Blaine stared at his comment card for a long time, vowing to take in all the constructive criticism Ms. Sylvester had to offer. He carried it around in his pocket, hoping that would help him remember the lessons he needed to take to heart. He had it all but memorized by now:
You can't be theatrical by singing notes on a page and hoping that osmosis via YouTube does the trick. You sang the notes - they were all accurate - but I was bored. Likewise, you can't put on a costume and hope it makes you dramatic. A costume isn't a costume if you use it to hide. Own your work, don't let it own you. Next time, do better, and not because I'm asking you to. Do better because you can.
Over the next week, he was buried in homework. True, Dalton had high standards, but as it turned out, so did McKinley. Either that or his ability to concentrate was totally gone. Even though Ms. Sylvester's words about owning his work echoed in his mind, it was pointless to compare and contrast events in two separate novels. His phone buzzed in his pocket and Blaine pulled it out, and stared at the screen, the string of numbers telling him it was a social network update of some kind. He hoped it was from Wes, David or Thad. Any of the Warblers. He missed them, and they got him in a way none of the McKinley students seemed to.
Wes Warbler's status:
We, the Dalton Academy Warblers would like to give a warm welcome to our new lead vocalist, Sebastian Smythe.
Blaine's heart sank. They didn't need him anymore. Clearly, he wasn't needed here either. He wondered about Sebastian. Was he an actor on small-screen commercials? Did his parents dote on him? Did he have a younger brother? Blaine shook his head, thinking of his psychology class. He was projecting now and that wouldn't do anyone any good.
To distract himself, he bypassed the online traps that used up his time and instead pulled up the bereavement site. Letting out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, Blaine read the only message present, written by the only person who had reached out to him. He read the response carefully and then began his reply:
Dear HSM,
You're welcome. I like your abbreviation, though, I admit, I think of High School Musical without fail. I love Zac Efron, so it's all positive association for me. Anyway, everyone deserves support, especially those who are selfless. Yes, I'm in high school. It's very busy, with classes and extra-curricular activities there is barely time for anything else. Thank you for understanding my reluctance. You seem very honest, so maybe I can be honest in return. If I had my way, I wouldn't ever to my brother's grave. It would make the loss more real. Do you know what I mean? It does suck to be alone. I'm sorry your dad can't be there for you. To answer your question (maybe too honestly?) I wouldn't want any further contact with my brother through a medium. I don't feel like going into detail, except to say that I am so angry with him that it would not do me any good. Though I can appreciate you wanting contact with your mother. I would definitely want to contact my best friend, but my brother was not that to me. Do you think, that if someone terrifies you in life, it continues after they're gone? I'm beginning to think that's true…
CB
Blaine hit send, feeling like he could finally breathe. His contact with this person was literally the only time he was able to speak about his loss. Otherwise, he was left trying to cope when he was alone, and pretend all the rest of the time. Sometimes, when no one was around, he would pull up one of Coop's commercials and watch it. He rarely got more than a few seconds in, because Coop just looked so terrible. It made Blaine want to obliterate Coop's room, but he held back, mostly because while he was upstairs watching commercials, his parents were downstairs in the living room, crying quietly, and watching old home videos.
On now was the one where Blaine was brought home from the hospital. Blaine knew it by memory because he used to love watching it, too. Blaine was a February baby, but eight-year-old Coop, still believed that baby Blaine was a gift from Santa because Coop had been "amazing this year, not just good," and he "really wanted a baby brother, more than anything."
The words rolled around in Blaine's mind like loose change tossing and turning. If Coop wanted a baby brother so much, why the hell would he leave me like this? It wasn't right. And it wasn't an accident or a new thing, or solely a medical condition that made Coop leave. It was the secret that he wasn't supposed to talk about. Because what would the neighbors think? What would the people at church think? What would his mom and dad's coworkers think if they knew that Coop… The words stuck in Blaine's throat but the proof had been right there in Coop's room the morning Blaine found him.
