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Anticipation buzzes through the hallways of McKinley High as winter break inches closer at the speed of a turtle wearing a Santa hat. Santana would say the final week before school lets out for the rest of the calendar year is magical because it means the semester has come to a close and she’s made it out relatively unscathed—barring the somewhat traumatizing shenanigans she’s witnessed from the glee club and the slushee facials she’s reluctantly welcomed since rejoining the band of losers she’s been forced to love with her entire evil being.
And then there’s that whole “being forced out of the flannel closet” thing. That wasn’t her finest of moments, and she still damns Finn Hudson to hell for the amount of suffering she’s been put through this week alone—she’s only lucky that Quinn happened to be behind her when a football player attempted grabbing her ass while calling her a very colorful slur. Santana would hate to admit it to the free world, but she quite enjoyed hearing Quinn’s eloquent voice essentially tell the 6’3 jock towering over Santana that homophobic men have small penises and use insults to compensate. Fantastic, Quinn is. Being a skank for the first month or so of the school year must’ve altered a wire or two inside her brain.
It’s a Friday, and Santana is certain that progress reports are due, and surely enough, as she’s sitting next to Brittany in the back of their sweaty home economics class, which unfortunately doubles as their home room, their stout and stubby teacher, Mrs. Whitley, begins laying sheets of paper face-down at each desk, her lips either forming into an approving smile or a frown of disappointment as she makes her way down the single aisle between the two rows of the classroom desks. She gets through all fourteen of Santana and Brittany’s peers without biting off anyone’s head, and stops at the desk the couple have shared all year.
“Ladies,” says Mrs. Whitley, a certain grate to her voice. She doesn’t bother with laying the papers face-down, rather slapping them against the desk in front of each Cheerio with the letters and numbers glaring them in the face. “I have to give everyone this week’s assignment, but we will have a discussion after class. Meet me at my desk before you leave here today.”
Sharing a look of concern as the frumpy woman walks away with her ankle-length denim skirt swinging around her tennis shoes, Santana and Brittany shrink into their seats as they examine their progress reports. Santana is more than pleased to find she’s passing English and biology with flying colors and is merely scraping by in algebra with a bold 75, but her face drains of color as her eyes fall to the bottom of the page and see a big, fat 68 next to home economics.
“Britt,” Santana hisses quietly as Mrs. Whitley begins to blabber on about something not very fucking important right now. “I’m failing fucking home economics . The bitch gave me a 68.”
Brittany can’t say much at first, her bleary blue eyes still fixated on the paper trembling in her hand. She’s deep in thought, Santana decides. Brittany’s eyebrows meet in the middle and her nose scrunches up in a way that Santana feels her entire heart melt to water over.
“Brittany? You okay, babe?” Santana asks quietly, her hand reaching under the desk so she can hook her pinky around Brittany’s, which is quick to tighten around hers for dear life.
“I got a 66. And I’m doing terrible in everything else, too. Except algebra,” says Brittany with a small huff. She hangs her head and glares at the black tabletop as if it’s wronged her. “Everyone is right; I am stupid. I’m failing home economics.”
Santana’s face flushes a deep red as she uses her index finger to lift Brittany’s chin. Those baby blues she loves so much are now filled with glassy tears and Brittany’s lower lip is trembling hard enough to shatter her teeth. There’s a tint of red creeping onto Brittany’s cheeks, and Santana is sure that she’ll melt down right here if she doesn’t mediate the situation.
“You are a genius, Britt-Britt. You are not stupid. If failing home-ec means you’re stupid, then I’m stupid, too,” Santana points out very certainly.
“Don’t ever call yourself that,” Brittany demands, her pinky locking harder around Santana’s.
“Ladies!” Mrs. Whitley snaps from the front of the room, her eyes narrowing into slits at Santana and Brittany. “What have I said about the talking while I am instructing? If I have to warn you again, this will be the last day you sit together, in home room or home economics. Am I understood?”
Brittany only settles down and sucks up her tears and snot because the rest of the class have turned in their seats to look at her and Santana and the attention is very unwanted and undeserved. Santana’s mouth opens, as if she intends to rip into the 50-something woman who dresses like she’s starring in a very bad after-school special, but it quickly closes when Brittany’s hand squeezes hers under the table, a telltale sign to please shut up, Santana .
“We understand,” says Brittany.
A boy wearing a rugby jacket in the row just in front of the cheerleading couple careens into the red-headed Cheerio next to him and whispers something into her ear, eliciting a stifled giggle from her. Santana’s brows furrow, because she definitely heard the word “Queer-io”, and it definitely sounded like she needs to allow Auntie Snixx to sit in on home economics more often. She’s about to reach forward and snatch him by the neck of his jacket, but Mrs. Whitley is already moving onto another topic and Brittany’s death grip on Santana’s hand is begging her to please not jump anyone today—not in the only class they’re both miserably failing.
“I know it’s almost Christmas—I mean, winter , break for you all,” says Mrs. Whitley, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as she corrects herself. “We have one more project to get through before the break, and it’s going to be for sixty percent of your overall grade. This project is due next Thursday, and if you are failing my class—” Her eyes zero in on the Latina and blonde Cheerios slipping further into their seats, “—this is the time to make it up and bring your grade up before report cards go out. I want all progress reports signed and brought back to my desk first thing Monday morning. Are we all up to speed?”
No one ever properly answers Mrs. Whitley when she asks a question, mostly because they’re all rhetorical and she’ll be more than happy to drag a student for actually responding to them. There are a few nods and some breathy yeses from those who were actually paying any attention. Brittany can’t pay much attention, though, because the longer she looks at the clock, the more anxious she becomes knowing she’s failing a class so simple as home economics. Santana won’t allow her to believe that she’s dumb, but Brittany feels so dim-witted and humiliated that she can’t even pass a home-EC class without struggle.
“What the hell,” Santana huffs under her breath.
Brittany blinks a few times and pulls herself out of her self-deprecation, only to find that Mrs. Whitley is holding what looks to be a plastic baby doll in one hand and a baby bottle filled with some sort of off-white liquid in the other. The doll is beyond hideous, with blue plastic eyes that glare into Santana’s soul and plastic lips that gape open just enough for a comically large pacifier to fit between. Whoever dressed the doll should be fired, because it’s wearing a stained white onesie that’s about two sizes too large and hangs from the crotch like it has a full diaper.
“For this last project of the semester, you will be assigned to take care of one of these plastic babies,” Mrs. Whitley says. She turns the doll around and pulls down the neck of the onesie just enough to reveal a tiny black box. “This will record everything that happens to the baby. You will keep the baby until Thursday and take care of it as if it were a real child. It needs to be fed, changed, held, and rocked. If you fail to remedy the baby’s cries within ten minutes, your grade will suffer. Should you drop, shake, or manhandle the baby, you will immediately fail. The baby needs to be taken everywhere you go; classes, home, the grocery store, the mall, out to eat. It doesn’t matter. Wherever you go, baby goes. No need to worry; your baby will come equipped with a bottle and pacifier, diapers, and a car seat.”
“I’m so gonna fail and have to repeat senior year because of a damn baby,” Santana curses to herself. She releases Brittany’s pinky and folds her arms over her chest, sulking into her seat like a petulant kindergartner who’s just been told she won’t be having a snack until after her nap.
