Oh man, these reviews are amazing. I love the time and consideration put into each and every one of them, and I'm so glad to see that I'm actually giving some people emotions. You guys are the best. These reviews definitely help me write faster, which is why I've finished this chapter less than a week after the last one. So, here you go. Chapter 6.
Wednesday, April 28th, 1999, 9:15 a.m.
I woke up in the same position I had fallen asleep in: pressed against Brittany. She was still asleep, breathing steadily, her chest pressing into me every time she inhaled. I blinked the sleep out of my eyes, adjusting to the gray morning light. I could see out of the far basement window that it was raining. I untangled myself from Brittany and stood, looking for a bathroom. My back was stiff from sleeping on the floor, so I lifted my arms high above my head and twisted, loosening the muscles in my shoulders.
My socked feet padded against the carpet as I opened all of the doors in the basement, finding mostly storage closets filled with old toys and boxes. Brittany and I had used the upstairs bathroom to get ready, so I didn't know if she had a basement bathroom. I looked back at her, hoping to find her awake so she could tell me where it was, but she was still sound asleep. Her mouth was opened slightly, and her hair was a mess of blonde on the pillow.
Resolving that I had to find the bathroom on my own, I wandered around the basement, continuing to open doors. I even went inside of the closets, thinking that they might lead to a bathroom, but there was definitely not a bathroom in Brittany's basement. I sighed, knowing I needed to go upstairs. I hoped that Brittany's family wasn't awake yet, and I could find the bathroom in peace, but based on what Brittany had told me, her parents and her sister were probably already awake. I tiptoed up the carpeted stairs, taking one last look at Brittany by the couch. She was still asleep.
On the main floor, I could hear Mrs. Pierce talking to Emily and the sound of pots and pans being moved around the kitchen. I could smell pancakes. My stomach rumbled. I realized that I had no idea where Brittany's first floor bathroom was either, and that I would have to ask someone. I walked quietly into the kitchen, where Mrs. Pierce was at the stove, with her back to me, and Emily was sitting at the counter, facing her mother. I stood there for a few seconds, listening to the sound of pancakes sizzling.
I cleared my throat.
Mrs. Pierce and Emily both turned around at the same time, smiling when they saw me in the doorway. Mrs. Pierce put down the pan she was holding.
"Good morning, Santana," she greeted, putting the pan in her hand back on the stove. Emily smiled at me, her mouth full of what I assumed was pancake.
"Good morning," I croaked, my voice cracking. I cringed.
"How was your night?" Mrs. Pierce asked, flipping a pancake. "Did you sleep okay downstairs?"
I nodded. "Yes, very well. Thank you for having me."
"Oh, it's no problem," she said, waving a hand at me and continuing to flip her pancakes. "Where's Brittany?"
I looked back at the door to the basement, checking to see if Brittany had come upstairs.
"She's still asleep, I think," I said, gesturing at the basement door with my thumb. "I was actually, uh, looking for the bathroom." I blushed.
"Oh, of course!" Mrs. Pierce exclaimed, and my cheeks got even redder. I prayed she didn't notice. "It's right around that corner," she told me, pointing with her spatula.
"Thanks," I replied, walking towards the bathroom. It was painted light blue, and smelled strongly of lavender soap. No surprise there.
I used the bathroom and stood at the sink, splashing cold water on my face. I looked tired, but healthy. Somehow I seemed older, but I couldn't tell if I was imagining it. I ran my hand through my hair in place of a brush and dried my face with one of the Pierce's hand towels. As I dried my face, I debated going back downstairs and laying down with Brittany again. It was either that or stay upstairs with Emily and Mrs. Pierce. I itched at the collar of the Radiohead t-shirt. It was bothering me.
When I left the bathroom, I could hear Brittany's voice, and I knew that she had come upstairs, making my decision for me. I entered the kitchen, and Brittany had joined her sister at the island and was talking to her mom about something, waving her hands excitedly. Mrs. Pierce saw me walk in and smiled at me. Brittany turned around.
"Hey," she said, smiling. "You weren't in the basement when I woke up, I thought you had been abducted."
I smiled, but I knew it was a genuine concern of Brittany's. I noted not to leave her to wake up alone. "Nope, just in the bathroom," I told her, joining her at the counter. She immediately poked me with her foot.
"Who wants pancakes?" Mrs. Pierce asked, placing a heaping plate of them on the counter. "I have chocolate chip, blueberry, and plain." I took a plate from a stack next to the pancakes and piled three blueberry pancakes onto it before placing it in front of me. Brittany took chocolate chip and began drowning them in syrup before passing me the bottle.
"Santana, can I get you a drink?" Mrs. Pierce asked.
"I'll have orange juice," Brittany said, already nearly finished with her first pancake.
Mrs. Pierce gave her a disapproving look. "I'll have the same," I said, smiling at Brittany. Mrs. Pierce shook her head.
The pancakes were delicious. They were better than Louis' pancakes, which was saying something. They were fluffy and not too sweet. I ate six of them, and Brittany was impressed. Emily just laughed at me. I hadn't realized how hungry I was.
"Are you going to the memorial, honey?" Mrs. Pierce asked me, eating a pancake of her own.
I swallowed the final bite of my last pancake. "Yes, I am," I responded, licking my lips. "Do you know if it's for families or just students?" I asked, looking from her to Brittany for an answer.
Mrs. Pierce shrugged, but Brittany interrupted. "Everybody, I think," she said through a mouthful of pancake. "It's going to be weird, seeing everyone again." Her mom nodded, her mouth set in a hard, straight line. It was still raining outside.
We finished our breakfast in silence. After we had cleared the table and put our dishes in the sink, Brittany tapped my shoulder and gestured towards the stairs. I nodded and we both descended into the basement.
11:45 a.m.
After watching mindless cartoons for a better part of the morning, Brittany decided that we should go out for another driving lesson.
"Brittany, it's pouring," I told her, hugging the yellow blanket around my legs to stay warm. "I don't know if you're quite ready to drive in the rain yet, either."
"Come on," she insisted, pouting. "It'll be fine, we'll just go to that parking lot."
I rolled my eyes, but I already liked the idea of getting out of the house. It sounded like more fun than watching cartoons. "Fine," I told her. "Go ask your mom if we can use the car."
She bounded up the stairs and I followed her slowly, shaking my head at her enthusiasm.
"Britt, I'm going to go upstairs and get dressed, okay?" I told her.
