Out (Episode 3.09) (2/2)
* * *
Lola, Abby, and Luke were gathered in a basement rec room. Luke half-heartedly strummed an old guitar while Lola threw a dart across the room.
The dart board had about twenty pieces of paper taped to it. Lola's dart pierced one that said “baby.”
“What've we got?” Lola asked. Abby looked down at the notepad in front of her.
“'In the gangrenous night of love I kiss you, baby,'” she read. She made a face. “Why did we put 'gangrenous' on the list, again?”
“I don't think leaving it to chance is working,” Lola mused.
“This is the stupidest assignment,” Luke grumbled, letting his guitar drop to the floor.
“You know,” Lola smirked, “if someone just wrote about his feelings, we wouldn't be having this problem.”
“His feelings?” Luke asked. “Don't you people have any feelings of your own?”
“Sure,” replied Lola, “but we don't squirm when we talk about them, so spill.”
“Spill what?”
“Your massive crush on Quinn Fabray, I'm assuming,” Abby said in a bored tone while she peeled papers off of the dart board.
“How did you know about that?”
“You've spent the past three months of glee staring at her,” Lola said. “You're about six kinds of un-stealth.”
“Says the girl who had to start dressing like a Gossip Girl reject to land a boyfriend,” Luke pointed out.
Lola glowered at him, but Abby snickered in the background. “Still, though,” she said, “the girl's single. What's stopping you?”
“One: I don't think she knows I exist,” Luke said. “Two: she's been sending out the most intense I-have-issues-and-don't-want-to-deal-with-any-more-drama vibes I've ever seen in my entire life. I don't think she needs me getting all up in her business.”
“That is a very mature response,” Abby said with admiration.
Lola just shook her head. “Dude, you're never going to get anywhere with that attitude.”
“You and I are very, very different people,” Abby remarked.
“I appreciate what you're trying to do,” Luke said. He paused. “Actually, I have no idea what you're trying to do, and I'm kind of concerned about why you care.”
“I think she just likes meddling,” Abby said. Lola stuck out her tongue.
“Well, I'm just going to stay in a holding pattern right now,” Luke said. “We'll see if anything changes in the future.”
Lola shook her head. “You guys have no concept of taking control of your own destiny.” She threw another dart at the board. “What's it say now?”
Abby squinted at the paper. “In the gangrenous night of love I kiss you, baby . . . electric.'”
“Seriously,” Luke said, “there are so many good songs in the world. Why is he making a bunch of teenagers write their own?”
* * *
Santana looked at herself in the mirror of her bedroom. She took in the crisp Cheerios uniform, the perfect make-up, the flawless pony-tail.
As she pulled out her hair-tie and tossed her hair, she could feel her life suddenly gaining a soundtrack. One that she was singing.
“What's the time?” She let her uniform fall to the floor. “Well, it's gotta be close to midnight.” She pulled a black skirt out of her closet. “My body's talkin' to me, it says, 'Time for danger.'”
She put on the skirt and checked herself out again in the mirror. “It says, 'I wanna commit a crime. Wanna be the cause of a fight.' I wanna put on a tight skirt--” she pulled it a little farther down her hips “--and flirt, with a stranger.”
In just her bra and skirt, Santana walked back over to her closet and rifled through the hangers. “I've had a knack from way back at breaking the rules once I've learned the game.” She picked out a red tank top. “So get up, life's too quick. I know someplace sick, where this chick'll dance in the flames.”
At the mirror once again, she pulled her shirt on over her head and studied her look. “We don't need any money. I always get in for free. You can get in, too, if you get in with me. Let's go--”
She grabbed a pair of heels from underneath her bed. “--Out, tonight. I have to go out, tonight.” She sat down and took out her eye shadow. “You wanna prowl, be my night owl? Well, take my hand, we're gonna howl. Out, tonight.”
Fast forward to twenty minutes later, Santana was getting into her car. “In the evening, I've got roam.” She turned on the engine and pulled into the street. “Can't sleep in the city of neon and chrome. Feels too damn much like home, when the Spanish babies cry.”
Fast forward again, and she was slamming the door to her car and strutting away from it down the street, somehow both supremely confidant and terribly vulnerable. “So let's find a bar, so dark we forget who we are.” She turned a corner. “And all the scars of the nevers and maybes die. Let's go--”
She opened a door and entered a brick building. The interior was more institutional-looking than bar-looking. “Out, tonight. I have to go out, tonight. Tonight. Tonight. Tonight. Tonight.”
Santana found herself in front of a door opening into a large lecture hall. A woman was standing at the front of the room talking and writing on a whiteboard. Santana frowned and looked at her phone.
When she looked up again, Jen was standing in front of her.
“Hey, come on in,” Jen whispered.
Santana gaped at her. “Are you freaking serious?”
Jen glanced over her shoulder at the classroom and, shutting the door behind her, stepped out into the hallway with Santana.
“What's the deal?”
Santana just kept staring at her. “The deal? The deal is that I text you to say my day sucked and you tell me to drive out here to go to a lecture?”
“It's not a lecture, it's a book talk,” Jen said, “and I thought you'd enjoy it. Her book's about the effect of rural communities on queer youth--”
“Jen?” Santana cut in. “What alternate universe are you living in where I want to hear someone talk about something serious?”
