Chapter Text
The floors were sticky. The carpets were in desperate need of an era-appropriate upgrade. The burgundy, crushed velvet covered chairs were faded from overuse. And a broken spring was currently digging into Jesse St. James’s left butt cheek, clearly trying to escape a particularly well-worn cushion he didn’t want to be sitting on in the first place. But Shelby Corcoran had insisted, and Ms. Corcoran’s word was law.
“It’s tradition,” their choir director had explained.
Part of what gave Vocal Adrenaline their undeniable competitive edge was their intimate knowledge of their competition. Scouting was, therefore, a necessary evil. But as he was flipping through the program, Jesse had a difficult time considering any of these other show choirs “competition.”
He shoved the cheap, paper pamphlet into the pocket of his hoodie and glanced around the Buckeye Civic Auditorium, searching for his teammates. To avoid arousing suspicion—and giving away their secret—the members of Vocal Adrenaline always arrived in staggered pairs of twos and threes. Fanning out across the auditorium also gave them multiple vantage points of every team’s performance that they were definitely not secretly filming with their camera phones (courtesy of their generous, overly active booster club).
After a minute of organized scanning, Jesse finally spotted Giselle sitting on the other side of the auditorium next to another female teammate of theirs whose name he couldn’t be bothered to remember. The only reason he even knew Giselle’s name was because of their positions as co-captains and, even then, he often called her Gazelle or Gabrielle to put her in her place whenever she got a bit too friendly. They were a team and teammates only in the strictest sense of both words. They knew, just as every other member of Vocal Adrenaline knew, that none of them would hesitate to push each other in front of an oncoming bus if it meant getting a shot at a solo.
As the lights dimmed, signaling the commencement of the first performance, Jesse fought to maintain a neutral composure. It wasn’t fair that Giselle was sitting way over there with another team member, most likely trading veiled digs directed at each other and openly speculating about the horror show they would no doubt be subjected to before the day was done. If she was a co-captain, her bony butt should be sitting with him and Ms. Corcoran. Possibly in his seat.
Jesse shifted a bit on the thin cushion in an effort to ease the pain from that damn incessant spring. At this slight movement, Ms. Corcoran’s eyes flicked in his direction, and he froze. Of course, she would catch him in a rare moment of weakness. Silently, he chastised himself and vowed to keep still no matter what. Regardless of the pain, misery, or boredom, his butt would not leave this deplorable excuse for a cushion.
The auditorium was now sufficiently dark, quelling the dull roar of an expecting audience to a low, excited murmur. A spotlight flickered on, illuminating the pitifully small stage just as a bushy-haired man in an ill-fitting suit stepped out from behind a curtain that was at least as old as Jesse, if not considerably older.
“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Western Ohio’s Show Choir Sectional Championship. I am pleased to announce that we have some wonderful teams competing today, not only for a shiny first place trophy but also for their place at Regionals a few months from now. So, without further ado, let’s get the first team out here. Please, give a big round of applause for the young ladies of Jane Addams Academy.”
The audience did as they were directed while the emcee scuttled off the stage and the curtain rose to reveal a collection of girls in blindingly gold jackets and impossibly high hair. Jesse fought the urge to gag.
It was going to be a long day.
By the time intermission rolled around, Jesse was genuinely considering ripping the damn spring out of the cushion and jamming it into his jugular. Never in his seventeen years of life, most of which had been spent performing in competitions of some nature or other, had he seen such unimpressive performances by people completely out of their depth.
Still, he’d made a vow not to move a muscle until the entire ordeal was over. Even if he needed to pee. And he did. Jesse needed to pee something fierce. In fact, he could think of nothing else. He barely felt the spring anymore, the pain in his bladder was so intense. But he would not be moved.
Ms. Corcoran, on the other hand, had no problem swishing past him to disappear to who-knows-where during intermission. But there was a reason she’d never made it in show business. Jesse’s will power was obviously stronger than hers, stronger than his bladder, and, even if he wasn’t the most talented person he’d ever met, the strength of his will would’ve been enough to take him all the way to the top.
“So, apparently there’s some set list drama involving the Jane Addams girls, the deaf kids, and the last group,” Ms. Corcoran informed Jesse as she sidled past him and settled back into her seat.
“Oh?” Jesse replied, feigning disinterest.
“Mhmm. I overheard a delicious little argument while waiting in line at the snack bar.” She held up a box of candy in his direction. “Raisinet?”
“No, thank you.”
One side of the severe-looking woman’s mouth quirked upward. “Oh well, more for me,” she said, popping a few chocolate-covered raisins into her mouth. “You know,” she continued, “I don’t think you’ve gotten up once since you’ve sat down. If you want, I think we have a few minutes until the final groups perform, so it’d be perfectly fine to get up and stretch your legs for a bit. Get a snack, maybe. Use the bathroom?”