"Okay," she agreed, walking into the kitchen, where Mrs. Pierce was washing dishes.
I walked up to Brittany's room alone, glancing at the pictures of the Pierce family on the wall next to the staircase. Michael stood out a little more in these pictures, but I knew I was looking for him because of what Brittany had told me. In the pictures where Brittany was very small and her parents looked very young, he still had a mop of white-blonde hair on his head. In some pictures it covered his eyes. In later pictures, where Mr. Pierce's hair had thinned, and Brittany's legs had grown awkwardly long, Michael had lost most of his hair. I frowned at these pictures, running my fingers over the smooth glass. There was an eerie sadness about these pictures, yet Brittany and Michael smiled the same smile, the one I loved to see on Brittany's face. Alan and Eleanor looked weary.
Brittany's room was dark when I walked in, so I turned on the lights. The shades were drawn. Brittany's bed was bare where we had removed the quilt and the pillows. My clothes lay in a heap on a floor where I had put them the night before. As I changed, the borrowed Radiohead shirt was the first to go; it made me feel like a slimy intruder. It felt impure. I didn't bother folding it before I tossed it towards a laundry basket that I knew Brittany kept her dirty clothes in. I then slipped off the shorts I had borrowed from Brittany and folded them, placing them on her bed. I stepped into the jeans I had worn the previous day and put on my bra, but stopped when I went to put my shirt on. I didn't want to change back into the shirt I had worn yesterday; it was wrinkled from sitting on the floor, and it didn't smell that great. I tossed it back to the floor and stood in the center of Brittany's room, shirtless.
I decided to borrow something from Brittany, knowing she wouldn't mind. After all, I'd borrowed pajamas from her twice.
I opened her armoire, which smelled strongly of maple, and went through a few of her drawers, looking for a sweatshirt. The third drawer I opened was full of Brittany's underwear and bras, all of them paired up in matching sets. There were pinks, and blues, and lace, and polka dots, and–
Blushing furiously, I slammed the drawer shut, quickly looking behind me to make sure no one had seen me looking at Brittany's underwear. A hat fell from the top of the piece of furniture, landing in my arms before falling to the floor. It was a Colorado Rockies hat, and it was very small. I winced as it hit the carpet, knowing instantly who the hat belonged to and what it meant to Brittany. I picked it up and ran my thumb over a spot on the brim where dust had begun to collect. After turning the hat over in my hands a few times, I replaced it on top of the armoire and continued my search for a sweatshirt.
I finally found Brittany's sweatshirts, which were in the very bottom drawer. I pulled out a simple black one with a Columbine rebel on the front and tugged it over my head. Just like everything she owned, it smelled just like her. It was strong on this sweatshirt, like she wore it often. I breathed deeply, with my head still halfway through the neck hole.
"What in the world is taking you so long?" Brittany asked from somewhere ahead of me.
I frantically pulled the sweatshirt on, trying to hide my embarrassment.
Did she just see that?
"I, uh," I stuttered. "I wanted to borrow a sweatshirt." I could feel my hair sticking out in all directions, so I smoothed it back and stared awkwardly at Brittany, who was smirking at me. She was still in her pajamas, and she had her arms folded across her chest. "I didn't hear you come upstairs," I continued. I was trying to fill the silence.
"That's weird," she said, walking towards me. Her arms crossed to find the bottom of her t-shirt, which she pulled off as she walked, tossing her blonde hair behind her. It revealed creamy white skin and a light blue bra. My heart leapt into my throat. I moved out of the way so she could get to her drawers.
The slope in her back became more defined as she leaned over to open the sweatshirt drawer. I looked away. I felt that tingling feeling again, and it was beginning to drive me crazy, because I couldn't figure out what was causing it. I took a deep breath in through my nostrils, out through my mouth. Just like Brittany taught me.
"Damn it," she said, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. She was still rummaging around the sweatshirt drawer. "You took my favorite." She turned around and gave me a playful glare.
"Sorry," I mumbled, swallowing the lump in my throat. I walked back over to the end of the bed and picked up my shirt. Desperate for a distraction, I folded it at least three times, my eyes darting everywhere in the room but behind me, where I knew Brittany was changing. I tugged at the crew neck of the sweatshirt. The room felt very warm.
"Hey," she said softly, her voice just a foot behind me. "You ready to go? Mom said we can have the car until two."
I smiled at her. "Awesome, let's go."
She went down the staircase first, leading me to a side door I hadn't seen before. I didn't look at the family pictures on the way down.
"Shouldn't we take an umbrella?" I asked Brittany, looking pointedly at the downpour outside.
She paused. "Nah." Then she threw the door open, running towards the Buick in the driveway, holding her arms above her head to protect her from the rain.
I took a deep breath to prepare myself before I sprinted after her into the warm April rain. Throwing the door shut behind me, I mimicked Brittany and covered my head with my arms. It did little to keep the rain from hitting me in the face full-force, drenching my hair and my shoulders. Brittany had gotten into the passenger's side of the car, leaving me to drive us to the abandoned parking lot a few miles away. I patted my back pocket to make sure my wallet was still in my jeans.
My wet hand found the slippery car door handle, and I yanked it open, all but hurling myself into the vehicle. Brittany laughed at me, shaking her hair like a wet dog and throwing droplets of water all over the leather interior.
"Brittany!" I yelled. "Stop it!"
She just kept laughing, pushing me playfully in the shoulder and continuing to get the water out of her hair. Mildly annoyed, I decided to play along, shaking my own head too. Water from my hair hit her in the face, and she made a spitting noise with her lips as she tried to blow the water off of her face.
"You're so mean!" she cried through her laughter.
I shook my head harder, laughing with her. "Give me the keys," I ordered, wiping my wet hands on my jeans.
Brittany handed me the keys, which were also wet, and they slipped in my hands as I fit them into the ignition. I put the car in reverse, checked my mirrors, and pulled out of the Pierce's driveway. She leaned on the car window and stared at me with an accusatory look, still faking anger.
"You started it," I told her, shrugging my shoulders.
"Yeah, but," Brittany trailed off, incapable of providing a sufficient rebuttal. She stewed in the corner.
"I win at everything," I sang as we drove to the parking lot.
"You're a jerk," she said, shoving me in the shoulder.
"Hey, don't injure the driver," I scolded. She just rolled her eyes, wiping her wet hair from her forehead. I could see her smile.
