Chapter 2 - Quinn
August 30, 2015
Santana's always wanted to take a class with me. Well, maybe not always. Since the middle of freshman year, I guess.
Our relationship is complicated. Completely. Somehow, at the beginning of freshman year, I was a threat to Santana Lopez. The Santana Lopez of Ohio basketball royalty. She didn't remember when I brought it up last year, but we'd played each other in high school - I was at Carmel and she at McKinley. She'd scored well over thirty points and despite our state ranking, we'd been blown out. She didn't know it at the time, but I always knew I would never threaten her.
At least not on the court. I guess she realized that pretty early on. I remember she'd laid one in over me on a fast break. I was trying so hard to slap the ball out of her hand that I dove. And fell with a resounding thump. I remember looking up from the court at her hand stretched out in front of me. I reached out to grab it in mine and pull myself up. I remember being on that floor and thinking, "has Santana Lopez gone soft?" But right was quickly restored in the world as she swiped her hand back and yelled, "In your face, Fabray!" (And, despite my protestations, earned us twenty suicides for unsportsmanlike behavior.)
Unlike fraternity hazing, that event did not bring us together. Rather, it solidified for her that she was better than me at basketball - something I already knew.
But the competition continued off the court. We vied for attention in every domain. Academics - I won. (I was the valedictorian of my high school.) Favor from coach - she won. (Hard not to win as a two-time McDonald's All-American.) Compliments on fashion - I won. (It was close.) Strength training - she won. (Like I said, McDonald's All-American.)
Male attention was the one domain where no one won. But boy did we fight hard. I'd be out at a frat party, vying for a senior's attention so that I could get a mixed drink rather than a foamy beer from the keg. I'd have on my sweetest, most innocent sundress. Something that traveled just a little too high up the thigh for classes, but wasn't so slutty that I'd lose any esteem as a result. Then she'd come storming in all dark lipstick, skin-tight jeans, and sex.
It was rare that we'd set our sights on the same boy, luckily. I sought out the collared, well-groomed boys who wouldn't let their stubble last for more than a few days. Santana...well, Santana's type was more difficult to categorize. Some nights it'd be one of those buff guys from the wrestling team who'd rip his shirt off in rage or glee during a game of beer pong. Other nights, she'd be lost in the arms of guys who looked more like the disgusting slobs from that old movie my mom showed me, "Animal House."
What took our relationship to new ground, though - what really allowed us to become friends - was who I caught her with in late January, just after our first round of rivalry week against Ohio State. It was at Phi Kap. The team had partied there before. They had great parties. Usually tons of people from all over campus. Loud, heart-stopping dance music. The third-rate keg beer instead of the fourth-rate (we're talking Natural Light vs. Milwaukee's Best).
I was on the dance floor rubbing up against Chris, who turned out to be my first boyfriend in college. (Let's be honest, at frat parties there is no "dancing," it's just "rubbing." It disgusts me to think that I'd allowed myself to go so low in freshman year.) I'd sent him off to do my bidding - fetch me a water bottle and another beer. As I leaned up against the wall and looked into the throng of dancers I noticed Santana, completely drunk and sucking face with a girl.
I'm not a prude. Really, I'm not. Everyone thinks I am. In high school maybe I was, but I'm not anymore. And I wasn't then either. But I'd never really known any lesbians. Or even any girls who'd kissed other girls.
Before I could stop myself from staring, I saw her break from the kiss, make eye contact with me, give me a grimace, and walk straight out the door.
She pulled me into one of the private rooms at study hall the next day.
"You can't tell anyone." I expected it to sound angry. That was Santana's M.O. She wasn't angry. It was hushed and there was a tremble there, almost unrecognizable given who was speaking.
"I won't," I whispered back, as though we weren't the only two people in the room.
"Promise?"
"Yeah," I nodded.
