Notes (2/2)
Title: Notes (2/2)
Pairing: Santana Lopez/Brittany Pierce
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Nothing owned, no profit gained.
Spoilers: AU.
Summary: It's senior year, and Santana Lopez has one hell of a bizarre new locker partner.
***Thanks a lot, for listening. Or reading? Whatever. And thanks for the tea. Abuela really enjoyed it. I don’t know if it’s as good as medicine, but it made her smile, and she hasn’t done that in weeks, so…thank you. Anyway, how’s it going? Who’s Artie? Your boyfriend?
Her pen staggers on the word, running the E into the N until they form a bizarre little squiggle on the page. She swallows, shakes her head, and starts again.
I figured since you left me that tea, I’d leave you something. It’s not much, just a candy bar I like, but I thought since you shared…but hey, if you don’t like caramel or pretzels or something, just leave it there. I’ll totally eat it. And, uh, maybe don’t feed it to your cat? I’m pretty sure chocolate isn’t so good for pets. Usually. That is, my gerbil didn’t seem to like it when I was nine. Anyway. Thanks again. -S
***My boyfriend?? HAHA! No, Artie’s just my friend. I think he’s got a maaaajor crush on this girl with pink hair I’ve seen wandering around-she’s a little scary, but he talks about her like she’s the prettiest thing he’s ever seen, so I let it go-and anyway, I don’t like him like that. I don’t like anybody like that, really. Except maybe one person, but I’m still figuring that out. I’ll let you know when I do, okay? Anyway, that candy was delicious! I promise, I didn’t give Tubbs any. But I did let him smell the wrapper when I was done. It was only polite. I’m doing really good, by the way, really good. Dance class is so awesome. You should take it sometime, if you like dancing-although maybe you get enough of that at cheerleading stuff?-the teacher is really nice. And some of the other kids are super talented. Like me. I’m one of the best there, I know I am. Maybe you should come see our Christmas show? I could get you tickets. If you want. Let me know. -B
“Christmas show, huh?” Sam elbows her in the ribs. “You should ask Mike about that. In fact-I bet he knows who this girl is! If she’s half as good as she says she is, I mean.”
Santana’s chest seizes at the thought, her head already shaking. “No way.”
“What? Why not? You could finally meet her! In person, I mean, not just-“ He pauses, nose crinkling. “Hang on, pink hair? You think she means Quinn?”
The tension in her chest clenches like a fist, crushing her heart tight. “Maybe.”
“I bet she does,” he insists excitedly. “I mean, who else has pink hair? And is totally scary? …don’t tell her I said that.”
“She’d take it as a compliment these days,” Santana mutters. Her head is spinning, fingertips buzzing with energy. If B is talking about Quinn…that means she’s probably seen her around. Does she think Santana’s scary, too? Or does she think something else entirely? Does she know who Santana is?
She wonders why this has never occurred to her before: the idea that this girl has known who she was all along, and simply chosen not to reveal herself. What would possess a person to do something like that-to watch, and wait, and leave messages without ever showing their face? Do normal people do shit like that, or is she actually communicating with a crazy person-a total stalker who is just getting under her skin bit by bit, week after week, until it’s too late?
Sam is waving his hand in front of her nose, repeating her name, but she can’t bring herself to respond. If B knows Quinn-or knows of Quinn-and dances with Mike, what else might she know? And what does that mean for all of this? Is this just a game to her? Is any of it sincere? Does she actually even care, or-
“Santana,” Sam says again, a little too loudly. “Earth to Santana.”
“I don’t want to know,” she replies briskly, her tongue heavy with each syllable. “Who she is. What she looks like. I don’t want to know.”
“Why not?” he demands, eyes wide. “Santana, this girl is all you’ve talked about since October. Why wouldn’t you want to-“
“Why wouldn’t you want to just ask Kurt out and be done with it?” she snaps back. His mouth shuts jerkily, his head instinctively rotating from side to side.
“W-what?”
“It’s hard,” she hisses, “isn’t it? To be the secret gay kid? It’s hard to like somebody and not know if they-isn’t it?”
