Log in

No account? Create an account

Sojourns While The Set Hums

Normal Service Will Resume Momentarily

Previous Entry Share Next Entry
Fic: Reverseverse Ep4: 'Shake-Up', Part 2 - PG
role reversal KM
Title: Reverseverse Ep 4, part 2
Verse: Reverseverse
Author: Test_kard_girl
Rating: PG, for some sweary language
Characters/Pairings Kurt/Puck, Finn/Rachel, Artie/Tina, most of the regular cast of Glee appear, albeit as their slightly altered role-reversal selves.
Genre: AU
Warning: Puck and Kurt not being themselves
Spoilers: Say through Season 1, although as it's AU, in a very roundabout, squint and you'll miss it kind of way.
Disclaimer: I don’t own Glee or anything to do with it; I just have vivid hallucinations. The role!reversal AU belongs to mundaneone. I’m just playing in it by her very kind permission :).
Author's Notes A tribute and addition to mundaneone’s fabtastic 'A Little Role Reversal', whose characters ate my brain. The original fic was written by mundaneone in response to this prompt from the glee_angst_meme. I hope anything I write in this verse can do her original creation justice. You’ll need to read 'A Little Role Reversal' before you read anything I write, so you get the gist of the characters and the world they live in.
Word Count (This part) 4626
Summary: he "social ladder" is upside down. Puck gets bullied by one ice-queen Kurt Hummel. Doesn't mean he isn't head over heels though.

The Reverseverse, episode 4 part 2: The backlash begins and, turns out, the student body have been waiting for this for quite some time...

Mercedes Jones flinches as the camera swoops in close on her pursed, lip-glossed mouth; her well-shaded eyes; her expertly-plucked brows as they cock slightly in annoyance. A bulbous condenser mic pops into frame, adorned with the Israeli flag— quickly followed by an enthusiastic Jacob Ben-Israel, shivering all over with excitement. The cameraman adjusts his grip slightly, making sure he gets everything in.

“You’re joining Jacob Ben-Israel now Live From Lunch, for an exclusive interview with New Directions’ star wailer— and rumour has it part-time Tina Turner impersonator— the bootylicious Mercedes Jones.”

Mercedes screws up her face, taking a few steps forward in the lunch-queue and glancing over the greens on offer before lifting one hand reluctantly towards the camera:

“Mercedes,” Jacobs stumbles backwards, following Mercedes as she progresses down the line. “Is it true that this morning’s world-shaking announcement follows weeks of surprisingly arousing mud-slinging between the once harmonious members of New Directions?”

Mercedes doesn’t rise to it: “New Directions is a well-oiled machine.” She replies smoothly.

“So…Well-oiled mud-slinging?”

Mercedes’ mouth crinkles in disgust, as she gestures to the slightly less-offensive looking of today’s mystery meats. "Thanks--No mud-slinging.” She repeats, glancing back at Jacob: “No backstabbing. No in-fighting, okay? New Directions have never been stronger.” She stares directly into the camera, slipping her shades slightly down her nose: “Never. Been. Stronger.”

“So there’s absolutely no chance that you’re seeing the forceful abdication of Rachel Berry and Kurt Hummel from their Glee club thrones as an opportunity to get some chocolate thunder up in that otherwise well-disguised chapter of Hitler Youth?”

Mercedes rolls her eyes: “What now?”

“You all set to up your game from Kelly Rowland to Queen B?”

“Listen to me Jewfro.” Mercedes says, setting her tray very carefully back down on the slider. “I’ve always been Queen B, it’s just folks’ camera phones have been pointing in the wrong direction.” She raises an eyebrow at the Sony DCR-DVD105 currently all up in her personal space, before turning her imploring smile back towards the lunch lady: “More Tots please…Thanks…”

A special gap-toothed grin breaks over Jacob’s mouth: he can’t resist a scoop:

“Uh, here at the ’Fro Show we’re also hearing disturbing news that you’re being forced to cut out all carbs after gay-boyfriend Kurt Hummel threatened to replace you as one of his rostered backing dancers with attractively lithe cheerleader Brittany Pierce.” Jacob pushes the mic closer to Mercedes’ face: “What’s the truth in that?”