“It's not like it's algebra or some useless B.S. like that,” Jen said. “This stuff is important. It's our lives.”
“It's not--” Santana paused to consider it. “It's not really my life, though.”
Jen furrowed her eyebrows. “I don't get what you're saying.”
“I'm just trying to make it through the day, y'know?” Santana said. “I care what happens, but, like, I'm not an activist. I'm not Eleanor Roosevelt over here.”
“Do you . . . think that Eleanor Roosevelt was a gay rights activist?”
“I'm just saying . . . I get pissed off about this stuff like anyone else, but I'm more interested in Blake Lively's next fashion disaster than I am in talking about it all the time. It's just . . . not me.”
Jen took a step toward her. “Okay,” she said quietly. “That's fine, we can go somewhere else.” She reached out to put her hand on Santana's arm, but Santana pulled away.
“It's you, though.”
“What?”
“It's you,” Santana said. There was a realization in her voice. “You're politics and documentaries and indie rock. I'm celebrity gossip and slasher flicks and pop music.”
“So?” Jen said.
“You refuse to listen to Top 40 radio.”
“I appreciate Lady Gaga on an intellectual level,” Jen tried saying in her own defense. When Santana rolled her eyes, she pressed on. “Look, you say that like it means something. But we don't have to be into the same stuff. We just have to be into each other.” She shot Santana a pleading look.
“I don't think that's how it works,” Santana said. “Not when--” Her voice broke, but she kept going. “Not when I could be with someone else who I do match up with.”
Jen snapped her head back. “There's another girl?”
Santana sniffled. “Yeah. Yeah, there is.”
“You . . . you cheated?” Jen asked, looking betrayed.
“What? No,” Santana said. “I just . . . she's right for me, she's so right for me, but we've never gotten the timing together. But I think it could work now . . .”
“Except for me,” Jen finished.
“I'm sorry,” Santana said. “You should feel special; I don't say that very often.”
“Yeah, that's a real comfort, thanks,” Jen said. She wrapped her arms around herself. “We're not that different, you know. Not in the ways that count. We're both sarcastic, cynical. We both think the world's a stupid place.”
“That's the thing, isn't it?” Santana said. “I don't need to be more bitter. I need sweetness. And light. A balance.”
“A ballast,” Jen murmured.
“Is that an insult?”
“No,” Jen sighed. “It's a surrender.” She stuck her hands in her pockets. “I should get back in there.”
“Yeah. Well . . .” Santana trailed off.
“Bye, then.”
“Yeah. Bye.”
Jen turned around and walked back into the classroom. Santana paused to wipe a tear from her face before turning back the way she came.
* * *
“You haven't done this in a while,” Finn said, putting down his X-box controller and taking the glass of warm milk Kurt offered. “Wait, did something bad happen? Oh, God, something bad happened, didn't it?”
Kurt sat down next to him on the couch with his own mug of tea. “Yes, Finn,” he deadpanned. “I'm pregnant.”
Finn's eyes grew wide for a second before he got the joke. “Hey!” He tried to sound angry, but as Kurt snickered at his reaction, he found himself laughing, too.
“Warm milk isn't a very good summer drink,” Kurt explained after they'd calmed down.
“That's legit,” Finn said, and he took a sip. Kurt observed him carefully.
“There was something I wanted to talk to you about, though,” he said.
“What?” Finn asked.
“We never got to compare notes about last night,” Kurt said.
“You were a little busy making out with your boyfriend in the front seat of your car,” Finn said.
“While you were making out with your girlfriend on the front porch of her house and that's not the point, Finn.” Kurt looked at him expectantly.
“I don't know what you want to talk about,” Finn finally said. “Guys don't--” he stopped himself just as Kurt's eyebrows made a mad dash for the top of his forehead, “--sorry, I don't really, like, talk about my dates and stuff.”
“Hmm,” Kurt mused.
“You look like you want to say something,” Finn said. “You have that judge-y look on your face.”
“Not judge-y,” Kurt said. “Just . . . concerned.”
“Concerned?”
Kurt grabbed a coaster off the stack and set it on the coffee table before placing his mug down. “Rachel is one of my best friends. And you,” he said, poking Finn in the shoulder, “in spite of, or perhaps because of, everything we've been through, are family. I just don't want to see the people I care about get hurt.”
“No one's going to get hurt,” Finn said. “Why do you think someone's going to get hurt?”
“She's going to New York, Finn.”
“I could be, too,” Finn said. “I'm applying to some schools there. And even if I don't get in, I mean, long distance relationships can work. That's why we have phones, and Facebook, and digital cameras.”
Kurt shook his head. “I'm not saying long-distance relationships can't work . . .”
“. . . you're saying mine can't,” Finn finished for him.
“I'm sorry,” Kurt said. “But you get anxiety from just having a conversation with her sometimes. I saw it last night. And I just don't think that bodes well for your future together.”
“And what, you and Blaine are gonna be great when he goes off to college?” Finn huffed.
“We're not talking about me,” Kurt replied evenly. Some of the wind went out of Finn's sails.
