(Rachel)
The first difference between New York and Lima is gigantism. Obvious! It's one thing to visit a city as a tourist. It's another to live there. The impact is different when you know that you will have to live with the benefits and the problems of one of the capitals of the world. It's more frightening. The impression I got was that New York was noisier and busier than ever. We arrived in the city in the middle of the afternoon on May 30 and tried to spend the first few days as simple tourists, except for Santana, who rushed to solve our most immediate problems. Mike's suggestion, who used the good argument as a way for us to relax a bit more in the face of novelty. We spent the weekend doing silly things like walking in Central Park. Quinn went to church. That was good for her.
First thing we did at Saturday morning: Santana went to sign the lease for the apartment at Bedford 215 North 7th Street, Brooklyn. I wanted to stay in Manhattan, but Santana had irrefutable financial arguments. We got an unfurnished apartment with basic kitchen equipment (refrigerator and stove) for $1,200 a month in an area that, ironically, was closer to Tribeca and Stuyvesant than if we were in Harlem. Also, there was hardly a two-bedroom apartment available for less than $3,000 in Manhattan. We got a bargain, but we would have to spend it on transportation. We lived near an industrial area of simple homes. There was a subway station next door to go to Manhattan. We would pedal the rest of the way. Of course, our providence for the week would be to buy second or third hand bikes.
While Quinn and Mike packed up our stuffs at the hostel, Santana and I drove earlier to our new residence on a street of ugly old buildings. We got off at the subway station and walked down the neighboring street to an unattractive blue building. We rang the intercom and met our landlady and the real estate lady in the third floor apartment (no elevator). The landlady, a woman in her mid-50s, wasn't very well dressed and looked unfriendly.
"I'm Santana Berry-Lopez. We just spoke on the phone. This is my sister, Rachel." Santana introduced me.
"Good afternoon, Miss Berry-Lopez. Well, this is a simplified contract. The apartment is yours for one year, but the contract can be broken by two consecutive months of default, or by simple withdrawal on your part. It's simple. You will have all the rights of tenants, as long as you pay on time. Any questions?"
"None."
"What do you do, Miss Berry-Lopez?" The owner of the apartment asked curiously, perhaps from seeing two teenage girls renting her property.
"I study at Stuyvesant... and my sister is a theater actress. She'll be at a play in the Flea, Tribeca."
"Oh, I love small theaters, they're cozier. If you may, get tickets!" The landlady smiled, revealing protruding canines. It gave me goosebumps.
"Of course!" I replied, forcing a smile to try to win the woman's sympathy. "It would be my pleasure."
While Santana dealt with the contractual terms, I explored the property. The bathroom had recently been remodeled, as had the kitchen cabinets. It was so small that I don't think two people could fit inside, and there was no bathtub: just a small shower stall. It was just a little bigger than a motorhome bathroom. According to the landlady, it was the second rental after the improvements, the previous resident having stayed four months. At least that's what she said. The kitchen was small and opposite one of the bedrooms. The fridge and stove were in good condition but we would need to buy a microwave oven.
The room was small, but enough to house a two-seater sofa and a four-seater table. We could create these two micro-environments over time. The bedrooms were the same size with a small built-in closet. There was barely room for two ordinary single beds with half a meter of space between them (my calculations). I suggested Santana to buy a bunk bed, already aware that I would share the room with her. We would gain more space. The other room would have basically the same configuration, and it bothered me a little to know that Quinn and Mike would sleep in the same place. My girlfriend sharing a room with a man? It was weird, even though I knew it would be next door.
I returned to the living room and witnessed Santana shaking hands with the landlady. The woman said goodbye satisfied, counting the money for two months rent in advance, thanks to the money from the sale of our car. Santana dangled the keys and we hugged each other, I gave her a peck in her lips and we cried. New York had become a reality.
"We need to make three more copies of the key." Santana told me as we toasted sitting on the living room floor, sipping water from disposable cups. Next to us, the folder with the contracts and receipts. I imagined that carrying this kind of document would be a constant for us. "I'll send the copy of the contract to Papi... he'll only be depositing 300 dollars this month, but it's better than nothing, right? At least our stay this summer is guaranteed."
