I have to ask you something," I told her. I'd been thinking about it for a while, especially since the previous night. My hands trembled nervously.
She gazed at me curiously. "Ask away."
I took a breath to steady myself. I didn't know if she'd be offended, but I felt comfortable asking her.
"What was Michael like?"
She didn't seem surprised by the question, but she didn't really have much of a reaction at all. She rolled to her back, detaching herself from me, and my heart sank, fearful that I had offended her or pushed her away. But an instant later, she had pulled me back so that my arm was across her stomach and my head was on her shoulder. It was comfortable.
Her blue eyes were thoughtful. "He had dad's eyes, but mom's hair. He only had hair when he was really young though," she said with a sad smile. I listened to her pulse in her neck. It was slow. "And he loved the Rockies," she continued. "He was always wearing his Rockies hat. It's in my room now. He loved that team so much, but they were just awful," she said, laughing a little.
I couldn't remember seeing a Rockies hat in Brittany's room, but I knew it was probably there somewhere. "He was a pretty active kid." Her eyes had a faraway, glassy look to them. "I used to have catches with him all the time in the backyard. Later, when he had only a few months left, he was too tired to play with me. I got mad at him a lot for that, because I didn't really understand," she admitted.
My heart broke at the fact that she would be so honest with me.
"Sometimes I regret fighting with him, but that's what siblings do," she said matter-of-factly. "And there were good times that outweighed the bad, you know?"
"Do you think about him a lot?" I whispered, barely managing to make any noise.
"Every day," she said, moving her hand in circles on my back. It was a comforting gesture, and it made me sleepy. It was quiet for a while.
"I'm just glad I have memories of him," she said.
"What's your favorite memory?"
"Oh man, there's a bunch," she said, smiling. I knew she was probably going through hundreds.
I waited a few seconds, letting her think.
"Oh! I have one." I smiled. "Mike hated pants. Just could not stand them. So he never wore pants." Brittany shrugged, and I laughed; it seemed like a Pierce thing to do. "And my parents said, 'you can go without pants in the house, but if you leave the house, you have to wear pants.'" She shook her head fondly. "So this one time, when he was about six and I was eight, the ice cream truck drove through our neighborhood, and he wanted ice cream. And he wasn't wearing pants."
I smiled, knowing the direction the memory was taking. There was no evidence of sadness on Brittany's face, only nostalgia. The memory was obviously a good one.
"So we weren't really paying attention to him, and he just left the house and ran down the street after the ice cream truck, with no pants on. We noticed he was gone, and my parents ran outside and were yelling down the street for him to stop, but he just kept running. He didn't have any hair by that point, and watching him run down the street with no pants on with his bald little head just cracked me up when I was eight," Brittany remembered, laughing. I looked up at her from my position on her shoulder, admiring how collected she was. She seemed to have complete control over her emotions. "And the ice cream truck stopped about a block away, so Mike stopped, and he was at the little window on the truck with no pants on. My parents and I ran after him, and by the time we got there he was just standing there licking an ice cream cone. The truck was driving away by that point."
"How did he pay for the ice cream?" I asked, incredulous.
"That's the best part!" Brittany exclaimed. "My parents were like, 'how did you pay for that?' and he just said that the ice cream man gave it to him for free. He was so proud of himself." Her eyes sparkled.
"That's hysterical," I told her. "What a nice ice cream man."
Brittany laughed. "Tell me about it."
We sat in comfortable silence, with Brittany's hand finding the base of my spine and rubbing small circles there with her thumb. It was a soothing gesture, and I found myself growing sleepy.
"Thank you for telling me about him," I told her, feeling tired.
"Anytime," she sighed, resting her chin on top of my head. "You should go to sleep."
"I should," I replied.
"Good night, Santana," she said, pulling me closer to her.
"Good night, Britt."
8:30 a.m.
I sat next to my mother in the wooden pew, listening to the priest say the homily. The church was full, and there were even people standing against the walls. It looked to me like every person in Littleton had decided to attend St. Mary's. Nearly everyone was wearing black, including me, but only by coincidence.
"As you all know," the priest began, "there was a terrible tragedy this past week. I will not relay the details to you for the benefit of our younger listeners."
Sure enough, there were a few children in the audience, sitting with their mothers and fathers. The priest ran a thick hand through his receding hair.
"In this time of great need, we all need to become closer to God. It is an opportunity for us, as Catholics, to become closer with one another, and to our Lord, and give this community the strength it needs to recover from this terrible, terrible tragedy."
A woman in the row in front of us took out a tissue and dabbed at her eyes. The man sitting next to her, most likely her husband, patted her back.
"As John says in 3:16-18, 'This is how we know what love is: Jesus Christ laid down his life for us. And we ought to lay down our lives for our brothers. If anyone has material possessions and sees his brother in need but has no pity on him, how can the love of God be in him? Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth.'"
He looked around the room, pausing to let the verse sink in.
"By this, John means that we need to act; thinking is not enough. We must not only pray and hope, but we must help the families of those innocent children. We must give to our schools, who teach our children; we must give to our authorities, who protect our children, and we must love our neighbors, as they love us. It is what our God has asked us to do in this time of great need."
People had begun to cry openly. My mom and I remained stoic.
"People of God, I ask you, use this time of tragedy as a time to reform ourselves and our community. Give, and you shall receive."
He stepped back from the podium. The entire assembly rose to their feet, crying and clapping for the humbled priest. The applause was thunderous. I stood with the church, applauding, though I wasn't sure why. It seemed as though his teaching should be instinct, but many needed the encouragement of God to do good for their communities. I did not feel as though the homily was applause-worthy, however. I was having a hard time finding genuine meaning in it. After the last of the applause died out, we began the Nicene Creed, chanting as one, unified as a community, a community that I felt detached from.
