Fic: A Lucky Man, for firstbreaths
Title: A Lucky Man
Author: narie
Recipient: firstbreaths
Word Count: 4169
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: Jesse St James apologises to no one. Not Paul, not John, and definitely not Ivan Denisovich, not that he’s even ever heard of him.
Author's Note: I wanted to write this story ever since I saw your prompt. I hope you feel I did it justice. Many thanks to hedgerose and peachpai for their help.
Today is going to be a good day, he can tell.
His roommate's radio is playing the Beatles, and Jesse St James is humming along. He's long been an early riser, sloth being a defeated enemy on the path to success, but he has yet to master actually awakening with grace. More often than not he startles, shifting brusquely from asleep to awake, disturbed by a small noise or by sunlight streaming through hastily drawn drapes, which he has had to remind Timothy about far more often that he should like, or have to, by now. Their room - small, cramped, and, half of it disgracefully unkempt - faces east and the California dawn is somehow brighter than the Ohio sun, and Jesse, well. Jesse has never had the best of relationships with the rising sun. It is quite embarrassing to admit, but he occasionally falls out of bed, if the morning light just so falls across his face in a certain fashion.
Not today, however. Today he moves around his small double room comfortably, dodging Timothy's stale laundry without a second look, at ease with himself. Although he walks with the grace of a dancer and the confidence of an idol, he does not quite move like a cat, a conclusion some would draw, prowling silently from one hiding spot to the next. No, cats are stealthy, and Jesse St James sees no reason to emulate that. He has nothing to hide, and everything to show, everything to give.
Jesse St James has a plan. Jesse St James is a star in the making, and one of these days he's going to go supernova.
-
Every morning, showered and dressed - face shaved and hair carefully styled, unless the day's plans counsel against it - he packs his bag, takes the stairs, and eats breakfast at the dining hall, always a fat-free yogurt and granola parfait. With one hand he eats, and with the other he flips his laptop open to double check his calendar, updating it by pecking at the keys. Green is for TV, red is for movies, yellow is for theatre, pink for musicals and blue is for music. He tracks auditions and casting calls with zeal, carefully notes where he has to send what kind of submission and by what date, but what he's really interested in, what he's always looking for but only rarely finds, are the open casting calls. Only when he has finished his daily updating, and the rest of the dorm, in varying states of dress and conviviality, is starting to populate the tables next to him, does he finally check his emails. Amongst all the spam from list hosts he does not remember signing up to, and the security advisories, and the daily Groupon, today there is one from the Dean of Students, with the word 'URGENT' in the subject line. He stars it, making a note to get to it later; he's been here seven weeks and no one has contacted him yet about alternate arrangements for his exams, so he supposes it's finally about that.
He expected better from UCLA, truth be told. Carmel High could get it done by the end of the first week back, year on year; he doesn't understand how a sizable and reputable institution like this one cannot pull itself together and arrange some paperwork with a modicum of efficiency. At first he had leniently assumed that they were making their way down the list alphabetically, and out of a freshman class of roughly 6,000 students he was willing to be patient, but when two weeks into the semester he had yet to be notified by anyone about his alternate arrangements he was somewhat disappointed. Weeks three and four he spent wondering whether it was not simply tacitly accepted that he was too busy to meet with anyone to discuss arrangements for his classes and it was all being taken care of. But even at Carmel he'd always been aware of who was taking what exam for him. He always made a point to find them and provide a few words of advice and encouragement on the morning of, a careful investment in his GPA. The fact that he lives in Los Angeles now, in the heart of cinema and art and everything he has always yearned for, is testament to how valuable those moments had been. He knows for a fact Andrea Cohen, what with her unwillingness to mingle, didn't get admitted any place nearly as nice as this.
-
In between seasons Jesse watches clips from the European equivalents of American Idol or America's Got Talent or whatever else they have come up with over there. He's ever so grateful he's not European, because he knows he's not one in a million, or even one in ten million. Jesse is one in a hundred million, he's fairly convinced of that, and those small countries with their quaint landscapes and monarchies and strange judging panels with people who will never be Simon Cowell simply don't have enough of a talent pool for someone like him - he's seen clips from Eurovision, he's well aware of the best they can offer, although he's still unclear about the Finnish goth rockers from Hell. Competing against them would be like any of the times VA had to go against any of those awkwardly shuffling a capella groups - uncomfortable, to say the least.
