Eight Minutes 3/?
THE WRITER’S NOTE: Cancer and its treatments are written fictitiously in this story. I know absolutely nothing on what it is really like to be a victim of the disease. I do not wish to offend anyone if my writing understates it.
45 Seconds
“There are some that only employ words for the purpose of disguising their thoughts.”
Voltaire
“Don’t leave me tongue-tied.”
Tongue-tied, Grouplove
It was more than surprising, her smile. It made me realize that claiming she was unpredictable was a severe error in judgment, one that could even qualify as the understatement of the century. Brittany was always so much more than unpredictable, or changeable; she was a thoroughly fascinating and constantly evolving miracle.
I remember how her eyes never left mine when she began, “You’re going to have to give me a little time to know you a little better, Santana Lopez, before I can even think about sharing all my philosophical views with you.”
The urge to blink and look away was more than just instinctual, it was overwhelmingly animalistic. But it was difficult to do anything, even to think - especially since her voice had taken an almost teasing quality which made me feel more confused than I had felt in a long, long time; more confused than I thought it was possible for me to ever feel. It felt, well…odd, for lack of a better term; odd to feel confusion. I’d been living my life with so much certainty - certainty of a shortened future, certainty of a coming death, certainty of the inevitable end - that it was strange to behold something that confused me.
Or, to word it more appropriately, it was strange to meet someone whose strangeness didn’t bore me, or anger me, or amuse me - but disarmed me so easily by confusing me.
“…Santana? Santana?”
I finally blinked, tearing my eyes away from the shameless amusement on Brittany Pierce’s eyes. “What?” I said automatically, looking around in a closely desperate manner. From the corner of my eye I could see Quinn watching me closely, though it felt like I was feeling her gaze so much more than I was seeing it. “What did I miss?”
Will cleared his throat. “I was asking you what you want to do with your life.”
I swallowed, moistening the dryness in my throat. Thinking fast, I heard myself rush out in a voice filled with false bravado, “Oh, you know me.” I shrugged nonchalantly, saying the first thing that came into my head. “I just want to watch The Dark Knight Rises in July.”
Quinn snorted disbelievingly, though the sound was slightly muted. I was strongly reminded exactly why this girl was the only one I’d managed to vaguely consider a friend. Everyone else looked slightly confused, and Rachel looked vaguely appalled - though for once I couldn’t find it in me to blame her. I willed myself not to look at Brittany, focusing instead on Will’s face, gaping at me.
“Really?” The tone of his voice made it clear that he doubted my answer, but also that he was afraid to comment; in fear, perhaps, of triggering some kind of word landslide that would bury him alive.
I help up my hands in mock surrender. “You got me. All I want in this life?” I looked around the entire circle - except for one - willing them to believe me. “A Guiness world record.”
Quinn was shaking her head already, though her small smile was more sardonic than disapproving. Blaine looked amused - or maybe he was smiling in an effort to look supportive. It was difficult to tell, and my mind was in no shape to think it through. Mike exchanged a look with Artie, but remained characteristically silent.
Will sighed deeply. He suddenly looked older, with a heavier look in his eyes. “Santana,” He admonished quietly. At least he could tell I wasn’t being honest, too.
“What?” I countered loudly, feeling defensive. “Maybe I’m telling the truth, who are you to know any better?”
The next voice was loud, and grating, cursed with a quality that made me want to squeeze my ears into deafness. “Really now. Some people take this support group seriously, you know.”
“Oh yeah?” I sneered in contempt, sitting up straighter and throwing Rachel the dirtiest look I could manage. “Some people wish they had your chances for recovery after surgery, you know. Some people want to live.”
Rachel opened her mouth, doubtlessly prepared to argue. I wanted her to, to be honest. I would have even goaded her into it without thinking twice. Before either of us could get a word out, however, Will interrupted.
“Okay, that’s enough.” He looked warningly from her to me. She huffed but shut her mouth immediately. I just rolled my eyes. “Let’s move on, and talk about something else.” He didn’t give us a moment to argue. “Who thinks it’s a good idea for us to hold a party for Artie next session?”
