Notes (1/2)
Title: Notes (1/2)
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.
Senior year is apparently the capstone for some people. It’s the moment of triumph in the sun, the point when everything finally comes to a head and the world starts spinning toward rainbows. It’s a beautiful, awe-inspiring thing.
Santana Lopez can’t wait to be done with it.
High school has been this bizarre, weighty beast that chose to seat itself upon her breastbone three years ago and not move a singular muscle since. It has been long, draining, and not the least bit hellish-not because she can’t manage it, because Jesus, if anyone’s got “managing” down pat, it’s her. She manages just damn fine. It’s the underbelly of the thing that blows, the fact that she is without question the hottest piece of ass in this school-and, if nobody minds her saying so, one of the smartest; she has to be, to have climbed this far up the ladder-and still, the beast has grown heavy enough to crush every bone in her chest.
Head Cheerio. Honor roll student. The (sort of) proud recipient of 60% of McKinley’s V-cards. To the casual observer, she’s got it more or less made.
But there’s the small matter of her father’s near-religious obsession with getting her into med school-when, hello, she doesn’t even want to be a doctor; all those guts and broken people, having lives thrust into her hands every five minutes-who needs that shit? And there’s her mother’s obnoxious preening over having such a successful child (with an older brother like hers, moping around the house, and two younger brothers who can’t for their lives stay out of the principal’s office, it’s no wonder Santana has been forcibly labeled The Perfect One). Not to mention Sue Sylvester’s manic cheer-psychosis, constantly pushing her to be stronger, faster, meaner.
And, oh yeah: there’s the whole “majorly closeted lesbian” situation. Which really takes the motherfucking cake.
High school would be great and all, if not for every disparaging inch of this shit.
One more year, she reminds herself. One year, and it’ll be off to Boston, or maybe New York. If she’s lucky, she’ll make it into a school that isn’t known solely for its medical program.
And if she’s not, well, there’s always Canada.
All she has to do is make it through this. One year of crazy Coach Sylvester breathing murderously down her neck, of Noah Puckerman and Quinn Fabray riding her to finally come out of the closet and be happy, for once, of Puckerman’s loud-mouthed chipmunk of a girlfriend loitering around for beauty tips and the kind of Girl Time Santana would rather lop off a hand than deal with.
One year of AP course loads and pretending like being the top bitch at this place is enough. Hell, it’s just a year, right? No fucking sweat.
She reaches her locker-good old number 179, with its semi-rusted hinges and the long black streak along the bottom-and leans against it. In four minutes and thirty seconds, the calm of the morning will be broken by Puck’s letterman jacket and knowing sneer, Fabray’s hand clawing at the crook of her elbow, Rachel Berry clearing her throat before starting yet another mindless tirade. Four minutes and counting, and the year will officially kick off.
But first, the combination: 4-17-2, each number burned easily into her brain after years of flicking the dial around. Unlatch the lock. Pop open the door. And-
The fuck is this shit?
This is her locker. Always has been. No doubt about it, no questions asked. Hers, and only hers, for over three years-and yet, here she is, swinging the door back into place and craning her neck to reread the number. 179. Yeah. Right across from the Spanish classroom, same as always. Same black streak. Same cracked tile just under her left shoe. Hers.
So why in God’s name is there already a stack of books in here?
Easy books, by the looks of them-not remedial, exactly, but near enough. Nothing of AP caliber, for sure. Just the basics: Algebra, Physical Science, a folder with a unicorn dashing across its front. She blinks, reading each spine carefully, wondering if there’s been a mistake. Maybe this is from summer school, and no one bothered to clear it out?
Yeah, that’s gotta be it. Because she knows nobody would be stupid enough to make Santana Lopez-Sylvester’s pet, three-time National trophy winner, daughter of Dr. Carlos Lopez-share a goddamn locker. Not senior year.
It’s gotta be a fucking mistake.
***
And yet, benefit of the doubt or not, the books remain. They’re still there after third period, when she slips in to retrieve her purse for lunch. They’re there when she deposits her unnecessary AP Gov text-mammoth and horrible as it is-at the end of the day. They’re even there at the end of the week.
“What the fuck is this?” she demands, thumping the door with an open palm. Quinn Fabray glances up from her cell phone, thumbs still flicking across the screen.
“Looks like books, Captain.”
“But why are they here?” Santana grumbles. “They’re not fucking mine.”
Quinn tosses her head, causing a newly-dyed streak of pink to fall across her forehead. A new look for a new year, she’d said four days earlier, while Santana gaped in horror. It still hasn’t thoroughly sunk in, that her lifelong best friend would up and quit the Cheerios just to don an 80’s punk jacket and a pair of ripped jeans, but whatever. Quinn is the absolute master of making zero sense.
Like now, when she shrugs and says, “Must belong to your partner.”
“What partner?” Santana spits. “The fuck are you rambling about?”
“Locker partner?” Quinn repeats, nodding her head with every syllable like Santana’s a total moron for not knowing this. “Weren’t you listening to the announcements on Monday? Word is the school’s overcrowded. There isn’t enough room for everybody to have their own space anymore. Each senior got assigned a locker partner.”
Santana groans. “You’re telling me I have to share my locker with a goddamn freshman?”
“Or an exchange student,” Quinn replies, shrugging again. “New kid could be anybody. You really haven’t seen ‘em yet?”
She tries to think back, but as far as she can remember, there hasn’t been anybody out of the ordinary lurking around her locker. The usual parade of doofus jocks, of course-rugby assholes, hockey dickheads, a couple of football apes-but nothing else. Nothing new. Certainly no wimpy-ass freshmen; they seem to have already gotten the message that Santana Lopez is decidedly off their proverbial radar. Most of them haven’t even dared to look at her as she strides past.
“Fuck this,” she announces now, glaring daggers at the top of Quinn’s head. “I’m suing.”
“Good luck with that,” Quinn replies mildly. She taps her screen again and grins. Santana rolls her eyes.
“Tell Chang it’s too early for sexting. I need to keep my breakfast down at least until Chem’s over.”
“We're not sexting,” Quinn fires back. “He’s being sweet.”
“Isn’t he always,” Santana mutters. Quinn’s fist flashes out, colliding with her bare arm.
“You oughta give it a try someday, Ice Bitch.”
Santana glowers, rubbing the slowly-forming bruise. “You’re such a-“
“Ladies, are we behaving?” Kurt Hummel has appeared with his typical spritely magic, brown hair gelled in perfect form above his pointed, sparkling head. Santana turns her glower on him.
“Precious Moments! It’s been a whole thirteen hours since I’ve heard your wind chimes rattle. What a shame.”
“Good morning, Santana,” he replies carelessly, one hand already pulling Quinn’s phone from her hand. “And how is the delightful Mr. Chang this morning? Poetry?”
“Christ, you really do want me to hurl.” Santana shakes her head. “Hey, Babyface, you hear about the new locker policy?”
He flips a wrist under her nose. “What, the sharing? Old news, darling. The up-and-coming crowd has long moved on to greener pastures.”
“Don’t you think it’s bullshit, though?” Santana presses. “Come on, I know you’ve got to be on my side here. Nobody keeps more valuable shit in his locker than your treacle-tart ass.”
“I’ll have you know,” Kurt sniffs, “that I’m finding the whole system to be quite appreciable. What better way to help your fellow man than to lend a hand-or a shelf-in the first days at a new sch-“
“You got a honey,” Quinn interrupts, eyebrow arched. A grin splits Kurt’s face with molten enthusiasm.
“Oh, honey, I got the mother of all honeys.”
Santana rolls her eyes. “So when you say ‘help your fellow man,’ what you really mean is ‘help his dick into your passion-fruit-chapsticked mouth.’”
It’s sort of endearing, the way Kurt puffs his chest out and straightens his spine indignantly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“What’s his name?” Quinn asks. “Freshman?”