Monday, April 26th, 1999, 6:45 a.m.
"Come on! You can run faster than that!" She yelled, running backwards about thirty feet in front of me.
I gasped as my feet pounded against the concrete of my street. "I'm so tired," I wheezed, stopping to double over. My teeth and my jaw ached from gasping for air, and the rising sun was beginning to warm the air. I was already sweating. "Can we please stop? I'm exhausted!"
"Santana, we've been running for five minutes!"
I pouted, crossing my arms over my heaving chest. She rolled her eyes, flipping her blonde ponytail over her shoulder. "Fine, I'll slow down. But you need to try a little harder," she said, jogging towards me. "At least five more minutes."
"Fine," I said, finally getting my breath back. I attempted to smile, but it felt more like a grimace.
"Come on, lazy," she said, beginning to run. I told you to go to sleep earlier last night."
"I wanted to wait for you," I replied, beginning to find a rhythm with my feet. We fell into step. She was barely trying; she wasn't even sweating. I, on the other hand, felt as though my leg muscles were being roasted and all of the air had been sucked out of my lungs.
"You should start leaving the door unlocked, or something," she told me. "Once we go back to school you can't wait up for me."
"Are…" I struggled to word my question properly. "Are you still going to come over? When school starts?"
School. An inevitable end to this glorious friendship, and, undoubtedly, a beginning to a series of constant reminders of the shooting. I would've sighed if I had enough air in my lungs.
She looked at me curiously, her eyes staring straight into my soul. "Why wouldn't I?"
"How will you get home? We're lucky my mom hasn't seen you yet, but if we oversleep, or you don't get home soon enough, and my mom finds us," I stopped to inhale a massive quantity of air to fill my empty, burning lungs.
"In through your nose, out through your mouth," Brittany instructed. "Your body will use the oxygen more efficiently."
"Right," I said, adjusting my breathing.
"But," she said, returning to my question, "I don't think it will be a problem. I can wake up early and sneak out."
"You'll be getting less than five hours of sleep, Britt. That's not good," I said, frowning. It wasn't that I wanted our sleepovers to end; there had been four nights so far, and no nightmares. Waking up next to her was a gift from God himself. It was wonderful.
Our feet slapped against the pavement, Brittany's footfalls more practiced and lighter than mine. I tried to copy her and managed to minimize the sound my feet made. My legs screamed.
"Five is enough," she told me. "We go to school in the afternoons, so I can go home and sleep for a little longer in the mornings. On the weekends when I get home I can sleep more. And maybe," she smiled, "just maybe, I can have you over for a real sleepover, where we don't have to sneak around."
"I'd like that."
"Me too."
Tuesday, April 27th, 1999, 5:45 a.m.
It was still dark outside when I walked Brittany to the door. Her eyes were sleepy as she gave me a goodbye hug, holding on a little longer than necessary. We were both losing sleep every single night we spent together, but it were worth it. She was quickly becoming my best friend. I was happy.
"I'll see you later?" She suggested, dragging her hands over my hips as she removed her arms from around me. I shuddered from the tingles that ran through my arms and down my spine.
"Yes. I'll pick you up at two? And then after driving we'll get Emily for ice cream?"
"Sounds good to me," she said, smiling at me through the dark. She gripped the knob of the front door, but she seemed hesitant to open it.
"Hold on," she murmured, stepping away from the door. She walked towards me, getting so close that I could see a small freckle under her left eye, even with only the moonlight coming through the windows. I held my breath, but I still smelled lavender.
She extended two fingers and reached for me, touching the soft skin underneath my chin and gently pulling my face up towards hers. My pulse raced.
"Your hair," she explained, reaching for a stray piece that had fallen in my eyes. She gripped it in two of the fingers on her other hand and tucked it behind my ear. "There you go." An unfamiliar look crossed her eyes. Before I could identify it, it was gone. Just a flicker. The lavender was overwhelming.
"Be safe," I told her as she turned back to the door and opened it. She stepped into the night, into the shadows, where all I could see was a dark figure.
"I always am," she replied, before jogging down the street, her flip-flops slapping against the pavement.
2:15 p.m.
"Seatbelt."
"Check."
"Mirrors."
She leaned out of the open window of her mom's Buick. "Check."
"Where's your brake?"
She tapped the leftmost pedal with her foot. "Right here."
"Accelerator?"
She moved her foot to the right. "Here."
"Good. Turn signal?"
She paused, searching around the steering column. "Um… here?" She asked, pointing to a switch.
"Yes. Gear selector?"
She tapped it with her palm. "Here."
"Sanity?"
"Check," she giggled.
"Do you swear on your life not to crash your mom's car?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Let's do this."
"Okay, put the car in drive, and push on the accelerator," I instructed, leaning over the center console to watch her feet on the pedals.
Brittany pushed her foot down, too hard, and the car lurched forward. "Gently! Gently!" I yelled, but she just laughed, slamming on the brake so we jolted to a stop. I groaned into my hands, predicting an onset of nausea in the near future. "Why did I agree to this?"
"Because you love me," she said, grinning at me before turning to survey the empty parking lot. She tossed her hair over her shoulder. It was still damp, probably from a recent shower, and her shampoo smelled delicious.
She hadn't seemed to think much about what she had said, but my heart had stopped. My mouth was opening and closing like a fish, struggling to respond. I was, for once, at a loss for words. I had no witty comeback.
"Santana? She was asking. She said it again. "Santana?"
I spun quickly to face her. Too quickly. She noticed.
"Are you okay?" Her eyebrows knit together in concern, and her grip tightened visibly on the steering wheel.
She had no idea what she'd said. And I had no explanation for my reaction. "Yeah, I'm fine. You're just making me nauseous," I told her, smiling weakly.
She looked at me skeptically. "What should I do now?"
"Oh, uh, do five laps of the parking lot. And then we can try parking."
