Summer Break

by Sophia Lowell

  “Well, let’s see what we’ve got here, shall we?” She pushed the view button on Puck’s camera. The first frame was blurry—clearly, he wasn’t too good at feeling someone up and taking pictures of her at the same time. The next few shots were of Rachel’s chest.

  “Rachel,” he pleaded, “I’m sorry! I was totally just trying to get a good shot of your Joobs.”

  She knew this shirt was doing wonders, but she didn’t want some gross photos of her in it. If she were ever going to have pictures like this taken, it would be when she was way older. And in a classy publication, like GQ or a similar magazine. They wouldn’t look skanky, like these.

  Puck’s words finally registered with her.

  “My what?” Puck was always making up words.

  “You know, Joobs,” he said, as if emphasizing the same word would make her understand it. “Jew boobs. I was also trying to get shots of other parts of you, too. If that makes you feel better.”

  He smiled at her and tried to pull her back to him. She took two more steps away from where he was sitting.

  “As flattered as I am, no. That does not make me feel better.” Rachel continued to click through the pictures, which were all of her. They were taken from various angles and all from different occasions that week. Places she hadn’t even seen Puck. He had been stalking her. How creepy. “What are these all for? Your own amusement?” She shuddered as she said it. That was so not something she wanted to think about.

  Puck stood up. “I only did it because I had to, man! A guy’s gotta make a living somehow!”

  A living? Had Puck become an amateur paparazzo?

  “Are you selling these?”

  Puck strolled over to the minibar and looked inside the fridge. He grabbed a beer and popped it open with the crook of his arm. “Maybe. J-Fro and I have a little Rachel Berry website…. It’s kind of a big deal. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it, actually. It’s the best one on the Web, and the fans have been begging for some Joob shots.” His eyes focused on her chest region. “I came in to do the job because no one else could deliver. I was even offering one hundred bucks for the best shot! Can’t believe everyone failed.” Puck sipped his beer.

  What a jerk. Rachel clicked through the camera menu until she saw the delete all button. She punched it without hesitation.

  “Get out.” She stormed to the door and opened it, casually tossing Puck’s camera out into the hallway. She heard a crash.

  “No!” Puck yelled as he chased after it. “That thing was, like, two hundred bucks!”

  Rachel slammed the door behind him. She took a few deep breaths to help her rage subside. The events of the last hour had cost her not only her dignity, but also a beer from the minibar. That one beer probably cost about ten dollars, if what she’d always heard about minibars was true. Puck was truly evil. Preying on her vulnerability like that. She cursed herself for falling for it again.

  Rachel got ready for bed in a horrible mood. She removed her makeup with a cotton ball and thought about all the people in Lima who were only out to get her. She must have had some reason for wanting to come back here, but at the present moment nothing came to mind. Rachel grabbed the floss dispenser and unwound a large piece. Being upset about something was no reason to ignore one’s gums.

  Everything that had happened during the trip so far was weighing heavily on her mind, and she still had no information on Mr. Schuester’s whereabouts. Rachel wasn’t sure why, but she was actually starting to worry about him. Sue Sylvester had said he had left. Kelly Mahoney had said he’d gone to New York. So had Puck. But then again, Puck had also thought Rachel was dating Mr. Schuester. Puck wasn’t a very reliable source of information—unless the thing you were trying to find out had to do with the best way to steal bags of tortilla chips from the mini-mart. Oh well, it was out of her hands for now, and Rachel didn’t really have time to worry about her sad, old Glee Club supervisor when there were more urgent matters to attend to that directly affected her own dignity.

  Once her dental hygiene and moisturizing routines were complete, Rachel climbed into her giant bed and flipped open her laptop. She had to see this alleged Rachel Berry website. It didn’t take her long to find it—it was called “J-Fro and Puck’s Site of Juicy Rachel Berry Hotness.” A little bit of her previous anger dissipated when she saw that. Rachel liked to have her ego stroked. Even though there were some creepy shots of her sleeping or without makeup, she looked amazing in most of them. And there were a lot of them.