"So how are we going to do this?" I asked, looking from me, to Brittany, and back to me. "Because I do not want to get out of this car."
Visibility was poor, with sheets of rain hitting the windows relentlessly. I had turned the windshield wipers up to their highest setting, but they were doing little to reveal anything more than ten feet in front of us. I was beginning to regret agreeing to let Brittany drive; the weather was awful.
"Chinese fire drill?" Brittany offered, unbuckling her seatbelt.
I looked at her incredulously. "Do you really think that's going to work?"
"Might as well try it," she said, standing up as much as she could. Even stooping, her back was almost completely pressed against the roof of the car. I watched her, amazed at how she could contort herself into such a position. She kneeled on the center console. "Hurry up, this is really uncomfortable," she complained.
"Hey, I never agreed to this," I told Brittany, but I conceded, unbuckling my seatbelt and kneeling on the center console, copying her. Our legs touched.
Here come those tingles.
She looked thoughtfully at our position before making eye contact with me. Our faces were only a few inches apart.
"You move left, I move right?" she proposed, pointing to her right. Her breath tickled my cheek. It was warm.
"Sounds good," I said, waiting for her to move past me. I probably waited a little longer than I should've before moving into the passenger's seat, but I didn't dwell on it.
Though the switch was far less graceful than Brittany had intended, no one broke any limbs, and we managed to untangle our feet without much hassle. We had, however, left wet footprints all over the leather seats.
"Oops," Brittany giggled, looking at a footprint on the back of the seat. "I'll clean that up later."
I shook my head fondly. Brittany turned back to the parking lot, squinting.
"How did you drive us here? I can't see a thing." She looked frustrated.
I thought for a minute. "Just try. You know the layout of the parking lot, so just do some circles. The rain will let up eventually."
She nodded and knitted her eyebrows together, concentrating on the road. She stepped on the gas, and the car lurched forward. My stomach lurched with the car.
I groaned. She laughed.
Friday, April 28th, 1999, 11:58 p.m.
"I still can't believe you ran all the way here in the rain," I said for the third time as I rubbed a kitchen towel down Brittany's dripping arms. "I thought you might not come," I admitted, trying to dry Brittany's thin t-shirt, which was soaked through. The effort was a complete waste; the t-shirt was sopping wet.
"I h-had t-t-to," Brittany stuttered, her teeth chattering. Her lips were blue.
I shook my head, placing a hand on her cheek so I could dry her hair. She stood frozen in the foyer with her arms over her chest.
"Trying to dry you off is a waste of time, isn't it?" I asked her, placing my hands on my hips and looking at her shaking form.
"P-probably," she replied, rubbing at her bare legs. Her flip-flops squeaked against the hardwood.
"Come on, I'll give you some clothes," I said, returning to the dark kitchen to put the towel on the edge of the sink.
She followed me up the stairs, and I could hear her teeth clacking together as she trembled. It seemed as though she was having trouble getting warm. It did make me smile that she walked to my house in the rain; I had spent hours lying awake, waiting to see if she would come over. My expectations hadn't been high, so I was pleasantly surprised to find her on my doorstep. She was five minutes early, too.
I handed Brittany one of my large white t-shirts, and she stripped down to her underwear. It was dark, so I couldn't see her naked form as she pulled the shirt over her head.
I suppose the darkness was a good thing.
She climbed quietly into my bed, leaving her wet clothes in a pile on the floor. I shook my head at her carelessness and picked up the wet clothes, leaving Brittany alone in my bed to place them on the shower rod in my bathroom to dry. The last thing I needed was to have Brittany walk home in clothes festering with mildew.
I returned to find Brittany spooning one of my pillows. Her wet hair was splayed behind her. She looked beautiful, and the look on her face was one of absolute content. I closed the door quietly behind me and slipped under the covers, watching her. She appeared to be trying to keep her eyes open; they would open up every few seconds, but then fall to half-closed just as quickly, hiding her gray-blue irises. Six hours of sleep the night before hadn't been enough for her.
"Britt?" I whispered, reaching across the pillow between us to brush her wet hair from her forehead. She snuggled deeper into the pillow.
"Mm," she grunted, opening her hand and grasping at my bare arm. She mumbled something unintelligible.
"What?" I asked, leaning closer.
"Far away," I heard.
Confused, I looked down at her. Her eyebrows were scrunched together, like they were when she was frustrated or concentrating. And then I realized what she was telling me.
Oh.
I took the pillow from Brittany, placing it on the bed on her other side. Her body molded to mine as I threaded my arm beneath hers, pulling us closer. She breathed slowly, happy, and her eyes closed.
"Good night, Brittany," I told her, rubbing my thumb over the thin white fabric of her borrowed shirt. My fingers dipped into the dimples of her lower back as I moved my hand counterclockwise.
"G'night," she mumbled, followed by something closely resembling 'Santana,' but my name appeared to be missing most of its vowels. I smiled at her in the dark, and I think she felt it, because the corners of her pink lips twitched just slightly.
Feeling tired, I rested my head in the crook of her neck and breathed her in. Her skin was still a little damp from the rain, but her shirt was dry, and her hair still smelled of her shampoo, as it always did, and her neck smelled like it was freshly washed. I let my eyes fall closed.
As I lay there, falling asleep, listening to the rain on the roof, I deliriously wondered if her she tasted as good as she smelled.
Saturday, May 1st, 1999, 5:30 p.m.
It poured for almost three days straight, leaving the town a dismal gray. I suppose it reflected the mass mourning occurring in every place imaginable: street corners, churches, grocery stores, the front lawn of the school. Flowers, picture frames, and candles were everywhere.
Brittany and I opted to stay inside while the rain soaked Littleton. We couldn't go running, as I gleefully pointed out, so we alternated between her house and mine during the day, watching movies, playing board games, and eating bag after bag of popcorn. We had been at Brittany's house for a better part of the day, spending at least six hours entertaining Emily. After a fourth round of Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego? I could tell Brittany was getting antsy. It was even more obvious when she let Emily win again by "confusing" Russia and the United States.
"Oh no," Brittany said half-heartedly. "Emily wins again."
Emily was oblivious to Brittany's misery, and drunk on her newly acquired superiority over us. She started bossing Brittany and me around, telling us to get her food. It was endearing at first, but after a few hours, Brittany and I couldn't take it anymore.
"Do you think I should go home?" I whispered to Brittany as she poured Emily a glass of apple juice.
She widened her eyes and looked at me helplessly. "Oh my god, don't leave me with this monster," she said.