“Sophomore, I think,” Kurt gushes. “Dreamy as can be-although, between you and me, I’m sincerely doubting the nature of his golden locks. All the same, I can say with utterly certainty: Sam Evans is the Herculean peak of modern man.”
“And you wants on that dick, don’t you, Feathers?” Santana laughs. “God, you gays are so damn predictable.”
His blue eyes narrow. “I suspect you’d know better than anyone, Santana.”
The smile falls from her lips, her teeth instantly clenching. “Say again, Rainbow Brite?”
“Hey, hey, not here,” Quinn cuts in, one hand laying soothingly against Santana’s arm. Kurt adjusts the strap of his beaded messenger bag and sniffs again.
“Anyway, girls, as lovely as this has been, I really must be going. I promised a certain dubiously-haired new friend I would show him to the astronomy lab this morning. I’ll see you around.”
Santana watches him go, hips swishing all the way down the hall, and tightens a fist against her hip. “Is it a hate crime if you’re killing somebody of your own kind?”
“Murder gets you arrested,” Quinn reminds her, “and it’s sort of hard to graduate if you’re wearing an orange jumpsuit. Come on, Lopez. Pull it together. You know he doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“Still going to string him up by his stupid little bag if he doesn’t cut that shit out,” Santana grumbles. “It’s not his fucking place to-“
“He won’t,” Quinn assures her. “He’d never. Kurt’s a good guy, you know that. Just a little...sensitive.”
“I’ll show him sensitive when I’m cracking that paper-thin little windpipe in half,” Santana threatens half-heartedly, her body sagging under Quinn’s supportive arm. “Little wood nymph’s gonna get what’s coming if he doesn’t learn to back the hell off.”
“He’ll back off,” Quinn insists. “I’ll talk to him. He wouldn’t do anything about it, not any more than Puck or I would, and you know it. Just breathe. Maybe work on figuring out your mystery locker partner, yeah?”
Sucking in a breath, Santana nods. “Sure. Yeah. Whatever. Just do me a favor? Keep Berry out of my hair today. One bleat from her, and I’m pretty sure Snix is going to make a vibrant appearance.”
***
A few weeks slip by, and then a month, and still there is no sign of her locker mate. No person-shaped sign, anyway. The books are still present, and they’re being joined by more and more papers with every passing day. Whoever this person is, they apparently don’t know the intended use of that stupid unicorn-patterned folder.
When she draws back the door in the second week of October and is rewarded with a slight worksheet avalanche, Santana swears and steps back so violently, she nearly trips over a young man with tousled blonde hair and a mouth so large, it could probably swallow Idaho. He stumbles, the book under his arm clattering to the floor.
“You have a rat?”
“Sorry?” Santana asks dumbly, watching as he scoops the book back up and straightens again. He’s cute, she guesses, for a boy, but that mouth is super fucking distracting. Sylvester’s workout plans aside, it just might be the scariest thing she’s ever laid eyes on.
“In your locker,” the boy clarifies, smiling dopily with that massive set of lips. “A mouse or something? You jumped back awful quick.”
“Wouldn’t be fuckin’ surprised, at this point,” Santana grumbles. She leans back and gestures to the mounting Office Max nightmare that is the top shelf. The boy rises up on the balls of his sneakered feet and whistles.
“Could use a little spring cleaning, huh? You should get on that.”
“It’s not mine,” Santana snaps. “It all belongs to my fucking locker partner. Whoever that is.”
“Ah.” The boy tilts his head, reaching up to adjust the collar of his blue windbreaker. “Well, good luck with that. I’m Sam, by the way. Sam Evans.”
“Fairy Boy’s Sam?” Santana blurts, ignoring the hand he has childishly chosen to stick in her face. To her surprise, his jaw tightens instantly, the friendliness bleeding out of his demeanor.
“You talkin’ about Kurt?”
It’s a strange reaction, almost defensive in nature, and Santana finds herself frowning. “You got a problem with gays, Lips?”
“Do you?” he challenges. She shakes her head, and his shoulders slump. “Oh. Okay. Good.”
“What do you care?” she wonders. “You’ve known the guy for like a month. Don’t tell me he’s already roped your fine little ass into PFLAG or whatever.”
“He hasn’t roped me into anything,” Sam says guardedly, shifting his bookbag from one shoulder to the other. “He’s just, y’know. A good guy. That’s all.”
“So you figured you’d stick up for him,” Santana observes. He nods, too quickly, his oversized mouth twitching on his blonde bobblehead. “Preemptively.”
“Figured somebody has to in this place,” he mutters, eyes dipping toward the floor. Despite herself, Santana feels her expression soften.
“Well. Good. Glad he’s not sharing his locker with a bigoted asshole, I guess. But don’t tell him I said that,” she adds swiftly when his expression veers again toward hopeful. “Can’t give the prancing little bastard any ideas.”
“’Course not,” Sam replies, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. Santana shakes her head.
“Santana Lopez, by the way.”
The grin widens. “Nice to meet you, Santana.”
“Whatever,” she mutters, turning back to the hellhole that is her locker. Out of the corner of her eye, she see Sam beam.
Fuck this ridiculous-ass year.
***“Maybe you should leave her a note or something,” Sam tells her at lunch the next week. The kid has taken to following her around whenever Kurt’s preoccupied with class or whatever else occupies the responsibilities of the Typical Teen Gay. It’s annoying as fuck, but she can’t figure out how to tell him to back the fuck off-especially since the others seem to like him.
“A note,” she says now, eyebrows twitching. “That’s your brilliant plan.”
“Why not?” Puck asks from the next spot over. He’s sprawled across several chairs, his arms hooked behind his head, with Rachel Berry propped up in his lap. Santana fires an irritated glance his way, nauseated at the way he stretches when Berry scratches her stubby fingernails through his mohawk.
“Why would I bother? I don’t even know if she’s a damn girl in the first place. She could be a fuckin’ ghost, for all I know.”
“I highly doubt your locker partner is of the spectral variety, Santana,” Rachel informs her, prissy as ever. Puck laughs.
“Dude, chick, what does it matter? You don’t have to ask the bitch to bone you, man, just say something classy.”
“Like you’d know class if it reared up and bit you in the ass, Puckerman,” Santana retorts, picking at the unpeeled orange in front of her. Rachel makes a miffed little noise.
“Noah asked me out in a note, you know. Put it right in my locker, and waited around the corner for my reply. It was very romantic.”
“Sounds like a stalk-ass move, Berry,” Santana sneers. Quinn snorts into her Diet Coke. Puck shoots them both a wounded pout.
“Hey, bitches, I did a fucking great job with that note.”
“Puckerman, you made me draw the hearts,” Quinn retaliates. “And Kurt did the lettering. The whole damn thing wasn’t even your idea.”
“But I put it in the locker,” he preens, stabbing a finger into his broad chest proudly. “And look who got the girl.”
“What a win that was for us all,” Santana mutters. He chucks a half-eaten cookie at her head.
“Anyway,” Sam cuts in, clearly trying not to laugh. “I didn’t mean that kind of note. I just meant, if she’s that messy, and it’s driving you crazy, why not leave her something polite to ask her to clean up after herself? Or himself. Whoever.”
It’s actually not a bad idea, she has to admit begrudgingly. Sam is irritating-and irritatingly stuck on Kurt, like a puppy that doesn’t seem to realize his master is a pretentious, glitter-bursting asshat-but there’s a sort of endearing charm that works for him. And might, she thinks, work for her.
“You gonna write it for me?”
“Only if Quinn draws the hearts,” he snips back, grinning. Quinn waves a hand back and forth.
“Hell, no. From now on, the only hearts I draw are my own commission.”
“You’re drawing me hearts?” Mike Chang asks, swinging one long leg over the back of a chair and flopping down. She leans in and brushes a kiss against his cheek, ignoring Santana’s gag of protest.
