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000
Rachel will not give in. She will keep coming to class and looking her teacher in the eye and not back down. That's what this will have to be about, because it's the only script she's got.
“Not you, Schwimmer.”
Rachel feels, along with the disappointment, a brief burst of relief at not being forgotten, at still being on Cassandra July's list. But she still hates herself for the way she follows Miss July on tiptoe, hates the way she begs to be seen by her but also can't stand up straight, shrinking away from her teacher's eyes. She's here to see and be seen by this woman. It's the purpose of this hour. It is for everybody, she tells herself. Shame never stopped Rachel before.
“You're awkward and tentative in your body and you move like you're ashamed of it,” Miss July says.
The sore kick of pure hurt in Rachel's chest has absolutely nothing to do with how Cassie July could, theoretically, be criticizing more than what she's doing in dance class. Because Rachel isn't even quite sure anymore that that actually happened. It could just be a really vivid dream.
So, really, it's just that maybe her teacher is hitting a sore spot. Because as much as Rachel wants to be different, as much as she believes in a woman's right to want sex -- she's had a very hard time figuring out how to do the wanting.
000
Sitting on the floor with Kurt feels like the New York in her head is finally taking some solid shape, and she slips into it like it's been waiting for her.
She does not blurt “I think I had sex with my dance teacher.” Kurt would be so disappointed in her. She's also not sure if it's actually true, and she's scared that if she says the words out loud it will be. You can't put that back. So instead, she says what's also true: Miss July is a mess, stuck in her resentment, and Rachel hates her.
Kurt tells her to never give in and never stop fighting.
That she can do. That she can sort of understand.
She doesn't ask him about falling apart between Cassie's hands, if that is giving in or fighting.
000
Rachel makes her plans with Kurt, she finds Brody and pushes through the awkwardness to get a yes, she practices sexy in the mirror until it loses all meaning and she's just hoping for it to make sense again when it counts.
She goes to her classmates that she really barely knows, swallows her pride and delivers her spiel like she always did and somehow forgot that she might have to do in New York. They say yes. They all say yes, in a way that says “I think you're annoying but I'll give you what you want for reasons that really have nothing to do with you.” As always, Rachel will take that, and it feels good. She arranges to have ten flashlights hidden away in a corner. Kurt rolls his eyes at her when she tells him she personally checked all the batteries.
She puts on the dress she's planning to wear, tugs on it, turns around, imagines Miss July's face.
Rachel will show her she was wrong. She'll prove it. Make her eat those words. Be good enough for her. No -- she'll be good enough that it hurts. She'll be exactly as good as Cassandra July doesn't want her to be.
Rachel stares into her own eyes in the mirror, gets into position, and does it again. Better.
000
When she shows up with Brody, Miss July isn't any nicer than usual, but she doesn't ever actually try to say no. Maybe it's just the anticipation of delicious failure, but she leans back with her cane in her hands and asks Rachel to show her, and Rachel is left with a lot of arguments stuck in her throat and rattling around her head. She swallows. Tries to think of it as a challenge.
It does come together, it does make sense. Maybe it's just getting into the music and the flow of it. Maybe it's the anger, the determination, the extra fire created by Cassandra July watching. Rachel's eyes keep coming back to her, perfect legs crossed, bored tilt of the head, but eyes definitely watching -- and it makes sense. Miss July is the audience for this performance, and Rachel has made the mistake before, with Finn, of forgetting that the audience is what matters. She won't make it again with Brody. Eye contact, yes, chemistry, but there's the goal and then there's the means and she's not going to confuse them.
Rachel understands that Cassie would never praise her in front of the class after that display, or admit she was wrong. Intellectually, she gets it, but she can't stop herself from arguing, anyway, from fighting, from the words that she knows are true falling out of her mouth.
Because Rachel knows jealousy. Rachel is a freshman, she is still young and promising and yet and she already knows the absolute panic and hate an ingenue can inspire. She understands it, she just wants to be the one to inspire it for a while longer. She feels that's only fair.
So she tells Cassandra July, biggest trainwreck on Broadway, infamous teacher -- the first and only woman who's kissed her -- that she's just jealous.
