A/N: All standard disclaimers apply.

See If I Can Sleep

Shelby Corcoran is the best at what she does, and she knows this.

She was a good performer in her youth and, now that youth is past, she has formulated a strategy to keep her on top, no matter what. So many young actors fail to continue on, fail to maintain a foothold in the business once the first blush of youth has passed, but Shelby is no idiot and never has been. She saw early on that the best way to stay relevant in show business is behind the scenes, not in the spotlight. Producing, directing—manipulating from the shadows, stealing the glory only now and then for the odd interview with a trade publication. So during her twenties, those years filled with struggle and success on the stage, she watched, and listened, and learned. By the time she was ready to set up her own company, she had more than enough know-how to get the job done and get it right. Her salary, scrimped and saved from her time on the stage, plus her inheritance from a wealthy but distant father, were more than enough to buy the decrepit old theater right at the heart of Broadway before Disney moved into the neighborhood and prices skyrocketed. She had the place gutted and meticulously remodeled to her exacting specifications, drawing up the design for the children's living quarters herself. The plan had been hatched years before, when she'd seen how fat the pockets of "doting" stage parents became at their children's expense.

Shelby herself had not been a working child. She would have been happy to perform, of course, she tells herself. She would have killed for the kind of opportunity she's giving her girls. But no, her parents had sent her to school instead, like a regular kid. Only after turning eighteen had she been able to realize her dream, running to Broadway as soon as she could to escape the stifling atmosphere of her parents' expectations.

And now she has it all. A luxurious apartment in an upscale neighborhood. Eighty percent ownership of the Queen Theater—the other twenty percent belongs to her business partner, Mr. Schuester, but she's in the process of buying him out and his twenty-percent stake hardly matters anyway—and, most importantly, a group of kids who are turning her investment into a cash cow. While theater as a business usually runs on tight budgets and investors often never see returns, Shelby Corcoran does not work this way. She made sure from the start that her venture would be profitable. Largely by not paying her performers, but she considers this only fair. She's housed, fed, and trained them since they were tiny—babies, in more than one case. Surely that adds up to a fundamental right on her part to decide what they do, when they do it, and what sort of reimbursement they receive? Of course it does.

She's had this planned out for years. Unwanted children are easy to come by, if one knows where to look. At one point she had upwards of twenty each, and a couple of supervising nannies who did not speak English and knew better than to ask questions. Eventually she weeded out the talentless ones until she now has what she thinks is a perfect number for the first try—six girls and six boys. Seven including Jesse St. James, which Shelby should really start doing since he's here now. Will Schuester's contention that Jesse's involvement in the troupe is not a good idea...well, Shelby can understand his reasoning. She really can. But he doesn't understand how malleable young people are, or how desperate a talented kid can be to get noticed. So what if Jesse's older? He's sixteen; what's sixteen? Still young, still stupid and naive. He'll have the rules down in no time. He'll understand that she is to be obeyed or he won't like the consequences, just like the rest of them.

A soft knock on her office door brings Shelby out of her musings, and she looks up to see Will Schuester enter with some paperwork in his hands. He sets it on her desk with a sigh. He's not pleased—she knows that unhappy face. His mouth is set in a thin, straight line, because he won't actually frown in front of her, and his brow is crinkled as if he's ten years older than she knows is true. "Here's Jesse's paperwork," he says, avoiding her eyes. "I talked to him, and to the ringmaster at the Adrenaline Circus. He doesn't have a social security card, and he doesn't know his number."

"All the better," Shelby says calmly, looking over the contract Jesse has signed. None of the others have contracts. There's no point—they can't leave, and they wouldn't dream of telling her no. Not really. Once they become adults, she'll have to put them under contract. She plans to lease them out to other productions—their paychecks going directly to Shelby's pocket, of course—while they continue to live at her theater, eventually helping to train a new batch of babies to replace them at the Queen. Giving them that sort of freedom will, of course, require legally binding contractual agreements, but for now, the children are fine as they are.

