Hello all! If you are reading this and you think that things look different than you last remember it, it is because you are right. I have been gradually working through chapters making edits and some slight changes that I wish I had done originally in retrospect.

Also, trigger warnings have been added to the beginning of each chapter for people looking to avoid specific parts that may be hard to read. As for this chapter, there are no trigger warnings.

The Watcher and the Dancer

"Of two sisters one is always the watcher, the other, the dancer." - Louise Gluck

Chapter 1 - I'm Through with the Past (But the Past Isn't Through with Me)
Santana P.O.V.

When I was younger, the last thing that I wanted was a sibling.

In my first memory, I am three years old. I have a vivid image of my mother standing barefoot at the crest of the stoop attached to our cramped South Boston apartment building. Her pregnant stomach is stretching the fabric of her favorite floral-patterned dress to its absolute threshold as she bites her fingernails to the quick. She is trying to stem the frustrations emanating from a little, three-year-old me as I dance in circles around her and ask if it were possible for her to simply stop being pregnant.

Needless to say, that never happened because a few short months later – despite my best efforts to prevent the dreaded event – my little sister was born.

She had arrived five weeks early and bristling with impatience. Afterwards, my father had dropped another bombshell, requesting to my reluctant mother that Baby Girl Corcoran be given an unfortunate, yet ever-lingering family name that had been given to generations of unsuspecting Corcorans: Rockleigh Ashthore Finbarr Corcoran. My father was the 4th. He wanted Rachel to be the 5th.

Now I know that the whole thing sounds just a little bit crazy and a tad bit selfish on my father's part, but if there is one thing that you need to know about our little South Boston community around the time that my sister and I were born, it is that its residents held onto their heritages as tightly as if they held monetary value. Mostly because their heritages were just about the last thing that any of them had left.

So, despite the fact that the name had been one historically served to the more male counterparts of my ancestors, complications during my mother's pregnancy that had led to my sister's early birth ensured that my younger sister would be my only sister and in fact, my only sibling, which made her my father's last real shot at continuing this expansive tradition.

It took one full week and an extremely passive-aggressive NICU staff to finally come to a happy medium. My mother chose her first name, Rachel, for no reason aside from the fact that she spent two straight days stuck inside of her own hospital bed watching Friends re-runs. In exchange, she had agreed to allow my father to burden his youngest daughter with three middle names; at least two more than what Rachel would ever actually need or want.

We took Rachel Rockleigh Ashthore Finbarr Corcoran home from the hospital on New Year's Day after she'd spent three weeks in the NICU. Because of this, we had missed both Christmas and Hanukah – for which we observed both – and my father decided that we would celebrate both holidays, plus Rachel's homecoming all in one.

Rachel was the worst Christmas present that I could have ever possibly received. In the beginning, I hated the mere idea of having a sister so by default, I hated Rachel too.

The first year of Rachel's life came with a lot of change. By her first birthday, my mother had undergone a radical hysterectomy after her endometriosis – compounded by two pregnancies – grew in severity to a point that it was crippling her daily. She tried to pretend that it didn't bother her, that she already knew she would not be having any more children anyway, but even at four years old I could tell that there was something different about her afterwards and honestly, I don't think that she was ever really the same after that.

While my mother was recovering from surgery, my father moved Rachel out of my parent's bedroom and into mine where she would become a permanent fixture. It was the only other option in our two-bedroom apartment and despite fighting tooth-and-nail against the move, it was a battle that I realistically never had a chance in hell at winning.

Rachel's crying woke me up almost every single night for a full year and the smell of dirty diapers lingered offensively against every stitch of clothing that I owned so that my nickname in my kindergarten class was quickly pinned as Dirty Diaper Corcoran.

It is an alter-ego that I am sad to say, somehow managed to stick until I reached middle school and my classmates slowly began to realize that uttering a curse word was not an offense punishable by death. After that, they simply took to calling me Shit Head Corcoran.

It goes without saying that I was not the most popular girl growing up.

But I didn't mind. Really, I didn't. The crazy thing about it is that all of the teasing and all of the isolation quickly taught me a very valuable lesson regarding the fact that it is impossible to push away your family.

As much as you might want to sometimes.

