Chapter six: Fools and kings, part I
I have to admit that, although he may very probably be the reason Finn was gone when I returned to rehearsal the following week, Jesse St. James is quite good. Within a week, Jesse had rearranged the show and done an overhaul of the chorus, firing half of them and giving the rest brand new choreography for the whole show to memorize for the next week.
And this week, the show has felt significantly more polished. Transitions are smoother. The chorus numbers feel cohesive. And I am being featured even more!
After rehearsal on Thursday, when Jesse keeps us behind even when he said he would let us out early, I go to the library, thinking about spilling my bleeding heart to my mother digitally—when I see an email from Kurt!
Salut, Rachel!
C'est moi! Kurt!
Of course, you knew that.
Listen. I am moving to New York City for graduate school in a week. I start school in the Spring, but I decided I wanted to get rooted before I start at NYU.
I know it's sudden, and I'm sorry for not telling you when I got accepted in May. You know how life can get so hectic sometimes.
Anyway, being a fashion designer, though I excel in it, is not all it's cracked up to be. Everyone is so dull with an entirely empty attic. My brain is getting no stimulation, and I'm pretty sure it will decay if I don't get out of here—or work for GaGa, but that may take decades.
So I applied to NYU's graduate school for Comparative Literature. As you may remember, I perfected my French on a fashion internship in Paris at twenty, and have, since then, learned Portuguese.
Did I tell you I went to Rio over this past summer? It was absolutely scintillating!
So, Miss Berry, we must catch up! I want you to be my guide. Tell me where you want to meet up for coffee or drinks (if the latter, a place with wine, please; I can't stomach anything else), and I will oblige.
Can't wait to see you. This apartment is so lonely.
Beijos,
Kurt
My stomach flutters with excitement. To have another friend in the city would be wonderful! Santana has been so busy with Brittany, and I have been cooped up alone in my room most nights, feeling abandoned—and even worse, feeling I deserve to feel abandoned.
He also could be someone to take my mind off Finn. The brother of Finn, ironically, could help alleviate my sorrow over Finn.
His asking me to be his guide must mean that Finn truly is gone from the city. Perhaps forever. I try to ignore the thought. My mind swims in longer past memories, instead.
I remember how I used to want to be Kurt's friend so badly. When we were in Glee club, he would say the funniest things, sometimes. He once crooked his finger at me in the hallway. When I approached him, he said, "That hair! Miss Rachel Berry, your part is going in twelve different directions!" And he fixed it for me.
I couldn't stop smiling. I thought he … "had my back," as they say. The both of us being misfits and all. I realized later that I was wrong. He wanted little to do with me and my toxic relationship.
When he sang "Defying Gravity," he did such a good job. I felt a tear threaten to fall. I thought that, if we were on Broadway together, we could cheer one another on instead of compete for a solo—because boys and girls are never at odds for roles. I thought that, if only we met in a different time or place, we could be best friends. Maybe have sleepovers.
I never had a sleepover with best friends. Finn was my only best friend in high school—and I could hardly have gotten away with having a sleepover with him.
One day, I grew brave enough to approach him, proposing we start a club together—the GayLesbAll—but he rebuffed me. But I didn't stop approaching him—and one day, we connected. And for a few months, we planned our respective futures together. We became close. I saw what it was like to have a platonic friend.
But then, we ordered our flight tickets, wished one another well. And, after two years, emails got spotty. I noticed that he mentioned his father sometimes and no one else. Most of the time, he talked of himself and of what he was seeing.
And in this library—closing in fifteen minutes, a library harshly whispers into my ear—I revel in the fact that Kurt's self-interest is still very much intact. So perhaps I won't have any spontaneous tears elicited by mention of his brother. This city is so big that, while out with friends, the topic of family hardly mixes. Shining lights! Food pushed in our faces! Street performers! Everything one could possibly think of is out there to keep one from the scary, dark place of one's mind.
Or, rather. My mind.
For example, I've known Santana for over five years, she's only complained to me about her mother maybe twice-and I've only met her sister once.
If only I could be sure I could stomach seeing Finn once every five years. With a five year old. Then a ten year old.
As I type a quick response under the impatient gaze of a mustachioed librarian, my head is a maelstrom of blond babies with perfect noses and soft, hazel eyes. Fighting the upsetting images down, I tell him of my favorite place in Chinatown which Santana and I discovered while at NYU. It has the best bubble tea in town. Watermelon is my favorite. Santana tells me it's my favorite because the drink is pink, and I'm not sure it's entirely wrong of her to say so. She used to say that was because I was using it as an outlet for my frustration over not muff-diving, as she so crudely phrases it—but I begged to differ.
That was about the time I told Santana about Finn—about our having sex a dozen times over the course of a summer. I made it sound like there was more—and tried not to make it too apparent that he was my only partner in sex. One short summer when I was seventeen, and I have been president of the Celibacy Club ever since.