When the general murmur of agreement slowly spread out, I began to tune my mind to a different frequency of thought. Without even bothering to think about it, I spread open my notebook. Stupid support group, I wrote, only reminds me of all the things I’m trying to forget.
The session ended not long after that, with Will closing with another overused musical number, Keep Holding On. Mike immediately stood up and set off to where Tina was doubtlessly waiting for him outside the school campus. He moved cautiously, like he was wary of straining his body from too much movement. Blaine and Rachel set off together, walking slowly due to the increased weight of the oxygen tank on his body. Artie lingered, talking to Will as he fixed the choir room into some sense of order.
I never really bothered to pay attention to what everyone else did after a session, but I was doing everything I could to try and ignore how Brittany was coming closer to where I was, beside Quinn.
She noticed, of course.
“I come in peace,” she joked, holding her hands up, her blue eyes twinkling at me when I finally looked at her. Before I could formulate a sensible response, she turned to Quinn. “Well, it wasn’t so bad.”
Quinn arched a perfect eyebrow. “Wasn’t it?”
Brittany shook her head, smiling. “I thought it was interesting.” She glanced at me conspicuously, then shrugged her shoulders once. “Is Puck coming to pick us up?”
Quinn nodded, standing slowly. She winced when she finally got to her feet. I could almost imagine how she felt: the deep feeling of exhaustion in her muscles, the fatigue that seemed to originate from deep inside her bones. The taller one between the two of them - Brittany - offered an arm. It was another curious thing; after all, she was limping, wasn’t she? Was she capable of helping someone else walk?
“Thanks.” Quinn murmured, grasping to it immediately.
They started heading out of the room, with Quinn leaning slightly against Brittany for support. I almost thought that was going to be the end of it; that Brittany Pierce was going to walk out of the room and walk out of my life. But then she turned her head - the movement looked twisty, the angle quite painful - and called to me, “Aren’t you coming?”
My feet were betraying me before I could think of saying no, and Brittany smiled that same small smile; it exuded so much irresistible mystery.
--
After she finished helping Quinn settle down on a bench by the parking lot, she didn’t waste any time walking over to me, her hands in her pockets. The limp was more apparent than ever, but it was easy to disregard, especially since her eyes were magnetically bright.
When she finally stood in front of me, at least a meter away, she asked, without further ado, “Did you know that when you’re born, you share your birthday with 17 million people?”
I stared at her blankly, utterly caught off guard. After a moment, my mind was functioning enough to wonder, 17 million people, huh? All alive, or mostly dead? I heard myself reply dryly, “Is that so?”
She nodded, moving slightly closer. “Doesn’t matter though.” She flashed me a smile that felt almost dangerous; I felt my throat dry. Her eyes roamed my entire face, before returning to mine. I didn’t realize she was waiting. “Aren’t you going to ask me why, Santana Lopez?”
It almost felt like she was flirting with me, but I tried to shelve the thought since, hello, she was a girl. Besides, I didn’t have enough experience in the area to know if it was for a fact. When I asked her - much, much later into the getting-to-know-you process - if she really was flirting with me, she swore she wasn’t really flirting as much as she was trying to figure me out.
That, I honestly found difficult to believe. It was hard to imagine Brittany ever trying to figure me out; she always seemed to know me, so much more than I could ever claim to know myself.
“Okay, fine.” I paused, glancing over to where Quinn was seated, watching us. “Why?”
“None of those other 17 million people could possibly be more beautiful than you.”
I could have definitely made a world record at that moment; world record for longest duration of holding in air without inducing a medical emergency. When I finally inhaled, I raised a disbelieving eyebrow, though my emotions were too complexly scattered for me to say now that all I felt was disbelief; it was definitely more than that. “Oh, really?”
“Oh, absolutely.”
For the nth time that day, my thoughts raced like the speed of light. There was no way I was going to let this girl render me speechless.
“Well, then,” I looked away in feigned bashfulness, before meeting her gaze head-on with what I hoped was a steely look in my eyes, “what about the other 364 days of a year, and the 17 million-plus-0ne people born on them? Am I more beautiful than them, too, or does that just apply on my birthday?”