I was the one holding Rachel's hand on the day that she took her very first step. She was the one holding onto mine on the day that my first boyfriend, Evan Moore – who had only asked me out because his friends dared him to – broke up with me in the seventh grade. I had ridden with Rachel to Massachusetts General Hospital in the back of an ambulance after she got cracked in the head playing softball in gym class and had to have six stitches laced down the front of her forehead. She had cried harder than I did after I'd fallen off the monkey bars one pristine Sunday afternoon in Moakley Park and broke my arm in two places when I was eleven.

We had kept each other upright on the day of our father's funeral.

"We're here."

I am lying flat on my back across the back bench of the car that my mother had rented to drive her, Rachel, and myself from Boston to Middle-Of-Nowhere, Ohio; our new home.

I have spent the better part of the last two hours struggling to toss M&M's up in the air and catch them into my mouth. The measure of my success is calculated when I sit up and hear at least half a bag of the small, hard candy scatter as it falls from my chest and onto the floor.

"This is it?" Rachel asks from the front seat, pressing her face against the passenger window as my mother pulls up to the curb in front of our new house. She is fourteen years old now, but she still bears the enthusiasm of somebody much younger. While the majority of her classmates have already started their flawless transition into cynical, moody teenagers, Rachel's energy and her ambition remain boundless.

"This is it," my mother confirms, killing the car engine. "What do you guys think?"

I open the door and step out onto the overgrown front lawn, which is in desperate need of attention. My sister steps up next to me and my mother next to her. Our mother is taller than both Rachel and I – although that is not saying much – but Rachel has made up for that in terms of everything else that she has managed to inherit from the woman.

In terms of genetics, Rachel and my mother might as well be twins. From her prominent facial features, chocolate brown hair, determination, and a passion and talent for theater that will one day see her as the performer rather than the audience, Rachel is one hundred percent my mother's daughter. The only exception is in my father's tenacity, and his eyes; almond shaped and set like the color of dark chocolate.

I on the other hand, am what I like to call a mutt. I have inherited nothing of intrinsic value except for a perfect combination of all the recessive genes that my parents had to offer. There are bits of myself that I see in my father on one day and my mother the next. More often than not, I feel like the grunt of the family.

My father, like most people from South Boston, was straight-off-the-boat Irish while my mother was Russian and Jewish and about a hundred other things in between.

Let's just say that Sunday School in South Boston had never been much fun, because while my mother may have converted to Catholicism (for the sole purpose of my father's family approving of their marriage) that did not mean that she could convert from looking Jewish. And neither could her two daughters.

"What do you girls think?" my mother asks, watching Rachel and I carefully as we squint up at our new home. Until now, I have only seen it in the pictures that my mother had shown me on the internet. It looks just about the same as it had online so at least there are no surprises. On the outside, anyway.

The siding is a light gray that looks old, but well kept. A clean, white trim borders a large bay window. The front stoop is even smaller than the one that had been in front of our Boston apartment with three steps leading up to the front door. The house is only one story, but after seventeen years of living in a third-story apartment, this is a welcome change.

It seems pleasant enough. Hell, there is even a garage for the car we don't have and a small garden bed, although that has already been pulled up for the winter.

I take the entire thing in slowly. My mother is the only person that I know who has ever rented a house online, but our move was sudden and for what it's worth, I don't think that she did a half bad job.

"It's huge!" Rachel stammers dumb-founded as she walks up the front path. I have to smile at her enthusiasm. Huge might be a little bit of an overstatement, but when the only thing that either one of us has ever known is an apartment building, well then in that case, she is right. This place is huge.

"You girls have your own rooms," my mother announces from the side of the car. A smile stretches across her face. I can tell that she has been holding onto that surprise, saving it for our arrival in the hope of uplifting our spirits after spending the last two days in a car driving halfway across the country.

Rachel and I glance at her quickly and then at each other. Our eyes are wide with possibility. I have not had my own bedroom since Rachel was a year old.

"I call the bigger one," Rachel announces, shrill as a trumpet blast as she rushes to get inside and call dibs. I let her. I am willing to give her a couple of minutes believing that her calling the bigger bedroom first will override my God-given right as the oldest to it.

My mother follows Rachel, fumbling with the key before opening the door and pushing inside. I am still walking up the driveway and can already hear Rachel's scurrying feet echo through the empty house as she rushes to the bedroom that I am about to remove her from.

"You're letting her have the big bedroom?" My mother asks me, astonished by my generosity as I walk slowly through the front door, taking in the expansive living room, attached directly to a dining room and small kitchen beside it.

