As it says in the description, this is an AU version of events in Season 3. You will see references and events you recognize and some you won't. In this version, Sam didn't leave over the summer. He is still with the glee club. Quinn is not allowed to quit. Also, Joe Hart, Rory Flannigan and Sugar Motta are all recruited at the same time, while Blaine joined the glee club a couple weeks prior.

On the first day of her senior year, Santana woke up at 2:30 in the morning.

She felt the usual nerves. Would her outfit be okay or totally lame? Would she have classes with anyone she knew? Could she switch out of that insane Statistics class or would she be stuck with it for the next few months? Then, reality slammed into her all over again, and Santana couldn't breathe.

Her mom. Her mom dying. Her mom having been gone for almost four months now. Santana pulled the blankets over her head, but the memories came anyway.

The first week after Santana lost her mom was a blur. She couldn't remember anything. Not the funeral, although she could recall Jean Sylvester's perfectly, and how wrong was that? Jean was her cheer coach's sister. Santana's mom was her best friend, the person who she felt the safest with, the person she looked up to the most.

Her mom was beautiful. Awesome. Perfect. Her mom was always healthy. Until she wasn't. Until she got sick. It was Santana's fifteenth birthday, which was a big deal for her family. To them, fifteen was when you became a woman. She sure hadn't felt like a woman, but it was fun to dress up and be the center of attention. When all the guests and family went home, her mom sat down with her and said there was something serious they needed to discuss.

Key words stuck in her head: mammogram, cancer, advanced.

One exchange remained as clear as yesterday in her head:

"How long do you have?"

"If the treatment works, I could be here for many more years, mija. Don't count me out yet."

Her mom had lived sixteen months, almost to the day. No matter what anyone said, sixteen months was not long enough. Santana had been there right at the end. That Sunday, they spent in bed watching television. Santana had known it was coming but not like this, not so soon. The morning had seemed so peaceful. They had watched the cooking channel for hours. She talked to her mom about prom again, and how disappointed she felt about not being crowned. About wanting one time in her life when she felt accepted. Where she was the queen.

"I accept you…"

It had been a ragged breath, and Santana had brushed it off.

"Yeah, well, you have to say that. You're my mom."

"You are my daughter and I accept you. No matter what. I love you. No matter what."

Santana hadn't said what she most feared. She hadn't been able to confess to her mom that she liked girls. If she said that, Santana felt sure her mom's love would disappear. So, she just pulled the blankets around them both and watched Cupcake Wars. Her mom had nodded off for a few minutes. That was becoming typical. She was so tired, she said. But then, her mom woke suddenly, looking at Santana with an urgency Santana had never seen.

"Have I done enough for you, Santana?"

The look in her eyes had been intense and a little scary. Maribel was a strong woman, to see her so unsure made Santana nervous.

"Of course, Mom. What kind of question is that? You've done more for me than you ever had to. It's okay. Just rest now. It's fine. I love you."

Her parents had taken Santana in as a five-year-old, troubled and acting out, but Santana always secretly thought it must have been Maribel's idea. Her dad was a doctor who worked all the damn time. Santana had been moved multiple times before that due to her anger issues and acting out, but the Lopezs kept her. The adoption was finalized six months later and the adjustment period had been long, but her mom had never lost patience or hope. Maribel liked to say that they were soul mates; it had just taken them a while to find each other.

Santana had said those things to set her mom's mind at ease, and obviously because she meant them. The thing was, Santana honestly had not expected her mom to close her eyes…and let go ten minutes later.

That was the exact moment when things got blurry. No one at school knew about her mom. Brittany had only been over a couple times, and Santana could always talk her into believing whatever Santana said. She and Quinn hadn't been close since freshman year, before Santana's mom's diagnosis. When it came, Santana pulled away from everyone. Brittany only stuck around because she couldn't take a clue.

Santana must've left the room so her dad could come in. She remembered staring at the screen of her laptop in her room and slowly typing in the words grief, teen, and support. She searched, blindly clicking on the first link that appeared. She created a screen name: HijaSinMadre - Spanish for motherless daughter - and made a post the way her mom taught her. No identifying information. No picture. Nothing. She posted in the teen room, unable to go in the room labeled Motherless Children despite her chosen name.