I laughed, but Brittany didn't.
"Do you want to come over for dinner?" I asked her, putting the juice back in the fridge. I knew my mom wouldn't mind if Brittany came over. She was still at work.
"I really want to spit in this," Brittany told me, eyeing the apple juice with far more disdain than it deserved.
"Brittany, give me the juice," I scolded, taking the glass from her. "You're terrible."
She hung her head in mock shame, jutting out her lower lip. "What are we having for dinner?" she asked, dropping the charade and looking me in the eyes.
"Popcorn," I told her, smirking.
"Anything but popcorn!" Brittany wailed, slapping a bare hand against the kitchen counter. I giggled.
"Where's my apple juice?" Emily yelled from the living room.
"You know what," Brittany conceded. "I will eat a gym sock if you can just get me out of this house," she said, lowering her voice to a spiteful whisper.
I walked into the living room and handed Emily her juice with a saccharine smile on my face. I had just about had it with Emily for the day. She was a cute kid, but she knew it. And that, ladies and gentlemen, was her downfall.
Brittany nearly sprinted out of the kitchen to her mom's office, sliding across the floorboards in her knee-high socks. She told me they were her rainy day socks. They were striped.
Mrs. Pierce's office was not really an office, as Brittany had explained earlier that day. It was just a room in the house with a desktop computer and some knitting materials in it. Brittany said the Pierce family called it Eleanor's office because she went in there when she needed alone time. Emily understood that when people were in offices they were working and should not be disturbed, so the Pierce family called it the office.
Brittany said her mom had been in there a lot lately.
I sat on the floor next to Emily, who was begging me to play another game of Carmen Sandiego with her. I rejected the child's advances, and after a little while she gave up, content to poke at the figurines on the game board with a huge frown on her face. I rolled my eyes. She was nearly a carbon copy of Brittany, who was taking a little longer than I would've liked to ask her mom to drive us to my house.
I felt bad ditching Emily, but not really. I was done with babysitting for the day.
The blonde returned a few seconds later with her mom at her heels; the older woman was slipping her arms into a bright yellow raincoat. She had a smile on her face, but it looked a little forced.
"You girls ready?" she asked.
"Yes," Brittany said immediately, heading towards the side door. She left the shoelaces of her Chuck Taylors untied.
"Where are we going?" Emily asked.
"Put your shoes on, we're going to drop the girls off at Santana's," Mrs. Pierce replied quickly, ushering Emily towards the side door. Emily didn't protest. Brittany's mom sounded exhausted, like my mom sometimes did when she worked a double shift. I didn't know why she would be so tired, but I decided not to question it. The week had been a difficult one for everyone.
Ten minutes later, I thanked Mrs. Pierce and climbed out of the car onto my driveway. It was still raining. Brittany followed me, leaving a frowning Emily in the back seat of the Buick. We walked quickly through the rain. I pulled our other spare key from my back pocket, fumbling with the slippery lock while Brittany leaned against the house, trying to shield herself from the downpour.
I let us into the house before the rain could soak through our clothes. Brittany kicked off her shoes, leaving them in a pile by the door. I took my own shoes off, lining them up neatly before doing the same to Brittany's. Her shoes were bigger than mine. I dropped the house key into the bowl by the door and walked into the living room, where Brittany was spread out on the couch. Though the couch was big–about six feet long–Brittany occupied nearly the entire thing, leaving only a few inches between her feet and the arm of the couch furthest from her.
"What do you want to do?" I asked her, walking over and sitting down directly on her feet.
"Ow," she complained. "Get off." She curled into a crunch and shoved me off of her legs with long arms, depositing me in the few inches of space left on the couch.
"Britt, stop hogging the couch," I groaned, tickling the bottoms of her socked feet. The tactic was effective, and she immediately retracted her legs, bringing them up against her chest. I turned to face her, copying her position. She had a big smile on her face.
"We could watch a movie," she said, wiggling her toes.
"Come on, all we do is watch movies." And it was true. In the last few days, especially. We'd probably watched six or seven movies, just to pass the time.
Brittany pursed her lips thoughtfully. "You're right." She scrunched up her nose, annoyed that she couldn't think of anything for us to do. Her hair was a little wet from the rain, making it heavier on her shoulders. It had been straight before we left her house, but now it was wavier. She curled a strand of it around her index finger, tightening it to a coil before releasing it.
"Santana?" she was asking. "Santana?"
My head snapped up to look at her. "What?"
"You're out of it today," she said, frowning. "Did you hear what I said?"
I blinked rapidly, trying to remember what Brittany said. Had I really been that distracted? "Uh… no," I said, averting my gaze.
Brittany smiled, and I was grateful I hadn't annoyed her. "I asked if you wanted to make dinner, so it's ready when your mom gets home."
"That's a good idea," I told her, getting to my feet. "What do you want to make?"
"Not macaroni and cheese," Brittany jested, her eyes twinkling.
I blushed and shook my head. "Let's look in the fridge, we'll see what we have. I think my mom might've put out some chicken this morning to defrost."
Brittany nodded, following me into the kitchen. Sure enough, there were chicken breasts defrosting in the sink. "Alright, we can make anything with chicken in it."
"Chicken pot pie," Brittany said, her head in the freezer.
"That's kind of random," I told her, laughing.
"You have a bunch of pie crusts," she informed me. "Plus, chicken pot pie is like a meal inside of a pie crust. You can't go wrong with pot pie."
"Works for me."
I stood over the stove, adding the celery to the chicken, carrots, and peas that simmered in a saucepan. Brittany stood next to me, her pan containing the ingredients for the sauce. She pulled a wooden spoon through the mixture. My left arm was so close to her right that I could feel the fine hairs of her arms on my skin. Tingles ran up my arm and down my spine.
"What are you wearing tomorrow?" she asked casually, adjusting the pan on the burner.
"Black," I said simply. "You?"
"I guess I'll wear black," Brittany said, shrugging. "I don't really like to wear black."
I could understand that. "I wear black all the time."
"I know," Brittany said, turning her head to smile at me. I smiled back.
We cooked in silence for a while. I moved away from the stove to pour the chicken and vegetables into each of the three pie crusts.
"I talked to Quinn," Brittany said. I froze, the warm air of the room suddenly unpleasant on my skin. A carrot slid from the serving spoon to the floor. I knelt down to pick it up.
