Summer Break

by Sophia Lowell

  Rachel breathed in the warm evening air, which was filled with the sweet smell of freshly cut grass. The sun was finally starting to melt over the horizon, and the first stars began to peek through a buttery haze.

  She was glad she had come here to get away from all the day’s drama and just be alone. She’d been in such a great mood this morning, looking forward to her last week of junior year and a summer spent exactly the way she wanted. How had everything gone awry so quickly? She didn’t appreciate being chastised for standing her ground in Glee Club. Dinner with Finn had been a disaster. Ugh. She didn’t even want to think about any of it anymore. She hopped off the car and spread her gray cardigan on the ground like a picnic blanket so she didn’t ruin her favorite blue dress.

  Rachel mindlessly rolled a wayward blade of grass between her thumb and forefinger, leaving a green stain behind on her fingertips. It reminded her of the makeup the character Elphaba wore in the musical Wicked. She had read on her favorite website, Broadway Mania, that it took the actress who played the character more than an hour each night to put it all on. Rachel thought it must be hard to sit still for that long.

  Lima, Ohio, was like the dressing room to the Broadway stage of her life—nothing more than a necessary precursor that she had to sit through to get to the first act. As soon as she had put in her time in hair and makeup, she would finally be able to step out and let the world see her. After this summer, it would be her turn to go onstage to perform for thousands at the Gershwin Theatre in New York. Or the Shubert. Or the Marquis. Really, any of them would do.

  A small private jet touched down in the distance.

  What sort of person owns a private jet? Rachel wondered if maybe it contained a big movie star being whisked into town to shoot some on-location scenes in scenic suburban Ohio. Yeah, right. Nothing exciting ever happened here. When I’m a star, that’s the only way I’m traveling, Rachel decided. Even though her dads had gone to a movie and weren’t home, she figured she should probably get going before it got dark. She was alone, after all.

  A small, brown package awaited Rachel on the front doorstep when she got home. In all the craziness, she’d totally forgotten about the new pair of black character shoes she’d ordered. They were for the ballroom-dance class she was supposed to take with Finn. What a waste. She sighed and retrieved them from the ground. This brand was supposed to be the best—she had spent a massive chunk of time researching options online before choosing the right ones. It had been the recommendation of the ballroom-dancer-turned-television-star Julianne Hough that sealed the deal. But instead of being excited about opening them up and trying them on, Rachel felt they just seemed like a reminder of how things were not going according to her plan. And things should always go as planned.

  Rachel needed some serious cheering up.

  A few minutes later, a steamy pot of chamomile brewed while Rachel cozied up on the sofa with her copy of Elements of Elocution. Hot tea was always a good way to soothe one’s vocal cords, even when the temperature outside matched that of the boiling liquid. Of course, Rachel probably needed it more today from all the yelling she’d done instead of actual vocal training. Well, that would change soon enough. She was about to purge her life of the exhausting characters she was forced to put up with on a daily basis.

  They were all nuts, but Mr. Schuester was seriously delusional—maybe even the most insane of them all. It shouldn’t have come as too much of a shock that he would piece together some last-minute, half-baked music camp for kids. Mr. Schuester was not only a softie, but he was also very impractical. Running a camp was going to be a ton of work. Rachel doubted that there would be much time for any serious vocal practice. Kids were so fussy. Didn’t Mr. Schu know that one of the first rules of show business was to never work with children or animals?

  That was the main reason Rachel didn’t own a pet, even though it seemed to be yet another topic in which she held a controversial opinion. One time, Mercedes had told a story about how she had taught her dog, Sparkles, to lift its paw and shake Mercedes’s hand. Mercedes had spent a whole weekend perfecting the trick, giving it treats and encouragement. Then, when she finally tried to show her family, the dog had totally forgotten the whole thing. How imprudent. Rachel didn’t need that kind of drama in her life—though when she was seven, she did go through a brief Toto-coveting phase after far too many viewings of The Wizard of Oz. But she had come to her senses. Animals were so messy and required tons of care. Rachel had no time to be giving a smelly dog a bath. Or to be picking up after it. Ew.