Just Lost Mom

My mom just died and I'm numb. No one knew she was sick, so there's no one to call. I don't know what to do.

Posted on 5/15/11, 2:43 p.m.

Through a haze, Santana clicked refresh over and over, for hours, waiting for someone to reply. It didn't take her long to realize not many people posted here. Instead of wallowing, Santana thought of her mom. What would she have done? She would have reached out, right? So, Santana replied to every post, saying what she wished someone would say to her. No one wrote back, but at least it filled time.

A week later, though, there was a new post. She sat in front of the computer, dressed head to toe in black, fresh from her mom's funeral.

New Here

This is my first post here. I recently lost my brother. It was quite sudden. We were not close but I feel like I should feel something. Instead, I just feel empty. Is this normal? Please write back and tell me how horrible this is.

Posted on: 5/22/11, 5:49 p.m.

Santana hit reply. People had reached out to her but it had taken a couple days. A couple awful, excruciating, hellish days when she felt completely alone. She didn't want anyone else feeling like that.

Reply #1

I lost my mom one week ago today. She was my best friend and I feel empty, too. It is normal, not horrible. Give yourself a break. Write if you need something.

Posted on: 5/22/11, 6:25 p.m.

When Santana finally stopped crying and looked at the clock, it was 5:30 a.m. Three hours wasn't so bad. And 5:30 was at least a semi-normal time to get up and start getting ready for the day. She checked her text messages, deleting all the Twitter updates from Kim Kardashian, Snooki and Pretty Little Liars. She didn't even know why she kept the cell notice on those anymore. It wasn't like she actually cared about that shit anymore.

She hit delete very carefully, getting rid of Brittany asking what Santana was wearing today, and Quinn's status update about how much it sucked that school was starting. She narrowed her eyes at the text message. From Berry. What the hell did she want?

Did you hear? Mr. Schuester got fired for leaving us unsupervised in New York. It's like Mr. Ryerson all over again except this time I have nothing to do with it, I swear. I think Coach Sylvester is behind it, actually. I promise you guys, that if no one steps in as leader, I will. You can count on me. Sincerely, Rachel Berry.

Santana fell back onto the bed, deleting the ridiculously long text from Rachel, and focusing on the several that remained. Every single text from her mom. She had them on lockdown, so she couldn't accidentally delete them. The top one was clearly in view:

Love you. Love, Mom.

She forced herself up, knowing her dad was already up and working on his laptop. They barely spoke anymore. Maribel existed between them - a lump in both of their throats.

"Morning," she said.

Her only answer was the continued clicking of keys as her dad typed.

Santana sighed, pouring herself a bowl of cereal and eating without tasting anything. She hadn't thought it was possible hours ago, but it turned out, the day could always get worse.

Contrary to popular belief, transferring to McKinley from Dalton was not the worst thing in the world. Yes, Blaine had friends there whom he would miss. But considering everything that had gone on in the past four months, it really was for the best. At least, that's what Blaine told himself as he got up on Tuesday morning and stopped suddenly at the thought that he had absolutely no idea what to wear.

He could text Kurt, but he and Kurt weren't technically speaking. Still, when in doubt, Blaine always deferred to those who knew better. He picked up his phone, deleting texts he didn't want and skimming what was left. He noticed a Facebook message and clicked on it.

Rachel says: Hello, Blaine! I just wanted to send out an official welcome to McKinley. Don't be nervous. Santana and Dave Karofsky are still in charge of the BullyWhips, not that I personally take much comfort in that, given they basically did it to be voted Prom King and Queen, but it's better than nothing. If you need anything. (ANYTHING.) Let me know. And if you would rather be escorted to class by someone who knows you, and not someone who has attacked your boyfriend or threatened me in her native tongue, I'd be pleased to accompany you. I'm sorry you and Kurt are on the rocks. By the way, you should definitely sign up for Glee Club this year. We lost Lauren Zizes and are one voice short. Between you and me, you'd be an easy choice and would add so much talent to our already talented group. Looking forward to seeing you. Sincerely, Rachel Berry

PS I just heard a vicious rumor that Mr. Schuester has been fired. If that is confirmed, I have promised the club that I will take over in his absence. If this happens, I will accept you into Glee, no questions asked. Just audition and you're in. We've always had an open-door policy…except when Mr. Schuester denied Becky Jackson a place because we were too close to Nationals. Anyway, if it's up to me, you are in.