“I know it seems weird,” he said, “to see it from the outside. But, I just . . . we're connected. It doesn't matter what we don't have in common. We have that.”
Kurt sighed. “I hope that's enough,” he said, getting up. “For your sake.”
“For both our sakes, you mean,” Finn said.
Kurt looked back at him from the doorway. “For your sake.”
* * *
The next day, Santana walked up to Brittany at her locker.
“Hey,” she said quietly.
“Hey,” Brittany said back, although she seemed suspicious of Santana.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Sure.” Brittany closed her locker, and they ducked into the empty girls' bathroom.
“I broke up with Jen last night,” Santana said.
“Oh, was that her name?” Brittany asked, trying to sound disinterested.
“Yeah,” Santana replied. “Anyway, like I said, we broke up.” They looked at each other in silence.
After a moment, Brittany said, “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“It means I think I've finally figured it out,” Santana said. “And . . .” she swallowed hard. “I want to be with you. I want to do what it takes to be with you.”
Brittany looked at her sadly. “Santana, you know I love you, but you've said the same stuff to me so many times. I don't know if I can trust you--”
“You can,” Santana insisted, but Brittany talked over her.
“--and I don't need to be in a relationship to be happy.”
Santana raised an eyebrow. “Dave said you were singing 'I Wanna Dance with Somebody' in the auditorium.”
“Because it's awesome and Mike and Tina are super-fun dance partners? Not every song has to have a special meaning.” At the look on Santana's face, she went on. “I'm not saying I don't want to have a boyfriend or girlfriend. And I'm not saying I don't miss you, or I don't want to date you. But I don't need to, and I'm not going to do it until you show me that you've changed. I can be your friend, but I can't be more than that.”
Santana stared at her feet as Brittany turned and walked away. When she got to the door, Santana looked up.
“I just have to show you that I've changed?” she asked.
Brittany nodded. “I can't hide myself to be with someone else who's hiding, San. I just can't.”
“I know,” Santana said. She watched Brittany leave and took a deep, steadying breath. “It's a good thing I'm done hiding.”
* * *
“Hey, Rach,” Finn said as he approached his girlfriend with one hand behind his back.
“What are you--” Rachel started to ask, but she stopped when Finn pulled out a bouquet of flowers.
“I realized I probably should have given you these on our date,” Finn said sheepishly. “Um, you know I'm not so good with that type of stuff.”
“I know, sweetie.” Rachel held the flowers to her nose and smelled them. “They're wonderful, though. Thank you.” She paused. “You didn't do something stupid, did you?”
“No!” Finn said. “But . . . I might need your help with something.” He stuffed his hand in his jeans pocket and pulled out a crumpled sheet of notebook paper. “I figured since you wrote me a song one time, and I wrote you a song one time, we should maybe write this one together.” He smoothed out the paper and handed it to Rachel. “It's only a title so far, but--”
“'Connection',” Rachel read. “I like it. Simple. Honest. To-the-point. It has potential.”
“So, you'll write it with me?” Finn asked.
“Do I get to make it a power ballad with lots of opportunities for intense emoting?”
“Of course.”
“Then absolutely, yes,” Rachel smiled, and she leaned into Finn when he put his arm around her.
* * *
Mercedes and Quinn were sitting at a table in the library doing their homework when Santana sat down across from them.
“Whoopi, Hasselbeck,” she nodded to each in turn. “I need your help.”
Mercedes and Quinn shot each other looks. “You know, people might be more inclined to help you if you didn't give them vaguely offensive nicknames,” Mercedes pointed out.
Santana waved the comment away with her hand and looked meaningfully at Quinn. “It's for Brittany.”
Both Quinn's and Mercedes's faces lit up, and they shared another, very different look. “Seriously?” Quinn said.
“It's about damn time,” Mercedes added.
“Wait, you told her?” Santana accused Quinn.
“She didn't have to say a word,” Mercedes said. “Girl, you are many things, but subtle isn't one of them.”
Santana pouted at the pair in front of her.
Amused, Quinn asked, “So, what do you need? Backup?”
“Of course,” Santana said. “If I'm gonna be a loser-freak, I might as well go all the way with it. You two and maybe Tina? I basically hate all of my other options.”
“It's cute how you think we still believe you when you say stuff like that,” Mercedes remarked. “You got a song picked out?”
“Yes,” Santana smiled. “Yes, I do.”
* * *
The entire glee club was assembled in the choir room when Will walked in late. Before he could even say anything, Santana raised her hand from the back row.
“Mr. Schue?” she said. “I have something I'd like to say before rehearsal.”
“Okay,” Will said, “but if you start actively insulting anyone, I'm going to have to ask you to stop.”
“I'll be good; I promise.” She nodded at Quinn, Mercedes, and Tina, who got up and walked over to stand near the piano. The jazz band shuffled into position.
Santana made her way to the front of the room, as well. She was wearing a long winter coat that had been zipped up to her chin. She stood for a moment at the front of the room, her back still to the audience, and tried to gather her courage. She bit her lip nervously, but then she made eye contact with Quinn.
“Oh my god, just do it,” Quinn mouthed, and she gave Santana a reassuring grin. Santana smiled weakly, but she unzipped her coat and turned around.
