Rachel Berry sits in the very last seat in the very last row, watching a very convincing exercise in dramatics.

In an elegant script she writes down "dramatic exercises" in her soft leather journal, a present from her fathers when they went to China for Harold's business meeting. It's her teddy bear, her security blanket; her thoughts, hopes, and dreams are buried in the crisp white pages. And recently, Glee has been in her thoughts, has become her hopes and dreams. So she's taken it upon herself to make Glee the best it can be, since Mr. Schuester and the amateurs who think they can sing don't seem to be trying themselves.

Spying on New Direction's rivals is one way to do that.

She knows Mr. Schuester wouldn't approve of this, but she really, truly doesn't care. Glee is her ticket out of Lima, and since Mr. Schuester is still living here, she knows he won't understand her thirst for the victory and success that will make her a star. It's pathetic, really. He's a nice man, but very quixotic in his aspirations. She pities him for believing in everyone besides her.

So she had slipped out of her Pre-Calc class a half-an-hour early (feminine troubles, she had told her very-awkward young, geeky math teacher) and driven the twenty minutes to the school at which the best Glee Club in the region performed at.

Rachel's grateful for her small figure, for her soft ballet flats, for the darkness of the auditorium. Sneaking into the practice room was a piece of cake-though she hasn't had one in years, as carbs plus sugar equals fall from fame-and Rachel is ready to glean all she can from Vocal Adrenaline. No quarter, no mercy.

Though it pains her, Rachel must say that Vocal Adrenaline will crush them if they compete against each other. The group, she acknowledges, is very good, and has everything that New Directions doesn't.

She's taken it upon herself to find what exactly they have and try to teach it to the pathetic wimps that are her fellow Glee Clubbers.

The high quality camcorder in her hand, another present from her fathers when Harold and Benjamin were in Seoul for her her sixteenth birthday, is recording; she plans to analyze it when she gets home. But when she looks at the screen the very keen sixth sense that she is extremely proud of tells her something is wrong.

And when the lead collapses and the two boys holding him up let him go, his body hitting the floor with a thump she thinks she can hear, and the members plus their coach walk away from him without any hesitation, she feels that something is wrong.

And when the boy doesn't get up, and no one seems to notice or care, performing a song that she hates to admit is amazing, she thinks that something is wrong.

And when he finally moves two songs later, and the coach walks over to him, whispers in his ear and makes his shoulders shake and tremble, then glides away again, she knows that something is wrong.

Rachel leaves the auditorium a very confused and somewhat worried starlet.

It's raining, but for once Rachel doesn't really much care, though her hair is sure to be frightfully frizzy and her sweater vest will smell like wet sheep. Not that she'd know-she's never been around the beasts-but it's what she's been told after the first few slushie episodes when she didn't have a change of clothes.

She walks with a purpose to her car, the latest present from her fathers. It's a little baby blue Mazda Miata, and she really does adore it. She named it Ophelia.

Every step she takes she expects to hear a command to halt or footsteps running behind her to tackle her and bring her down; she doesn't like Glee enough to be a martyr for it, and she's running lines through her head that will convince anyone that she just wanted to watch. Rachel is very convincing.

As soon as she sits down and locks the doors, Rachel high-tails it out of there, her tires screeching on the wet concrete. She speeds for the first time in her life.

Rachel drives to the safety of her house. For once, she's grateful that it's empty, that her fathers are too busy to come home before nine, ten, eleven, that day, the next day, the next week.

Running gracefully up the stairs after locking all the doors, she bounds into her bedroom and plugs the camcorder into her MacBook. Rachel watches the video, scanning it with the utmost precision and care.

She realizes something when it's over.

What she had seen wasn't an exercise in dramatics.

Because Rachel considers herself a master at reading people, and as a accomplished and highly talented actress herself, she can tell that the boy's pain was genuine. She can see the very real terror in his eyes, and the very real sadistic satisfaction in the coach's.

And then it dawns on her, like wonderfully inspiring water has been poured over her frizzy head. She can bring Vocal Adrenaline down for good.

With that knowledge, she decides to call the police.

Rachel dials with a smug expression.

She pours all of her auditory acting skills into the call, telling of "horrific abuse" and "near torture" and the poor boy who was subjected to such crushing pain and humiliation. When she tells them that she has proof in the shape of a video, they ask her to come in, give a statement.

When she hangs up, she smiles.

This will be a marvelous acting exercise for her. Plus, New Directions finally has its chance.

And when she's finished at the police station, Jesse St. James doesn't cross her mind again.