“Your hearts were beautiful, Quinn,” Rachel chimes in, as if someone had asked her. “Mike, you should be so lucky as to have a few for your own.”
Quinn pulls a face like she’s not sure if she should blush, or spew her recently-consumed lunch all over the table. Santana rolls the orange back and forth between her palms, cackling.
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed, Rachel,” Mike says pleasantly, wrapping an arm around Quinn’s waist and grinning toothily at them all. “Sorry I’m late, by the way. Dance ran long. You know, there’s this incredible new girl, just joined last month. She’s leaps and bounds ahead of everybody else, it’s amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Modest,” Quinn points out, nuzzling against his neck with her nose. He laughs.
“Okay, I’ve never seen anyone else like it. You guys should totally meet her sometime, she’s fantastic.”
“Yeah, sure,” Santana snorts. “Toss her our way next chance you get. Maybe she can join the Cheerios, fill Quinn’s gaping void.”
“Are you calling me fat?” Quinn asks absently. Santana sticks out her tongue.
“I’ll run it by her,” Mike says, like she wasn’t just being thoroughly sarcastic. Santana shakes her head and lobs the uneaten orange in the direction of the nearest trash can.
“Terrific. Lemme know how Black Swan responds. In the meantime, I’ve got a note to leave. That locker gets any shoddier, I’m gonna have to just light the whole thing on fire and be done with it.”
She sweeps up from the table, pointedly ignoring the proud expression Sam’s face. If she doesn’t start watching him closely, the kid’s going to develop one hell of an ego.
Which, if he ever plans on shacking up with the King Ego himself, could possibly end up problematic.
***The note sits in the locker for all of a day before disappearing, replaced-much to Santana’s shock-by a new strip of paper. The handwriting is slightly elegant, but mostly hurried, like the person can’t be bothered to stop living long enough to write even the simplest of messages. It looks as though it has been written in a moving vehicle, or maybe up against this very locker, scrawled between classes.
Sorry for the mess, it says simply. I’ll be better. Thanks for sharing your locker, by the way.
“By the way,” Santana reads aloud, “like I fuckin’ had anything to do with it. Can you believe that shit?”
“Looks like a girl,” Quinn observes, turning the scrap of paper over in her hands. “The style, I mean. Most guys are sloppier than this, and I’ve never seen a boy dot an I with a heart.” She pauses. “Well. Almost never.”
Leaning against the next locker over, Sam grabs for the note. “Signed ‘B.’ Who’s B, you think?”
“Fucked if I know,” Santana grumbles. “Long as she cleans her shit up, I couldn’t care less. Be even better if she’d just high-tail it back to wherever she came from. You know, I don’t even feel comfortable leaving my purse in the locker anymore?”
“You could leave it in mine,” Sam offers. “There isn’t a lot of room, but Kurt’s got enough of his own stuff. No way would he filch yours.”
“Thanks, Trouty Mouth,” she deadpans, “but I’m good. Just irritated. How the hell does someone co-exist with another person for almost two months and never show their face, anyway? Bitch must be a goddamn ninja.”
“I’ve checked the Asian Roster,” Mike says wryly, “but no new names have cropped up since Tina went off on that foreign exchange program. Real shame, we could use a fill-in.”
Santana swipes at his hair, trying not to laugh. Sam hands the note back and shrugs.
“At least it worked, right? Everything’s gonna get better now.”
She groans. “Are you going to start belting merry showtunes at me? I know Kurt hauled your ass into Will Schuester’s sing-a-thon bullshit, but I sincerely don’t need your Kumbaya’s, thanks.”
It’s a mark of how annoyingly comfortable he’s grown with her, she thinks, that he actually punches her in the arm.
***
Do you like the clean-up? You never wrote back, so I’m guessing it’s okay. Let me know if you need more room. -B
The scrawl is slightly less hasty this time, the note jammed between her Trig book and the wall. Santana stares at it, then gives the locker a once-over. Yeah, the clean-up’s okay. There are now five stuffed folders, crinkling at the edges where corners have gotten caught in the door a few times, but no flyaway pages. It’s actually pretty impressive, given her partner’s amazing penchant for not showing her face; she must have done this all overnight, to keep Santana from seeing.
Which doesn’t make any sense at all, but whatever. At least it got done.
It’s very nice, she finds herself writing back in Chem, red pen skirting across the top of her notebook. Thanks for clearing it up. And thanks for not leaving any, like, old sandwiches or something. That would’ve really sucked ass.
She pauses, feeling massively stupid, then adds a hurried, -S to the end of the note. It feels weird to be writing this at all, much less prepping to stick it into the locker for her phantom locker mate to find; who else would find themselves in such a bizarre situation? But if it keeps the mood amiable, she figures it might be worth it. Who knows? In a few months, maybe she’ll feel all right leaving her cell phone in the locker again.
Or not. Whatever.
***
Sandwiches would be really gross, the next note says. I did have some of Lord Tubbington’s favorite chocolate in here one night, but he got really mad at me for not bringing it home, so I won’t be doing that again. Anyway, I always buy my lunch, so you don’t have to worry about food smells. Do you like the salad bar? -B
Santana unpins the paper from beneath her copy of The Old Man and the Sea, scanning the lines rapidly. The pen is green this time-it seems to change from day to day, as if the writer gets bored using just one color-and there is a tiny drawing of what looks like a head of lettuce under the message. She tilts her head and rereads the last line again. Do you like the salad bar?
“What does that even mean?” she asks as she shovels assignments into her backpack after school. “Who asks that?”
“Maybe she wants to know if you’re a vegetarian or something,” Sam replies, his nose buried in an issue of Sports Illustrated. “Maybe it’s for a poll.”
“A poll,” Santana repeats dryly, “conducted by the weirdo who shares my locker.”
“Why not?” He shrugs. “You gonna answer it?”
She says nothing for a moment, wrestling with the idea. Should she answer it? It’s just a note, asking about nothing important in the least, and it’s not like she owes the mystery girl anything. But she does kind of like the salad bar-not that that’s at all relevant to, like, anything-and whatever, it’s just a damn note. What harm could it possibly do?
“Yeah,” she says, stuffing a wrinkled sheaf of T.S. Eliot poems into the bag. “I mean, probably. Why not, right?”
The shit-eating grin on his face sort of makes her want to bash his fluffy lips in.
***I’m glad you like salads. They’re much better than anybody ever gives them credit for being. But burgers are pretty awesome, too. Lunch is probably my favorite hour of the day. Nobody ever calls on you when you’re not ready at lunch, you know? And it’s quiet. Sort of. Except when that kid with the funny glasses and the ‘fro sits next to me. You ever meet him? He’s kind of creepy. Anyway, what’s your favorite class? -B
“This is getting weird,” she tells Puck, leaning over a notebook as she tries to formulate a response. He’s stretched out on the picnic table top, sunglasses perched on his nose, one earphone dangling down the front of his shirt.
“What’s weird,” he replies, “is you answering. Why are you doing that, anyway? Don’t you have, like, piles of fucking homework to work on? Damn overachiever.”
“Just because I’m not content working a pool business ‘til I start popping out kids, Puckerman,” she warns. He lifts his hands lazily, strumming out an invisible chord.
“Fuck that. The pool business is just until next fall. Then Rach and I are motoring out to the Big Apple.”
“Yeah?” She raises her head. “You apply to a school out there?”
“Nah. Figure she’ll get the education crap she wants, but you know school isn’t really my scene. Gonna make do with my real skills, if you know what I mean.”
She arches an eyebrow. “I don’t think she’ll approve of you selling your body on the streets, Puckerman.”
He laughs. “No way. She’d kick my ass for that shit. No, I’m gonna busk it in Central Park. I figure if she joins me on the weekends, maybe we can get a real band or something going. You’ve heard her sing-she’s amazing. You telling me you don’t think people would be tossing dollars our way for our sweet, sweet music?”
“Just don’t let her talk, and maybe you’ll be okay,” Santana mumbles. She bites her lip. “What’s my favorite class?”