Coop's room had once been full of Little League trophies, drama awards and every kind of art project. At Blaine's last look, that day, it had been trashed. Clothes everywhere. Food everywhere. Junk everywhere. Every piece of art was gone. Everything of value was missing. Instead, his room was piled high as a hoarders with inexpensive garage sale items. Ugly lawn ornaments and storage bins stacked high as the ceiling overflowing with old video game systems, DVDs, and cheap wall art. Coop had told them all the stuff was for a new art project, and warned them not to go in there. They were used to the warnings. It was all within normal limits for Coop, except that Coop, himself, was just…not there.
Whenever Blaine tried to bring it up to his parents, they would brush him off. When Coop asked Blaine directly to start keeping mundane secrets from their parents, Blaine couldn't stay silent anymore. Blaine gave Coop an ultimatum. Tell mom by the following day, or Blaine would. Well, Coop hadn't said anything, and Blaine kept his word. He had gone to their mother, who was more likely to listen instead of yelling like their dad.
"Cooper says he's just tired. He's working long hours, you know. That last commercial was pretty intense. They worked all the actors hard, but Cooper was the star, so they needed him the most. He's fine, honey. Don't worry."
Hours later, Blaine was home on winter holiday break from Dalton, when Coop came in without knocking. He closed the door soundlessly behind him and then crossed the room to Blaine. He hadn't done anything, just stared up at Coop from his seat at the desk. The air felt heavy with something. Coop's muscles were taut and Blaine was more than a little afraid that Coop might hit him. Instead, he just started ranting in a whisper:
"Nice to know I'll never be able to trust you again! You're my brother, Blaine! You're supposed to have my back. I specifically asked you not to say anything to Mom and Dad and then you did. What else do you go behind my back about? So, I'm tired! So, I'm having financial problems! Bottom line? I am an adult and it's none of their business and it's none of yours either!"
"But you're in their house," Blaine had protested weakly. "I'm not an adult and you're around me-"
Coop had cut him off, silencing him completely with a hand around his neck, squeezing. It was subtle, but effective, letting Blaine know Coop had all the power.
"You're never around, so who are you to come in out of nowhere and make that kind of judgment of me? No one believes you because nothing is wrong. You're just looking for attention. And hey, newsflash, Blainey? If Mom and Dad don't believe you, it isn't true. Fact number one in the Anderson family. Get used to it." Coop had let him go then, leaving Blaine gasping.
Coop had turned and walked out of the room, leaving Blaine to cover the bruises and try to ignore the fact that as crazy as things got, Coop had never once laid a hand on him. Less than five months later, Blaine had found Coop in his room, not breathing.
Instead of grieving, Blaine blamed. Mostly, he blamed himself, even though he was of the opinion there was nothing anyone could do for Coop unless he admitted he needed help. Even though he didn't have the power to change Coop's mind, Blaine constantly wondered how he could have worded things more strongly with his mother so she would understand that Coop spending money he didn't have on strange jewelry was a red flag. Blaine was sixteen, and no, he hadn't been home that often, but in a way that gave him objectivity that his parents hadn't possessed. If he had just been able to convey to his mother how worried he was, maybe none of this would've happened. Maybe he would've gotten help.
He wondered if his online friend knew what the guilt was like. Neither had asked details about the other's loss and that was how Blaine preferred it. It didn't stop him from wondering, though, if anyone, anywhere, knew what it was like to wish like hell that someone would believe you when you said something was wrong. When Blaine felt it in his gut. He saw it in Coop's empty eyes.
Swallowing back the feelings, Blaine put on his I-Pod and played every song that was unlike Coop, so that Blaine could battle the darkness.
Santana was curled in bed, despite it being late afternoon. She found she slept best during the day. Naps were more doable than sleeping at night. Nightmares were less likely for some reason and less nightmares was always a good thing.
"Hey," a vaguely familiar voice said, scaring the shit out of Santana.
She peeked out from beneath the covers and glared at Britt, who stood in the middle of her room like they'd agreed for her to come over. "What are you doing here?" Santana asked, clearing her throat. She narrowed her eyes. "How did you get in here?"