"Nah," I tell her, shrugging out of my backpack, stuffed to capacity with a handful of essentials to last the next couple of days while we wait for the moving van. "I figured that I would give her at least this."

My mother smiles softly. "So, what do you think?" She breathes, asking my honest opinion.

"It has a backyard," I shrug, peering through the dining room window that oversees a decently sized backyard cordoned off with a chain-link fence. "Can we get a dog?"

I am hopeful for her answer even though I have been asking my mother for a dog since I was old enough to say the word.

"How about we give it a couple of months and get our feet on the ground first, alright?" It is her most polite way of saying no. I can feel myself sink.

"Yeah, alright."

"Now hurry up," she rushes me down a long hallway that leads towards the house's three bedrooms. "The longer that you wait the more you're going to break your sister's heart when you take your room back from her."

The moving van arrives three days after we do.

It comes in just the nick of time because I am quickly running out of clean clothes and have been sleeping under an old jacket on the wooden floor of my empty bedroom, which is hardly comfortable.

Thanks to Rachel, everything has been labelled perfectly according to the room that it belongs. I am not exactly a slob, but I procrastinate as well as the next teenager while my sister prefers to keep her every move aligned with an exact schedule. The night after the movers arrive, she is already fully unpacked. If anything about that surprises me, it is that she hadn't finished sooner.

Meanwhile, boxes remain stacked to my ceiling. I have not touched a single one. I consider it a blessing that I had gotten my bed put together fast enough to keep from spending another night sleeping on the floor. Now, if only I could find my sheets…

"Hey mom?"

I walk out of my bedroom to find my mother hovering over a pile of moving boxes stacked taller than she is inside of our otherwise empty kitchen.

My mother is a strong, intimidating woman with high cheekbones and a strong set jaw that would make her beautiful if it wasn't permanently transfixed into a scowl. The move had drained her. Adrenaline had gotten her here and had even given Rachel and I a couple of good days with her, but her energy was depleted. Who knew when it would come back. Experience tells me that it could be in days, or it could be in years.

There had been a time where my mother was a wide-eyed dreamer, but that was a long time ago.

Shelby Berry graduated from a high school in southern New Jersey in the early nineties and barely walked off the stage with her diploma before moving to New York City to try to make a name for herself on Broadway. She had struggled for a couple of months, like all prospective actors, but hit her big break in the form of an understudy position for Fantine in Les Misérables.

Even as the understudy, she was blessed with generous stage time. She was even highlighted as the next actress to watch in Broadway magazine's September 1992 issue. For a couple of months, every single person in the theater community had their eyes on my mother. Then on a rare Saturday night off her and a few friends had gone up to Central Park to catch the annual rugby match that teamed the New York Fire Department against Boston's. My father was a young cadet for Ladder 10 of the South Boston Fire Department at the time. He also just so happened to play a pretty mean fly half for the rugby team. He had crossed over enemy lines at great personal risk – or so he claims – just to catch the name of the most beautiful girl on the sidelines: my mother.

My father always claimed that he had my mother at hello. My mother tends to tell a much different story but given their track record of a twenty-year marriage and two children, it's hard to decide what story to believe.

Standing in front of her now, it is hard to believe that my mother was ever that woman. She doesn't seem to notice me even though I am so close that I could touch her. Her emotional spectrum has been fragile for years, glistening back and forth between okay and very, very bad for some time. All you really need to know about her current state of mind is that my father's funeral had been a year ago this past July and she still insists on wearing black everywhere she goes.

My father had been a proud man of a relatively standard upbringing. He was raised to be a hard worker, which is exactly what he was, not only for his family, but for the Fire Department that he worked for as well.

Then, one night, he responded to a five-alarm fire call at two o'clock on a Sunday morning in downtown Roxbury; a neighborhood that all our friends and family had always warned us against wandering down by ourselves at night.

The fire had started inside of an old, abandoned apartment complex that was tattered and worn to begin with, let alone with the addition of flames licking at its already weathered foundation. A couple of college students had found their way inside in search of a place to party. It was the perfect place: quiet, secluded, and in a neighborhood where a college party was the least of the local police's worries. The only problem is that the electricity had been shut off inside of the building months before, and what better way to light a room than with a bunch of candles, right?