  Twenty minutes had soon passed. Browsing the site was just so much fun! The layout was surprisingly professional (more likely J-Fro’s expertise than Puck’s), and the pictures made her look incredible. Also, it was done up entirely in her favorite bold colors—red, yellow, and blue. There were gold stars everywhere. That creeper J-Fro sure knew her well. In the corner, there was a little banner that said new site coming soon!

  She was starting to feel as if maybe the website wasn’t such a bad thing. Part of being famous meant having fan sites dedicated to her. And this one was great, even if Puck was paying people to take scandalous pictures of her without her permission.

  Her stomach turned. There was a photo that stopped her in her tracks. It was of Rachel, staring out the window of her jetBerry plane. There was only one person who could have taken that picture. He was the one person who was supposed to be her closest confidante and most trusted employee.

  And his name was Kurt Hummel. Mercedes had called it right a few days ago. What a gator.

  thirteen

  Principal Figgins’s office, Thursday morning

  Principal Figgins was having quite the week. The end of the school year was always a busy time for teachers and administrators, but this year’s final week had been especially stressful. It was mostly because of all the extra performers scheduled for the end-of-year rally. They were drawing a ton of local media attention, and Figgins was getting at least ten calls a day about them. He was pretty sure that half of those calls were from his mother, but his secretary, Mrs. Goodrich, wouldn’t admit to it. She would just lean in and say “We got another one, sir” before going back to her knitting. Right now she was working on a purple sweater for one of her cats.

  He was relieved that the last day of school was tomorrow. After the rally was over and the decorations were packed away for the summer, all he had to worry about was the graduation ceremony the following week, which was already being overshadowed by Rachel Berry’s celebrated return to McKinley High.

  The students had been buzzing with excitement about having Miss Berry roam the halls all week long. She looked so sophisticated and metropolitan in her fancy clothes and such. Normally, Figgins didn’t like to make examples of students who had dropped out of school, but he was willing to make an exception for Rachel. She had become very famous, which had meant lots of good press for the school and its arts programs. The rally this afternoon was sure to be another example to the community of what a great school Figgins was running here. Maybe he would even be nominated for district principal of the year. He’d always hoped to attend the swanky dinner banquet at the Chateau Lima. It was going to happen one of these years. He just knew it.

  Although most of McKinley’s extracurricular programs were thriving, Glee Club had taken quite the nosedive in popularity and overall quality since Rachel’s departure. But it didn’t matter—Figgins could always find holes to fill in the school budget. If students were no longer interested in singing and dancing, he could put in a new soda machine by the gym. It was also a relief not to have to deal with the constant bickering from Sue Sylvester and Will Schuester, now that the Glee Club maestro had taken off. They had always been arguing over petty things, like where the excess Cheerios trophies should be kept. Sue had insisted that they go in the choir room, but Will had thought it was disrespectful. Figgins couldn’t have cared less either way. Those two used to give him a constant headache.

  Figgins popped his head outside the glass door that separated his desk
from Mrs. Goodrich’s.

  “Did you say I had an appointment with someone at nine or ten?” It was already five minutes past nine, and Mrs. Goodrich often mixed up times. She wasn’t that great of a secretary. But she had several cat mouths to feed, so he kept her on. Figgins could be a softie.

  She looked up from her knitting. “Rachel Berry at nine. Santana Lopez at ten.” Ah, that was right. He’d forgotten that the two were scheduled back to back. Normally, he wouldn’t worry about two appointments that were an hour apart possibly running into each other, but Rachel Berry always had a lot to say. And she was already late.

  “Sorry I’m late!” Rachel chirped as she burst into the office. Kurt Hummel was in tow. She was wearing a revealing red-and-navy-blue-striped minidress. Kurt matched her in a white suit. They looked like they were going to a Fourth of July garden party in the Hamptons rather than parading through the corridors of McKinley High. Overdressed for the occasion, as per usual.

