SEASON TWO, EPISODE FIFTEEN

WORKING TITLE

BRODY

          BRODY DID NOT HAVE A CRUSH, DAMN IT. Had he known people would tease him about it, he would have kept his mouth shut about the goddamn book. It's not even about Lincoln being a man—so is Jesse—but the nagging was becoming a little bit too much, as though those people had never picked up a book before.

          His management had always reminded him he needed to be relatable. Even if he wasn't, he could fake it, as long as it worked. It would help him retain his popularity, which, in turn, would lead to more streams and album sales, even if the band had disbanded a long time ago. Though he'd always be thankful for their time together, it was time to move on, since holding on to the past wasn't doing them any good. He wanted a solo career, anyway, and he needed to step out of the band's shadow.

          Michaela, the journalist they were supposed to impress in order to get a stellar review, had laughed when he quoted the final line of the book her husband had written about her. 

          She'd laughed and probably thought he was relatable, so his job there was done. If only his management had witnessed any of it . . . but they'd hear about it when the piece got published. He'd just have to let them know he had been tasked with giving Michaela a tour of campus—even if not by himself, even if he had barely gotten a chance to say anything, with A.J. being in charge of most of it—and then maybe they wouldn't twist their mouths in distaste when he pitched the idea of recording a solo album.

          It would be a win-win for everyone. He'd go back to making music, his favorite thing in the world, and they'd still be able to capitalize off him. As arrogant as it sounded, it was his name he usually heard the crowd scream when the band was performing. That was part of why they split up—they felt it would be best to pursue solo careers instead of resenting each other's individual success—and they couldn't exactly kick their vocalist out of the band. Even after burning out, they still had each other's backs.

          Brody needed to move on with his life. Hanging on to the past, to the memory of a band was doing him no good. Even when he tried to think about all the great moments the four of them had spent together, all that came bubbling up were the arguments, the ego conflicts, the unslept nights. They never thought things would build up to the point of them having to go their separate ways in order to preserve their friendships.

          He hadn't talked to Dan in months. Gaia was supposed to be his best friend. Zane, his own older brother, had seemingly dropped off the face of the Earth.

          Michaela Tate-Calloway was one of his tickets to a solo career. Then, he'd just had to help the group win Showcase and Nationals, and then he'd have to finish his degree. Nothing else would stop him after that, not even his management. He'd sign another contract if he had to, damn it.

          "Lover Boy," A.J. called. He really, really wished she'd stop doing that. "Let us know when you're done with your inner monologue. We have a performance due in two minutes."

          Right. The performance. The performance that would help launch his solo career. Right.

          In his humble opinion, she should be telling Landon, Waylon, and Sasha to hurry up, as they had been the last ones to join the rest of the group, lagging behind everyone else for no apparent reason. Sasha looked paler than usual, but Brody couldn't even get to her in time to ask her if she was okay. He also suspected she'd kindly tell him to piss off, anyway, so it was a bit pointless regardless.

          He was just a boy, standing in front of a girl, asking her to give them all a great review.

           "I swear to God, Brody Reid," A.J. hissed, standing next to him, "if you ruin these numbers for us because your head is elsewhere, I will chop it off."

          What a polite young girl!

          It was a tad bit hypocritical of her, he thought, to criticize him for being distracted or for having an agenda of his own. It wasn't like she hadn't been using the club for personal gain too—he perfectly remembered the conversation he had overheard at the beginning of the school year—so she could act all high and mighty all she wanted, but he knew the truth. Everything she ever did was in pursuit of one goal and one goal only: Elphaba.

          While he was busy worrying about his solo career, which still hadn't quite taken off, she was busy waiting for the results of her Wicked auditions—the first out of three, anyway. No one knew how long those results would take to come out, so she'd be distracted until then, but, suddenly, his distraction was a big issue.

          Both of the songs they had chosen were so basic they made his bones ache.

          They started things off with Keep Holding On by Avril Lavigne, as they surely couldn't mess that one up. It was a simple song, one that somehow managed to touch everyone right in their cold, dead hearts, and it was good enough, a tad bit beyond simply mediocre. Of course, they couldn't—and wouldn't—settle for mere mediocricy or the bare minimum of what one would consider to be acceptable, but it did the job.