  “Pets are completely unnecessary,” Rachel had piped in after Mercedes had finished her story. “I’d never want a dog.”

  Kurt had responded, “That’s probably a good thing. You would totally be one of those owners who subject their pets to wearing hideous sweaters. Much like the one you’re sporting right now.” Rachel did have a weird obsession with knitwear emblazoned with animal silhouettes, and on that particular day, she’d worn a brown one bearing the outline of a white horse.

  “Except it would have a human knitted on it,” Mercedes had added amid a chorus of laughter.

  Rachel poured some tea into her favorite Phantom of the Opera mug and blew on the surface to cool it down. Being alone was so nice. She cracked open her book and began the next chapter, titled “Modulation and Management of the Voice.” She only had to read the first two sentences before it became very clear that this was not the antidote to her current distressed state. Something lighter was in order.

  Funny Girl always lifted her spirits. She flicked on the television, excited about her new plan. Rachel loved the story of Fanny Brice, a misunderstood Jewish girl with big dreams of stardom. Fanny grew up surrounded by people who didn’t believe in her talents, but she ultimately showed everyone up by becoming a huge star. It was eerily parallel to Rachel’s life. And who didn’t love Barbra Streisand? Barbra was one of twelve people in history who had achieved the “EGOT,” winning all four of the most coveted accolades in entertainment: an Emmy, a Grammy, an Oscar, and a Tony. That was an accomplishment Rachel hoped would at one point be hers. She would be number thirteen.

  Rachel was popping the DVD from its case when the TV caught her attention. “Coming up next: Song and Dance: The Bernadette Peters Story,” the announcer bellowed. Rachel was rapt with attention as the program began. “Bernadette Peters has had a stunning career on both stage and screen that has spanned five decades, touching millions of hearts with her moving performances and spectacular vocals. The star began her career at the tender age of three and a half.” Ha. Rachel had won her first dance competition at a mere three months old.

  The screen flashed a slideshow of old photographs as the announcer continued. “By age five, she had appeared on several national television shows and was well on her way to her first performance on the New York stage as Tessie in The Most Happy Fella, when she was only eleven years old.” Eleven years old? These facts were not encouraging. Here she was, almost seventeen. And she hadn’t even come close to her Broadway debut yet. How awful.

  Her fingers scrambled for the remote and pushed hard on the power button. So what if Rachel had been at a disadvantage her whole life? She still had the talent and determination that others severely lacked. It simply wouldn’t cut it to just sit here like a couch potato, like every other teenager in Lima. She had to do something now. As in, right this second.

  Her feet couldn’t climb the stairs to her bedroom fast enough. The brown box sat innocently on her bed, beckoning Rachel to open it. Completely disregarding her plans to send it back, she ripped off the packing tape and waded through the glittery tissue paper inside. The smell of new shoes permeated her nose. There was something about the smell of new stuff that was really exhilarating. Rachel breathed it in as she brought the right shoe up to her face for closer inspection. The heel sure looked a lot higher than it had in the pictures online. Rachel was more a ballet flats type of girl. She had an extensive collection of them in all colors and bearin
g embellishments from bows to flowers (and even some with ponies printed on them) to prove it. Might as well try them on, she thought, kicking off her left teddy-bear slipper.

  It took a minute to buckle her feet in. They felt a bit snug, but Rachel ignored it. It was probably just the style. She stood slowly, wobbling like a newborn colt taking its first steps. Rachel could see her toes starting to turn white under the black strap. How did Julianne wear these every single night? Ouch.

  She’d come this far, though. No point in wussing out now. Rachel took the plunge and spun around on the ball of her right foot. The turn quickly devolved into a stumble, and Rachel caught the frame of her four-poster bed just in the nick of time. There was a reason that ballroom dancing required two people. Maybe it was the shoes.

  But Rachel was not one to give up that easily. She spent the next ten minutes waltzing around her room, trying to perfect the few moves she already knew from some easy partnering routines in Glee Club. She could totally do this without Finn. Maybe she would even get partnered with some random cute guy whose grandmother had forced him into taking classes. They would be the star couple of the class, picking up on everything twice as fast as the others. The instructor would turn to them every time he wanted a combination demonstrated. Naturally, others would get jealous and try to bring her down by pushing her to the back of the room. “Nobody puts Rachel in a corner!” her partner would say as he scooped her up into his arms, spun her around, and dipped her back.