But, regardless of that fraction of the memory, I can't help but giggle at the memory of Santana's huge grin as she makes me blush. Her sex talk always did that to me, and she would let out this low hiccup-sounding laugh that would make me guffaw. Thinking back on my college days, when things were new and I was optimistic—and when I was Santana's number one girl and not Brittany—I feel cheered at the prospect of having another friend in my midst.
Why, yes, thank you. I will take the good with the bad.
My retro alarm clock, the pink and purple polka-dotted one I bought to match my bed sheets in the dormitory, goes crazy and startles me awake. My hand falls on it like lead. I turn onto my back and stare at the ceiling.
I hear a knock.
"Hey, Berry, you mind if I use your toothbrush before I go to work? I just can't wake Brits up to ask her for hers."
It's Santana. She's sleeping over with Brittany every weekend now. As if Artie's constant visits weren't enough in our tiny apartment.
It's odd, seeing her so often, but not really seeing her because she's so into Brittany right now. I miss her.
"Sure," my sleepy voice croaks, even though we both know that's disgusting, and I'll tell her to buy me a new toothbrush later.
"Thanks, lady!" she calls. And then I know she's gone.
One lover who reminds me of my pain gone. One more to go. And that exit isn't looking likely to be today. We just lugged Artie and his wheel chair to this apartment last night, and I get the feeling Brittany will be hung over most of today.
Suddenly, Santana is cracking my room door open, and I see her black-painted nails on the door frame.
"Oh, and, Rachel? Lay off the sitting in your room, listening to depressing Celine and Barbra. I'm getting worried about you."
I can't help but smile at her rare soul-exposing moment.
"And, little diva, maybe that Jesse kid could make you feel better. Hudson won't be circling your apartment singing 'Iris' any time soon. You should have fun and stop obsessing over everything being like a romcom. Just one night couldn't harm you, you know." I hear her almost run from my door as she anticipates my annoyance rising.
But it doesn't. That song. Oh, my God, that song.
"He would sound so good singing that," I lament quietly to myself as I sink further into my bed.
"You did the right thing. You know that," my mother had said to me the night I broke Finn Hudson's heart.
"It doesn't make it any less painful," I blubbered to her, hurting from the veritable slap in the face that Finn's good bye was earlier that night.
I was under all of my blankets. In August. But I didn't care. I wanted to perish under the weight of dozens of blankets, if I could.
"It's okay, baby. Harness the pain for now and use it when you audition for a lead in Tisch's first musical. People relate to heartbreak. We all experience it. You should cherish it. It's an important aspect of life."
"Maybe my heartbreak is something I could cherish—but not his. Never his … He doesn't deserve it. Mom, you didn't see his face! He was crying!"
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to wish her rationality away. I see his face; hear his last words from a few hours ago.
"So that's it. You're just gonna drop me. Drop us. Pretend nothing happened. That nothing happened this summer. On Thursday!"
My heart thuds at his last words. Thursday night, we made love—as we had gotten into the habit of doing this summer—but that time, we fell asleep in one another's arms. We knew my dads wouldn't get home until noon the next day. When he left that morning, I was giddy with his never-ending good bye kisses. My fingertips were tingling from where they touched and pulled at his collar.
Then harsh reality struck. I received a letter from NYU on moving-in arrangements, and my mother decided it was time to more forecefully talk sense into me. Terrible, cold, hard sense. I called him to meet me later that night.
"Finn, I would hate myself if I held you back," I said in a shaky voice, almost resenting him bring up that night. "I want you to live your own life and realize your own dreams!"
"I am! I have my own life. Meeting you was the first time I had my own life. Hell, I have more than life; I have fire! It's, like—it's like fire shooting through my veins. When I'm with you, when I sing. I was like a robot before I met you. Rachel, you don't want to do this."
"But I do. You're not … not welcome to follow me to New York. Finn Hudson, you can't come with me."
And then he saw himself out of my house.
I sit at the corner of Bowery and Elizabeth Street on a sunny October morning, eyeing the crowds for Kurt.
I begin to feel anxious, wondering what was to come of this reunion. A sting of nervousness rushes through my limbs and core. I realize that he'll have all these amazing stories to share, and what have I to share? This whole time, I have been in New York trying—and failing—to accomplish my dream.
He'll think I'm pathetic.
But then there he is. He's taller. Quite handsome. And stylish as ever—
And then I'm even more intimidated as I watch him cross the street with his head held high, shoulders back, and adjusting his expensive-looking sunglasses.
Then I'm more at ease as I see him playfully flutter his fingers at me in greeting and pick up his walking pace.
When he's within arm distance, I panic, unsure of what kind of greeting he is expecting. He's been living in California, hasn't he? Don't they kiss cheeks when they greet one another?
I see him lean, and I go for the cheek.
It's very awkwardly received. He seems to lose his balance, and I revert back to sixteen year old misfit Rachel Berry, gasping out and unable to stare him in the eye.
Wrong.