His cheeks go crimson, his hair flopping forward to shield his eyes. “Santana-“
She shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be admitting this, but the words keep tumbling out all the same. “You think you’re freaked out? You know what he looks like. You know he’s gay. All you have to do is figure out how to admit the same to yourself, and you’re golden. Me? I’m falling head over heels in love with some ghost who shares my locker, and now it turns out she probably knew who I was all along-knew and hid from me on purpose! No, I don’t want to know. Because if she’s beautiful-if she’s as incredible as these notes seem, as the tea for my grandmother and the telling me things no one else has ever had the balls to tell me-“
She trails off, muffling the whisper-shrieked words with the collar of her sweatshirt. Sam is staring at her, mouth hanging open.
“If she’s beautiful, and wonderful, and amazing,” she finishes at last, eyes darting around the empty hallway, “and it turns out she’s been playing with me? I can’t handle that, Sam. I won’t.”
He’s still staring, still flushed. His left eye is twitching ever so slightly. She sighs.
“Ask him out, Sammy. Just fucking do it. Glitterati has wanted in your pants since he set his flaming sights on you that first time. Just get it over with. Figure out the rest later. One of us needs to.”
Before he can get his shit together, she turns and hurries away down the hall.
***She doesn’t answer the note, but she can’t bring herself to throw it away, either. It sits on her desk at home, set apart from all the others-which she has taken to keeping in a little wooden box, away from her mother’s habitual cleaning rampages-staring up at her. Mocking her. Let me know. It seems to flutter in her dreams at night, filling her mind with an anxiety she didn’t know she was capable of.
At school, she pushes herself harder than ever. She takes to carrying her backpack between classes, weighted down with too many books, just so she won’t have to stop at locker 179. The likelihood of developing scoliosis before she’s twenty-five increases with every day, but it seems like the only option she’s got. To do otherwise-to stop at the locker, to turn the combination lock and risk running into another note-would be suicide at this point.
Cheerios practice becomes borderline violent, much to Sue Sylvester’s pleasure. Each afternoon, Santana works herself and her squad to the bone, until sweat pours into her eyes and drenches her uniform. Each time B’s words echo in her head-If something’s making you sad, it’s probably not worth doing-she grits her teeth and pushes through with a greater determination. She isn’t sad. She refuses to be. It’s senior year, after all.
Sam isn’t really talking to her these days, which she feels more than a little guilty about, but word on the street is, he’s taken Kurt to Breadstix once or twice. She knows she should be happy for him, but each time she spots them at their locker, Kurt laughing so hard at one of Sam’s goofy impressions that he falls against Sam’s chest, a tang of bitterness works its way into her mouth. Goody: everyone’s paired off. How nice for them. Just freakin’ charming.
Quinn and Mike keep trying to catch her attention, but she isn’t interested; she’s even less interested in listening to Rachel and Puck ramble about their planned future together. Just like that, without even trying, Santana finds herself with no friends at all. No friends. No notes. Just work.
Another six months of this, and she’ll have graduated, at least. It’s going to suck like hell, but at least the clock keeps ticking down. December will melt into January will melt into February-
She’s got this.
***Two weeks go by before she can’t avoid the locker anymore. The Old Man and the Sea becomes essential, the one piece of her academic career she couldn’t fit into her red-and-white bag; she has no choice but to stop off and grab it.
She braces herself at the lock, her fingers stony against the combination. 4-17-2. Same as ever. Her locker. It has never felt less inviting.
The first thing she sees upon swinging the door open is a note.
And another.
And a third.
The locker looks like it did back in September, pages littering every available inch of the metal box. Santana stares into the cavern, tempted at once to retrieve each one and to slam the door shut on them all. There’s too much here, too much she doesn’t want to deal with-and yet…
A person would have to go through a lot of trouble for this.
Silently, she unburdens her backpack with its AP Gov text, its Trig homework, the Chem assignment. Bending, she bunches the papers together and sweeps them all into her bag in one massive, ugly pile.
If she’s going to do this, it damn well won’t be at school.
***She dumps the bag out on her bed and sits, cross-legged, in the midst of it all. The first note she grabs at random is written in purple pen.
Hey, you haven’t written in a while…which you know, obviously. Something must be wrong, right? You should tell me. Please? I don’t understand. -B
The next is in blue.
Artie says I should get you candy, but you don’t seem to come to the locker anymore, and I know you don’t like food going bad…does candy go bad? I don’t want it to melt…I hope you come back soon. -B
Then green.