Getting thrown out shouldn't be a surprise at all, but that feels like a first, too. Rachel doesn't know why she just walks out like that, maybe it's the shrill note in Cassandra's voice, the hint of lost control. Whatever it is, she looks away and walks, having no idea if she just won or lost completely.
000
Rachel walks all the way home, less and less angry and more and more certain that she needs to apologize. She tries not to think about what happened the last time she went to find Cassandra July. Thinking about it means she might have to admit it was real, maybe even consider if she hopes it will happen again. Which is pointless because if it did happen, it was a magical New York moment, outside the normal flow of time, story or logic. So, obviously, it can't happen again. Rachel is just going to apologize to her teacher, because she's going to stay in this class, she needs to try to fix this.
It works okay for a few seconds until Miss July tells her to stop talking, bends over in front of her -- and then suddenly, more jarring than any of those, is walking around barefoot and a little tired, sighing, human.
She starts talking again, about how hard Broadway is, which Rachel is very familiar with, and how Rachel will never make it there if she can't handle a mean teacher, which is also probably true -- she sounds like a maudlin old cynic, and Rachel almost has tears in her eyes.
She's always been easily moved, always attracted to high and ruthless expectations, but she thinks it might also be that she actually feels bad for Cassandra July.
“You're good,” she blurts, and Cassie smiles at her. “I was great,” she replies, hooking her fingers in a “come here” gesture. Rachel feels like a stupid child, but of course she obeys, and suddenly finds herself stretching her teacher's leg above her head. It's weird and intimate, and maybe they're back in that other place again, Rachel can't really tell.
She's relieved when Cassie seems not to need her help anymore, because this is really a little more than she can process and it's not following her student apologizing to her teacher plan. This doesn't really feel like teacher and student in the nice simple way at all. But when Cassie waves her fingers at her again, she's right there. She pushes on her teacher's back with the tips of her fingers, desperately uncomfortable, knowing that she's not pushing nearly hard enough but unable to make herself lean into it and use her weight. Rachel thinks Cassie might respect her more if she makes it hurt, but she's just too close and she can't do it. The whole palm of her hand on Cassie's back seems far too intimate, which is ridiculous, considering, but she still can't.
Respect or not, she back in the class, despite Cassie's disdain for second chances. Being asked to do laundry seems like a small and stupid price to pay -- as if she were afraid of hard work, as if she had pride or shame left. Rachel hesitates, then realizes she might actually be hoping for -- what, exactly? Something too ridiculous to even contemplate, like being asked to stay and prove her willingness to listen? Didn't she hear? No second chances. She picks up the hamper and walks slowly out the door.
000
Kurt is incredulous when she tells him what she's doing, that she actually intends to hand wash a hamper full of other people's dance belts, but Rachel is insistent.
“Didn't you tell me to never give in? To keep fighting?”
“Yes,” he replies, eyebrow raised. He sighs. “Okay. You wash, I'll hang them to dry.”
Rachel grins at him. He's a good friend.
000
It's hard to knock on a door while carrying a hamper, but Rachel makes it work.
“Come in,” she hears, over the sound of some kind of pop music, turned down low.
“Hi,” she says, determined to keep her voice . “I brought these back. Fresh and clean. I used French olive oil soap. It's vegan, and...here they are. Where do you want them?”
Miss July is in front of the mirror again, wearing something black and lacy. She waits for the right beat before she turns, giving Rachel a look of grudging respect. “Over there,” she says. Rachel walks where she's pointing and puts the hamper down. Her hands are very empty. Cassandra is very close.
“Well done, Schwimmer,” she says. Rachel smiles uncertainly.
“I take my duties seriously,” she says, immediately cringing a little but pushing bravely ahead anyway. “I thought you should know that. Even dance belt duty.” She breathes. “I don't know how you wanted them folded. So I had to guess.”
Cassie regards her with narrowed eyes. “Schwimmer,” she says, “other than your sloppy technique, has anybody ever told you you have some... control issues? And when I'm saying that, you know you have a problem.”
Rachel can't help but startle a little bit. “Oh. Well, I --”
Cassie moves closer. Her hand lands on Rachel's shoulder. “I think if you ever want to play Evita, you need to learn to let go.”