She laughed lightly. It was unnerving how she didn’t seem surprised at my response at all. She shook her head in amazement. “Wow,” she said, her eyes glowing, “you really are something else, aren’t you?”
It was the most bizarre thing, really. There I was, standing by the parking lot of a high school I could never be able to attend. There I was, fresh out of a support group that couldn’t ever hope to really support me at all. There I was, completely certain of a coming death that I couldn’t escape, and yet - there she was, too.
“Now that’s…” My voice was almost embarrassingly hoarse; how the hell did that I happen? I cleared my throat and tried again. “That’s what I call a compliment.”
She smiled, clearly pleased with herself. She looked like she was going to say something, but before she could, a loud laugh coming from the school entrance interrupted her. I turned around, my gaze falling on Will, talking with Artie a few meters away. Their laughter paused sporadically, but restarted after every few seconds.
“Talk about taking laughter is the best medicine to heart.” I said under my breath.
I didn’t know that she had heard me until she replied in a conversational tone, “Well, average people laugh an average of 18 times a day.”
I looked back at her. “Well, then, I wonder why sickness still prevails despite all odds.” She gave me a funny look, and I suddenly remembered she was one of the fortunate survivors. “Unless, of course, you’re one of the lucky few with the odds ever in your favor.” I deepened my voice for the last five words, drawing them out exaggeratedly.
An excited gleam shone in her eyes. “Was that a Hunger Games reference?”
I shrugged one shoulder, trying to play it off. “And what of it?”
“What did you think of the movie?” She stepped just a tiny bit closer.
I fought the urge to take an equal step away, and wondered instead what kind of response she was looking for - if she was looking for any. “Josh Hutcherson has a very square jaw.”
She raised her eyebrows, like she could tell that my response was clearly meant to be evasive. But she went along with it, responding with a light, “Oh, really?” She pretended to look thoughtful. “I didn’t notice. I was probably staring too much at Jennifer Lawrence.”
I couldn’t help myself. I smiled. “Careful there, you’re beginning to make me think you’re gay.”
Something flashed in her eyes, but it disappeared just quickly as it first came. I could have almost imagined it. “Would it be a problem, if I was?”
I shrugged noncommittally, detecting the sudden change in the conversation and feeling, yet again, uncertain with my response. “I shouldn’t care either way.”
Her blue gaze shifted between my eyes, looking deeply. “But don’t you?”
I was filled with the very peculiar sensation of wishing I could take a moment to pause and look back at an entire conversation - ours, to be exact. It wasn’t something I normally felt; before that day, I’d never wanted to go over a verbal exchange with someone, so I could assess how much of myself I’d somehow revealed without necessarily meaning to.
I’d never, before that moment, ever spoken to somehow who could wheedle their way into my mind without my permission.
I inhaled deeply, looking straight back at her. “You ask a lot of questions.”
Her lips quirked into another small smile. “All the better to get to know you with, my dear.”
I grasped desperately at the opportunity to lighten the conversation again. “That’s a Brothers’ Grimm line you’re butchering.”
“Oh, just like you butchered Queen’s Bohemian Rhapsody back there?” She smirked knowingly, then continued, “Besides, that argument’s invalid, isn’t it? The Brothers Grimm version butchered the original by Charles Perrault, after all.”
I heard myself chuckling. “The better version of the story, might I add.”
“Absolutely.” She agreed, nodding vigorously.
“All blood and gore, and no happy endings.”
She laughed again, shaking her head once. There was a warm look in her eyes that made me feel like there was something melting inside me. “It shouldn’t be attractive that you like things like that, but it oddly is.”
It was impossible to throw curve balls at this girl, she caught every single one. “If you say so.”
“I do.”
My tongue had nothing to add to that, so it was like a minor miracle when a roaring engine distracted us both with a screeching entrance. “Babe!” Puck yelled as he switched his car off. He threw the door open and jogged over to where Quinn was seated, very nearly throwing himself at her just so he could press his lips to hers.
Brittany and I watched wordlessly for a moment. I remember thinking, If there really was such a thing as kissing technique, what he’s doing to her ought to be called the tornado.