My father had barely entered the rotting basement before the entire building collapsed on top of him. That night, the Boston Fire Department had lost three of its best men. My father was one of them.

My mother held the family together as best as she could. She had already been working part-time as a music teacher at the local community college and picking up side jobs on theater productions where she could but in those first couple of months, she couldn't even bring herself to get out of bed. The fire department that my father worked for had offered our family a generous pension that kept us afloat for a while, but Boston was an expensive city. After a while, not even my mother could ignore that we had to make a change.

She didn't even bother telling Rachel and I that she was looking for a new job when Vocal Adrenaline came crawling.

My mother had been a relatively well-known show choir director for years and wherever she worked, she produced results. Vocal Adrenaline was a notoriously competitive glee club in north-western Ohio with generous boosters who were looking for just the record of success that my mother had to offer. They hired her on the spot after a telephone interview and with barely any money and two kids to feed, my mother poured the last of her savings into the security deposit on a home and a moving van rental and took us from the expensive, over-populated fog of the Northeast, out west to Lima, Ohio; a vast wasteland and apparent breeding ground for nothing aside from a lot of cows and even more rednecks.

"Mom!"

I call for her again, searching for the attention that I had found myself craving ever since I – a notorious daddy's girl – had lost the main source that had provided it for me.

"What is it, Santana?" Her voice is distant and uninterested as she finally acknowledges my presence. When she does finally turn to face me, I find that she has not been unpacking as I previously assumed, but that she is clutching onto one of her favorite pictures of her and my father so tightly that the frame's glass has cracked straight down the center.

I know the image well. I had taken it. It is a candid of my mother standing at the edge of Santa Monica Pier looking out over the ocean while my dad stands delicately behind her with his arms carefully folded around her waist. His body is wrapped into hers, a perfect fit, holding her close.

For some reason, I have been thinking a lot about that family vacation lately; two weeks on a California beach, standing on the edge of the Pacific with the sun beaming down on us constantly. It is a memory that I cannot seem to shake, which gets me thinking: I can really use a vacation right about now.

"Do you know where the box with all of my sheets in it is?" I ask. I want to say something to her to try to make her feel better, to cheer her up, or even ask if she wants to talk about it, but mine and my mother's relationship never really crossed that threshold of emotion before. We never really developed that kind of a bond. I love my mother, of course I do, but at the same time, she just wasn't that type of parent and I wasn't that type of daughter.

Besides, that is what I had Rachel for.

"I don't know, Santana," my mother sighs, averting her eyes. Even as I stand in her face, shouting her name, she can barely hear me. Barely look at me.

I watch her place the framed photograph heavily back down against the window sill before running a shaking hand through her hair. It is only then that I notice that her palm is bleeding from the crack in the glass frame. I don't think she's even noticed.

"Oh, okay…" I answer, ending this empty conversation. With a sigh of defeat, I turn to exit the dismal kitchen.

"Santana," my mother calls me back in a sudden change of heart. I turn over my shoulder. For a second, she remains silent and only stares at me in a way that I can literally see the truth written inside of her expression. There is something there. She had wanted this move to be our new beginning and maybe this was it.

Before she can cross that barrier inside of her throat, she swallows and it is gone. The look on her face neutralizes and I realize that it had left too quickly for me to properly decipher it.

"I'm going to run up to Carmel to take a look around before my first day tomorrow. I'll probably be back late so don't wait up. And make sure that Rachel gets to bed early. The two of you have school in the morning."

She gives me the instruction with no real concern in her tone. She has shown little concern for anything since our father's death. Before, she had been tough. Fair, but tough. Since, it is easy to get around her. She would still make motherly gestures from time to time and go through the motherly motions but those motions and gestures were all that they were. It was like she was always listening, waiting for my father to walk back into the house. She had done it in Boston and it seemed like she would be doing that in Lima as well.

"Okay mom," I nod, turning out of the kitchen only then realizing that I was as guilty as hiding my true feelings from her as she was of hiding them from me.

"Hey Rach."

I stroll casually into Rachel's bedroom, greeting my little sister who is sitting Indian-Style on top of her bed, sorting through a large cardboard box full of worthless knickknacks and mementos. Her room is spotless and organized; a far cry from my own, which still looks like a tornado had passed through it.

"Santana!" She scolds, clicking her tongue in the exact same way that my mother does when she is mad at me. "You're supposed to knock first!"