Jesse is old enough that she requires some protection, though, and she's glad he seems eager for the opportunity. Young idiot probably didn't even read the fine print, she thinks. Finding him at the circus when she was not prepared for it...it was like kismet. Fate. She's clearly meant to mold this boy into the perfect foil for Rachel. His voice is strong and clear, so goddamned beautiful, and he has a sort of angelic quality to his features that the audiences will eat up. She could see arrogance dripping off of him too, from the little smirk he held all through his performance to the set of his shoulders and jaunty angle of his hips as he stood. That touch of bad-boy grit will lend power to his art once he's properly trained. He'll be everything Rachel needs, everything Shelby had hoped Finn would be, but the potential she saw in him as a young child never developed, like a dud egg that never hatches. Well, no more. Rachel will have what she deserves, and Shelby will have a male star to equal her female star.

"All the better?" Will questions, and Shelby shoots him an irritated glance.

"Yes," she says peevishly. "You know the others don't have social security numbers either. Only Rachel. You know that makes everything easier. It means nobody's missing them. Nobody will ever ask questions about where these kids came from, because nobody's looking."

Will's mouth shifts into a thinner line. Shelby knows he does not entirely agree with what they're doing, but he's in far too deep to try to dig himself out now, and he knows this. They both do.

"I can't keep him chained up under the same rules as the others," Will says softly. "I can't. He's used to a certain amount of freedom, and I can't in all conscience take that away."

Shelby waves her hand. "Do what you want with his free time; I really don't care. You're in charge of the boys, you know that. I know you coddle them more than I do my girls. When have I ever taken you to task for it?" She shakes her head. "I'm in charge of my girls, and I'm in charge of the theater—practices, rehearsals, and performances. Those are my domain. As long as he behaves when I'm around, I don't care what you do."

It's true, too. Shelby lets Will give the boys a little more freedom, but she does it for a reason. She knows the boys know that the girls have it so much harder, and they live in fear that their little freedoms will be taken away at any moment. It's better behavioral reinforcement than she could ever have devised on her own.

Because, really, that's what all this is about. Shelby doesn't think of herself as cruel, or mean, or any of the other words a normal child might throw at her, and she's worked hard to make sure her girls don't think so, either. Of course they don't. Everything she does is for a reason—control, perfection, and profit, most of the time. She punishes to maintain control and obedience, and to reinforce lessons, just like a parent or a teacher.

"What do you think of his talent?" Shelby asks, flipping through the other papers. There's a written statement from the circus's ringmaster attesting to Jesse's training since he was eight years old, and that no one has ever come looking for the boy. His medical records from the circus's nurse, assuring the boy's health. Nothing out of the ordinary—a couple of broken bones from a rowdy childhood, all of which healed well.

Will shifts restlessly. "You know I think he's talented. I saw the same performance you did."

"You think all your boys are talented," Shelby argues with a negligent wave of her hand. Will has never been the impartial judge that she is. He can be firm when necessary, when she makes him, but he cares a little too much about some things Shelby knows don't really matter—hurt feelings, jealousy. She doesn't stand for it.

"They are," Will argues now, showing her exactly what's wrong with him. Why she'll always be the boss and he'll always be her employee. She'd be more than willing to take on a full partner in this endeavor if she ever finds one with the right mentality. Will Schuester is the closest she's come, and even so, he's sorely lacking. "Just because they're not all the serious triple-threats that Rachel is doesn't mean—"

"They're good enough that I kept them," Shelby says, which is the most she'll allow. "They're good enough that audiences keep coming, that other productions will want them when they're older. But none of them, not even your precious Finn, is good enough for Rachel."

"You sound like a matchmaker," Will mutters, and Shelby raises a dangerous eyebrow.

"Do not mock me," she says tightly. "They don't know what love is, because nobody's ever told them. They're fine the way they are. He's her equal in talent, and that's what she needs. That's all she needs."