“Fucked if I know.” He glances at her over the tops of his sunglasses, smirking. “Why are you stressing so bad over this? Seriously, Lopez, it is not a huge fuckin’ deal. You don’t even know what this chick looks like.”
It’s an unfortunately fair point. Still, it takes her ten minutes to finally write down, My favorite class is English, I guess. I like the stories, but more than that, I think I like arguing for what’s going on in the stories. Papers are like debates, or something, I guess. It’s fun to prove a point and make the teacher feel stupid sometimes.
She hesitates, then adds, Does lunch really count as a class? I mean, it’s great and everything, but I’m pretty sure it’s-y’know. Lunch. Do you have another favorite? -S
She gets up from the bench, folding the page in half and ignoring Puck’s protests. It’s stupid, but she can’t wait to get this into the locker. Hanging out can wait for a little while.
***Okay, I guess you’re right about lunch not being a class. You don’t get a grade or anything for it, which is kind of why I like it-I’m not so good with the school parts of school-but…yeah, okay. I guess my favorite class is Gym. I like running a whole lot (and jumping, and dancing; dancing is my favorite, so maybe Dance is actually my favorite class). Actually, I’m thinking of joining the track team when they open up tryouts. You think that’d be cool? Do you do any sports or anything? -B
She smiles, skimming over the, You think that’d be cool? part again. It’s so weird, to think she’s never actually met this person, and yet they want to know if she thinks something would be cool. Well-okay, maybe not super weird; after all, everyone in this school know she’s the coolest person around, and if anybody should be giving advice on the subject…
But somehow, this feels different. Maybe because she’s never seen B, or known anyone who has seen her, or had any proof she actually exists at all, outside of these notes. Or maybe because the notes themselves have, inexplicably, become her favorite part of the day.
She tries not to mention that part to anyone.
I think track would be very cool, just as long you’re faster than everybody else. It’s embarrassing to be a loser, you know? I’m on the Cheerios; I like dancing, too, and gymnastics. I used to like soccer, but there wasn’t enough time for that and cheerleading, so now I just do this. It’s…
She stops for a moment, pen hovering above the page. Her wrist twirls a few times, drawing circles in the air before touching back down again.
It’s really hard sometimes. Busy. You should make sure you’ve got the time, with school and family and stuff, before you join the team. There’s a lot of expectation at this school when it comes to being awesome and winning medals and stuff. And…yeah. You should just be careful. Are you a freshman, by the way? I sort of forgot to ask. -S
It’s hard to explain the feeling in her chest when she closes the locker on the note, like she’s just opened up the wrong door and let out a secret she wasn’t meant to release. A weird feeling, but maybe not a bad one. Maybe.
She spins the lock.
***Not a freshman, the note she finds on Monday says. My family moved here from Chicago in July. I’m a senior. You probably take all the smart classes, though; you sound smart. I know I spell stuff wrong sometimes and…yeah. But I’m not that dumb. I just don’t like school a lot. I think I’ll have enough time to run-do track, I mean-without the expectations being a problem, but I’m sorry it’s hard for you. It sounds hard. Maybe you should stop for a little while? Just an idea. You totally don’t have to. I just think if something is making you sad, it probably isn’t worth doing. -B
“Woah,” Quinn says, handing the note back. “That’s heavy. She doesn’t sound dumb.”
“She isn’t,” Santana replies instantly, ignoring the sharp way Quinn’s eyes bore into her. “But I’m not sad. Not at all. She’s not dumb, but she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, either.”
“Not surprising,” Quinn says mildly. “Seeing as she doesn’t even know your name.”
Santana chooses to ignore that, too.
I’m not sad, she scribbles as the teacher drones on and on about combining elements. It’s just a little rough. No big deal. Sorry you had to move, though. That sounds hard. -S
It’s much shorter than all the notes in the last week or two, and B will probably notice, but she can’t help it. Something about those words-Maybe you should stop for a while?-has cut just a little too deep.
The way Quinn keeps looking at her when she thinks Santana can’t see isn’t helping in the least.
***I’m sorry, the next one begins. I feel like I butted in. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sure cheering is a lot of fun, no matter how hard it might be. You should totally keep at it. Does that mean you wear those red skirts? Those are super hot. I kind of want one myself, but the coach is really scary. I don’t think I could handle her yelling at me. She already told me I shouldn’t wear stupid hats last week, and when I told her my grandma sent me this one, she said my grandma must be Helen Keller. Isn’t she a singer? That doesn’t make any sense at all. Anyway, I hope you aren’t mad at me for what I said. And I hope you like the skirts. They look kind of cold, but totally hot. -B
Santana turns the message over in her hands, frowning. The tangled knot in her stomach doesn’t make sense-hasn’t made sense, in fact, since it first took root days ago. She feels like this is getting kind of out of hand; like she’s getting up in the morning mainly for this. To pick up a note. To write one back. To communicate with the mystery locker partner who seems to be, for all she can tell, the Invisible Girl.
It’s so damn weird, but she’s pretty sure she won’t be able to stop.
“She drew a skirt on this one,” Sam observes, jabbing a finger at the sketch in question. “Not bad. I’m not really sure why it’s on a cat, but…”
“That pops up a lot,” Santana answers absently. “I think it might be her cat. I mean, maybe. Maybe she just really likes cats. How should I know?”
Sam wisely doesn’t respond to this, choosing instead to slide the message back across the table. “She seems really nice, Santana.”
“Yeah. I guess.” Her fingers drum against the tabletop. Her head is pounding. The words seem to have painted themselves across her brain: I hope you aren’t mad at me for what I said.
He tilts his head, eyebrows knitting in concern. “You wanna talk about it?”
“About what?” she bites back, slightly more venomous than is necessary. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch.
“About how you seem to really like this girl you’ve never met.”
She scowls. “Piss off, Trouty.”
“I’m just saying,” he says, pushing his bangs back off his forehead. “You seem worried about what to say. And I don’t think you need to. Worry, I mean. I think she’ll like whatever you say back. I think she wants to be your friend.”
“Thanks for the input,” she snaps. He goes silent. She sighs. “Sorry. This is just. Really fucking weird.”
He slides a pen across the table, nudging against her fingertips. “Just write anything, Santana. I really don’t think she’ll mind.”
***I’m not mad. I’m just…really stressed out, I guess. Homework, and overbearing parents, and my grandmother’s been kind of sick lately, and my brother won’t move out, so I have to listen to my parents screaming at him…screaming at each other…my parents fight. Kind of a lot. And then Cheerios is crazy, and school is crazy, and-I’m not mad. Just. I guess I don’t talk about this kind of thing. Ever. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t talk about it either. Please. -S
The minute the lock is latched, she wants nothing more than to wrench the door back open and tear the note to shreds.
***
Wow, that sounds really bad. I would hate it if my parents started fighting. I mean, sometimes they yell at me for bad grades, or at my sister for hanging Lord Tubbington out the window like Simba-actually, I kind of yelled at her for that, too, but I felt bad about it after-but never at each other. I can’t imagine what that’s like. And a sick grandma…maybe you should make her tea? I’ll leave a bag here of my favorite kind, maybe it’ll help. It always makes me feel better when I’m having a bad day. But if she doesn’t like tea, that’s okay, too. My dad says it’s the Devil’s juice.
You don’t have to worry about me talking about anything. I wouldn’t do that. I mean, I talk to Artie about stuff, and sometimes to Becky, but not about you. That’s private. Private stuff is important. You can trust me. -B
Santana sinks against the locker, her forehead resting on cool metal, and sighs. It seems so absurd, to trust a face she’s never seen, but somehow, she believes it. She does trust B.
It’s so weird, but she thinks maybe she more than trusts her. Maybe…
Don’t, she tells herself firmly. Don’t even go there.
She waits a day to write the next note.
[Part 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.
