A/N: Hello and thanks for dropping by! This story was inspired by, and written in anticipation of the 20th anniversary of, one of my all-time favorite movies, That Thing You Do! written and directed by the amazing Tom Hanks (Copyright 20th Century Fox.) If you have seen the movie, know that this is a Bechloe adaptation (because Bechloe is Life) which means I changed some TTYD plot elements to contextualize it in a Pitch Perfect universe. If you haven't seen the movie, please do! It's not a masterpiece or anything but it's a feel-good movie with fun music and a great cast – and isn't that why we love Pitch Perfect? Haha.

Also, given that I wasn't alive in the late '60s and Google can only help me so much, please forgive any material or social anachronisms. But like it says in the summary this is an alternate universe so... let's get this over with.

PROLOGUE

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage... um, Posen's Roses…?"

A smattering of applause rang across the dimly lit bar as a quintet of musicians began their brisk walk from the crowd to the stage. The announcer followed their approach with a confused pair of eyes as the band came to the light and revealed itself to be all female. He gave a small shrug before stepping off stage to allow them to set up.

"I thought we were going as Fat Power?" the blonde, heavyset Australian hissed loudly toward the front of the line. She was adjusting the guitar strap on her shoulder as the black woman behind her impatiently shoved her forward, eager to get to the drum set at the center of the stage.

"Fat Amy—move!"

"Bugger off, CR, just 'cause you've got a part of your name in—"

Unfazed by the two arguing at the back of the line, the redhead near the front twisted her neck around to face the young brunette behind her. "Em, you got your pick with you?"

Big brown eyes widened in alarm and the girl began to panic. "Oh, shoot—!"

"Don't worry, I've got an extra—oops!" The small triangular piece of plastic slipped through the redhead's fingers just as she was pulling it out of the pocket of her jeans, and she accidentally poked the woman in front of her with the head of her guitar when she bent forward to pick it up.

"Quiet!" The tall and imposing blonde leading the group shushed her bandmates harshly with a glare. She positioned herself in front of the microphone stand as the others proceeded to set up their instruments amid the stone cold silence of the bar. She could sense the crowd slowly registering each of the feminine faces up on stage, because sooner than later someone cried out—

"Hang on, they're girls?"

A murmur erupted, following this realization, and the blonde singer sensed her audience growing restless. "Hurry up," she ushered over her shoulder. "Let's start now—on three… two…" Turning away from her bandmates' scrambling to get in position with barely a breath's notice, the frontwoman faced the audience and waited for her cue as the intro to the ballad shakily began.

She sang,

"Every night I pray

I'll have you here someday;

I'll count the stars tonight

And hope with all my might—"

Almost instantly, half of the crowd seemed to accept the fact that they were an all-female band and began swaying casually to the slow beat. The other half, however, groaned upon hearing the type of music to which they were being subjected.

"And when I close my eyes,

You'll be right by my side—"

"What is this crap?" the same guy from earlier heckled. "This is bumming me out, man!"

Unable to glare at him through the bar's smoky haze, the singer gripped the microphone tighter to release her frustration. But she kept her voice as soft and unaffected as she could so as not to destroy her precious lyrics:

"If I could only have one wish,

Be the guy whose lips I'd kiss—"

That was when the booing began.

"This is a bar! We didn't come here to have chicks sing us their mushy songs to sleep!"

"Hey, give them a break, you jerk!" a young woman near the stage yelled back.

But their sole vocal supporter was not enough to overpower the successive boos and jeers that ensued once dissent was expressed. Soon, balls of crumpled up paper and plastic cups were being thrown at the girls on stage. One dissatisfied patron even had the guts to reach over and topple the singer's microphone stand.

Fuming, the blonde stooped over to pick it up but by then it was too late; her band mates' playing had come to an awkward halt, which made the booing only seem louder.

"Come on, Bree, let's just go," the redhead said dejectedly, putting a comforting hand on her friend's shoulder. "They're just not into this kind of music tonight."

After glaring at the crowd for one last time, the singer conceded defeat and led the band off stage, much to the crowd's enthusiasm. Seeing no point in remaining at the bar, the girls headed toward the exit, and the jeers followed them even as they made their way.

"Yeah, that's right! Get outta here!"

"And take your boring music with you!"

"If you dykes need an excuse to hang out, just take up cross-stitching and stay the hell out of our bars!"

That was the last offense the band's drummer, CR, was willing to take gracefully. She swung her arm and socked the heckler right in the jaw. To absolutely no one's surprise, all hell broke loose and chivalry died right before their eyes as the man—or rather, the man's friends—retaliated by shoving CR onto a table, sending the couple sitting around it, and their food, flying in every direction. Fat Amy thrust her guitar into her bandmate's hands and let out a yell like a war cry before throwing her entire weight onto the man's friends, knocking them both down to the ground with her.