Santana wonders why Brittany isn’t instinctively agreeing with her. She gives her girlfriend the side-eye and finds Brittany’s eyes twinkling at the sight of the chunk of plastic with limbs. Her heart painfully twists in her chest. Why the fuck would Brittany ever find the idea of caring for a plastic baby at all amusing or exciting? It’s only now that she realizes that Brittany wants a baby—that’s the only logical explanation for Brittany’s hormones raging like this over an assignment so stupid and futile to real-life situations. Even Santana knows that there is so much more to being a parent than changing diapers; her beloved Mami always reminds her how hard it was raising her until she became self-sufficient only a couple of years ago.
Brittany wants a damn baby, and Santana is overcome with guilt that she doesn’t. She learned from Quinn Fabray herself that giving birth itself is a circus act. She’s not willing to have her vagina cut open to fit a monster-truck-sized head through her fragile birth canal. That’s a huge fucking no.
Santana pulls herself from the stewing over the idea of being pregnant with Brittany’s lady baby, missing the girl she was five minutes ago before all this bullshit began, and focuses on Mrs. Whitley, who is demonstrating how to feed the baby the bottle.
“Just like that,” says Mrs. Whitley as she removes the bottle from the doll’s lips and lifts the piece of plastic to her shoulder. “Anybody know what to do next?”
The class falls quiet. Even the jocks scattered about don’t have a single word or chuckle to utter, fearing they’ll be called upon if they do. Sighing to herself, Mrs. Whitley sets the bottle on a student’s desk and uses her opposite hand to pat the doll’s back until it emits a loud belch. A few of the girls giggle in amusement until Mrs. Whitley’s telling stare settles them down.
“Ladies, this is no laughing matter,” snaps the exhausted teacher. “This is real life. There are serious consequences to not properly caring for your baby.”
Santana’s eyes roll to the back of her head so hard Brittany thinks she’s having an orgasm in her seat, but really Santana is ready to get on with the day and accept her failing grade next week. Coach Sylvester may even kick her off the Cheerios altogether, snatch her uniform off her body, and whip her with a pom-pom if she fails the entire semester, and then she’s back to taking a backseat to Quinn Fabray and her pretty postpartum body yet again.
“We have about ten minutes left, so we’ll just get on with it before I combust,” says Mrs. Whitley as she looks to the clock. “Due to some major budget cuts for elective classes, we only have eight babies to hand out per class. There are sixteen of you, so you will have to pair off with someone. I’m being nice, as it is the season of giving and I follow our lord and savior’s values very closely, and I’m allowing you to choose your partners. Once you’ve chosen one, come to my desk and get your baby.”
The room immediately begins bustling with chairs scraping the floor and teenaged girls rushing to find a plastic baby daddy to pair off and fulfill their housewife fantasy with.
Brittany twists in her seat and beams at Santana with that gorgeous smile of hers, bright enough to light up the entire night sky during a hurricane. “Of course I want you to be my partner. You’re my life partner; it only makes sense for us to have a child together. Let’s go get our baby, San.”
There’s that goddamn agonizing twist in Santana’s chest again. There is something about hearing “our baby” spill from Brittany’s lips that sends Santana’s hormones into overdrive. She isn’t certain if the quaking in her knees is from a hidden want to pop out Brittany’s lady baby sometime in the future or disgust at the idea of becoming a parent at all. She’s more or less confused, and she’s even more befuddled when it’s their turn to become plastic parents and Mrs. Whitley refuses them a baby, effectively tucking the doll in her arm so Brittany, who is excitedly reaching out with wiggly fingers, can’t touch it.
“You need to be paired off with boys, ladies,” Mrs. Whitley says. “James and Angel are over there.” She points to the rugby boy and a stocky-looking boy with a toddler haircut who are awkwardly loitering behind Santana and Brittany.
“Britt and I are already partners,” Santana says. “Give us our baby so I can go about my life.”
Mrs. Whitley shakes her head. “I don’t think you understand, Santana. Every class has an even amount of students; half girls, half boys. Whenever we do this assignment, only boys and girls can be paired together. So you need to choose either James or Angel to be your partner for this. You cannot have a baby with another girl.”
Santana’s face flames with evident fury, and if it weren’t for her fear of frightening Brittany, she would absolutely take that baby and shove it up Mrs. Whitley’s asshole. Instead of assaulting her teacher with a plastic baby, Santana scoffs over her shoulder at the two boys who are clearly expecting a Cheerio to coparent with and leans over the desk.
“Let me tell you how this is gonna be, if I may,” Santana quips quietly to her teacher. “The year is 2011, almost 2012, and Britt and I can have a baby if we want. And we want a baby, so hand me that damn doll before I beat this jock over here with it, because I can feel him eye-sexing my lady. M’kay?”
“I suppose we can have our little talk right now. Miss Lopez, I don’t like your attitude. You are already failing my class, and if you do not complete this project with at least a 90 percent, you will fail the entire semester. That goes for both you and Brittany. So you can either follow the rules and pair off with a boy, or accept a failing grade today. Your choice,” Mrs. Whitley says, and her tone is almost threatening, but Santana knows it takes two to play this game.
Brittany’s eyes gloss over with a fresh coat of tears, and Santana immediately notices how much Brittany wants that doll in Mrs. Whitley’s lap, and she attempts to remedy it by leaning closer to Mrs. Whitley and seething into her ear, “I suggest that you hand Britt that baby, or I’m going straight to Figgins and making such a huge deal out of this that you won’t be able to teach here until you’re old enough to retire and live out your final days being the homophobic witch you are in a retirement home until you die and rot in hell.”
“Santana. . .” Brittany breathes in warning. “It’s not worth it.”
“No, you are worth it. We deserve to have a baby like all these straight morons who will probably get divorced and abuse their kids and cheat on their spouse like our very own Mrs. Whitley here is doing with that weird janitor that smells like cat pee,” Santana spits out. She crosses her arms and juts out one hip, tilting her head, confronting her teacher head-on with a glare hot enough to melt the earth. “Maybe I should tell Mr. Whitley about that, huh?”
The class stops gushing over their babies to stare wide-eyed at the Latina cheerleader and her girlfriend, who is shuffling from one foot to the other in hopes she’ll just disappear like Lord Tubbington’s drugs disappear when she gets home. She doesn’t even want a stupid baby now—she would rather fail than live through this ordeal, because she knows Santana won’t back down, and Brittany may be old enough to be a grandmother by the time McKinley allows two girls to have a plastic baby.
“That’s it. Figgins’ office, Miss Lopez, Miss Pierce! Now!” Mrs. Whitley barks as she stands, doll in arm, and begins leading Santana and Brittany, by default, towards the door. She looks to the two boys and nods. “You two come with. We’ll get this sorted. Everyone else stay here until the bell rings. No fooling around! Make sure you take your baby’s car seat on your way out.”
The walk to the main office is long and treacherous for Brittany. She’s rarely ever in any trouble, and having to face Figgins and sit in that musty office while being berated about her sexuality would be a horrifying deja vu experience. For someone like Santana, this is just another Friday on the calendar, and maybe that’s one of the things Brittany loves Santana so fiercely for. It’s kind of sexy, watching Santana so angry over not being able to have a plastic baby with her.
Santana curses the entire way to Figgins’ office and plops herself into a seat at his desk as soon as Mrs. Whitley opens the door and pushes her inside. Brittany takes a loyal seat next to her and reaches out to grab her hand, which Santana accepts. A few heartbeats later and Santana finds herself calming down and melting into Brittany’s warmth.