"It was open. Your house is kinda messy," Brittany observed. "Hey what did your comment card from Coach Sue say? Mine said great job embracing the theme and being brave, but that I have to practice to get my voice up to my dancing skill level," Brittany beamed, proud of herself.
"Did you need something?" Santana asked impatiently.
"Kurt's running for class president and I wanted to surprise him with this campaign poster, but I wanted you to see it first, since we show each other everything first," Brittany explained, making Santana's head spin. Were the student elections starting already? But she nodded and waited for Brittany to unroll what she held.
When Santana saw it, she cringed inside. Hummel was as gay as she was and if Brittany - as well intentioned as she was - had made Santana a campaign poster with a rainbow and a unicorn front and center, she would be pissed.
"What do you think?" Brittany pressed.
"I think… Did you ever think about doing something more subtle? Maybe lose the pink, the unicorn and the rainbow?" Santana asked innocently.
"Well, then all that would be left is Kurt's face… Wait. You don't like it," Brittany said, her face falling. "I do, though!" she said, like they'd been in the middle of an argument on it all along. "This is who Kurt is. Special and magical like a unicorn and he should embrace what makes him special, right?"
"Look, you know what, Brittany? Do what you want," Santana snapped, hoping the tone would be enough to drive her away. Instead, she felt Brittany shift on the bed and start clicking on Santana's laptop.
"What's Hope & Healing? Brittany asked.
Santana's heart sank. She left the grief group site open, intending to write back to CB but she had fallen asleep before she could. Thank God, she had navigated away from the message itself.
"Is that like online dating?"
Even though Brittany looked hurt, Santana confirmed her guess. "Yeah, it is. I guess I just wanted to try something new."
"You need to be careful, though. People lie on these places all the time. I saw it on Misrepresentation & Malice," Brittany said seriously.
"What the hell is that?" Santana scoffed around her heart, which had taken up residence in her throat at Britt's protectiveness. God, she sounded just like Mom right now.
"One of those survival shows. In case someone does lie and you don't know it, always tell someone where you'll be. Plus you should always wear a mask so they don't know who you are and carry a hammer, because it can be used as a tool or a weapon."
"Thanks," Santana managed.
"I gotta go anyway. I'm meeting Mike and we're going over stuff for Sectionals. Dance stuff," she added unnecessarily.
When Brittany left, Santana sighed and pulled her computer closer to her, opening up CB's message. She read it again, intrigued by the anger that was obviously just below the surface. CB was polite, but she liked the anger she sensed even better than the nice person. Anger was real. Not the smoke screen she'd been getting up to this point, though she did understand the need to be cautious, masks and hammers or not.
Hey CB,
High School Musical. Are you serious right now? That's offensive. Totally kidding. It's cool, though I'm not a Zac fan. I saw him in another role first, and now I can't get past it. Every time I think of him, he looks like this huge dork in my mind. I did love the movie, though, believe it or not. A friend tried to teach me all the dance moves to the final song. They nailed the moves and I just wailed on the vocals. Oh my God, so embarrassing. I was like, 11 years old. ANYWAY, I just woke up. Sleeping weird hours now, because I'm always up at 2:30 every morning. It's gross. You seem pretty pissed at your brother. Supposedly, that's one of the stages of grief. The second. So, that means you're one ahead of me. I still can't believe my mom is gone. I totally understand the desire to keep the loss at arm's length for as long as possible. And as long as this place is doubling as a Secret Sharing Circle of Honesty or some shit, I'm gonna keep it real honest. I think things terrify you in real life because people screw up. But they keep messing with your head only if you allow them to do it. You can't live scared all your life, CB. I mean, I guess you COULD, but would you want to? Dreaming of the loss is one thing. Nightmares. I get that. But don't let whatever your brother did in life keep haunting you now that he's gone. If you need to talk, I'm here. But for real talking, none of your politesse crap. HSM.
P.S. This is not for the pity factor, but just so you don't think I'm some ridiculous Disney fanatic. My screen name actually translates to motherless child.