Jesse's in awe.

The theater is huge—room for plenty more people than the big top ever could hold, even though it was never filled to capacity. There's a grandeur and grace to the place—cherubs hiding in the molding, lovely old art deco decor painstakingly restored to its former brilliance. He touches the red velvet seat cushions, runs his hand over the wrought-iron that holds the cushions in place.

Jesse has already met the boys who will be his castmates while he is here, and he's not overly impressed. Some are talented—the one they call Blaine, and the little boy who screams gay, Kurt—but none are better than he is. He goes over the names and faces again in his mind, just to solidify the associations, though he trusts his memory. The pouty-faced blond boy, Sam, seems like a potential ally—not too hung up on jealousy, understanding his own place in the hierarchy. The muscly guy with the mohawk also seems like he could be useful, or at least not antagonistic. The leggy Asian dancer, Mike, was too quiet during their brief introduction for Jesse to get a real feel for him. The two potential problems he can see so far are the bitchy little Kurt and the freakishly tall Finn. Kurt's still singing in a register Jesse hasn't touched since he turned twelve, and he's obviously used to getting plenty of attention for it. But Finn…the beanpole refused to say anything to him when they were introduced and Jesse can't figure out why.

"He'll get over it."

Jesse turns to see Sam stepping through a doorway behind him. He cracks a small smile—small but wide, considering the dimensions of his mouth—and swipes some light hair out of his eyes.

"Finn?" Jesse guesses. "What's his deal?"

"He's the male lead," Sam says. "Or used to be, before you showed up. Everyone knows why you're here."

"Why am I here?" Jesse already thinks he knows, but he wants the other boy to say it. Having his talent confirmed by someone else is never a bad thing.

"For Rachel."

Jesse blinks. This is not the answer he expects. "Who's Rachel?" he asks, pulling at an errant curl. His hair's getting long. He meant to ask the cook to cut it for him before he left, but it's too late now.

"She's the best," Sam says, grinning a little wider now. "She used to always sing with Finn, sometimes with Blaine. But Shelby threw a fit a while ago, said that Finn would never be able to keep up with her. Now you're here. It doesn't take a genius to figure out why."

A challenge? Jesse feels a slow smile begin to steal over his mouth. No wonder the tall dude doesn't like him. But Finn's temper tantrum about Jesse's appearance means nothing in the grand scheme of things. Jesse's more concerned with Rachel. So he's been brought here as a match for their female star? His smile widens. The idea…it's perfect.

"What's she like?" he asks Sam as the other boys begin to trickle into the theater, hovering in the space before the orchestra pit.

"She's just a girl," Sam says, shrugging in dismissal. "What is there to tell? But boy, can she sing. She's Shelby's little pet, and it kind of sucks. Nobody else gets praise from Shelby like she does."

So that's how it is? They're jealous; they don't like her. Jesse feels an instant pang of kinship with this girl, a girl he's yet to meet. He knows what it feels like to be ostracized for your talent. He knows all too well.

"A word of advice," the mohawk—Puck—warns. "Don't touch them. Try not to talk to them. It pisses Shelby off, and you do not want to do that."

"Let him find out the hard way, just like everyone else," Finn snipes, settling in an audience seat and crossing his arms over his chest.

Jesse's met some frightening women in his time—a tightrope walker who was capable of putting even the burliest roustabouts in their place jumps immediately to mind—but he's never seen this sort of wary, grudging deference before. It's decidedly odd. Still, he doesn't immediately question it. Not yet. He has patience and cunning. He can wait to see what Shelby's like with his own eyes.

He doesn't have to wait long. The girls enter the stage from the wings a few minutes later, all in a group. They hover together tightly, watching the boys a little mistrustfully, and they don't relax until Mr. Schuester steps on stage with a pile of scripts.

"Boys, up here please," Mr. Schuester says, motioning them to climb the stairs. "Shelby will be here any minute." He doesn't hand out the books, instead setting them on the seat of a folding chair. "Vocal warmups. Jesse, just follow along as best you can."