  “Good morning, children.” Figgins knew that teenagers weren’t children, but for some reason he was never able to call them anything else. It had earned him many spiteful looks from students throughout the years. “Please come inside.”

  Rachel was feeling much better after a good night’s rest. The events of the previous day had shaken her up, but this morning she’d woken up feeling confident about the performance. Especially with the addition of her New York friends, which was why she was here. She thought it was only fair to come early this morning to let the principal know about her guests. It wouldn’t be polite to spring that on him three minutes before they went onstage. This also gave him a few hours to hire extra security guards or maybe call a field reporter from Extra.

  “Thanks for seeing us at the last minute, Principal Figgins,” Rachel began. She was careful not to let anything slip as she took a seat opposite him. There was an art to sitting in short dresses. Many young stars in Hollywood had not perfected it yet. Practically every week, a different starlet was photographed flashing something she hadn’t meant to—Rachel was not going to be one of those girls. “We just wanted to let you know that some extra guests will be joining us for my performance this afternoon. You do know Meredith Stewart and Carmine Bennett, right?”

  Figgins hesitated to answer the question. He was a huge Meredith Stewart fan. Maybe the biggest there was. Reruns of her first show on the CW, Double Exposure—about a fashion model who moonlights as a butt-kicking double agent for the CIA—was one of his greatest guilty pleasures. And Carmine Bennett used to be in a popular music group. He was now the face of the cologne Mrs. Figgins had given him for his birthday, Virile: For Men. She said it made him smell like George Clooney.

  “Sure, I think I have heard of them,” Figgins answered nonchalantly. Excitement bubbled up inside him. This rally was shaping up to be the best McKinley had ever seen. So many stars in one place! “Your friends, of course, are welcome here. You will be excited to know that another special alumna has agreed to perform as well!”

  Rachel’s ears perked up. She didn’t know anything about this at all! Who could the mysterious guest be? She racked her brain for any kids from previous years who might have gone off and become successful by some random twist of fate. She couldn’t think of anyone. There was no way it could be someone more famous than she was. But maybe it was Phyllis Diller. That would be good because she had been dying to ask her some questions….

  “Is that so?” Rachel said to Figgins, and gave Kurt’s foot a sharp kick. He looked up from the text message he was sending. “What? Is something happening? I wasn’t listening, because I was bored.”

  “I was just saying that Santana Lopez has agreed to perform in the rally as well!” Figgins looked at Kurt. “Isn’t it great news?”

  It had to be a joke. Rachel laughed, as it was only polite to laugh when someone tried to make jokes. Even if they were really bad ones. “You’re kidding, right?” The color drained from Rachel’s face. She was already pretty pale to begin with—now she looked like Robert Pattinson in Twilight.

  “You wish he was,” Santana’s voice answered. There she stood, in the glass doorway, looking mighty fine. She was dressed in some futuristic metallic shorts and a red blouse with shoulder pads. It looked like an outfit that Nicki Minaj’s stylist might have chosen, yet it worked on her.

  “Hey, Figgins Newton. Where should I park my jet?” Santana laughed heartily as she watched Rachel’s expression of simple shock transform into something much darker. “I’m kidding—only an idiot would spend their entire fortune on a private jet. Do you know what the gas mileage is like on those babies?” Santana put her hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “Not good. But you already know that. Not to mention the carbon footprint.” Santana glanced down at Rachel’s footwear. “Hey, dwarf. You haven’t grown at all, I see. Trying to wear big-girl shoes, though. Good for you!” Santana had learned the art of insulting someone for absolutely no reason from her former cheerleading coach. She turned to Kurt. “Nice job on her. She’s slightly less painful to look at now.”

  Kurt avoided Rachel’s eyes. “It’s been a difficult road, but thank you. Excellent shorts.” Kurt was looking at Santana as if she were Heidi Klum. He probably wished he were her stylist. “Your dress at the Grammys was epic.” Santana had worn a gorgeous purple number by Monique Lhuillier. It had tons of ruffles. Kurt loved ruffles.

  “What?” Rachel was sure she’d misheard Kurt’s last statement. “Why would you be at the Grammys?”