I glanced at Brittany, who was watching with an expression that made me think she was doing her best not to laugh. I watched the late afternoon light cast uneven shadows across the slopes of her face, and out of habit, I found myself running my fingertips on the edges of my notebook. I was itching to write down something about her. The thoughts in my head were ranging from I haven’t had such a stimulating conversation in months to She’s the most interesting person I’ve ever met.
“So, tell me,” she began, without looking at me at all, “what do you write down in that notebook of yours?”
I felt myself tensing slightly. It wasn’t a question I liked hearing. Still, I pretended it meant nothing, looking back at Quinn and Puck. He scooped her into his arms and carried her towards his car. “Oh,” I said casually, “you know. Things.”
“What things?” She continued on, looking quite curious as she turned to face me.
I gave her a long look. “Things I notice.” I said cautiously. “Things I think.”
“Like a journal?” Without waiting for me to reply, she added jokingly, “Or like a memoir?”
I went rigid, the words shooting through my body like a shocking electrical charge. “Why would I be writing a memoir?”
Suddenly she looked like she wanted to take the words back. “Oh, I don’t know…” At the disbelief that must have been apparent on my face, she amended, “Well, I had a friend who wanted to finish writing his memoir before… well, before he-”
“Kicked the bucket?” I supplied wryly. From the corner of my eye I could see Puck starting the engine of his car, but I couldn’t seem to understand what was happening outside of our conversation.
“Exactly.” Neither of us seemed to really notice that Puck beginning to pull away.
I snorted, folding my arms across my chest and squeezing tightly. The words tasted bitter in my mouth, but I forced myself to say them, anyway. “So you think I want to write a memoir about my life just because I’m dying.”
The earlier lightness in her face had vanished. “What? No! Not at all.” She spread her arms open slowly. “But for the record, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that.”
I sneered, taking a step backwards. I suddenly wanted to move away, and squeeze into myself until I disappeared. “Memoirs are the lamest attempts in the world to keep the memory of people alive. Their writers leave out many of the defining points of human existence, and often assume many other details in an effort to make us look better than we really are.”
She blinked slowly, taking a small step towards me. “That’s one way of looking at it.”
I shook my head. “No, that’s the only way of looking at it.” I broke my gaze and looked away, backing away several steps. I looked around the parking lot, breathing deeply. “It looks like your ride’s gone. And here mine comes.”
Brittany said nothing as my mother’s car came close. Before I could move towards it, though, she suddenly reached out and grabbed my arm, moving too quickly for me to avoid it.
“I’m sorry.” She murmured, her voice quietly sincere. I could feel the warmth of her hand blanketing over my flesh. “I didn’t mean to remind you about... you know.”
I didn’t meet her gaze. “Yeah, well.”
She sighed, almost helplessly. “I was just really curious about what you liked writing about.”
I tried stepping away, but her grip remained firm. So I met her gaze, and said in a harsh voice, “What I write doesn’t matter, okay? When I die,” I said the words with so much finality she flinched, “I’m leaving instructions for my parents to burn it without reading it.”
She looked taken aback, but she was not taken aback enough to let me go. “Why?”
“Why not?”
“Well,” her voice was cautious, like she was afraid of saying something that could upset me, “wouldn’t that be a waste?”
I let out a short, sarcastic laugh. “I’m dying. Isn’t that a waste in itself?” She said nothing, and I sighed. “Look, my mom’s here. I don’t like to keep people waiting.” I looked pointedly at her hand, until she finally loosened her hold enough for me to pull out of it. I turned my back to her and began moving away, trying to ignore the way I could feel the imprint of her hand lingering on my skin. It made me want to leave behind something of my own - like some kind of insulting remark, anything from Good luck getting home or Too bad your friends left you behind - but ultimately, it felt too wrong to be rude to her.
She was different, after all. That much was pretty much undeniable, and treating her like everyone else wasn’t something I felt I could do.
So when I got to the car, instead of going straight in when I opened the door to the passenger’s seat, I only stuck my head in.
“Something wrong, Santana?” My mom asked without hesitation. I shook my head quickly.
“No, Mom. It’s just…” I breathed in deeply. “Do you mind if we give someone a lift home?”