"Chloe, take Emily and get out of here!" commanded the singer, passing Fat Amy's instrument to the redhead. "I'll handle those two."

The redhead nodded and took the frightened brunette's hand. They navigated through the torrent of people making their way in the opposite direction to cheer the fight on, until they came upon a middle-aged man exiting a small office with a telephone still against his ear. His eyes widened in alarm upon seeing what was happening in his bar and then made contact with Chloe's.

"Oh, hells." He hung up the phone and gestured the two girls over. "Come here, dears, you better take the fire exit—"

The owner led them down a short hallway and pushed open the door for them before rolling up his sleeves and turning back to descend into the fray. When the emergency door shut behind him, Chloe took a deep breath of the fresh, cold night air and turned to Emily. "You okay?" she asked, rubbing the young teenager's back.

Emily's face was visibly pink with excitement. "That was intense," she breathed. "I mean, my dad always told me to stay away from bars but I thought it was 'cause of the alcohol—oh, gosh, my dad!" She clasped a hand over her mouth. "I am so dead when he finds out about this!"

"Not as much as I'm going to be with my father," Chloe said under her breath. She looked back at the door they had just exited, calculating how likely or unlikely it would be for the cops to be called, and then turned to Emily. "The owner seems to have everything under control so... how about we make sure our dads never find out?"

"How is that possible?"

Chloe raised an eyebrow and waited for it to sink in for the innocent teen.

"Oh. We don't tell them—right. Okay. Good plan!" Emily gave Chloe a wide grin and two thumbs up. "This is great! Going to a bar and lying about it—I'll finally have something to confess in church this Sunday!"

Chloe smacked her palm against her forehead at the same moment their lead singer emerged from the fire exit assisting CR, who was holding her arm gingerly. Fat Amy quickly followed, with her back to them and her fists still raised and combat-ready in case anyone attacked them from behind. Just before the door swung shut behind her, Chloe and Emily caught a final glimpse inside and saw the bar owner breaking people up and threatening to call the police.

"Cynthia Rose!" Emily cried in concern. She rushed forward to help sit the injured drummer on the hood of a nearby car. "Are you okay?"

"My arm," she replied with a wince, "I think it's broken."

"It better not be! We have that talent show next Saturday!" cried the singer.

Chloe threw her friend a chastising look. "What Aubrey means is, 'Don't worry, CR. You'll be fine.' Come on, my brother can have a look at your arm."

Aubrey frowned. "Are you sure about that, Chlo? If he tells your dad—"

"He won't," the redhead promised. "I know things about my brother that would make my being in a bar look as innocent as picking flowers on a spring morning. Come on."

CHAPTER ONE

"Back again?"

Beca Mitchell looked up from the record between her fingers to see Luke, the store's manager and only British person within a ten-mile radius, grinning at her from the door to the stock room. He was carrying a box of new records under his arm and, upon recognizing the freshly delivered package, Beca itched to have a look inside.

"Got nowhere else to be," she replied dully. Motioning at the box, she asked, "Are those new?"

Luke nodded and set it on the table. "There's something in here I thought you might like." He pulled out a small square package and brandished it enticingly at her. "Del Paxton. Time To Blow."

It took all Beca had to suppress a shriek as she reached out eagerly, like a child making a grab for candy. At the last second, however, Luke pulled back his arm and added, "You remember the deal, right? For every jazz record I get for you, you have to listen to one of The Beatles'."

Beca rolled her eyes. "You Brits and your Beatles… Fine. Now hand it over."

Although she was excited to listen to the record, Beca spent another half hour rifling through the shelves, looking for hidden treasures she might have missed the last three or four times she had scoured the store. Finding nothing more than decade-old unsold albums dumped on a small-town record store, Beca approached the counter to pay for the records when a harried middle-aged man skidded to a halt outside the store window. He pressed his face against the glass and peered inside before bursting in.

"There you are!"

The creak of the door caught Beca's attention and she turned to see the man making a beeline for her. She rolled her eyes and mentally prepared herself for the parental onslaught.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Mitchell," Luke greeted courteously from behind the counter.

Luke's well-timed greeting diffused the man's anger on account of social graces; he nodded politely in greeting before turning back to his daughter with a calmer, though no less sharp tone. "You're supposed to be helping your stepmother at the bookstore, remember?" he demanded.

"Right," mumbled Beca. She had genuinely lost track of time, given that there was nothing interesting for her to do that necessitated any kind of schedule—other than what her father had just pointed out. "I... forgot?"