She nodded and pressed on the accelerator carefully, concentrating on circling tiny parking lot.
4:05 p.m.
Later, I waited in front of the Pierce's house in the driver's side of their car, waiting for Emily and Brittany. The driving had gone fairly well; Brittany had gotten about two hours in, so she only had 48 more until she could take her driver's license test. It was a lot of hours, but I wasn't complaining. She really hadn't made me nauseous, and the driving lesson had turned out to be fun. I didn't mind teaching her, and she learned quickly.
I was still mulling over what she had said, about me loving her. On one hand, I thought that I did. Platonically, of course. But I was hesitant to actually come to the conclusion that I did love her, especially because it had only been a week. A week since the library. I felt safe with her, and happy. However, I knew a part of that was coming from the survival thing, and the dependence that came with that.
Why am I thinking about this so much? We're friends. That's all.
My thoughts were interrupted by Brittany and Emily exiting the Pierce house through the front door, hand in hand. They looked almost identical, even though Brittany was eleven years older. They had the same blue eyes, the same even-toothed white smile, and they both skipped a little when they walked. Brittany wore a plain blue t-shirt and jeans, and Emily had on jeans and a little pink jacket. Brittany's hair, which had been slightly wet when we went driving, had dried in long, blonde, beautiful waves. They looked adorable together. I smiled fondly at them.
Brittany opened the side door, grabbed Emily by her sides, and plunked her down in the booster seat in the back, even though the child was probably perfectly capable of getting in the car on her own. She shrieked with laughter as Brittany tickled her stomach and buckled her seatbelt for her before closing the door and getting in on the passenger's side.
"Hi, Santana!" Emily said happily.
"Hey, Emily," I said, smiling at her in the mirror.
"Ready?" Brittany asked me, her eyes bright.
"Yes!" Emily screamed from the backseat. Brittany grabbed the back of the passenger's seat and whipped around it, tickling Emily's stomach again with her long arms.
"Did I ask you?" She said, lowering her voice to a threatening rumble.
"Yes!" Emily cried, gasping for air and doubled over in laughter. I shook my head and smiled.
I put the car in drive and pulled out of Caley Place, headed to the Baskin Robbins ten minutes away. I turned the radio on, and Emily and Brittany sang to …Baby One More Time and No Scrubs on one of the Top 40 stations. Emily barely knew any of the words, so most of her interpretations were completely wrong, but completely adorable. Brittany danced in the passenger's seat, whipping her hair, snapping her fingers, and tapping her feet against the floor. She was in a car, but every movement was graceful and on perfectly-timed. It was astounding. I wondered what she looked like dancing outside of a moving vehicle.
I looked at Emily in the rearview mirror. She was watching Brittany dance with a huge smile on her face, trying to copy her sister's moves. I joined their singing and belted out the final chorus of No Scrubs, tossing my head back.
"A scrub is a guy that can't get no love from me, hanging out the passenger side of his best friend's ride, trying to holler at me!"
Brittany had opened the window and was bouncing on her arm on the side of the car, moving to the beat. When the song ended and the station went to commercial, she closed the window and turned to look at me. Her eyes were wide.
I looked at her briefly, but turned to look at the road. "Wow," she breathed. "You're a really good singer."
"Um, thanks," I said, blushing madly. I was glad to have the excuse to look at the road; I was beat red.
"No, seriously. Are you in choir or anything?"
I coughed, nearly choking. "I sing in church sometimes. But no, I don't really do school activities," I said lamely. Emily was quiet in the backseat.
"You should," she said. "Join the choir next year. You'd totally love it."
"Are you in choir?" I asked her, locking eyes before turning back to the road.
"Nope," she said bluntly.
"Then how do you–"
"Just join the choir, you're a good singer," she said finally. We were still a few minutes from Baskin Robbins, but I really wanted to get out of the car. I was uncomfortable under her awestruck gaze.
I shrugged. "I'll think about it."
When the guitars of the next song came on the radio, my heart sank. It was a song that I loved, one that I knew all of the words to, and one that I couldn't help but sing, but I didn't want Brittany's attention on me. Though I knew Brittany was watching me, I had to sing when the song reached the chorus.
"Oh, kiss me, beneath the milky twilight, lead me out on the moonlit floor, lift your open hand, strike up the band and make the fireflies dance, silver moon's sparkling, so kiss me." My voice did sound good. It was strong and powerful, and reflected years of practice, even though most of it came from singing in the shower, the car, and church.
I could feel Brittany's eyes on me. I chanced a glance at her, and her eyes flickered up to mine. Up from… my lips. My heartbeat skyrocketed, and suddenly I felt very, very warm. A rosy tint spread across her cheeks and she averted her eyes from mine, obviously embarrassed. The tips of her ears pinked as she turned back to look out of the passenger's side window.
"Wow," Emily complimented from the backseat.
Yeah, I thought. Wow.
In Baskin Robbins, it took Emily and I forever to pick an ice cream flavor. Brittany had already ordered her rainbow sherbet and was eating it by the time I ordered my cookie dough cone. Emily got the same. We sat in a table in the corner of the store where the April sun shone through, warming our backs. We talked about going back to school in a few days. Emily was excited to go back; she was bored at home.
However, at the mention of school, Brittany grew quiet. She pushed around her ice cream with her spoon, making all of the colors run together.
"Britt?" I prodded, poking her foot under the table with mine.
Her head snapped up. Her eyes were sad. "Yeah?"
"Do you not want to go back to school?"
She shrugged. "Not really. I don't like school very much."
Emily ate her ice cream quietly and watched us. Aware of the younger girl's presence, I decided not to ask Brittany any more questions about school. I made a mental note to ask her about it later.
6:00 p.m.