The boys climb to the stage, but they do not go near the group of girls. Mr. Schuester stands at a battered upright piano stage right and he hits a note to begin the warmup. This is old hat to Jesse, who has been singing professionally since he was eight, and he chimes in without a qualm. As he warms up his voice, he scrutinizes the girls. They're still huddled in a bunch and their individual voices are difficult to discern, especially with the other boys standing much closer to him. He sees a chubby African-American girl, two willowy blondes, an Asian girl who almost seems to hunch into herself as if she's shy—and what on earth, he wonders, is a shy person doing in a place like this? Then there's two dark-haired girls, one taller than the other, but it's the shorter one who catches his attention.

She's…beautiful doesn't really seem to cover it. It's not like she's this perfect porcelain doll, this delicate and dreamy thing. If anything, taken separately, her features are far from ideal. Her nose is big, her mouth a little too full and a little too wide, and she has several visible moles on her face and throat. But the net result is…stunning. Unimaginably intriguing. She has the biggest, sweetest brown eyes he's ever seen in his life, and the warm flush of her skin makes his hand itch to touch, despite the fact that he's never had this reaction to a girl before, and despite Puck's earlier warning that this is expressly forbidden. There's a curious way she holds her mouth, almost as if a question sits perpetually on the tip of her tongue, halted just at the moment it might be voiced. He's reminded suddenly, inexplicably, of Barrie's description of Mrs. Darling from Peter Pan, and how there's a kiss hovering always on her lips, one her husband and children can never quite catch.

This is Rachel. He doesn't need to hear her sing, doesn't need her voice pulled out from the mass of others in order to understand. She's such a little thing, but she catches and holds the eye like a sparkling gem. Some of the other girls might be called prettier from a casual glance, but on further inspection, this is the only one that could possibly be the star.

She's fascinating. He can see the flash of her throat as she breathes, how her chest expands and contracts with exacting precision, her formal training in breath and voice painfully obvious. She probably has excellent core muscles, he thinks. Of course, if she's been training most of her life, she really ought to by now. Oh, this is a curious feeling. It's not at all like when he used to read his bunkmate's trashy romance novels, before she locked them up where he couldn't get at them. It's warm like that. Fluttery. But so, so different. His chest aches; it almost hurts. Why, he doesn't know. It makes absolutely no sense.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, her eyes flick sideways and meet his. She's halfway across the big stage—it might as well be an acre or a mile as far as Jesse's concerned. But the space almost seems to melt when her eyes lock with his. It's like electricity, prickly and hot, and he doesn't know what to think. She's beautiful. So incredibly beautiful, and she's looking at him. She doesn't drop her eyes and she doesn't blush red from her hairline to her chin, but two pink spots appear just on the tops of her cheeks, warming her already warm skin tone.

That's all it takes.

He doesn't notice Shelby at first—not until warmup ends and she steps further out onto the stage, arms crossed over her chest. She's watching everyone, her eyes flitting from one young face to another, and Jesse watches her back, not dropping his eyes when hers find him across the stage. She's talking, but Jesse's barely listening. He's very used to tuning other people out when he doesn't want to listen, and right now he's not interested in anything Shelby has to say. He's far, far too busy staring at Rachel.

She's watching him, too, flicking those huge expressive eyes back and forth between him and their director, the warm pink spots on her cheeks not disappearing. Jesse wonders if she knows who he is, and why the other boys say he's here. He wonders if it's true—if he has been brought her as a match for this curious, intriguing little girl. The stage lights shine on her dark hair as she moves slightly, teasing hidden glints of color from the strands like sequins on an acrobat's costume. Jesse can't resist—at a moment he knows she's watching, he flashes her a killer smile—the devastating smirk that audiences have never been able to resist.

He's beautiful.