Most days he goes into the School of Theatre at around ten, walking the corridors looking far more purposeful than he actually is or feels, in the hopes of stumbling upon some opportunity for song. He'd had to pick classes blindly, and since he'd paid no attention at the mandatory orientation seminar that explained how that was going to work he'd apparently ended up with a schedule that induced pitying wincing and cringing from everyone he shares it with. This does not bother Jesse, not really; he'd made an effort to attend all classes the first couple of weeks, out of curiosity, but he started paring down his academic commitments shortly after. Nowadays the only class he regularly makes a point of attending is an intro to drama that meets on Wednesdays and Fridays, from eleven to one, and even there he's more often disappointed than not. No one he's met so far has exhibited a fraction of the dedication that was expected of Jesse and the rest of VA, and how these people expect to make it in show business when they complain about an extra three-hour practice is beyond him.
Delightedly he sees that three more tabs have gone from the posters he put up offering to give his fellow students voice lessons; he expects phone calls soon. Maybe this time, he thinks. Maybe this time. None of the sessions he's taught so far have allowed him to find that perfect duet partner, and he has not hesitated to borrow from the mellower side of Dakota Stanley's insult repertoire to ensure there's never a second class, because there are few things worse than being dragged down by someone who is not at his level. He loses sense of the minuscule flaws in his talent and skills whenever he so obviously outshines others, and that sort of unawareness isn't going to help him get his big break.
Anyhow, abandoning mot of his classes has proven extremely fortunate - it's not his fault auditions and open calls are always scheduled at inconvenient times, so he would be missing most of them anyhow. Westwood is not even that remote; close enough to Santa Monica Boulevard and the freeway that he can easily get wherever he needs to. But Los Angeles traffic really is as bad as everyone has always made it seem, and Jesse has learned, the hard way, to leave time for how unpredictable the flow of cars can be. He tried, the first couple of weeks, not to let his annoyance mingle with awe. After all, he'd heard enough about LA traffic - everyone has - and as the true Angeleno he aspires to be it seemed rather unbecoming to gape at the endless lines of slow moving cars, and the multilevel concrete knots. Here was a potent reminder that he was not in Akron anymore. But he can't help it. Every time he's on them Jesse St James reminds himself that one of those blocked freeways, innumerable potholes and all, will eventually lead him to glory.
-
On a Tuesday like today his calendar is usually empty, so he claims one of the tables at the cafe he likes next to the department. The rest of his morning goes to making sure he hasn't missed any open calls or submissions, and to sending the right tapes to the right people. There is one of those gen ed classes he could attend this afternoon, but it's so far into the quarter that he's not sure it'd be worth it. The last time his boredom drove him into the lecture theater he spent the entire two hours just doodling animals on his notebook. Besides, there's always the chance it could be an exam day - he's aware that his scholarship depends on maintaining a high GPA and he'd hate to jeopardise that by disturbing whoever it is that's taking his tests for him, or by handing in two copies with his name on them.
Frankly, however, this need to keep everything so secret, so hush-hush, is ridiculous. Everyone in Hollywood likes their theatrics, Jesse understands and appreciates that, but when he'd received the scholarship offer he'd somehow expected this entire process would be far more streamlined. It should be clear to everyone involved that he is exceptionally talented at singing, and that that's what he's here for, no more, but everyone insists on keeping up the academic charade. Sometimes he wonders if his parents even know that Carmel pieced together his transcript and report cards from multiple students in his class, drama and music the only grades that were ever truly his. Jesse St James did not need trigonometry to see him through high school any more than he needs the Biology of Gender, or whatever his afternoon class is called, to win the full EGOT, but he does not want to disappoint his parents and ruin the image they have of him as their all-around brilliant kid. Their relationship is quite close, aside from his mother's strange and stubborn unwillingness to accept Jesse's oft-proclaimed heterosexuality. All the times he brought Rachel over, or any of the girls from VA, have not stopped her repeated assurances that she's so proud of him and will love him no matter what, and that both her and his father are always available to listen to him, if he ever has anything he wants to say. Every now and then Jesse catches them exchanging looks over dinner, breaths baited like they await a confession of some sort, but Jesse just insists on conversing about the state of the economy or the latest he's overheard the nerds discussing at Carmel, and the moments generally pass, as far as he can tell, until the big next family conversation.
Still, all this reminiscing is doing him no good, and it's nearly time for lunch. At times like these he stops and asks himself, WWSCD? What Would Simon Cowell Do? Not about lunch, of course - that is easily dealt with. Jesse has long since mapped out all the best eating options on campus and nearby, taking care to avoid all the vegetarian joints because their unfaltering love of flourless cupcakes and egg substitute sometimes give him residual feelings of guilt. WWSCD with the rest of his day, that's the question to ask.