"The good news is that everyone will be able to pay their share of the rent."
"At least that. Mike said he's going to deposit the money for his share into my account later this week, I know Quinn won't be able to deposit her share until the end of the month."
"And there's my share..."
"We'll talk about it later. Since I'm working in the morning and leaving at three in the afternoon, I can get some things done while you're rehearsing."
"Did Mr. Weiz tell you anything about your new job?"
"Just that I'm supposed to stop by the human resources department on the first day and talk to a Kate."
Quinn sent me a text message. She and Mike were arriving with their bags. We came down from our new house - and how odd it was to say that - to help them with our giant luggage. While I waited for their cab to arrive, Santana took the opportunity to go to a locksmith on the corner of the next block. In the meantime, Mike and Quinn arrived. Quinn and I went upstairs with the first two bags while Mike stayed to pay the cab driver. He was going to wait for Santana too. It was a pain to walk up three floors with all that stuff. When we arrived with our tongues hanging out and sweat dripping down our faces, Quinn left the suitcase in the middle of the living room and began to walk around the apartment with a curious expression: a mixture of strangeness and delight. I can't tell if I was able to read her features properly.
"Something wrong?"
"On the contrary, actually. This is much more than I imagined." She faced me and held my hand. "For you it's an opportunity that if it doesn't work out, you can go back home and wait for the next attempt, but for me this represents everything. I was condemned to stay in Lima... and suddenly... it's like I have a new chance. All thanks to you! And Santana... but don't let her know I said that."
"So, which room will you have?" I asked after we kissed.
"The same as yours?"
"Not that I don't want it, but... mission impossible!"
Quinn was about to comment on something, when Mike and Santana walked in with the rest of the bags. We didn't start packing as much as we could because we didn't have much to do. Santana handed out the keys to the apartment before we went down to a cheap restaurant nearby and toasted our first lunch as New York residents. Quinn, with her now inseparable camera, recorded the moment.
...
June 04, 2012
(Rachel)
I thought the workshop would be smooth. What a mistake. Quinn, Mike and I met the cast in the North Room of the Flea, where our play would be staged. Director Roger Benz and producer James Golvi had absolutely no comment on our being 10 minutes early, but gave Mary Stein, one of the actresses, a huge scolding for arriving five minutes after schedule. Also at the meeting were artistic producer Mark Millar, stage manager Lisa Brumm, costume and set designer Brian Mortinson, choreographer Jack Malta, voice coach Dana Grove, and light and sound technicians. I was amazed to see so many people in production on a play with amateur actors. But I also quickly learned that these people used to work on R&J productions, and that they were actually already designing the production of the play in an off-Broadway theater. Officially, Quinn was responding to Denise's demands, but she had to do a number of other jobs. She had to be wherever the need was: carrying scenery, buying things on the street, serving coffee and water...
"Congratulations to you who are 16 survivors out of almost 150 applicants." Roger began his speech. "Before we go into the workshop, I need to say that we have some questions and that's what this workshop is for. Each of you applied for a character, but we think some of you might work better in another role. We will do a reading of the script and you will be given the songs from the show. I won't require you to memorize the lines right now, but I want the song on the tip of your tongue. First you will study the original arrangement and then we will show you the arrangement for the play. Tomorrow we will divide you into two groups and you will do the readings of your characters and have the repertoire at the tip of your tongue. On Wednesday we will make the final cuts and decide who gets the titular roles and who will be the understudies and ensembles. Any questions?"
"Are we going to be remunerated for the workshop?" A colleague asked.
"No. You will be paid from the signing of the contract after the workshop. We're going to work on a lean and tight schedule." Roger explained with James standing next to him. "Our schedule is tight so our scene rehearsal will be full time."