Blaine didn't always, but when he received a reply from HSM, he printed it and folded it into a tiny square, tucking it into his pocket beside Ms. Sylvester's first critique. Between the two of them, they always managed to say exactly what Blaine needed to hear. That reminded him. He needed an opportunity to speak with Ms. Sylvester privately, so he moved quickly when the dismissal bell rang Tuesday afternoon. He arrived in the glee classroom out of breath.
"Ms. Sylvester?" Blaine managed.
She turned, smiling at him, her eyes nearly crossed in pleasure. "Sounds so presidential when you say it like that…" she mused. "What do you need, Young Burt Reynolds?"
Blaine pressed his lips together, drawing courage from HSM's letter, from their honesty, he addressed her. "I need you to use my name," he said, looking her in the eye. "I've only been a student here for four weeks, and you've only been glee director for one, but I've gotten the opportunity to see how you lead. You command respect and I like that. I'd also like to offer, though, that you might get more champion-like behavior out of us if we felt respected."
Pausing, Blaine watched Ms. Sylvester, who stared back, but seemed to be listening.
"What's your name again?" she asked noncommittally.
"Blaine Anderson," he supplied, extending a hand, as if in introduction.
"Congratulations, Blaine. You've proven you can take a critique," Ms. Sylvester said blandly, walking around him and to the hall with a bullhorn, calling all the students by first name, not nickname. Blaine shook his head, dropping his outstretched hand. He tried to make sense of what he'd just been told about taking a critique. Maybe she meant it in regard to ownership? But more than that, Ms. Sylvester had listened to him, and that meant a great deal.
"Come on! Get your theatrical selves in here so I can wipe that lesson from your mind entirely! It's a new week, people! That means, a new theme and new ways for me to become positively aroused with the power this position affords me!"
Blaine watched as the room slowly filled. He couldn't miss Kurt doing his best to avoid Brittany who was chasing him with a large pink poster adorned with a picture of Kurt's face and saying something about unicorns.
"Brittany, no! That is not a campaign poster! That is a sure-fire way to lose votes! I'm using my original idea. Thank you for your help, but it's not necessary anymore," he insisted.
"But your poster had no color and it made me sad. It also made me feel like falling asleep, which I did after I left your house. I worked really hard on these, Kurt, and if you don't want to be the unicorn for McKinley, I guess I will."
Blaine watched the drama unfold in front of him. The way Kurt turned slowly to face Brittany.
"You will what?" Kurt asked slowly.
"I'm running against you," Brittany said, and took her seat.
Blaine raised his eyebrows, completely missing Finn filling the chair next to him. "So, what'd you do to my brother?" he asked, his voice low.
"Excuse me?" Blaine asked, his eyes flashing. "I didn't do anything to Kurt."
"Well, you did something because he's been in a pissier mood than usual ever since we came back from Nationals last spring." Finn pressed looking pretty pissed off himself.
Blaine's heart clenched inside his chest. The last thing positive thing he had was that conversation in the Lima Bean with Kurt after the New Directions came back from New York. The next morning, Coop had been gone.
"So, come on. I know, dude. It's gotta be your fault. Whenever I'm in a bad mood, it's usually because Rachel did something," Finn continued, oblivious to Blaine's pale color and the way he pressed his lips together. Signs that Kurt would have seen. Signs that Kurt would have understood.
"Sue's Kids! Your fellow Sue's Kid, Blaine, has made an official request on behalf of all of you to be referred to by your first names, and not my nicknames for you. As much as that disappoints me, I'm willing to sacrifice my insults in the name of winning. If hearing your given names - as if they're real - makes you want to work harder for me, then I am willing to be the bigger woman, here." At that, Ms. Sylvester barked out a laugh. "I'm taller than all of you, that's for sure. Well, except for Finn, who remains the tallest human I have ever encountered.
"Now, we have a lot to go over, and since Figgins denied my request to keep you here indefinitely, I can only keep you here legally until our agreed-upon time. First on the list of Top Secret Intel: Auditions for this year's musical are beginning."
Blaine cracked a smile as Rachel's hand shot up. "What musical?" she asked, not even waiting to be called on.
"Rachel, your enthusiasm is laudable. The musical is a personal favorite of mine, originally based on a book by Victor Hugo."