“But --”
“No but. You think it's enough to be able to do what you did in my class the other day? Staged, rehearsed, calculated?” Cassie trails the tip of her finger down Rachel's back. The room is warm, but Rachel shivers.
“Isn't that what we're supposed to learn? The...stage?”
Cassie raises her eyebrow and smiles, like -- Rachel hopes -- she's pleased with that answer.
“Yes, sweetie. But you still need to lose the shame.” Cassie moves closer. She puts her hand on Rachel's thigh. “You could start by admitting that you want this.”
Rachel is silent. The hand doesn't move.
“I --”
“Schwimmer. You're not getting away with that again. You need to say yes.” Her hair tickles Rachel's neck. “Or no,” she adds. “No is an option. You can still come back to my class, I'll treat you no different. But I'm offering yes.”
“Yes,” Rachel breathes out. “Yes.”
It's still the worst mistake of her life, and now it's definitely her fault.
Cassie's hand runs up the inside of Rachel's thigh. She's actually honestly doing that in real life, to Rachel, pressed up close to her from behind and she's got one hand making its way up under Rachel's skirt and another snugly around her waist. Rachel tries to breathe, tries not to act like a frozen panicking ingenue who's in way over her head, but of course that's probably exactly what she is.
This doesn't happen, does it? What is this? Some kind of game to break and humiliate her? And in that case, what's the winning move? Sure, she's had people touch her like this before, but that's been choreography.
Rachel decides that if it's a dare, she won't show her fear. And if it's not, well. She can win that fight, too. She's not the crazy one. Her shoulders don't exactly relax, but she pushes them down, manages to, if not melt and fall into Cassie's touch, hold herself up with a little less stiffness. The arm around her waist tightens its grip. Rachel gasps.
“Schwimmer,” Cassie breathes against her ear, “I'm pushing you because I know there's something in there that could push back. Now all you have to do is own it.” Her lips are so close to Rachel's skin, but not actually on it, and she squirms, baring her neck.
“Better,” Cassie acknowledges. Rachel thinks the hand on her thigh moves. It's at a point now where maybe it could be redefined as being between her legs. Her skirt is riding up. She notices she's shivering, tries to fight it, fails. Her breathing is coming out dangerously close to sobs.
She's pushed away, and she stumbles, disoriented by the sudden loss of contact. “Stop,” Cassie says, like Rachel has made the same mistake ten times now and patience is about to run out. “Stop crying. Stop thinking.” She's getting up in Rachel's face like in class, and somehow, like in class, it works. Rachel thinks for one more second, and then she stops, and moves in for a kiss. She hopes she's getting it right. It's so hard to guess what Cassie wants sometimes.
Kissing Rachel, though, seems to be one of the things she wants. It's an objectively -- if such a thing exists -- very good kiss. Her lips are soft, it feels like falling in the best possible way. And then there's the additional little rush of pleasure at getting it right, and Cassie wanting to kiss her.
They kiss - really, after the first tentative move, it's mostly Cassie kissing Rachel, but she's definitely responding, more than she would like to, maybe, she doesn't know. She opens her eyes, and looks into a mirror. Rachel, of course, spent her childhood practicing her facial expressions in front of a mirror, and she can't help watching herself, noticing how her eyes change as Cassie kisses her neck, squeezes her hips, slides a hand up along her side. She feels it all, but she's also watching, embarrassed and pleased in turn with what her face is doing.
Cassie looks up at her, sees what Rachel is doing -- she must have known the mirror was there, she's a dancer and this is her studio, but she has her back to it -- and kisses her, hard, with a hand on the back of Rachel's head. Then she's behind her again, pressing up against the back of Rachel's body, looking over her shoulder and meeting her gaze in the mirror. Cassie's moving slowly, calm and deliberate, but Rachel thinks she can see real desire in her eyes. In a way that's reassuring. It's also makes heat rush through her body, familiar, but stronger. It's the turn-on of being seen and wanted, magnified by the force of Cassie, and by seeing it all happen.
Cassie's hand slides up under her skirt again. Rachel leans back, lets herself be caught, angles her head in a way that undeniably looks good. It's similar to their dance routines, both Cassie's and her own, except of course then they were touching other people while looking at each other. Cassie touching her hip, tapping her arm, guiding them where she thinks they should go -- those things are also familiar.