He hit reply and asked for her phone number. When it came through within seconds, Blaine called her.

"Hi, Rachel. Thanks for the welcome message."

"You're welcome. Anything I can do to help a fellow McKinley student. Are you excited? Oh, did you hear about Mr. Schuester?" Rachel insisted, her voice suddenly intense.

Blaine grimaced. "Until it's confirmed, I'm going to disregard it if that's all right. Though I will say, if he left you guys without a chaperone for that many hours, there should be consequences. Anyway, I just had a question, if you don't mind?"

"Of course not," Rachel answered. She remained collected, composed and polite. He knew what to expect from her.

Blaine breathed easier, despite hearing the whir of some kind of equipment in the background. Maybe a juicer. "It's just that…I'm used to wearing a uniform, and I'd like to fit in on my first day."

"Oh, say no more!" Rachel interjected. "I'd love to help! Get on Skype and show me your options," she commanded and then hung up abruptly.

Blaine blinked away his confusion and did as she told him, gathering several shirts, pants, shoes and bowties and calling Rachel on the Skype name she had given him. In less than ten minutes, her decisive nature helped him immensely when she picked out the black shirt, red pants, which he rolled past the ankles and a very particular bowtie. Blaine, though, insisted on loafers without socks.

He called her back once he was dressed and she gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up. His phone buzzed with an incoming text. Breakfast, it read, from his mother.

"Rachel? I have to go. Thank you so much for your help. I'll see you later," he said, waving at the screen and ending the call.

Then, he steeled himself and walked downstairs for breakfast. The memory stole over him like a suffocating blanket. Last May, on a morning just like this.

"Blaine, go wake your brother."

He hadn't protested. He hadn't known he should protest such a simple thing. He had done it all the time. Cooper habitually slept late. He did other things he should not have done, but his parents always looked the other way. They called Cooper eccentric and an artist. When Blaine voiced his concerns, his parents always brushed them off.

"Worry about yourself, Blaine," his father used to say. "Cooper's just fine. You, on the other hand…" and he would let the sentence hang in a way that Blaine understood.

Despite doing everything his parents ever asked of him - from Boy Scout camp to team sports - the truth remained. Cooper was the child they planned for from the first - the one who could do no wrong - while Blaine - born eight years later - had been an accident. As such, no matter how he tried, he could not seem to satisfy his father.

So, when they asked him to do that one simple thing, Blaine had, without question. He had walked up the stairs and down the hall. He had turned left instead of going straight ahead to his own room. He knocked briskly and then pushed the door open, walking inside without hesitation. He had heard Coop moving around in here not thirty minutes ago, so Blaine had expected him downstairs, but he hadn't shown up.

He had not expected to find his brother slouched against the wall strangely. His color was off. There was a rash on his face. Blaine was afraid to touch him. Afraid to speak, so he had simply backed out of the room and retreated down the stairs, pale and shaking. His parents called 911. His parents told the church, their coworkers, Dalton, everyone who mattered that Coop's death was due to respiratory arrest. They used words like sudden and unexpected. They never uttered the truth, so Blaine found he wasn't able to either. Everyone who mattered called Coop's death a tragedy. But the truth came to Blaine each night as he slept. He had nightmares and sleepwalked, so he began to wedge a chair beneath his bedroom door, terrified of waking up and finding himself in his brother's room again.

Blaine shook his head, taking a deep breath and willing calmness into his body and mind. If he wanted to survive, he had to keep the mask in place. He had to keep pretending. So, he greeted his parents with a practiced smile and the appropriate response when his mother asked if he was excited to start school at McKinley. There was no mention of why he needed to transfer schools so suddenly. No mention of how much money it actually cost for an ambulance, or resuscitative efforts, for a wake, or a funeral. His family still managed to project the appearance of wealth, but they had no money for the steep tuition at Dalton.

Still Blaine smiled. "Of course. I couldn't be more excited," he said, and took a bite of oatmeal.