“What seems to be the problem now, Miss Lopez?” Figgins drawls as he turns in his chair, as if he knew it was her who just sat herself before him. He recoils at the sight of Brittany and Mrs. Whitley and the two mop-heads awkwardly pushing themselves into the corner. “Oh, dear. What a lovely day to see you, Mrs. Whitley. Why have you brought four students into my office all at once? You’re breaking fire code and my insurance premium is through the roof!”
Before the teacher can begin to explain anything at all, Santana looks to her principal and huffs quietly. “She won’t let Brittany and I have a baby.”
Figgins blinks and purses his lips at Santana, slowly rocking in his chair. “Miss Lopez, I don’t believe you and Brittany can have a biological baby together, but I don’t object to anything you do on your own time.”
“She means those babies,” Brittany interjects, pointing to the doll that Mrs. Whitley is holding by one leg. “She said that two girls can’t be partners to have one. We have to pair with a boy. It makes me sad, ‘cause I really want to be Santana’s baby daddy. We already practice baby-making. Why can’t we practice taking care of one?”
“ Britt ,” Santana hisses. She groans and throws her arms up just as the familiar tolling of the school bell rings. “Look, Figgins. Society has come far enough that two girls can have a baby. So tell wannabe Holy Mary that we’re taking that stupid doll and raising it. Rugby boy and Hispanic Slim Shady over there can fruit loop up for a week and raise their own together.”
James and Angel immediately begin protesting and talking over one another, saying how they will not be doing any part of that, how it’s just way too gay for them and they are totally not gay . It’s almost offensive how much venom they put into the word, so much so that it hurts Brittany’s fragile heart. They would make terrible fathers, anyway. She and Santana would make such great mothers that it’s almost insufferable how cute it is.
“Enough!” Mrs. Whitley roars as she slams the doll against the wall, causing it to screech before tapering out into ragged whines.
“She killed our baby, San,” Brittany whimpers, mortified by the horrific act of violence against an innocent plastic creature.
“We aren’t taking that one, Britt,” Santana assures.
“You aren’t taking any,” Mrs. Whitley states. “In fact, I’ll give you a perfect score if you both bring in a forty-page essay on parenthood. Single spaced, front and back. And I want index cards on your sources, Cornell notes style.”
“I’m not doing that,” Santana says, eyes zeroing in on Mrs. Whitley’s mean mug. “Britt and I are getting a baby and that’s it.”
Something snaps inside of the teacher holding the abused baby doll. Her eyes become slits and she steps closer to Santana, until she’s looming over her like a giant tower of homophobia and bigotry. She reeks of Wal-Mart brand perfume and lost hopes and dreams.
“You are two girls! Girls can’t have babies together! It is wrong!” Mrs. Whitley scoffs. “You will not be partnering up. You either partner with a boy or fail! It is against my religion to allow you two to have a baby! Girls have babies with boys, not other girls!”
And suddenly Santana is sitting in front of her abuela at the kitchen table as she’s being kicked out and told she’s never allowed to see her again because she loves girls the way she’s supposed to love boys. There is something horrifically similar to this moment, and Santana is wondering why this always happens to her. She can’t marry Brittany because she’s a girl, and now she can’t take care of a stupid plastic baby because she’s a girl, too. She briefly considers how much easier it would be if she were a boy, like one of the hideously handsy football players that harass her at her locker and tell her they can “straighten her out.”
“Mrs. Whitley, please calm down,” Figgins says, taking note of Santana’s sudden upset. “Miss Lopez does have a point. And you are prohibited from using your religion to discriminate against any student or make any choices regarding assignments for any reason. We have discussed this, have we not?”
There’s a familiar silence in the room. Blood rushes in Santana’s ears as she tries to bring herself back to earth. She feels like she’s floating, and she recognizes the sensation as the beginning of a panic attack. Brittany immediately slips off her seat and kneels before Santana, and she places her hands around her girlfriend’s forearms, giving them tiny squeezes as her hands make their way up to Santana’s elbows and back down again. The sensation of Brittany’s hands around her arms slowly grounds Santana enough to allow her to recognize her surroundings, but she’s not even able to feel embarrassed or ashamed. She just wants that fucking doll.
“Miss Lopez, are you alright? Do you need the nurse?” Figgins asks.
“No, I’m fine,” Santana sighs. Her mouth is so dry, her tongue immediately sticks to the roof. “I’m here to get justice, and that’s what I deserve. Give me that damn doll and I’ll be on my way.”
“I’ve already said no,” Mrs. Whitley says. “Really, Principal Figgins, this is really nothing to read into. We’ve always paired boys and girls together. There is nothing more to it.”
“But, Mrs. Whitley, you have always been the home-EC teacher as long as I’ve been employed here at McKinley. So perhaps it’s not the way the school has always done it, it’s the way you have always done it based on your personal values that have no meaning on school grounds,” Figgins points out. “Allow our young teenaged lesbians to have the doll. Or we will be discussing your position here.”
Mrs. Whitley’s face contorts into something unholy. She clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes to the back of her head again. Brittany’s gaze wanders up there, too, in case she’s missed something important, but she finds nothing but yellowed ceiling tiles.
“Mrs. Whitley,” Figgins warns. “Allow the teenaged lesbians to be baby doll parents, or I will assign William Schuester to home-EC for the rest of the school year. You’ll be happy teaching Spanish, won’t you?”
“I don’t know Spanish,” the teacher bites.
“Neither does Schuester. Hardly a requirement,” Figgins says with a shrug.
“And I’m sure that Mr. Schue would just love to have a say in this conversation,” Santana says to Mrs. Whitley. “So call him up here and tell him he has to teach home-EC because you’re just so incapable of including all students in your dumb project, and you cannot fathom that two women can raise a baby better than you can. I’m sure Mr. Whitley will love this story.”
Looking between the principal marinating with disappointment and the doll in hand, Mrs. Whitley sighs in defeat and tosses the baby into Santana’s lap. It lands with a thud into the Cheerio’s red skirt, and Santana picks it up as James and Angel begin arguing with their teacher over having to do this very queer assignment which they will certainly not be participating in if their daddies can help it!
“Miss Lopez, Miss Lopez’s girlfriend, you are free to go,” Figgins tells Santana.
Santana has to steel herself before standing up. Blood rushes to her head as she does so, and Brittany reaches out for the baby doll and lovingly cradles it against her chest before taking Santana’s hand and leading her past Mrs. Whitley, whose jaw has set so tightly her teeth may shatter.
Brittany stops to look at the rugby boy, her eyes narrowing. “And we are not Queer-ios. We are Cheerios.”
A breath of fresh air fills Santana’s lungs as they reach the hallway. The last of the lingering students are making their way to their next period. Santana’s shoulders slump in exhaustion.
Brittany shifts the doll to one arm and squeezes Santana’s hand to bring her back to earth. “We have to grab our stuff from home-EC before Spanish.”
Santana lets a puff of air escape her lungs and allows Brittany to walk her through the empty hallway as she bounces the doll—their baby—in her arm while still clinging to Santana’s trembling hand.
“You didn’t have to fight so hard, you know,” Brittany reminds. “I could’ve done the essay. Or partnered with Hispanic Slim Shady.”
“No way. He was totally eye-fucking you,” Santana grumbles. She looks to Brittany for the first time since leaving the office, her face hot. “And besides, we deserve to raise a doll together.”
“We’ll be the best mommies any doll could ever have,” Brittany says with certainty. She looks down at the doll in her arms and grins. “Isn’t that right, Santana Lopez Junior?”