"Hey mom, it's me," I spoke into Brittany's cell phone. I was sitting on the couch in her basement, and she sat next to me with one leg bent so that her chin could rest on her knee. It looked like a very awkward position. I gave Brittany a look, and she smiled at me and shrugged, flipping through channels on the television. I rolled my eyes affectionately.
"Hola, Santanita," she replied. I could hear the sounds of the car radio in the background; she was on her way home from work.
I decided to skip the customary greetings. Neither of us cared enough to ask how the other was. "Can I stay for dinner at Brittany's tonight?"
She sighed, exasperated. Of course my plans inconvenienced her. "I guess that's alright. Is it okay with her parents? I don't want you over there uninvited, you know."
I rolled my eyes. Brittany, who was listening to the conversation, giggled, though I wasn't sure what she found so funny. "They're ordering pizza. They said it's fine if I stay."
"Santana!" Brittany suddenly exclaimed, dropping the remote to the floor with a thump. She adjusted to a sitting position. Startled, I covered the receiver.
"What, Britt?" I hissed.
"Ask her if you can sleep over!"
I froze. "What? Are you sure?"
"Yeah, totally. My parents don't care."
"Have you asked them?"
She paused. "No." I opened my mouth to argue, but she interrupted me. "But if they say no, you can just call your mom back and say you changed your mind. See? It's a flawless plan." She flipped her hair over her shoulder haughtily.
"Jesus, fine." Brittany laughed.
I uncovered the receiver. "Santana? Santana, are you there?"
"Yeah, mom. Brittany's parents invited me to sleep over, is that okay?"
She was quiet for a few seconds, and all I heard was indistinguishable mumblings from the radio. "Do they have a toothbrush for you? And pajamas?"
I looked over at Brittany. She nodded, beaming.
"Yes."
I was very much looking forward to borrowing more of Brittany's clothes.
She sighed. "Well, I guess that's fine. But I have work tomorrow, so you'll need to get a ride home."
"That's fine. Bye, mom, have a good night."
"Adiòs." She hung up.
Brittany rocked backwards in her sitting position and onto her feet, nearly knocking me off of the couch as I ended the phone call. She bent her legs and sprang up, jumping on the couch cushions. She got very little air from the leather cushions, but she still managed to almost touch the ceiling with her long arms. I pressed myself against the opposite end of the couch, not wanting to be crushed by a jumping Brittany.
"You're sleeping over!" She sang. "And eating pizza!"
"You're ridiculous," I told her.
"Jump with me," she said, extending her arms. "No one is watching."
I looked around the basement to confirm. She was right, of course. I grabbed her hands, enjoying the brief contact. She released me as I got my footing, jumping with her.
I don't know if it was the excitement of the evening to come, or Brittany's infectious energy, or my lack of sleep the previous night, but soon after standing up I was in complete hysterics. I was laughing harder than Brittany, who was mostly laughing at me. I could barely breathe. My cheeks hurt. I bounced from foot to foot, clapping my hands. I was sleeping at Brittany's. And eating pizza.
Brittany's cheeks were red from laughing, and she grabbed her sides. "Higher!" She said gleefully, reaching out to grab my hands. I laughed, so happy that she was holding my hands. She seemed to smile wider.
"Can you touch the ceiling?" she asked me, swinging her arms to propel her body towards the tiles above us. The tips of her fingers brushed against it.
"I'm not sure," I laughed, copying her arm motions to touch the ceiling. After a few tries, I launched myself towards it. My fingers graced the coarse material, but in order to do so, I had jumped forward. Before I could correct my course, I had fallen on top of Brittany, laughing harder than ever.
We slid into the couch cushions, Brittany's legs tangled awkwardly in mine. It was the first time we had touched so intimately in the daylight. Our faces were inches from each other. We had stopped laughing and were merely gasping, our chests rising and falling. With each breath Brittany took, my body rose a few inches. She looked beautiful beneath me. She panted, and each time she did, the pink of her lips became visible. I couldn't help but stare.
And then she began to close the distance, or maybe it was just my imagination.
"Brittany! Santana! Pizza!" Mrs. Pierce's voice interrupted us, and Brittany's lips were just as far as they had been before. I was almost certain I had overestimated the closeness of our lips. I leapt off of Brittany, stumbling backwards against the coffee table. She stood up slowly, eyeing me skeptically. I looked from left to right, anywhere to avoid eye contact with her.
"Woah," she said. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," I replied, shaking my head. "I'm fine."
My racing pulse told me otherwise. Why had I imagined that?
"What if you ate like that on a date?" I asked Brittany as she took a massive bite of a slice of pizza.
"Whoever I was on a date with would ask to marry me on the spot," she said, her mouth full of cheese. She winked at me.
I blushed and shook my head. "You're disgusting," I told her, daintily placing my slice of half-eaten pizza on the paper plate in my lap. We sat on opposite ends of the coffee table in Brittany's basement, alone. The rest of the Pierce family was watching a movie upstairs, but we had been dismissed from the affair. I was glad.
She grinned open-mouthed at me, showing me her most recent bite of pizza, and I just laughed, picking up my slice.
"So what do you want to do tonight?" she asked, wiggling her pale eyebrows.
"Beat your ass in ping-pong," I said, pointing a greasy finger to the table in the center of the room.
"You're on," she grinned.
"You're cheating!" I protested. "That is not how you serve!"
She shrugged, giggling. "My house, my rules." She tossed the ball high up in the air and swung her arm forcefully around her body, acing me again with a completely illegal serve. "11-2, and Pierce takes the lead, which she's had for the entire game," Brittany said in her faux-announcer voice, which was about an octave lower than her normal voice. "And the crowd goes wild!" She rolled up the sleeves of her t-shirt, flexing for the "crowd," which consisted of the couch, the TV, and the pinball machine. She danced in a circle.
"Cheater," I mumbled.