School had been in session for two weeks when Santana's world was flipped on its head again. Sure, it hadn't been fun watching Berry get her jollies from telling all of them what to do, but it kept her busy, and anything that kept Santana out of her empty house was something she welcomed. The last thing she expected was to see Coach Sylvester standing in the glee classroom, in a new tracksuit with a bitchy expression.

The seats were all filled - Lauren was missing, but three new kids and Blaine seemed to have popped up from nowhere - and Santana crossed her arms defensively. She glared at the whiteboard behind Coach and read what she had scrawled there:

RULES:

Effective 9/20/11-whenever I decide

1. Eight glasses of water will be consumed daily. No exceptions.

2. No milk. Ever. It makes you mucousy.

3. No gum.

4. No yelling (except by me.)

5. Proper warm-ups done before singing a single note.

6. No whining.

"Sandbags, nice of you to join us. Take a seat and listen up. New Directions doesn't exist-"

"Why?" Artie interrupted, his hand raised out of habit. "Where's Mr. Schue?"

"Well, Wheels, it turns out that I have some pull at the top and those at the top didn't look too kindly on educators and/or chaperones leaving a dozen high school kids unsupervised in New York City for an undetermined number of hours. What matters? He's not in charge now. I am. As I was saying, New Directions doesn't exist. It's a stupid name, and I won't stand for stupidity in my glee club. This group of misfit, mouth breathers will now go by a name that should be familiar to some of you: Sue's Kids. Read the rules and follow them or you will no longer be welcomed into my world of champions." Sue insisted, her voice low. "Now, as you can see, I've brought Q back from the fraying edge of high school society. She's washed her ungodly pink hair and stopped that nasty smoking habit. Which reminds me, Sandbags, no more cigars! That's an order!"

Santana jerked her head up, surprised to be called out when she had yet to speak a single word. The reference brought her back to right after her mom died. Rachel had complimented her voice, and asked where she got her rasp. Coach Sue apparently still wasn't above bugging the classroom for hot gossip or blackmail worthy material.

"In addition to Q, this is Jar Jar Binks, a sophomore from the Jesus Loves Me home school taught by his mommy. We also have Irish, a freshman from somewhere uninteresting, and who is completely unintelligible most of the time. Saccharine Moneypants, who has a rich daddy and not a speck of singing talent. And last but not least, Young Burt Reynolds, with enough gel in his hair to give a home to Will Schuester's collection of small sulfurous egg-laying birds."

"What the hell is she talking about?" Santana insisted under her breath to Sam, who sat nearby. "Who are they?"

"Joseph Hart, Rory Flannigan and Sugar Motta. Oh, and Blaine," he supplied.

Santana scoffed. Blaine's wasn't a new face, so why was Coach acting like it? Maybe because he was new to her. But all the rest of them knew him, or had gotten to know him in the past two weeks. He was okay. Nobody she really wanted to hang around, but not a total loser, either.

"We will rehearse here, twice a week. Tuesdays 3 to 5 p.m. and Thursdays 7 to 9 p.m. Anyone who is late will be hobbled. Sandbags, you got lucky today."

Santana kept her expression blank.

"Coach Sue?" Mercedes asked, sounding an awful lot like a suck-up.

"Yes, Aretha? What's your question?"

"I thought you always said you hated the arts," she said, her tone honestly confused. "Why are you trying to help us?"

Smiling in a condescending way Santana hated, Coach Sue answered in a strangely gentle voice, "I don't hate the arts. I just hate Will. And since my best Cheerios are choosing to forfeit this season, I have no chance at another championship, and kids? I need another trophy."

"Do you know anything about leading a glee club?" Kurt asked bravely.

"Sweet Porcelain," Sue sighed. "I've done extensive research, and more than that, I know how to make champions, through a tested combination of terror and competition." With that, she turned and wiped the board clean. In its place, in red marker, Sue wrote: THEATRICALITY.

"Your first assignment is this. In my hand, I have a list of exactly sixteen songs. It's first come, first served. You will select a song, and you have until Thursday to make it perfect enough to perform for me and your peers. You will be ranked each week, best to worst, based on vocal performance, ability to embrace the theme, and your ability to impress me. And, you'll be competing for the fifteen available solos in Sectionals, Regionals and Nationals. Go!"

