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You are the star, it is you. Everyone else can piss off.
Seriously, you’re the only one of this bunch who is any good at singing. Nobody else here even likes singing. They’re all here for shitty reasons like making friends or getting something to put on their college applications or seducing Jake English. You’re here to kickstart your Broadway career, because fuck everything that isn’t fame and riches.
But you won’t have much luck with that as long as you’re stuck with this bunch. Not unless you get a nice, long solo. Luckily, a solo was worked into the set list. Unluckily, you have to compete for it. Well, you know you should get it, but Mr. Noir could still give it to someone of lesser worth.
It’s not long before Noir arrives, looking like he’d rather stab the four of you than listen to you sing. (You think if he’s really dreading it this much, he should just skip the formalities and give the solo to you, but you might as well prove that you’re superior to them.)
“Okay, sit down and shut up, we have auditions to get through,” he yells at the room (even though everyone was already seated and not too loud). You sit up straighter, ready to jump up to the front and sing your heart out if you’re called first.
Then Noir announces the order – Sollux, Dirk, you, and then Tavros. You exhale and slump back in your seat. You may as well get comfortable to watch the show.
Sollux, and Jade for some reason, make their way to the front of the room silently. Sollux pulls a couple of stools in front of the risers where everyone else is sitting as Jade fetches her guitar from the corner of the room. Well, that explains her presence at least. Of course the guy would want live accompaniment.
She takes a few seconds to tune and you drum your fingers (though your arms are crossed) impatiently. This is already getting boring. When the song starts, it’s slow and sweet, and you can tell it’s not going to get any more interesting.
That is, until you remember it’s Sollux that you’re watching. When he starts singing you recognize the song as Safe and Sound. He picked a fucking Taylor Swift song. God.
It’s so weird to hear him sing a sad song. It definitely doesn’t suit him. You’re pretty sure he blew it with this. You scan the room for reactions and try to see if anyone else is trying not to laugh. Surprisingly, people seem to be enjoying it. Not just Gamzee and Meulin either. (Seriously why the fuck did the deaf girl join a show choir.) John in particular looks like he might cry. It makes you want to gag.
Jesus. How bad does your taste have to be to like this performance? Jade’s awkward background singing isn’t helping much. It’s kind of cheating, in a way. You’re not getting backup singers, and you’re sure Dirk and Tavros aren’t either.
At least they had the sense to cut the outro short. It could’ve been worse, but it was still fucking terrible.
Dirk came next. And so did John. Oh god dammit, were you the only one who just stuck with a fucking CD? That would be fantastic, really, if you just looked basic as hell in front of everyone.
Oh, who cares, they all know they pale in comparison to you.
This pair didn’t take nearly as much time to prepare. John just kind of jumped right into his piano intro. You guess that was the plan, because Dirk doesn’t stop him or look surprised or anything.
Anyway, you can already tell this is going to be just another pretty little slow song. Probably a love song by the sounds of it. You don’t really recognize it, but –
No, hang on.
This is a fucking cover of Whistle.
Egbert is grinning like a loon at the piano, and you hear muffled laughter from a certain drunk chick in the corner. It looks like Dirk is looking at English, and sure enough the latter is blushing. God, no, there’s been enough Strider serenades in this club to last you a lifetime. If this wasn’t an audition, you’d put a stop to this trite bullshit.
Can you blow my whistle baby, whistle baby
Let me know
Boy I'm gonna show you how to do it…
God you just want to gag when will this be over what did you do to deserve this.
You facepalm. You can’t help it. Your face remains palmed until the end of the song.
When they’re finally done, everyone else claps. You just lift your head, and when you remember it’s your turn to perform you make your way to the front of the room.
As you set up, you try to clear your mind. You’re playing a character for this song. (It’s not from a musical, but it doesn’t fucking matter.)
You are no longer Karkat Vantas.
You are Electra Heart.
Primadonna girl, yeah
All I ever wanted was the world
I can’t help that I need it all
The primadonna life, the rise and fall
You pretty much ignored everyone through the entire song. You’re pretty sure you’ve nailed the primadonna character as well as every single goddamn note. Not that it was so hard, but you feel accomplished by the end of it.
