Narrative: Santana ditches the celibacy bracelet Who: Santana When: 11/11/11 [backdated] Where: Out and about in Ohio What: Santana celebrates as only she can Warnings: Mentions of sex, underage drinking
Santana grinned at her reflection – a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it parting of her lips that meant one thing. Trouble. The last of the fake tan had finally faded – which had taken long enough. Seriously, she’d scrubbed her skin practically raw trying to lose the orange tinge. That’s what happens when you let the newbie at the beauty parlor do your tan. Rookie mistake.
Coach S’d been kind enough, banishing her to Lima Heights under the cover of an out-of-school suspension. One that’d never make her school record, thankfully. Santana hated school, but she hated Lima more. The suspension was probably more to save face for Coach Sue – because she couldn’t have her cheer captain walking around looking like an oompa loompa – but it was appreciated. Santana’d spent the week watching soaps and trying to complete Coach’s crazy quota of 1000 crunches a day. And maybe looking up a few colleges too. Whatever. Ms Pillsbury had been nagging her forever, and Rachel’s little prediction hadn’t helped her growing curiosity.
But now Santana was 18 – and still a beauty queen. Her week in exile was over, and her favorite Cheerios had taken her out the night before to celebrate, presenting her with the gift that kept on giving – a decent fake ID.
And now it was a Saturday night, and for the first time since she’d moved to Lima, Santana wasn’t throwing the party to end all parties. People were kind of partied out. And she had better plans for her night. Plans that involved her shiny new ID and a little roadtrip.
Columbus was overrated. Santana had her sights set north. Bowling Green was a college town. And a college town meant college kids.
She checked her reflection one more time, then scooped up her keys and dropped her lipgloss back into her purse, swinging the door shut on her way out. She hadn’t told anyone about her plans. They’d make noise about her going by herself, but there was no way she was bringing along anyone to cramp her style.
It was an hour by car. She’d done her research. She knew exactly where she was going.
Santana parked, then tossed her hair back over her shoulder, stepping out of the car. She was so done with the self-imposed celibacy that came with her new reluctance to do the guys at school, and the total lack of anyone of the female variety she was remotely interested in.
Well, single females, at least.
This was it. 60 miles from home, an ID that got her into the club without a second glance. The club was crowded. College kids and a cramped dancefloor and tables sticky with alcohol. Santana looked around, scanning the room. Plenty of potential. She just had to play her cards right. But no matter what, Santana was getting lucky.
It was her birthday, after all.
-
She woke up the next morning with a hangover that hit her the moment she opened her eyes. “Cherry vodka,” she muttered, sitting up slowly, hair dangling forward to try and block out the sunlight. She was curled up in bed. A bed. Definitely not her bed.
“You’re cute when you’re sleepy,” a voice called out, way too cheerful for so early in the morning.
“Thanks?” she called back, straightening her spine and brushing all her hair back behind her ears.
The other person came into focus, standing in a kitchenette on the other side of the little studio apartment.
“You don’t look like much of a Samantha,” the girl said, crossing the room, two mugs of coffee in hand. She passed one to Santana, perching on the other side of the bed, then tugged something from her pocket, flipping it towards Santana.
Ah. The fake ID.
“Santana,” she said, taking the opportunity to look at the other girl properly. Dark red hair, the ends dip-dyed pink. She was about Santana’s height, and slim, wearing oversized sweats and a t-shirt that was a few sizes too small.
“That’s definitely a better fit,” the other girl – Amanda? Ashlee? – nodded, sipping her own coffee.
Okay, it was definitely time to leave. Hangover be damned.
“So. Last night was fun.” What she could remember of it, anyway. Santana put her mug down on the side table. There was a pair of panties tangled at her feet. She pulled them on, hoping they were hers, and stood up. “But I gotta run. Y’know.”
“Sure,” Allie shrugged.
Santana found her dress, then hunted down her shoes, and finally, her purse.
“Uh, so. Thanks,” she said. The girl smiled then, all teeth and perfect pink lips, and Santana could totally remember why she’d chosen her first out of all the girls in the bar she could’ve moved in on.
“You too. I put my number in your phone while you were sleeping. If you’re ever around, or whatever.” The girl shrugged again. “Or even if you just want to talk. I hope you figure out what you want.”
I do too, Santana thought. But even in the midst of the headache, it kind of seemed like she did. Meaningless sex was totally her thing. Like, her trademark. So if nothing else, at least she’d proved that she still had it, even if it was with hot girls instead of guys.
“I’m going to go,” Santana pointed to the door unnecessarily. “See you round.”
The girl raised her hand in a wave, drinking her coffee.