But then Kurt giggles, and his chime-like voice, same as ever, puts me at ease. That, at least, has not changed one bit. His voice is warm and familiar. I sigh in relief.
"I was thinking a hug, but, okay," Kurt says flippantly with a small smile.
"That's what show people do. It's European," I blurt.
Some do, but I don't. Most don't. Why did I just say that to him?
"I know," he says with an unreadable expression.
Right. He's actually seen Europe.
'So! Here we are. Bubble Tea central. Very cute in here!" he comments, approving of the place I picked out.
He extends his elbow, and I take it. Smiling and laughing, we walk into the tiny restaurant in China Town.
I arrive at my apartment to Tina and Brittany sitting on the couch and Artie beside it. Tina is painting her nails black as Artie watches TV. Brittany is working on her memorial scrapbook for her childhood cat Lord Tubbington. I cheerfully greet them, and they greet me back—a rare occurrence.
"Were you seeing Jesse St. James?" Brittany asks.
"No. Why?" I ask.
"Well, I heard Santana say you were gonna knock boots with him, and Santana's psychic for a while after sex, so she's totally gonna be right."
"What? That's the silliest thing I've ever heard!" I exclaim.
"No, I'm totally serious. I get it after sex sometimes—but not as much as Santana. She saw me buying her a Long Island Iced Tea that night, and I totally bought it for her!"
"Because she said you would!" Tina says adamantly, shaking her head. Obviously, those two had already discussed this.
"Well, duh. 'Cause it was foreseen. I can't say no to destiny," Brittany coolly explains as she licks one of the puffy stickers and places it carefully on the yellow construction paper.
"I'll be in my room," I say, sighing, in too good of a mood to combat it. Tina and I share a look. We, at least, are sane.
But it isn't long before I march from the bathroom a few hours later, demanding my roommates—who are still on the couch—why she opened the package for my new toothbrush.
"I thought that was the one you owed me, Britts. So I used it," Tina explains as she looks from Brittany to myself.
"I thought it was the one Santana bought me after using mine. She promised she would…"
"Yeah, actually, that's what it was. Sorry, Tina. I forgot about your toothbrush," Brittany says in a low voice, looking at the cushion beside her.
Stomping my feet and huffing, I storm to my bedroom, grumbling myself to sleep over having no toothbrush—then waking up at 2 a.m. because I feel disgusting. I put toothpaste on my finger and try my best to scrub and then slip back to bed and lie awake for hours.
When I finish this show, I should have enough money to move out. For my sanity, I must move out. Must have my own place. My privacy,
My own damn toothbrush.
Then, as if Santana were truly a post-coital clairvoyant, at the end of rehearsal on Wednesday of the first week of Kurt's time in New York City, Jesse St. James garners me with compliments and a paid taxi ride before he even talks about us.
"We'd make a great team, you and I. You and your Barbra Streisand charm and me with my, well, frankly, everything else. Give me your proverbial gifts, and I'll give you mine. Along with some romance. Epic romance," he proposes.
"Oh?" is all I can manage. Did he say proverbial gifts? I'll just ignore that for now …
"So, I take it you agree? You'll be my date to the banquet this weekend. Its name is something clever and easy to remember, but I can't think what it is … Anyway. It pertains dinner and rubbing elbows with some of New York's greatest."
"Your date?" I say.
Honestly. It's as if I've lost half my brain, the way I am speaking to this man!
"I'm thinking a peach open-back dress down to a rather naughty length. Dramatic, but not garish."
"Oh, I couldn't allow you to buy me a dress!"
"I wasn't planning on it. Don't worry," he says with a wink. "But, seriously. Do you have a dress like that?"
"Rubbing elbows with Broadway greats?"
"And millionaires who could be patrons," he reassures.
I thought about what Santana said that morning—how flirting with other men might dull the ache. After all, Finn is lost to me. Could Santana truly have been predicting …?
I thought about Kurt. How excited he would be. How much he used to love making me over—and no doubt still does. How our gushing over the glamour of that night would be fodder for giddy "girlfriend talk" for weeks.
"So, what do you say? Be my plus one?" he prods.
I smile my assent.
Just a little fun with him. Gosh, the connections in this city he already has! I could learn a lot from him and his incredible self-absorption that even blows mine out of the water. Looking out for himself and his own, that's how he got where he is.
That's the way to succeed, isn't it?
A/N: And I'm back! I told you I wasn't giving up! It's a little hard to explain. It's not that I've been too busy; I've just been too stressed out. All my spare time has been spent mindlessly surfing the internet to escape how stressed out I was feeling. But I have made a vow to, from now on, conquer that anxiety and make time for the things I love-such as writing!
So I hope you enjoyed my "triumphant return." XP It's part I because I was planning on more happening in this chapter, but it would have been twice as long as all my other chapters, so "Fools and Kings" has been chopped into two chapters. So, now, the plan is for "Nature Boy" to entail eight instead of seven chapters-and an epilogue.
Thank you for your support and patience! Seriously.
Thank you.
Thank you so much.