          A.J.'s hair was so pale it changed colors whenever the lights hit it. He watched it go from red to blue to white, whereas Allison's hair had always remained golden. It was somewhat therapeutic for him to keep naming every difference he found between the two Allisons—this one and his—especially just to ensure he wouldn't be tainting her memory by replacing her with someone else.

          They let her belt out the higher, long notes, and, though she nailed each one, Brody couldn't help but wonder when the club as a whole would start feeling like they no longer owed her anything.

          (Though what had happened to her was objectively horrible, something he wouldn't wish upon his worst enemy, the great majority of the club hadn't had a thing to do with it. If anyone owed it to her, it was the blog team.)

          Michaela seemed to appreciate the song choice. Even though it was hard to tell from where he was standing, her eyes looked somewhat shiny with emotion, so they had gotten one out of two songs right so far. The review was so close he could almost taste it; all they had to do was not mess up the second number and give great interviews and they'd be set.

          Brody instantly knew they had fucked up, though.

          As soon as the drums started playing at the beginning of the second song, Michaela stiffened. He'd always had a feeling it was a terrible song choice, one that didn't even match the tone and the themes of Keep Holding On, but he hadn't wanted to cause an argument. They couldn't back out now, even if Michaela was very clearly not a fan of Toni Basil's Mickey, but, then again, who in their right mind was?

          Ironically, it was the performance the group seemed to have more fun with. It was a fun choreography, orchestrated to fit an upbeat song, so it was hard to not be amused by it, even just the tiniest bit. Michaela didn't seem to agree with that point of view, scowling ever so slightly, and that was distracting. A.J. noticed it, but only after glowering at Brody once again, as if the ordeal was his fault.

          He was the one person that couldn't be blamed for their current situation. Even she had agreed to perform Mickey, regardless of the song's quality, and had ignored the smaller voices that had protested.

          It would be far, far worse if they simply interrupted the performance just because Michaela had something against the song, so they kept going as though nothing bad had happened. They would have to deal with the aftermath and the consequences later, anyway, but there was a time and place for everything. Even then, whichever song they chose could have been hated by someone in the audience; it was impossible to please everyone, so they were bound to slip up eventually.

          Even though he hated to admit it, Brody found himself slightly out of breath by the time the music stopped. Long gone were the days when his breath control was at its peak and singing two demanding songs while performing a choreography was proving to be quite tiring. It was embarrassing to struggle to catch his breath when he was selling out venues not that long ago, and he could only hope Michaela hadn't picked up on that.

          How was he supposed to prove to people he could go solo if he failed to carry his own weight during a group performance?

          Michaela leaned forward just so she could reach the microphone set on the table. "That was all I needed to hear. Thank you." She turned to Isabella. "Who chose those songs?"

          "Um . . ." Isabella hesitated, glancing at the group, but it was clear no one was going to open their mouth. "We usually choose songs together, as a group. If we have a theme, we choose some songs that fit it then narrow things down from there, but there was no set theme here. They were just . . . songs that sounded good."

          "So you think Mickey by Toni Basil sounds good."

          Isabella sighed. "Look, I can understand it might not be everyone's cup of tea"—Brody had to physically bite his tongue to stop himself from scoffing at the use of the word might—"but it's a fun, upbeat song, and the kids enjoyed performing it. Right?"

          Enjoyment was subjective. However, Brody was fairly certain no one standing on that stage, including the dancers and the band, enjoyed being in college and being called a kid. It felt overly condescending.

          Regardless, they nodded. Most of them were majoring in something related to drama, so they knew how to act. They knew how to fake certain emotions and when to do it, ensuring they'd look as believable as the real thing, sometimes even more so.

          "I see," Michaela eventually said. The auditorium was so quiet one could hear a hairpin drop. A.J. threw a water bottle his way, adding he looked like he needed it, which was easy to take as an insult instead of a way of showing sincere concern. "I'll have you know I really, really hate that song." She threw her hair back over her shoulder, in a very A.J.-like fashion, then crossed her arms over the table. She had a list in front of her, which appeared to be the same list A.J. and Isabella had pinned to the announcement boards around campus back at the beginning of the school year. "I still need to talk to a few of you, and then we'll be done here. I'll need . . . A.J., is it?" A.J. nodded, reluctantly, and Brody suspected she was somewhat offended to not have her name be remembered. "Since you're the captain of the group, and all. I'll also have . . . Billie Dalton . . . and Gwen Kalani. Everyone else is dismissed."

