One More Time [A Larry Stylinson FanFic]

Chapter 7: Week Three

Week Three dawned bright and head-crushingly early on Friday morning. Marley showered, throwing on sweats, a tank, and a flannel. She'd change into jeans later before she had to be human for real. She slogged through her way through breakfast, then twiddled her thumbs before turning on her laptop and slogging through emails and social media. She was wondering what her practice session with Bev was going to look like, but trying to focus instead on calling Mary Clare to check on her mom, checking in with friends, re-directing work emails that looked urgent. She wasn't going to be able to keep up with work, she recognized that now. Her mind was obsessed already with song choices. She wanted to check in on practices, but they weren't broadcast until later in the week, when contestants had graduated to practicing on stage and could green-screen. Whatever happened in the Ballroom East with Bev was between those in the room.

And pretty soon, it was Marley's turn to practice. She packed her gym bag, singing Hamilton's In the Room Where It Happened, already acknowledging her need to box it out after her nerves flipped upside down.

Marley was sitting at the seat that Greg had positioned in front of her music stand, as if he knew Bev was going to be an astounding 30 minutes late. Marley had made her way at least 20-minutes through re-watching performances from duet night, having already watched solo night twice. She knew Bev would ask.

"You could go places. If you tried," was Bev's greeting. Marley looked up at her vocal coach as she strode into the room in a deep purple business suit, and basked in the warmth of the comment she had bestowed. Then she rolled her eyes internally and tripped off her sarcasm machine.

"How would you rate the performances?" Bev asked, direct as always, as she laid the folders she had been carrying on top of the piano.

"Uh...." Marley staggered, not prepared.

"Have you re-watched the performances, even?" Bev demanded.

"Yes. Most of them," Marley stumbled.

"Not all of them? I need you to watch each show as soon as you're back in your room. Watch them critically. Solos should be re-watched at least once the second day, as well. I expect you to not only critically review your own performances, but rate the entire ticket when you show up," Bev finished. "Do you think you performed well?" she added.

"Yes." Marley added, definitely. "I think Sam and I, particularly, shone during our duet," she added.

Bev fingered her pearls, then lowered her hand, never wavering on her glance. "I agree. That duet was good; maybe great. But, again, that means a bar has been raised. You have to clear it this week." Bev immediately looked down at the playlist, like she had dismissed Marley.

But Marley was getting used to Bev's abrupt lessons.

"Week 3 is 70s Week. The 70s is my favorite decade. Whatever your flavor, the 70s reinvented it and served it on platters. We have so many styles for you to choose from." And just like that, music flooded the studio.

The BeeGees, Elton John, America, Bread, Cream. The Jackson Five – the list went on and on. It was an hour into their practice session, and Marley hadn't figured out her song yet. Bev didn't look worried, but Marley was feeling it. Finally, just when Marley was starting to feel the fingers of panic reach up her spine, Carly Simon clicked on, and Marley could tell before she belted out the first line.

This was it.

Right down to the fuckin' apricot cravat.

Whenever Marley bothered to open her eyes, she saw Bev was locked and loaded. She knew she was delivering. She was up to 80% and tried to hold back so she wouldn't wear out her throat, but she couldn't. This was it. She wanted to get her message across. Get her message out. Even when the instrumental solos started, Bev didn't utter one word. Marley sang about clouds and vain ex-boyfriends, Warren Beatty, and every other awful male who ever existed. When Bev just queued it again, Marley dialed back – reluctantly – but felt like her point had been heard. If Bev wanted the pedal down, she'd notice and tell her not to let up. But that critique didn't come.