A trip to Santa Monica perhaps, to watch the buskers on 3rd and try to weed out the talented few from the mangy lot, maybe do a few numbers of his own. Maybe Hollywood or Culvert City, although if he's honest with himself loitering outside the studios lost most of its charm after two days of not a single person going into the CBS Television City recognising his talent and offering him a special guest spot on The X Factor. And besides, every time he ends up in West Hollywood he spends more time turning down gay men than getting anything else done. He has little tolerance for Silver Lake - as little as the hipsters down there have for the likes of him. Besides, there's the vegan situation again. None of his options are really all that appealing, and they haven't been for a while. Making it in show business is harder than he thought.
And then, blessedly, his phone lights up with a new email with a promising subject line: "Music lessons?"
-
Swiftly he arranges to meet Laetitia at 4 after her Tai-chi class ends, in one of the smaller practice rooms in Melnitz Hall. In his emailed reply to her he carefully explained that today's class was a taster more than anything else, a test to establish musical compatibility, because he feels establishing a good rapport is crucial to any sort of future success.
He arrives early, sitting at the piano to practice his playing and his scales, and loses himself in the music until there's a knocking at the door, and a thin and reedy girl standing at the other side. "Hey." She shrugs and hesitates by the door. "You Jesse?"
"Jesse St James," he confirms. It's still awkward having to introduce himself to fellow performers rather than being recognised, but he rises and offers his hand.
"Cool. I'm Laetitia. It's nice to meet you." Her grip is surprisingly firm, given her badly bleached hair and her torn jeans. Maybe this will not be as disastrous as all the ones that came before. Maybe this girl is the one he's been looking for, the duet partner that will catalyse his rise. For a few seconds Jesse lets himself hope, and then he asks,
"What do you know about singing?"
"Not very much. I'm doing straight-up acting for the most part, but it never hurts to be able to sing a bit, you know? All these shows these days, there's so much crossover and all that. I saw your posters and I thought, 'why not?'"
On second thought, she's probably not the one for him.
"I do know, yes. I'm a four-time national show choir champion." He can't help it, and besides, it's always good to impress upon her that he's a highly qualified instructor, not some third-rate desperate wannabe. "So I know exactly what you mean. I have found this program vastly underrates the importance of song and competition, which doesn't make for a very good education, if you ask me."
"I dunno about that. I mean, they offer so many internships and stuff what with all the contacts they have in the industry that pretty much anything you want to do you can, you just need to look for it. I mean, last summer I had this amazing--"
He shrugs. Jesse hasn't done any searching yet of this sort, still trusting on his own raw talent to see him through without having to depend on others. Once he's confident he's exhausted all of his options he will turn to the long list of departmental alumni, but for now he's still convinced he can make it on his own, and it will taste all the better when he does. "How about we start by you singing something? Whatever your best piece is. Just pretend this is an audition for reality TV, and then we'll work from there, see what spots you need most coaching on." He feels himself slipping into the role, and gives himself a mental self-congratulatory pat on the back. He's been to enough auditions, watched enough TV, that this bit comes naturally. On autopilot, even, a skill sure to prove useful later in his career.
Then she opens her mouth, and Jesse can't help it, he clenches his fist in appalled shock. Deep breaths, he tells himself, willing his fingers to relax. Deep breaths. Remember, WWSCD? Definitely not lose his cool - he hasn't done that since season one. But by the time she gets to the chorus and changes key just so she can keep on singing he has had enough. "I'm going to stop you there, Laetitia. I'm sorry to have to say this, but you're terrible. That was hideously pitchy. And where was your smile? You can't hope to win anything with a grimace like that."
-
They end up spending two excruciating hours together, going through the most basic of scales, trying to establish if her range even spans a single octave. By the end they have reached the twin conclusions that it doesn't, and that Jesse St James is not the person to train her so that it does. And yet he feels somehow invigorated, like he's done a good, charitable task. Like picking up a turtle that has rolled over onto its back. He has no desire to repeat any of it, of course, and her unfaltering cheer in the face of his snide commentary made him feel like he should go home and pay close attention to some of Simon's greatest judging moments and ensure he hasn't lost his touch. Still. Next time he makes those posters, Jesse tells himself, he's going to make it quite clear that he's only interested in people with developed skills. He's going to drag no one out of their self-imposed mediocrity. That is not what he's here for.
The girls at VA may have been catty, and Dakota Stanley would turn them all into bulimics by the end of week four, but at least they could sing. He misses that, and the camaraderie of being in the group with everyone else, friends and acquaintances alike - Jesse was too busy excelling to make enemies, of course. And then there had been, for a while, Rachel. He spares a second to wonder how she's doing, whether her and her band of remedials have made it past Sectionals this year. In all fairness, the competition in Ohio is not particularly great, or challenging, so he suspects they'll make it to Regionals again, maybe even past that if Rachel still remembers all the tips he shared with her back then, or if she hasn't tried too hard to forget them. Although sometimes he can admit to himself that it'd be hard to fault her, if she had.