"Don't give me that," scolded Mr. Mitchell, seeing through her insincerity. "You are here for the summer to learn discipline and responsibility, not," he gestured around them, "to add more to your record collection."

"Got it," Beca said stiffly. She grabbed her change and walked out of the store without another word, leaving her father alone with Luke in the dust of her rude departure.

Mr. Mitchell shook his head and wondered aloud, "Why can't she be more like the other young ladies her age?"

"Why would she, when she can be herself?" Luke answered with an innocent shrug.

After receiving uncomplicated instructions from her over-compensating-ly kind stepmother, Beca slipped on her earphones to fill her mind with music from the radio as she began the menial task of sorting books at her father's bookstore. The earphones were really more for her benefit than her stepmother's, as they provided a reason not to converse with her father's new (if one could count five years as "new") wife.

Ironically, however, it was for this reason that Beca wound up talking to Sheila anyway. Unable to hear the woman calling from across the store, Beca had to be approached and tapped on the shoulder. She look up and turned to see Sheila smiling sweetly at her. "It's closing time, Beca."

"Oh." Beca got off her aching heels and glanced at the clock, then around the empty bookstore. She couldn't have known it was closing time; the store was almost always as empty as it looked at the moment. "I don't really know what to do about that…"

"That's what I'm here to teach you," Sheila said cheerfully, holding up a ring of keys. "Your father asked me to show you how to close up so you could do it for the rest of the summer."

"Great," Beca muttered under her breath. She was already hating her first day of work there and was certainly not looking forward to three months of it.

Once Beca understood which keys went into which locks and whatnot, the two women closed up shop and Sheila made a show of dusting her hands. "That's it. You've got it!"

Beca nodded dryly and shoved her hands in her pockets. She was ready to walk away from the store and disappear into the sunset but she thought twice about leaving Sheila as rudely as she did her father earlier that day. She wasn't angry at her, just her father, so Beca gave the woman a noncommittal wave before returning to the record store.

Luke kept his business open much later than any other store on the street did, although not so much because of foot traffic as it was due to the fact that the store doubled as a small recording studio. His patrons in the sleepy town of Barden, however, were mostly just members of the local church recording their hymns or sermons, which meant the studio was virtually unused most days of the week.

Sensing a kindred soul in the out-of-towner, on evenings he had to stay late to do the books Luke allowed Beca to mess around with the instruments, for which she was extremely grateful. It was the only time, and the only place, the skilled drummer could make use of her extraordinary talent, since her father neither appreciated nor allowed her bringing along a noisy distraction to Barden.

"Sheila has very sensitive ear drums," he had said. "And it might be best that you take a break from all that noise yourself. You seem to be growing deafer every time I see you."

It wasn't that Beca was growing deaf; she was merely growing less tolerant of her father's constant nagging and chose to stop listening. She didn't think Francis Mitchell had the right to try being a 'good' father now, after years of absence. Though she despised having to spend the entire summer with him, she didn't have a choice as her mother was on a business trip to London and, according to her, 'wouldn't feel right leaving her alone without family.' But Beca discovered her mother's ulterior motive at her first night in Barden, forced to sit through her father's unsubtle attempts to convince her to go to college.

Beca didn't have the energy to argue that music was the only future she saw, so instead there she was, spending her evenings holed up in an unused studio at the back of a record store to avoid him.

Beca entered the studio and switched on a single light at the center of the room, where a drum set, which, days ago, was hidden under a dusty cotton blanket, now sat polished and ready for her to take control. But instead of heading straight for the welcoming stool she approached the gramophone in the corner of the room and placed her newly purchased Del Paxton record. As the room filled with the jazz musician's mellow tones, Beca closed her eyes and let the music sink into her skin, her flesh, and her mind.

She pulled her drumsticks out from behind her and twirled them. When ready, she jumped in and played along with the record, adding her own improvisations here and there. Even with her eyes closed, she struck the snare, the tom-toms, and the cymbals, and maneuvered the high-hat and bass pedals in tune with music she had only just heard, with savant-like precision and speed. Her whole body seemed to move rhythmically to the beat and her bottom lip was tucked lightly between her teeth as she jammed her heart out.

In that state of musical possession, Beca, as she often did, lost track of time. She must have been playing for almost half an hour straight, judging by the number of tracks she had played through. Her forehead began to perspire and her arms started to ache from their prolonged use until, finally, she ended the last track of the album with a flourish. She took several deep breaths and had planned to open her eyes slowly to adjust to the light, but they shot open instead when someone started clapping.