"Oh, dude! Is it The Hunchback of Notre Dame? My nana loves that movie. …She's never read the book…I don't think she's read any book. At least not in English," Puck interrupted.
"Noah, I'm pleasantly surprised at your ability to correctly identify a novel by any author, but our musical is-"
"Les Miserables!" Rachel interjected, giddy with excitement. "I need to be Fantine. I've already performed her big song, I Dreamed a Dream, with Miss Corcoran. I would also be suited for Eponine, due to my numerous performances of On My Own for my audience on MySpace."
Ms. Sylvester waited for Rachel to pause before she continued. "As Rachel so loudly pointed out, yes. Our musical is Les Miserables, which is a personal favorite, because it's about miserable people, and making people miserable."
"What? No it isn't. Where do you get your information?" Artie asked.
"Not all of you will make the cut, but all of you are expected to audition. It's good experience to fail at something at least once in your lives." Ms. Sylvester continued, disregarding Artie's comment.
Blaine found himself taking a deep breath and holding it. Coop had starred in a local production of just about every play and musical he could name. One of his last had been Les Miserables. He had played Enjolras. Blaine prayed he would not be so lucky.
"We're in glee club. We fail at things every day," Tina pointed out.
"I don't care so much about that," Ms. Sylvester said, shaking her head. "Myself, Coach Beiste and Miss Pillsbury will be in charge of the show. So come ready to show your best.
"Finally, your assignment this week is," she said, walking over to the white board and writing in giant blue block letters: INDIVIDUALITY. This week, you will all be singing the very same song, a classic from 1994, when most of you were fetuses, and I was a busty twelve-year-old." Ms. Sylvester said, sighing. "Your challenge will be to stand out. Your challenge will be to show me what makes you interesting.
"Now, Mike and Brittany have worked on choreography for Sectionals, on top of their regular duties to stand in the back and sway. So this practice will be dedicated to dance. Listen to them as you would to me. I will sit in this chair, watch you, and yell things at you with my bullhorn. Please be sure to look at the title of your homework song before you leave. If you forget to do this, there will be consequences," she said, shouting the last word through the megaphone.
The last thing Santana wanted to do was audition for some idiotic musical, but she didn't want to be on Coach Sue's shit list either. Even though she didn't have to, Santana had learned the stupid new homework song, and managed to learn a song from the miserable musical that made her want to hate her life forever. It was kind of pretty, but Santana still wished she didn't have to do this. The song was sung by a girl as she was dying. Most days, Santana wished she were, too, so she could be wherever her mom was. It was lonely here.
She waited backstage and watched Quinn sing something irreverent and sexual. Something Santana wished she had found. Miss Pillsbury clapped and said, "Yay! Yay, Quinn!"
Santana rolled her eyes. Then, she watched Puck slink onstage and do things that made her skin crawl. Then he sang a disgusting song, and called it an audition. Santana wanted to throw up, but Coach Sue, Coach Beiste and Miss Pillsbury loved it.
Santana rolled her eyes and tried to block out the hushed whispers of the Wonder Twins who were fighting about God knew what.
"Please, Kurt, talk to me."
"Why? Why do you want to talk now, after months of ignoring me?" Kurt snapped.
"I'm sorry-"
"Blaine! I waited for you to return my calls, my texts, my Facebook messages! I went to your house, and you ignored me! You couldn't even be bothered to come to the door!" Kurt hissed. "Do you know how much that hurt? We came back from Nationals last year, and you said you loved me, Blaine. You initiated that, not me! And then I don't hear from you for months and you show up at my school? Like nothing's changed at all? Like you didn't just rip out my heart? Who does that?"
"Excuse me, Hummel. Anderson. But I needs to get into this character, and your soap opera whining is making it damn hard," Santana snarled, stalking past them onto the stage.
Once she was out there, under the hot lights, throwing her entire audition song out at the last minute seemed like a reasonable choice. But one look at Coach Sue had Santana firming her own resolve. "I'm Santana Lopez, and I'll be singing Cosmic Love by Florence and the Machine," she said, tipping her chin defiantly at Coach Sue. Let her deny her emotions this time.