Jesse’s eye twitched at the thought, but he shoved the desire deep, deep down and locked it away. He and his vow had made it this long; he couldn’t break down now. He wouldn’t. He would make it through on the basis of his superior will power and prove once more that he, Jesse St. James, was better than her and everyone else in every way. He would not show weakness. And in doing so, he’d eradicate any of Ms. Corcoran’s doubts regarding his superiority after that momentary lapse earlier.
“No need, Ms. Corcoran,” Jesse lied.
“Really? Not even the bathroom, huh?” She was goading him; he was sure of it. “Very impressive, Mr. St. James. I know I couldn’t go all day like that.”
Oh, I know, he thought smugly.
No further words were exchanged between the two for the duration of the intermission. Instead, Jesse and Ms. Corcoran simply stared straight ahead, willing the day to be over. With the seats around them mostly empty, it was as if the two of them were enclosed in an isolated bubble of silence, giving Jesse the perfect opportunity to hear something utterly peculiar.
Having spent his life training and performing, Jesse’s perfectly developed pitch was partially thanks to endless hours and years of hard work. But he was also blessed with exceptional aural talents, giving him an edge in competitions. So, it was thanks to his finely tuned ear that he knew something about his choir director was…off.
It started out soft and sporadic, going half-noticed by Jesse until the tap-tap-tap grew louder and more frequent. Without looking over to confirm his suspicions, he knew—just knew—that Ms. Corcoran was tapping the pad of her manicured pointer finger against her Raisinet box. This noise was then joined by the swish-swish of her pencil skirt and pantyhose rubbing together as her leg bounced imperceptibly up and down.
She seemed almost…nervous?
It was a surreal idea, and Jesse spent the remainder of the intermission locked in an internal war over the inconceivability of his conclusion and a long history of never being wrong. By the time the bell rang to signal the end of the break, Jesse was absolutely flummoxed.
The incessant swishing and tapping only grew in strength and frequency throughout the performances that followed, and Jesse’s patience had been worn thinner than the ancient upholstery of the world’s most uncomfortable chair. A particularly horrendous performance of “Don’t Stop Believing” by a deaf choir that was offensive to both logic and Jesse’s ears did little to suppress the frustrated screams burning his throat as they clawed up, up, up, desperate to escape from his mouth.
Jesse was just about to lose control when the emcee strutted back on stage.
“And now, our final team, McKinley High’s New Directions!”
There was a short, breathy gasp from Ms. Corcoran’s direction, then the swishing and tapping stopped.
The emcee cleared the stage, which was left empty even as the first notes of the song began to play. Jesse recognized the music and quickly hypothesized where exactly the New Directions were hiding. With a spotlight aimed somewhere behind him, Jesse settled in for what he could only assume would be the worst performance yet. Personally, he hated when performers acted, sang, or danced down the aisles. It was common, plebian, and rather intrusive. When he did it, he was exceptional, of course, but few could pull it off quite like him.
And this person was about to commit what Jesse considered to be a major show choir sin and sing Barbra Streisand’s “Don’t Rain on My Parade”? Were they trying to out-awful the deaf choir?
But then…
The second the first note was sung, Jesse’s head almost flew around of its own accord to catch a glimpse of the girl singing. It was flawless, crystal clear, and perfect. Completely, wholly, entirely, absolutely perfect beyond reproach. Nevertheless, Jesse ignored the aching desire to turn. He’d made it this far; he couldn’t stop now. Fortunately, he didn’t have long to wait.
When the singer finally came into view, Jesse was understandably shocked at what he saw. The girl’s back was to him, but she was such a short, little thing that he couldn’t help but wonder if the vocals were coming from somewhere else, somewhere out of his line of sight. That was, until she turned around and the light hit her face.
If Jesse had been shocked before, he was absolutely floored now. Suddenly, Ms. Corcoran’s behavior was starting to make sense. The teenage girl was practically the spitting image of his antsy choir director.
As much as he wanted to sneak a peek at Ms. Corcoran to catch her reaction, Jesse couldn’t bring himself to tear his eyes away from the minuscule powerhouse belting out notes that would undoubtedly garner approval from Barbra herself.
Jesse St. James didn’t believe in love at first sight. After seventeen years with his family and of lackluster interpersonal relationships, he barely believed in love at all, but even he couldn’t deny the hold the fiery brunette had over him in that moment, not to mention every other member in the audience.
When her solo came to a close, everyone in the auditorium was already on their feet, applauding like crazy—everyone except Ms. Corcoran and himself. Jesse barely noticed the unmoving woman sitting beside him, and he’d all but forgotten his self-made vow. It was the force of the young girl’s phenomenal performance that had rendered him completely incapable of movement.