For just a second, the girl’s mask of haughty indifference wavers. Mercedes’ eyes narrow, considering the authenticity of Jacob’s sources, then tick guiltily down to the carb-loaded tray balanced between her hands.

A second later, the picture goes dark, as a very deliberate dollop of cheese sauce is smeared all across the camera lens:

“No truth what-so-ever...”


(mom, 02.30. Duration: 00:19): Noah, it’s your mother; get the hell back home, do you hear me? We can talk about your… this thing. Your sister’s crying. She wants you home, sweetie. Running away isn’t big or clever you know...You get more like your fucking father everyday… Get home now Noah or I swear you’re never getting back in this house…


Puck doesn’t expect much from Monday. The weekend’s been a shithole of crap, so why would actually going to class be an improvement? But he kind of hoped to at least make it through the doors before his psyche took another kick to the testicles.

No such luck.

“Mom said you can’t stay over tonight.”

Puck’s feet plant themselves into the tarmac: “What?”

“She said, if you stayed tonight she’d call your mom.” Puck stares, and Finn opens his palms, just in case Puck wanted to check he wasn’t hiding any responsibility up his sleeves or whatever. “Look, dude, it’s not my fault, but you know how she gets all moral and shit--”

But Puck’s already walking.

“Puck! Come on, I’m sorry okay, I’m—”

Puck tunes him out, prodding his earphones back into his ears and spinning the volume up. Fuck Hudson. He shouldn’t be relying on that dipshit for anything anyway.

So yeah; that’s how Monday kicks off. And it just slip ‘n’ slides downhill from there.

By the time fifth period football practice rolls round, Puck has never been so ready to crush his skull against another guy’s solar-plexus.


The whistle is like a red rag to a bull. Puck slams his helmeted head into every fleshy surface going, bringing everyone who comes up against him down to the floor.

“Do you kiss boys Noah? Do you like kissing boys? Do you like kissing boys?”

His mom’s voice hammers against his eardrums every time his helmet rattles against his skull. He doesn’t see the numbers anymore, or hear Finn’s plays; he just runs, hits, tackles, grapples till the whistle screams again and he does everything he can to avoid Kurt’s needle-sharp stare.

Unfortunately, Puck’s not the only one who seems hocked-up on steroids today. For every murderous run he makes, Karofsky seems ready to tear out his arms to get Puck’s face in the dirt and in the end Puck’s so pissed he rips his helmet off, chucking it to the ground ready to give the linebacker a piece of his mind.

“Hey hey, save it for the Rangers!” Tanaka hollers, catching him and dragging him back by the collar to deposit him on the other side of the benches. “Jesus, have I gotta get the drug squad back down here?”

Puck manages to bite his tongue until the end of practice; but as soon as they shove through the door to the locker room, he slams his palms into the back of Karofsky’s brutish shoulders:

“What the fuck is your problem?”

“The fuck is yours?” Dave grunts, spinning and shoving Puck back hard in the chest. “It’s football. What, you feeling a bit delicate after your weekend sleeping in the gutter?

“Hey, cut him some slack D, he’s been living on garbage for three days.”

“Not your beef Azimio.” Puck warns, jabbing a warning finger at his sneering face. He turns back to Karofsky— The other boy’s built like a fucking brick shithouse, but Puck’s too pissed off to care:

“You know, you got some issue with me I’d like to think you got the balls to say it to my face.” He snarls.

“Guys, cut it the hell out.” Finn orders; but Puck ignores him.

He can see his own spittle freckling Karofsky’s face. Slowly, the other boy wipes it off with the heel of his hand, eyebrow cocking at the corner like some creepy, distorted imitation of Kurt.

“Know what Puckerman?” He says, halitosis right up in Puck’s nostrils: “I’d really kinda prefer it if you weren’t thinking about my balls—”

That’s all it takes really: Puck’s fist crunches satisfyingly against the side of Karofsky’s jaw.