Senior year is apparently the capstone for some people. It’s the moment of triumph in the sun, the point when everything finally comes to a head and the world starts spinning toward rainbows. It’s a beautiful, awe-inspiring thing.
Santana Lopez can’t wait to be done with it.
High school has been this bizarre, weighty beast that chose to seat itself upon her breastbone three years ago and not move a singular muscle since. It has been long, draining, and not the least bit hellish-not because she can’t manage it, because Jesus, if anyone’s got “managing” down pat, it’s her. She manages just damn fine. It’s the underbelly of the thing that blows, the fact that she is without question the hottest piece of ass in this school-and, if nobody minds her saying so, one of the smartest; she has to be, to have climbed this far up the ladder-and still, the beast has grown heavy enough to crush every bone in her chest.
Head Cheerio. Honor roll student. The (sort of) proud recipient of 60% of McKinley’s V-cards. To the casual observer, she’s got it more or less made.
But there’s the small matter of her father’s near-religious obsession with getting her into med school-when, hello, she doesn’t even want to be a doctor; all those guts and broken people, having lives thrust into her hands every five minutes-who needs that shit? And there’s her mother’s obnoxious preening over having such a successful child (with an older brother like hers, moping around the house, and two younger brothers who can’t for their lives stay out of the principal’s office, it’s no wonder Santana has been forcibly labeled The Perfect One). Not to mention Sue Sylvester’s manic cheer-psychosis, constantly pushing her to be stronger, faster, meaner.
And, oh yeah: there’s the whole “majorly closeted lesbian” situation. Which really takes the motherfucking cake.
High school would be great and all, if not for every disparaging inch of this shit.
One more year, she reminds herself. One year, and it’ll be off to Boston, or maybe New York. If she’s lucky, she’ll make it into a school that isn’t known solely for its medical program.
And if she’s not, well, there’s always Canada.
All she has to do is make it through this. One year of crazy Coach Sylvester breathing murderously down her neck, of Noah Puckerman and Quinn Fabray riding her to finally come out of the closet and be happy, for once, of Puckerman’s loud-mouthed chipmunk of a girlfriend loitering around for beauty tips and the kind of Girl Time Santana would rather lop off a hand than deal with.
One year of AP course loads and pretending like being the top bitch at this place is enough. Hell, it’s just a year, right? No fucking sweat.
She reaches her locker-good old number 179, with its semi-rusted hinges and the long black streak along the bottom-and leans against it. In four minutes and thirty seconds, the calm of the morning will be broken by Puck’s letterman jacket and knowing sneer, Fabray’s hand clawing at the crook of her elbow, Rachel Berry clearing her throat before starting yet another mindless tirade. Four minutes and counting, and the year will officially kick off.
But first, the combination: 4-17-2, each number burned easily into her brain after years of flicking the dial around. Unlatch the lock. Pop open the door. And-
The fuck is this shit?
This is her locker. Always has been. No doubt about it, no questions asked. Hers, and only hers, for over three years-and yet, here she is, swinging the door back into place and craning her neck to reread the number. 179. Yeah. Right across from the Spanish classroom, same as always. Same black streak. Same cracked tile just under her left shoe. Hers.
So why in God’s name is there already a stack of books in here?
Easy books, by the looks of them-not remedial, exactly, but near enough. Nothing of AP caliber, for sure. Just the basics: Algebra, Physical Science, a folder with a unicorn dashing across its front. She blinks, reading each spine carefully, wondering if there’s been a mistake. Maybe this is from summer school, and no one bothered to clear it out?
Yeah, that’s gotta be it. Because she knows nobody would be stupid enough to make Santana Lopez-Sylvester’s pet, three-time National trophy winner, daughter of Dr. Carlos Lopez-share a goddamn locker. Not senior year.
It’s gotta be a fucking mistake.
***
And yet, benefit of the doubt or not, the books remain. They’re still there after third period, when she slips in to retrieve her purse for lunch. They’re there when she deposits her unnecessary AP Gov text-mammoth and horrible as it is-at the end of the day. They’re even there at the end of the week.
“What the fuck is this?” she demands, thumping the door with an open palm. Quinn Fabray glances up from her cell phone, thumbs still flicking across the screen.
“Looks like books, Captain.”
“But why are they here?” Santana grumbles. “They’re not fucking mine.”
Quinn tosses her head, causing a newly-dyed streak of pink to fall across her forehead. A new look for a new year, she’d said four days earlier, while Santana gaped in horror. It still hasn’t thoroughly sunk in, that her lifelong best friend would up and quit the Cheerios just to don an 80’s punk jacket and a pair of ripped jeans, but whatever. Quinn is the absolute master of making zero sense.
Like now, when she shrugs and says, “Must belong to your partner.”
“What partner?” Santana spits. “The fuck are you rambling about?”
“Locker partner?” Quinn repeats, nodding her head with every syllable like Santana’s a total moron for not knowing this. “Weren’t you listening to the announcements on Monday? Word is the school’s overcrowded. There isn’t enough room for everybody to have their own space anymore. Each senior got assigned a locker partner.”
Santana groans. “You’re telling me I have to share my locker with a goddamn freshman?”
“Or an exchange student,” Quinn replies, shrugging again. “New kid could be anybody. You really haven’t seen ‘em yet?”
She tries to think back, but as far as she can remember, there hasn’t been anybody out of the ordinary lurking around her locker. The usual parade of doofus jocks, of course-rugby assholes, hockey dickheads, a couple of football apes-but nothing else. Nothing new. Certainly no wimpy-ass freshmen; they seem to have already gotten the message that Santana Lopez is decidedly off their proverbial radar. Most of them haven’t even dared to look at her as she strides past.
“Fuck this,” she announces now, glaring daggers at the top of Quinn’s head. “I’m suing.”
“Good luck with that,” Quinn replies mildly. She taps her screen again and grins. Santana rolls her eyes.
“Tell Chang it’s too early for sexting. I need to keep my breakfast down at least until Chem’s over.”
“We're not sexting,” Quinn fires back. “He’s being sweet.”
“Isn’t he always,” Santana mutters. Quinn’s fist flashes out, colliding with her bare arm.
“You oughta give it a try someday, Ice Bitch.”
Santana glowers, rubbing the slowly-forming bruise. “You’re such a-“
“Ladies, are we behaving?” Kurt Hummel has appeared with his typical spritely magic, brown hair gelled in perfect form above his pointed, sparkling head. Santana turns her glower on him.
“Precious Moments! It’s been a whole thirteen hours since I’ve heard your wind chimes rattle. What a shame.”
“Good morning, Santana,” he replies carelessly, one hand already pulling Quinn’s phone from her hand. “And how is the delightful Mr. Chang this morning? Poetry?”
“Christ, you really do want me to hurl.” Santana shakes her head. “Hey, Babyface, you hear about the new locker policy?”
He flips a wrist under her nose. “What, the sharing? Old news, darling. The up-and-coming crowd has long moved on to greener pastures.”
“Don’t you think it’s bullshit, though?” Santana presses. “Come on, I know you’ve got to be on my side here. Nobody keeps more valuable shit in his locker than your treacle-tart ass.”
“I’ll have you know,” Kurt sniffs, “that I’m finding the whole system to be quite appreciable. What better way to help your fellow man than to lend a hand-or a shelf-in the first days at a new sch-“
“You got a honey,” Quinn interrupts, eyebrow arched. A grin splits Kurt’s face with molten enthusiasm.
“Oh, honey, I got the mother of all honeys.”
Santana rolls her eyes. “So when you say ‘help your fellow man,’ what you really mean is ‘help his dick into your passion-fruit-chapsticked mouth.’”
It’s sort of endearing, the way Kurt puffs his chest out and straightens his spine indignantly. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“What’s his name?” Quinn asks. “Freshman?”