Underneath it, she wore a shirt in the same style as the shirts they'd worn during “Born This Way.”
This time, the word written on Santana's chest was “Lesbian.”
No one sitting in the chairs gasped, or even looked particularly surprised. Instead, they looked proud of their friend. And no one looked prouder than Brittany.
“So, I don't really do feelings, or whatever,” Santana said, “and I'm not about to start now. But, um . . . this is who I am.” She gestured at her shirt. “And I'm more than willing to show anyone who doesn't like it how we do in Lima Heights Adjacent. Anyway . . .” she trailed off. “I just wanted you all to know about it so this next part would make sense.”
She shrugged her coat off all the way and threw it over the piano. At that cue, Brad began to play. The song was immediately obvious, and in the audience Mike leaned over and squeezed Brittany's shoulder. Brittany, for her part, was trying not to cry.
“Lookin' out on the morning rain,” Santana sang. Quinn, Mercedes, and Tina provided the background vocals.
“I used to feel so uninspired.
And when I knew I had to face another day,
Lord, it made me feel so tired.
Before the day I met you,
life was so unkind,
But you're the key to my peace of mind.
'Cause you make me feel,
you make me feel,
you make me feel like a natural woman.”
As she started the next verse, Santana started unabashedly crying. But through her tears she looked directly at Brittany, wanting to show that she meant every word.
“When my soul was in the lost-and-found,
you came along to claim it.
I didn't know just what was wrong with me,
'til your kiss helped me name it.”
Santana held her hands out, and Brittany rushed up to take them.
“Now I'm no longer doubtful
of what I'm living for,
and if I make you happy I don't need to do more.”
She wrapped her arms around Brittany's neck in classic slow-dance fashion, and Brittany's hands settled at her waist.
“'Cause you make me feel,
you make me feel,
you make me feel like a natural woman.”
The other members of the club with significant others present stood up and joined in on the slow-dancing. Everyone else sat with Will in the audience, touched at what was happening. Even Karofsky smiled at the scene.
Kurt, seeing Quinn standing in the front of the room alone, got up to go dance with her. As he walked by Karofsky, he shot the other boy a smirk and a raised eyebrow, which seemed to issue the same challenge Santana had earlier.
“Oh, baby, what you've done to me.
You make me feel so good inside.
And I just want to be
close to you, you make me feel so alive.
You make me feel,
you make me feel,
you make me feel like a natural woman.”
As the rest of the group broke into applause, Santana pulled Brittany into a sweet, surprisingly chaste, perfect little kiss.
* * *
In the hallway, Azimio came up to Karofsky and clapped him on the back.
“Thank God,” Azimio said.
“What?”
“You can quit glee club now,” Azimio said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“I-- what?” Karofsky asked.
“Dude,” Azimio gaped at him, “don't tell me you haven't heard?”
“I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“Santana Lopez! She bats for the other team. Loves Ellen. Goes diving for--”
“I get it,”Karofsky said. “So?”
“Well, if you don't have a shot at getting in her cargo pants any time soon, why the hell would you stay in glee?”
“I don't know,” Karofsky shrugged. Azimio kept looking at him, and he swallowed hard. “I guess I just like hanging out with her. And stuff.”
“Oh. My. God.” Azimio shook his head in disbelief. “That Queerio did something to you.”
“Don't call her that,” Karofsky said quietly.
“Why not? You call a spade a spade, you call a lesbo a--”
He was cut off by Karofsky shoving him into the nearest row of lockers.
“I said don't call her that!” he shouted.
“Or what?” Azimio shouted back, and he added a push of his own of good measure. “Did Homo Explosion turn you into a fag, too?”
“Maybe I already was one!” Karofsky yelled. His eyes grew wide as he realized what he'd said.
“What?” Azimio asked, doing a double take. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I said--” Karofsky trailed off. Breathing hard, he looked away for a moment, running through the options in his head.
When he looked back, there was a steely determination in his eyes.
“I said I already was a fag.”
“You're kidding,” Azimio said, backing away slightly. “There's no way you're serious. Look, I'm sorry about making fun of your little--”
“I'm not kidding.” The anger faded, and Karofsky looked close to tears. “And I'm tired of sitting here listening to everyone make jokes and not being able to say anything. I'm gay, Z.”
The entire hall was silent. Azimio just looked at him, completely dumbstruck. Karofsky took a step toward him.
And Azimio took a step back.
“No way, dude,” he said, putting his hands up in defense. “If you're gonna be one of the Sugar Plum Fairies, you go on and do that, but you leave me the hell out of it.”
“Azimio. Please. It's not--”
“No.” Azimio turned around and stalked off down the hallway.
Karofsky stood and stared after his friend for a moment, before turning himself and walking the other direction.
* * *
Will sat at his desk and looked over some papers. Seeing movement out of the corner of his eye, he looked up.
“Mr. Schuester?” Karofsky asked. Tears were running down his face and he was barely holding himself together.
“Dave?” Will stood up and came out from behind his desk. Karofsky collapsed sobbing into his arms.
Next time on Glee: Everybody finds out Dave's a sneaky gay, New Directions competes at Sectionals, and I try to figure out what I'm going to do with this can of worms I just opened.