“Wait, hold up. We are not naming the doll Santana Lopez Junior,” Santana says with a wrinkle of her nose. They approach home-EC and stop at the door, turning to face each other. “At least give it a better name. I like Brittany S. Pierce Junior more.”
“Let’s compromise,” Brittany says as she rocks the doll in her arms. “What happens if we mash our names together in one? What are we called?”
Santana hasn’t ever thought of that; she has a vague understanding of what nerds would call “ship names,” but she’s never once considered what she and Brittany would be called if anyone were to ever write a shitty piece of fanfiction about them—like that’s something sane people do. Has anyone at McKinley created a name for them? Does anyone think of some weird name every time Santana and Brittany walk through the halls holding hands or linking pinkies?
“Let me think,” says Santana. Her brain works extra hard to piece a cohesive name together. “Hm. Brittana. I guess. I’m not really good at this.”
“Then that’s her name,” Brittany says with a definitive nod. “Brittana Lopez-Pierce.”
Santana hums positively and wraps her arms around Brittany’s waist. “We should get to Spanish before Mr. Schue finds us out here.”
“You? Being responsible and on-time? You aren’t my Santana,” Brittany says.
“Having a baby changes you, I guess,” Santana shrugs. “Let’s get our stuff.”
“Don’t forget Brittana’s seat and bag,” Brittany reminds as they enter the empty classroom to find two very old car seats and bags by Mrs. Whitley’s desk. One seat has a beaten baby doll sitting in it, presumably for rugby boy and Hispanic Slim Shady to take whenever the decide to get over having to be queer for a week.
Santana scoops both of their backpacks up, one hanging off each shoulder, and picks up the empty car seat, motioning for Brittany to drop the doll in. Rather than tossing the doll and moving on with her day, Brittany carefully lays baby Brittana into the seat and clips the straps around the doll’s torso and between the scrawny plastic legs before picking the seat up and slinging the baby bag over her shoulder.
“It’s a doll, Britt-Britt,” says Santana. “You don’t have to actually buckle it in like that.”
“But real babies have to, and we are supposed to treat her like a real baby,” Brittany says with a slow blink. “What if she falls out and dents her head? I would be really sad, because then you can’t be my baby mama and we’ll fail.”
Santana figures it’s fair enough—not because she’s afraid of the doll getting hurt, but because she absolutely cannot afford to fail this assignment. She grabs Brittany’s free hand and leads her a few doors down to Spanish class, and they stop in the open doorway and pointedly look at Mr. Schue, who stops whatever misguided instruction he’s teaching to look at them. At first he seems less than excited to see his two musical pupils being tardy, sans hall pass, but he takes a look at the doll in the car seat and furrows his brows.
“It’s baby week in home-EC, I see,” says Mr. Schue. “Have a seat. We’ll talk about this later.”
Brittany and Santana find that their usual seats are already taken by a wannabe Cheerio and her greasy boyfriend, so they sit in the only two seats left available; the ones right in front of Mr. Schue’s desk, where they get to feel uncomfortable for the entire hour they’re trapped here. Muttering words of annoyance to herself, Santana takes the car seat from Brittany and drops it under her desk where her backpack usually sits, using her foot to absentmindedly rock it.
Mr. Schue is presenting a very culturally inaccurate slideshow of Christmas in Mexico. Santana’s nose scrunches at the way the facts don’t align with the culture she’s been raised in, but she still jots down a few notes here and there to show Mr. Schue that she does listen to his insufferable lessons, no matter how much they make her feel like her nipples are trapped in a vice.
As Mr. Schue is switching to the next slide, baby Brittana begins to wail from under Santana’s desk. The cries are loud and drawn out and taper off into mechanical whines of despair that seem demonic the longer they continue. A circulation of giggles and whispers erupts from the rest of the class as Brittany and Santana scramble to soothe Brittana.
“Take the bottle,” Brittany says as she passes Santana the bottle.
“Fuck,” Santana curses under her breath as she lifts the rubber nipple to Brittana’s stiff lips. The baby doesn’t quiet, though, and the giggles from the class only increase.
“Settle down,” warns Mr. Schue. “Brittany, Santana, why don’t you step into the hall to calm it down?”
He doesn’t have to tell them twice. They rush out of the room, screaming baby and bag in hand, and lean against a bulletin board of paper snowflakes and Santa hats. When the bottle doesn’t soothe the baby, Brittany takes it from Santana and starts opening the onesie.
“If it’s not food, it’s the diaper,” says Brittany. She opens the plastic doll diaper to find that the doll may be fake but it definitely has parts, and it is definitely a girl. She fumbles around for a moment and swaps the “dirty” diaper with a clean one from the bag, effectively silencing its deafening screams for attention. “All better now, aren’t you, Brittana?”
“How’d you do that?” Santana questions, almost aghast at how quickly Brittany was able to shut Brittana up.
Brittany shrugs. “I have a little sister.”
It makes the most sense, Santana figures, but she feels like such a lousy doll mother for not being able to tell what a dumb piece of plastic wants from her. She watches Brittany cradle Brittana lovingly to her chest, murmuring something into the baby’s ear.
“We should go back inside,” says Santana. “Before the demon starts screaming again.”
A pout forms on Brittany’s lips. “That’s not a nice thing to say about our baby, Santana.”
Struggling to ward off an eye-roll, Santana sighs. “I’m sorry. Let’s please go back in. We might miss something important.”
She knows perfectly well that nothing Mr. Schue could ever tell her in Spanish class is at all vital or of any significance, but anything to get out of the stuffy hallway and back to their seats where they can set the doll down and just focus on something other than being a pretend parent.
“Is your baby calm now?” Mr. Schue asks as they re-enter the room. Brittany beams in excitement and nods. “Good. You can always step out if it needs tending to.”
Thank god for that, Santana internally mumbles.
—
The rest of the day goes by with many hitches. Brittana manages to interrupt every single class, and Santana and Brittany find trading off and coparenting quite a challenge when they have to go their separate ways after Spanish class and Santana ends up with the doll in algebra and is harshly scolded by her teacher for texting Brittany under her desk about how well—horrible—little Brittana is holding up with her mommy.
The pretend family has lunch together shortly after Santana leaves algebra with Brittana not buckled into her seat, to which Brittany lightly scolds Santana and insists that their precious baby will fall and dent her plastic head. Santana mutters to herself and rolls her eyes when one Rachel Berry plops herself into a seat in front of her and Brittany in the middle of the cafeteria.
“I heard you two are mothers now! Congratulations!” Rachel teases. “I will say, I fully expect you two to totally fail this assignment, but I wish you and your plastic baby the best of luck!”
Santana has no room to be nice to Rachel in the moment, too focused on how the hell she and Brittany are going to manage at home with little Brittana. She is sure her Mami won’t be too thrilled to have a screaming doll waking her at all hours on the night.
“Like you could do any better,” Santana tells Rachel.
“I’m sure I could,” Rachel says. “I kind of wish I had chosen home-EC as an elective. I would’ve aced this with flying colors. I mean, babies aren’t my strong suit, and I don’t need to learn to sew or cook because that doesn’t fit in my Tony award plans, but it can’t be too difficult, right?”
“Oh, please, you just want to practice having weird hobbit babies with Frankenteen. I’d hate to see what kind of creature pops out of your vagina as a result of Finn’s sperm,” Santana quips.