Rachel is wary, keeping close to the other girls despite the fact that she knows the boys won't do anything to her. He's a new face, a stranger, something she has hardly ever encountered in her young life. She's not sure what to think, and she has no idea what to call this feeling churning in her stomach. Jesse St. James is all smooth, milky skin and messy curls, and there's a hint of a smile lurking always at the corner of his soft pink lips. They almost look like a girl's lips, she thinks. Finn doesn't have lips like that.

He's too far away for her to tell what color his eyes are, but it hardly matters. She can't stop staring at them, regardless. He's…she can't explain it. Realistically, she tries to tell herself, he's no different than the other boys. He's not as tall as Finn, not as bulky as Puck, not as girlish as Kurt. Lithe muscle, probably a good mover. This is nothing new to her—she and the rest of the children have been taught and trained and honed since they were young. It's the chubby people and the disabled ones who look strange to her. She watches them in the audience, from her spot behind the two-way mirror, wide-eyed and wondering at all the different shapes and sizes of the human body.

But Jesse—there's something about the way he moves, something that draws her eye and demands her attention. He's not even really in motion—a brush of a hand through his curls, a shift of weight from one foot to another. His chest expands perfectly as he breathes and sings, his shoulders not rising at all, and his black t-shirt is fitted enough that she can almost see his diaphragm constrict as he pushes air from his lungs in a smooth, controlled note. She's done this long enough that she can tell he's extremely well trained. His voice is still a mystery, swallowed in the general noise of twelve other voices warming up, but she trusts that it's good. Shelby would never let anyone into this theater whose voice wasn't good.

Just as she thinks this, his eyes shift. Suddenly they're staring at each other, and the touch of a smile lurking at the corner of his mouth grows bigger, as if daring her to look away.

Rachel doesn't. She's not sure why, but she's never been able to resist a dare like this. She holds his eyes, feeling warmth steal into her cheeks and trickle down her spine, bleeding into her belly. He's staring at her like Santana stares at homework assignments, as if she's a thing to be deciphered, puzzled out, and ultimately understood. No one has ever looked at her like this before. Is she really so confusing? Rachel thinks she's a fairly simple girl. What on earth could make him stare so long and so hard?

When Shelby steps out onto the stage, Rachel blinks and turns away. For her, the moment is lost. Shelby requires their complete attention, and if she doesn't have it bad things happen. She shudders and presses up against Tina, arm to arm, as if she's cold. She isn't, but Tina doesn't move away and Rachel is glad.

"Good morning," Shelby says, and Rachel opens her mouth to answer, the entire group chorusing their director's words back to her. She gets upset if they don't, or if she thinks they're not upbeat enough. "We're all together again today. Aren't we excited?"

Nobody answers, but it looks like Shelby doesn't expect it. She moves to the wooden chair where Schue set down a pile of scripts, and she stands behind it. In the pause before Shelby speaks again, Rachel can feel that Jesse's looking at her still. She shifts nervously, flicking her eyes to him without realizing it, then studiously turning them back to Shelby once she discovers her error. But his gaze burns, lifting the delicate little hairs on the back of her neck, and she feels restless and uncomfortable. Why is he watching her? She's not performing. There's no reason for it.

Of their own volition, her eyes sneak back to him. Yes, he's still watching her with that strange expression on his face. This time, when he sees that she's looking, his eyes sparkle wickedly and he smiles. But it's not just any smile—it's the most beautiful, terrifying thing she's ever seen. Bright and sweet, flashing a glimpse of very white, slightly crooked teeth. The slight imperfection only enhances his charm, and she has no idea why. But there's something else, a kind of teasing confidence, lurking in his grin, almost as if he's daring her to do something, though she can't imagine what.

"I know you're all excited to hear about this new project," Shelby says, and Rachel takes a deep breath. No matter what, Jesse St. James can't mess with her focus. Shelby doesn't allow that. She takes several steps forward, her knees just a touch shaky as she leaves the huddle of girls, and sits down near Shelby's chair. The other girls follow suit, slowly sinking down around her, and after a moment the boys do too, staying several steps away.