I didn't really expect much to change, but from that day forward she began talking to me like a human being. I let down my guard and we actually got to know each other. I learned that she'd played soccer against my sister when they were both in elementary school. She learned that despite my "complete nerd stature" (as she put it), I could actually play beer pong pretty well. I would like to attribute our joint skills to Coach Sylvester's endless shooting drills.
We also learned that we'd probably never take a single class with one another through our entire time at USO. Santana was a history major. While I love books, I find them to be more a leisure material. I don't need a professor to tell me what a book means or how the flower symbolizes a woman's anatomy or something. Biology was my path. History and biology would never overlap. "Unless," Santana used to say, "you get that bio crap out of the way enough to take a gut class with me." She'd ramble off the latest list of crap classes: Vampire Lit, The Rise of Pop Music, The Philosophy of Star Trek, Zombies in Pop Culture. Somehow she was always up on the latest in the course catalog.
She always wanted me to, but I really hadn't planned on taking a class with her ever. I was too focused on bio and medical school. I would have preferred an internship or another pre-med course to anything she could offer.
The accident changed all that.
/
"You get all the books for this class yet, Q?" At noon, the cafeteria is at its prime. It helps to be on the nationally-ranked women's basketball team, but it helps even more to be friends with Santana Lopez. The crowd in front of the "Mexican Bar" disperses as Santana canes her way to the front.
"Yeah, you don't?" There's a pre-course assignment due today. It's a ridiculous scholarly article on logic and television courtrooms (yes, we're talking about logos and Judge Judy), but it's still due today.
She puts a plate of tacos on my tray and we slowly amble to the deli line.
"Wanna share some books? I don't really feel like spending a bunch of money on books I probably won't read anyway."
"Santana, just because the title of the course is 'Themes in Pop Culture' doesn't mean the professor's going to gift you with an 'A.'"
"Whatever, Q." A basket of fries appears on the tray alongside my sandwich. "You don't even know 'bout me and these professors. Bitches love me."
"Well I know that," I retort with a wink.
"You know, bitches and professors love me."
Just like the crowds around the food disappear, so too do the crowds around the tables. Amid the swarms of undergrads in the cafeteria, a prime booth opens just for us. When I was here yesterday, I ate my veggie wrap standing up in the corner of the first dining room. Bitches do love Santana.
Almost as soon as we sit down my phone rings. I can't right now.
"Who was that?"
"Didn't recognize the number."
We eat in silence for a little while. This is really the pinnacle, isn't it? I'll never have another year of college. I'll never play basketball at this level again. Who knows where I'll be? At a med school somewhere, fingers crossed. Who knows where Santana will be? A year ago, I would have had about two hundred answers and they'd all be true: in the WNBA, atop the gold medal podium at the Olympics, at the ESPY awards, shooting a commercial with LeBron, on the front cover of Sports Illustrated. Now, it feels like I'm just as likely as she is to make that future a reality.
"How were your first classes yesterday?" I ask as she hoovers her second taco.
A shred of lettuce hangs out of her mouth before she pulls it in with her tongue. Gross. "I think they'll be ok. Stacked. I had four classes yesterday and three today. Gotta make up."
The accident didn't just throw off basketball. She'd had to withdraw from all of her courses in second semester last year. She's always been a decent student, if a little apathetic. This semester she has to be better than decent and certainly can't afford to be apathetic.
She cradles the remains of the second taco in her hand as she elaborates. "Only one that looks tough is the World History class, and that's only because I don't know much about it. I'll actually have to do some of the reading I think. And it's got like five papers."
"Santana Lopez writes papers?" I chide.
"Santana Lopez writes papers so she doesn't have to take tests, slut." As though to mark the end of that conversation, she shoves the rest of the taco in her mouth and grins.
I can only shake my head and smile back at her.
Just then, my phone buzzes in my lap.
You talk?
I want to ignore it, but if I do I might get another phone call.
Not now. With Santana. I type back as quickly as possible.
"Who's that?" Not stealthy enough.