Oh, how he yearns for a good duet.
-
"Hey mom," he says. When for some reason or another he can't sing, he turns to the next best thing instead.
"Darling! How are you! It's been so long, you know I was just talking to your father about how you haven't called in a week and we were wondering how our darling star was doing!"
As he talks he strolls through campus, retracing his steps from this morning and wondering where his day has gone. For all of his confidence and energy at the break of day he hasn't accomplished much - a failed music lesson, some audition tapes, and a couple of unsatisfying dining hall meals, both of them eaten on his own. "I'm good, mom. How are you? I'm not calling too late, am I?"
"No, of course not. I just finished with the kitchen and was about to sit down to watch some TV. Your father is out playing poker tonight, so it's just me. Well, your brother and sister are home, but you know how they are, especially when you're not around. I may as well be home alone."
"Yeah," he says, "I'm on my way to get dinner myself."
"Gotta keep your energy up," she agrees. "How are your classes going?"
"They're great. My favourite one is still the judging reality TV one." He doesn't feel too guilty lying to her about that. For all the TV he watches the class may as well be real, and he's fairly confident that given time and inclination he could put together quite a compelling syllabus on the subject.
"Ooh, have you met him yet?" she asks. And okay, maybe Jesse's unfaltering obsession with Simon Cowell is part of the reason his mother thinks he's gay, and maybe the night he told his mother that their final project was to help judge a real televised episode was not his finest moment, but he's confident he'll have made some sort of broadcast appearance by the time she begins to expect him on her TiVo, and he'll tell her the producers were so impressed by his talent that they decided he ought to compete instead.
"Sometimes, it's just, we worry about you, your father and I. You're so far away, all the way over in California trying to make it on your own, and we just want what's best for you."
"I'm fine, mom. Having a great time. I just wanted to check how you were doing, really."
"We're good, darling. You know how it is," and she launches into some anecdote about the neighbour's dog digging up all the bulbs she'd carefully planted for the garden association. He passes an open student-run cafe and buys a wrap and some sort of organic mixed berry juice while she talks, shoving them in his bag. "Oh but I've just remembered, your father wanted me to ask - have you booked your plane tickets for Thanksgiving yet?"
"No," he says with a shake of his head. "I'll do it as soon as I get back to my room tonight."
They continue to chat, the conversation flitting superficially from his brother's latest mishap to the PTA's recent bake sale, until Jesse reaches his dorm. "I've got to go," he says. "I'm home."
"Of course dear. Just make sure to forward us that confirmation email. Good night, dear."
"Goodnight, mom."
In his room he takes off his shoes and changes into more comfortable clothes, yoga pants and a loose shirt. He pulls out the wrap, and sets his laptop back on his desk, minimizing Outlook when it pops up. Another night of youtube videos is probably on the cards, since the pianos in the dorm practice rooms are so woefully out of tune that they would probably ruin his perfect pitch if he relied on them too much. If he had a single he could practice a couple of solos, but Tim just narrows his eyes and glares at him whenever he does that.
He looks around. His half of the room is sparse. He'd felt no need to bring memorabilia from his years at Carmel to impress people with, as pretty as his four matching Nationals plaques were. Jesse's talent speaks for itself, after all. But the fact remains that there have been no people to impress, not really. He hasn't made many friends here. There is little room in the single-minded pursuit of success for fraternizing, and between that, skipping most of his classes and his general disappointment at his fellow classmates he's fairly sure that he's more commonly known as 'Tim's weird roommate' than by his own name. He auditioned for plays when the first notices went up at the bulletin boards on TFT, but when he told people he was a freshman they refused to offer him substantial parts, so he turned their chorus and villager roles down. The time wasted would've been too much, when it came time for dress rehearsals and spending hours watching others play roles he could pull off so much better. Now he wonders if it was the right decision - maybe he would've met an ally there, a fellow underrated star. From what he's seen the odds are fairly slim, and yet...
Sometimes the beginnings of loneliness and fear start to creep into his life, but he squashes them. In front of the mirror he stands and practices his bright show face smile, teeth white and radiant, eyes wide and sparkling. He's making it, he's going to make it, he's working for it, he's a lucky man, and he's going to get his lucky break.
-
They took Nationals with A Day in the Life the third time around. Jesse sang lead for both John and Paul's parts, because there had been no one else in VA who could match him for power or potency or charm. Shelby was inordinately proud of that performance, harmony layered upon harmony as a few of the girls did some pretty dancing up by the front, and Bohemian Rhapsody next year, which they reprised at every level of competition because it was that good, was the logical follow up.
Jesse appreciated the solo, but to this day resents the fact that all four Nationals he attended were held in Midwestern state capitals and there were never any casting agents in the audience.