You ignore how the Striders look like they’re about to die laughing, and Porrim looks like an overly proud mother, and Kankri looks like a severely disappointed father. You just strut past them and take your seat.
Last, there’s Tavros. Thank fuck he’s the last one, because you don’t know if you can sit through much more crap.
Like you, he brought a CD instead of forcing one of his club mates to play for him like an asshole. Even though all that’s on the CD is a string quartet. You wonder if Lalonde is insulted or relieved that she doesn’t have to play Eleanor Rigby for this kid.
And as expected, he’s shaking so badly that he can barely sing. You tune him out. He’ll be less embarrassed if he knows fewer people are listening anyway. (That’s how low self-esteem works, right? Eh, you don’t care.)
Instead you look around the room again. Deaf cat girl still looks pretty happy. You expect the Scourges in their little cheerleading uniforms to be hiding laughter, but they aren’t. Vriska even looks like she’s trying to be encouraging or some shit.
Gag.
You keep on not listening until the end. The guy looks pleased with himself, so maybe he at least stopped shaking? Whatever.
The room is silent for about half a minute before Noir looks up from whatever he’d been writing. “Oh, is it over yet?” A bunch of people say yes, and you roll your eyes. You can’t be the only one that’s rolling your eyes right now.
“Alright, the solo is going to be a quartet, we’re done here,” he drawls, gathering his stuff as quickly as he can.
Wait, what?
“Fuck no!”
Everyone turns to look at you, except the person you’re talking to. “Fuck yes,” is his only response, and he’s out of the room before you can say anything else.
“Karkat,” John says, bouncing up to you, “I think we should start a Glee Club.”
“I can think of an almost infinite number reasons why that is a phenomenally stupid idea,” you reply, wondering why you were friends with John Egbert of all people.
“No, but, listen,” he says, and you do, for about ten minutes.
Somehow, he manages to ignore your constant protests, and you find yourself roped into joining his stupid Glee Club. You’re not even entirely sure what a Glee Club is, but you’ve now ended up as a founding member of one. You think it has something to do with singing, and perhaps being happy, neither of which are among your interests. Nevertheless, here you are, helping John plead with the music teacher to start this ridiculous club.
“Please, miss, please!” he says, using those puppy dog eyes which made it impossible for you to outright refuse to help him, and mean you’re now a reluctant participant, “We’ll do all the work, we swear!” You glare at him – when did you say you’d be helping that much? – but he ignores you. “We just need a teacher to supervise!”
“Well,” says the teacher – Mrs Lalonde, rumoured to be an alcoholic – clearly wavering, “I suppose it can’t do any harm. If you can get enough people interested by the end of next week, I’ll clear it with the principal.”
“How many is enough?” you ask, curious despite yourself.
“Shall we say twelve?” she says.
She smiles and leaves you staring after her.
“Twelve?” you repeat, turning to John, “How are we going to get twelve people interested in this?”
“Well, we already have two,” he says, ever the optimist, “And you’ve got loads of friends.”
“You call them friends, I call them people I barely tolerate,” you reply, turning and walking away down the corridor, not waiting to see if he follows you (he does).
“Oh, come on,” he says, trotting to catch up, “You must like some of them.”
“I don’t like people. I just hate some people a little less than I hate everyone else.”
“You’re ridiculous,” he says, shaking his head.
“You’re the one starting this stupid club.”
“It’s not stupid!”
You’re spared the rant by your cellphone ringing. Glancing around for teachers – technically, phones aren’t allowed in school – you answer it, motioning for John to be quiet. He glares at you, but shuts up.
“Yes, what is it?” you say, checking the caller ID and seeing it’s Gamzee Makara. Great.
“Dude,” he says, sounding high, although you can never be sure whether he’s actually on drugs or just being, well, Gamzee, “I heard you’re starting a Glee Club.”
“What? Who told you about that?” you ask, glaring at John – how can he have told anyone already?
“Terezi texted me about it. Hey, it sounds-”
“How did she hear about it?” you interrupt him, attempting to glare even more ferociously at John, who is wearing an expression of almost angelic innocence, which you don’t believe for a second.
“I think Dave told her or something. But listen-”
You ignore him, lowering the phone and turning to John.