"It's going to be hell, I'll let you know." James continued. "Even with the tight schedule, we demand perfection. Anyone not up to sweating blood leave now." He paused dramatically but no one moved. "Workshop today will run until whatever time is needed and we'll leave here with the schedule of scenes and choreography rehearsals for next week. So tonight you guys already have a lot of work to do. Any questions?" No one spoke up. "Great! Hell is here, but I assure you there will be compensations."
The director took the scripts and distributed them to each of us with the name of the corresponding character. There were two other girls who were chosen for the same character as mine, one of whom would be dismissed at the end of the first week, and the other would be placed as an undestudy. I looked at Mike who looked back confused. For his character, there were only two actors, and the sheet already indicated that Mike was the starter. Lisa began to pull up the reading. James and Roger weren't messing around. The first table read went smoothly, but as they followed, the more the pace picked up, the discussions became frantic. Roger was changing details on the fly and we had to keep up with all the changes, Mark was discussing scene divisions like a lunatic and the actors were caught up in the full intensity of events. At the end of the day, one of us couldn't stand it. One less, and one less job for the directors. When I looked at the clock, I was startled: it was eight o'clock at night.
"Santana must be out of her mind." I commented to Quinn and Mike as soon as we left Flea's.
"I warned her. I texted her." Quinn reassured me. "Otherwise, don't you think she would have come to Flea's after you by now?"
Quinn, Mike and I walked to the subway station. We were so exhausted that we didn't notice if it was dangerous or not. We were hungry, but the markets along the way were closed at that hour, and we didn't feel like sitting in a bar to eat junk food. We arrived home and found the place modified. The small kitchen counter had a bag of bread, cereal box and bananas tucked into a small fruit basket. In the fridge: gallon of milk and mineral water, some vegetables, jam, butter, Styrofoam tray with white cheese. In the freezer: a few packages of frozen food. On top of the sink there was a trash can and, still inside plastic bags, cookies, pasta (instant and spaghetti), cans of tuna, corn, soups, tea bags, a new frying pan, a milk jug and a small pan, some plastic pots, a package with six glass plates, as well as glasses and cutlery with the same amount. On the kitchen floor, bags of cleaning and personal hygiene products that had not yet been organized, as well as a basket of clothes for laundry days. I think Santana was so tired that she couldn't put these products in the closet.
While Mike and Quinn attacked the food, I went into the second bedroom, the one across from the bathroom. It was the one I shared with Santana. I was surprised to find two brand new single mattresses on the floor. Hooray, we wouldn't be sleeping on the hard floor anymore! Our new mattresses were lined with sheets. There was a pillow on top and tidy covers. One of them was occupied by my sleeping sister, facing the computer screen already blackened by the power saving mode, and with her back to the door.
"Ray?" she turned to me her voice hoarse with sleep. "What time is it?"
"It's late. I'm here and I'm okay. Go back to sleep."
"Okay."
I tidied my sister's covers, closed the computer and kissed her head goodnight. It was a gesture of love and thanks for everything she was doing for me. But I couldn't even think about sleeping: I needed to study my songs.
...
June 16, 2013
(Rachel)
The good news I had after the workshop: not only did I stay in the play, I won the starting position. On the other hand, I was dead tired. I just wanted to spend the morning sleeping, but the noise of the jackhammer working across the street was taking away my cool, and there weren't enough pillows to stop the continuous tatatatata. It's been like this throughout the week, and I could do absolutely nothing, not even complain to the neighbor. My sense of smell was invaded by the pancakes coming from the kitchen. I forced myself to get up from the mattress. A week in New York and I had little resemblance to the Rachel Berry-Lopez who woke up at six in the morning to exercise in Lima.
"Good morning." I said quickly to the other residents of the apartment before walking into the bathroom like a zombie.
Mike was preparing pancakes (not vegan at all) and my mouth salivated. It was a shock when we discovered that not only was he able to cook relatively well, but he also had the ability to go outside the basics, unlike the rest of us. Quinn, by the way, was a denial of barely knowing how to fry an egg and who basically got by with processed food. Quinn and my sister would mumble as they chewed on their pancakes, sitting at our newly acquired third-hand round four-seater table. The furniture showed up on Thursday, and it made me think Santana was visiting the New York dump after her workday. We had four chairs to sit on, for example. The four were of different models. She defended herself by saying that there was a second-hand furniture store in the neighborhood, and that chairs and furniture that weren't part of a set were cheaper.