"What's that, Santana? Is someone a sore loser?"
"I said you're a cheater!" I ran around the ping-pong table and tackled her to the carpet, pushing her shoulders against the floor so I was straddling her hips. She got a devious glint to her eyes, and I froze.
Before I could utter an expletive, she had reversed our positions so she was on top, her long legs on either side of me. She pinned my wrists to the carpet. The tingles were impossible to ignore; they were everywhere. I was burning under Brittany's touch, and the added warmth of her body heat on my midsection only added to it. I pushed feebly against her strong hands, attempting to put up a fight, but not wanting to end our wrestling match. She released my wrists.
"I win," she said smugly. "At everything." She crossed her arms proudly against her chest.
My chest rose and fell, and for a few seconds, I couldn't do anything but stare at her. I knew I probably looked like an idiot, but Brittany was like a sculpture; she had this life to her eyes that was warm and inviting, and a color to her cheeks that made her skin glow. Her lips matched the pinkish tint, curving gracefully across her face and parting just a little to show her perfectly white teeth. Her arms, legs, and hands, and fuck, even her hair, they all knew where to be to look just right. She didn't even have to try; she always looked perfect and beautiful, even when she wasn't supposed to look perfect and beautiful. She woke up in the mornings looking like a goddess, whether we got two hours of sleep or seven.
It really was incredible.
But she was giving me a funny smile.
"What?" I said defensively.
"Nothing," she said. The glint in her eyes told me otherwise. "Let's watch a movie."
Happy with that, I let her pull me up from the carpet. Our ping-pong paddles lay forgotten on the floor.
"Do you want to get changed first?" She asked me, pointing up with her index finger, presumably at her room.
"Yeah, sure," I answered, following her up the two flights of stairs. She did that thing again, where she grabbed the banister at the bottom of the stairs, the spot with the stain worn off. It was just another thing about Brittany that was so… her, for a lack of a better word.
We entered her room, and she immediately took off her t-shirt, flinging it onto her bed. I stood awkwardly and tried to look at anywhere but her. She shed her bra next, and a few seconds later she had changed into a larger t-shirt and her jeans were around her ankles.
"How're these?" she asked, holding up a t-shirt and a pair of cotton shorts. I recognized the Radiohead t-shirt as one that she'd worn to my house a few nights ago. It was light blue.
"Perfect," I said, taking the pajamas and averting my eyes from her exposed legs. I turned around to hide my blush.
With my back turned to her, I pulled off my own shirt and discarded it next to Brittany's bed, reminding myself to pick it up before I left the next day. The Radiohead shirt was way too big on me.
"Britt, whose shirt is this?" I asked her.
"An ex-boyfriend's," she replied simply. "I think I just forgot to give it back. Why?"
I stared at the shirt, suddenly feeling weird for wearing it. Had Brittany had sex with some guy and took his shirt? Was it someone I knew?
"Don't worry about it," she told me, shrugging. "It was a few years ago, he probably forgot about it."
"Right." I felt the beginning of a headache developing.
"So what movie do you want to watch?"
Ten minutes later, after we had both brushed our teeth and said our goodnights to the rest of the Pierce family, we were sitting on Brittany's leather couch under her yellow afghan. She had insisted on bringing down at least five pillows and the quilt from her bed, which took us two trips up to her room.
"Have you seen Halloween?" She asked me, shuffling through a pile of videotapes.
"No." I paused, waiting to see if she would say anything else. "Brittany, it's like, May. I don't even know what it's about."
"Hey, that makes two of us!" She enthused. I rolled my eyes. "Come on, it'll be good. It's old."
She looked at me and made her eyes big and round and began to pout. I ignored her. "If you don't even know what it's about, how can it be good?"
"I have a sixth sense," she said seriously. "For good movies."
"You're ridiculous."
"You love it."
There it is again. She kept saying that. Love. It was scary. I bet she said that to the Radiohead boyfriend.
"Holy fuck!" I screamed, burying my head in Brittany's armpit, which had mysteriously migrated from a few feet away to right next to my head. She also had her arm around me, which was new. I didn't notice her move it.
On the TV screen, a little boy was already stabbing people.
"Fuck!" I screamed again, the sound muffled by Brittany's arm. Brittany laughed, but didn't remove her arm from around me. It felt good, and I was surrounded by lavender, which was quickly becoming my favorite smell.
He stabbed his sister in the hallway with a butcher's knife as she struggled to get away from him.
"Brittany!" I shrieked. "Turn it off!"
She laughed. "Suck it up, you baby." Then she was quiet for a few seconds. "Wait, are you serious? Because I can turn it off."
In response, I laughed. "No," I said in a small voice. "I'll be alright."
Even though I couldn't see her face, I could feel her smile. "Good."
"We are never watching a horror movie ever again," I told her. "Why didn't you tell me it was a horror movie?"
"Come on, Santana. Halloween? Of course it's scary! You're supposed to be smart," she told me, grinning. She had removed her arm from around me and we were sitting cross-legged on the couch facing each other.
I frowned. "Why do you think I'm smart? I'm not that smart."
"Yes you are," she insisted, mirroring my frown. It didn't look right on her pretty face. "One," she started, holding up a single finger. "You're not in any of my classes, and you never have been. You must be in advanced, like, everything." I shrugged. "I'm right, aren't I?" She asked, smiling.
"Well, not gym, because–"
"Oh, shut up. You're in advanced everything."
"Sort of."
She rolled her eyes. "Two, you always sound really smart when you talk." I shrugged again. "And three, you were in the library when I met you. That pretty much sums it up."
"Did I look like a regular library-visiter?" I teased.
"Yes. You were totally rocking the library look."
"What in the world is a library look?" I asked, feigning offense.