“Who have you told about this?” you ask, as aggressively as you can, which is quite aggressive.
“Hey, hey, I just texted Dave about it,” he says, adding something in a mumble which you know he knows you can’t hear.
“Who else?”
“Um, Rose and Jade and...”
“And?”
“And Vriska and Tavros and Eridan...”
“Right,” you say, trying to sound annoyed, but really thinking this is probably going to make recruitment easier, “Well, let me deal with this, then.”
You lift the phone back to your ear. Unsurprisingly, Gamzee is still talking.
“Look,” you say, cutting over him, “You can join the Glee Club, just get a bunch of other people to come along. Auditions are after school on Friday.”
“That’s great, man, hey-”
You hang up on him, not particularly caring where that sentence was going.
“Okay, we’re holding auditions on Friday,” you say, turning back to John, “Tell everyone you know.”
“Hey, I didn’t approve that decision,” he says, looking slightly pleased that you’re actually taking an interest.
“Well, tough,” you say, “I can’t change the day now, Gamzee would just get confused.”
“All right, then,” he says, grinning, “Hey, this is going to be fun.”
“Yeah, right,” you say, rolling your eyes, but secretly, you think you might just agree.
Friday comes and you’re sitting in the music room, trying to hide behind the piano, and half-hoping that no one turns up. So far, it’s just you and John sitting there. Mrs Lalonde hasn’t arrived, and you think she’s probably not coming. With any luck, Gamzee will be too high to remember, and won’t have told anyone else.
Unfortunately, your dreams of ending this here and now are ruined as Terezi walks in, dragging a reluctant Vriska behind her.
“This is stupid,” you hear Vriska hiss, “This club is the least cool thing ever to exist and I hate you for bringing me here.”
“It’ll be fun!” says Terezi, grinning maniacally and navigating the haphazard arrangement of chairs so expertly you would never know she was blind if it weren’t for the ostentatious cane, which she doesn’t need anyway.
“Great,” you whisper, rolling your eyes at John, “The psycho sisters.”
“Oh, come on, they’re not that bad,” he replies.
“John, Terezi tried to get you killed.”
“That was in eighth grade. Besides, she didn’t succeed.”
“She nearly did. You were strapped to that home-made jetpack, ready to blast yourself into smithereens.”
“Well, Dave stopped me in time, didn’t he?” he says, looking a little sheepish.
“That still doesn’t make it any less true that Terezi nearly got you killed, and also, you were a complete idiot to actually go along with it.”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time!” he protests, “Who doesn’t want to ride a jetpack?”
“I worry about your future,” you say, shaking your head slowly.
He just pouts, as Feferi Peixes wanders in, leading a reluctant but hopeful-looking Eridan Ampora.
“Oh, perfect,” you say, “The fish freaks.”
“Have you got alliterative insults for everyone?” John asks, and you roll your eyes.
You don’t answer, deciding not to tell him how long you’ve spent thinking up insulting nicknames for everyone you know. He’d probably think it was your way of showing affection. You think it’s your way of showing your utter contempt for all of humankind.
“I think Eridan’s checking you out,” John whispers, cupping his hand around your ear and looking at Eridan, making it painfully obvious who he’s talking about.
“Oh please god no,” you say, an expression of pure horror on your face as you turn to look at Eridan, who is eyeing you hopefully.
Your attention is diverted by Rose and Jade walking in, closely followed by Dave, who looks like he’s trying to pretend he walked in here by accident. Quite honestly, you don’t blame him.
“Hey,” says Dave, joining you and John by the piano, “So this is, like, a singing club?”
“Pretty much,” John replies, grinning, “You joining, then?”
“I guess,” Dave says, shrugging casually and looking almost impossibly nonchalant.
“You do realise this club is for singing, not DJ-ing?” you say, glaring daggers at Terezi, who just blew a kiss at Dave across the room.
“It’s cool,” he says, “I’m a man of many talents.”