She knows it’s mean and crude and wounds Rachel’s gold-star ego, but she couldn’t give one less of a shit when Brittana starts screaming. This time, Brittany is the first to rush to her aide, scooping up the plastic baby from the seat and putting the bottle to her lips. The cries cease and are immediately replaced with mechanical suckling noises that warm Brittany’s heart.
“Brittany is so good with it, Santana,” Rachel gushes. “She’s a natural mother. Unfortunately you don’t seem to possess that same ability.”
If the glare on Santana’s face was no indication of her disdain for Rachel, the curl of her first surely is. Rachel seems to back off a bit at the threat of having her face reconstructed, while Brittany finishes “feeding” baby Brittana. When the suckling noises stop, Brittany drops the bottle into the baby bag and rocks the doll from side to side, quietly humming something under her breath. Santana looks on in awe of Brittany’s ability to ease into a role so nurturing and lovely as this one.
Of course, Santana’s ogling doesn’t last very long before Brittana begins screaming again. Startled, Brittany pulls it away from herself and frantically attempts feeding the baby again, but it doesn’t take. She can’t possibly need another change, because Santana swears she just did that in the middle of the hallway on her way to lunch.
“I don’t know what’s wrong,” says Brittany, looking towards her girlfriend with pleading blue eyes.
“Here, I got her,” says Santana as she reaches for the doll. She lifts it to her shoulder and gives it a few healthy pats to the back, forcing a loud belch out of its tiny body. “There. You have to burp it after you feed it, Britt.”
“Oh,” Brittany says sadly, eyes falling into her lap. “I knew that.”
But she really didn’t know that, and she wonders how Santana knew so effortlessly and easily. She wants to be able to take care of their lady babies without any help. Their beautiful babies would deserve that, at the very least.
And watching Santana absentmindedly cradle Brittana in her right arm while she eats with her left hand unleashes a swarm of butterflies through Brittany’s stomach. She could get used to this image, and as much as she knows Santana is adverse to the idea, she still loves her all the same.
—
They’re in Santana’s car as the first of many snow flurries whip around them. Overly anxious about the ice on the road, Santana sits idly in the drivers seat as she watches lines of cars leave the student parking lot and make their way to the exit. Fridays are for sweet lady kisses and sleepovers with Brittany, which have become only hot and heavy make out sessions during cheesy movies, and Santana would be excited, only she isn’t this time; not because she isn’t eager to love on Brittany all night long, but because they’re being third-wheeled by a fucking plastic doll that cries and soils itself.
Brittany fumbles with the heater button and cranks it up to an ungodly temperature that almost melts the makeup off Santana’s face. “Brittana’s gonna catch a cold.”
Santana glances back at the car seat she haphazardly sat in the backseat behind Brittany. Brittany was very clear and insistent that it be rear-facing, or whatever that means, because she’s afraid of baby Brittana’s head breaking off if Santana slams on the brakes, so Santana can only see a tiny bit of Brittana’s plastic fingers sticking out of the seat.
“Let’s go home,” Santana finally says after enough people have vacated the parking lot. She starts towards the exit at a whole five miles an hour.
“San? Did you strap it in?” Brittany asks as the car comes to a stop at the sign leading out of the gate.
Santana’s brows furrow. “Strap what in?”
A powder blue Prius cuts Santana off just as she’s easing onto the main road, and she immediately jerks the wheel to the right. And there goes baby Brittana, taking several tumbles in the backseat. Santana’s foot slams on the brakes as a result of Brittany’s terrified shriek, and she begins pulling away from traffic and into a very narrow entrance to a small coffee shop just down the road from the school.
“Fuck,” Santana curses to herself, parking the car and putting her hazard lights on. Brittany is heaving out heavy breaths. “I’ll check on it. Don’t cry, Britt-Britt. Please.”
Throwing off her seatbelt, Santana clambers into the backseat of the car and rolls the car seat over to find that baby Brittana is still restrained by the decrepit harness around her torso and legs.
“She’s fine, she’s totally fine. No dents or scratches,” Santana assures Brittany.
“I can’t believe you didn’t strap it in,” Brittany huffs.
“I thought you only had to strap the baby to the seat, not the seat to the car! How was I supposed to know that?” Santana asks as she pulls the seatbelt towards the car seat and looks longingly at it.
“Didn’t they teach you about child safety when you learned to drive?” Brittany asks indignantly. Santana winces at the toughness in Brittany’s voice. “Car seats are useless unless you buckle it into the car.”
“Stupid baby,” Santana mutters. She loops the seatbelt through the indents of the seat and buckles it in, giving it a tug to ensure that no babies will be flying any more than they already have.
A silence blankets the car. Brittany looks over at Santana with a bit of a pained expression like she was just kicked by her owner. Santana holds out her hand for Brittany to take, understanding exactly where she screwed up in the last minute, but Brittany doesn’t accept it. And it pains Santana deep inside, because she never intended to hurt her dear Brittany.
“Our baby is not stupid,” Brittany mumbles at her skirt. She raises her voice just a tad. “That’s a mean word, Santana, and you know I hate it. I can’t let you say that word about our baby. She isn’t stupid!”
Santana’s heart painfully twists in her chest. “I’m sorry. She isn’t stupid. I’m sorry I said that.”
“You won’t say it again?” Brittany asks. Santana shakes her head. “Not even if we had a real baby?”
“Never,” Santana promises, sealing it by locking her pinky around Brittany’s. “I’m sorry for saying that. Any baby of ours would be the smartest, coolest crotch goblin on the face of the earth.”
“If it comes out of a crotch, though,” Brittany says pointedly. “Some are extracted through the mom’s tummy, like aliens. I was born in a barn. Though I’m not really sure if my mom was being totally serious about that, cause that’s kinda messed up.”
Santana has to smile. She can’t be serious for another second even if she tries. The thought of Brittany plopping out of her mother and onto a stable floor, covered in a hearty mixture of placenta goo and hay, sends Santana’s body into a fit of shaking laughter.
“Do you think I hit my head when I came out, Santana? Maybe that’s why people say I’m not the brightest tool in the chandelier,” Brittany says with a shrug.
Coming down from her laughing high, Santana sits more upright to look Brittany in the eye. “No, babe. You are very smart. All those idiots at school are just stu—idiots. They’re idiots. That’s all. And I promise, even if you did bonk your head on a barn floor after escaping your mom’s coochie, you’re still way smarter than they are.”
“I don’t feel like I am sometimes,” Brittany admits with another shrug.
“But you are. You knew that baby seats have to be strapped to the car. I didn’t. And you’re really good with Brittana. You always know what she needs. You definitely are a unicorn,” Santana assures. Brittany’s watery smile mildly pains her. “I love you, Brittany, and I can’t imagine a smarter person to be with.”
“Well, there’s Quinn. I’m pretty sure she’s gonna get into Yale,” Brittany sighs.
Santana’s nose crinkles upwards. “I wouldn’t touch Fabray with a 20-foot pole. The Grinch would touch a Who before I’d ever touch her. You know why?” Brittany shakes her head. “Well, not only is she lost and confused and her vagina has been used an exit already, but I have you, Brittany, and there is not a soul on this godforsaken earth that could ever hold a lesbian candelabra to what you and I have made for each other.”
Brittany leans over the console that separates them and drops a kiss on Santana’s lips. They may be sitting here in a nearly empty parking lot with the yellow glow of hazard lights flashing creating a backdrop for them with their fake baby who just had her shit rocked, but Santana feels more than at home.