"You know, like this," she said, demonstrating the "library look." She curled up into a sitting version of the fetal position and held an imaginary book in one of her hands, pushing an invisible pair of glasses up the bridge of her nose. She crossed her eyes and said, in the most ridiculously nasal voice, "Hm, let's see, the capital of Ohio is–"
"Brittany!" I screeched, snorting with laughter. She smiled so wide, and I was perfectly satisfied that she was making fun of me. My stomach muscles hurt from laughing so much. "No, but really," I said, wiping my eyes. "What'd you think of me?"
She paused, taking her time to think about it. "Well I knew you were smart by the way you talked to me. But the first thing I thought?"
I waited patiently.
"I thought you were really beautiful," she said. "Just totally gorgeous, with the hair and the skin and the," she paused, losing her train of thought. Or not wanting to disclose where the train had gone. "Yeah." She blushed.
My heart nearly jumped out of my chest. "Wait, seriously?" I asked her.
"Um, yeah," she said. "Why is that so hard to believe? I'm sure guys tell you that all the time."
I took a deep breath, knowing I was treading into unfamiliar waters with Brittany. We had never talked about boys before, but I knew she wouldn't push me if I didn't want to talk about boys. "Not really."
She looked surprised. "What?"
"No boys," I told her. "None that I like."
"Have you ever had a boyfriend?" She asked me, raising an eyebrow. She didn't ask the question in a mean, incredulous way; she was only curious. And surprised, apparently.
"No," I said, unable to make eye contact with her.
She noticed. "Look at me." She placed two fingers below my jaw, guiding my head so I could look at her. I obeyed, meeting her blue eyes.
"It's okay to have not had a boyfriend, Santana," she told me with a smile, wrapping a few of her fingers around the curve of my jaw. Tingles ran down the back of my neck.
"But you've probably had a ton of boyfriends," I said sadly. She didn't remove her hand from my jaw.
"Yeah, but they don't matter."
"Why do you date so many people if it doesn't matter?"
"It's a status thing," she sighed. "I sound so shallow, don't I?"
I shrugged.
"Being a cheerleader, you're sort of expected to date a lot of guys."
I paused, content with listening to her talk about her popularity. The concept of the high school hierarchy fascinated me.
"Actually, I haven't had a boyfriend since October. And even that didn't last very long, only a month or so."
A month seemed like a long time to me. I let her keep talking, because I knew that she would tell me more if I didn't interrupt her. She liked to fill the silence.
"I don't get the whole boyfriend thing, you know?" she told me, dropping her hand from my jaw to prop her head up on her fists. I merely shrugged in response. I didn't know how I felt about 'the whole boyfriend thing.' "It's just stupid, I think," she continued. "You have to hold hands with this big, careless jock, and the only thing you get out of it is free dinner. Sometimes. And mediocre sex."
I paled, and my stomach flipped, but not in a pleasant way.
"You haven't had sex, right?"
"No," I finally spoke. I rarely thought about sex, unless I was in health class. It seemed like something I could avoid until marriage. Most people I knew talked about abstaining, but I didn't need to abstain. Nobody wanted to have sex with me and I didn't want to have sex with anyone.
"Don't. It's not worth it." She waited a little, pushing her hair behind her ear. Having this conversation was new with us; the cheerleader in Brittany was a side of her I hadn't really seen. "Wait, I don't mean like never, that'd be weird," she corrected, obviously still thinking about sex. "Just make sure it's with the right person, okay?" She stared hard into my eyes, and my gaze flitted from her lips to her hair to her cheeks and finally stopped at blue. She cared about me.
"Okay," I told her.
We didn't talk about sex for the rest of the night, but I found out that Brittany had dated the weird hockey player with the long hair, a guy named Sam, who had gone to Chatfield, but moved to Tennessee, Noah Puckerman, a football player, and even a guy in a wheelchair, Artie, who was the most recent boyfriend. She seemed to remember new names every few minutes, which made me a little more sick to my stomach.
She asked me if I liked anyone.
I told her that I didn't.
But if I really thought about it, I did like someone. But not in the way Brittany had liked her boyfriends. The way Brittany described boys made me hate them. I hated them for being bad boyfriends, and I hated them for having big, careless hands.
"Who do you mostly hang out with?" I asked her, hoping to get away from the subject of boys.
"Cheerleaders," she said, shrugging. She paused to think. "Do you know Quinn Fabray?"
Oh boy, did I know Quinn Fabray. Queen Quinn. She was the head bitch of everything. Of course I knew her.
"Yeah, I know the name," I lied. If someone asked me to, I could probably paint a detailed portrait of Quinn Fabray. I had studied her mannerisms and her features obsessively through junior high, hoping to be just like her. It hadn't really worked.
"She's my best friend on the squad," Brittany said. It had gotten dark, and we were sharing the yellow afghan, but we had moved to the floor to lie on top of one of the sleeping bags we had brought down. We were sharing a pillow, talking with our heads right next to each other. I flinched a little when she called Quinn her best friend. If Quinn and Brittany were best friends, that said a lot about Brittany. It meant she was easily manipulated, and that she kissed the ground Quinn walked on. It meant she was just as shallow as the rest of them. I had never really noticed Brittany before, even though it sounded like she spent a lot of time around the head cheerleader. I thought that I would've noticed Brittany, as she was just as beautiful as Quinn. Maybe even more beautiful. "She was my best friend all through elementary and middle school. We've hung out just the two of us a couple of times recently, but more back when I was dating Puck. He's her boyfriend's best friend. Usually I just hang out with a bunch of them at parties and stuff. Quinn and I aren't all that close anymore."
I nodded, piecing together the information. I was selfishly glad to hear that there was some distance between Brittany and Quinn.
"Have you talked to her since last week?" I asked, curious to know why Brittany had so much time to spend with me.
"She called me on Friday to say she was flying to her mom's," she told me. "Her parents are divorced, and her mom lives in Oregon. Or Ohio. Something like that."