It couldn't be Luke. Beca had told him, politely, to keep the hell out whenever she was drumming because she didn't like people watching her when she was letting loose. It was during sessions like this where Beca felt the most vulnerable, where she felt most like herself and didn't care what the rest of the world thought of her. Something about having someone else see her playing to her heart's content felt intrusive and wrong.

Beca quickly ran her forearm across her sweaty forehead and swung around on the stool. A young redheaded woman with the most striking blue eyes Beca had ever seen on a human being stood by the studio's door, giving Beca a mischievous, almost predatory, smile.

Beca licked her lips and cleared her throat. "Um, sorry, I didn't know the studio was booked at this time. Luke said—"

"Oh, no, I'm not here to record," the redhead assured her. "I was just browsing records at the store and I heard… what you were doing." She gestured at the drum set and added breathlessly, "You're amazing!"

Beca rubbed the back of her neck awkwardly. "Thanks."

The redhead continued to smile at her. "You know, you get this really goofy look on your face when you're really into it."

Beca blushed furiously. "Do I?" she said through gritted teeth. That was precisely why she didn't let anyone watch her; she couldn't control her expressions when she was a hundred percent into the music.

"It's cute!"

Being called cute was the last thing Beca needed to hear from someone who looked like that, so she stood up, tucked her sticks in the back of her jeans, and made her way to the record player. The redhead's smile vanished as she watched the clearly offended drummer begin packing her things. "Please don't leave on my account! I'm sorry," she said hurriedly. "I wasn't making fun of you, honest! Look, can we start over?"

Beca hung her head; the girl was blocking the door so she supposed she didn't have a choice. She gestured to show that she was listening as she carefully took out the Del Paxton record.

"My name's Chloe. Chloe Beale." The redhead walked halfway to her and held out her hand.

Beca shook it warily. The name 'Beale' seemed vaguely familiar and she wondered if she had read it on some signs on her way to Barden. She guessed that this Chloe person came from a very wealthy family or just had a penchant for highly unusual clothing styles, for Beca was noticing for the first time that Chloe wore a leather jacket over what looked like a white top that was cut just above her midriff, a scarf wrapped loosely around her neck, and denim shorts. Beca couldn't get over how, unlike all women she had encountered in Barden, majority of Chloe's overall palette consisted of the color of her nicely tanned skin.

"Beca Mitchell," she mumbled distractedly, averting her eyes when she caught herself staring at Chloe's exposed midriff.

"Mitchell…" Chloe frowned. "Oh! As in, Mitchell's Bookstore? I didn't know Mr. Mitchell had a daughter."

"Probably 'cause I don't live with him," explained Beca. "I live with my mom in Maine. They're divorced."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Beca nodded curtly. She was so used to similar conversations ending this way that she automatically continued walking toward the door, thinking this one with Chloe was over.

But the redhead casually swerved to reengage. "So you're new in town then."

Beca paused and looked back at the redhead to make sure she had actually spoken. "Uh, yeah," she replied slowly. "My first time actually."

"Then you need someone to help you learn the ropes, get to know Barden straight from a local," said Chloe, wagging her eyebrows playfully.

Beca almost cracked a smile at the offer. "I'm only here for the summer but thanks anyway."

"Darn it. Then what can I offer you in exchange for joining our band?"

Beca did a double take. "In exchange for what?"

"Joining our band," repeated Chloe. "Or at least, filling in for our drummer. She broke her arm at a—it's not important how," she pivoted quickly, "but we've got this really important talent show coming up. We're gonna split a hundred dollars if we win!"

Beca finally smiled at the redhead's enthusiasm. "A hundred bucks? I would've thought that'd be chump change for you."

Chloe tilted her head questioningly. "What makes you think that?"

Beca's eyes wandered up and down Chloe's body, landing on her chest and stomach twice more than necessary. Realizing what she might be implying by fixating on Chloe's physical attributes, she backtracked immediately.. "Nothing. Never mind—"

But Chloe had already caught her staring. "Is it the way I dress?" She fluffed her hair back and playfully struck a pose. "Yeah, I know it's a little out there, and my dad doesn't really approve of it either… But who cares, right? We aren't all proper southern ladies here at Barden. And I'm confident about all this." She gestured up and down her body.

Before Beca could stop herself, she agreed, "You should be."

Chloe had to bite her bottom lip to stop herself from smiling too widely at the unintended compliment, which made Beca feel obliged to smile back to balance the niceties. Yet for some reason, it didn't feel as forced as she wanted it to be.

A sudden knock on the door interrupted their exchange of smiles and a young man with perfectly slicked-back hair popped his head in curiously. "What's the hold up, babe?"

