Summer Break

by Sophia Lowell

  Rachel was totally the juice in that scenario, though. Without juice, things would get clogged in the blades, resulting in a lumpy mess. Glee Club needed Rachel like a smoothie needed juice. Yep, that was her, all right. Good old juice.

  Too bad she didn’t need the Glee kids. This summer, she was going to create her own sweet sounds. No matter what they had to say about it.

  two

  McKinley High entrance, Monday morning

  A contented Mercedes Jones sat on the front steps of McKinley High, relishing the warmth of the morning sunshine on her face. The last week of school usually felt like a breeze. But this year was different. She still had a few big assignments hanging over her head, so she couldn’t truly relax.

  The most daunting was a final exam in Mr. Schuester’s Spanish II class. Foreign languages were so not her strong point. Brushing the negative thoughts aside, she breathed in the fresh air and got lost in a daydream of lying by her cousin’s pool. Ideally, she would be sporting her new zebra-striped Wayfarer sunglasses while flipping through Superstar Weekly and have absolutely, positively, zero Spanish homework. Nada.

  But the impending Spanish doom wasn’t the only thing that was bothering Mercedes. There was a tiny something else nagging her in the back of her mind. And it had to do with Glee Club. Or the lack of it.

  For Mercedes, summer was always a time of goofing off. It consisted mainly of a combination of standing in long lines at the Lima Freeze to get Oreo milk shakes with Kurt Hummel, beating the heat in the cool air-conditioning at the mall, or even just chilling in her room, listening to new music she downloaded off iTunes. For a few months, Mercedes didn’t have to worry about homework, grades, or surviving a day at McKinley High without getting slushied by her classmates. During the summer, the only slushies she would see were ones she bought for herself at the mini-mart. To drink. To be honest, though, she hadn’t really had a taste for them the past few years. You could only get so much cherry-flavored ice in your face before you associated the taste with bad feelings and an outfit change.

  Mercedes scanned the parking lot for any signs of her best friend. Kurt was still nowhere in sight, so Mercedes popped in her neon-yellow earbuds and scrolled to the B.o.B section on her iPod. She might as well use the last few minutes before school started to hear the solo again. She selected “Airplanes,” which was one of her favorite songs even if it was starting to get played out. Currently it was the twenty-seventh most played on her list. The song began, and Mercedes drummed to the beat on her binder. She knew that she had to win that solo over Santana, even if it meant another argument that took up the whole period. “I could use a dream or a genie or a wish,” the song pulsed in her ears.

  Mercedes didn’t want to just keep wishing. Although she had always loved singing, it wasn’t until recently that Mercedes started taking the hobby a little more seriously. Maybe it was the influence of that nut job Rachel Berry—but for once in her life, Mercedes thought she might actually stand a chance at a career in the performing arts. And with senior year approaching fast, she needed to start making some decisions—or at the very least, keep her vocal chops up in the off-season. Man, Mercedes was going to miss that silly Glee Club.

  Luckily, the school year had hours upon hours of practice built into Mercedes’s busy lifestyle. Every day at school, she could count on warming up with New Directions and belting out some sweet tunes (that is, if Rachel could stop berating the rest of the club long enough for them all to actually get some verses in). Mr. Schuester did his part by trying to get them to perform as often as they could. And even on Sundays, Mercedes could count on clocking some time singing with her church choir. It was all very convenient. A total no-brainer. Until now.

  It didn’t occur to Mercedes that she might be losing momentum until a few weeks ago after practice. She normally tuned Rachel out, but on this particular day Rachel was giving Sam Evans one of her “lessons.” Sam had been new to McKinley at the beginning of the year, but he was a quick learner and had acclimated faster than a fish to water. He certainly didn’t need much help. Yet Rachel still insisted on teaching him useless facts from time to time and pretending it was charity. Everyone knew she just relished the opportunity to boss some new blood around. Poor guy. He was too nice to ignore her.

  “Sam, I think it’s important that you continue your pursuit of vocal perfection,” Rachel had proclaimed.