"Alright," I responded. I hesitated before asking my next question. "Do you think you would've hung out with her had she stayed here?"
Brittany shrugged. "Maybe, I don't know. Sometimes Quinn isn't very much fun to be around. She's not very nice to people."
I noticed.
"And Finn smells."
I laughed out loud. "Wait, wasn't Finn the guy that showed us out of the library?"
"Yeah, that was him." She paused, seeming to want to avoid talking about anything that happened on that Tuesday. "He smells like dip and burgers. And she drags him everywhere. He's like a puppy." She rolled her eyes. I got the sense that Brittany felt like Finn had replaced her as Quinn's sidekick, so she was attacking him. I didn't have a problem with it. It was amusing to listen to.
We stayed silent for a few minutes after Brittany's rant about Finn, just laying in the dark. Brittany stared at the ceiling, and I stared at her. It was easy to look at her and not get bored; I could find something new every time I watched her. Right now I studied the way her throat moved when she breathed; the pale skin stretched, and her lips parted just slightly. She seemed to be too deep in thought to notice me watching her.
"Are you still scared?" I asked her.
"Every day."
"Me too," I agreed.
"What do you think about going back?"
She shrugged again, acting indifferent, as she had earlier when we got ice cream. I frowned. "Not much. It's just school."
"Are you scared to be back at school?"
"Not really," she said.
"Then what's wrong? I can tell there's something about it that's bothering you." I sighed and turned onto my side to face her. She was clearly unhappy. She looked up at the ceiling, thinking about it.
"I'm just tired of it, you know? I'm tired of getting mediocre grades and being told how important college is and going to cheer practice seven days a week and seeing Quinn every day with her stupid boyfriend. I'm supposed to be her best friend."
She stopped abruptly, realizing she could've offended me by saying that. I didn't tell Brittany, but a little piece of my heart broke off when she said that Quinn was her best friend. It meant that I was just a side project, someone to occupy her until Quinn got bored with Finn and wanted Brittany around again. Brittany watched me with her pale eyes, trying to gauge my reaction. I took a deep breath and told myself that I was being irrational. Being Brittany's best friend would take time, and Quinn had clearly already put her time in. I would have to prove to Brittany that I was better than Quinn, and until then, never, ever admit that Brittany was already my best friend.
I could do that.
"I understand," I told her slowly. I was struggling to help her; our problems weren't similar at all, so I had nothing but sympathy to show her. I asked questions to stall. "So you think that going back to school will make all of that worse?"
"No, I mean, I think it'll be the same. Just having this time off," she looked at me, "and spending it with you, I've been thinking that school will change everything. Everything will go back to normal. But I don't want to go back to normal."
I did know how she felt. She wasn't the only one anticipating the inevitable changes that school would bring to our friendship, the major one being that Brittany and I, according to the hierarchical laws of high school, could not be seen together, under any circumstances. It would make me look like I was trying to fit in with the popular crowd, and it would hurt Brittany's status. It was a depressing thought.
"I've been thinking about that, too," I told her. "We're not exactly in the same social groups at school."
Brittany nodded, still looking at the ceiling. She seemed hesitant to make eye contact with me, though I couldn't figure out why. "Exactly."
We laid there in the silence, each one of us trying to think of what to say. I didn't know how to say what I wanted to without sounding pathetic and desperate. After a while, I was pretty sure Brittany had fallen asleep. I moved a little closer to her, hoping that her warmth would help me fall asleep.
"Don't worry," I whispered. "We can stay friends." I closed my eyes and rested my forehead against her cheek, feeling myself slipping into heavier darkness.
"I know," she whispered back. "It's only three weeks.
I fell asleep content.
I woke up to Brittany poking me in the cheek, her blunt nails scraping against my skin.
"Santana," she whispered harshly. I cracked an eye open. I was breathing hard, and sweating.
"What?" I croaked. The basement was still dark, and I could barely see Brittany.
"You were talking in your sleep," she said, dropping her hand to the sleeping bag. "It was freaking me out."
I was still groggy from sleep, so I rubbed my eyes, trying to understand what Brittany was saying. "What?" I said stupidly.
"You were talking in your sleep," Brittany explained for the second time.
I looked around the dark basement, taking in my surroundings. I cleared my throat, hoping I didn't sound like a frog. "What was I saying?"
"Well, you were sort of screaming," she said. "I was worried it was going to wake up the whole house. You were alternating between 'no' and 'don't touch me.'"
I frowned. I had never been one to talk in my sleep, much less scream. Plus, I couldn't remember what I had been dreaming about.
Brittany watched my face carefully. "Did you have a nightmare?"
"I…" I trailed off. "I can't remember."
She still seemed worried. She had moved into a sitting position before she woke me up, creating a considerable height difference between us. Her hair hung in her face, long and shiny, but looking more gray than blonde in the darkness of the basement. Her eyebrows knitted together, and a tiny frown formed on her face. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah," I said, confused. "I just can't remember."
"You were screaming," she said, as though she couldn't understand why I couldn't remember, and telling me again would help.
"I know," I said. She sighed in response.
"Do you think you'll do it again?"
"I have no idea," I said honestly. "I'm sort of glad I can't remember it."
She still seemed off-put by my lack of memory, but she seemed to accept it, albeit begrudgingly.
"What time is it?" I asked her. I could feel my eyes closing again. I was really tired.
"It's 3:30. You can go back to sleep," she told me. She didn't move from her sitting position.
"Okay," I said slowly, falling asleep. "Good night again."
"Good night," she replied.
I tried to close my eyes, but sleep didn't come right away. Brittany still hadn't moved from her sitting position. After a few minutes of laying on the blankets with my eyes closed, I still hadn't heard or felt Brittany move to lay down.
"Brittany," I whispered. She jumped, startled.