It all goes red for a few seconds. Dave reels and Puck swings again, getting in another punch to his face, and another one, before the linebacker finds his balance again and Puck feels his own spine bounce against the lockers.


“For fuck sake—“

“Will you knock it off--!”

“Guys come on!”

Stupid fucking dickhead— Puck kicks out, studs ripping at Karofsky’s shins, and suddenly they’re both on the floor: fucking asshole; fucking dick, talking about shit he doesn’t understand, talking about—Puck’s slams his elbow into Karofsky’s sternum— what the fuck does he know?—he punches him again, harder, feels the fat of his belly around his fist—stupid fat fucking asshole dickhead moron

Puck curses blindly, hating everything, hating everyone who tries to pull him off, trying to jam his hands around Karofsky’s fleshy throat.

“Hey hey hey, knock it off! I said knock it the fuck off!”

Tanaka’s not a big guy, but his voice is like a blow to the head, knocking Puck’s adrenaline-soaked brain back into his body. He growls, shoving Karofsky away from him hard enough to dislocate a shoulder.

“He fucking started it!” He spits, tasting blood in his mouth and spitting it onto the floor.

“He hit me in the fucking face!


“—Get off me.” Puck wrenches his arm out of Kurt’s scalding grasp, climbing painfully back to his feet.

“Detention! The both of you,” Tanaka dispenses their punishment with a snarl like a grizzly bear “you bull-headed morons. How many times I gotta tell you to save the ass-kicking for the field?”

“…Fucking dick-sucking hobo.” Karofsky mutters, and Puck slams a fist against his locker, turning to give the asswipe another taste of his knuckles; but Finn and Matt get in his way and Kurt is immediately up in Karofsky’s face.

It looks ridiculous— Karofsky could knock Kurt down with a well-placed ear-flick. But two years of infamy seem to be on the kicker’s side ‘cos the bigger boy just freezes, ham-sized hands contracting into fists as Kurt skewers him on a look:

“At least he’s proud of who he is.”

“…Yeah?” Karofsky looks unconvinced. His eyes snap momentarily back to Puck’s face: “He don’t look so fuckin’ proud...”

His voice is the kind of breathless that has nothing to do with getting the shit beaten out of him; but Puck doesn’t wanna think about it. He just slams his locker open, snorting the blood back up his nose as he yanks out his stuff for the shower.

Slowly, the room fills with noise again. Tanaka stalks back into his office, trailing nervous snickers in his wake, and Puck sets his jaw against the significant glances boring into the back of his skull. Fuck. He doesn’t know why he even bothered showing up today. He pulls his shower gel out; shampoo; sets them on the bench. Ignores his phone languishing at the bottom of his bag. Breathes. Finds a towel. His hands are still shaking.


“I don’t wanna talk to you.” Puck snaps, yanking his jersey up over his head, tugging his t-shirt back on in its place.

Kurt doesn’t really take the hint. From the corner of his eyes Puck sees him glance at the mildewy floor.

“Yeah. The sixteen times you didn’t pick up your cell-phone kind of told me that.”

Shit. Puck closes his eyes.

Around them, the sound of the guys fooling around is stupid loud; the strained bark of Mike's laugh, the hiss of body spray, the metallic crash of locker doors.

Beside his ear, Kurt's question is as soft as Puck's ever heard from him:

“…Your mom kicked you out?”

That’s not really how he remembers it.

Puck sucks in a sudden, painful breath through his nose.

“…I kinda just… bolted.” He mutters, the ridge of his locker door digging hard into the pads of his fingers. “Wasn’t thinking, or…She didn’t want me there… Couldn’t even fuckin’ look at me—” Puck’s locker door slams, slipping out of his grip; and Puck tries to storm away towards the showers but he’s halted by Kurt’s arms folding awkwardly around his neck, pulling him close.

Puck didn’t really expect that. After a moment, tentatively, he digs his fingernails into the back of Kurt’s shoulders, breathing heavily against the warm skin of his boyfriend’s neck.