"I had originally planned our next production to be the Colette classic Gigi," Shelby says, though Rachel has no idea what this means. "Upon further reflection, I decided that we should embark on a more group-focused production at the moment, since we have a new castmember with us." Her eyes flick to Jesse, and Rachel hopes that means it's now okay to look at him. Everyone else seems to be, so she swivels her head around, too. He's smiling sweetly, nothing like the daring smirk he threw her way just a moment ago, and he seems not at all phased by the attention. "We'll let you get your sea legs, as it were, on a role not quite so stringent." Shelby pauses. "I know we haven't added a new member to our troupe in a long time—not since you all were very young. But I want you to make Jesse feel at home here. He has a great deal of talent, and he's going to help our productions become even better than they already are."

Rachel can see a flicker of irritation pass over Finn's face, and she feels badly for him. He's usually been her male partner when such a thing is necessary, battling over the right with Blaine and usually winning, though Rachel actually prefers Blaine's voice and his smaller hands. She's never felt entirely confident dancing with Finn—probably because he's dropped her so many times. Eventually Shelby had to suspend his more technically advanced ballet training, because Rachel kept flinching in his grasp, bracing for the inevitable fall. It was impossible to dance correctly that way; a dancer has to be able to trust her partner completely, and Rachel just can't. For once, Shelby didn't blame her for her failure, insisting that the cessation of those practices was due to Finn's incompetence, not hers.

"This production will be unique for another reason, too," Shelby says, and Rachel snaps her head back around quickly, hoping her director hasn't noticed her inattention. "Mr. Schuester and I will be performing with you this time."

There's a wondering murmur from the assembled children—this has never happened before. Schue will occasionally join the boys on their performance nights if the fancy takes him, but though Shelby leads and pushes them through practices and rehearsals, she's never been in a production before.

"It seemed only fair," Shelby says, choosing to ignore the whispers, "since we're giving Jesse a break. Don't you want to know what the production is?"

"Yes, please," Rachel says, hoping this is a question she's meant to answer.

Shelby smiles—that's apparently a yes. "The Sound of Music."

Rachel's heart begins to pound. They've performed songs from this musical in revues before, but never the entire show. Shelby let them watch the movie several times—it's Brittany's very favorite—and the exhilaration of now embarking on this process makes Rachel flush with happiness. She doesn't care what role she gets—even if it's the youngest Von Trapp child, little Gretl. She's just happy to be involved.

Brittany seems to think the same. She squeals and leaps up, throwing her arms around Shelby and squeezing hard. It's something no one else in the world but she and Rachel would do, and the other girls stiffen as if bracing for a punishment.

But Shelby merely laughs, stroking Brittany's blond head and urging her back down. "Calm down," she says, "calm down. A production of this size means a lot of hard work in our future. We'll start just as soon as I announce the cast list."

As Brittany settles back to the ground, Rachel tenses. Casting is never a pleasant process, because someone's feelings are invariably hurt. Usually it's not her, but when she gets a favorable role the other girls definitely do their best to let her know they're not happy.

"Mr. Schuester and I will be playing Captain Von Trapp and Maria, of course," Shelby says. She hands him a script from the pile on the chair, and he accepts it without a word. There's a stiffness to him, Rachel thinks, that's not entirely normal. Maybe he slept wrong the night before? Shelby glances out over the seated children. "When you hear your name, please come up and get your script. Rachel—Liesl."

"That's not fair!"

It's Quinn. Rachel freezes, not daring to move even to follow Shelby's orders. Her face goes white and her eyes widen, and she doesn't know what to do. She exchanges a worried stare with Tina as the stage goes silent.

"Care to run that by me again?" Shelby asks, her face blank, her tone expressionless. The girls are never happy when Rachel gets choice roles, but rarely do they ever express it in front of their director.