"Yeah?"
"What are you doing?"
"Waiting for you to fall asleep," she explained.
I paused, trying to fathom why she would be waiting. I could come up with no logical explanation. "Why?" I asked.
"To make sure you're okay."
My brain still wasn't making any connections. "I'm fine, really." I waited, watching her. She had dark circles under her eyes that I couldn't remember seeing before. "Have you slept at all tonight?"
She hesitated, and I knew she was debating lying to me. "No," she finally said. And it was the truth.
That woke me up, and I sat up immediately, untangling myself from the yellow afghan. "Brittany, why won't you sleep?"
"If I fall asleep, then nobody is protecting us," she explained, averting her eyes. She knew as soon as she said it that it was unreasonable.
"Britt," I breathed. "You don't need to do that. What do you mean?"
She looked at me again, and her eyes had filled with tears. The small amount of light in the room made the tears shine. "But I have to," she whimpered. She looked so small. "Somebody has to."
Having no idea what to say, I leaned forward quickly and wrapped my arms around her shoulders, pulling her into me. She cried into my shoulder, her chest heaving as the crying became sobbing.
"Shh," I whispered into her hair, over and over again for at least a minute or two. I didn't mind holding her like this. I rubbed her back and pushed her hair out of her face, stroking the individual strands. She pulled away from me, but I slid my hands down to her forearms to keep her close. The sobs had stopped, and the only evidence that they had been there were tear tracks on her cheeks and her occasional sniffles. I waited for her to talk.
"I don't mean to fall asleep at your house," she said, wiping the tears from her cheeks. "I usually stay awake while you sleep."
"I don't understand," I said gently, holding her hands. She looked so different now than she had in the past week. She was weaker, broken. She needed me, and she couldn't be the strongest one anymore. I knew I shouldn't have believed her so easily when she said she was fine just hours after the shooting.
"I'm still scared," she admitted, choking on the last word, "that something will happen again. That they'll come back and I won't be able to protect anyone." She hiccuped.
I chewed on my lower lip while I thought of an appropriate response. "That's not your job, Britt."
She breathed loudly, blowing a few loose strands of hair from her face. "I know. But I can't help thinking about what could've happened to us. It feels real, and close. Everyone could die."
"So why aren't you sleeping?" I asked, trying to understand.
"Because when I close my eyes, I see horrible, horrible things. If they're open, I can make sure that no one gets hurt."
Brittany had been coming to my house to be my watchdog. That was why she was so distraught when I woke her up that first morning; she was mad at herself because she hadn't been protecting me, not because she was worried about getting home late.
"Brittany, I–"
"It's stupid, I know," she interrupted.
"It's not stupid," I insisted, pushing on her forearms and leaning forward to get my point across. She hiccuped again, and then took a deep breath. "It's really, really…" I paused, searching for the right word, "wonderful," I continued, settling for less than eloquent. I stared into her eyes. "You are amazing for wanting to protect the people you love. But you can't hurt yourself to help other people. You need to protect yourself, too."
She nodded. Her eyelids looked heavy; they were almost half-closed.
"If you're scared of what you see when you close your eyes, I'll be here to protect you. We can protect each other," I told her, baring myself to Brittany, even though I had known for just a week. It was easier than I thought it'd be to open up.
She had seemed to understand what I told her, and before I knew it, she had collapsed into my arms again. We hugged for a long time. I rested my chin on the top of her head and wrapped my arms securely around her middle, hoping to make her feel comfortable and safe. She relaxed. Her muscles didn't feel so tight under my fingertips, and her breathing returned to normal.
"Are you tired?" I asked her. Her head was still on my shoulder.
"Exhausted," she said sluggishly, burrowing into my neck. Her nose brushed over a pulse point, and the tingles came back full force. I shook them off.
"Do you want to go to sleep now?"
"Yes."
She detached herself from me and laid back down on the blankets. I took the thickest one and pulled it over her, making her smile. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, and for a second, she looked exactly like her little sister. Just a child.
I nestled into my side of the makeshift bed, pulling the yellow afghan over me. It had become my favorite blanket; it smelled just like Brittany. I laid so I was facing away from her; I needed her to fall asleep. I felt Brittany shuffle around, rustling the blankets under us, and then I felt her warm breath on my neck as she slipped one of her arms around my waist. Her front was flush with my back, and the hairs on the back of my neck rose at her touch. And then the tingles were back again. I squeezed my eyes shut tight, for what purpose, I don't know, and waited for her to get comfortable. She sighed contentedly into my neck, and I felt like I had been struck by lightening; all of the hairs on my body stood up, and a current of energy shot straight down my body and made my toes curl. I bit my lower lip.
Once she seemed comfortable, I relaxed into her, enjoying the warmth of her body. She had scooted under the afghan with me, forcing both of us to stay as close as possible to stay warm. I was okay with that.
After just a few minutes, her arm around my waist went limp and her forehead slumped against my back. Her breathing was slow and even. Satisfied that she had fallen asleep, I placed my right arm carefully over hers, trying desperately not to wake her up, and I gently intertwined our fingers where they rested under the blanket. She stirred slightly, and her fingers tightened where they were interlocked with mine, but she didn't wake up.
I supposed I should've known that Brittany couldn't be so strong, but I really did admit to myself that I couldn't have known it wasn't possible; I simply didn't know her well enough. Her breakdown had proved to me that she wasn't perfect, but she was a protector, and she wanted to put up that facade of being put-together.
She protected the people she loved and cared about most. And she had come to my house for four nights in a row to watch me sleep and make sure I was okay.
And if Brittany did that for the people she loved, then that meant that she… that she loved me.
Thinking about it was making my head hurt, so I squeezed my eyes shut again and focused on the Brittany's rhythmic breaths against my neck.
Minutes later I joined her in sleep.