  Or maybe she’d seen Dirty Dancing one too many times.

  Da-dum! An instant-message window popped up on her computer desktop, obscuring the Photoshopped screensaver of herself holding two Grammys. From across the room, Rachel could make out the flashing screen name: Sharkfinn5.

  It was Finn.

  That handsome, strapping… complete jerk of a leading man. She really ought to ignore him. She deserved an apology in the form of Finn holding a bouquet of red roses on her doorstep. Not a crappy instant message. I won’t respond. I’ll just click out of it and sign off, Rachel reasoned, trying to pretend that she wasn’t interested in what he had to say for himself. Another message came through. Da-dum. In truth, she was dying to read it. Da-dum, da-dum. The chat window blinked furiously.

  Completely forgetting about her precarious footwear, Rachel leaped toward her desk. It was a bad choice, considering the uncharacteristically messy state of her room. The floor was now littered with the remains of the packaging. Glittery tissue paper was everywhere. Her teddy-bear slippers sat abandoned by the foot of the bed.

  Somehow, Rachel’s foot found the worst spot ever to land. The heel of her right shoe caught the ear of her left slipper. It was over. She teetered for a millisecond before clumsily falling headfirst into her bust of Patti LuPone. Crash!

  As Rachel fell to the ground, she swore she could see tons of glittery, shining stars….

  Then everything went black.

  six

  Interior of jetBerry plane, at some point in the future, Monday afternoon

  Da-dum. Rachel’s head throbbed something awful. What… happened? As she tried to blink herself awake and recall the events that caused her to lose consciousness, visions of golden sparkles filled her eyes. She must have hit her head really hard. Her feet still felt cramped, too. Steadying herself slowly, Rachel sat up, and the room around her came into sharp focus. Or rather, the interior of a plane did.

  She was not in her colorful red-and-yellow bedroom in Lima at all. Instead, she appeared to be inside a luxurious private jet that was decked out in the finest furnishings. She felt the smooth leather chair that cradled her, realizing that she occupied one of four cushy black leather recliners. They had gold piping and were embroidered with the airline logo, a gold star. What a coincidence! That was Rachel’s symbol, too.

  Rachel began to drink in the spectacle with a newfound curiosity.

  A little table opposite her bore a spread of delicious food. Fresh berries littered trays of fluffy croissants, and little star-shaped pats of butter accompanied them. Rachel wasn’t even hungry, but her mouth watered at the sight. Flat-screen televisions playing Funny Girl hung on each wall. An elaborate arrangement of orchids—her favorite flowers—filled the air with a sweet fragrance. And there was Kurt, standing over her, wearing a gold blazer with a classic black skinny tie. He would look like a fifties game show host if it weren’t for the fact that he had accessorized the getup with a ridiculous-looking brown hat and an expression of apathy. Wait—what was Kurt Hummel doing here?

  Before Rachel could ask for any sort of explanation, Kurt interrupted, as if he could read her thoughts. “Are you finished with your deer-in-headlights, Dorothy-from-The-Wizard-of-Oz bit? Because I really need you to focus and tell me whether this Christian Siriano will do for the McKinley High performance.” He dangled an avant-garde gold sequined minidress in front of her. “Or do you want something flashier… or sluttier?” It looked more like something Rihanna would wear than Rachel, who had a penchant for sporting clothes that made her look like a five-year-old librarian. This must have been the glittery thing clouding her vision earlier.

  Kurt ignored the frightened look on Rachel’s face and continued to babble on about outfit options. “There’s also a Badgley Mischka that could work. You are really flat-chested, of course, so I—”

  Da-dum! Thankfully, a loud noise interrupted what was about to be a thorough rundown of Rachel’s biggest insecurities. An image of a seat belt lit up on the ceiling. “Welcome back to Ohio, Ms. Berry,” the pilot announced over the intercom. “We’ll begin initial descent into Lima shortly. Buckle up and enjoy the rest of the ride. Must be good to be home.” Kurt plopped down in one of the leather recliners and clicked the lap belt securely into place. He seemed extremely put out at not being able to flit around the cabin, grabbing gowns of various colors and holding them up next to Rachel’s skin to see the effects of each.