It feels like maybe the first time Kurt’s hugged someone in his whole life, 'cos his spine is stiff as a freakin' dead cat. But he's trying— Puck squeezes Kurt tighter—he’strying… And Kurt's nose pressed against the side of his cheek, and the soft rise and fall of his chest against Puck’s does more to stamp on that violent beast tearing at his stomach than any amount of pummelling Karofsky’s face.

“Stay over at mine tonight.”

Puck’s heart thumps painfully against his ribs: “I was staying at Finn’s.”

“And he’s not letting you stay tonight. So stay at mine.”

Puck doesn’t need reminded: “I’m not your fucking charity case Kurt—”

“No, you’re my boyfriend.” Kurt agrees, pulling away slightly so he can meet Puck’s glower: “Figured you’d be sleeping over sooner or later.” He shrugs, tiny smirk dancing onto his lips: “I expected sooner than this, but whatever…”

Puck just looks at him. Then, quickly, Kurt leans in and presses their lips together.

They’re quiet for a long minute, the hissing of the showers covering the shufflings of the other guys as they pack up for lunch.
Kurt’s gaze drops, and his fingers follow, slipping down to stroke absently at the fabric of Puck’s shirt:

“…You were wearing this shirt on Friday.”

Despite himself, Puck’s mouth twitches.


“Okay, so we’re visiting the mall before we head home.” Kurt makes Serious Eyes at him, and Puck remembers— what seems like a really long time ago— the deal they made about the continued mockery of Puck’s clothing.

He shrugs, grudgingly disentangling himself from Kurt’s arms: “Sure… If you’re payin’.”

Kurt makes a little noise of derision and reaches for the edge of his own locker, eyebrow cocked at forty-five degrees: “Mossimo Supply
Company? I think I can stre—”

Then, the end of his word becomes a shriek, as a sudden cascade of frozen raspberry crashes over his shoulders, dislodged from the Slushy cup balanced perilously close to the edge of the locker above.

Puck glowers murderously around at the pale-faced football team. No-one has the balls to laugh. No-one except—surprise him— Dave Karofsky, who on the other side of the room spins his locker combination with undisguised glee:

“Oh hell;” He drawls “so that’s where that got to...”


1 missed call: mom
(mom 11:46) Answer your phone.
2 missed calls: mom
(mom 11:52 duration 00:11) I’ve called Carole, what do you think I’m stupid? Get home Noah and stop this nonsense. Noah. Pick up your phone. Pick. Up. Your phone.


"You shoulda let me hit him." Puck grumbles, glowering at the floor as it passes beneath his sneakers and definitely not shooting nervous glances at the hard set of Kurt’s jaw.

"Yes; because there's nothing I find more attractive than your bleeding knuckles." The other boy retorts vaguely: "Don't you worry your overtired little brain, mon cher — I'm more than capable of enacting my own creative revenge..."

Puck gnaws the corner of his lip: he has no trouble believing that, actually. He flinches as he feels the phone in his pocket vibrating once again.

"Can part of your creative revenge be me hitting him?"


“He’s just all bent outta shape ‘cos you guys cleaned up last week with the Single Ladies thing.” Finn guesses with a sigh. He’s following them a careful half step behind Puck’s heels, like he’s expecting Kurt to flip-out any second now and go all Punisher on his ass: “He likes to be top dog in there.”

“Hm.” Kurt looks amused, shaking himself out of his reverie just enough to grant Finn a pitying little smile: “Pretty sure that’s not it—”

“—Hey. What’s up with him?” Mercedes asks, falling into step with them as they round the corner, Artie and Tina close behind.

Nothing’s up with him.” Kurt replies through his teeth; but Mercedes just snorts, giving him a quick up and down: “You weren’t wearing Anna Karina slouchwear this morning.”

“This is Marc Jacobs.”

“We had football practice.” Puck supplies.

“Oh right, and what were you teaching them this week? JLo?”