“Sophomore, I think,” Kurt gushes. “Dreamy as can be-although, between you and me, I’m sincerely doubting the nature of his golden locks. All the same, I can say with utterly certainty: Sam Evans is the Herculean peak of modern man.”
“And you wants on that dick, don’t you, Feathers?” Santana laughs. “God, you gays are so damn predictable.”
His blue eyes narrow. “I suspect you’d know better than anyone, Santana.”
The smile falls from her lips, her teeth instantly clenching. “Say again, Rainbow Brite?”
“Hey, hey, not here,” Quinn cuts in, one hand laying soothingly against Santana’s arm. Kurt adjusts the strap of his beaded messenger bag and sniffs again.
“Anyway, girls, as lovely as this has been, I really must be going. I promised a certain dubiously-haired new friend I would show him to the astronomy lab this morning. I’ll see you around.”
Santana watches him go, hips swishing all the way down the hall, and tightens a fist against her hip. “Is it a hate crime if you’re killing somebody of your own kind?”
“Murder gets you arrested,” Quinn reminds her, “and it’s sort of hard to graduate if you’re wearing an orange jumpsuit. Come on, Lopez. Pull it together. You know he doesn’t mean anything by it.”
“Still going to string him up by his stupid little bag if he doesn’t cut that shit out,” Santana grumbles. “It’s not his fucking place to-“
“He won’t,” Quinn assures her. “He’d never. Kurt’s a good guy, you know that. Just a little...sensitive.”
“I’ll show him sensitive when I’m cracking that paper-thin little windpipe in half,” Santana threatens half-heartedly, her body sagging under Quinn’s supportive arm. “Little wood nymph’s gonna get what’s coming if he doesn’t learn to back the hell off.”
“He’ll back off,” Quinn insists. “I’ll talk to him. He wouldn’t do anything about it, not any more than Puck or I would, and you know it. Just breathe. Maybe work on figuring out your mystery locker partner, yeah?”
Sucking in a breath, Santana nods. “Sure. Yeah. Whatever. Just do me a favor? Keep Berry out of my hair today. One bleat from her, and I’m pretty sure Snix is going to make a vibrant appearance.”
***
A few weeks slip by, and then a month, and still there is no sign of her locker mate. No person-shaped sign, anyway. The books are still present, and they’re being joined by more and more papers with every passing day. Whoever this person is, they apparently don’t know the intended use of that stupid unicorn-patterned folder.
When she draws back the door in the second week of October and is rewarded with a slight worksheet avalanche, Santana swears and steps back so violently, she nearly trips over a young man with tousled blonde hair and a mouth so large, it could probably swallow Idaho. He stumbles, the book under his arm clattering to the floor.
“You have a rat?”
“Sorry?” Santana asks dumbly, watching as he scoops the book back up and straightens again. He’s cute, she guesses, for a boy, but that mouth is super fucking distracting. Sylvester’s workout plans aside, it just might be the scariest thing she’s ever laid eyes on.
“In your locker,” the boy clarifies, smiling dopily with that massive set of lips. “A mouse or something? You jumped back awful quick.”
“Wouldn’t be fuckin’ surprised, at this point,” Santana grumbles. She leans back and gestures to the mounting Office Max nightmare that is the top shelf. The boy rises up on the balls of his sneakered feet and whistles.
“Could use a little spring cleaning, huh? You should get on that.”
“It’s not mine,” Santana snaps. “It all belongs to my fucking locker partner. Whoever that is.”
“Ah.” The boy tilts his head, reaching up to adjust the collar of his blue windbreaker. “Well, good luck with that. I’m Sam, by the way. Sam Evans.”
“Fairy Boy’s Sam?” Santana blurts, ignoring the hand he has childishly chosen to stick in her face. To her surprise, his jaw tightens instantly, the friendliness bleeding out of his demeanor.
“You talkin’ about Kurt?”
It’s a strange reaction, almost defensive in nature, and Santana finds herself frowning. “You got a problem with gays, Lips?”
“Do you?” he challenges. She shakes her head, and his shoulders slump. “Oh. Okay. Good.”
“What do you care?” she wonders. “You’ve known the guy for like a month. Don’t tell me he’s already roped your fine little ass into PFLAG or whatever.”
“He hasn’t roped me into anything,” Sam says guardedly, shifting his bookbag from one shoulder to the other. “He’s just, y’know. A good guy. That’s all.”
“So you figured you’d stick up for him,” Santana observes. He nods, too quickly, his oversized mouth twitching on his blonde bobblehead. “Preemptively.”
“Figured somebody has to in this place,” he mutters, eyes dipping toward the floor. Despite herself, Santana feels her expression soften.
“Well. Good. Glad he’s not sharing his locker with a bigoted asshole, I guess. But don’t tell him I said that,” she adds swiftly when his expression veers again toward hopeful. “Can’t give the prancing little bastard any ideas.”
“’Course not,” Sam replies, a grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. Santana shakes her head.
“Santana Lopez, by the way.”
The grin widens. “Nice to meet you, Santana.”
“Whatever,” she mutters, turning back to the hellhole that is her locker. Out of the corner of her eye, she see Sam beam.
Fuck this ridiculous-ass year.
***“Maybe you should leave her a note or something,” Sam tells her at lunch the next week. The kid has taken to following her around whenever Kurt’s preoccupied with class or whatever else occupies the responsibilities of the Typical Teen Gay. It’s annoying as fuck, but she can’t figure out how to tell him to back the fuck off-especially since the others seem to like him.
“A note,” she says now, eyebrows twitching. “That’s your brilliant plan.”
“Why not?” Puck asks from the next spot over. He’s sprawled across several chairs, his arms hooked behind his head, with Rachel Berry propped up in his lap. Santana fires an irritated glance his way, nauseated at the way he stretches when Berry scratches her stubby fingernails through his mohawk.
“Why would I bother? I don’t even know if she’s a damn girl in the first place. She could be a fuckin’ ghost, for all I know.”
“I highly doubt your locker partner is of the spectral variety, Santana,” Rachel informs her, prissy as ever. Puck laughs.
“Dude, chick, what does it matter? You don’t have to ask the bitch to bone you, man, just say something classy.”
“Like you’d know class if it reared up and bit you in the ass, Puckerman,” Santana retorts, picking at the unpeeled orange in front of her. Rachel makes a miffed little noise.
“Noah asked me out in a note, you know. Put it right in my locker, and waited around the corner for my reply. It was very romantic.”
“Sounds like a stalk-ass move, Berry,” Santana sneers. Quinn snorts into her Diet Coke. Puck shoots them both a wounded pout.
“Hey, bitches, I did a fucking great job with that note.”
“Puckerman, you made me draw the hearts,” Quinn retaliates. “And Kurt did the lettering. The whole damn thing wasn’t even your idea.”
“But I put it in the locker,” he preens, stabbing a finger into his broad chest proudly. “And look who got the girl.”
“What a win that was for us all,” Santana mutters. He chucks a half-eaten cookie at her head.
“Anyway,” Sam cuts in, clearly trying not to laugh. “I didn’t mean that kind of note. I just meant, if she’s that messy, and it’s driving you crazy, why not leave her something polite to ask her to clean up after herself? Or himself. Whoever.”
It’s actually not a bad idea, she has to admit begrudgingly. Sam is irritating-and irritatingly stuck on Kurt, like a puppy that doesn’t seem to realize his master is a pretentious, glitter-bursting asshat-but there’s a sort of endearing charm that works for him. And might, she thinks, work for her.
“You gonna write it for me?”
“Only if Quinn draws the hearts,” he snips back, grinning. Quinn waves a hand back and forth.
“Hell, no. From now on, the only hearts I draw are my own commission.”
“You’re drawing me hearts?” Mike Chang asks, swinging one long leg over the back of a chair and flopping down. She leans in and brushes a kiss against his cheek, ignoring Santana’s gag of protest.
“Your hearts were beautiful, Quinn,” Rachel chimes in, as if someone had asked her. “Mike, you should be so lucky as to have a few for your own.”