Grumbling, I took out the gallon of orange juice and my jam to eat with whole wheat bread.
"You're not going to give up that rabbit food even to try this deliciousness?" Quinn, the bacon eater, said with her mouth full.
"You know, Rachel, if you were just a vegetarian, you know, one of those almost normal people who don't eat meat but eat foods made with eggs and milk, you could try this treat guilt-free." Santana forked up the honeyed pancake.
"I'm great!"
Throughout the week, some things were discussed between division of tasks and supermarket. We didn't have time for anything on weekdays, so we would have to do the housework on weekends. Quinn and I would do the cleaning and laundry. Mike would take care of the kitchen and Santana would rest. Nothing could be fairer. Throughout the week, my sister bought new mattresses, filled our pantry, bought new things for the kitchen, such as glasses, cutlery, two pots and a pan, plastic containers and so on. I could tell that 17 year old ex-cheerio was working her butt off to make that space a home.
Santana introduced Bobby, a plastic pot with a hippo-shaped lid that sits on the kitchen counter. From everything we earned, we would put some into Bobby. The collective money would be used for urgent expenses such as paying for transportation, medicine, food, a small purchase at the market, laundry (the laundry in our building was creepy and I swore there were people buried there, but there was another one on the same block that was twice the price, but it was worth it). We would get paid at the end of each week, so Bobby would theoretically make $50 every week. Santana would only get her money at the end of the month.
"Imagine if we started spending our time in coffee shops, like in 'Friends'?" I smiled as I remembered Dad, who was the show's number one fan.
"No. I would kill myself if I saw you and Quinn playing Ross and Rachel. I would never play Monica and make a boring marriage with Mike out of neediness!" Mike looked extremely offended at Santana, who didn't care. "Then I'd rather spend my free time with my friends at a bar, like on 'How I Met Your Mother'. Barney Stinson is my idol... oh no!" Everyone looked curious at my sister's dramatic parade. "I just realized that Quinn and Rachel might be the most perfect embodiment of Marshall and Lily. What a pain in the ass!"
"As long as I don't panic and shave my hair off on our wedding day!" Quinn smiled.
"As long as your first time isn't on the bunk bed in our room, with me on the top bunk in the best Teddy Mosby's fashion." I spat out my juice, which still came out my nose. "And our room will have a bunk bed... someday. But of course, I'm not like that asshole Ted Mosby, and I'd certainly kill Quinn before she had a chance to deflower you before my eyes or ears!"
"Can we please stop this conversation, especially since it involves my sex life?" I complained. Santana sometimes went overboard with these ramblings.
"Rachel, you don't have a sex life!"
"You think..." Quinn said quietly, turning sideways, but I was still able to hear.
It wasn't like we had ever done anything extraordinary. But Quinn was the fastest person to get to "second base" with me. She didn't ask formal permission and went for the goal with more passion, I might add. Apparently, watching me rehearse the scenes gets her excited, and at the first opportunity she drags me down to the stage control room in Flea's basement. It's the quietest place we have for now. We're still working on a way to date more quietly. Flea will never be an ideal place, and at home Santana doesn't make it easy. It's not that she cares so much about my chastity. It's more to do with the way she lost hers.
I understand that my sister didn't want her story to happen to me, and wished I would give myself to someone I really love. But sometimes she overreacted. I knew that Quinn might be the one - I think Santana had the same impression, or she might have been trying to boycott me for real, like she did with Finn. We'd been dating for a little over a month, and Quinn made me feel things, want to try things, but some of my convictions still stood. I would talk to Quinn about it, and she would always reaffirm that she was going to wait as long as it took. I just wouldn't want to lose my virginity in the Flea basement or rushing home in fear of my sister catching me.