“If Sarah Jessica Parker can have twelve costume changes per show, so can I.” Kurt reasons airily; and looks like he’s about to add more when his brow furrows and he pulls to a halt, distracted by the overloaded noticeboard outside Figgins’ office.

“… Yeah. There’s a couple up in the science block too.” Tina informs them regretfully, as Kurt side-steps in front of another boy to get a closer look at one particular sheet flapping nonchalantly in the draught.

Puck points a finger:

“…But I thought Mr Schuester…Oh.”

His hand falls limply back down to his side. Yes, the paper looks familiar— but the list of names typed neatly down the left hand side aren’t quite like he remembers:

2nd Nov 2009

1. Santana Lopez
2. Quinn Fabray
3. Mercedes Jones
4. Artie Abrams
5. Ryan Seacrest
6. Tina Cohen Chang
7. Tiger Woods
8. Tiger Woods’ booty calls
9. Swine flu
10. Rachel Berry
11. Lindsay Lohan

“Well; I suppose I should applaud their creativity.” Kurt deadpans, and from the corner of his eye Puck sees Mercedes and Tina exchange a look. “Do you think it’s more of a compliment to be excluded?”

Puck really doubts it: “I’d take it that way.”

“I don’t know.” There’s an odd glint in Kurt’s eyes. “Why don’t we ask our interloper?”

For a second Puck doesn’t understand; then, Kurt turns significantly to the taller boy he’s just hip-checked out of the way, and Puck realises it isn’t any class at McKinley he recognises him from.

The boy glances up from his iPhone, seemingly unfazed by the row of disdainful gleeks staring back at him:

“I’d always prefer to be hated than anonymous.” He supplies evenly.

“A common sentiment of the chronically mediocre.” Kurt sighs, reaching into his bag to close his hand round his water bottle: “Is this you spying? ‘Cos if so, I might have a few tips to give you about the whole ‘being undercover’ thing.”

The other boy smiles brightly, weirdly lizard-ish.

“I heard that New Directions were suffering a long overdue public backlash, and of course I just had to clarify such a delicious rumour for myself. I don’t suppose frolicking around in an ill-fitting football uniform has done your free-falling reputation any favours, huh Kurt?”

Puck scowls, glancing back at Mercedes: “Who is this jerk?” But Kurt seems grateful for the opportunity to vent some acrimony:

“Thanks a hundred times for your concern Jess, but don’t worry: New Directions have still got a long way to go before we’re languishing in the same cesspit of failure as Vocal Adrenaline.”

Vocal Adrenaline— That’s where Puck recognises him from.

“How’d you even get in here?” He questions, scowling: “You don’t go to this school.”

The boy glances at Puck; gives a derisive little chuckle: “What, because McKinley has security?” He looks at Kurt again. “Congratulations Hummel, he’s a smart one.”

Kurt cocks his head, a venomous little smile on his lips:

“Well I’ve never been too fond of smart.”


Rachel’s voice rings round the corridors. As one, Kurt and the rest of New Directions spin around, right into the path of Hurricane Berry.


But Rachel’s eyes have already zeroed in on their trespasser. She shakes her hair over her shoulder, spine snapping into an exclamation point:

“What’s he doing here?”

“—He’s making himself scarce before someone punctures the tyres on his Camaro.” Kurt supplies, before the other boy has the chance to open his mouth: “What’s wrong?”

Rachel just looks at him. Her eyes are flaming:

“…Lunchtime entertainment just got decidedly more amusing.”

Puck can tell the words she actually wants to use are stuck in the back of her throat. He feels the gleeks around him prickling to attention.
The Vocal Adrenaline boy—whose face Puck wants to dislocate more every second— raises an eyebrow.


“Losers not invited.” Mercedes disclaims, shoving past Puck as the group follow the furious swing of Rach’s mini-skirt back towards the lunchroom.

At first glance nothing seems out of place. It’s just lunch; full of the usual cliques, huddled round and giggling and swapping insults and trying to keep their mystery meat down. Puck spots the football table; sees Karofsky preoccupied with his fish-sticks, hears Azimio’s attention-grabbing laugh... At least they’re keeping outta trouble.