"What'd she say?" I tried not to sound jealous or defensive, but I don't know how well that worked. I turned to look at Brittany, but her back was to me. She had stopped stirring the sauce on the stove.
Brittany sighed. "She gets back from Ohio today, and she wants to meet at the memorial. She wants to have dinner with me afterwards."
Anger rose like bile to my throat, threatening to spill out in the form of insults and curses. I gripped the edge of the counter, my knuckles paling. "How do you feel about that?" I managed.
"I'll go if it's okay with you," Brittany said. "I should still be able to come over that night."
The knowledge that I would be alone, without Brittany, was upsetting. The knowledge that she would be with Quinn, out to dinner, was devastating.
"We can still sit together at the memorial, Quinn will just be there with us," Brittany said casually, still avoiding eye contact. She meant well, but I knew that the memorial wouldn't go well if Brittany tried to mix two very different friendships together.
"I don't know if that's a good idea–" I started to say, but Brittany cut me off.
"Please?" she said desperately, finally turning around to look me in the eyes. She removed the pan from the stove, bringing it over to pour the mixture into the crusts. I had never seen her with this look in her eyes; she was obviously torn between her old friend and me.
All I could think about was being left behind, alone again. Once I knew what having Brittany was like, I didn't think I could go back to not being her friend. Quinn's presence threw a wrench in my plans to become Brittany's best friend.
"Okay," I told her, putting the tray of pies into the oven to cook.
Sunday, May 2nd, 1999, 2:45 p.m.
My mother and I pulled up to the memorial fifteen minutes before it started. The scenic amphitheater was already packed. I was stunned to see so many news vans; all of the major news stations had a crew running around and setting up cameras. A few Columbine students were being interviewed at the entrance.
The sheer volume of people at the Red Rocks Amphitheater was overwhelming. Thousands of people had already filtered into the stands. It was a beautiful setting for the memorial, nestled in the mountains of Colorado. The rows of stands were flanked on both sides by two massive red rocks, each protruding like daggers into the sky. The stage was backed by a third, smaller red rock.
We walked into the stands, and a security guard immediately stopped us, pointing to a sign. "The CHS student section is up front," he told us gruffly. "First thirty rows."
Certain that Brittany was in the student section, I gave my mom a quick kiss on the cheek before walking down to the bottom rows. I looked back to see that she had found a seat; my mom was in the middle of the amphitheater, in front of all of the news crews, which were restricted to the top of the theater. Satisfied that I'd be able to find her after the ceremony, I walked down to the student section.
Students I knew from school milled around in front of the stage, hugging. People were already crying. Boys pulled awkwardly at their black ties, and girls' mascara ran down their carefully made up faces. A few teachers I recognized talked in small groups with their students. I looked for Brittany or Quinn, dreading the inevitable interaction with the latter.
I found them both by one of the large speakers, talking with their heads close together. Their hands were clasped together between them. Even though Brittany didn't like to wear black, she wore it well. Better than Quinn, really. Brittany's dress was short, but not too short. It was tight, but not inappropriate. She wore simple black flats. Quinn wore heels, making her almost eye level with Brittany. I observed from the side of the stands, waiting for Brittany to take notice of me and call me over. I felt as though I was interrupting something as I eyed their clasped hands jealously.
A few other girls walked over to join Brittany and Quinn, and the two broke apart to widen their circle. I recognized these new girls as cheerleaders. Brittany hugged each girl, wrapping her long arms around them, but not holding them very tight. I didn't like to see Brittany so touchy with these girls, but she didn't hug them the way she hugged me. I was sure of it.
The group engaged in conversation, but Brittany seemed to distance herself from it. She looked around the amphitheater, looking for something. My heart pounded.
She found me after a few seconds, gently pushing aside a girl in front of her to walk towards me. Conversation in the group stopped, and I shuffled awkwardly in Brittany's line of view, hoping that I had dressed right, and my makeup looked okay, and my hair wasn't a frizzy mess. I could see the other cheerleaders eyeing me, especially Quinn, who looked curious. She had a hint of a smirk on her face.
Brittany reached me and enveloped me in one of the hugs I loved so much, but I pulled away quickly, paranoid of her friends' judgment. A look of hurt crossed Brittany's features, but I blinked and it was gone.
"You look beautiful," Brittany complimented, stepping back and holding my wrists at arm's length.
"Thanks," I said, blushing. "So do you."
"Come meet everyone," she told me, nodding towards the group. "They're really nice, I promise."
Before I could protest, Brittany was leading me towards the cheerleaders, her hand gripping my left wrist delicately. My skirt felt too long and too thick in the humidity; the rain had stopped late the night before, but the air was still heavy and warm.
She guided me over to the girls, who left an opening for Brittany and I to join the group. "This is Santana," Brittany said, smiling at everyone. "Santana, this is Quinn, Kitty, Bree, Becky, and Jordan." They nodded at me, but returned to their individual side conversations. I breathed a sigh of relief; they didn't seem to have much of a reaction to my presence, which was exactly what I was hoping for. Quinn, however, was different.
"So this is the girl?" Quinn asked, eyeing my outfit and my makeup. She narrowed her eyes. The cheerleaders looked at Quinn when she spoke, confused that she was paying any attention to me.
Brittany looked annoyed by her comment, though I couldn't figure out why. The context was lost on me. "Quinn," she said harshly, in a tone I had never heard her use before. "Don't."
"I don't know what you're talking about," Quinn said icily, her thin smirk curling at the corners.
I looked from Quinn to Brittany, searching for an answer. Their eyes were locked in a fierce staring match. After a few seconds, Brittany looked away.
"That's what I thought," Quinn said haughtily, flipping her hair over her shoulder. Brittany looked angry, but I could tell she was embarrassed by the color on her cheeks. I had never seen her like this.
Before I could ask what the hell was going on, a loud tapping sound came from the speaker nearest to us. Most of the students near it raised their hands to their ears, protecting themselves from the volume.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we will be starting soon, so please take your seats," a man announced. He adjusted the microphone before turning around.
Quinn led her posse to the third row of seats, walking to somewhere in the middle. She instructed two girls, whose names I forgot, to sit on her left and her right.
I was liking Quinn less and less by the minute.
Brittany and I sat towards the end of the row, next to Becky. I stared at Brittany pointedly, waiting for her to explain Quinn's behavior, but she either didn't notice or chose to remain silent. Our principal, Mr. DeAngelis, had stepped onto the stage and was standing at the microphone. He was a short man, no taller than me. His dark hair was carefully gelled, and his suit neatly pressed, but his eyes were bloodshot and sunken. A few cameras flashed somewhere behind us, and the low chatter of the crowd ceased.