"Oh…" I smirk at her insistence towards a privacy that she has been clutching to upon finding out that finally – after thirteen long years – her and I would no longer be sharing a bedroom. "Sorry. I guess that I'm still not used to your room not being my room too."

"It's okay, I guess," Rachel forgives me, giggling feebly as I attempt to humor her by retracing my steps back into the hallway, rapping my knuckles hard against the open door.

"Can I come in?"

"Of course," she nods appreciatively as I step inside of the room. The light from the hallway catches her face in such a way that highlights the prominent features that she had inherited from our mother. It makes her look more like her than she already does and for a second, I have to do a double take.

"I was just wondering if you want to take a break from unpacking and go explore Lima a little bit?" I offer. "Maybe see what people do for fun in this cow town."

"You'd have to start unpacking in order to take a break from unpacking, Santana," she scolds me in true Rachel form; with a smile that almost completely masks her eyeroll. "But sure. I'd love to."

It is a gorgeous day today in Lima. With the end of summer rapidly merging into fall, the weather outside is perfect. It is days like today that make me actually miss Boston. Sure, the city might be able to boast a fall season that lasts only a week or two (three on a good year) before the blistering winter makes its descent, but for that week or two, Boston is truly as beautiful as any city will ever get.

It is a gorgeous day today in Lima, but I am still not ready to call it home.

"Are you worried about school at all?" I break the silence festering between Rachel and I because it is starting to make my skin itch. Rachel hasn't exactly been one to initiate conversation lately and I know that if I am not the one to start talking, the two of us would stay quiet for the rest of our lives.

"No," she lies to me, concentrating carefully on a pebble as she kicks it down the road. "Are you?"

"No."

"Liar," she accuses. She turns to me. There is a small smile written inside of her face, one that actually reaches her eyes. I find myself having to resist the urge to freeze this moment in time, to grab onto her shoulders, lean in closer, and take in this expression as if to say there you are, I've missed you.

"You lied first," I grin, nudging her bony hip playfully with my own so that we laugh carelessly, just like we used to do before fate stopped caring about our happiness.

This relief is short lived. Eventually, our easy giggles fade back into silence. My grin falters and I don't know what to do with my hands, so I shove them inside of the pockets of my jeans, looking down at my feet as I count every step that I take. One at a time.

"Do you think I'll make friends?" Rachel finally asks me, opening a Pandora's Box of pent up fear that she has been holding onto regarding her first day at William McKinley High School.

"Of course," I assure her. "You're only a freshman, Rachel. You have four whole years with these guys. That's plenty of time to make new friends. I'm gonna be a senior. A couple of months and everybody is out of here for college, anyway. They won't care about me. I'm gonna be the one with no friends, not you."

"Yeah well, at least that means you only have to be at William McKinley for a year," Rachel points out. "Who cares if you don't make any friends. You'll be out and going to college soon and then you can make all of the friends you want."

"I don't even know if I'm going to college yet."

"That would be stupid," she lectures. She sounds just like our mother.

"Hey!"

As we turn around the corner, I hear a voice shouting to us, saving me from having to respond to Rachel's comment. Sometimes, it is so easy for me to forget that there are people on this planet aside from Rachel and I that when I am reminded of the contrary, I struggle to figure out how to respond.

"Hey?" I question the intrusion as my eyes find a painfully beautiful boy with a tapered hair cut that ends in a shallow mohawk standing on the front lawn of the house in front of us.

He is wearing a loose pair of jeans that hugs his hips just right, outlining the perfectly carved muscles of his bare torso, which glistens underneath a thin film of sweat. His t-shirt has been discarded on the fence post in front of him and as he reaches to stall the lawnmower that he has been pushing, I notice him flex his biceps purposefully.

"You the family that just moved in down the street?" he asks, leaning against the fence in such a way that he looks like he is trying out new modeling poses as opposed to chatting idly with new neighbors.

"Yeah," I tell him sharply, keeping a safe distance, wary.

"Senior?" He asks me, evaluating me up and down like he is trying to decipher my entire story with his eyes alone. I realize in this moment that I do not particularly enjoy being studied. In fact, I think I would prefer going unnoticed.

"Yeah," I tell him despite my better judgement.