“What am I supposed to be seeing? Aside from Ms Pillsbury’s disturbingly left of normal accessorising?”

Kurt’s voice is as taut as a violin string, and Puck has a sudden, regretful flashback to the quiet, post-shower, steam-filled locker-room.

“There.” Artie nods up at them.

Puck follows his pointing finger. Sure enough, the gleeks’ table (prime school real estate: bathed in sunlight, opposite corner to the bins, five bars of wifi) is surrounded by red-clad cheerleaders. Quinn Fabray, lording it at the head of the table, legs crossed neatly under her skirt; Santana sitting on the formica, lounging cat-like back on her hands; Brittany building a food-fort for her Tater Tots. As they watch, Mike Chang and Matt Rutherford come slouching up, glancing nervously over their shoulders, and the girls burst into squeals of delight.

“That skinny white girl’s boney ass is on my chair.” Mercedes realises suddenly.

A couple of other kids have clocked the gleeks standing, tableau-stylee, in the doorway. They try and smother their giggles and Puck sees Kurt’s eyes narrow in annoyance.

Finn does that weird movement that’s kind of half him shrugging, half him trying to disappear into his own ribcage: “Yeah sure but… You guys said, when we started…”—He curls a hand round Rachel’s arm—“Weeks ago. You said we could sit with you. You can’t be pissed at them for that.”

Puck grimaces. Us and them. ‘Cos what he definitely needs right now is more of that.

Rachel glowers at her boyfriend: “They wouldn’t let me sit down.”

Finn’s mouth makes an ‘o’ shape.

“So? You can sit someplace else, it’s not a big deal.” Puck hears himself protest.

“You just can’t get enough of kicking us off the top spot can you?” Mercedes snaps back at him.

“Why are the jazz band in here?” Tina ponders, nose wrinkling.

Puck pauses mid-retort. Either Cohen-Chang’s a really off-the-wall peacemaker, or she actually is toting serious weed-induced brain damage.

Except, as he looks around, he notices them too: Lance the saxophonist, Micky G on guitar, Jimmy Fingers on bass— weird nervous, excited looks on their faces and instruments hidden between their knees.

“Oh…shit.” Puck realises dully. Shit. He probably knows why the jazz band are here. He probably knows exactly what that means.

Kurt and Rachel turn to him, eyes questioning, as a sudden bouncing guitar riff cuts through the chatter:

“Everyone on your feet!” Santana orders, voice echoing gleefully through the head-mic suddenly snapped over her ear.

“Oh hell—“

“Oh god— impromptu lunchroom dance number?” Mercedes groans, as the school leaps out of their chairs all around her. “What is this, 1998?”

But no-one’s paying much attention to her disdain, as Santana and Brittany climb on top of the gleek table, shaking their hips, clapping their hands above their heads.

Then— to a blast of triumphant trumpets— Matt and Mike grab Quinn by the arms and hoist her up to join them, her blonde hair catching in the sunlight and making her gleam like some Greek goddess smashing through a cloudbank:

“I’m coming out! I want the world to know, gotta let it show…”

“Diana Ross?” Kurt’s voice goes so high Puck can’t hear him anymore. “Quinn Fabray doing Diana Ross?”

He looks like it’s the very last straw in a bumper pack of really shit straws; but Puck can’t think of anything to reply— he just turns back to the freakshow in front of him, mouth gupping like a goldfish.

“There's a new me coming out, and I just had to live, and I wanna give, I’m completely positive…”

As her tremulous alto rings out, the Cheerios circle Quinn’s table, flipping their ponytails and punctuating their Captain’s every syllable with perfectly coordinated choreography. Brittany and Santana look like they’ve been doing this for years. Their harmonies are tight; tight as anything Puck’s heard from New Directions:

“The time has come for me, to break out of the shell…”

Good song choice too, he reflects sinkingly.