"Just Tina. She wanted to see if I'd be up for a workout this afternoon."
"What'd you say?"
"That I've got a busy schedule."
"Don't tell me you're actually friends with Girl Chang." Ugh, Santana's nicknames are so offensive.
"We're not not friends."
"Whatever. Ready to go?"
"We've still got like twenty minutes before class starts." Seriously, Gordon Hall is only two buildings over. I don't even think you need to go outside if you don't want to.
Santana's face gets darker and the grin disappears. "Look, it's gonna take me a while, ok? I can just meet you over there."
"No. Sorry. It's fine. Let's go."
/
I had no idea. Really. For someone who's so interested in medicine, you'd have assumed I'd thought about this more. Twenty minutes was an undershot. We got to the class ten minutes late and with a long, angry stare from the professor. (Which, I mean, come on. You teach a class on pop culture. No one is living or dying by this stuff here.)
For every set of stairs that I was ready to bound up, starting with the stairs that led from the dining hall to the first floor outdoor terrace, Santana grasped the handrail and used nearly all of her body strength to pull herself up. By the time we got to the second set of stairs, there was a clear line of sweat soaking through the back of her shirt and collecting at her brow. By the time we got to the third set of stairs, I was following her, worried that she'd lose strength I'd need to catch her and boost her back upright.
At the fourth set she glared at me and I cursed Thomas Worthington's layout of this ridiculous suburban campus. We'd skipped those stairs, but had to walk out of our way for about a quarter mile to come upon the ramp that would lead into Gordon Hall.
If I didn't think I'd get punched outright, I would have suggested one of those motorized scooters. Shoot, I'd have even hopped on the back of the stupid thing.
At least the class wasn't so bad once we'd gotten settled in. I can't complain too much about a syllabus that includes having to read Seventeen magazine and watch episodes of Friends.
Also a positive: the walk from Gordon Hall back to her room took about ten minutes and involved zero flights of stairs. I didn't think Santana was this smart, but somehow she got herself a decent set up on the first floor of her dorm. And, it's pretty clear that Mrs. Lopez did the interior design and arranging. When I was living in on-campus housing, I never had my own adjustable mattress, leather wheelie chair, flatscreen television, or window air conditioning unit. She is a little bit of a brat.
"So you ready for PT today?" I ask, as she settles into her desk chair. I'm not surprised, but she looks completely exhausted.
"Yeah, no problem. Back in action in no time, Fabray." She says a pathetically with a knowing grin on her face.
Santana Lopez doesn't give up. I've seen her dive into the stats table courtside in order to save a ball from going out of bounds when the team is down twenty points. I've seen her rip the ball out of the hands of a 250 pound center from Miami. I've seen her stand on her tiptoes and go nose-to-nose with a wrestler who called me a "slut." She's a fighter.
So who is this?
"Ok, well, I'll pick you up at 6:45. Sure you don't want me to stay?"
"Yeah. Later."
/
The physical therapy section of the hospital is much bigger than I expected. Like rooms upon rooms upon rooms. I guess I hadn't quite considered just how many people need physical therapy. There are grandfathers with arthritis pains and amputees who need to learn how to use their new limbs, old women recovering from hip fractures and little kids strengthening and stretching broken elbows.
We find Dr. Shuester's office pretty quickly. Santana seems to have recovered from the afternoon's struggles and I only have to slow my pace slightly.
"The famous Santana Lopez!" This curly-haired bozo is actually elated to see Santana and I can tell right away that she's not going to like him.
She nods and tests out a smile, like she wants to give him a chance.
I'm sure coach would not be pleased to hear that Santana had fired her physical therapist in one day flat.
"And?" He turns and looks at me after shaking her hand. Of course he doesn't recognize me. I'm used to it, I guess. I'll still probably make more money than Santana, what with the shabby state of professional women's basketball and how cheap an endorsement deal she'll be. My smarts beat her skill any day.
"Quinn Fabray, I'm Santana's friend. And ride."