It would've made things so much simpler.
Author: narie
Recipient: firstbreaths
Word Count: 4169
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: None
Summary: Jesse St James apologises to no one. Not Paul, not John, and definitely not Ivan Denisovich, not that he’s even ever heard of him.
Author's Note: I wanted to write this story ever since I saw your prompt. I hope you feel I did it justice. Many thanks to hedgerose and peachpai for their help.
Today is going to be a good day, he can tell.
His roommate's radio is playing the Beatles, and Jesse St James is humming along. He's long been an early riser, sloth being a defeated enemy on the path to success, but he has yet to master actually awakening with grace. More often than not he startles, shifting brusquely from asleep to awake, disturbed by a small noise or by sunlight streaming through hastily drawn drapes, which he has had to remind Timothy about far more often that he should like, or have to, by now. Their room - small, cramped, and, half of it disgracefully unkempt - faces east and the California dawn is somehow brighter than the Ohio sun, and Jesse, well. Jesse has never had the best of relationships with the rising sun. It is quite embarrassing to admit, but he occasionally falls out of bed, if the morning light just so falls across his face in a certain fashion.
Not today, however. Today he moves around his small double room comfortably, dodging Timothy's stale laundry without a second look, at ease with himself. Although he walks with the grace of a dancer and the confidence of an idol, he does not quite move like a cat, a conclusion some would draw, prowling silently from one hiding spot to the next. No, cats are stealthy, and Jesse St James sees no reason to emulate that. He has nothing to hide, and everything to show, everything to give.
Jesse St James has a plan. Jesse St James is a star in the making, and one of these days he's going to go supernova.
-
Every morning, showered and dressed - face shaved and hair carefully styled, unless the day's plans counsel against it - he packs his bag, takes the stairs, and eats breakfast at the dining hall, always a fat-free yogurt and granola parfait. With one hand he eats, and with the other he flips his laptop open to double check his calendar, updating it by pecking at the keys. Green is for TV, red is for movies, yellow is for theatre, pink for musicals and blue is for music. He tracks auditions and casting calls with zeal, carefully notes where he has to send what kind of submission and by what date, but what he's really interested in, what he's always looking for but only rarely finds, are the open casting calls. Only when he has finished his daily updating, and the rest of the dorm, in varying states of dress and conviviality, is starting to populate the tables next to him, does he finally check his emails. Amongst all the spam from list hosts he does not remember signing up to, and the security advisories, and the daily Groupon, today there is one from the Dean of Students, with the word 'URGENT' in the subject line. He stars it, making a note to get to it later; he's been here seven weeks and no one has contacted him yet about alternate arrangements for his exams, so he supposes it's finally about that.
He expected better from UCLA, truth be told. Carmel High could get it done by the end of the first week back, year on year; he doesn't understand how a sizable and reputable institution like this one cannot pull itself together and arrange some paperwork with a modicum of efficiency. At first he had leniently assumed that they were making their way down the list alphabetically, and out of a freshman class of roughly 6,000 students he was willing to be patient, but when two weeks into the semester he had yet to be notified by anyone about his alternate arrangements he was somewhat disappointed. Weeks three and four he spent wondering whether it was not simply tacitly accepted that he was too busy to meet with anyone to discuss arrangements for his classes and it was all being taken care of. But even at Carmel he'd always been aware of who was taking what exam for him. He always made a point to find them and provide a few words of advice and encouragement on the morning of, a careful investment in his GPA. The fact that he lives in Los Angeles now, in the heart of cinema and art and everything he has always yearned for, is testament to how valuable those moments had been. He knows for a fact Andrea Cohen, what with her unwillingness to mingle, didn't get admitted any place nearly as nice as this.
-
In between seasons Jesse watches clips from the European equivalents of American Idol or America's Got Talent or whatever else they have come up with over there. He's ever so grateful he's not European, because he knows he's not one in a million, or even one in ten million. Jesse is one in a hundred million, he's fairly convinced of that, and those small countries with their quaint landscapes and monarchies and strange judging panels with people who will never be Simon Cowell simply don't have enough of a talent pool for someone like him - he's seen clips from Eurovision, he's well aware of the best they can offer, although he's still unclear about the Finnish goth rockers from Hell. Competing against them would be like any of the times VA had to go against any of those awkwardly shuffling a capella groups - uncomfortable, to say the least.