—
Maribel Lopez is more than just perplexed when her lesbian daughter and her girlfriend come home with what looks like a baby carrier in Brittany’s hand and a very 90s era baby bag over Santana’s shoulder along with her backpack. She immediately leaves the sanctity of her kitchen, where she’s been preparing caldo de pollo for Santana and, as she expected, Brittany, hoping to get a closer look at whatever trick the girls have up their sleeve before they can run up to Santana’s room and hide until dinner.
“Mami! We have a surprise for you,” Santana says, setting her keys on the table in the foyer. Brittany turns the baby seat around so Maribel can take a long look at Brittana. “We have a baby!”
With a slow blink, Maribel turns her head to look her daughter in the face. “I have many questions. The first one being, why is it ugly? Surely you two would’ve created something better. No grandchild of mine would have paint marks on its head.”
It’s only now that Brittany and Santana realize that, during Mrs. Whitley’s fit of rage in the principal’s office, Brittana suffered a minor injury in the form of a white paint streak on her face.
“Don’t say that about baby Brittana, Mami,” says Santana. “She’s Brittany and I’s home-EC assignment for the week. So you might hear crying at night. I’ll try to muffle her with a pillow.” Brittany nudges her shoulder and scowls in disapproval. “What? How else will we get through this?”
Ignoring Santana’s inquiry, Brittany gestures to the baby bag on Santana’s shoulder. “All her stuff is in there. We have to change her, burp her, and feed her. Like a real baby!”
Maribel raises a brow. “Feed her? Santana, when you had your little surgery, you were told you may not be able to breastfeed your children, so I hope you have some other method for that.”
Santana feels hot. “Mami! She’s not real! How would I even go about that?”
“Plastic boobs for a plastic baby?” Brittany teases.
Maribel is more than laughing at that—she’s cackling with joy. Santana’s entire body fills with heat as she whines at Brittany for humiliating her in front of her mother, but she knows Brittany means well and never intends to hurt her. Her whines descend from whining into slight laughter the more her mother laughs. The three women are belly-laughing together in no time, but of course, baby Brittana can’t be without attention, and she starts hollering.
“Oh no,” Maribel says through tapered off laughter. “Your baby needs plastic milk. I’ll leave you to it. Dinner in an hour, alright, Mija?”
Santana simply nods and takes Brittany’s hand, leading her up to her bedroom where Brittany spends the majority of her weekends. She sits the carrier on the bed and unbuckles the doll from the seat, bringing it to her shoulder as Brittany takes the bottle from the bag and hands it to Santana to attempt to quiet their screaming plastic demon spawn. It doesn’t take, and Santana frustratingly tosses the bottle on the bed and lays Brittana on the bed before pulling off the diaper.
“Diaper,” she tells Brittany, who immediately passes her a new diaper. Santana is more than disappointed to find that the new diaper changes absolutely nothing about the situation. “Shit. What now? She can’t need to be burped.”
Brittany forces the pacifier into Brittana’s plastic mouth, effectively silencing the screams for help. Santana sighs tiredly and slumps against her girlfriend. She’s absolutely shitty at this parenting thing, and it’s a fucking doll. She’ll be a horrible mother to their children.
“I knew that,” she whispers against Brittany’s chest.
“You’ll learn,” says Brittany. She tugs on Santana’s Cheerios top. “We should get changed. We don’t have any other assignments due except the baby. How about a shower while she’s quiet?”
A grin spreads across Santana’s face as she nods into Brittany’s chest and begins pushing her towards the adjoined bathroom where they’ve spent many an evening doing things her mother has probably accidentally heard while walking by. Brittany murmurs a quiet “wait, the baby” and parts from Santana long enough to sit the doll in the seat and carry it to the bathroom with them. She sets it on the bathroom floor while they strip out of their cheer uniforms and hang them on hangers.
“You stay quiet,” Santana scolds Brittana as she’s shimmying out of her underwear and bra. “Mommies are having a private moment.”
Brittany chuckles to herself. “Do you. . .think it’s awkward that she’s watching us? Isn’t this, like, against the law?”
Santana briefly considers the legality of showering with your baby just outside the shower, but she can’t imagine how it would be at all wrong, and then she considers what Brittany is planning on doing to her in there. The reality sinks in, and she turns the seat around so Brittana is facing the wall. That’s not enough for Brittany, though, who immediately rifles through Santana’s bathroom drawer and grabs two cotton balls and medical tape.
“Brittany, what is that for?” Santana quirks a brow.
“So she won’t hear,” Brittany says as she tapes the cotton to each baby ear.
“Britt, you can’t do that to a real baby,” Santana reminds as she starts the shower.
“We’ll get our real one a pair of baby earmuffs. This is all we have.”
Santana shrugs. Steam fills the room, and she’s mentally wondering if the humidity will make their baby short-circuit, but she figures that would be the best case scenario.
“She’s totally judging my boobs, San,” says Brittany. “What if mine aren’t good enough for our real baby?”
“Screw that baby, then. I think they’re amazing,” Santana says with certainty. “Now get in here with me. It’s gonna get cold and I want some lady-lovin’ without the baby interrupting.”
Practically in heat, Brittany wastes no time in hopping into the shower with Santana. Santana is actually washing the day away by the time Brittany is behind her and pawing at her like Lord Tubbington before he had his balls snipped.
“Let me love on you before you start all that exfoliating stuff,” Brittany says. “I love when you feel like a glazed donut, but I want some loving time with you first.”
Putting her exfoliating sponge down, Santana turns into Brittany and rests her head on her chest, sighing into her skin. She feels most alive for these intimate moments of their relationship. Between the slushee facials in the middle of a crowded hallway and the sexual harassment that no one will do anything about, it’s comforting to be able to just let go and melt into Brittany without comments or homophobic slurs being thrown at her.
“Thank you, Brittany,” says Santana. Her arms wind around Brittany’s waist and pull her closer under the shower stream.
“What for?” Brittany asks.
“For calming me down in Figgins’ office before it got out of hand,” Santana replies, and it’s so small and meek that Brittany’s heart could shatter into a million pieces. “I really wanted to clock that heifer in the face for all she put us through today. And I’m pretty sure she’s only failing us because we’re. . .you know. It’s not fair, Britt. I just want to show everyone we’re as normal as everyone else. Only hotter and way more attractive to look at than Rachel and Finn.”
“That’s why you’re trying so hard,” Brittany affirms with a nod. “Not just because you’re failing and need the grade, but because you want to show McKinley that two girls can raise a plastic baby.”
“It’s not about McKinley, though. It’s about us,” Santana finally admits. She misses Brittany’s clouded expression because she has her face buried deep in her chest, but she can feel it all the same. “I don’t know if I wanna have kids, but if you want them, I’ll make that commitment. But I wanna be a good mom. And I wanna show you that I’m really trying here. I’m not very good at it right now, but I want to be the best fucking mom to our baby because that’s what it deserves.”
Tears gather in Brittany’s eyes. She doesn’t know whether crying or laughing is more appropriate now, so she just holds Santana impossibly tighter to herself and allows the shaking of her body when the tears flow notify Santana that she’s definitely crying. But it’s okay, because Santana is crying, too, and they’re both soon slumped against the shower wall, a literal hot mess of tears.
“My period is coming,” Santana sobs.
“Mine too,” sniffles the blonde, who’s now wiping away what she thinks are her tears but may be just the water, because she forgot that they’re still under the stream that’s running cold.