Lola, Abby, and Luke were gathered in a basement rec room. Luke half-heartedly strummed an old guitar while Lola threw a dart across the room.
The dart board had about twenty pieces of paper taped to it. Lola's dart pierced one that said “baby.”
“What've we got?” Lola asked. Abby looked down at the notepad in front of her.
“'In the gangrenous night of love I kiss you, baby,'” she read. She made a face. “Why did we put 'gangrenous' on the list, again?”
“I don't think leaving it to chance is working,” Lola mused.
“This is the stupidest assignment,” Luke grumbled, letting his guitar drop to the floor.
“You know,” Lola smirked, “if someone just wrote about his feelings, we wouldn't be having this problem.”
“His feelings?” Luke asked. “Don't you people have any feelings of your own?”
“Sure,” replied Lola, “but we don't squirm when we talk about them, so spill.”
“Spill what?”
“Your massive crush on Quinn Fabray, I'm assuming,” Abby said in a bored tone while she peeled papers off of the dart board.
“How did you know about that?”
“You've spent the past three months of glee staring at her,” Lola said. “You're about six kinds of un-stealth.”
“Says the girl who had to start dressing like a Gossip Girl reject to land a boyfriend,” Luke pointed out.
Lola glowered at him, but Abby snickered in the background. “Still, though,” she said, “the girl's single. What's stopping you?”
“One: I don't think she knows I exist,” Luke said. “Two: she's been sending out the most intense I-have-issues-and-don't-want-to-deal-with-any-more-drama vibes I've ever seen in my entire life. I don't think she needs me getting all up in her business.”
“That is a very mature response,” Abby said with admiration.
Lola just shook her head. “Dude, you're never going to get anywhere with that attitude.”
“You and I are very, very different people,” Abby remarked.
“I appreciate what you're trying to do,” Luke said. He paused. “Actually, I have no idea what you're trying to do, and I'm kind of concerned about why you care.”
“I think she just likes meddling,” Abby said. Lola stuck out her tongue.
“Well, I'm just going to stay in a holding pattern right now,” Luke said. “We'll see if anything changes in the future.”
Lola shook her head. “You guys have no concept of taking control of your own destiny.” She threw another dart at the board. “What's it say now?”
Abby squinted at the paper. “In the gangrenous night of love I kiss you, baby . . . electric.'”
“Seriously,” Luke said, “there are so many good songs in the world. Why is he making a bunch of teenagers write their own?”
* * *
Santana looked at herself in the mirror of her bedroom. She took in the crisp Cheerios uniform, the perfect make-up, the flawless pony-tail.
As she pulled out her hair-tie and tossed her hair, she could feel her life suddenly gaining a soundtrack. One that she was singing.
“What's the time?” She let her uniform fall to the floor. “Well, it's gotta be close to midnight.” She pulled a black skirt out of her closet. “My body's talkin' to me, it says, 'Time for danger.'”
She put on the skirt and checked herself out again in the mirror. “It says, 'I wanna commit a crime. Wanna be the cause of a fight.' I wanna put on a tight skirt--” she pulled it a little farther down her hips “--and flirt, with a stranger.”
In just her bra and skirt, Santana walked back over to her closet and rifled through the hangers. “I've had a knack from way back at breaking the rules once I've learned the game.” She picked out a red tank top. “So get up, life's too quick. I know someplace sick, where this chick'll dance in the flames.”
At the mirror once again, she pulled her shirt on over her head and studied her look. “We don't need any money. I always get in for free. You can get in, too, if you get in with me. Let's go--”
She grabbed a pair of heels from underneath her bed. “--Out, tonight. I have to go out, tonight.” She sat down and took out her eye shadow. “You wanna prowl, be my night owl? Well, take my hand, we're gonna howl. Out, tonight.”
Fast forward to twenty minutes later, Santana was getting into her car. “In the evening, I've got roam.” She turned on the engine and pulled into the street. “Can't sleep in the city of neon and chrome. Feels too damn much like home, when the Spanish babies cry.”
Fast forward again, and she was slamming the door to her car and strutting away from it down the street, somehow both supremely confidant and terribly vulnerable. “So let's find a bar, so dark we forget who we are.” She turned a corner. “And all the scars of the nevers and maybes die. Let's go--”
She opened a door and entered a brick building. The interior was more institutional-looking than bar-looking. “Out, tonight. I have to go out, tonight. Tonight. Tonight. Tonight. Tonight.”
Santana found herself in front of a door opening into a large lecture hall. A woman was standing at the front of the room talking and writing on a whiteboard. Santana frowned and looked at her phone.
When she looked up again, Jen was standing in front of her.
“Hey, come on in,” Jen whispered.
Santana gaped at her. “Are you freaking serious?”
Jen glanced over her shoulder at the classroom and, shutting the door behind her, stepped out into the hallway with Santana.
“What's the deal?”
Santana just kept staring at her. “The deal? The deal is that I text you to say my day sucked and you tell me to drive out here to go to a lecture?”
“It's not a lecture, it's a book talk,” Jen said, “and I thought you'd enjoy it. Her book's about the effect of rural communities on queer youth--”
“Jen?” Santana cut in. “What alternate universe are you living in where I want to hear someone talk about something serious?”