For a minute, everyone just sat, and then Berry roared to life, rushing down to the list and scribbling her name beside a song and saying, "yes!" under her breath. The rest of the class followed, with Santana among them. The choices were ridiculous, but Santana managed to pick one that was less hideous than the rest.

"Dancing Asian and Cannon Fodder!" Coach Sue exclaimed, addressing Mike and Brittany, and making them all jump. "You will be our choreographers. It's up to you to make this group look good. Understood? Bossy Midget!" Sue barked, this time singling out Berry. "You will teach Saccharine Moneypants how to carry a tune appropriately. If any of your subjects fail, so will you."

Santana closed her eyes. In spite of all this, she found herself grateful to be kept busy. If she was busy with glee, she didn't have to think. Not thinking was always preferable to thinking.

For the rest of the two hours, Coach ran them ragged, warming up for a half hour straight and then starting to learn the five songs that she had selected for Sectionals. They had no time to waste.

Blaine was rushing to finish his homework. It was Wednesday night and he absolutely could not concentrate. His parents had gone to the cemetery to lay flowers and talk to Coop. It was his birthday. Blaine had apparently caused quite a scene by refusing to go along. The truth was, he couldn't. He had an overwhelming amount of homework to get done, and his song to perform successfully for Sue's Kids. Luckily, he had at least a passing familiarity with it. That would be his strategy. Never get in over his head. Always pick something he was moderately familiar with. Also, he would be sure to switch it up from week to week so Coach Sue wouldn't get bored.

He made sure he knew all the lyrics, that he had the song down forward and backward. Then, he looked through his closet. He pulled up the corresponding music video and eyed the fashion as Kurt might. Which outfit could he emulate? Blaine eventually settled on one, and a pair of sunglasses.

Leaving his homework unfinished and feeling completely overwhelmed by all the changes happening around him lately, Blaine glanced through his favorites, scrolling all the way to the bottom, where he spotted the bereavement group he had found immediately after losing Coop. He had completely forgotten about it, what with McKinley and Coach Sue and avoiding Finn's total disgust for him.

He stopped at the post labeled New Here by CoopsBro and opened it. He stared, uncomprehending at his original post, time-stamped less than eight hours after he had found his brother. There was one new reply, made 36 minutes after the original. Blaine scanned it, feeling touched, and selecting the personal message option.

Dear HijaSinMadre,

Thank you for your understanding response. Your words were exactly what I needed, not to be placated, but to know the truth from someone who is where I am. Things have been busy lately and I honestly forgot about making that post, but the loss is starting to hit me again. My parents are at the cemetery tonight. I said I didn't want to go and they reacted badly. I just can't do that. Not yet. I know I should. I just can't. Anyway, enough about me. How are you? I am very sorry to hear about the loss of your mom. I am close to mine, as well, and I can't imagine losing her. If you need anything, don't be afraid to reach out.

PS The room isn't very active, I noticed. I hope you don't mind a personal message instead.

CoopsBro

Santana woke like clockwork at 2:30 a.m. Thursday morning. Her mom had been gone exactly four months and one week. She felt beneath her mattress and found the journal she and her mom kept for the last year of her life. It was full of advice and pages labeled: DO NOT READ UNTIL YOUR WEDDING. DO NOT READ UNTIL AGE 35. DO NOT READ UNTIL YOUR FIRST CHILD COMES INTO YOUR LIFE. But most were free to be read. Most were spotted with tears stains already. She flipped to a page idly, and read:

Dear Santana,

I remember when you first came to us. When the social worker dropped you off. I had gotten a call over the weekend. Sunday night, really. You would arrive Monday morning. She had a little girl, a 5-year-old who had been removed from the custody of her grandmother indefinitely and needed a home. I remember when I met you. How you refused to answer to your name. Do you remember that? Your abuela had convinced you your name was not Santana, but something else. Something I will not write, because it isn't who you are. You demanded to be called this, though, and would not answer to Santana. In fact, if Daddy or I called you that, you screamed in a panic. I tried calling you a shortened form of your preferred name, but that didn't fit you, either. It didn't take long before I was at a loss and heartbroken watching you lash out and scream, thinking because we used your real name, we meant to hurt you. Finally, I realized that I had to think like a child, and I came up with something you could earn each time you did something good. Do you remember that old paper chain that we hung on your bedroom door? Every time you listened and came to me the first time I called you Santana, I gave you a paper ring to add to the chain. When it got long enough, I used to find you asleep on the floor holding onto one of the paper rings so tightly. It was like you were clinging to these good things. It warmed my heart and you have come so far. I am so proud of you. Becoming your mom was the best day of my life and I love you more now than ever before. When I die, I promise to watch over you. I will always be with you. I love you. Love, Mom.