There is no sexy time in the shower this evening, only a PMS crying session that ends with Brittany turning off the cold water and immediately wrapping a shivering Santana in a towel and then herself. Baby Brittana is still fine and silent in her carrier on the floor, and Brittany is, for once, grateful, because her not screaming allows Brittany to tend to Santana for a few minutes post-shower to get her into a warm pair of pajamas and put her wet hair up in a bun.
“Should be time for dinner,” says Santana. “I have your pajamas in my drawer.”
“Okay. . .did you really mean it? Or was that the period talking?” Brittany asks as she’s preparing to leave the steamy room to grab her pajamas. She’s in the doorway, looking at her girl like a kicked puppy.
Santana picks her elbow skin. “About what?”
“Wanting a baby if I want one.”
“Oh. I meant it,” Santana says. She steps closer to Brittany and looks up at her with such certainty in her eyes. “I love you, Britt, and if you want me to be your baby mama, I will be. But I’m so not breastfeeding it.”
Laughing quietly, Brittany wraps Santana in her arms. “I love you, too, my future baby mama.”
The moment is cut short by Maribel calling them from downstairs, saying that dinner is ready and they need to eat or else she’s “coming up there with the chancla.” Brittany giggles at Santana’s eye-roll; Santana knows her mom is probably bluffing about the chancla thing, but she doesn’t want to find out for certain, so she grabs the baby seat while Brittany dresses herself in pajamas and bunny slippers, and they join Maribel in the dining room where bowls of caldo await them.
“Mija, isn’t it progress report day?” Maribel asks as all three women—and baby Brittana in her seat—sit at the table.
Santana could shit herself right here. She’d completely forgot about the big, fat F she got in home-EC, and she doesn’t know what excuse she’ll pull out of her ass this time. She was planning on forging the signature and hoping she passes the baby assignment in time for report cards.
“Yes, Mami. I got mine, but. . .you’re gonna be really upset,” says Santana, more to her soup than to her mother.
“You know I’m never upset with you, Santana. Disappointed sometimes, sure, but never angry or upset,” says Maribel. “What did you fail, Santanita?”
“Home-EC,” Santana murmurs. “We both did. We don’t know why, Mami. We’ve done all the work. All we do is sew dumb Barbie clothes and make cakes. We think Mrs. Whitley is just homophobic. I’m pretty sure we’re the only two she’s ever failed.”
Maribel leans closer, quite concerned with how this has clearly bent her daughter out of shape. If it were any other subject, she would say Santana is making excuses to fail, but it seems she’s being very genuine in her theory.
“Why do you say that?” Maribel asks. Santana shrugs and stirs her soup without responding, so her mother looks to Brittany and gives a nod.
Santana knows she’s in deep shit when Brittany opens her mouth.
“She wasn’t very nice to us today. Something. . .happened. Mrs. Whitley wouldn’t give us a baby at first because she said only boys and girls can be partners,” Brittany quietly recounts. “She said that two girls can’t have a baby because it’s wrong. Principal Figgins forced her to give us one, but not before she slammed baby Brittana against the wall and threw her in Santana’s lap.”
Mami Maribel’s jaw sets, and all Santana can think is oh shit .
“It sounds like I need to pay the school a visit and get this taken care of,” says Maribel. “It’s not right of her for one, to throw a doll at a student because she’s angry, and for two, to be homophobic and fail students based on who they are. That’s called being a bigot, and what do I say about bigots, mi hija?”
Santana sighs. “Bigots are just scared bullies taking out their frustrations on vulnerable groups of people.”
Much like her abuela, Santana has easily discovered.
“Mami, please don’t go up there,” Santana pleads. “It’s already taken care of. We got the baby. And Figgins threatened to kick her over to teaching Spanish if she acts up again, and I can’t let that happen because she’ll be worse than Mr. Schue about knowing the language and culture and fail me in that class, too, even though I’m literally Mexican and speak way more Spanish than her, which is nothing. And she’ll probably say racists things. It’s not a good idea.”
Maribel pauses to consider Santana’s stance, and she’s persuaded to drop the argument and plan to knock that teacher’s head off when she sees just how stressful this has been for both Santana and Brittany.
“Alright, mija, but if you fail this project, I’m going up to the school first thing and making a huge scene in front of the entire faculty,” her mother promises. “Brittany, make sure you get your progress report signed, and if your parents want to speak to the principal over this, have them call me so I can join. I may even get Santana’s Papi to join if he gets back in time. Four is better than one.”
Brittany has always liked Mami Maribel, but she decides now that she loves her, and she’s somewhat okay with Maribel marching up to McKinley and having the time of her life laying into Mrs. Whitley.
“Okay. I will. Is it okay if I stay the night?” Brittany asks, looking down at her pajamas.
A light laugh leaves the Hispanic woman. “You never have to ask. You live here now. Now eat before your baby starts crying. If she’s anything like Santana was, you’ll be eating with a baby in your lap all the time.”
Brittany will have to remember to ask Mami Maribel for a collection of Santana’s baby pictures later. For now, she links her pinky with Santana’s under the table (and she’s so grateful that Santana is left-handed and she’s right-handed, because it just fits so well) and eats quietly.
It’s all peaceful, until the table is cleared and Brittana wails from her seat while Brittany is helping Maribel wash the dishes. This time, Santana immediately rushes to her and sticks the bottle in her mouth, and all is quiet again. She’s totally got this. She will be the best baby mama Brittany ever had; well, the only one, she hopes.
—
The week goes by, and Thursday arrives. Brittany and Santana weep during first period when it’s time to turn baby Brittana in to Mrs. Whitley in exchange for a grade. They’re standing in what seems to be a very long line of coupled exhausted students holding dolls and car seats. Santana would say she and Brittany are the least tired among the class, and that’s truly saying something, because Brittana was a nightmare some nights.
The pair in front of them consists of a short girl and a tall, lanky boy. The girl is equipped with everything; the baby, the seat, and the bag. She glares pointedly at the boy as the line begins to move slightly forward.
“You’re a piece of shit, Caleb,” the girl snaps. “I should get all the credit. You didn’t do shit. I kept calling you to pick up the stupid baby and you ignored me.”
The line shifts forward another foot. Brittany and Santana spectate on in slight amusement.
“I didn’t wanna do this project in the first place,” the boy retorts. “And besides, I don’t need to know how to take care of a baby. Women are supposed to do that. I’ll just have a wife who stays home and does all that.”
“You have to get a good paying job to support her and your kids for that to happen, and we all know you have the IQ of a Pop-Tart!”
Santana wants to howl with laughter but Brittany squeezes her pinky to halt the loud cackle from releasing.
It’s the heterosexual couple’s turn to be graded. The girl hands everything over to Mrs. Whitley, and after the teacher examines the doll and does some weird fiddling with the box on the back, the world feels like it’s sinking.
“This baby was dropped. And it cried for over an hour,” says Mrs. Whitley.
The girl stutters out an explanation. “He didn’t help me! I was all alone! Blame him!”
Mrs. Whitley shakes her head. “Fail. Both of you.” She drops the baby into a pile of other babies beside her and shoos the pair away. “Next!”
The girl wanders away with tears streaking her face and the boy trailing behind her as Brittany and Santana take center stage. Santana could vomit right here, and she wishes she would, just to teach Mrs. Whitley a lesson.