I’m sorry if I freaked you out with the Christmas pageant invitation. I didn’t mean to. My friend Rachel said music is the way to the heart, so I thought if I invited you…but maybe you’re allergic to music or something. I’m sorry if you are, I totally didn’t know. Although I don’t know how you could be allergic to music and still dance on the Cheerios…-B
Santana freezes, staring at Rachel. My friend Rachel. Berry has other friends? Since when?
And, really, music is the way to the heart?
I thought about hijacking-that’s the word, right?-the PA system and singing to you today. I know you might think that’s stupid, but it worked in 10 Things I Hate About You. Except I don’t have a whole band to play while I sing. And the bleachers aren’t that big. -B
Her lips twitch, almost smiling. She fumbles for the next note.
The handwriting on this one is different, she realizes-a heavier scrawl, measured, but messy, like a fourth-grader trying his very hardest. She squints at the page.
Santana,
Yeah, it’s me. I know this is your girl’s thing-and trust me, she is totally your girl; Mike introduced me on Tuesday, and I reeaaally think you want to meet her. Even if you are being totally freakin’ stupid right now. Anyway, I know this is her thing, and I’m sure you’ll find all of her notes too-there must be twenty in here right now, she’s gotta be putting in a note after every class or something-but I wanted to say this to you. And Kurt said maybe you’d be more receptive to it if I wasn’t distracting you with my big lips. (You guys should talk more often; he’s just as nice as you are, sometimes. Dresses better, though.)
Anyway, I really think you were out of line when you told me-you know, what you told me in the hall. It was really…totally douchey, actually, to spring that on me. But you know what, Santana? You’re sort of right, too. I did need to get my ass in gear. There’s this weird kid with eyebrows and a blazer who was sniffing around, and if I’d waited…well. Who knows, right? So, yeah. You were mean, but you were also right. And I wanted to tell you-
You can do it. It’s hard, totally. But she’s pretty, Santana. As girls go, I mean. She’s really pretty. And she’s sweet. And she’s so worried about you. So I think it’s time you get your ass in gear. And I mean right now. It’s hard, yeah, and it’s scary, but she likes you. Really does. You can do this, Santana.
-Sam
P.S.: Your ticket to the Christmas thing is stapled to the back. Mike got you a front row seat, next to Quinn. You better show up. We know where you live.
Santana flips the page over. The cardboard ticket is indeed stapled there: McKinley Dance Team Holiday Pageant, one night only. December 8th, 7 p.m.
She glances at the clock. Four-fifteen.
She wonders what people wear to dance pageants, anyway.
***“About fucking time,” Quinn tells her as she slinks into the auditorium seat, her hands smoothing down her short black skirt. “I told Mike if you didn’t show, I was going to throttle you tonight while you slept.”
“No wonder people think you’re scary,” Santana retorts, her throat dry. Quinn snorts.
“You know, I talked to her about that. She’s seen the error of her perception.”
“Yeah?” Santana frowns. “You talked to her? What’d she say about-“
“Nuh-uh,” Quinn interrupts. “You can talk to her about all of that shit. It’s your problem. Me, I’m just here for the hot boy with the hot abs.”
Santana slumps. “Is Sam, uh…?”
Quinn jerks a thumb over her shoulder. “He and Kurt are back there. ‘bout six rows back. I wouldn’t look, if I were you,” she adds. “There’s a whole lotta tongue goin’ on.”
Obediently, Santana keeps her eyes on the curtain. “This gonna be any good?”
“According to Mike? It’ll change your whole damn life.”
She glances at Quinn, relieved to see a slightly sardonic smile on her best friend’s face. Gentle fingers squeeze hers as the lights dim.
“You’ll be fine, dipshit. Just watch the show. And try not to freak out on me, okay?”
The curtain goes up, and Santana sucks in a breath. There’s a girl center stage, she can see now, a girl who is walking forward, and-
“Oh, hell,” she whispers, because it’s Rachel fucking Berry, and who in their right goddamn mind gave her a fucking microphone, anyway? Quinn smirks, squeezing her hand as the band on the far right of the stage-a band headed by Noah motherfucking Puckerman on guitar, no less-begins to play.