"Well Quinn, thanks for delivering our Santana! If you're going to stick around, we have a little waiting area over there." He points me to a glass-enclosed office at the corner of the room that houses a few chairs and a desk. "Brittany should be right back and can get you settled back there."
I give Santana a quick 'good luck' glance before I head to the office. She probably thinks I'm just looking at her funny.
The good thing about the office is that I can hear everything that's happening. The bad thing about the office is that I can hear everything that's happening. I stuff the journal article back into my bag after a few minutes and decide to devote my full attention to the conversation just outside.
"So the records your former doctor provided us with give some insight into how we'll be treating and rehabilitating you, Santana." I head Dr. Shuester lilt. "What I'm going to do is go back through these records with you. If something doesn't sound quite right, or if there's any commentary you have, let me know. That information can help us set the best plan for you."
A blonde who I can only assume is Brittany comes back into the office. For a half a second I think about pulling my journal article back out just to look busy but I think I've been caught red handed. Quinn Fabray - amateur eavesdropper.
"Ma'am, would you like a magazine or something to drink while you wait?"
"A magazine would be great, actually. Anything." Hope I don't sound too desperate. I'd just hate to be tossed out into the hallway for violating patient confidentiality or something.
She walks away and I can't help but stare. I'm not that into that kind of thing, if you know what I mean, but that doesn't stop me from appreciating a women's body. I'd kill to have a body like that. I play college basketball and I'll never be that way. All legs and midriff and long, lean muscle. She looks like a yoga instructor, or pilates or something. Maybe that's what I'll do this fall when I don't have to go to strength training and team workouts.
"First thing's first, Santana. The official injury is subtrochanteric femur fracture. Is that correct?"
I turn a little so that I can see Santana and Dr. Shuester out of the corner of my eye. She's sitting on top of an exam table, he's on a short stool with a clipboard in his lap.
"Yes." The doctor checks something on his clipboard.
"Resulting from a high-speed car accident, correct?"
"Yes." Another check.
"Now it says here that surgery occurred within twenty-four hours. An intramedullary rod was inserted, along with screws above and below the fracture. Is that correct?"
"Yes...uh...I don't remember what they named the rod, but the doctor said something about it coming out?"
"It's a possibility, but that's not something that would happen prior to your full recovery unless it causes you extreme pain. Does the rod itself cause pain?"
"No. No. I mean, I don't think so. I was just wondering."
"Okay. Well I'll put that in my notes as something for us to talk about down the road."
I almost don't notice when the blonde approaches again. I never really got the intimate details of Santana's injury and I'm pre-med. I didn't want to pry and ask her twenty questions about the most life-altering event that she's ever experienced. She probably wouldn't have answered my questions anyway. But I can't help but listen in now.
"I brought you a few magazines," the blonde says before spreading out a few fitness magazines, a physical therapist trade magazine, and a celebrity magazine. I'm probably not going to read much, but I want to look busy. I pick up the celebrity magazine and begin thumbing through it before tuning back into the doctor's conversation with Santana. Brittany takes a seat at the desk.
"...haven't noticed any pain from that. Just when I'm sitting for a long time, usually."
"Noted. Thank you."
"Now let's talk about the rehabilitation you've been through so far." I can hear the doctor flip through a few pages in his notes. The waxy paper on top of the examining table crinkles as Santana shifts around.
"There was no weight-bearing in the first six weeks. During this time were you completely bed-ridden?"
"Seemed like it, yeah. After the hospital released me, we set up a PT appointment. I was in bed for about a week, and then went to PT. After that, I had PT every week or so. I think the only times I really got up were when I went to PT, went to the bathroom, or did my exercises."
"What kinds of exercises did you do in those first few weeks?"
"I don't even know if those exercises helped, Dr. Schuester. They wouldn't let me do any real stuff until they said that the tissue had healed. It was mainly stretching stuff. Still hurt."
