Written promptly after Glee this evening. Because you can't tell me Jesse St. James isn't hiding in plain sight in New York City. Or that he didn't go to Rachel's first big performance at NYADA.
Spoilers: For 4x09, 'Swan Song'
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Taking Chances
"Mr. St James."
He cringes like a child caught sneaking around, tugging his scarf back into proper position against the snow beginning to fall.
The date of NYADA's winter showcase has been marked on his planner since September (knowing it will mark her big New York debut - the rigorous selection process no object). The plan had been a seat in the back row, in and out without letting Rachel - or anyone who might get it back to Rachel - know he was there. He'd been just yards away from escaping down the steps to the subway, too.
He plasters a pleasant expression onto his face as he turns to face the older woman. "Madame Tibideaux. How are you?"
"Well. Thank you. And yourself?"
"Fine. Thank you." He pauses. "The showcase was wonderful tonight."
"There's a reason it was wonderful," Carmen agrees. "You were right about her."
His smile is involuntary. It had been worth sitting through every other performance (the soprano soloist who was too sharp; the ballet dancer whose tulle and face paint were the definition of distraction; the boy whose tap dancing was jarringly off-rhythm; all minor flaws from the best NYADA has to offer, but he's picky) to watch Rachel's face light up, something like awe in her eyes, as the crowd surged to its feet after her last triumphant note. Watching her leave, flush-faced and arm in arm with Kurt, as they squealed and celebrated together, was its own kind of reward.
"She's a star," he says, simply.
It's taken everything in him not to call her, drop by that karaoke bar he knows the NYADA students frequent, look her up on Facebook. She never de-friended him, not even after the egging incident, not even after the debacle of Nationals her junior year. It's not an oversight on her part. Every now and then, although he's kept his whereabouts deliberately vague, she'll 'like' one of his statuses, and it's all he can do to keep from calling her right then.
But he knows it's not right for either of them right now. He'd lost sight of himself for too long. Ironically, it had been Rachel herself ("Are you forgetting who you are, Jesse?" echoes in his head) who had pointed him back in the right direction.
He might be living in a shoebox studio in Queens, riding the subway every day, and working double shifts at two menial jobs between auditions, but he feels more alive than he has in a long time.
Looking at Rachel in her element tonight, he sees that same adrenaline rush sparkling in her eyes and thinks maybe she's experiencing the same. She is finally where she belongs, and she deserves the right to settle into her new life and re-connect with her own dreams, which she'd been so uncertain of last year, without him, Hudson, or anyone else clouding the picture.
"I would say she's well on her way," Carmen agrees, before abruptly shifting the topic. "You're no longer coaching at Carmel High."
It's not a question, but he shakes his head to answer the negative anyway. "I stepped down after Nationals last year and moved to the city over the summer. I've been going to open calls."
"That's not an easy road you've chosen. And there are a million others in this city just like you." There's no judgement in her voice - but she's not telling him anything he doesn't know.
"No one ever achieved anything in this city by playing it safe, right?" he asks, rhetorically. "I may have taken a few wrong turns, but - there's nothing I'm as good at, or as passionate about. And I'm willing to work harder than anyone. I hope that sets me apart."
She tilts her head as though he's just said something of import, scrutinizing him carefully. He's a little curious about it, but does his best not to flinch away.
"Tuesday, at 3 p.m.," she says suddenly. "The Joyce Theatre in SoHo. It's not an advertised call - word of mouth only. It's a young playwright with a new musical, and a former colleague of mine, Ryan Metcalfe, is directing. Tell them that I sent you. Stay away from Webber. It's anathema to him. Prepare something uptempo. Warm up well, be ready to move. And don't forget to work on your diction."
He blinks - stunned into silence for one of the handful of times in his life. It's not that Carmen's precise memory or rattling off of information surprises him - it's that she would offer the advice when he's not a student, not a client paying for consultation, and when she hasn't heard him sing in three years, not since his failed audition.
"Madame Tibideaux, I - Thank you."
She lifts a hand dismissively. "I'm only returning the favor. Besides, you come highly recommended."
He tries to catalog who has a connection to this particular professor and performer who might have mentioned him in passing. Shelby? His dance instructor from UCLA, who said he showed potential? Some other Carmel alum - and there are plenty in this city?
Carmen smiles. "I had a wonderful discussion regarding interpretations of contemporary rock with a talented young lady, a student of mine, who mentioned that she finds Queen covers distasteful, because there's only one performer she knows who can match Freddie Mercury vocally. She claimed he was perhaps the most talented person she'd ever met. Bar none."
Only years of training prevent him from gaping at her outright, suddenly feeling every nerve in his body standing on end.
Carmen rescues him with another abrupt shift in topic, before he can dwell too long and say something he'll cringe at in the morning. "Mr. Hummel did well this evening."
He does grin at that. "Other than Rachel, Kurt was the best asset McKinley had for the last few years."
Kurt belongs in this city, too, Ohio every bit as stifling for him as it was for Rachel. His performance that evening had been one of his better ones - then again, Jesse has always had a thing for Sondheim.
Carmen nods in agreement. "Mr. Hummel got a second chance. He seized the moment and made the most of it. They don't come along often."
She looks at him pointedly, meaningfully, as a cab pulls up to the curb behind her, stops.
Jesse nods, slowly, reflexively stepping forward to open the cab door. "Thank you, Madame Tibideaux. Congratulations again on the showcase. Have a good night."
"Good night."
The cab pulls away and merges back into the New York traffic seamlessly, leaving him standing alone in the softly falling snow.
He considers for a second, then decisively turns away from the subway entrance, looking for a break in the traffic and jogging across the street to catch the train downtown instead.
He'd overheard the insipid ballerina mention something to a classmate about the showcase students celebrating at Callbacks that evening. He has one more performance to catch tonight.