“It's not like it's algebra or some useless B.S. like that,” Jen said. “This stuff is important. It's our lives.”
“It's not--” Santana paused to consider it. “It's not really my life, though.”
Jen furrowed her eyebrows. “I don't get what you're saying.”
“I'm just trying to make it through the day, y'know?” Santana said. “I care what happens, but, like, I'm not an activist. I'm not Eleanor Roosevelt over here.”
“Do you . . . think that Eleanor Roosevelt was a gay rights activist?”
“I'm just saying . . . I get pissed off about this stuff like anyone else, but I'm more interested in Blake Lively's next fashion disaster than I am in talking about it all the time. It's just . . . not me.”
Jen took a step toward her. “Okay,” she said quietly. “That's fine, we can go somewhere else.” She reached out to put her hand on Santana's arm, but Santana pulled away.
“It's you, though.”
“What?”
“It's you,” Santana said. There was a realization in her voice. “You're politics and documentaries and indie rock. I'm celebrity gossip and slasher flicks and pop music.”
“So?” Jen said.
“You refuse to listen to Top 40 radio.”
“I appreciate Lady Gaga on an intellectual level,” Jen tried saying in her own defense. When Santana rolled her eyes, she pressed on. “Look, you say that like it means something. But we don't have to be into the same stuff. We just have to be into each other.” She shot Santana a pleading look.
“I don't think that's how it works,” Santana said. “Not when--” Her voice broke, but she kept going. “Not when I could be with someone else who I do match up with.”
Jen snapped her head back. “There's another girl?”
Santana sniffled. “Yeah. Yeah, there is.”
“You . . . you cheated?” Jen asked, looking betrayed.
“What? No,” Santana said. “I just . . . she's right for me, she's so right for me, but we've never gotten the timing together. But I think it could work now . . .”
“Except for me,” Jen finished.
“I'm sorry,” Santana said. “You should feel special; I don't say that very often.”
“Yeah, that's a real comfort, thanks,” Jen said. She wrapped her arms around herself. “We're not that different, you know. Not in the ways that count. We're both sarcastic, cynical. We both think the world's a stupid place.”
“That's the thing, isn't it?” Santana said. “I don't need to be more bitter. I need sweetness. And light. A balance.”
“A ballast,” Jen murmured.
“Is that an insult?”
“No,” Jen sighed. “It's a surrender.” She stuck her hands in her pockets. “I should get back in there.”
“Yeah. Well . . .” Santana trailed off.
“Bye, then.”
“Yeah. Bye.”
Jen turned around and walked back into the classroom. Santana paused to wipe a tear from her face before turning back the way she came.
* * *
“You haven't done this in a while,” Finn said, putting down his X-box controller and taking the glass of warm milk Kurt offered. “Wait, did something bad happen? Oh, God, something bad happened, didn't it?”
Kurt sat down next to him on the couch with his own mug of tea. “Yes, Finn,” he deadpanned. “I'm pregnant.”
Finn's eyes grew wide for a second before he got the joke. “Hey!” He tried to sound angry, but as Kurt snickered at his reaction, he found himself laughing, too.
“Warm milk isn't a very good summer drink,” Kurt explained after they'd calmed down.
“That's legit,” Finn said, and he took a sip. Kurt observed him carefully.
“There was something I wanted to talk to you about, though,” he said.
“What?” Finn asked.
“We never got to compare notes about last night,” Kurt said.
“You were a little busy making out with your boyfriend in the front seat of your car,” Finn said.
“While you were making out with your girlfriend on the front porch of her house and that's not the point, Finn.” Kurt looked at him expectantly.
“I don't know what you want to talk about,” Finn finally said. “Guys don't--” he stopped himself just as Kurt's eyebrows made a mad dash for the top of his forehead, “--sorry, I don't really, like, talk about my dates and stuff.”
“Hmm,” Kurt mused.
“You look like you want to say something,” Finn said. “You have that judge-y look on your face.”
“Not judge-y,” Kurt said. “Just . . . concerned.”
“Concerned?”
Kurt grabbed a coaster off the stack and set it on the coffee table before placing his mug down. “Rachel is one of my best friends. And you,” he said, poking Finn in the shoulder, “in spite of, or perhaps because of, everything we've been through, are family. I just don't want to see the people I care about get hurt.”
“No one's going to get hurt,” Finn said. “Why do you think someone's going to get hurt?”
“She's going to New York, Finn.”
“I could be, too,” Finn said. “I'm applying to some schools there. And even if I don't get in, I mean, long distance relationships can work. That's why we have phones, and Facebook, and digital cameras.”
Kurt shook his head. “I'm not saying long-distance relationships can't work . . .”
“. . . you're saying mine can't,” Finn finished for him.
“I'm sorry,” Kurt said. “But you get anxiety from just having a conversation with her sometimes. I saw it last night. And I just don't think that bodes well for your future together.”
“And what, you and Blaine are gonna be great when he goes off to college?” Finn huffed.
“We're not talking about me,” Kurt replied evenly. Some of the wind went out of Finn's sails.
“I know it seems weird,” he said, “to see it from the outside. But, I just . . . we're connected. It doesn't matter what we don't have in common. We have that.”