"That sounds about right. So once the tissue healed, tell me a little bit about how your rehabilitation plan changed."
"Once it healed, I was allowed to use crutches. No weight-bearing, they said, for a few more weeks, but I could at least get around a bit. I'd have to rest a lot. And sometimes the blood would feel like it's all rushing to my foot."
"Typical feeling. That's ok."
"Then, a few months ago, they had me start some real exercises. A lot of it was just the kind of stuff to make sure that I could use my walker or the crutches without falling on my face. Still a lot of stretching."
"Do any pool work?"
"Yeah, some. Maybe once a week. And then once or twice a week at the PT office stretching, bending, standing, that kind of stuff."
"Ok. We're going to need to get in the pool to start probably. Here's what I'd like to do, Santana: we're going to take some x-rays, I'll look over them, I'll talk with Brittany, and then we'll set up a plan for your rehabilitation. Sound good?"
I don't hear her answer, but I assume it sounds good.
"Brittany," Dr. Shuester's voice calls from the main room. She bumps her hip hard against the edge of her desk as she quickly paces out of the office.
My phone buzzes again before I can peek out to check on Santana. Sometimes, I've noticed, when she sits in one place for too long, her face gets a little ashen and she looks like she's about to throw up.
"Hey," I whisper, glancing up to check on Santana. "I still can't talk. Santana's just in the other room. Look, I'll be home after I drop her off. I'll call you then. Please don't call back. No, I'm not mad, just don't call back.'"
I probably could have taken the call that time, especially since she's too busy to listen in on my conversation, but I can't have her suspecting anything. I don't know how I'll ever break this to her and a small part of me (or maybe even a big part) hopes it will end before I have to say anything at all.
When I hang up and turn back around, Dr. Shuester and Santana have disappeared and I see Brittany pulling a few thick medical books off a shelf in the opposite corner of the room.
"Where'd they go?" I call to her, twisted around in my chair to figure out what she's doing.
"X-ray. She'll be back in a few minutes." She takes a book and starts copying a few things onto a chart.
"Oh."
"It's really sweet of you to wait for her."
I don't want this girl to get the wrong impression. Santana's gorgeous and all, but, like I said, I'm not that into that. "Yeah, she's probably one of my best friends," I reply, with a little added emphasis.
She looks up from her book at me, scrutinizing me, and I can't help but wonder what she's actually thinking. Her eyes are turned up and the sharpest blue I've seen in a while and I, Quinn Fabray, actually feel uncomfortable under the gaze of another girl. I'm usually the one doing that to girls, not the other way around.
"Sorry," she says as she smiles at me. "I just...you look familiar."
"Well, we both play on the basketbal teaml."
"Yeah...I mean...I knew that...maybe my mind's just making things up again."
Weird. We smile at each other and I'm trying to give one of those fake smiles that you give people to show them that you're kind of done with the conversation. When she looks back in her book, I take it as the go-ahead to look back at the magazine that I've been idly cradling in my lap for the last thirty minutes.
I tap out a few texts, flip through pages of Taylor Swift and Channing Tatum, think about grabbing my journal article and then think better and then rethink it. By the time I've decided to actually pull the article out, Santana's back and looking a little more healthy after a walk down to x-ray and back.
Dr. Shuester puts the x-rays up against the light box and I am drawn to it like a moth to flame (or a pre-med to anything that could potentially give me a leg up at getting into medical school). When he sees me gaping from the waiting room he gives a little smile and then shuts off the light box and sits back down with Santana.
"Santana, I'd like to introduce you to Brittany, who will do much of your rehabilitation. She does the dirty work, so to speak." He gives a chuckle that makes me feel a little sick to my stomach.
Brittany pops back up out of some unseen corner of the room and almost immediately, it sounds like Santana's choking on a piece of gum she sucked down her windpipe. She did this after lunch the other day and I was afraid she was going to die just before she choked out 'water' in a hoarse voice.