"It's not fair," Quinn repeats. "She always gets the good parts. What is she, your real kid or something? She's the smallest; she should play Gretl."

There's a dangerous silence, and Rachel wonders if anyone else can hear how loud her heart's beating. It's an accusation the girls have leveled at her before—that she looks a little like Shelby and so maybe the preferential treatment isn't because she's talented. Rachel knows it isn't true—Shelby has always explained to her that she's the best, and that's something the others will have to get used to. It doesn't make the hateful words any easier to take.

When Shelby's response comes, there's no attempt at explanation or rebuke. "Box," she orders. "Now. I will come get you later."

Quinn has never submitted well to this type of punishment. She's not terribly good at following orders. But this time she stands slowly, her eyes showing rebellion, and slowly heads for the stairs leading off the stage.

"Rachel," Shelby says, "come get your script."

Rachel stands, her knees a little shaky, and she doesn't look up at Shelby when she reaches for her script. Shelby touches her cheek gently, as if in reassurance, but her hand is cold.

"Blaine—Friedrich. Tina—Marta and Sister Sophia. Kurt—Kurt. Santana—the Baroness and Sister Bernice. Quinn—Louisa and Sister Margaretta. Brittany—Gretl. Mercedes—Brigitta and Sister Berthe. Puck—Max Detweiler. Finn—Franz the butler. Sam—Herr Zeller. Rachel, Quinn rattled me so I forgot to mention that you'll also be playing the Mother Abbess. Mike—Frau Schmidt. And last but not least, Jesse, you'll be playing Rolf."

They hustle for their scripts, both Kurt and Brittany grinning madly, as they've been given their favorite parts. Rachel feels a little numb, and not just from Quinn's outburst. She's playing two big roles, but their troupe is small enough that doubling up is not unusual. What she can't quite wrap her head around is Jesse. Specifically her and Jesse. She's been cast in a romantic role alongside him, and her heart doesn't want to settle down in her chest as she fiddles nervously with the corner of her script. She's had to dance and sing love songs before with both Blaine and Finn, but this is someone new. Someone she's never met before. And he's…Jesse.

"Um…Shelby?"

It's Mike, and his voice is soft and hesitant as he looks at their director.

"Yes, I know," Shelby says, waving away his question before he even asks it. "You'll be cross-dressing. It can't be helped; we had one more male cast member than we needed, and one female part we couldn't fill. You've done it before. You'll survive."

He seems less than thrilled, and Rachel can't blame him, but he doesn't fight Shelby—not that she thought he would. He's not like Quinn or Mercedes. She actually feels fairly safe around Mike, more than some of the other boys. He won't touch her unless ordered to. He doesn't even look at her. She likes that he's a little shy; it's a refreshing change from all the competitive jealousy that runs rampant in the girls' wing.

"But, Shelby," she says, hoping she can get away with the question without getting slapped. "The children and the nuns are in some scenes together."

"Do you think so little of me that I wouldn't have thought of that?" Shelby snaps, raising her eyebrow in that dangerous arch that means trouble. "Really, Rachel?"

"I'm sorry," Rachel whispers. She hates the scolding almost more than something physical. It hurts, twisting something inside her.

"I've taken care of it already; we're making some small changes to the script. Don't worry your heads about things like that. That's my job."

Rachel knows this. She does. She drops her head, knowing she should have kept her mouth shut. Sometimes things just bubble out of her, though, and she has no idea that she's even talking until it happens. These are the times she's most likely to get in trouble, when she acts before thinking. Biting back a soft sigh in case Shelby's still listening, she glances away.

Her eyes meet Jesse's. He's still looking at her. She doesn't know if she'll ever be able to get used to that.

A/N: So, there are a number of ND characters we did not use, yes, the most obvious being Artie. If you want a rundown of why, PM Cris. Also, the "box" punishment will be explained in a later chapter. Inspiration (if you can call it that?) came from a line in Shirley Temple's autobiography.

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