"Sorry, I just got carried away speaking to Beca here," replied Chloe, still not taking her eyes off the drummer, who was busy wondering how, between Luke and this guy, there was no shortage of attractive, movie-star-worthy young men in Barden, and as an afterthought whether they were just as desperate to leave the small town as she was.

The man politely tipped an imaginary hat at Beca and told Chloe, "Five minutes, okay, babe?"

When the door closed behind him, Beca motioned toward it. "Well, don't let me keep you."

"Nonsense," Chloe waved a hand dismissively, "you're great company. Besides, you haven't said yes yet."

Beca gave her a noncommittal shrug. "I don't know if I'll have the time this week. My dad kind of asked me to help out at the bookstore."

"Fair enough," nodded Chloe. "Ask your dad tonight then. If he says yes, come meet us for breakfast at Kay's Diner down on Cannon Road at eight AM tomorrow."

"And if he says no?"

Chloe gave Beca one last smile on her way out. "Come anyway."

Beca drummed her fingers on the steering wheel of her father's car nervously. She was almost an hour late, as evidenced by the clock on the dash. Contrary to her excuse the night before, she actually hadn't bothered to ask her father if she could play in a band so soon after being told to lay off of music for the summer. But she didn't think he would mind. It was just one gig after all.

Beca looked down the street she had just turned to and scanned both sides for Kay's Diner. She located the aquamarine-colored restaurant and pulled to the side so slowly that the car behind her honked to get her to hurry up. She wasn't used to driving her father's older and lengthier car, so she ended up bumping into the blue convertible parked in front of her.

Cursing under her breath, Beca stepped out to assess the damage, rolling her eyes when the driver of the car behind her cackled as he drove past. She sighed in relief when she saw that there was barely a mark on either car. She looked up and saw a sticker of a musical note on the other end of the bumper and had an inkling it belonged to someone in Chloe's band.

When Beca finally managed to get inside the diner without further incident, her eyes instantly locked on to the ginger standing by the gumball machine placed conveniently near the entrance. Chloe was more conservatively dressed today, Beca noticed, in a dark-blue sleeveless dress. There was still something about her, however, that made her stand out among everyone else in her vicinity.

Chloe turned at the sound of Beca approaching and gave the brunette her signature, pearly white smile. "Boy, do you misunderstand the meaning of fashionably late."

"Sorry," Beca apologized sheepishly and looked around at the nearly empty diner. "So where's your band? Don't tell me it was all a ruse to get me to have breakfast with you."

Chloe let out a tinkling laugh and took Beca by the wrist. She dragged her further into the diner, to a booth where a group of four sat: a slender blonde dressed in a vivid, almost eye-achingly pink dress; a larger blonde taking alternate bites between a burger and a hotdog; a pleasant-faced brunette sucking furiously on the striped straw of her milkshake, and a black woman with her arm in a sling taking down notes with the hand on her good arm.

"I thought we settled on The Revertebrates?" the brunette asked thoughtfully. She looked at the bottom of her now-empty glass and pouted.

"The Reverberates," corrected the blonde across the table from her. "And CR said there's a band in Orlando called The Reverb. It's a little too close."

"Let's just call ourselves The Band You're About To Hear," said the other blonde. Beca detected an Australian accent through the mouthful of food.

"Hey, girls!" Chloe chirped, cutting off any more responses. "Good news—I've found our new drummer!"

The four girls shot their eyes toward Beca and wordlessly began scrutinizing her. The Australian swallowed the last of her burger loudly and was to first to say, "No offense meant, friend, but you're kind of tiny. Can you even reach the opposite sides of the set?"

Beca resisted rolling her eyes at the height joke. "I use extra long sticks," she answered back sarcastically.

"Girls, this is Beca Mitchell," said Chloe, powering through the frosty start. Then she began a round of introductions. "Beca, this is Aubrey Posen, my best friend and lead singer of the band. She also writes most of our songs." The pinkly dressed blonde eyed Beca cautiously and made no greeting whatsoever. Chloe pointed to the one in a sling. "That's Cynthia Rose Adams. You'll be, um," Chloe chose her words carefully, "filling in for her on the gig this weekend. That's Emily Junk over there, the bassist and baby of the group!" The brunette scowled in mid-wave and stuck her tongue out at Chloe, but she cheered up instantly when Chloe tossed her a gumball. "And this is Patri—"

"Ah-ah. It's Fat Amy to you," the larger blonde at the end of the booth interjected. Then, staring at Beca dead in the eyes, she added, "So twigs like you can't call me that behind my back."

"I—I wouldn't."

"Fat Amy is our lead guitarist," said Chloe. "She's an exchange student from Australia, so it's pretty lucky that we found her."

"That's right. I was the best guitarist in Tasmania—with teeth," boasted Fat Amy, to Emily's confusion.