His speech wasn't long, but it was inspiring. Brittany and I didn't look at each other as he spoke about the deceased, the killers, new security changes at Columbine, construction on the library, and the unending support from the community. A montage of pictures was projected onto the screen behind him, showing us the lives of the people that had been killed in the massacre. Pictures of the killers were not displayed. Brittany began to cry as pictures of people she had known filled the screen: two football players, the volleyball team captain, her business teacher. All people she knew, all dead. I reached for her hand and she grasped it desperately. It was wet from wiping away her tears, but her fingers were strong where they gripped mine.
I was lucky enough not to know as many people as Brittany did, but I felt tears in my eyes as childhood photos of a little boy in a little league uniform flashed across the screen. A few football players sitting in the row in front of us wiped their eyes as well. Three seats down, Quinn looked at our joined hands. She was not crying, but smirking at us. I was disgusted, and I gripped Brittany's hand harder. Quinn shook her head at me before turning back to look at the stage.
After an elaborate presentation of bouquets to the families of the victims, the memorial came to a close. Mr. D stepped up to the microphone again, wringing his hands in front of him.
"We survived. We will prevail. We have hope to carry on because we were Columbine, we still are Columbine, and we will be an even stronger Columbine from this day forward," he announced, and the entire amphitheater responded with roaring applause that echoed off of the rocks. Brittany released my hand to clap. I glanced at Quinn; she was clapping with everyone else, leaning on the girl to her left. She wiped at her eyes with the heel of her hand.
Fake bitch.
Brittany tugged on the sleeve of my cardigan, pulling me into a hug. She nearly crushed me to her chest, pushing my face into her neck, which was wet with tears. I wrapped my arms around her middle, hyperaware of Quinn's judging gaze on my back. I rubbed Brittany's back a few times with my hand before leaning back out of her strong grasp. She wiped at her eyes, which were full of sadness. The blue was a muted color, like the sky had been over the past few days. They gleamed with unshed tears.
"Are you okay? I asked her, wanting to reach out and touch her, but restraining myself.
"Yeah," she sniffed, brushing some hair from her forehead. "This is hard."
"I know it is," I told her.
It seemed as though Brittany had given up completely on being the strong one. She had probably been in denial for the past two weeks. The thought was a disturbing one. Brittany really hadn't been okay, she'd just been telling herself she was. I wished I had noticed sooner.
"I guess it's a good thing we're going back to school," she said, looking at the ground.
I couldn't do much but agree. "Yeah."
"I think I have to go now," she said, looking over my shoulder. I turned around to see Quinn beckoning Brittany over, her smirk replaced by a look of annoyance. She was mouthing 'let's go' to Brittany. She narrowed her eyes at me, and I shrunk back. Brittany stepped awkwardly around me towards Quinn.
"So I guess I'll see you tomorrow," she told me, not making eye contact.
"See you," I said, watching her and Quinn weave through the crowds, leaving for dinner. I didn't know where they were going. As soon as they were out of earshot, they began talking heatedly about something. I could tell by the way Brittany moved her hands. She looked stressed.
As I watched them walk up the stairs to the exit, I realized, sadly, that it was the first time Brittany and I had parted ways without a hug.
My mom and I talked a lot at dinner, which was unusual. She had a lot to say about the memorial. I listened to her and ate my pork chops, looking up every once in a while to make eye contact. She was excited about the progress being made on school security, but she wouldn't shut up about how annoying the "paparazzi" were. She didn't seem to understand that the reporters weren't technically paparazzi, but I didn't tell her otherwise. In conclusion, she was worried about the media attention that all of the students were getting.
"It will interrupt the learning," she told me seriously, eating a bite of mashed potatoes.
I shrugged, indifferent to the media attention. Little of it had fallen on me, so I wasn't concerned. Oblivious to my indifference, she continued complaining about the media, and how their presence had tainted the memorial. She had no idea what she was talking about.
All I could think about was Brittany. It was hard not to think about her. We had been together for almost two straight weeks, spending nearly every minute together. I had nothing else to think about. There was nothing else I wanted to think about. I thought of the strange interaction between Quinn and Brittany, and the way Quinn acted towards her. I thought of the way Brittany let Quinn be in control. I worried about her, out to dinner with such a bitch. I wondered what evil people like Quinn ordered for dinner. I hoped Brittany was enjoying herself.
After dinner, I cleared my plate and retreated to my room, telling my mom I needed to get some things ready for school the next day. She let me go, even though we both knew I had the entire morning to prepare for school, which would begin at noon. They were sending out buses for us, and I was taking one, much to my chagrin.
To pass the time and to distract me from my thoughts of Brittany, I went through my closet to find an outfit to wear to school. Following much deliberation, I settled on a plain black blouse and jeans, thinking it would be appropriate to continue dressing in the color of mourning.
I had no backpack to bring to school, so I would be bringing nothing the next day. I wondered briefly if I would ever get my bag back. In need of a shower, I undressed in my bathroom, climbed into the tub, and let the hot water relax my muscles. The water was therapeutic, but it didn't give me any answers. I still couldn't interpret the hostility between Brittany and Quinn, and Quinn's strange attitude towards me. It was all very confusing.
After my shower, I lay down on my bed, my wet hair wrapped in a towel, unable to keep my thoughts away from her. I didn't let Quinn contaminate my thoughts about Brittany; instead, I thought only of her.
I remembered the conversation we had had a few days earlier, when I slept over at her house. The one about sex. When I thought about it, I had no idea what wanting to have sex even felt like. I'd read in books that people sometimes feel a magnetic attraction to someone, but I'd never felt that towards a boy. I'd never been horny. The only person I'd ever felt drawn to was–
No. That's not possible.
I discarded the thought as quickly as it came. It would be ridiculous for me to like Brittany like that.
But then again, she was beautiful. She had those perfect pink lips, and that long blonde hair, and that perfect body. It was no wonder all of the boys wanted her. It would only make sense that she drew in everyone. If there were someone I wanted to kiss, it'd be Brittany.
My brain told me it was completely wrong to think that, but once the idea manifested itself in my brain, I couldn't stop thinking about it. I knew that the notion was safe in my mind, where no one could see it–not Brittany, not my mom, not Quinn. And in the safety of my own head, I, although reluctantly, allowed myself to think about it.