“I have to shout, That I’m coming out!”

“Did you teach them that?” Tina asks numbly, eyes fixed on Mike Chang and Matt Rutherford— once cowering football players, now flush-cheeked backing dancers, spinning Santana and Brittany in their arms and dipping them to the floor.

“This isn’t anything to do with me.” Kurt murmurs.

But even Puck knows that’s not totally true. The idea of lunchtime serenading had to come from somewhere. And he knows who the last person to bribe the help of the jazz band was.

“I’ve got to show the world, all that I wanna be, and all my abilities, There's so much more to me…”

With every clap, Puck can see the gleeks’ masks slipping just a bit further from their faces. Quinn loves it; he can see that too. Her eyes are shining as she laps up the giddy cheers of the rest of the student body, swishing her embarrassing porny skirt at the crowd, crooning into her mic:

“I want the world to know, I got to let it show!!!!”

With the same heroic brass section, the girls hold the final note, going all Charlie’s Angels with their posing as the school erupts into whoops and hollers of delight. Puck glances nervously at the ceiling to check for confetti cannons.

“Ladies and Gentlemen!” Quinn pronounces breathlessly into the rabble, chest heaving from the exertion but grin brighter than the sun: “In case it had escaped your attention…” She pumps a fist in the air, eyes scanning the room till she finds them all, frozen in the doorway, and holds Rachel’s murderous glare:

“…We’re the New Directions!”


1 missed call: mom
(mom 12:30) Answer your phone. I’ve had enuf.
3 missed calls: mom
(mom 12.57) Don’t bother coming home tonight.


Rachel has had it.

She storms towards the parking lot, whipping her sunglasses out of her shoulder bag and slamming them into place over her watering eyes. She will not cry. She’s a star, and stars don’t cry. But god she wants to. God she wants to.

They were mocking her; the entire school. Laughing, cheering along with Quinn Fabray as if her voice was one tenth of the perfectly controlled, meticulously trained fireball of talent Rachel’s is.

She’s worked hard for this. For so long. And she’s the best in this school; she’s always ruled fairly and she’s earned every gold star she’s ever gotten.

So why does everyone want to keep punishing her for that? The auditions, the Glist, and now this public humiliation
“Rachel Berry.”

Rachel almost slams straight into the arm suddenly flung out in front of her, and it’s only her exceptional muscle-control and lighting-fast elegance that prevent it. She sniffs loudly, glancing up one tracksuited shoulder:

“What do you want?” Rachel snarls into Coach Sylvester’s expressionless face, eager to get away before more Vocal Adrenaline spies creep out of the woodwork to revel in her unhappiness.

The Coach is unperturbed. “Four words.” She replies, in the careful, precise intonation of a Kukuyi witch doctor as she displays four strong, masculine fingers and stares back at Rachel with bush fire glowing in her eyes:

“Liza.” She folds one finger. “Minelli.” And another. “Celine.” And the third. “Dion.”

Rachel blinks. What? Those names are her whole world, two of her greatest inspirations. She opens her mouth, she needs to know more—
-- But Sylvester’s gone.

Rachel stares. Whips her head around. But, yes— the Coach has disappeared, vanished into the musty, gym-smelling hallway.
What was that? Four words? Rachel sniffs: more mocking she guesses bitterly, and grits her teeth, resuming her furious path towards the comfort and high-spec sound system of her Prius.

She’s almost out of the door when one more thing stops her; one more thing, tacked to the wall with the same jaunty innocence as that soul-destroying Glee-list.

Except this one makes her heart leap into her throat:

Be the LEAD in our High School Musical!
Audition for CABARET!
Must audition with a Celine Dion song of your choice.


(sarah 13.03): Where r u? Moms gone skitzo. Pls cum home i didnt mean 2 gt u n2 trouble xx

  • 1
I never know what is going to happen next.
The Puckurt bit was sweet.
Sorry, brain foggy so not the best review.

Haha, thankyou for commenting hun, I'm glad you liked it, even with a foggy brain! x

  • 1