  To which Sam had replied nonchalantly, “Uhh, sure. Sounds good.”

  “Excellent choice. I think you’ll find that a career in show business is not easy, but you have shown some early potential. With a ton more practice, I think you could be sculpted into something adequate. Perhaps part of an ensemble. Leads like me are always looking for a great ensemble to back them up. Have you considered your options?” The fervor with which Rachel interrogated him would seem psychotic to anyone who didn’t know her.

  “Options? I dunno, I guess I will just be in New Directions again next year or something.…” Sam wasn’t really listening anymore. He was too busy ogling Quinn Fabray, who had bent down to pick up a tube of glitter lip gloss she had purposely dropped on the floor. Her Cheerios skirt was pretty short.

  “You wouldn’t want to let those shiny new vocal cords of yours go dormant over the summer, would you?” Rachel’s voice had become all breathy and desperate. “That would do practically the same damage as shouting at the top of your lungs for a week straight! Did you know that if you don’t use it, you really do lose it?” Thankfully, Mercedes hadn’t heard the rest of the conversation, because Rachel followed Sam and Quinn out of the choir room and beyond.

  Girl needs to learn to take a hint, Mercedes had thought. Maybe one of the AV kids could create an app on Rachel’s cell phone that beeped when she became annoying. On the other hand, it would probably turn into one constant, eternal beep.

  Even though what Rachel had said about losing your voice if you didn’t use it was decidedly ridiculous, Mercedes secretly thought she did have the tiniest little bit of a point. This, quite frankly, scared Mercedes because Rachel didn’t often make sense. It was fine for Sam or the other kids, who were only a part of Glee to make the school year more bearable, to slack off during summer. But maybe Mercedes should get a little more serious.

  Her only chance to perform for a large crowd during the summer was at her church’s annual Fourth of July barbecue. Every year, the church rented the outdoor stage at the Lima Community Park and put on a patriotic musical revue. People would come with their picnic baskets and blankets, staking out seats in the early morning and throughout the day. Mercedes would just chill with her family and eat tons of tasty food, including her mom’s famous potato salad. That dish even eclipsed the deliciousness of McKinley High Tater Tots.

  Then, when dusk fell and the crowd had fallen into a happy, satiated post-food haze, the show would begin. The costumes weren’t much—just T-shirts in red, white, or blue and sequined top hats that had been used for so long that most of the sequins were falling off. It was the closest to a packed auditorium she had ever gotten until nationals in New York this year. And for the past two years, Mercedes had been selected by her peers to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner” during the meager fireworks display. It was pretty nice to be recognized as the star of the group, unlike at school, where it seemed that Rachel had claimed that title for all of time. Rumors had been circulating among the congregation that Mercedes was going to be chosen for a record-breaking third year. Fourth of July was her favorite day of the summer. A guaranteed good time, filled with music and friends.

  But as much as she loved performing with her church choir, it lacked in certain departments, which Glee usually made up for. For example, the only dance moves the choir ever did had to match the abilities of a seventy-year-old grandmother. It wasn’t really Mrs. Wilkins’s fault, though. Mercedes didn’t mind including everyone (it was church, after all), but she had come to really enjoy the challenge of matching her melodies to elaborate, choreographed routines. She knew
she had some serious moves. Why shouldn’t she get to show them off?

  Mercedes knew hip-hop better than anyone at McKinley High. Mike Chang argued that he did, but homeboy was seriously kidding himself. Sure, he was good, but he lacked a certain something. Last year, when she and Kurt had done a brief stint on the Cheerios, all the red-and-black-clad McKinley robots had managed to loosen up a little under her supervision. She even made them look a little human. Mercedes could only imagine how great the squad might be if they employed more funky moves regularly. Didn’t those girls learn anything from Bring It On? Mercedes secretly loved that movie, even if it was about cheerleaders. Maybe it was because the squad of stiff automatons in red uniforms got schooled by the soulful, inner-city girls with the hip-hop-infused routine. It showed that you shouldn’t mess with the power of funk, which was a valuable lesson indeed.

