Bleh. I can't even really point and laugh at it, either. I mean, Jean Sylvester's no Dead Scott, that's for sure. Or Ponce De Leon, for that matter. Even if the Glee Club did sing at their funerals, too. Ooops! Spoiler!
Anyway, yeah: Sue's sister, Jean, died of complications from pneumonia, in the middle of the night, in her sleep, at The Home. At Jean's insistence, Sue had left Jean's bedside earlier that evening to get some shut-eye, and so was not there when Jean passed -- of course -- which is making Sue feel especially guilty. Will attempts to console her, but Sue freezes him out, so he has little choice but to leave. Scene.
Hall. With the camera nipping at her heels and an entirely unimportant voiceover floating somewhere above her head, Rachel strides up to the bulletin board and adds her name to the unnecessary sign-up sheet. She's fourth on the list, by the way, after Santana, Kurt, and Mercedes, and when Frankenteen lumbers past on his way elsewhere, she calls out, "Hey! You haven't signed up to be the lead vocalist at Nationals!" Finn does his best to ignore her and trudge onwards, but Rachel of course will not let it drop, and she chases after him, all but shrieking, "You're the male lead of this group! Everybody looks to you for guidance!" By now, she's planted herself directly in his path, so he has little choice but to mumble, "I don't need Nationals to feel good about myself." Rachel blathers something about all the hard work they've put in over the last two years, and Finn mutters something about Jesse St. James destroying all of that hard work with one or two witty comments, and waaaaaaaaaaah! Here's a nickel, Finn. Go scrounge up nine more of them, then go find one of the three operable pay phones left in this country, and then go call someone who cares. Long story short, he's "Lima good," not "New York City good" -- and yes, we can easily argue he's not even the first, but I'm trying to keep this brief -- so he'll not be auditioning for the lead at Nationals, thank you very much. With that, Finn mopes his way into this evening's first commercial break.
Chez Schue. Emma's helping Will pack for his extended trip to New York -- he'll be staying on after the competition to shepherd Orange April's musicale extravaganza through rehearsals, as you'll recall -- and the first thing they've decided to tackle is Will's extraordinary collection of vests, both sweater and otherwise. To that end, Emma's set up three boxes: "One for going with you, one box for storage, and one box for giving away." Damn, that's a lot of vests he's accumulated over the course of forty-two episodes. Who knew? Naturally, the two get to chatting, and Will admits he has yet to inform the children of his plans to remain on the East Coast over the summer, as he "can't let anything distract them from the task at hand." "Besides," he argues, "by the time they get back from summer break, I'll be home." Emma, surprisingly enough, does not argue with him about all that, and instead methodically sorts Will's many, many vests into the various boxes. "Whoa!" he exclaims when she places one in the donation pile. "That one's a keeper -- I wore this the first week of Glee Club." We'll go with that, mainly because I don't feel like digging out my copy of the episode in question. "What about this one?" Emma wonders, hoisting a grey-patterned mediocrity into the air. "Did you wear this the first time you tried the new coffee machine in the teachers' lounge?" "That's the one I was wearing the first time I met you!" Will grins, and I'm starting to get a little creeped out at how he associates the supposedly important events in his life with the vests he was wearing at the time. Emma seems to agree with me, for she carefully folds the grey-patterned mediocrity and says, "You know what? You have to let it all go -- you're following your dreams." The implication being, of course, that he can't follow his dreams while holding on to his past. Discuss. Will and Emma exchange A Look Fraught With Significance for a very long moment, and then he drops the grey-patterned mediocrity into the donation box.