Cassie's hand between her legs, fingers tracing the outside of her underwear, which must be damp through the cotton -- is definitely not. The desperate, helpless want it makes her feel -- might be.
“There are some things I think you should learn,” Cassie tells her, and one of her finger slips under the edge, slides, as if she needed to make absolutely sure -- and yes, it's true, Rachel is more turned on than she can remember being...maybe ever with any other person.
Rachel finds her eyes in the mirror, looks at her questioningly. “Yes?”, she asks.
“It's all about sex,” Cassie says, and it got her attention when she said it in class, but it's infinitely more convincing now, with her hand up Rachel's skirt, teasing, tracing, making her want to chase it for more friction.
“But, you see,” she continues, letting her other hand wander up towards Rachel's chest -- “you're a little like me.”
Rachel gasps. She's not like Cassie. Not at all. She may want to be, in some ways. In others, she'd rather die.
“You lose control,” Cassie continues. “You want things.” Her fingers are rubbing little circles, and Rachel can't keep still, not quite. Cassie doesn't react, she just keeps touching, keeps talking. “And you don't like to admit it,” she says. “Ambition, desire, looking sexy in the mirror...” She turns her head, studies Rachel's profile. “It's all good, but if you want me to believe you're not so innocent? You should probably try to let go and like it.”
Rachel makes a tiny sound.
“Trust me,” Cassie says. Her hand disappears as she grabs Rachel's hips instead, almost business-like, and Rachel wants to protest, but she has no idea how, no right, so she stays quiet. She really does trust...something. It's like dance class. Cassie might be crazy, and broken, and mean, but Rachel wouldn't be there if she didn't think she was good. Cassie's approval means something because she knows what she's doing. It might hurt and it might feel like it's too hard, but in the end, if Rachel can stick it out, it will work.
“The mirror is distracting you. Down on the floor, on your back. Head that way.”
Rachel obeys immediately, lies down in the direction Cassie is pointing. She almost expects to be told to do floor exercises, and feels absurdly ready for it. If Cassie asked her to right now, she probably would. She can hear her own breathing, she feels disheveled and confused, but she lies still, waiting. Cassie is still standing, and she walks around Rachel's body, actually steps over her, straddling her legs, and looks down.
“What are you so afraid of?” she asks. “You've got it all, don't you?” She takes a step to the side, crouches down on one knee next to Rachel's head. Rachel studies her upside down face, wondering if she wants an answer. “I -- what if somebody comes in?” she manages. She hasn't really been worrying about that, but once it occurs to her, she does. Rachel is on her back on the floor in the big, open space, still dressed, it's true, but she hasn't pulled her skirt back down from where it was riding up before, and she can still almost feel Cassie's hands under it.
“Focus,” Cassie snaps, “is what separates the very good from the acceptable. You can be naked on stage for all I care, if I tell you to look at me, then that is what you do.”
Rachel draws a sharp breath at the thought of it, of being naked in front of somebody, in the middle of this large, brightly lit room. It's scary, impossible, but it's also...not. “Yes,” she says, keeping her eyes fixed on Cassie and resisting the temptation to glance at the door.
“Good,” Cassie says. “Then we try something harder.” She moves the two steps down to Rachel's feet, matter-of-factly pulls her black ballet flats off, and sets them down a few feet to the side.
“Shirt,” she says, motioning at Rachel to pull it off, and Rachel does, awkwardly sitting up, leaving the shirt in a ball next to her. Somewhere far away in her mind it occurs to her that she should be cold and that this should be really weird, but she doesn't feel any of that, not really, and it's so much better, so much simpler, to just do what Cassie says and focus.
Cassie smiles, one of those grudging okay, maybe you're not so bad smirks that Rachel would do pretty much anything for. “And panties, I think. You can keep the skirt and the bra.” Rachel obeys, some stupid impulse making her tuck the rolled up, sticky little piece of fabric into her shirt on the floor. When she's done, Cassie gets down on the floor next to her. Rachel lies down again, flat on her back. There's a wild fleeting moment of wondering what in the world she's doing, lying on the smooth cold floor hoping and waiting for a crazy woman to touch her, but she wants it so much, and then Cassie rests a warm hand on her skin. The world doesn't disappear, but it does narrow to a very small window of space and time.