I grab a little cone cup full of water and before her hand's even fully wrapped around the cup, her head is tilted back and she's gulping it down.
Pathetic. Hilarious. Maybe a little sad. Maybe. There was a time in freshman year when the sight of Santana Lopez choking on air would not have spurred me into any kind of action. Sure, I'll help her now, but that bitch inside of me can't help but smirk a little.
"Are you ok? You need more?" Brittany asks with concern in her eyes as she leans over Santana. Santana looks at me, then the ground as she shakes her head.
"You sure?" Dr. Shuester asks.
Eyes on me, then the floor again. She nods.
"Ok," Dr. Shuester draws out slowly, as if Santana's suddenly going to rethink things and demand water. "Well, where was I?"
I stand my ground and put my hand on the examination table just behind where Santana's perched. Brittany goofily raises her eyebrows and then her right hand like a kindergarten student.
"Oh right, Brittany. Like I was saying, Santana, you'll mainly be working with Brittany. She leads most of our patients through their exercises and monitors day-to-day progress."
I look over at Brittany and give another little smile. It's only polite. This is like her official introduction. Santana, though, well, Santana is another story. It's almost comical how terrible Santana looks. Like one of those cartoons where you can read 'miserable,' or 'dumbstruck,' or 'stunned' written all over its face. Actually I can't tell if it's nerves or pain. Maybe some combination. She does look pretty pale.
Dr. Shuester just continues on. "So here's the plan, Santana. Your x-rays look like they're where they should be for a patient recovering from your type of injury. Problem is, we're under strict orders by Coach Sylvester to get you on the fast track. I'm under the impression that you want that, too?"
Dumbstruck. Whatever. I spring into action. "Yeah, that's all she can talk about," I add, since Santana won't.
I see her nod after I speak.
"So we're going to start in a couple days. Four times a week. Initially, three days a week will be pool workouts. We'll use the rehabilitation pool on site. These pool workouts will help reduce some of the swelling that you've got going on, we'll work at delaying the muscle atrophy that's happening in your quads and glutes. If we get to a good point, we may actually work on rebuilding some of the muscle that has already atrophied. Sound good?"
We both nod at the same time. Even Brittany's nodding and kind of nervously looking at Santana, who still just stares ahead. Only Dr. Shuester doesn't seem concerned.
"One day a week, you'll be here in the office where we'll work on some stretching and some floor exercises. We'll probably start slow with these exercises because there's a little less room for error than in the pool. Some standing, some walking, start to go from there. That good?"
Another nod.
/
I get my last words in as the hospital doors glide open ahead of us.
"Listen, S, were you ok in there? You just kind of froze up at the end. I was worried about you. I mean, we were in a hospital, so I could only be but so worried. If something was really wrong then..."
"Fine, Quinn," she interrupts. "Just take me home. 'm tired."
The ten minute ride back to her room is silent and painful. Even after moving around and getting a little fresh air, the paleness has set in on her face. It's not like the times that she's just needed to stretch from sitting too long.
I know that asking if she's ok again is the wrong move. It's like asking someone if they're angry at you. If you have to ask, you should already know.
Something's wrong.
If I had to guess, it's fear. Santana Lopez isn't supposed to fear anything. Two-time McDonald's All-American. Big Ten Freshman of the Year. All-American her sophomore year, the youngest in USO history. She lays it up over six and a half foot forwards and boxes out 250 pound centers. She dives onto shiny wooden floors and doesn't even notice when the skin about four layers down has peeled away and blood starts gushing all over the court.
This fear is different. It's unknown. She's never had to battle back from injury. She's never had to fight her own body to make it work again. And she's certainly never been at the will of anyone else to make those things happen.
I wonder, just before I drop her off, if I should have volunteered to be her personal chauffeur There are going to be a lot of nights like this. In fact, there are going to be a lot of nights that are worse than this. But then I remember: we're not competing any more. We're friends. And despite not having a lot of friends in my life, I do know that this is what friends do.