  Mercedes quickly typed a note to herself into her phone to slip a copy of the DVD through the slots in Brittany’s locker, Netflix-style. At the very least, it would be entertaining to watch Brittany try to figure that one out. She would probably think it was an offering from the “Spirit Gods,” like she did that time when she found a pair of her old Cheerios briefs under the bleachers during litter detention. Mercedes was pretty sure Brittany had just left them there during a completely inappropriate make-out session with that kid from the tennis team, Charlie Reeves. Brittany, however, insisted they were delivered back to her by a pelican. “He’s their messenger bird,” she’d explained. Mercedes thought that girl had fallen off of one too many human pyramids.

  Mercedes minimized the note application and practically jumped when she saw the time. 8:13! The bell should have rung three minutes ago! Sure enough, when she looked up, it was like a ghost town. She must have had the volume of the music up too high. Damn. The only students left were a few latecomers scrambling up the steps, juggling books and boxes of orange juice while rubbing sleep out of their eyes. But still no Kurt Hummel.

  Mercedes should have been worried about being late to class, but this was very weird. Kurt was almost never late. In fact, she could only remember two mornings in the past few years when he hadn’t been at least ten minutes early. “Early bird gets the best worms, and the best off-the-rack Dolce and Gabbana,” he’d always remind her. The first time he’d been late had been because of his inability to accept Lady Gaga’s decision to start wearing pants. He’d stayed up really late the night before Photoshopping a campaign poster that displayed “the repercussions of a style icon bending to the petty whims of polite society.” It had a picture of a tiger wearing pants and the slogan tigers don’t wear pants. neither should gaga. He’d hoped it would go viral. It didn’t. Good thing Lady Gaga still sported jeweled panties occasionally on her way to the airport.

  The only other instance Kurt had been late was during the Dave Karofsky bullying incident, when he was too afraid to come to school. Mercedes sincerely hoped this time was nothing like that. Especially since Kurt had finally rejoined New Directions and McKinley High after a hiatus spent at Dalton Academy. Mercedes was pretty sure everything was fine. But she should probably wait for him, just in case. With any luck, he had just decided to stop at that new bakery next to LaPaloma’s to get the two of them some fresh cinnamon buns for breakfast. Mercedes’s mouth started watering like Pavlov’s dog at the delicious prospect. Class could definitely wait.

  It was almost ten minutes after the first bell when Kurt’s black SUV finally screeched to a halt into one of the unshaded spots in the McKinley parking lot. Both students and teachers avoided these undesirable sunny spots at the end of the school year because the pavement got so hot, you could fry an egg on it. Some of the guys from the football team had even tried to do that once instead of egging Finn Hudson’s car, as they had originally intended to. Mercedes thought it was funny how easily amused those oafs were sometimes. Such simple minds, such simple pleasures.

  A frazzled-looking Kurt tumbled out of his car unceremoniously. He grabbed his distressed-leather satchel and fumbled for his keys. He double-clicked the button as he ran up the steps to meet Mercedes. The loud honk signaled his car was locked, but it also made their presence known to Principal Figgins, who was across the lot, sipping his morning coffee. It was most likely a latte from Coach Sylvester, who liked to butter him up with unsolicited treats every time she was about to make a ridiculous request on behalf of her Cheerios. Which was often.

  “Where in the Mariah Carey have you been?” Mercedes stage-whispered as she began to take in Kurt’s unkempt appearance. She could see Figgins making his way toward them with a furrowed brow. The entire student body at McKinley knew that Principal Figgins’s main rules were “no monkeyshines, no sass-back, and no lollygagging.” Mercedes still wasn’t sure what the first one even meant, but she didn’t want to get caught doing the other two. Mercedes often provided sass-back, and right now they were most definitely lollygagging and late for class.

  “Hurry up! I sure as hell ain’t spending my last week in litter detention!” She grabbed Kurt by the arm and pulled him inside.

  “Go ahead. My shirt is already wrinkled,” Kurt announced dramatically. “And I have worn this outfit before. So it doesn’t even matter.…” He tried to smooth down a piece of hair that was pointed skyward. “I’m such a failure.”