Cassie's hand, mostly, and the parts of her it's touching, the waves of not enough, perfect, almost too much except there is no too much. She needs more, and she has no idea how to ask for it. She arches her back, and Cassie catches her, runs her hand over Rachel's abs. Rachel doesn't understand and she does not care, in this moment, if Cassie wins. “Please,” she gasps.
Cassie smiles down at her, and gives her a little more pressure, like that was the only thing she was waiting for. “That's better,” she says, still seemingly calm, in control, but she's breathing a little harder. Rachel looks up, their eyes meet, and it hits her that actually, Cassie is just as gone as she is.
That is apparently what Rachel needs to let go a little bit more, knowing that as useless as she is here on the floor, feeling like she's falling through it maybe or at least that Cassie's hand is the center and all that matters in the universe, somehow she's driving that perfectly beautiful person just as crazy...it's enough to make it okay to beg.
“More,” she says, closing her eyes, “please.”
Cassie actually stops, for a moment, which was not what Rachel was going for, at all. She breathes in, hard, maybe whines a little bit.
“Does that mean...you want this?” God, what does she think? Rachel nods desperately, and whines some more.
“And are you ready to let go now?”
“No,” Rachel says. God knows why, because she's pretty sure she wants to. “Yes. Just...please.”
Cassie seems to think for a second. She's kneeling over Rachel, her hair keeps brushing against Rachel's skin when she lets her head drop. Then it's like she decides to give in, too, or something like that, Rachel couldn't care less why, really, because the result is fingers, finally, sliding into some perfect spot deep inside of her. She's not even sure that she knew about it before it was there, filling her up in ways that she had no idea she needed, somehow touching her whole body from the toes up by hitting the perfect center. It's so good, so close, and she never wants it to stop, but she also can't wait one more second.
“Come on, Rachel” she hears Cassie's voice saying, somewhere far, far away, maybe off in the same galaxy as her own fingers and toes. “You can't fight this.”
She doesn't know if it's that, or Cassie's fingers curling and pressing a little harder, just enough, but she does know with a deep certainty that Cassie is right, there is no resisting, she might as well let go and ride it out, forget shame, forget winning. And anyway, she's far from sure that she's actually lost.
Cassie, because she's Cassie, keeps pushing her to the last possible moment, until she's a limp useless pile on the floor. Then she stands up and walks over to a corner where she apparently finds something to wipe her hands on, while all Rachel can do is lie there and watch.
“You'd better get dressed,” she tells Rachel, over her shoulder. “I'm helping some juniors with their choreography, they should be here in about...now, actually.” She's straightening her clothes and checking her makeup in the mirror. Rachel thinks she hears a little bit of tension in her voice, but that's all. If she didn't know better, Rachel would easily have believed that she had just been practicing some slightly challenging combinations.
Rachel, though, must be looking exactly like what Cassie did to her, so she jumps off the floor. She's not sure if it's actually true about the students or if Cassie just wants her out of there, because when did Cassie July start helping people, but Rachel's definitely not taking the chance.
She pulls on her shirt, and her panties that she forgot she left inside it fall to the floor. She decides there's no time to take it back off and check for stains. She'll just head straight for the closest bathroom and hope she doesn't meet anyone on the way. Rachel pulls her skirt down as far as it will go, balls the underwear in her hand and tries to get her shoes on without falling on her face.
She doesn't say goodbye, doesn't stop to breathe or look back until she's safely inside a locked bathroom stall.
000
There's not one person this doesn't make her feel awkward with. Not strangers on the street on the way home, who she's certain can see right through her, not even Finn, and he's not there. Kurt, too, but there are things Kurt just doesn't think she's capable of. It's easy to let him assume. Brody involves more cringing, but she tells him she can't, and he draws all the wrong conclusions on his own.
She shows up to class the next day, does the tango, and anybody could miss Cassie's glance at her and the tiny private smile, that she licks her lips as she turns away, anybody could tell themselves that this is about Brody standing by the door. Certainly that's what Kurt assumes she thinks of as she paints over Finn's name on their wall.
It's so easy. They would never guess.