  Welcome back? Rachel pondered. When did I ever leave? She didn’t want to ruin the moment by asking, but she couldn’t bear it any longer. This was all so surreal. The plane. The gold stars everywhere. The things Kurt was saying about performances. It almost seemed like…

  “Kurt—is this my plane? Am I finally… a star?” Her brunette hair fell in cascades around her tiny frame, making her look like a doll. Her wide-eyed expression added to the effect.

  Kurt ignored her. She creeped him out when she seemed like a tiny child. Which was surprisingly often.

  Before she could ask another question, a tall steward who resembled some sort of Nordic prince approached them with a platter of just-warmed towels. He was so hot that it was hard to tell whether the steam was rising from the white cloths or him. His gold uniform matched the flaxen shade of his perfectly parted hair, and he wore one of those enameled pins with the wings on each side. Instead of an airline that she’d heard of before, this one bore the name jetBerry. Below it was Defying Gravity—clearly a nod to the show tune of the same name.

  “Thank you, Anders,” Kurt said, not so slyly giving him the once-over as he accepted a towel from a pair of gilded tongs. He reluctantly tore his eyes away from the object of his affection and turned them back to Rachel.

  “I’m never letting you take those motion-sickness meds again. You’d think someone with her own jet would have gotten used to flying by now.” He patted his face gently with the hot towel. “Honestly, you are worse than Drew Barrymore in 50 First Dates with your ridiculous questions.” The words were muffled as Kurt reclined, taking full advantage of the benefits of the washcloth. Recycled air wreaked havoc on your pores, and they had been in the air for a few hours.

  “Was it that one where it’s last summer and you are, like, dancing in your bedroom in some ugly, super-high shoes again? That must have been a really epic moment for you if you keep reliving it.”

  Up until now, Rachel had thought that this must have all been some ridiculously fantastic dream. But it wasn’t. It was the other way around. Rachel felt like she was going to ex
plode with excitement. She unbuckled her seat belt, even though the sign was still lit up. It was her plane, after all. She could do whatever she wanted.

  “So it’s true? I’m a Broadway star?” Rachel popped a raspberry into her mouth. It tasted even better than she’d anticipated.

  Kurt rolled his eyes. Clearly, this was his least favorite part of Rachel’s amnesia episodes. “Yeah, yeah. You’re famous. People love you. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.” Kurt often quoted The King and I to make fun of Rachel. She was oblivious to it, even though she was acting as if she were royalty now. “What else do you want to know, Your Majesty?”

  Rachel had a million questions she wanted answered. Where to start? “Tell me… what show am I in?” Her eyes sparkled like those of a giddy child who had just been told she was on her way to Disneyland for the first time. She crossed over to the back of the plane, eager to explore all the delights of her new life. She picked up a short, one-shouldered chiffon dress in a bold shade of cerulean. It had been spread out on top of a stack of several other designer dresses of varying colors and silhouettes. All of these were for her. She giggled.

  Kurt scribbled something in a leather-bound notebook that seemed to be bursting with fabric samples and neon sticky notes. He was only partially paying attention to her now. He seemed to have a lot on his plate.

  Obviously, Rachel was boring him with this trite routine. He glanced up at her in a way that confirmed he thought she was completely nuts. She should really get a CAT scan or something, he thought. How was it possible that someone who was able to memorize tons of lines and perform them each night for a packed theater couldn’t even remember what show she was in? Maybe karma was finally catching up with her. She’d had an incredible amount of good luck for someone who was so insufferable all the time. “A revival of Oklahoma! at the Imperial. You’re costarring with Meredith Stewart from that show on the CW about teenage murderesses or whatever. And that guy Carmine Bennett. He’s from some boy band—” He interrupted himself. “That color makes your skin look yellow.”