Quinn pulls a face like she’s not sure if she should blush, or spew her recently-consumed lunch all over the table. Santana rolls the orange back and forth between her palms, cackling.
“I’ll keep my fingers crossed, Rachel,” Mike says pleasantly, wrapping an arm around Quinn’s waist and grinning toothily at them all. “Sorry I’m late, by the way. Dance ran long. You know, there’s this incredible new girl, just joined last month. She’s leaps and bounds ahead of everybody else, it’s amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Modest,” Quinn points out, nuzzling against his neck with her nose. He laughs.
“Okay, I’ve never seen anyone else like it. You guys should totally meet her sometime, she’s fantastic.”
“Yeah, sure,” Santana snorts. “Toss her our way next chance you get. Maybe she can join the Cheerios, fill Quinn’s gaping void.”
“Are you calling me fat?” Quinn asks absently. Santana sticks out her tongue.
“I’ll run it by her,” Mike says, like she wasn’t just being thoroughly sarcastic. Santana shakes her head and lobs the uneaten orange in the direction of the nearest trash can.
“Terrific. Lemme know how Black Swan responds. In the meantime, I’ve got a note to leave. That locker gets any shoddier, I’m gonna have to just light the whole thing on fire and be done with it.”
She sweeps up from the table, pointedly ignoring the proud expression Sam’s face. If she doesn’t start watching him closely, the kid’s going to develop one hell of an ego.
Which, if he ever plans on shacking up with the King Ego himself, could possibly end up problematic.
***The note sits in the locker for all of a day before disappearing, replaced-much to Santana’s shock-by a new strip of paper. The handwriting is slightly elegant, but mostly hurried, like the person can’t be bothered to stop living long enough to write even the simplest of messages. It looks as though it has been written in a moving vehicle, or maybe up against this very locker, scrawled between classes.
Sorry for the mess, it says simply. I’ll be better. Thanks for sharing your locker, by the way.
“By the way,” Santana reads aloud, “like I fuckin’ had anything to do with it. Can you believe that shit?”
“Looks like a girl,” Quinn observes, turning the scrap of paper over in her hands. “The style, I mean. Most guys are sloppier than this, and I’ve never seen a boy dot an I with a heart.” She pauses. “Well. Almost never.”
Leaning against the next locker over, Sam grabs for the note. “Signed ‘B.’ Who’s B, you think?”
“Fucked if I know,” Santana grumbles. “Long as she cleans her shit up, I couldn’t care less. Be even better if she’d just high-tail it back to wherever she came from. You know, I don’t even feel comfortable leaving my purse in the locker anymore?”
“You could leave it in mine,” Sam offers. “There isn’t a lot of room, but Kurt’s got enough of his own stuff. No way would he filch yours.”
“Thanks, Trouty Mouth,” she deadpans, “but I’m good. Just irritated. How the hell does someone co-exist with another person for almost two months and never show their face, anyway? Bitch must be a goddamn ninja.”
“I’ve checked the Asian Roster,” Mike says wryly, “but no new names have cropped up since Tina went off on that foreign exchange program. Real shame, we could use a fill-in.”
Santana swipes at his hair, trying not to laugh. Sam hands the note back and shrugs.
“At least it worked, right? Everything’s gonna get better now.”
She groans. “Are you going to start belting merry showtunes at me? I know Kurt hauled your ass into Will Schuester’s sing-a-thon bullshit, but I sincerely don’t need your Kumbaya’s, thanks.”
It’s a mark of how annoyingly comfortable he’s grown with her, she thinks, that he actually punches her in the arm.
***
Do you like the clean-up? You never wrote back, so I’m guessing it’s okay. Let me know if you need more room. -B
The scrawl is slightly less hasty this time, the note jammed between her Trig book and the wall. Santana stares at it, then gives the locker a once-over. Yeah, the clean-up’s okay. There are now five stuffed folders, crinkling at the edges where corners have gotten caught in the door a few times, but no flyaway pages. It’s actually pretty impressive, given her partner’s amazing penchant for not showing her face; she must have done this all overnight, to keep Santana from seeing.
Which doesn’t make any sense at all, but whatever. At least it got done.
It’s very nice, she finds herself writing back in Chem, red pen skirting across the top of her notebook. Thanks for clearing it up. And thanks for not leaving any, like, old sandwiches or something. That would’ve really sucked ass.
She pauses, feeling massively stupid, then adds a hurried, -S to the end of the note. It feels weird to be writing this at all, much less prepping to stick it into the locker for her phantom locker mate to find; who else would find themselves in such a bizarre situation? But if it keeps the mood amiable, she figures it might be worth it. Who knows? In a few months, maybe she’ll feel all right leaving her cell phone in the locker again.
Or not. Whatever.
***
Sandwiches would be really gross, the next note says. I did have some of Lord Tubbington’s favorite chocolate in here one night, but he got really mad at me for not bringing it home, so I won’t be doing that again. Anyway, I always buy my lunch, so you don’t have to worry about food smells. Do you like the salad bar? -B
Santana unpins the paper from beneath her copy of The Old Man and the Sea, scanning the lines rapidly. The pen is green this time-it seems to change from day to day, as if the writer gets bored using just one color-and there is a tiny drawing of what looks like a head of lettuce under the message. She tilts her head and rereads the last line again. Do you like the salad bar?
“What does that even mean?” she asks as she shovels assignments into her backpack after school. “Who asks that?”
“Maybe she wants to know if you’re a vegetarian or something,” Sam replies, his nose buried in an issue of Sports Illustrated. “Maybe it’s for a poll.”
“A poll,” Santana repeats dryly, “conducted by the weirdo who shares my locker.”
“Why not?” He shrugs. “You gonna answer it?”
She says nothing for a moment, wrestling with the idea. Should she answer it? It’s just a note, asking about nothing important in the least, and it’s not like she owes the mystery girl anything. But she does kind of like the salad bar-not that that’s at all relevant to, like, anything-and whatever, it’s just a damn note. What harm could it possibly do?
“Yeah,” she says, stuffing a wrinkled sheaf of T.S. Eliot poems into the bag. “I mean, probably. Why not, right?”
The shit-eating grin on his face sort of makes her want to bash his fluffy lips in.
***I’m glad you like salads. They’re much better than anybody ever gives them credit for being. But burgers are pretty awesome, too. Lunch is probably my favorite hour of the day. Nobody ever calls on you when you’re not ready at lunch, you know? And it’s quiet. Sort of. Except when that kid with the funny glasses and the ‘fro sits next to me. You ever meet him? He’s kind of creepy. Anyway, what’s your favorite class? -B
“This is getting weird,” she tells Puck, leaning over a notebook as she tries to formulate a response. He’s stretched out on the picnic table top, sunglasses perched on his nose, one earphone dangling down the front of his shirt.
“What’s weird,” he replies, “is you answering. Why are you doing that, anyway? Don’t you have, like, piles of fucking homework to work on? Damn overachiever.”
“Just because I’m not content working a pool business ‘til I start popping out kids, Puckerman,” she warns. He lifts his hands lazily, strumming out an invisible chord.
“Fuck that. The pool business is just until next fall. Then Rach and I are motoring out to the Big Apple.”
“Yeah?” She raises her head. “You apply to a school out there?”
“Nah. Figure she’ll get the education crap she wants, but you know school isn’t really my scene. Gonna make do with my real skills, if you know what I mean.”
She arches an eyebrow. “I don’t think she’ll approve of you selling your body on the streets, Puckerman.”
He laughs. “No way. She’d kick my ass for that shit. No, I’m gonna busk it in Central Park. I figure if she joins me on the weekends, maybe we can get a real band or something going. You’ve heard her sing-she’s amazing. You telling me you don’t think people would be tossing dollars our way for our sweet, sweet music?”
“Just don’t let her talk, and maybe you’ll be okay,” Santana mumbles. She bites her lip. “What’s my favorite class?”
