Chapter 29: The Jazzagals
Moira Rose cornered me at seven-fifteen on a Tuesday evening.
"Your presence is required at rehearsal. We lack adequate male perspective on our spatial arrangements, and the chairs refuse to organize themselves."
"Rehearsal?"
"The Jazzagals, Mr. Schitt. The town's premier—" She paused, searching for an accurate descriptor. "—vocal ensemble. We convene at the community center, and tonight's session requires supplementary assistance."
"You want me to move chairs."
"I want you to provide masculine utility in a context that has been regrettably lacking in physical competence." She adjusted her sunglasses, despite the fact that we were indoors and the sun had already set. "Eight o'clock. Do not be late."
She swept away before I could decline, leaving me with the distinct impression that attendance was not optional.
The community center smelled like old coffee and the particular mustiness of a building that served too many purposes and was maintained by no one specifically.
I arrived at 7:55 to find eight women arranged in a semicircle of folding chairs, their attention fixed on Moira with varying degrees of enthusiasm and terror. Jocelyn occupied the front row, smiling with the aggressive optimism of someone determined to have a good time regardless of circumstances. Twyla waved from the back, her presence in the soprano section suggesting either vocal range or simple proximity to the exit.
"Ah, Mr. Schitt." Moira gestured imperiously at a stack of chairs against the wall. "The risers require adjustment. We need three rows, ascending, with adequate space between for dramatic movement."
I moved chairs while the Jazzagals warmed up.
The warm-up consisted of scales sung at approximately twelve different pitches simultaneously. Moira conducted with the precision of someone who could hear exactly how bad things were but refused to acknowledge the reality of what she was working with. The choir followed her lead with cheerful disregard for harmony.
"From the top," Moira commanded. "The opening bars require unified attack. Think of yourselves as a single instrument—albeit one with multiple moving parts that occasionally refuse to cooperate."
They sang. The opening bars achieved something adjacent to unified attack, in the sense that all the attacks happened within the same general timeframe.
I finished the risers and stood at the back of the room, watching.
They want to be good, I thought. That's something.
The show hadn't shown much of the Jazzagals—brief scenes, comedic moments, the occasional performance that was more about character dynamics than actual music. But seeing them in person, I could read the effort beneath the discord. Jocelyn's determined concentration. Twyla's genuine attempt to match pitch. Even the women I didn't recognize, each one trying to contribute to something larger than themselves.
It was terrible. But it was also real.
Something flickered at the edge of my awareness.
The Network. I could feel it—faint, distributed, like static across multiple channels. Standing near the group, in sustained proximity while they practiced together, the Skill Sharing Network was... sensing them. Cataloging connections. Testing whether it could reach multiple people at once.
I stepped back instinctively, alarmed by the implications.
If the Network works on groups...
The thought spiraled. Stevie and Johnny had been one thing—two people, gradual improvement, plausibly explained by practice and proximity. But a group? Eight people suddenly getting better at something none of them had been good at before?
Someone would notice. Someone would ask questions.
"Mr. Schitt." Moira's voice cut through my thoughts. "Your spatial arrangement appears adequate. You may now observe from a position of minimal intrusion while we attempt to salvage this rehearsal."
I found a seat near the door and watched them practice, carefully maintaining distance, fighting the urge to reach out through the Network and help.
The rehearsal lasted ninety minutes.
By the end, they'd achieved something that could charitably be called "ensemble." Not good—not anywhere close to good—but the timing had improved slightly, and a few of the harmonies had locked into place with surprising accuracy.
Moira dismissed them with theatrical disappointment. "Adequate. Barely. We shall reconvene Thursday to continue our Sisyphean endeavor."
The women gathered their things, chatting with the particular energy of people who'd shared struggle and emerged on the other side. Twyla caught my eye as she passed.
"Thanks for setting up the chairs. It's nice having someone who actually knows how to arrange things."
"Happy to help."
"We're terrible, aren't we?" She said it with a smile, self-aware without self-pity. "It's okay. You can say it."
"You're enthusiastic."
"That's diplomatic." She shouldered her bag. "But it's fun. That's the point, right? Having fun with people, even if the music isn't perfect."
"That's a good point."
"My mom used to say that perfection was just organized anxiety with good posture." She laughed at my expression. "Don't ask. Her quotes are mostly like that."
She left with the others, and I found myself alone with Moira, who was gathering sheet music with the air of someone assembling evidence for a future prosecution.
"The ensemble requires significant development," she said without looking up. "However, I sense potential that remains largely untapped."
"They work hard."
"They attend consistently. Effort is not the issue." She paused, considering. "Coordination is the challenge. Individual capability exists in fragments, but the synthesis eludes them."
I thought about the Network again—about what would happen if I stopped holding back, stopped fighting the connections, let the Skill Sharing reach the entire group.
They would improve. Probably dramatically. The underlying enthusiasm was there; they just lacked the technical foundation to translate it into actual music.
But they wouldn't know why. Wouldn't understand what was happening to them. Wouldn't consent to being... enhanced.
Just like Stevie, a voice in my head reminded me. Just like Johnny.
"Perhaps," Moira continued, oblivious to my internal conflict, "future rehearsals would benefit from your continued presence. Not for manual labor exclusively, but for..." She searched for the word. "Observation. Fresh perspectives often illuminate possibilities that familiarity obscures."
"You want me to keep coming."
"I want competent witnesses to our eventual triumph." She straightened her wig—tonight's selection was an architectural wonder in burgundy. "The Jazzagals will astonish this town. That achievement deserves documentation."
She swept out, leaving me alone in the community center with folded chairs and questions I couldn't answer.
Read the raw, unfiltered story as it unfolds. Your support makes this possible!
Find it all at patreon.com/Whatif0
Timeline Viewer ($6): Get 10 chapters of early access + 5 new chapters weekly.
Timeline Explorer ($9): Jump 15-20 chapters ahead of everyone.
Timeline Keeper ($15): Get Instant Access to chapters the moment I finish writing them. No more waiting.