Santana took a breath and closed her eyes. Then, she looked up, momentarily stunned at the sight of Sam and his younger brother and sister sitting in the audience. What were they doing there? Santana shook her head, clearing it of distraction and just sang. No accompaniment. She poured all the pain into the words. Let them see her vulnerable side for five damn minutes, if it would shut Coach Sue up. So Santana sang it. She thought of her mom, and though she didn't shed a single tear, she put all the emotion into the notes and the words, cradling them, even as they broke her.
When she finished, Miss Pillsbury asked her to read the part of a girl with a weird French name. Santana did, and her breath caught as she realized it was the same chick who sang the song while she lay dying. What were the odds that Santana would have such shitty luck? When she was done, she walked off stage. The last thing she wanted to do was stay, but she wanted to go home even less, so she took a seat in the back row and listened to Anderson sing a song about stars that was slow and boring, and Hummel sing a song so high it should have been written for a woman. Berry had already auditioned, of course, and so had Mercedes but there were a few stragglers that would wait until the last possible minute to audition. She didn't care. She was done.
On his way out, Anderson called her name. They had Spanish together, and Blaine was a respectable partner.
"Santana. You wanna come with us to Rachel's? We're gonna try to figure out how to do that song from Ms. Sylvester's youth." He winked in a way Santana hated. "She said she didn't want to sit through sixteen identical performances because it would make her more hostile than usual. Rachel suggested doing it as a group. So, will you come?"
"Sure. Why not?" Santana shrugged.
Blaine tried to keep his patience as Rachel ordered everyone into positions and did her best to assign lines. Even Blaine, who considered Rachel a friend couldn't help noticing her tendency of giving the best ones to herself and Finn, leaving the rest of them the less desirable parts.
It didn't take long for Santana to declare that she was out. She was doing a solo and the rest of them could do whatever the hell they wanted. Quinn, Puck and Kurt followed. There was plenty of placating and talking them into rehearsing again. Soon, they were on the way to a decent group number. Blaine volunteered for part of the rap section. Artie took the second and Santana the last. Mike and Brittany worked out a couple admirable dance breaks.
They ran it a couple times, but something just didn't feel right to Blaine. Finally, against his better judgment, he held a hand up. "Guys. I hate to say this, but I'm really not comfortable singing alone. I'm used to having people back me up."
"You mean you're used to being the star and having other people behind you. That's not how we work. You're either a part of us or on your own."
"Finn, you had solos all the time in New Directions," Mike pointed out.
"No, I shared the limelight. With Rachel," he insisted, smiling at her.
Blaine clenched his jaw. He didn't want to argue, but he also didn't want to lose out on a solo opportunity because Finn was used to calling the shots. Last year, Kurt might have spoken up in Blaine's defense, but he was equally likely to have taken Finn's side or wanted a solo himself.
"I wouldn't mind singing backup," Joe volunteered. "I'm used to it. I lead worship at my church, but someone else always does the heavy singing. I don't have the voice for that."
"Thanks, man," Blaine said gratefully.
"Oh, awesome!" Finn exclaimed bitterly. So now we have a group performance and a trio?"
"No," Joe explained amiably. "Now we have people willing to work together."
"I'll sing behind you, too," Mercedes offered. "I know it can be comforting when you're used to singin' in a group."
So, Blaine breathed a little easier, at least until Thursday night. He didn't know how the time went by so fast. But before he knew it, kids were filtering into Ms. Sylvester's room in identical white tee shirts and blue jeans. The wardrobe had been decided on by Tina, who suggested they keep it simple. Brittany and Mike had taught them simple, in sync, choreography. It was a subtle way to poke fun at the lyrics. Blaine just hoped Ms. Sylvester got the joke.
"Okay, places!" Ms. Sylvester insisted. She took a second to watch all of them, dressed the same, and laughed to herself. "Sue's Kids, your sense of irony…is delicious."