“Fucked if I know.” He glances at her over the tops of his sunglasses, smirking. “Why are you stressing so bad over this? Seriously, Lopez, it is not a huge fuckin’ deal. You don’t even know what this chick looks like.”
It’s an unfortunately fair point. Still, it takes her ten minutes to finally write down, My favorite class is English, I guess. I like the stories, but more than that, I think I like arguing for what’s going on in the stories. Papers are like debates, or something, I guess. It’s fun to prove a point and make the teacher feel stupid sometimes.
She hesitates, then adds, Does lunch really count as a class? I mean, it’s great and everything, but I’m pretty sure it’s-y’know. Lunch. Do you have another favorite? -S
She gets up from the bench, folding the page in half and ignoring Puck’s protests. It’s stupid, but she can’t wait to get this into the locker. Hanging out can wait for a little while.
***Okay, I guess you’re right about lunch not being a class. You don’t get a grade or anything for it, which is kind of why I like it-I’m not so good with the school parts of school-but…yeah, okay. I guess my favorite class is Gym. I like running a whole lot (and jumping, and dancing; dancing is my favorite, so maybe Dance is actually my favorite class). Actually, I’m thinking of joining the track team when they open up tryouts. You think that’d be cool? Do you do any sports or anything? -B
She smiles, skimming over the, You think that’d be cool? part again. It’s so weird, to think she’s never actually met this person, and yet they want to know if she thinks something would be cool. Well-okay, maybe not super weird; after all, everyone in this school know she’s the coolest person around, and if anybody should be giving advice on the subject…
But somehow, this feels different. Maybe because she’s never seen B, or known anyone who has seen her, or had any proof she actually exists at all, outside of these notes. Or maybe because the notes themselves have, inexplicably, become her favorite part of the day.
She tries not to mention that part to anyone.
I think track would be very cool, just as long you’re faster than everybody else. It’s embarrassing to be a loser, you know? I’m on the Cheerios; I like dancing, too, and gymnastics. I used to like soccer, but there wasn’t enough time for that and cheerleading, so now I just do this. It’s…
She stops for a moment, pen hovering above the page. Her wrist twirls a few times, drawing circles in the air before touching back down again.
It’s really hard sometimes. Busy. You should make sure you’ve got the time, with school and family and stuff, before you join the team. There’s a lot of expectation at this school when it comes to being awesome and winning medals and stuff. And…yeah. You should just be careful. Are you a freshman, by the way? I sort of forgot to ask. -S
It’s hard to explain the feeling in her chest when she closes the locker on the note, like she’s just opened up the wrong door and let out a secret she wasn’t meant to release. A weird feeling, but maybe not a bad one. Maybe.
She spins the lock.
***Not a freshman, the note she finds on Monday says. My family moved here from Chicago in July. I’m a senior. You probably take all the smart classes, though; you sound smart. I know I spell stuff wrong sometimes and…yeah. But I’m not that dumb. I just don’t like school a lot. I think I’ll have enough time to run-do track, I mean-without the expectations being a problem, but I’m sorry it’s hard for you. It sounds hard. Maybe you should stop for a little while? Just an idea. You totally don’t have to. I just think if something is making you sad, it probably isn’t worth doing. -B
“Woah,” Quinn says, handing the note back. “That’s heavy. She doesn’t sound dumb.”
“She isn’t,” Santana replies instantly, ignoring the sharp way Quinn’s eyes bore into her. “But I’m not sad. Not at all. She’s not dumb, but she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, either.”
“Not surprising,” Quinn says mildly. “Seeing as she doesn’t even know your name.”
Santana chooses to ignore that, too.
I’m not sad, she scribbles as the teacher drones on and on about combining elements. It’s just a little rough. No big deal. Sorry you had to move, though. That sounds hard. -S
It’s much shorter than all the notes in the last week or two, and B will probably notice, but she can’t help it. Something about those words-Maybe you should stop for a while?-has cut just a little too deep.
The way Quinn keeps looking at her when she thinks Santana can’t see isn’t helping in the least.
***I’m sorry, the next one begins. I feel like I butted in. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m sure cheering is a lot of fun, no matter how hard it might be. You should totally keep at it. Does that mean you wear those red skirts? Those are super hot. I kind of want one myself, but the coach is really scary. I don’t think I could handle her yelling at me. She already told me I shouldn’t wear stupid hats last week, and when I told her my grandma sent me this one, she said my grandma must be Helen Keller. Isn’t she a singer? That doesn’t make any sense at all. Anyway, I hope you aren’t mad at me for what I said. And I hope you like the skirts. They look kind of cold, but totally hot. -B
Santana turns the message over in her hands, frowning. The tangled knot in her stomach doesn’t make sense-hasn’t made sense, in fact, since it first took root days ago. She feels like this is getting kind of out of hand; like she’s getting up in the morning mainly for this. To pick up a note. To write one back. To communicate with the mystery locker partner who seems to be, for all she can tell, the Invisible Girl.
It’s so damn weird, but she’s pretty sure she won’t be able to stop.
“She drew a skirt on this one,” Sam observes, jabbing a finger at the sketch in question. “Not bad. I’m not really sure why it’s on a cat, but…”
“That pops up a lot,” Santana answers absently. “I think it might be her cat. I mean, maybe. Maybe she just really likes cats. How should I know?”
Sam wisely doesn’t respond to this, choosing instead to slide the message back across the table. “She seems really nice, Santana.”
“Yeah. I guess.” Her fingers drum against the tabletop. Her head is pounding. The words seem to have painted themselves across her brain: I hope you aren’t mad at me for what I said.
He tilts his head, eyebrows knitting in concern. “You wanna talk about it?”
“About what?” she bites back, slightly more venomous than is necessary. To his credit, he doesn’t flinch.
“About how you seem to really like this girl you’ve never met.”
She scowls. “Piss off, Trouty.”
“I’m just saying,” he says, pushing his bangs back off his forehead. “You seem worried about what to say. And I don’t think you need to. Worry, I mean. I think she’ll like whatever you say back. I think she wants to be your friend.”
“Thanks for the input,” she snaps. He goes silent. She sighs. “Sorry. This is just. Really fucking weird.”
He slides a pen across the table, nudging against her fingertips. “Just write anything, Santana. I really don’t think she’ll mind.”
***I’m not mad. I’m just…really stressed out, I guess. Homework, and overbearing parents, and my grandmother’s been kind of sick lately, and my brother won’t move out, so I have to listen to my parents screaming at him…screaming at each other…my parents fight. Kind of a lot. And then Cheerios is crazy, and school is crazy, and-I’m not mad. Just. I guess I don’t talk about this kind of thing. Ever. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t talk about it either. Please. -S
The minute the lock is latched, she wants nothing more than to wrench the door back open and tear the note to shreds.
***
Wow, that sounds really bad. I would hate it if my parents started fighting. I mean, sometimes they yell at me for bad grades, or at my sister for hanging Lord Tubbington out the window like Simba-actually, I kind of yelled at her for that, too, but I felt bad about it after-but never at each other. I can’t imagine what that’s like. And a sick grandma…maybe you should make her tea? I’ll leave a bag here of my favorite kind, maybe it’ll help. It always makes me feel better when I’m having a bad day. But if she doesn’t like tea, that’s okay, too. My dad says it’s the Devil’s juice.
You don’t have to worry about me talking about anything. I wouldn’t do that. I mean, I talk to Artie about stuff, and sometimes to Becky, but not about you. That’s private. Private stuff is important. You can trust me. -B
Santana sinks against the locker, her forehead resting on cool metal, and sighs. It seems so absurd, to trust a face she’s never seen, but somehow, she believes it. She does trust B.
It’s so weird, but she thinks maybe she more than trusts her. Maybe…
Don’t, she tells herself firmly. Don’t even go there.
She waits a day to write the next note.
[Part 2]