You just snort, rolling your eyes, wishing you had the words to express your utter contempt for anything and everything Strider. You ignore John and Dave’s chatter to watch Nepeta Leijon dragging Equius Zahhak into the room, and reflect on how ridiculous the names of all your friends are. Behind them, Kanaya Maryam peers into the room, spots Rose, and makes a beeline for her. You make a quick headcount and notice you’ve hit your target of twelve. You run through a mental list of everyone else who might have been asked. Aradia Megido and Sollux Captor were probably definitely not into this sort of thing, and Tavros Nitram was most likely too nervous to turn up. You’re just thinking that Gamzee had almost certainly forgotten, when he wanders in, looking like he’d turned up more by accident than design.
“I think this is everyone,” you tell John, interrupting Dave.
“Probably,” John replies, glancing around the room, “Shall we get started, then?”
“Go ahead,” you say, indicating that he should take the stage, which he does, reluctantly.
“Okay, um,” he says, and the babble of voices gradually quiets, “Well, we’re – me and Karkat-” You glare at him - “Well, mostly me, um, anyway, we’re starting this Glee Club, so, well-”
“Do you want us to sing for you?” asks Jade, taking pity on him.
“Yes, please!” he says, looking relieved.
You watch as everyone takes the stage in turn. No one is fantastic, but none of them are awful enough that you have to ask them to leave, and there’s some surprising talent. You think that Rose would probably do well in the opera, and Dave’s voice is surprisingly sweet. Despite her reluctance, Vriska is very good, although Terezi has some trouble staying on key, and refraining from giggling. Halfway through, you’re surprised to see Aradia turn up, with Sollux in tow, and trailing Tavros, who looks like he probably got lost on the way. Aradia mutters an apology for their lateness, and Sollux looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. Amazingly enough, Aradia has a beautiful singing voice, and although Sollux’s leaves a lot to be desired, you find they come as a package deal.
By six, you’ve run through everyone, and they’re all acceptable. You and John have a brief argument about accompaniment – for a while, he was pushing for acapella – but eventually, he agrees to play the piano for you. You’re just about ready to tell everyone to go home, when Dave makes a startling observation.
“Hey, Karkat,” he says, “Aren’t you going to sing?”
“What?” you reply, turning and staring at him.
“Yeah, man,” says Gamzee, “You need to audition too, you know?”
“I don’t sing,” you say, as if this was obvious, “I’m here strictly in a managerial capacity.”
“Oh, come on, Karkat,” says John, “You have to sing! Everyone else is!”
“Even me,” says Sollux, looking disgruntled.
“Quietly,” adds Aradia.
“I’m not singing!” you all but shout, trying to escape, but your path is blocked by a mass of eager bodies, and you find yourself trapped.
“Dude, you’re not leaving till you sing,” says Dave, looking stupidly smug in his stupid sunglasses.
You search desperately for an escape, but can’t find one. Behind you, John plays the opening chords to “Firework” by Katy Perry, and you groan.
“Not that song,” you say, giving in, “Something else.”
John switches to “Fuck you” by Lily Allen, and you sigh, rolling your eyes, but don’t ask him to change it. You think it sums up your feelings about this club, and everyone in it, particularly well, but you don’t appreciate the embarrassment of having to sing it in front of them. You close your eyes and soldier through it, trying to pretend there’s no one watching. Finally, you finish, and gingerly open your eyes. No one says anything for a moment.
“Well,” Dave says eventually, looking stumped, “That was actually... All right, I guess.”
“It was brilliant!” says John, leaping up from the piano and grabs you, spinning you around in an awkward hug, “I didn’t know you could sing!”
You turn bright red, trying to think of an appropriate response. Truthfully, you didn’t know you could sing either. You’d never really done it before, unless singing in the shower counts.
“Yeah, yeah,” you say, pushing John away, your face still vaguely tomato-coloured, “Next meeting is here, Monday lunchtime. Bring your lunch, don’t sing with your mouth full.”
Feeling more embarrassed than you ever have before, you dash for the exit and make your escape, wishing fervently that you’d never agreed to this.
Somehow, despite the fact that this was John’s idea, you end up organising all the meetings, arranging all the songs, and basically running the whole club. John sits at the piano, enthusiastically agreeing with everything you say, and when she turns up, Mrs Lalonde just sits in the corner, watching and receiving disapproving looks from her daughter.