Kurt sighed. “I hope that's enough,” he said, getting up. “For your sake.”
“For both our sakes, you mean,” Finn said.
Kurt looked back at him from the doorway. “For your sake.”
* * *
The next day, Santana walked up to Brittany at her locker.
“Hey,” she said quietly.
“Hey,” Brittany said back, although she seemed suspicious of Santana.
“Can I talk to you for a minute?”
“Sure.” Brittany closed her locker, and they ducked into the empty girls' bathroom.
“I broke up with Jen last night,” Santana said.
“Oh, was that her name?” Brittany asked, trying to sound disinterested.
“Yeah,” Santana replied. “Anyway, like I said, we broke up.” They looked at each other in silence.
After a moment, Brittany said, “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“It means I think I've finally figured it out,” Santana said. “And . . .” she swallowed hard. “I want to be with you. I want to do what it takes to be with you.”
Brittany looked at her sadly. “Santana, you know I love you, but you've said the same stuff to me so many times. I don't know if I can trust you--”
“You can,” Santana insisted, but Brittany talked over her.
“--and I don't need to be in a relationship to be happy.”
Santana raised an eyebrow. “Dave said you were singing 'I Wanna Dance with Somebody' in the auditorium.”
“Because it's awesome and Mike and Tina are super-fun dance partners? Not every song has to have a special meaning.” At the look on Santana's face, she went on. “I'm not saying I don't want to have a boyfriend or girlfriend. And I'm not saying I don't miss you, or I don't want to date you. But I don't need to, and I'm not going to do it until you show me that you've changed. I can be your friend, but I can't be more than that.”
Santana stared at her feet as Brittany turned and walked away. When she got to the door, Santana looked up.
“I just have to show you that I've changed?” she asked.
Brittany nodded. “I can't hide myself to be with someone else who's hiding, San. I just can't.”
“I know,” Santana said. She watched Brittany leave and took a deep, steadying breath. “It's a good thing I'm done hiding.”
* * *
“Hey, Rach,” Finn said as he approached his girlfriend with one hand behind his back.
“What are you--” Rachel started to ask, but she stopped when Finn pulled out a bouquet of flowers.
“I realized I probably should have given you these on our date,” Finn said sheepishly. “Um, you know I'm not so good with that type of stuff.”
“I know, sweetie.” Rachel held the flowers to her nose and smelled them. “They're wonderful, though. Thank you.” She paused. “You didn't do something stupid, did you?”
“No!” Finn said. “But . . . I might need your help with something.” He stuffed his hand in his jeans pocket and pulled out a crumpled sheet of notebook paper. “I figured since you wrote me a song one time, and I wrote you a song one time, we should maybe write this one together.” He smoothed out the paper and handed it to Rachel. “It's only a title so far, but--”
“'Connection',” Rachel read. “I like it. Simple. Honest. To-the-point. It has potential.”
“So, you'll write it with me?” Finn asked.
“Do I get to make it a power ballad with lots of opportunities for intense emoting?”
“Of course.”
“Then absolutely, yes,” Rachel smiled, and she leaned into Finn when he put his arm around her.
* * *
Mercedes and Quinn were sitting at a table in the library doing their homework when Santana sat down across from them.
“Whoopi, Hasselbeck,” she nodded to each in turn. “I need your help.”
Mercedes and Quinn shot each other looks. “You know, people might be more inclined to help you if you didn't give them vaguely offensive nicknames,” Mercedes pointed out.
Santana waved the comment away with her hand and looked meaningfully at Quinn. “It's for Brittany.”
Both Quinn's and Mercedes's faces lit up, and they shared another, very different look. “Seriously?” Quinn said.
“It's about damn time,” Mercedes added.
“Wait, you told her?” Santana accused Quinn.
“She didn't have to say a word,” Mercedes said. “Girl, you are many things, but subtle isn't one of them.”
Santana pouted at the pair in front of her.
Amused, Quinn asked, “So, what do you need? Backup?”
“Of course,” Santana said. “If I'm gonna be a loser-freak, I might as well go all the way with it. You two and maybe Tina? I basically hate all of my other options.”
“It's cute how you think we still believe you when you say stuff like that,” Mercedes remarked. “You got a song picked out?”
“Yes,” Santana smiled. “Yes, I do.”
* * *
The entire glee club was assembled in the choir room when Will walked in late. Before he could even say anything, Santana raised her hand from the back row.
“Mr. Schue?” she said. “I have something I'd like to say before rehearsal.”
“Okay,” Will said, “but if you start actively insulting anyone, I'm going to have to ask you to stop.”
“I'll be good; I promise.” She nodded at Quinn, Mercedes, and Tina, who got up and walked over to stand near the piano. The jazz band shuffled into position.
Santana made her way to the front of the room, as well. She was wearing a long winter coat that had been zipped up to her chin. She stood for a moment at the front of the room, her back still to the audience, and tried to gather her courage. She bit her lip nervously, but then she made eye contact with Quinn.
“Oh my god, just do it,” Quinn mouthed, and she gave Santana a reassuring grin. Santana smiled weakly, but she unzipped her coat and turned around.