The band came in, and everyone fell into formation. Just as Rachel was about to sing, Blaine's mind wandered to the Les Miserables auditions. Coach Beiste had cried, and Ms. Sylvester asked if he would read for the part of Enjolras. Blaine had politely refused. It was the first time he refused to do something she asked, and he wondered if there would be some sort of consequences. Or if she would give him the role anyway, out of spite.
Blaine snapped back to attention as his line neared. He prepared to sing, to hear Joe's gentle tenor and Mercedes' sweet soprano. He was shocked, however, when he heard the voices of everyone behind him, as he moved to the front and sang. It made him feel a little better about everything.
He shifted back and forth, according to the choreography and didn't let it show on his face when Sugar, one of the new girls, faltered on her entrance. Seamlessly, he walked forward as if it was planned, and sang her part with her.
The song ended, and Ms. Sylvester didn't clap. She didn't believe in applause, which left Rachel in a constant state of wanting it. "That," Ms. Sylvester said, "was the worst performance I have ever seen. Excluding the early New Directions performance of Push It. But right above Push It? Is this! That showed me absolutely nothing about who you were! You know what it showed me? That you know how to blend in."
Blaine cringed. They would get it now, and staying at Rachel's house until 2 a.m. practicing this number and eating unidentifiable vegan food would all be down the drain.
"The exception?" Ms. Sylvester said, shocking Blaine's thoughts silent. "Mike. You did exactly what I asked. Go write your name on that board."
Mike looked speechless, and Blaine felt bad that he had totally missed whatever Mike had done. Thankfully, Brittany missed it, too, and Blaine overheard Quinn explain how Mike had been the only one who refused to sing a note. Instead, he danced, signing his lyrics in American Sign Language, which he was apparently fluent in.
"Can I defer?" Mike asked.
"No deferring." Ms. Sylvester denied sharply. "By deferring you're telling me you are not worthy to fill the solo position. Is that what you're saying?"
"Why are you so hard on us?" Quinn asked. "If Mike wants to throw away a perfectly good chance to sing and give it to one of us, why not let him?"
"What did your performance show me that I didn't already know about you?" Ms. Sylvester challenged. "What did it show me about what you valued? About what moves you to action? It showed me you have a natural grace. Knew that. Revolting attitude? Knew that, too. I wanted to see you. Instead, you showed me your unimpressive ability to be exactly like everyone else."
"I want to be in the solo pool," Mike announced quietly. "I'll work for it, and improve. I'm going out for the musical, too, even though there's no dancing at all in it."
"Do I look like I'm going to pat you on the back?" Ms. Sylvester demanded. "Save that for home. I don't believe in giving gold stars for trying. This isn't preschool. This is high school. Do the work. Take the opportunities. Now get yourselves over here and let this week's winner and Brittany show take you through the choreography again. That performance did nothing for my motivation. It's late, and I'm missing the nightly balm to my soul that is When Animals Attack."
Blaine fell into line, glad for the opportunity to do something physical. He took criticism well. It always made him want to work harder. It made him want to improve. Maybe part of this was in his nature. But Blaine suspected that a lot of it had to do with being told by Coop, without fail, for years, every single thing he was doing wrong.
So, for the next hour and a half, Blaine tried to be as sharp as Mike and as fluid as Brittany. But all he ended up looking like was a mess. He consistently missed steps, and the choreography felt awkward in his body. But he didn't complain and didn't give up. At the end of rehearsal, he picked up his comment card without hesitation.
He didn't read it until he was alone in his car, under the harsh parking lot lights. He read his most recent message from HSM to bolster his confidence, and Ms. Sylvester's first comment card to give him an idea of what he could be in for. But he still wasn't ready. He hadn't given his best today and he knew that. He hadn't shown Ms. Sylvester anything about himself. Blaine had, in fact, internalized every single comment Ms. Sylvester had given to Quinn and applied them to himself. Finally, he took a deep breath, and read the card.
Blaine: Your focus was atrocious during the group number, unless it had direct repercussions on you. This is in direct conflict with your being the only one of your peers to help a student who was struggling. You showed me you were a team player, who is distracted, yet able to take criticism. Your improvement from last week gives me confidence in your potential.
Song for Individuality Week:
Ants Marching by the Dave Matthews Band