Most days he goes into the School of Theatre at around ten, walking the corridors looking far more purposeful than he actually is or feels, in the hopes of stumbling upon some opportunity for song. He'd had to pick classes blindly, and since he'd paid no attention at the mandatory orientation seminar that explained how that was going to work he'd apparently ended up with a schedule that induced pitying wincing and cringing from everyone he shares it with. This does not bother Jesse, not really; he'd made an effort to attend all classes the first couple of weeks, out of curiosity, but he started paring down his academic commitments shortly after. Nowadays the only class he regularly makes a point of attending is an intro to drama that meets on Wednesdays and Fridays, from eleven to one, and even there he's more often disappointed than not. No one he's met so far has exhibited a fraction of the dedication that was expected of Jesse and the rest of VA, and how these people expect to make it in show business when they complain about an extra three-hour practice is beyond him.
Delightedly he sees that three more tabs have gone from the posters he put up offering to give his fellow students voice lessons; he expects phone calls soon. Maybe this time, he thinks. Maybe this time. None of the sessions he's taught so far have allowed him to find that perfect duet partner, and he has not hesitated to borrow from the mellower side of Dakota Stanley's insult repertoire to ensure there's never a second class, because there are few things worse than being dragged down by someone who is not at his level. He loses sense of the minuscule flaws in his talent and skills whenever he so obviously outshines others, and that sort of unawareness isn't going to help him get his big break.
Anyhow, abandoning mot of his classes has proven extremely fortunate - it's not his fault auditions and open calls are always scheduled at inconvenient times, so he would be missing most of them anyhow. Westwood is not even that remote; close enough to Santa Monica Boulevard and the freeway that he can easily get wherever he needs to. But Los Angeles traffic really is as bad as everyone has always made it seem, and Jesse has learned, the hard way, to leave time for how unpredictable the flow of cars can be. He tried, the first couple of weeks, not to let his annoyance mingle with awe. After all, he'd heard enough about LA traffic - everyone has - and as the true Angeleno he aspires to be it seemed rather unbecoming to gape at the endless lines of slow moving cars, and the multilevel concrete knots. Here was a potent reminder that he was not in Akron anymore. But he can't help it. Every time he's on them Jesse St James reminds himself that one of those blocked freeways, innumerable potholes and all, will eventually lead him to glory.
-
On a Tuesday like today his calendar is usually empty, so he claims one of the tables at the cafe he likes next to the department. The rest of his morning goes to making sure he hasn't missed any open calls or submissions, and to sending the right tapes to the right people. There is one of those gen ed classes he could attend this afternoon, but it's so far into the quarter that he's not sure it'd be worth it. The last time his boredom drove him into the lecture theater he spent the entire two hours just doodling animals on his notebook. Besides, there's always the chance it could be an exam day - he's aware that his scholarship depends on maintaining a high GPA and he'd hate to jeopardise that by disturbing whoever it is that's taking his tests for him, or by handing in two copies with his name on them.
Frankly, however, this need to keep everything so secret, so hush-hush, is ridiculous. Everyone in Hollywood likes their theatrics, Jesse understands and appreciates that, but when he'd received the scholarship offer he'd somehow expected this entire process would be far more streamlined. It should be clear to everyone involved that he is exceptionally talented at singing, and that that's what he's here for, no more, but everyone insists on keeping up the academic charade. Sometimes he wonders if his parents even know that Carmel pieced together his transcript and report cards from multiple students in his class, drama and music the only grades that were ever truly his. Jesse St James did not need trigonometry to see him through high school any more than he needs the Biology of Gender, or whatever his afternoon class is called, to win the full EGOT, but he does not want to disappoint his parents and ruin the image they have of him as their all-around brilliant kid. Their relationship is quite close, aside from his mother's strange and stubborn unwillingness to accept Jesse's oft-proclaimed heterosexuality. All the times he brought Rachel over, or any of the girls from VA, have not stopped her repeated assurances that she's so proud of him and will love him no matter what, and that both her and his father are always available to listen to him, if he ever has anything he wants to say. Every now and then Jesse catches them exchanging looks over dinner, breaths baited like they await a confession of some sort, but Jesse just insists on conversing about the state of the economy or the latest he's overheard the nerds discussing at Carmel, and the moments generally pass, as far as he can tell, until the big next family conversation.
Still, all this reminiscing is doing him no good, and it's nearly time for lunch. At times like these he stops and asks himself, WWSCD? What Would Simon Cowell Do? Not about lunch, of course - that is easily dealt with. Jesse has long since mapped out all the best eating options on campus and nearby, taking care to avoid all the vegetarian joints because their unfaltering love of flourless cupcakes and egg substitute sometimes give him residual feelings of guilt. WWSCD with the rest of his day, that's the question to ask.
