"Do you know what theme you want to sing to Santana about?" Kurt asks, leaning over Brittany's shoulder at his desk.
"I've got a suggestion," Mercedes says darkly from the couch. "It begins with b and ends with itch."
He snorts, but, to illustrate to Brittany, types it into the iTunes bar to search his 63 gigs of music. Not many songs come up; Kurt doesn't see Brittany as much of a Bowie fan. "Picking a common word can at least give you a starting list to work from."
Brittany seems to have perked up at the idea of taking on a solo in front of the club. She brightened a little and said something about her awesomeness when they were in the car, anyway, so she seems to have retained her self-confidence from the week of the Other Britney. She slowly nods.
"What's your theme?" Mercedes asks.
Brittany turns around in her chair. "It's a secret," she says, very seriously, and Kurt and Mercedes exchange what feels like the fiftieth look of the afternoon.
"Well," Kurt drawls, slowly. "If you want your song choice to be a secret until you perform it, you'll probably want to plug these in." He connects his noise-canceling headphones to the laptop.
It takes her three tries to get them over her ears correctly.
"Maybe we shouldn't be encouraging this," Kurt mutters to Mercedes.
"Definitely not," she mutters back.
***
Kurt sticks his hand up. "Mr. Schuester," he says.
Mr. Schue sighs and leans back against the piano, like he's just been waiting for this. "Yes, Kurt?"
He frowns at him, but remembers: this is for Brittany. Despite all his misgivings. He pushes on. "Brittany has something she wants to share with the group."
There are some muffled groans. Mr. Schuester says, "Guys, if we keep doing this, we're never going to practice."
"Mr. Schue, everybody else had their chance to sing if they wanted to," Mercedes says. "I think Brittany should get a shot."
"Fine." Mr. Schuester doesn't sound particularly enthused about it, as he climbs into the seats. That's totally his 'this is stupid but I'm going to allow you kids to get it out of your system' voice. "Where is she?"
Mercedes points to Brad at the piano, who takes his cue and signals the strings.
The chorus room doors blow open and Brittany stalks in, heels clicking. She's dressed like a pin-up of a fifties housewife in a short black halter-neck dress with wide skirts made wider by a crinoline. Her hair is up in an impeccably retro mass of curls, and she is wearing bright red lipstick and a fierce eyeliner cat-eye.
Everyone else looks various levels of surprised, bemused, or turned on by the sight of Brittany's chosen outfit. Kurt, however, recognizes both the fashion style and the opening strains of the song (that sounds like something out of a cheesy PSA from 1952) that Brad and the band are beginning to play.
Kurt's eyebrows make an immediate run for his hairline.
The music shifts into a steady beat and Brittany stops at the piano, staring out at all of them. She puts her hand on her cocked hip and she talk-sings, "Now honey, you better sit down and look around, 'cause you must have bumped your head, and I love you enough to talk some sense back into you, baby."
Brittany has always been a good performer. When she gets up in front of people, her studied blankness vanishes and is completely replaced by some of the most expressive work Kurt has ever seen. That's usually while dancing or cheering in a group, though, and this is on a whole new level altogether. Who knew Brit had so much attitude in her?
Mercedes reaches back and clutches at Kurt's knee in realization. "Is she--?!" she hisses, and Kurt bats at her hand, staring at Brittany.
"Check my credentials; I give you everything you want, everything you need," says Brittany, over the beat. "Even your friends say I'm a good woman. All I need to know is why."
And then the hook sets in, and Brittany launches into it. "Why don't you love me? Tell me, baby, why don't you love me when I make me so damn easy to love?"
(3/4)
"Do you know what theme you want to sing to Santana about?" Kurt asks, leaning over Brittany's shoulder at his desk.
"I've got a suggestion," Mercedes says darkly from the couch. "It begins with b and ends with itch."
He snorts, but, to illustrate to Brittany, types it into the iTunes bar to search his 63 gigs of music. Not many songs come up; Kurt doesn't see Brittany as much of a Bowie fan. "Picking a common word can at least give you a starting list to work from."
Brittany seems to have perked up at the idea of taking on a solo in front of the club. She brightened a little and said something about her awesomeness when they were in the car, anyway, so she seems to have retained her self-confidence from the week of the Other Britney. She slowly nods.
"What's your theme?" Mercedes asks.
Brittany turns around in her chair. "It's a secret," she says, very seriously, and Kurt and Mercedes exchange what feels like the fiftieth look of the afternoon.
"Well," Kurt drawls, slowly. "If you want your song choice to be a secret until you perform it, you'll probably want to plug these in." He connects his noise-canceling headphones to the laptop.
It takes her three tries to get them over her ears correctly.
"Maybe we shouldn't be encouraging this," Kurt mutters to Mercedes.
"Definitely not," she mutters back.
Kurt sticks his hand up. "Mr. Schuester," he says.
Mr. Schue sighs and leans back against the piano, like he's just been waiting for this. "Yes, Kurt?"
He frowns at him, but remembers: this is for Brittany. Despite all his misgivings. He pushes on. "Brittany has something she wants to share with the group."
There are some muffled groans. Mr. Schuester says, "Guys, if we keep doing this, we're never going to practice."
"Mr. Schue, everybody else had their chance to sing if they wanted to," Mercedes says. "I think Brittany should get a shot."
"Fine." Mr. Schuester doesn't sound particularly enthused about it, as he climbs into the seats. That's totally his 'this is stupid but I'm going to allow you kids to get it out of your system' voice. "Where is she?"
Mercedes points to Brad at the piano, who takes his cue and signals the strings.
The chorus room doors blow open and Brittany stalks in, heels clicking. She's dressed like a pin-up of a fifties housewife in a short black halter-neck dress with wide skirts made wider by a crinoline. Her hair is up in an impeccably retro mass of curls, and she is wearing bright red lipstick and a fierce eyeliner cat-eye.
Everyone else looks various levels of surprised, bemused, or turned on by the sight of Brittany's chosen outfit. Kurt, however, recognizes both the fashion style and the opening strains of the song (that sounds like something out of a cheesy PSA from 1952) that Brad and the band are beginning to play.
Kurt's eyebrows make an immediate run for his hairline.
The music shifts into a steady beat and Brittany stops at the piano, staring out at all of them. She puts her hand on her cocked hip and she talk-sings, "Now honey, you better sit down and look around, 'cause you must have bumped your head, and I love you enough to talk some sense back into you, baby."
Brittany has always been a good performer. When she gets up in front of people, her studied blankness vanishes and is completely replaced by some of the most expressive work Kurt has ever seen. That's usually while dancing or cheering in a group, though, and this is on a whole new level altogether. Who knew Brit had so much attitude in her?
Mercedes reaches back and clutches at Kurt's knee in realization. "Is she--?!" she hisses, and Kurt bats at her hand, staring at Brittany.
"Check my credentials; I give you everything you want, everything you need," says Brittany, over the beat. "Even your friends say I'm a good woman. All I need to know is why."
And then the hook sets in, and Brittany launches into it. "Why don't you love me? Tell me, baby, why don't you love me when I make me so damn easy to love?"