  Mercedes took stock. He was wearing a pair of blue-and-white seersucker shorts with a brown leather belt, a crisp white button-down, and a red-striped bow tie. It looked pretty standard Kurt to her. Mercedes considered herself a fashionista, but he somehow always managed to cling to tiny details that no one else would ever notice. She had learned that lesson earlier this year after wearing the same rhinestone pendant of a boom box three days in a row. Kurt had been less than subtle when he asked her if she needed him to go accessories shopping with her after school. Sometimes he was best taken with a grain of salt. This was one of those times.

  “Have you been inhaling too many fumes at your dad’s tire shop? What I wanna know is, why are you so late? Please tell me nothing is wrong and that you brought me the Spanish notes from last week.” Mercedes’s face twisted into the expression of a puppy dog awaiting a Milk-Bone. Kurt’s attention to detail certainly paid off when it came to his class notes, which she sometimes borrowed. And Mercedes could use all the help she could get right about now.

  “Ugh, I can’t even think about homework at a time like this.” Kurt shuddered. “My life is over.”

  “Did Katy Perry decide to stop wearing bras in the shape of cupcakes or something?” Mercedes retorted, wishing she had just gone to art class. Ms. Kowalski never took attendance anyway, and Mercedes wasn’t sure she wanted to deal with Kurt’s issues on top of her own (especially without the Spanish notes she’d been promised). “If you are going to be such a drama queen, you can at least clue me in.” She followed Kurt to his locker.

  “I am doomed to a summer of outfit repeats. My dad”—Kurt sighed heavily before gathering the strength to continue—“took away my clothing allowance and eBay privileges. It’s a cruel and unusual punishment for such a minor offense!” He rummaged through his locker like a maniac, even accidentally ripping the corner of the picture of his friend Blaine from Dalton Academy. “I thought I had a—aha!” Kurt produced a white bow tie and a white canvas belt and proceeded to quick-change with the alacrity of a Broadway professional right there in the humble halls of McKinley.

  “What exactly did you do?” Mercedes’s interest was slightly piqued. Kurt didn’t get into trouble too often.

  “Last night I got sucked into a What Not to Wear marathon while I was doing my homework. Carole came in and asked if she could do anything to help… and I told her that it would help everyone if she didn’t wear pants from three seasons ago,” Kurt recounted.

  Mercedes jaw dropped. “You told your new stepmother what?”

  “I didn’t mean it! You know how I tend to absorb the persona of characters if I watch them for too long. Especially Stacy and Clinton.” Mercedes nodded knowi
ngly, recalling the time Kurt had gotten sucked into an America’s Next Top Model marathon. He had watched almost three cycles before morphing into a weird version of Tyra Banks. He kept coaching everyone on how to “smile with your eyes,” or, as he kept saying, “smizing.”

  Kurt continued. “Anyway, my dad overheard it. He thinks I am becoming too superficial and selfish. I spent all morning trying to convince him otherwise. But he still says he won’t give me back my allowance until I prove that I am doing something to help others. And it can’t even be a makeover on some girl… or me.” Kurt’s shoulders slumped in defeat.

  Burt Hummel sure knows his baby well, Mercedes thought. The boy loved makeovers a little too much.

  “Any suggestions?” he whined, straightening the fresh bow tie in the reflection of his locker mirror. The frame was emblazoned with scrolled letters that asked who’s the fairest? It was an obvious throwback to Snow White, which made Mercedes chuckle. Much like the original asker of the question, Kurt could certainly be the biggest drama queen. She wondered if the mirror’s message was intentional.

  Mercedes wrapped up her earbuds, which had gotten mad-tangled in the dash from Figgins. She finally offered, “Well, once a month I go with my mom and some friends from church to visit the elderly at the retirement home. I can ask if you can come. We play games and stuff.”

  Kurt wrinkled his nose. “Thanks, but no thanks. Ever since competing against that old Hipsters group at sectionals, I haven’t been able to get the smell of Geritol out of my nose.”