A trip to Santa Monica perhaps, to watch the buskers on 3rd and try to weed out the talented few from the mangy lot, maybe do a few numbers of his own. Maybe Hollywood or Culvert City, although if he's honest with himself loitering outside the studios lost most of its charm after two days of not a single person going into the CBS Television City recognising his talent and offering him a special guest spot on The X Factor. And besides, every time he ends up in West Hollywood he spends more time turning down gay men than getting anything else done. He has little tolerance for Silver Lake - as little as the hipsters down there have for the likes of him. Besides, there's the vegan situation again. None of his options are really all that appealing, and they haven't been for a while. Making it in show business is harder than he thought.
And then, blessedly, his phone lights up with a new email with a promising subject line: "Music lessons?"
-
Swiftly he arranges to meet Laetitia at 4 after her Tai-chi class ends, in one of the smaller practice rooms in Melnitz Hall. In his emailed reply to her he carefully explained that today's class was a taster more than anything else, a test to establish musical compatibility, because he feels establishing a good rapport is crucial to any sort of future success.
He arrives early, sitting at the piano to practice his playing and his scales, and loses himself in the music until there's a knocking at the door, and a thin and reedy girl standing at the other side. "Hey." She shrugs and hesitates by the door. "You Jesse?"
"Jesse St James," he confirms. It's still awkward having to introduce himself to fellow performers rather than being recognised, but he rises and offers his hand.
"Cool. I'm Laetitia. It's nice to meet you." Her grip is surprisingly firm, given her badly bleached hair and her torn jeans. Maybe this will not be as disastrous as all the ones that came before. Maybe this girl is the one he's been looking for, the duet partner that will catalyse his rise. For a few seconds Jesse lets himself hope, and then he asks,
"What do you know about singing?"
"Not very much. I'm doing straight-up acting for the most part, but it never hurts to be able to sing a bit, you know? All these shows these days, there's so much crossover and all that. I saw your posters and I thought, 'why not?'"
On second thought, she's probably not the one for him.
"I do know, yes. I'm a four-time national show choir champion." He can't help it, and besides, it's always good to impress upon her that he's a highly qualified instructor, not some third-rate desperate wannabe. "So I know exactly what you mean. I have found this program vastly underrates the importance of song and competition, which doesn't make for a very good education, if you ask me."
"I dunno about that. I mean, they offer so many internships and stuff what with all the contacts they have in the industry that pretty much anything you want to do you can, you just need to look for it. I mean, last summer I had this amazing--"
He shrugs. Jesse hasn't done any searching yet of this sort, still trusting on his own raw talent to see him through without having to depend on others. Once he's confident he's exhausted all of his options he will turn to the long list of departmental alumni, but for now he's still convinced he can make it on his own, and it will taste all the better when he does. "How about we start by you singing something? Whatever your best piece is. Just pretend this is an audition for reality TV, and then we'll work from there, see what spots you need most coaching on." He feels himself slipping into the role, and gives himself a mental self-congratulatory pat on the back. He's been to enough auditions, watched enough TV, that this bit comes naturally. On autopilot, even, a skill sure to prove useful later in his career.
Then she opens her mouth, and Jesse can't help it, he clenches his fist in appalled shock. Deep breaths, he tells himself, willing his fingers to relax. Deep breaths. Remember, WWSCD? Definitely not lose his cool - he hasn't done that since season one. But by the time she gets to the chorus and changes key just so she can keep on singing he has had enough. "I'm going to stop you there, Laetitia. I'm sorry to have to say this, but you're terrible. That was hideously pitchy. And where was your smile? You can't hope to win anything with a grimace like that."
-
They end up spending two excruciating hours together, going through the most basic of scales, trying to establish if her range even spans a single octave. By the end they have reached the twin conclusions that it doesn't, and that Jesse St James is not the person to train her so that it does. And yet he feels somehow invigorated, like he's done a good, charitable task. Like picking up a turtle that has rolled over onto its back. He has no desire to repeat any of it, of course, and her unfaltering cheer in the face of his snide commentary made him feel like he should go home and pay close attention to some of Simon's greatest judging moments and ensure he hasn't lost his touch. Still. Next time he makes those posters, Jesse tells himself, he's going to make it quite clear that he's only interested in people with developed skills. He's going to drag no one out of their self-imposed mediocrity. That is not what he's here for.
The girls at VA may have been catty, and Dakota Stanley would turn them all into bulimics by the end of week four, but at least they could sing. He misses that, and the camaraderie of being in the group with everyone else, friends and acquaintances alike - Jesse was too busy excelling to make enemies, of course. And then there had been, for a while, Rachel. He spares a second to wonder how she's doing, whether her and her band of remedials have made it past Sectionals this year. In all fairness, the competition in Ohio is not particularly great, or challenging, so he suspects they'll make it to Regionals again, maybe even past that if Rachel still remembers all the tips he shared with her back then, or if she hasn't tried too hard to forget them. Although sometimes he can admit to himself that it'd be hard to fault her, if she had.
Oh, how he yearns for a good duet.