“Jingle Bell Rock” has never sounded so simultaneously pleasant and grating as it does being belted in Rachel’s beautiful, aggravating voice, but Santana couldn’t care less. The dancers are making their way out now, dressed shades of red and white-the boys in dress shirts and loose pants, the girls in plunging dresses with skirts flowing around their thighs-and they are good. She can see from the first few seconds that this isn’t a chump show like Schuester’s stupid New Directions; this is real art, helped along by at least six of her fellow Cheerios. And Mike Chang. And-
“Is that-?” she breathes, and she’s pretty sure Quinn is nodding, but she isn’t looking. Her whole attention is glued to the girl working as Mike’s partner, the one with the mane of golden hair and the sheer delight written all over her beautiful face. All electic energy and carefully maintained rhythm, the girl has the kind of precision and elegance most of Santana’s squad can’t even dream of. She is good-really, really damn good, in fact, just as she’d bragged in that note.
She’s good the way Da Vinci was good, the way all the best artists have ever been; she moves fluidly, hips rocking, arms twisting, legs slipping and sliding as she darts and skips and twirls around Mike-and she’s making him look like a statue, like he’s standing completely still, which Santana has never seen before. Mike Chang, who has always been the most graceful human being in the school, is struggling to keep the limelight compared to…
“Her name is Brittany,” Quinn whispers, and it’s all Santana can do not to leap up and charge the stage right now. A whole show of this, she thinks, and she almost fucking missed it. It’s almost deranged, to think she nearly gave this all up-regardless of the reason.
Brittany is the most beautiful, amazing creature she has ever seen.
***The performances might have gone on for mere minutes or stunning hours; either way, Santana is more than impressed. When the lights come back on, the audience roars to its feet, applauding wildly as the dancers bow and curtsy and perform the occasional cheeky pirouette. Santana claps with them, feeling relaxed for the first time in weeks.
Relaxed, and just a little bit on fire-and when Brittany comes darting down off the edge of the stage, sweaty forehead and all, her hands go numb.
"You're incredible," she says, amazed she can get the words out at all. Brittany beams, not bearing the slightest hint of shyness.
"You came!"
"Just about," Quinn mutters. Santana digs an elbow into her side.
"You got my notes, then," Brittany goes on, rubbing the back of her neck. Santana nods, a little sheepish.
"Yeah. Sorry, I, uh..."
"Panicked?" Brittany grins. She shrugs.
"Yeah. That. I just...didn't know what to think, and...look, it's not like I do this a whole lot--"
"Admit you're a lesbian?" Brittany fills in. She jumps, one hand instantly coming up to cover her locker mate's lips without thinking.
"Shh!"
"Is it a secret?" Brittany mumbles against her palm, the words vibrating intimately. She shivers and lets go, tucking the hand behind her back.
"Yeah. A secret. Can you keep it?"
"I told you: you can trust me." Blue eyes capture hers, hot and intense. She swallows.
"I believe you."
Brittany grins and steps closer. Santana rationalizes the action: Brittany is probably just moving nearer so she can hear over the din of the auditorium, but it feels like more. It feels like...
"Why didn't you tell me?" she blurts out, her head spinning. Brittany's head tilts. She clears her throat and presses on. "That you knew who I was. And Quinn. Why didn't you just come out and say something? Instead of leaving all those notes..."
The girl shrugs. "Everybody thinks you're scary," she says. "Everyone talks about you, hides from you. Nobody seems to see you're hiding, too. I thought maybe if I didn't come right out and say hi...if I did something different...I thought maybe you'd stop hiding. For a little while, at least." She pauses, drinking Santana in with curious eyes. "Did it work?"
Santana nods, unable to find the words. Brittany grins.
"Good. Hey, Santana?"
She raises an eyebrow, humming for Brittany to go ahead. The girl takes another step, puncturing whatever personal bubble she has left.
"I think I'd like to tell you who I like now."
Santana licks her lips. "Yeah?"
"Mmhmm." Brittany's head is bowing now, her eyelashes dark against deep blue. "If you want."
"Please." Her head is nodding, too fast, the way Sam's did during their first conversation. She probably looks like an idiot. She probably--
Probably nothing, because Brittany's lips are on hers, kissing her through a smile. This is ridiculous, she thinks. Ridiculous, and absurd, and the weirdest first semester ever.
"Brittany," she says breathlessly, trying to wrap her head around the fact that they've just met, and already they're kissing, and kissing in front of people, besides--she'll have to come out, she realizes, and soon-- "Brittany."
"Santana," Brittany mumbles back against her mouth, one hand pressing gently to the small of her back. She sucks in a breath, leaning slightly back.
"I think you just may be the best locker partner ever."
Brittany's laugh is sweeter than all the notes put together.