Without even realizing it, Jesse’s lips parted and a quiet “whoa” slipped out.
The group song that followed was a bit of a letdown, but that type of perfection was bound to be hard to follow. For the common audience members, they were overjoyed to hear “You Can’t Always Get What You Want” and “Somebody to Love,” but Jesse could only grit his teeth as he waited to hear her again. The male lead had no business singing along beside her, of that, Jesse was certain. She needed someone capable of stronger, more powerful vocals. As it was, her voice soared above the others even when joined in unison.
Before long, the performance was over, and the New Directions exited the stage. Jesse was half-way out of his seat with a mumbled excuse about going to the bathroom before the emcee finished announcing a brief intermission while the judges deliberated. If Ms. Corcoran gave a reply or questioned his actions with one of her trademark looks, Jesse didn’t see and he certainly couldn’t bring himself to care.
Jesse took a sharp turn at the bathrooms and pressed on, searching for any glimpse of the girl and getting lost in a maze of hallways for his trouble. He was about to turn back when the director for the Jane Addams choir strode purposefully past him. After a moment of hesitation, Jesse turned and followed.
The faint sound of voices stopped Jesse in his tracks after his lead disappeared around a corner. He paused and peeked around the corner before drawing back, having confirmed that the girl was indeed down the hall along with the rest of her choir.
“Hey, um… I just wanted to say how great you all were, and I thought you were amazing,” the rival director offered.
While the compliment was well-deserved for the girl, at least, Jesse was still puzzled by any kind of gracious behavior between competitors. If the woman had done the same thing to any member of Vocal Adrenaline, she would’ve been torn to shreds (literally or figuratively, depending on the severity of her kindness and the whim of his teammates).
When the girl retorted with a biting, “We have nothing to say to you,” Jesse felt a foreign warm, fuzzy sensation in the pit of his stomach.
“Because we cheated, I know. I feel terrible about it, but I’m going to tell the judges right now that we don’t deserve to win,” the woman acquiesced, reminding Jesse of Ms. Corcoran’s gossip during the last intermission.
He waited for someone to reply, and by someone, he was thinking specifically of her, but the sound of a door opening put a stop to any further conversation. It was the judges, and they were headed in his direction, forcing Jesse to retreat back to the auditorium, bladder still uncomfortably full.
The New Directions won. Of course, they did. Jesse expected nothing less. If they hadn’t, he was pretty sure there would’ve been riots. He wasn’t entirely sure that he wouldn’t have joined in if it had come to that or that he wouldn’t have been the one leading the charge.
Following the announcement, the audience dispersed, allowing the members of Vocal Adrenaline to slip out quietly in their groups of twos and threes, unnoticed by anyone of importance. Jesse dutifully followed Ms. Corcoran out to her inconspicuous sedan and climbed wordlessly into the passenger seat.
They were both strapped in and ready to start the 3 hour and 15-minute drive back to Carmel, but Ms. Corcoran could only fidget with her keys while Jesse waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Finally, she spoke.
“Jesse, I trust you about as far as I can throw you, which we both know isn’t far at all, but just know that if you breathe a word of what I am about to tell you to anyone else, I am perfectly capable of getting your scholarship and admittance to UCLA revoked with just one phone call, do you understand?”
Jesse only nodded.
“Good.”
The silence that followed was unbearable.
“She’s my daughter,” Ms. Corcoran said softly after a short eternity. “The last soloist, I mean. Her name is Rachel Berry, and she’ll be sixteen this month.”
“If she’s your—” Jesse started, but Ms. Corcoran cut him off.
“Let me finish.”
Reluctantly, Jesse shut his mouth and waited for Ms. Corcoran to continue.
“For reasons I’m not comfortable discussing with you, I had to give her up when she was a baby, and I’ve had no contact with her since. She doesn’t even know who I am.”
Jesse tried to study her as she spoke, but Ms. Corcoran’s face was hidden by a curtain of dark brown hair as she stared into the middle distance just past her driver’s side window.
“I need your help, Jesse. I need you to befriend Rachel. Tell me about her and, when the time is right, give her something for me.” She suddenly turned to face him, bringing down the full weight of her request with an impassioned—almost pleading—expression. “Can you do that?” she asked.
Befriend the mini-Ms. Corcoran with the ethereal voice? Jesse St. James didn’t really do friends, so this could be a great acting opportunity. Go full method to become the kind of friend that this Rachel Berry could bare her soul to. Sure. How hard could that be?
“Of course,” he replied.
Seemingly satisfied, Ms. Corcoran finally stuck the keys into the ignition and started the car. It was a long drive, but it would give them more than enough time to plan and scheme all the possible ways of inserting themselves into Rachel Berry’s life.
Even if Jesse still had to pee.