Underneath it, she wore a shirt in the same style as the shirts they'd worn during “Born This Way.”
This time, the word written on Santana's chest was “Lesbian.”
No one sitting in the chairs gasped, or even looked particularly surprised. Instead, they looked proud of their friend. And no one looked prouder than Brittany.
“So, I don't really do feelings, or whatever,” Santana said, “and I'm not about to start now. But, um . . . this is who I am.” She gestured at her shirt. “And I'm more than willing to show anyone who doesn't like it how we do in Lima Heights Adjacent. Anyway . . .” she trailed off. “I just wanted you all to know about it so this next part would make sense.”
She shrugged her coat off all the way and threw it over the piano. At that cue, Brad began to play. The song was immediately obvious, and in the audience Mike leaned over and squeezed Brittany's shoulder. Brittany, for her part, was trying not to cry.
“Lookin' out on the morning rain,” Santana sang. Quinn, Mercedes, and Tina provided the background vocals.
“I used to feel so uninspired.
And when I knew I had to face another day,
Lord, it made me feel so tired.
Before the day I met you,
life was so unkind,
But you're the key to my peace of mind.
'Cause you make me feel,
you make me feel,
you make me feel like a natural woman.”
As she started the next verse, Santana started unabashedly crying. But through her tears she looked directly at Brittany, wanting to show that she meant every word.
“When my soul was in the lost-and-found,
you came along to claim it.
I didn't know just what was wrong with me,
'til your kiss helped me name it.”
Santana held her hands out, and Brittany rushed up to take them.
“Now I'm no longer doubtful
of what I'm living for,
and if I make you happy I don't need to do more.”
She wrapped her arms around Brittany's neck in classic slow-dance fashion, and Brittany's hands settled at her waist.
“'Cause you make me feel,
you make me feel,
you make me feel like a natural woman.”
The other members of the club with significant others present stood up and joined in on the slow-dancing. Everyone else sat with Will in the audience, touched at what was happening. Even Karofsky smiled at the scene.
Kurt, seeing Quinn standing in the front of the room alone, got up to go dance with her. As he walked by Karofsky, he shot the other boy a smirk and a raised eyebrow, which seemed to issue the same challenge Santana had earlier.
“Oh, baby, what you've done to me.
You make me feel so good inside.
And I just want to be
close to you, you make me feel so alive.
You make me feel,
you make me feel,
you make me feel like a natural woman.”
As the rest of the group broke into applause, Santana pulled Brittany into a sweet, surprisingly chaste, perfect little kiss.
* * *
In the hallway, Azimio came up to Karofsky and clapped him on the back.
“Thank God,” Azimio said.
“What?”
“You can quit glee club now,” Azimio said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“I-- what?” Karofsky asked.
“Dude,” Azimio gaped at him, “don't tell me you haven't heard?”
“I have no idea what you're talking about.”
“Santana Lopez! She bats for the other team. Loves Ellen. Goes diving for--”
“I get it,”Karofsky said. “So?”
“Well, if you don't have a shot at getting in her cargo pants any time soon, why the hell would you stay in glee?”
“I don't know,” Karofsky shrugged. Azimio kept looking at him, and he swallowed hard. “I guess I just like hanging out with her. And stuff.”
“Oh. My. God.” Azimio shook his head in disbelief. “That Queerio did something to you.”
“Don't call her that,” Karofsky said quietly.
“Why not? You call a spade a spade, you call a lesbo a--”
He was cut off by Karofsky shoving him into the nearest row of lockers.
“I said don't call her that!” he shouted.
“Or what?” Azimio shouted back, and he added a push of his own of good measure. “Did Homo Explosion turn you into a fag, too?”
“Maybe I already was one!” Karofsky yelled. His eyes grew wide as he realized what he'd said.
“What?” Azimio asked, doing a double take. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I said--” Karofsky trailed off. Breathing hard, he looked away for a moment, running through the options in his head.
When he looked back, there was a steely determination in his eyes.
“I said I already was a fag.”
“You're kidding,” Azimio said, backing away slightly. “There's no way you're serious. Look, I'm sorry about making fun of your little--”
“I'm not kidding.” The anger faded, and Karofsky looked close to tears. “And I'm tired of sitting here listening to everyone make jokes and not being able to say anything. I'm gay, Z.”
The entire hall was silent. Azimio just looked at him, completely dumbstruck. Karofsky took a step toward him.
And Azimio took a step back.
“No way, dude,” he said, putting his hands up in defense. “If you're gonna be one of the Sugar Plum Fairies, you go on and do that, but you leave me the hell out of it.”
“Azimio. Please. It's not--”
“No.” Azimio turned around and stalked off down the hallway.
Karofsky stood and stared after his friend for a moment, before turning himself and walking the other direction.
* * *
Will sat at his desk and looked over some papers. Seeing movement out of the corner of his eye, he looked up.
“Mr. Schuester?” Karofsky asked. Tears were running down his face and he was barely holding himself together.
“Dave?” Will stood up and came out from behind his desk. Karofsky collapsed sobbing into his arms.
Next time on Glee: Everybody finds out Dave's a sneaky gay, New Directions competes at Sectionals, and I try to figure out what I'm going to do with this can of worms I just opened.