The emptiness Santana felt inside was like a hole. She cried for the loss. For every milestone her mom would miss. For the fact that Santana really only got to know her mom for ten years of the 53 her mom lived. It was like the biggest injustice. The minutes melted into an hour and then two. When her thoughts turned to school, Santana moaned. Her song choice might have been a more appropriate choice than she thought. Santana was nowhere near ready for her performance, though, and Coach Sue would kill her for sure. So she forced herself out of bed and to the laptop on her desk.

She had every intention of looking up lyrics to her song, but got sidetracked, as usual, by the grief group. She logged in and saw she had several PMs. She clicked through them, not having the strength to be everything for everyone. She hurt, too, damn it. Didn't that matter? Didn't anyone care? Apparently not. They all freakin' wanted her to give of herself, and she got that teenagers were selfish, but seriously. Santana couldn't take this.

Taking a deep breath, Santana forced herself to click on the last message instead of just deleting it like her gut wanted her to. Her eyes instantly filled with tears. It was from CoopsBro, the guy who lost his brother a week after she lost her mom. Just when she was about to lose hope, this guy showed up after not being there for all this time. In all the months she'd been there, not one of the private messages she had received had begun with the words "Thank you…" and none of them asked about how she was coping with her own loss…

Quickly, she typed out a response:

Dear CB,

So many people suffer and need others but so few offer support in return. So, thanks. It means a ton. Busy is an understatement. You're in high school, too, right? It says you're 16. Too much homework, and after school crap and not enough hours in the day, right? OMG I know. I am not ready to visit my mom's grave either. Your parents should know that everyone heals at their own speed. You're not wrong to want to take it slow. My dad goes to the cemetery all the time. The rest of the time, he ignores me. It sucks to be alone. I have to get going. Random question. If you could visit a medium, would you? (Like, a legitimate one who could connect with your brother, not some crazy psycho.) Gotta go. This day is gonna suck, but thanks for making it suck a little less. HSM.

Taking a deep breath, Santana pulled up her song lyrics and forced herself to sing them, to feel them. She could now, but there was no guaranteeing that she could do it tonight. She'd rehearsed with the jazz band once, and she hoped it was enough to place somewhat high on Coach's list of solo hopefuls. Santana used to care about stuff like that. Now, it was just something to occupy her day.

The day passed in an agonizing slowness. She had to listen to Berry and Hummel complain about the fact that they hadn't researched their college of choice thoroughly enough and were now being forced to consider other options. She cringed imagining the 7 pm glee rehearsal.

When the time came, Santana was exhausted and more than a little freaked out at the thought that she had completely missed the theatrical aspect of the assignment. Great. Her only hope now was that the rest failed just as spectacularly as she was about to.

She had to admit, though, it was sort of fun watching the rest of them take on these dramatic songs. Even with Coach Sue replacing Mr. Schue, glee still pretty much was the best part of her day. Where else could she watch Finn humiliate himself, while Mike stole the show, both singing different Boy George songs. Mike danced his way through, wearing plenty of wanky androgynous makeup while Finn just stood there and fumbled his way through, adding nothing of creative or interesting value whatsoever.

Sam and Artie had each picked a Lady Gaga song. Sam didn't show up in costume, but did a kick ass acoustic cover of his song, while Artie cranked his version up a notch accompanied by Tina on piano. Plus, he managed to make a giant egg that somehow encased himself and his chair completely and sang from inside it.

Fate would have it that both she and Brittany picked the two Florence and the Machine songs. Brittany showed up in a wolf costume and stalked the classroom like a carnivore during her number. Even under all that fur, Santana was turned on, so she averted her eyes. Her own performance was not nearly as heavy in the drama department. In fact, it might have rivaled Finn's as the most boring, up to that point. She just sat on a stool and sang, her face blank and her mind somewhere else. The emotion she had conjured this morning seemed nowhere near available.