Quinn, personally, had a week of small accomplishments and I'm not just talking about getting to "second base". On Friday, as she was laying crepe tape on the stage for our markings, Roger inspected her camera and was impressed with what he saw. He needed to finish the artwork and folders as soon as possible and had not yet called an ad agency. He thought Quinn's photos were perfect for what he wanted and thought they were, and he bought them: $20 for each individual shot of the cast and $50 for one where Mike and I are dancing through the streets of Manhattan. The photo was taken on our first weekend in the city, near the hostel. She made $300 from the sale of the photos, which was an amount she didn't make from a full week's work. I won't forget Quinn's proud face on this day. The most expensive photo, of me and Mike dancing, was going to become the official poster. What Roger paid Quinn must have been about 10% of what he would have had to shell out for a professional photographer.
Mike was another one who was getting more and more confident, and we noticed that he was pushing himself more and more from the scene rehearsals. Roger said he was a mediocre singer, but a fabulous dancer and promising actor. Mike talked to Tina every day by text message or usually by skype. He said she was planning to come to town, but that would be a bad idea. We were very busy, working, and there were some sexier scenes involving the other actors (because of my age, I couldn't do them, yet there was a kissing scene that Quinn hated watching). I don't know how Tina would react to seeing her boyfriend kissing an actress, five, six times in a row... as many times as it took. And Mike was becoming more and more "friends" with Angela Sobbs, one of the understudies' actresses and ensembles.
"What are we doing today?" Mike asked casually.
"I've been meaning to check out the park nearby. It should be nice to walk there." Quinn rambled.
"Not at all! We still have to work. There's that Catholic church bazaar today." Santana showed the flyers for bazaars and garage sales she was collecting around town. She was obsessed and determined to make that house a comfortable home. "Oh, and there's a garage sale nearby!"
We made a list of furniture priorities. We basically had a table with four chairs at home... and four new mattresses... that was pretty much it. Santana said she saw a bunk bed available at the Goodwill chain, and she should buy it as soon as possible. We still had to buy (on a very tight budget): a sofa and a small bookcase.
We locked the house and walked off to the garage sale, which wasn't far away. But halfway there, we were lucky enough to witness a couple who had just thrown a sofa out. You weren't allowed to throw away furniture like that. You either had to donate it, sell it or call the city service that collects this kind of stuff. Still, lucky for us, there were enough rude people to give the city cleaning service more work.
"Hey fellas." Mike called out to the couple. "Are you guys getting rid of that couch?"
"Yeah." The man replied.
"Is there anything wrong with it?"
"There's nothing broken, it's just old and the fabric is a bit worn. Since we have cats, it needs to be cleaned."
"Oh... may I?" Mike sat down on the couch and smiled. "It's comfortable."
"Well, it's yours if you want it." The man got into the gatehouse.
"It's ugly! It looks like it was made with the same fabric as Rachel's skirts!" Santana protested with her usual rudeness.
"But it's so comfortable!" Mike insisted. "You can lie down in it."
"Rachel could camouflage herself in that thing! Imagine sitting down to watch TV and suddenly being bitten by a hobbit? Hair could grow on our feet!"
"Shut up, Satan!" Quinn defended me. "These remarks of yours against Rachel have already reached the limit of what is tolerable. You've overflowed your daily quota. Now that's enough!"
"Who do you think you are to meddle where you don't belong?" My sister squawked.
"Her girlfriend!"
This argument went on for a long time. Quinn and Santana shoved each other in the middle of the street because of me, I got desperate between the two, Mike laid down on the couch to watch, and an audience formed to cheer. Finally, after nerves settled, we decided to take the plaid, two-seater, but it was comfortable enough to take a nap in. Mike and I held the front end, Quinn and Santana held the other, and the four of us carried that couch through the streets of Brooklyn. It wasn't a pretty scene. I couldn't see what was in front of me and I stuck my foot in puddles twice, tripped a couple of times, and had to put up with the whistles and jeers that people yelled along the way. Apart from the infernal heat that was going on in that city. The worst part was climbing up the three floors with that thing!