  The conversation had started to make Principal Figgins, who was still sitting at his desk, really uncomfortable. His least favorite part of being a high school principal was when teenage girls started to pick fights with each other. They always did that creepy move that made them look like bobblehead dolls. It was supposed to convey attitude, Mercedes Jones had told him once. He generally began walking the other way if he saw someone doing that.

  “Why don’t I leave you two big stars in here to catch up? I’m just going to go to the teachers’ lounge for some fresh coffee,” Figgins interjected before making a quick exit.

  Santana crossed over to the other side of the room to face Rachel and Kurt. She propped one arm on the desk in front of her and leaned forward to answer Rachel’s question.

  “Because you’re not the only celeb up in this place, Thumbelina.” Santana knew her angles well. The pose accentuated the boob job she’d gotten two summers ago. It had been silly. Santana didn’t need surgical enhancements at all—she was already gorgeous.

  It was sad just how far some girls would go to get noticed. But Rachel didn’t need to cut herself up to be successful. When one had talents, they spoke for themselves. Just look at Barbra Streisand. Casting directors told her that she would have to get a nose job to become more bankable as an actress. She refused because it would mess up her singing voice. Now she was one of the most successful actresses of all time.

  “Oh, did you sign up for one of those seat-filler tickets? You know, the kind where the real celebrity gets up to pee and you sit down in their seat while they are gone?” Rachel asked. Awards shows often used this tactic to create an illusion of a full theater.

  One year, Rachel had begged her dads to let her sign up for the seat-filler job. They said no because Los Angeles was way too far to travel to. She pouted for days afterward. But none of that mattered now. Rachel would have her own seat-filler at the Grammys soon.

  “Like you don’t know that I’m actually, like, über-famous now. Does the Best New Artist category ring a bell?” Santana made air quotes with her fingers as she said it. Her nails were painted a fiery red. “It’s been quite the whirlwind. You know—parties… hot guys… VIP status everywhere I go. I get so much free stuff, too—it’s baller.” She looked at Kurt. “I have some skinny jeans from Seven For All Mankind that would totes fit you if you want them.”

  Kurt salivated. “Oh yes, please.”

  “I don’t understand how this happened!” Rachel said, as if wishing something weren’t true would ma
ke it so. She did this a lot. “You do have a decent voice, to be sure, but it’s certainly not star quality. And you’ve never had any goals other than getting more notches on your bedpost than Brittany.”

  Santana smirked devilishly. “Oh, honey, I reached that one long ago. Parties at Lady Gaga’s mansion can really up a girl’s number, if you know what I mean.”

  Rachel resisted the urge to slap her.

  Santana continued. “You know, Rachel, you really should be nicer to people. You never know whose dad is going to turn out to be a major record producer.”

  It was funny that Santana of all people was giving a lecture on the merits of kindness to strangers. Rachel was pretty sure she’d seen Santana steal from a canned-food drive once. That girl had no place to talk.

  “For once, one of Schuester’s dumb ideas worked out.” She paused and reconsidered her word choice. “Well, it worked out for me.”

  Rachel couldn’t bear the way she was dancing around the subject. Santana knew that drawing out the information was killing Rachel, so naturally she wanted it to last as long as possible.

  “What on earth are you talking about? Just spill it, Santana.”

  Out in the hall, first period had just ended. Students swarmed the halls, and a little crowd of spectators began to gather outside Figgins’s office. The transparent glass walls had given them away. Everyone wanted to catch a glimpse of the new star. Santana flashed a megawatt smile at the group and waved. Not to be outdone, Rachel stood up and did the same.

  Santana picked up one of Figgins’s brass owls and mindlessly began to rub it. She was a very tactile person. “So last summer at that, like, awful hippie music camp thing—there was this little girl named Megan, right? She was obsessed with me.” She struck a few more poses for the kids outside. A dweeby kid in a brown baseball cap was transfixed. He looked like a zombie waiting to pounce on her the second she left her glass safe haven.