The Rihanna songs were a no-brainer, because while Berry tried to transform Sugar into a respectable singer, her song was terrible, though her commitment to it was pretty awesome. Mercedes totally slayed her own song, hitting all the notes, and putting all the feeling into her song that the others were lacking. It was amazing. They all stood up to clap, stunned when Coach Sue told them to sit their cans down and wait until everyone was finished.

Hummel and Berry somehow ended up with the two Adam Lambert songs. Hummel strutted up to the front wearing some kind of fedora with a feather, a boa and a raccoon tail along with Newton-John tight pants and a baggy white shirt. He killed the song. Berry did okay, too, and it was obvious she had help dressing herself, because she never came in looking that good in high boots and a short dress and sunglasses.

Puck and Rory had the Elvis songs. Which meant, Puck got to come, basically dressed like himself and act like himself and Rory surprised everyone with his sweet, smooth take on a classic from The King.

Joe and Tina got the songs by Bowie. Joe sounded timid and played his guitar like a shield, while Tina kicked her song in the balls. It was incredible. She even caught Coach Sue jotting down a note that said Cohen-Loser?

Finally, the last artist's songs were featured: Katy Perry. Sung by whoever was left, which turned out to be Blaine in a stupid red shirt and glasses. He just sat at the piano and played it. No bells and whistles. Nothing theatrical at all. But, it turned out, at least Blaine had tried. Quinn simply went up to the front of the room, stood in front of them and sang her song, which seemed to consist of one note, with no emotion whatsoever.

"Okay. Those of you whose name I call first. You are in the sub-basement. No chance at solos this week. What you didn't know ahead of time was that these battles were what I like to call heats. Because those of you who sang songs by the same artist were competing against each other. One of you will move on. One will lose. Of those moving on, I will pick the winner from the top eight of you. In the sub-basement this week are: Marvelous Marvin, Trouty Mouth, Sandbags, Saccharine Moneypants, Bossy Midget, Stupid Haircut, Jar Jar Binks and Q.

"Which means I have the unenviable task of choosing between The Dancing Asian, Wheels, Cannon Fodder, Aretha, Porcelain, Irish, Cohen-Loser and Young Burt Reynolds for the winner…." she hesitated, drawing out the suspense like she always did at cheer competitions. "But I must give credit where credit is due and reward Porcelain for his utter and complete grasp on the theme of Theatricality as well as a performance that paralyzed my ever-present rage and replaced it with a weird emotion…kinda like enjoyment. Congratulations, Porcelain. Your name is on the list as a possible candidate for a solo in the future. Now if you would kindly sweep up your downy pink feathers before my allergies kick in. You're all excused. Please pick up your comment cards on the way out." Coach Sue said suddenly, turning on her heel and walking out of the room.

Santana didn't wait. She stood quickly and made her way to the piano where a stack of cards sat. Flipping through them, Santana was vaguely surprised to find one labeled with her own first name, not Sandbags, as she had come to be known:

Your performance made me want to deny every emotion I've ever had. For the love of Ann Coulter, please get real. Make me feel something. You have a voice. Use it. Convince me next time, Santana. Get your name on that list.

Santana's breath caught in her throat. Then she crumpled the note card in her fist, rolled her eyes and tossed it in the trash.

Track Listing for Theatricality Week:

Artie Abrams - Paparazzi by Lady Gaga

Blaine Anderson - Hot & Cold by Katy Perry

Rachel Berry - Pick U Up by Adam Lambert

Mike Chang - Do You Really Want To Hurt Me by Boy George

Tina Cohen-Chang - Life on Mars by David Bowie

Sam Evans - Alejandro by Lady Gaga

Quinn Fabray - California Girls by Katy Perry

Rory Flannigan - Suspicious Minds by Elvis Presley

Joe Hart - Heroes by David Bowie

Finn Hudson - Karma Chameleon by Boy George

Kurt Hummel - Fever by Adam Lambert

Mercedes Jones - California King Bed by Rihanna

Santana Lopez - Cosmic Love by Florence and the Machine

Sugar Motta - Rude Boy by Rihanna

Brittany Pierce - Howl by Florence and the Machine

Noah Puckerman - Jailhouse Rock by Elvis Presley