“Right,” you say, at the end of a particularly successful practice session, “We’re getting pretty good now. Not great, but good.”
John rolls his eyes at your carefully moderated praise.
“So I’m thinking,” you continue, ignoring the muttered comments, “It’s about time we started competing.”
Everyone starts talking at once, some enthusiastically agreeing, others objecting just as stridently.
“Sectionals are next month,” you say, raising your voice above the hubbub, “And we should be more than ready by then if you’ll all just SHUT UP AND LISTEN TO ME.”
The room goes quiet, and everyone stares at you.
“All right. That’s better. Now, we’ll be competing in sectionals next month, so I want you all to go away and learn these lyrics,” you say, handing out A4 sheets with the lyrics of the songs you want to perform to everyone, “I’m planning on winning this thing, so don’t fuck it up, okay?”
Dave gives the songs a cursory glance, and nods his approval. You act like you didn’t need it anyway, but are secretly relieved.
“Who’s taking the solo?” asks Rose, scanning the second page.
“I am, of course,” you say.
As if it would be anyone else.
“Oh, come on, that’th not fair,” says Sollux, objecting despite the fact that he can barely sing in tune.
“It is,” you say, looking affronted, “I’m the leader, of course I get the solo.”
“I don’t think choirs have leaders,” says Kanaya, looking thoughtful.
“Shouldn’t we have some sort of competition to decide?” suggests Rose.
“No,” you say, “There’s nothing to decide. I’m in charge, so I get the solo.”
“I think Aradia should have it,” Sollux says, “She’th much better than you.”
“Well, I think I should do the solo,” says Vriska, tossing her hair.
The room erupts with voices, either saying they should have the solo, or suggesting another candidate. You feel like screaming. Why is everyone so impossible?
“SHUT UP!” you shout, and everyone stops talking, “I am doing the solo, and that’s final. Next time, I’ll pick someone else to do the solo. There will be no competitions, and no suggestions. This is not a democracy.”
They all grumble, but accept the possibility of future chances for solos. You tell yourself you don’t want to be a dictator, and that it’s the only way to get this lot to actually do anything. Making sure everyone gets a copy of the lyrics – and that Gamzee gets two – you leave, hoping that at least half of them will learn them before next time, but realistically thinking that only Rose will know them.
By the time sectionals are drawing near, you think you sound almost like a real choir, harmonising and all (including the silently-mouthing-the-words section, headed by Sollux). Your vocal chords are sore from yelling at everyone, but you refuse to give the solo to anyone else, and instead delegate yelling duties to John, who does poorly. Despite your initial misgivings, you’re turning into a great club, and you even think you have a chance of winning sectionals. And after that? Well, the sky’s the limit, right?
Sectionals arrive, and you feel sick with nerves. You begin to regret taking this on, and taking the solo for yourself. Of course, the thought of giving it to someone else never crosses your mind. As you’re getting ready, you snap at everyone who talks to you, acting even more aggressively than usual.
Your turn to perform arrives, and you do well. Everyone remembers the words, and you even get the dance – choreographed by Feferi – exactly right, with no one falling over anyone else. Your solo goes swimmingly, and Dave gives you a little nod at the end. Overall, you think you have a really good chance of getting through.
You’re devastated, then, when the scores are announced and you’ve just – barely – missed out. You storm out, determined not to let anyone see you crying over this stupid competition, and lock yourself in a toilet cubicle. You sob your eyes out for about a minute, then try to pull yourself together, telling yourself you are not crying over losing a singing competition. There’s a gentle knock on the cubicle door, and John’s voice timidly asks if you’re okay.
“I’m fine,” you reply, wiping the tears off of your face and taking a deep, shaky breath, desperately trying to stop crying.
“Can I come in?” he asks, “I won’t... I won’t tell anyone you’re crying, okay?”
“I’m not crying,” you say, sniffing.
“Well, I think everyone saw you already, but...”
“I’m not crying,” you repeat, unlocking the door and walking past John to the sink.
You turn on the tap and splash water on your face, then stare at your red, swollen eyes in the mirror. You definitely look like you’ve been crying.
“Hey, it’s okay,” says John, patting you gently on the shoulder, “We can try again next time, yeah?”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