Mrs. Whitley takes care in examining baby Brittana, shocked to find that she’s properly buckled into her seat and all of her belongings are intact. She removes the baby from the carrier and thoroughly looks her over, eyes glancing over to Brittany and Santana, who has completely drained of color in thinking her Mami will have to pay a visit and make a scene in front of the entire school.
“Well done, ladies,” says Mrs. Whitley. “This baby wasn’t dropped or harmed, and all her cries were tended to. 100% for both of you. You’ve passed my class. Now get out of here; you’ve put me through enough trouble.”
Although riddled with joy at not having to repeat senior year because of a homophobe and a plastic baby, Santana sighs. Once a bigot, always a bigot.
—
That afternoon, while they’re sitting in glee club waiting for Mr. Schue to put the mousse down and join them, Brittany and Santana sigh dreamily against each other, the exhaustion of the past few days settling in on their bodies.
“I miss baby Brittana,” Brittany says quite sadly. “I miss holding her. And I miss watching you take care of her like the good mommy you were to her.”
Quinn turns in her seat to look at the couple. “Puke. Are you still talking about that damn doll?”
Santana sizes the Cheerio up as much as she can while seated. “Shut it, Fab-gay. Nobody asked you for your opinion. At least I kept mine and saw it through.”
That’s the end of the interlude of their just-friendly banter. It’s fucking personal now.
A loud and obscene screaming match erupts between the two Cheerios, with Brittany having to hold Santana by the waist to prevent her from snatching up Quinn by her hair and dragging her across the floor. There are a lot of Spanish curse words and Quinn’s elegant insults involved, and the rest of the glee club are taking bets on who’s going to win this battle, until Mr. Schue enters the room, and then everything falls quiet. Quinn flips her hair and seethes with rage while Santana forcefully kicks the back of her chair as a last hurrah.
“Whatever that was just now, I want it to stop,” Mr. Schue warns. “I know we only have one day left before the break, so we’re going to take this time to have a bit of fun. But first, I have a success story.”
There would be some sort of drumroll if this were a performance, but it’s not, so it’s just silent.
“Our very own Santana and Brittany are officially the very first same-sex couple to participate in the baby project in McKinley history,” announces Mr. Schue. “I know it may not mean much to the rest of the school, but it means a lot to us. Doesn’t it?”
Cheers and claps envelope Brittany and Santana, and Mike reaches over to share a high-five with Brittany. If Santana squints just right, she notices Quinn crack the slightest of smiles. There’s pain behind those eyes of hers, though, and Santana notes that.
“Santana is the best baby mama ever,” proudly declares Brittany when the celebration has died down into a few laughs. “We both got a perfect score, and we’re no longer failing home-EC! That was really embarrassing.”
“I’m proud of you two,” says Mr. Schue. “Santana, I heard what happened from Figgins. Thank you. For not letting her get to you, and for not allowing her switch places with me. I know I’m not the best Spanish teacher—“
“—You aren’t even a decent one.” Santana rolls her eyes, but there’s that smile again.
“—But I don’t think I’d look good in an apron.”
“You wouldn’t,” Santana agrees. “But no worries. We’re passing again, that bitch Mrs. Whitley got put in her place by Figgins of all people, and now you don’t have to flounce around in an apron like a gay man’s wet dream.”
Kurt is mildly offended when a few eyes shift over to him by default. He’s saved by Mr. Schue clearing his throat and redirecting all attention to himself.
“Since it’s our last day together before the break because of your early release tomorrow, and it’s our final holiday together before you all graduate, I’ve decided to let you all unwind from the year’s tension and woes,” says Mr. Schue as he walks to his desk drawer and unearths a plastic container of store-bought Christmas cookies, along with a container of red and green cupcakes. “We have vegan options, so everyone can feel included. Have at it.”
Teenagers are wild beasts, Schue has very quickly discovered. They’re all rushing towards the table of sweets, violently grabbing at cupcakes and cookies, making sure to leave the vegan ones for Rachel to have first choice—and because they don’t seem too appetizing. The only ones who trail behind are Santana and Quinn, the latter of which is barely standing by the time everyone is retreating back to their seats with their goodies. She crosses Santana’s path on their way to the table, and as Santana is sticking her finger in a clump of red icing on a cupcake, they accidentally look at each other.
“Oh, quit looking like a kicked puppy. I can’t stand those sad eyes, Fabray,” Santana quips, but her voice is airy and light. “I’m sorry for what I said, Quinn. About the baby thing.”
Quinn picks up a green cupcake. “Woah. I can tell you actually meant that apology. I’m honored. But I’ve already forgiven you. You’re a huge bitch, but I know you don’t mean half the things you say.”
Somewhere in the near distance, Christmas melodies begin to softly hum through what may be a radio speaker. Santana feels her heart growing, but she forces the joy down until she can finish her banter.
“Okay, enough. I’m already labeled as Brittany’s baby mama, I don’t need you going around saying I’m a nice girl deep down. Because I’m not,” Santana hisses.
“You enjoy being her baby mama. You two are gonna have, like, a minivan of kids by the time you’re 35. And if we’re at all still close by then, I’ll be happy to be the rich, cool aunt that gives them birthday money and tells them not to say anything,” says Quinn with a nod. “And I’ll take them out for ice cream and bring them home at bedtime all sugared up for you and Brittany to deal with.”
“You’re the worst, Fab-gay,” Santana scoffs. “You’ve got something on your face.”
Puzzled, Quinn begins tapping at her face and looking at her fingers. Nothing comes off, confusing her. “Where?”
“Here!”
Suddenly the red cupcake is very close in relation to Quinn’s nose and she’s inhaling red dye 40 right up her nostrils like it’s crack.
“Santana!” Brittany tries to scold, but it comes out between trembling bouts of laughter along with the rest of the room, sans Mr. Schue, who is looking longingly at his own cupcake as if having a mental conversation with it.
“Merry Christmas, Fabray, you insufferable whore,” Santana says with love. She expects some sort of heinous insult in return, but all she gets is a face full of green dye and frosting. With her eyes screwed shut, she huffs quietly. “Alright. I deserved that one.”
Quinn pokes Santana in the side. “Now go tell your baby mama to clean you up.”
Brittany’s already there by the time Quinn is wiping her own face free of the frosting, though, whisking Santana away from the crime scene and to the girls’ restroom, where she lifts her onto a sink because good god, Santana cannot see for the life of her.
“You apologized?” Brittany asks as she’s wetting a paper towel.
Santana swings her feet. “Yeah. I was forgiven. Though I don’t need her forgiveness. It was nice to have it, though, I guess.” She lifts her chin so Brittany can clean her off. “I guess I deserved this, didn’t I?”
Brittany chuckles as she continues wiping the green off Santana’s skin. “You did. That comment was out of line, but it’s water under the bayou now.”
The frosting burns the hell out of Santana’s eyes as she squints to sort of look at Brittany. “It’s bridge, Britt. Water under the bridge. But I like your phrase better.”
There’s faint laughter from Brittany’s throat. Santana can feel the vibrations of her girlfriend’s giggles just by touching her arms while she cleans her face. The green starts clearing and Santana can see Brittany again, and she immediately leans up for a quick kiss, to which Brittany leans into.
“Mm. Vanilla frosting,” Brittany giggles. She sighs happily and caresses Santana’s cheekbone. “I love you, Santana. And even if you never want to be my baby mama, I’ll always love you.”
Santana nestles into the warmth of Brittany’s palm cradling her cheek. “I’ll be your baby mama. But what was my one condition?”
“You’re so not breastfeeding it.”