I touched my lips, imagining what hers would feel like against them. I knew they would probably feel soft, and warm, but I didn't know what they would taste like. I knew she'd be an excellent kisser because she's had lots of practice kissing people.
Thinking about kissing Brittany sent tingles all over my body, and a new feeling joined the familiar tingles; it was warm, and it moved like honey, slowly filling out the lower half of my body.
It was especially warm between my legs.
I was breathing heavily, I realized, and my heart was beating fast. It was exhilarating, this new feeling. I imagined the way her hand might reach up to hold the back of my neck, like actors did in movies. If I could, I would put my hands on her hips, which would undoubtedly feel wonderful under my hands. The warm honey feeling was getting more and more intense, and my hands trembled a little at my sides.
I watched the sun go down outside of my window, still thinking about the fantasy kiss. I wondered if I would close my eyes, and if she would close hers. I wondered how long the kiss would last, and if she would use her tongue. I wondered if I would use mine. I glanced briefly at the door, worried that my mother would hear my thoughts and come storming up the stairs to scream at me for my adulterous thoughts. But there was no movement from downstairs, only the low hum of the news on TV.
I can't think about this shit. It's so wrong.
I groaned loudly and rolled over into my pillow, grabbing the material with my hands. I squeezed as hard as I could. Why had I done that? Brittany would know. The next time she saw me, she'd know I was thinking about kissing her. Frustrated with myself, I punched the pillow.
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
I was stupid to think about kissing her, and stupid to think she'd want to kiss me back. Stupid for thinking I could be her best friend. Stupid for sleeping next to her every single night.
I began to cry tears of frustration into my pillow.
At some point I must've cried myself to sleep, because I woke up to the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Startled, I glanced at my clock. It was after two a.m. If it was Brittany, she was very late. And someone had left a door unlocked. If it wasn't Brittany, it was probably my mom, maybe getting a glass of water. And if it was none of the above…
I didn't want to think about that.
I shrank into my bed, burrowing under the covers to hide myself from view. The footsteps grew closer, and I could hear the distinct sound of Brittany's flip-flops. It was a sound that I had begun to associate with her leaving; the rhythmic thwack of rubber on pavement. Now she was walking to my room. I breathed a sigh of relief.
My door opened, and sure enough, there she was. She stood still in the doorway. I couldn't see her face, but her head was slightly tilted. It looked like she was watching me. Her hand remained on the doorknob, and after a few seconds, she closed the door carefully. She paused for another minute, looking at my bed. I didn't move, giving her the impression that I was asleep. Brittany walked closer, stopping at the edge of the bed. I could see her face by the light of the moon coming through the window.
Her hand reached out, and my heartbeat sped up. I closed my eyes tight, trying to look like I was asleep. She hesitated over my forehead before her thumb brushed against it, effectively moving a piece of hair back to its place. I hoped to God she couldn't tell I was awake.
I cracked my eyes open, knowing that I was protected from her view by shadow. She shed her flip-flops, and then, to my surprise, pulled off her shirt, revealing her toned torso. It was too dark to tell what color her bra was, but I knew she was wearing one. She dropped the t-shirt to the floor, looking back at me every few seconds to make sure I was asleep.
Then, clad in only her bra and shorts, she climbed gracefully over my legs to her side of the bed. A warm hand cupped my shoulder as she pulled back the covers and slid under them. The length of her body pressed up against mine, and I couldn't stop that warm feeling from spreading through my body as her bare stomach made contact with the back of my t-shirt. I instantly wished I had taken my shirt off before bed.
I parted my lips to release the breath I had been holding. She settled into the bed, wrapping her arms around me, as she always did, and held me close. She smelled different than usual, but there was still a hint of lavender on her. My entire body felt electric as she tilted her head forward and her lips made contact with the back of my neck. They were still for a few seconds, and I almost couldn't tell they were there. She breathed slowly, and I could barely hold still in front of her. She was, technically, kissing the back of my neck. I was dying to know whether it was intentional or not.
"Goodnight, Santana," she whispered. All of the small hairs on the back of my neck stood up when she spoke. I didn't respond, continuing to pretend I was asleep.
Brittany removed her lips and pressed her forehead to the back of my neck instead, taking a deep breath. She fell asleep after a while, but I couldn't. All I could think about was the way she was touching me, and how she was half-naked. I told myself not to think about it, but it was impossible. I didn't know exactly what was happening in my body or my head, but I knew that it was confusing and stressful and it gave me panic sweat.
I am so fucked.
Monday, May 3rd, 1999, 8:46 a.m.
It was almost 9 a.m. when I woke up. I usually woke up much earlier, early enough to get Brittany out of the house. The first thing I saw when I woke up was the clock, and my heart sank. Brittany was probably gone and hadn't bothered to wake me up.
I sighed and rolled onto my back. I smiled when I saw that she was still in my bed, and still asleep. She was spread out on her back like a starfish, her chest rising softly every few seconds. Her mouth was open, making small snoring noises with each breath she took. Her blonde hair was a tangled mess. The comforter had been pushed down to the foot of the bed, revealing Brittany's body all the way down to her bare knees. I could see each individual goosebump on her arms, and I figured she must be cold. I reached down to pull the comforter over her, but I paused.
I had never been able to look at Brittany like this.
After a second of careful deliberation, I decided not to pass up the opportunity. She wouldn't see me looking. The room was brighter in the sunlight, allowing me to see each and every dip and curve of Brittany's body. Her stomach was perfectly flat, with a distinct dip that ran from between her breasts down to her navel, outlining her toned abdomen. Her collarbone was well-defined above her pastel green bra, and her arms and shoulders were muscular.
I wanted to touch her, and feel the contours of her muscles, but I didn't. Instead, though it pained me to do so, I reached down to the comforter below us and tugged it upwards to her chin.
"Hi," she whispered, her voice cracking. Her eyelids fluttered open, revealing bloodshot blue. I dropped the comforter, pulling my hand back like I had been shocked.
"Hey," I said calmly, trying not to look guilty. In my head, I was panicking. Had she been awake this whole time?
"I got here pretty late, so I let myself in," Brittany told me, rubbing her eyes. "Your side door was unlocked."
I nodded. "I didn't hear you come in."
"It was almost two, I think," she said. "Sorry I was late." She looked down at her hands, which were resting on top of the comforter.