-
"Hey mom," he says. When for some reason or another he can't sing, he turns to the next best thing instead.
"Darling! How are you! It's been so long, you know I was just talking to your father about how you haven't called in a week and we were wondering how our darling star was doing!"
As he talks he strolls through campus, retracing his steps from this morning and wondering where his day has gone. For all of his confidence and energy at the break of day he hasn't accomplished much - a failed music lesson, some audition tapes, and a couple of unsatisfying dining hall meals, both of them eaten on his own. "I'm good, mom. How are you? I'm not calling too late, am I?"
"No, of course not. I just finished with the kitchen and was about to sit down to watch some TV. Your father is out playing poker tonight, so it's just me. Well, your brother and sister are home, but you know how they are, especially when you're not around. I may as well be home alone."
"Yeah," he says, "I'm on my way to get dinner myself."
"Gotta keep your energy up," she agrees. "How are your classes going?"
"They're great. My favourite one is still the judging reality TV one." He doesn't feel too guilty lying to her about that. For all the TV he watches the class may as well be real, and he's fairly confident that given time and inclination he could put together quite a compelling syllabus on the subject.
"Ooh, have you met him yet?" she asks. And okay, maybe Jesse's unfaltering obsession with Simon Cowell is part of the reason his mother thinks he's gay, and maybe the night he told his mother that their final project was to help judge a real televised episode was not his finest moment, but he's confident he'll have made some sort of broadcast appearance by the time she begins to expect him on her TiVo, and he'll tell her the producers were so impressed by his talent that they decided he ought to compete instead.
"Sometimes, it's just, we worry about you, your father and I. You're so far away, all the way over in California trying to make it on your own, and we just want what's best for you."
"I'm fine, mom. Having a great time. I just wanted to check how you were doing, really."
"We're good, darling. You know how it is," and she launches into some anecdote about the neighbour's dog digging up all the bulbs she'd carefully planted for the garden association. He passes an open student-run cafe and buys a wrap and some sort of organic mixed berry juice while she talks, shoving them in his bag. "Oh but I've just remembered, your father wanted me to ask - have you booked your plane tickets for Thanksgiving yet?"
"No," he says with a shake of his head. "I'll do it as soon as I get back to my room tonight."
They continue to chat, the conversation flitting superficially from his brother's latest mishap to the PTA's recent bake sale, until Jesse reaches his dorm. "I've got to go," he says. "I'm home."
"Of course dear. Just make sure to forward us that confirmation email. Good night, dear."
"Goodnight, mom."
In his room he takes off his shoes and changes into more comfortable clothes, yoga pants and a loose shirt. He pulls out the wrap, and sets his laptop back on his desk, minimizing Outlook when it pops up. Another night of youtube videos is probably on the cards, since the pianos in the dorm practice rooms are so woefully out of tune that they would probably ruin his perfect pitch if he relied on them too much. If he had a single he could practice a couple of solos, but Tim just narrows his eyes and glares at him whenever he does that.
He looks around. His half of the room is sparse. He'd felt no need to bring memorabilia from his years at Carmel to impress people with, as pretty as his four matching Nationals plaques were. Jesse's talent speaks for itself, after all. But the fact remains that there have been no people to impress, not really. He hasn't made many friends here. There is little room in the single-minded pursuit of success for fraternizing, and between that, skipping most of his classes and his general disappointment at his fellow classmates he's fairly sure that he's more commonly known as 'Tim's weird roommate' than by his own name. He auditioned for plays when the first notices went up at the bulletin boards on TFT, but when he told people he was a freshman they refused to offer him substantial parts, so he turned their chorus and villager roles down. The time wasted would've been too much, when it came time for dress rehearsals and spending hours watching others play roles he could pull off so much better. Now he wonders if it was the right decision - maybe he would've met an ally there, a fellow underrated star. From what he's seen the odds are fairly slim, and yet...
Sometimes the beginnings of loneliness and fear start to creep into his life, but he squashes them. In front of the mirror he stands and practices his bright show face smile, teeth white and radiant, eyes wide and sparkling. He's making it, he's going to make it, he's working for it, he's a lucky man, and he's going to get his lucky break.
-
They took Nationals with A Day in the Life the third time around. Jesse sang lead for both John and Paul's parts, because there had been no one else in VA who could match him for power or potency or charm. Shelby was inordinately proud of that performance, harmony layered upon harmony as a few of the girls did some pretty dancing up by the front, and Bohemian Rhapsody next year, which they reprised at every level of competition because it was that good, was the logical follow up.
Jesse appreciated the solo, but to this day resents the fact that all four Nationals he attended were held in Midwestern state capitals and there were never any casting agents in the audience.
It would've made things so much simpler.