An awkward silence followed the introductions while Beca stood beside Chloe feeling uncomfortably like a show dog being presented to a panel of judges. Chloe looked at each of her friends and raised her eyebrows expectantly. "Well?"

Cynthia Rose leaned her good arm on the table and said to Beca. "You seem really cool and all but how do we know you can play?"

"Oh, I can vouch for that," assured Chloe. "I overheard her jamming at Luke's last night. She was amazing, trust me. She played along to this jazz record—"

"Jazz?" The lead singer, Aubrey, finally spoke, and she did not seem impressed. She gave Beca's all-black outfit a once-over with plenty of judgement. "Why am I not surprised?"

"What, you don't like jazz?" Beca asked with a hint of condescension in her tone.

"It's not that I don't like it," snapped Aubrey. "It's just…" She pursed her lips. "Whatever. Nothing's set in stone, Chloe. Beca still has to audition just like everyone else." She reached into her purse for a colorful flyer and shoved it towards Beca.

"Looking for drummer," Beca read aloud. "Must be female, have perfect pitch, and—" her eyebrows shot up "—'bikini-ready bodies'?"

"That last one was my rule," said Fat Amy. "I mean, we've got a reputation to uphold here."

"Your requirements are quite… specific."

"We spent the whole morning posting them around town," Emily said eagerly. "Someone's bound to see one and spread the word if they know somebody qualified, right?"

Chloe shook her head. "Beca's right. There are hardly any female musicians that play the drums and look as good as she does." She waved a hand at Beca, who struggled in vain to stop her ears from turning red at the compliment.

Thankfully, Cynthia Rose pulled the focus away by agreeing with Chloe. "Gals like us are a rare find. I hate to say it but Beca's likely our only option."

"Well, then, we'll just have to wait and see if that's true," said Aubrey, pointing to the bottom of the flyer.

"Auditions are from twelve to three—wait, I can't. I have to be at my dad's bookstore in ten minutes," said Beca, looking up from the paper. "I won't be out until five."

"Your dad is Mr. Mitchell?" Emily asked enthusiastically. "I love his bookstore! He lets me read the magazines without paying for them."

"Too bad about the time though," said Aubrey, sounding as insincere as she looked.

Beca turned to Chloe with a shrug and an "Oh, well," but the redhead was preoccupied with glaring at her best friend. A frown was forming between her perfectly shaped eyebrows and her eyes sparkled indignantly; she looked as if she wanted to say something but was keeping herself from doing so. Chloe's struggling made Beca realize just how much she wanted this to work out, and she felt an uncharacteristic itch to do something to please her.

Before she could change her mind about it, Beca reached behind her and pulled out her drumsticks.

"May I?" she asked, not really waiting for an answer as she took Fat Amy's empty plate and turned it upside down on top of an empty basket of fries. She gave the rim a few taps with her stick and shook her head. She paused, looking around the table for something better. She replaced Fat Amy's plate, upended the basket, and grabbed all of the girls' utensils to put in it.

Everyone watched her in stunned but excited silence. After seeing Beca tap various surfaces and objects a number of times with her sticks, they pretty much guessed that she was visualizing some sort of makeshift drum set out of anything within arms' reach.

After a few more taps here and there, and without any sort of signal to begin, Beca started off her impromptu 'audition' with a simple drum beat and seamlessly built it up to a more complex one to show her range. The sounds created by the diner and its fixtures were far from what an actual drum set could make but Beca had somehow turned those everyday sounds into brilliant and enchanting music.

Growing conscious of the fact that she was starting to attract attention from the staff and other patrons in the diner, Beca slowed down after a minute of playing, finishing off with a cymbal crash she voiced herself—"Pshh!"—and gave them all a humble, tight-lipped smile in lieu of a bow.

Emily had her mouth open in utter adoration the moment Beca even began; Cynthia Rose looked as though she were reeling from a shattering eargasm, and Fat Amy outright rolled off the booth, got on her knees, and bowed at Beca's feet. Aubrey, however, resisted any form of outward appreciation—except for an eye twitch, which Beca took as a modicum of approval.

Beca turned at last to Chloe behind her and saw the same grin the redhead wore the night before, only this time it was mixed with glowing pride, something Beca did not expect to see. It wasn't uncommon for strangers to drop their jaws upon hearing her play, but no one—besides her mother perhaps—ever went got past awe to appreciate how hard Beca must have worked to get to that level of skill.

At least, that's what it felt like to have Chloe looking at her that way...

"You're in. You're definitely in!" cried Fat Amy, in between her kowtowing.