"I will never do that again in my life." I collapsed on the floor as soon as we finally got the couch into the apartment.
"Not even in my cheerio days did I have to push this hard." Quinn collapsed next to me.
"I just want to die!" Mike collapsed onto the couch.
"Anyone still want to go to the church bazaar?" Santana wanted to sound excited, but she was dragging too.
"I only go out with you if it's to buy a fan." I said to my sister.
Well, we bought one and then we stayed home. The ridiculous little computer screen was fine for watching a few programs. Television and bookshelf for what?
…
June 24, 2012
(Rachel)
It was a rush in the morning. First there was a fight for the bathroom. It wasn't uncommon to have two people fighting over the sink to brush their teeth, or the mirror to comb their hair. The knocks on the door and the curses were routine. Santana always claimed priority because she was the one who had to leave early to catch the subway to the financial sector of the city, basically the same route she would take to the new school, but with one less station. It was strange to see my sister leave the house in a dark blue uniform skirt, closed-toe shoes, and a white blouse with the Weiz Co. logo embroidered on it. There was also the blazer that she left in the company locker room and only brought back on weekends to wash. Her hair was always neatly tied back in a neat bun. She wore light makeup and discreet lipstick. She hated her uniform.
My sister worked from 9am to 3pm with no lunch break. It would be like that for two more months to earn minimum wage, because once Stuyvesant started, she was going to quit her job and live off of Zaide's allowance, which was 2,000 dollars. With her rent paid and $2,000 allowance, Santana could live comfortably on her own in New York. It wouldn't be a life of luxury, but she was a good manager and would know how to keep the money coming. But we were four mouths now, and Quinn could barely afford her share of the rent. We had secured three months in New York because of our car sale and Mike's money, but we would have to plan very well for the rest of the year. I had a lot of faith that things would work out.
Santana's routine was no less demanding than ours, and the salary she earned was what truly put food on the table.
Mike and I used to run out to Flea. Roger didn't have the slightest problem with kicking the crap out of anyone who was late. In fact, I believe he took an almost carnal pleasure when he yelled. Quinn's destiny wasn't always the theater. As an intern - or a slave to almost everything - she sometimes had to go to the print shop to pick up packages of ticket lots for the box office, folders, and whatever else was requested. Almost every day, she had to arrive with Starbucks coffee for the production team present in the theater. She bought mineral water for the directors and producers, painted and loaded scenery, put up crepe tape to mark the stage, took photos (and she liked that because it earned her some extras). And in her spare moments, she'd cling to me in the Flea's basement control room until her cell phone rang or someone yelled for her, which had become routine.
Mike and I learned the art of waiting sitting in Flea's own chairs, or standing on stage. We would repeat a line a million times, a move a million times, an expression, an intonation, a dance step... all a zillion times. There were times when we laughed because someone made a mistake and no one could control themselves, not even Roger. In those cases, everything ended well. Other times, we'd argue so hard that sometimes I'd walk down the aisle stomping. Yes, they started calling me a "diva project". But all I had to do was take a drink of water or a deep breath, or get a consoling kiss from Quinn. They started calling her "Lopez's Valium." They always forgot about Berry.
We usually arrived home between nine and ten in the evening. We would find Santana already showered. Sometimes she was lying on the plaid sofa reading some book. Sometimes, she was sitting at the old desk, working on her computer. We no longer had time to surf the internet like we used to, so Santana was like a Lima reporter: "Beth has one more tooth"; "Our dad officially entered his midlife crisis when he traded in his Honda for a Porsche"; "Shelby got a new offer to come back to run Vocal Adrenaline, she said she's going to accept because she and Beth are moving in together with papi"; "Puck besides cleaning pools, now works in a store"; "Blaine and Kurt are going to travel to Disney together"; "Mercedes is in New Orleans for a trip that she says is spiritual and is supposed to spend in New York early next month for Quinn's birthday"; "Sam is dating Cherrie, that cheerio who tried to kiss me more than once"; "Schue is dating Mrs. Pillsbury"; "Britt has moved to Los Angeles".