          "That's my line," Isabella argued. Michaela didn't even look at her.

          Brody was the first to leave the auditorium. He couldn't believe it was finally over, but it was even more baffling to know his future was in the hands of three other people. He wasn't used to not being in control of those things, to delegate, and part of him wanted to beg Michaela for a chance, up until he remembered two important aspects.

          Michaela was interested in interviewing women. It was the main focus of everything she wrote for Serotinal, and he wasn't going to insert himself in a piece that didn't concern him.

          Brody didn't beg for anything. He went after what he wanted, when he wanted, and he got those results, damn it. All he had to do now was wait—it wasn't like he could do anything else, really.

          THE ARTICLE CAME OUT EARLY THE FOLLOWING WEEK. It was all the club talked about, refreshing Serotinal's website until it was updated like one did when they waited for Buzzfeed to release another quiz to help them procrastinate for a little while longer.

          If the buzz didn't escape from the confinement of the four walls of the choir room, the mindless chatter about the article could be somewhat bearable, but news traveled scarily fast in New York.

          Brody hadn't read it yet.

          He'd been busy rehearsing for Showcase and Nationals, something he felt stupid having to remind the rest of the group about, and attempting to convince his management to let him pursue that sweet, sweet solo career. A portion of the management team seemed to be on board with it, following his journey in the show choir world as close as stable adults with stable personal and professional lives could afford to do, but there was still a way to go before he got the final green light. It was hard to avoid the article, as no one would shut up about it, but, if he had successfully dodged spoilers about the final season of Game of Thrones, surely he could read the article for the first time in the privacy of his dorm room.

          He was calling his solo album 'Working Title'. It had started as a, well, working title, but he felt like it was an interesting concept that could catch people's attention. He had already written and composed a few songs for it, including Allison's ballad, which remained untitled, and that song had been the one to sell it to the good guys in the management team. Everyone else was asking for more, the hit single, the first single, the one that would set the tone for the rest of the album.

          Brody understood. They had to sell albums, even if he wanted to stay true to himself and his essence as a songwriter, but even the greatest songwriters of all time had to dip their toes in more commercially successful songs. Adele, Taylor Swift—they had done it. So could he. So would he, if that's what it took.

          He was thankful for the privacy he'd gotten during his senior year after years of being in the spotlight everywhere he went. Hell, his first few months in New York were a reprise of those times, with people interrupting his studying sessions or stopping him on his tracks just to ask him for an autograph. Still, it had all begun to slowly fade; at NYSPA, he was just a pretty face with a few awards. Even if the words would never come out of his mouth, there was some insane talent there.

          Still, he found himself calling Jesse just so he'd have a familiar presence with him when he read the article.

          It wasn't the same as him being physically there, and there were no guarantees he'd even be able to be present for a video chat, with how demanding med school was, but it was enough. In just two months, Brody would go back to Massachusetts, go back home, find a good recording studio, and they'd settle down.

          He would go back home, the place of so many painful memories, and then they wouldn't have to deal with things in different states. At least, they'd be together.

          "I was actually just about to head out," Jesse said. He looked incredible, as usual: dark hair slicked back, a two-day beard, wearing all black. The most time he saw him wearing light colors was whenever he posed with his white coat. "What's up?"

          "I'm just about to read an article this journalist wrote about the show choir group," he explained. "If it's good, I'm using it to help convince the rest of my management team to let me record a solo album." Jesse nodded, leaning back on the armchair he was sitting on. "Where are you going? I didn't even know you had enough free time to go out."

          "Cara and my dad stopped by. They wanted to grab something to eat, so . . ." He shrugged. "It was the least I could do. I think I've been ignoring their calls too often, so they came over to check if I was . . . hanging in there." He never said still alive. "Britney is in New York. Why not give him a quick call? You know he's always been better at moral support than I am."

          Britney, as in not actually Britney Spears, as in Noel Worthington had been dating Allison up until her death. Though, yes, he studied in New York, he and Brody had never been as close as both of them had been with Allison.

          "We're engaged," Brody reminded him. "I like coming to you for moral support."

          "I know. I'm just messing with you. So. Let's hear it."