Aubrey cleared her throat, looked up at Beca straight in the eye, and formally declared, "Thank you for your audition. We will let you know the results after we have reviewed all the candidates."

That was good enough for Beca, who merely smirked and nodded at the blonde. She turned to leave the diner on a badass high note before suddenly remembering, "Oh, and, uh, is anyone parked outside? I kind of dinged a car with my dad's. It's barely a scratch but..."

The girls all exchanged looks. "What kind of car is it?" Fat Amy asked slowly.

"A blue Comet convertible, I think?"

"… That's mine," revealed Chloe.

Beca's face drained of blood. Great. There goes all the goodwill she had earned from Chloe from her first impression. "God! I'm so sorry—"

Chloe took several deep breaths and fanned herself with frantic hands, causing Beca to start freaking out as well. "I'm sorry! Listen, I'll take care of the scratch—it's really more of a smudge, but that's not the point. And, hey, breakfast is on me, okay?"

Chloe suddenly stopped her hysterics and broke into a teasing grin. "Relax, Beca! I was just kidding," she said, pulling Beca into a side hug to indicate that all was forgiven. The girls in the booth laughed, while Fat Amy, who was still kneeling on the floor, scowled up at Chloe.

"Oh, come on, ginger! She was just about to buy us all breakfast!" she whined, resting back on her heels and shaking her head at Chloe in disappointment.

"But you've already had breakfast," Chloe pointed out.

"There's such a thing as second breakfast in America, no?"

"Actually, I was just offering to get Chloe's—" Beca started to explain but Fat Amy shushed her and ordered another tray of fries. She let it slide, mostly because she was relieved that she hadn't ruined anything with Chloe. Not that there was anything to ruin... Beca shook her head and cursed herself for overreacting.

"Beca, if you're that worried about Chloe's rear bumper, you should see her front," giggled Emily.

Cynthia Rose narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. "There's a joke in there somewhere…"

Exhibiting the first non-hostile emotion Beca had seen from her that morning, Aubrey chuckled and turned to Beca to explain. "One thing you should immediately know about Chloe after meeting her is that she is a terrible driver. In fact, if you had hit the back of her car hard enough, you could have popped the front bumper and saved Chloe the hundred dollars she needs in repair costs."

"I wouldn't even be surprised if the scratch was already there before you even hit it," Fat Amy chimed in while getting up off the floor with difficulty. "It could have happened when she, I dunno, backed into a tree or something. It happens every other day."

Chloe rolled her eyes amid the laughter. "Okay, okay, enough with the bad driver jokes! Beca has to work." She held Beca by her shoulders and pushed her toward the exit. Once outside, Beca took a peek at Chloe's car to see the evidence; she had been fixated on her own offense that she hadn't noticed that a slight smudge on the rear bumper was the least of the car's problems.

"Wow, they weren't kidding."

"Shut up!"

Chloe accompanied Beca to her dad's car and leaned against its passenger's side door once the drummer had popped in the driver's seat. "Thanks for showing up," she said gratefully.

Beca smirked as she started the engine. "Were you worried I wouldn't?"

Chloe returned the smirk with one of her own and backed away without giving Beca an answer.

Later that day, Beca was focused on fixing a low display of magazines that a group of teenagers had messed up when the bell atop the bookstore's front door dinged loudly. Beca and her finely tuned sense of hearing have been working at the bookstore long enough to know that this was not a normal customer. Casual visitors usually made a soft, ringing sound when they came through the door slowly; this one came in with a deliberate and determined TING.

Beca straightened up and was immediately tackled into a hug by an excited Chloe Beale. Beca mentally added 'hugger' to the list she had begun compiling the previous night of the things she knew about Chloe Beale—right below 'dresses weird.'

"You're in!" the redhead exclaimed, releasing their embrace and grasping both of Beca's hands in hers. "Not that we weren't going to accept you anyway—but now it's official!"

"Wow," said Beca, still dazed from the spirited hug. "Barden must really be lacking in talent if a couple of knives and forks beat out an actual drum kit."

"Actually, CR and I were right; no one showed up for the auditions," said Chloe. "We gave it, oh, ten minutes before Aubrey finally agreed to let you in. I mean, it's ridiculous—it's only one gig, I don't get why she had to be so uptight about it... But I guess if we do great then maybe you could—"

Beca looked past Chloe and her rambling as soon as she heard the bell ding a second time. Her father walked in and she didn't miss the small frown that formed on his brow accompanying the assumption that she was killing time talking to a friend instead of working.

Chloe noticed Beca's distraction and followed the drummer's gaze to the man frowning by the door. "Oh! Good afternoon, Mr. Mitchell!" she said brightly, quickly catching on to the situation. "Beca was just helping me find, um... She's really great at—at—" Chloe shot her arm to the side and blindly grabbed the nearest magazine she could reach "—great at helping me find exactly what I was looking for."