"Was there a reason?" I had my eyes trained on her face, nervous about her lack of clothing. I didn't trust myself. To do what, I didn't know. I didn't want to think about it.
She tried to tame her hair by running a hand through it. She looked tired. "Well I was at Quinn's really late, and she invited me to sleep over, but I left." She paused, looking down again. "We had a fight."
Inside, I was glad they had fought; it meant I had less competition for her friendship. But I did feel bad for Brittany, who seemed upset by it. "Have you fought with her before?"
"Not like this," Brittany admitted. She picked at her nails.
"What were you fighting about?" I asked gently.
"I don't really want to talk about it," she said, looking out the window. She wouldn't look at me.
What had I done to deserve being shut out? I clenched my hands into fists under my blanket. I was furious, but I didn't say anything.
She looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, I just… it's hard to explain."
"Whenever you're ready," I told her, clenching my teeth.
Brittany didn't seem to notice that I was mad. She lay back on the bed, stretching her arms out in front of her. "I hope you don't mind that I took my shirt off," she said through a yawn. "Quinn's house is pretty far, and I was hot by the time I got here."
"It's fine," I said flatly. I didn't want to be mad at Brittany. It was difficult. But I was too stubborn to let her off the hook so easily.
She looked at me skeptically, her hands behind her head. It made the muscles in her arms flex. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," I lied. "I'm fine."
"Alright."
We sat in silence for a while. For the first time since I'd met Brittany, it was awkward. I don't know if she caught on to my mood, but I could tell she was a little uncomfortable.
"Does your mom know where you are?" I asked Brittany.
"She thinks I'm at Quinn's," Brittany said. "I guess I should go soon, shouldn't I?" Brittany said, tossing the covers off of her. I looked away from her half naked body.
"If you want," I told her.
"Yeah," Brittany said, pulling her t-shirt over her head. "My mom will wonder where I am. I need to get ready for school. Are you going?"
"Why wouldn't I?" I snapped, a little hostile.
Brittany's blue eyes widened with shock. She was hurt. "I don't know," she said softly. "I was just asking."
I stood with my back to her, fiddling with the bottles of hair product on my nightstand.
She sighed, frustrated. "Can you come over after school?"
I closed my eyes and counted to five, trying to lessen my anger. I knew she couldn't see me. "Sure."
I heard Brittany breathe a sigh of relief behind me. "Alright, cool."
It was silent for a while as I cleaned up my room. Brittany was standing awkwardly by the door, presumably waiting for me to walk her out. I walked in front of her, taking the stairs quickly. She went to leave, as she had so many times before, but she stopped and turned around.
"Come here," she said, closing the distance between us and wrapping me in a tight hug. I melted into her. She had a calming presence, and her touch had the same effect. I breathed slower. "I'll tell you eventually," she whispered in my ear. "I just can't right now."
She had noticed that it bothered me. I was glad she was observant enough to figure out what was wrong. "Okay," I whispered back. She hugged me for a few more seconds before opening the front door and stepping onto the porch.
"If I don't see you before school ends, meet me by the front entrance. My mom will pick us up."
"Okay," I agreed. "I'll see you soon." I waved to her as she ran down the street. She waved back over her shoulder.
I sighed heavily and ran back upstairs to get ready for school.
2:45 p.m.
School was weird. Very, very weird. Almost everyone wore black. Some students didn't bother getting dressed at all and just came in their pajamas. Plenty of people were absent from all of my classes; the absent students were mostly friends and siblings of the victims or the gunmen, but that went unspoken. I assumed everyone was thinking it. We did nothing even remotely scholarly; teachers in most classes pushed the desks together to form circles. In some classes, we went around and shared stories about the students we had known that had died. In others, we talked about where we were and the emotions we had experienced during the shooting. A lot of students vocalized their emotions. I was relatively quiet during these circles.
Taking the "healing with laughter" approach, my AP Physics teacher put Dumb and Dumber on the classroom TV, promising that we would have enough time to finish the movie by the end of the week. The teachers had agreed that no finals would be given, and the College Board, who administered our AP exams, agreed to postpone Columbine's tests until further notice. The idea of taking the exam weeks after the course ended stressed me out, but I didn't think too much about it.
Around 1:30, Mr. DeAngelis knocked on the door of Mrs. Hagberg's classroom and entered with a large box. The cuffs of his white dress shirt were rolled up and he was sweating. The school was warm, but Mr. D looked like he had run a marathon. He placed the box on Mrs. Hagberg's desk, interrupting our sharing session. The girl that was talking stopped.
"Ladies and gentlemen, I have a surprise for you," he said kindly, opening the box. Mrs. Hagberg stood from a desk to join him, looking into the cardboard box. "Jansport," he started, "a backpack manufacturer I'm sure all of you are familiar with, has kindly donated 500 brand new backpacks to Columbine. The backpacks are filled with school supplies donated from various stores across the United States."
The students in the classroom looked at each other, nodding. It was pretty cool.
"It has come to the attention of the administration that most students were not able to retrieve their backpacks from their lockers at our school, so these backpacks are to be given to students who were not able to get their bags from their lockers. We cannot promise that you will get your backpacks back until the summer," he said, breathing heavily. The box was clearly heavy.
He pulled out a black backpack. It had been flattened by the box, but it was still obviously a nice backpack. He held it up and unzipped it to show us the pencils, pens, erasers, and a notebook inside of it. The students leaned forward in their desks, excited by the prospect of new stuff.
"Now, I know that we don't have enough backpacks for every student, but we have taken into consideration that many of you were able to leave the building with your backpacks two weeks ago. If you were one of those students, I ask that you don't take one of the donated backpacks." He smiled widely. "Understood?"
The class nodded. He beckoned us up to take a backpack, and about ten people stood up, me included. I took a backpack, thanking Mr. D. He nodded, giving me a small smile. I kept the bag on my back for the rest of the day, noting that about half of the students I saw also carried the same backpack.
I didn't see Brittany at all. I wasn't familiar with her schedule, so I didn't know where to look for her. School was only a few hours long, and it kept me occupied, so not seeing her was bearable. We met up in the front of the building at 3. Her cheerleader friends were nowhere in sight, which I was glad about. Mrs. Pierce was waiting in her Buick with Emily in the backseat.
"Nice backpack," Brittany said, turning a little to show me her identical one. We crossed the front walk to get into the car. The air had warmed considerably since the rainstorm the week before.
I smiled. "Right back at ya."
And just like that, she was forgiven.