Saturday morning was laundry day and other household chores, like washing the bathroom and cleaning the house. On Sunday morning, we would take the subway to the island. Quinn would attend mass at the church across from Washington Square. Santana and I would go to the synagogue inside the Jewish college on the same street, two blocks to the right. Mike went on to declare himself an atheist.
Yeah... the world moved on.
...
Tina was the first friend from Lima to visit us, because of Mike. She arrived on a Thursday. Everything got weird. Mike and Angela were very enthusiastic friends at that time. Friends who had been copulating. That happened at least once that we know of. On Sunday afternoon, Tina and Mike locked themselves in the room he shared with Quinn, they seemed to be arguing. Santana and I thought we'd better take a walk around town and enjoy the sunny afternoon. Quinn was doing some freelance photography work appointed by a person from her new church. I think it was a birthday party.
"Do you think they'll be okay?" I asked Santana as we sipped beer, walking nonchalantly through Brooklyn.
"They won't, not anymore. The distance between them has increased a lot, and I'm not talking about the geographical one. Mike found himself here, and Tina is still a girl from Lima."
"But we are also from Lima."
"Yes, and we always will be. But we don't belong to that city anymore, you know? Would you honestly adapt to living there after what you experienced here? Do you think you could go back to being who you were after spending a month getting by in New York, having to solve your own problems, doing your own thing with no one to control you? Except me, of course."
"Shelby did."
"Yeah, but she did have a transition when she started working in New Jersey."
"You're right. It wouldn't be the same anymore. I'm not the same person. I don't think I could stand the little dramas in our choir or from our friends anymore."
"Me neither."
We looked at store windows, went into a few ones, ate some of those street foods and sat on public benches to watch the time go by.
"You're lonely." I said on the way home. "It's strange to see you with no one."
"Everything has its time. And I confess I'm enjoying this single, quiet phase... for now. I'm still trying to get over my feelings for Brittany. Getting a boyfriend or girlfriend isn't going to help me with that. I need to sort things out in here first. I'm not ready."
"You don't really think about anyone? From work maybe?"
"Eww, no!" She put her arm around my shoulder as we continued walking. "Don't worry, Ray: the moment I lay eyes on someone, it'll be for real." After a while in silence, Santana asked. "What about you and Quinn? Do you really think she's the one?" Santana was talking between the lines about my first time.
"Come on, Santy."
"I'm not silly, Ray. I see things, okay. You're 17, hormones are running high. I just wonder if you think you're mature enough for this stage, and if you think Quinn deserves the honor?"
Santana had a point.
"I think I'm ready, and I'm sure Quinn is the person. I mean, I still have my convictions. I don't want it to happen anywhere, anyhow. It needs to be special, with respect and care. I talk it over with Quinn, and she agrees."
"I'm glad... I never thought I could admit it, but I think she really likes you." Santana raised her finger in warning. "But let it just be between us. I'd hate to see that cynical look on her face that I'm sure she'll make if she finds out." I laughed. "And don't think I'll stop being a bitch about her." I laughed even louder.
We met Tina in the lobby of our building. She was waiting for the taxi with bright red, puffy eyes. We knew exactly the outcome of the conversation without having to ask about it.
"Hey Tina..." Santana said low, meekly, trying to be supportive.
"Did you guys know?" Tina shot us a look.
"We work together and live together..." I tried to rationalize.
"And you didn't have the courage or consideration to tell me?" Tina was truly disgusted. "They let me come here to be humiliated?"
"It wasn't for us to say!" Santana said still trying to ponder so as not to hurt her further.
"Go to hell and leave me alone!"
We didn't. Santana and I sat on the curb and kept Tina company until the cab showed up. Before she got in the car, she gave in and hugged us, crying a lot. It wasn't easy to say goodbye to her. When we went up to our apartment we saw that Mike was in his room with the door closed. We respected his space and time. That was how this newly formed family worked.