Beca looked down at the magazine thrust into her chest and smirked. "This is exactly what you want?"

"Hmm?" Chloe turned away from giving Mr. Mitchell her dazzling smile and glanced at the Playboy magazine Beca was holding up. The smile slid off Chloe's face but smirk on Beca's only grew smugger.

"Um… yes," Chloe said through gritted teeth, shifting to the side to try to block Mr. Mitchell's view of the racy cover. "Like I said, you were really great at finding that. It was almost like you've memorized where it was."

Beca scowled at Chloe for dragging her into the mess she created. Her father grew suspicious and asked, "Finding what exactly?"

Beca gave Chloe a light shove in her father's direction and quickly darted behind the counter to make the transaction, leaving a flustered Chloe to come up with an answer. "Oh, it's just, you know, fashion and… politics and… stuff. Wow, look at me chattering on like a monkey. I'll let you get back to work, sir!" Chloe rushed back to Beca and smacked her on the arm once Mr. Mitchell was safely in his office. "You could have swapped the magazine, you know!"

"What, and miss that memorable moment?" sniggered Beca, waving a hand over what had just happened. "Tell me, what fashion tips do you read Playboy for exactly?" she asked in mock seriousness. "Is it men's fashion? 'Cause if it's the women's, I gotta say—"

"Oh, grow up," said Chloe, the corners of her mouth climbing upward as she handed Beca the cash. "There are actually some well-written articles and short stories in there."

"Yeah, and I bet the piece on the politics of women's right to be gawked at by men was done tastefully, too," Beca deadpanned as she handed Chloe back her change and her wrapped-up purchase.

Chloe laughed. They stared comfortably at one another over the counter for a beat before Chloe cleared her throat and said, "So band practice is tomorrow at Aubrey's house. Here's her address." She pulled out of piece of paper from her purse and gave it to Beca. "We start at three and usually end around six, or until Aubrey thinks we've done enough."

"Cool."

"Don't be late this time," warned Chloe, backing up the small aisle on her way to the door.

Beca followed her. "I won't," she promised, making a show of crossing her heart.

Chloe paused with her arm on the handle. "You know," she began thoughtfully, "I think we're going to be really fast friends."

Beca watched Chloe get into her car and quietly muttered, "I'll say..."

In just the past twenty-four hours, Chloe had already seen (though 'caught' was the more appropriate term) her drumming unrestrainedly—something no one else on Earth, not even her mother, had ever succeeded in doing—which was an act virtually equivalent to seeing her naked and vulnerable. Beca imagined it would be hard to keep any secrets from Chloe after that embarrassing experience.

She spotted Emily in the passenger's seat of the blue convertible and waved. The younger brunette waved back at the precise moment the bubblegum she was blowing popped and covered her entire face. Beca shook her head in amusement as she watched the car drive away, reflecting on how she seemed to have attracted the weirdest residents of Barden in just her first week there.

"Was that District Attorney Beale's daughter you just sold a Playboy to?"

Beca jumped in surprise and glared at her father for startling her. "I don't know. Was it?"

"If it was, you'd best make a good impression on her," advised Mr. Mitchell. "Her father is a very important person in this town. Imagine someone like him on your list of college references…"

Beca rolled her eyes and got back to arranging the magazines, ignoring her father's droning while adding another item on the list of things she knew about Chloe Beale.

A/N on the title: As you may already know, the title 'That Thing You Do' is already used in a beautiful story by thatmitchsentho. After reading it, I'm happy to say that our stories only intersect at point Bechloe; other than that, I can safely go on writing without ruffling anyone's feathers! (If you do know of another TTYD-inspired fic, however, please let me know and I apologize to the author/s in advance for not reading yours first.) I decided to go with 'Summer of '69' after the Bryan Adams song because TTYD was likened to a line in the lyrics and because it just seemed to click. (This isn't a song-fic though.)

A/N to those who follow me as an author: First of all, thanks for following me! And, yes, this is a product of yet another movie-induced stroke of inspiration and I promise it will be over quick (seven chapters to be exact). As I write this note, I am fully aware that I intended my last movie-inspired story (The Long Way 'Round) to be over quick as well. My bad! I ran out of steam on TLWR because things start getting difficult for Bechloe, and all my other stories have Bechloe in troubled waters / have crapped on the idea of Bechloe altogether, so I wanted to write something happier for once. On a side note, Captain America: Civil War (the movie was superb) got me excited to get back to writing The Light. After this. Maybe. Cheers!