"Me too. I'm Noah, Noah Puckerman," he offers, finally giving me a name to match his face. Wiping his hands against the thighs of his dirty jeans, he sticks his hand over the fence so that I can shake it. I consider him for a moment before accepting the offer but I am still a little bit skeptical. "Everybody calls me Puck."

"Santana," I nod to him. "Everybody calls me Santana."

He laughs, flashing me a lopsided smile and perfect set of teeth that I have to fight against to stop me from melting.

"Who's your friend?" he asks, nodding towards my sister who has taken to hiding shyly behind me.

"This is my little sister Rachel," I tell him, stepping aside to expose Rachel. "She's a freshman."

"Hey Rachel," he nods to her, leaning further into the fence post. "So, what brings you to our little town?"

"My dad died," I tell him bluntly, crossing my arms in front of me, still not entirely sure where to measure my trust. My tone is coarse and brass, the defense mechanism that I have used my entire life under conditions that warranted circumspect. It had arisen out of necessity after being the brunt of the majority of the jokes and pranks of my peers back in Boston. My defense was always up. Especially when Rachel was around.

"That sucks." Much to my surprise, his perfect face does not falter. Instead, Noah or Puck or whoever the hell this mysterious boy with the charming smile is, flashes a row of glistening white teeth in my direction and all of a sudden, I feel myself going from skeptical to swooning. "Well if it helps, my dad's an asshole so if he ever comes back, you can have mine."

And just like that, the attraction is gone. I roll my eyes prominently, making sure that he can see.

"Ugh. No thanks. Come on, Rachel. We have to go."

I grab onto Rachel's hand, dragging her back down towards our own house, but Noah does not seem to be ready to let up.

"Wait, I'm sorry!" He calls after us, jogging around the fence towards us so that he can box me in. "That was a bad joke. I'm trying to work on that."

"Well, maybe you should work harder," I tell him, hearing myself drop the R in the word harder in a token to the Boston accent that only ever comes out when I am thoroughly annoyed.

I am being completely serious, which is why it only annoys me further when Noah/Puck pauses, takes in the flaw, and actually laughs.

"Where did you say you were from?" he asks.

"I didn't. Boston." I don't know why I continue to feed him information. He has that way about him, that way that my father always warned Rachel and I against.

"Boston…" he nods slowly, testing the word on his tongue as if to decide whether or not it fits right. "That's hot. I like it."

"You ever been?" I ask, jutting out my hip and crossing my arms over my chest.

"Honey, I've never even left Allen County," he tells me like I had been stupid for even asking. "But maybe one day you can show me."

"Ugh!" I groan, not so subtly turning away from this strange, new creature to grab onto Rachel again. "I gotta go. Come on Rachel."

"I guess I'll see you at school tomorrow!" He calls after me. I respond by flashing him my middle finger with my back still turned and can hear him laugh even as the distance between us grows further and further.

"Let me give you a ride!" I hear him yell through the distance. He is relentless, this Noah Puckerman, yet for some strange reason, I can't seem to decipher whether this is a complete turn off, or whether I want to pull him in closer.

"No thanks. We'll just take the bus." I play it safe, just in case. I don't want to come across as desperate, but I don't want to separate myself too far from my first possibility of a friend, or perhaps even more. A fleeting thought passes through my head and I can't help but wonder whether or not he has a girlfriend. Probably. Guys like Noah Puckerman do not tend to remain single.

"Come on, nobody has ever denied a ride from the Puckster before!"

"I'm pretty sure I just did," I turn to face him, walking backwards as my mouth tips in a small, half smile. Being this flirty is surprisingly unlike me. In a flash, I feel myself transform from the shy loser with no friends save for my little sister to a tease that can leave a gorgeous, popular charmer hanging on by a thread.

Maybe Lima won't be so bad after all.

"Those city girls, they have such mouths on them," Noah plays it off well as the two of us bounce conversation off of each other like we'd known each other for years. "Come on, I can show you the easy way of us simple folk. I'll buy you breakfast and everything."

"Fine," I finally concede and even from down the street, watch the flash of victory shine across Noah's face.

"I'll see you at seven!"

I don't answer him this time, just swoon as Rachel and I round back to our house. She looks terrified by the actions of her big sister and I watch her fake a gagging motion before looking back up at me.

"What the hell just happened?" she asks me and I shrug my shoulders quickly.

"I think that I just got a reason to look forward to my first day of school for the first time in my life."