After a long day at William McKinley High, Will Schuester enters his apartment and, dropping his bag and things to one side, proceeds into the living room where he heaves a deep sigh and falls upon the sofa. He had had a long and tiring day – if being a teacher at the school was tiring enough, he now had Glee Club to worry about. He had taken the group and the responsibilities on without a second thought; once or twice, he had thought about taking time away from Glee, but something had always happened that had brought him back to the New Directions. They were his priority; these young minds and talents needed to be moulded and shaped for the future.

He thinks of his kids in Glee and of each of the traits and talents they possessed. Rachel, the self-proclaimed star, has a talent as big as her determination to be a star, but underneath that lay insecurities about her looks, her friends. Finn, as the star quarterback, is a born leader and has to juggle both football and Glee, something Will knows took an awful lot of commitment. Kurt and Mercedes, two peas in a pod, with plenty of talent and sass to spare. Artie and Tina, original members, stars waiting for their moment to shine. Puck, the stereotypical bad boy with a eye for any woman who gave him a second glance or listened to a song on his guitar. Sam and Mike, talented on the football field and in the choir room. Quinn, Santana and Brittany, Cheerios who were joined at the hip but each with their own unique musical ability that Will could not help but admire. Blaine, the newest of the group and a former member of the Dalton Academy Warblers who had selflessly moved schools and choirs to be with his boyfriend.

Will smiles to himself. These are his kids. He had given them advice in times of sadness and anger, he had helped them through difficult times. They would stick together through everything and anything.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Will frowns and looks back at the door where the noise had stimulated. He waits for a few seconds, hoping that it was just another salesman knocking about some new purchases who would give up after a few attempts. However, the noise comes again, louder and more rapid.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Groaning to himself, he rises from his seat and goes to the door, closing his eyes and breathing in and out deeply before opening the door.

Standing there, surrounded by five large bags, is a girl of sixteen with long dark hair that looks a shade of midnight black in the dim light of the hall. She is pale with round green eyes that are lined on top with black liquid eyeliner. She is wearing a simple combination of a pair of worn jeans and a band t-shirt as well as black military boots. Adorned on her wrists are an assortment of bangles and bracelets; her fingers carry a few rings on each hand and each chipped nail is painted a deep burgundy. Those eyes of hers which are almost electric lock with his and he feels himself gasp and take an involuntary step back into his apartment as memories flood back to him, replaying before his eyes ...

'Uncle Will!' cried a voice, just barely as he had caught his breath after entering the house.

Will smiled and was greeted by a lively six year old girl with long dark hair and electric green eyes, who ran up to him with all the vivacity and dynamism of childhood. He scooped up the child in his arms and spun her round so that she giggled with glee. After a couple of turns, he set her back on the ground and bent down so that he was eye-level with the grinning girl whose dark curls bounced with every word she spoke.

'Uncle Will,' she said, exuberantly trying to get every word out as quickly as she possibly could. 'I've been practising and practising for my piano recital and I think I'm ready. You have to come hear!'

She grabbed his hand and pulled him into the living room of the house where a piano lay in wait, the ivories gleaming in wait as she set herself down at the stool and lightly set her tiny fingers on the keys. Soon enough, the music began, a beautiful and enchanting melody that Will could not help but hum along with. With each note, Will moved forward and watched the little girl as she played her song. Her eyes were fixed on the keys the majority of the time, but occasionally, her eyes would close to soak up the music, the flow of rhythm through her fingers to the rest of her body. Music was her life, however short it was and however long left. Music was, and always would be, the driving force behind the girl and all she would do in her life.

'She's good, Greg,' Will whispered so as not to disturb the song as a man walked in, his worn and weathered face brightening as his ears soaked up the melody. 'She's really good.'

'Well, I did teach her everything she knows, cuz,' he laughed and his eyes closed like his daughter's as the music continued, ending sooner than Will would have liked, but with a smile on the girl's face that could easily brighten up anyone's day.

'Will ... '

It takes her a few attempts to reach her uncle who is drifting away with his long-forgotten memories, but he finally comes to his senses and stares at her. She is the little girl, only now she isn't so little. She must be about fifteen, sixteen years old. She is not a child anymore and she certainly is not the child he remembers so gleefully showing him her newly learned concerto or dance routine.

'Aren't you gonna invite me in?' she huffs. 'I've lugged these bags up God knows how many flights of stairs and I'm pretty sure my arm's about to get pulled out of his socket any minute now.'

Still stunned into silence, Will nods and pushes the door for her to wander in. He goes to get some of her bags, but she insists that she can do it, throwing them into the living room carelessly, before taking in her surroundings, her eyes scanning every inch of the apartment, now under a teenage scrutiny.

'Nice,' she remarks. 'It's different to the last time I came.'

'Well, considering you were nearly eight the last time you came here, I would hope so,' Will says, finally finding his words. 'Callie, is that really you?'

'Of course it's me,' she says, rolling her eyes dramatically. 'Duh. Honestly, Will, I hope you don't just let random people waltz into your apartment off the street.'

'You've ... changed.'

The girl, Callie, turns back to look at him with a judgemental look. 'I see you've not. Still sticking with the vests, I see.'

'Yeah,' he chuckles. 'Callie, it's good to see you. It's been so long.'

She pauses for a second and throws him a look that hints at sadness and a longing for something, but for what? Family? Friends? Answers that he alone could give?

'Yeah, it has,' she murmurs before coughing to cover up the change in subject. 'So where's Aunt Terri then?'

'She's not here. We ... we got a divorce about five months ago.'

Callie sighs in obvious relief and a grin tugs at her lips. 'Oh, thank God. You know, I never could stand that ... that woman. Urgh, she drove me crazy. And you had to live with all that crazy.'

Will laughs shortly to himself and looks at her, his arms folded, a closed expression on his face. 'Callie, what are you doing here?'

'What? Can't a girl take some time to come and spend some quality time with her dear old godfather?'

'Certainly, but we haven't seen each other in a good few years so there must be another reason. What would that be, Callie?'

Callie takes a deep sigh and looks at her godfather with indifference, shrugging her shoulders as she says, 'I got kicked out of my aunt and uncle's.'

Will is surprised. From what he remembers of his goddaughter, she was a well-mannered and well-behaved young girl. She had never dressed like this; he fondly recalls her penchant for bright colours, reds, blues, yellows and so many others. She is not the girl he remembered. He barely recognizes her at all.

'You got kicked out?'

She nods as though she has just announced the day's weather conditions. 'Yep, about two days ago. They told me that they'd had enough of me and sent me off.'

'Well, what does your mom think of this?' he asks, shocked at this statement.

'She sent me there in the first place,' she murmurs bitterly. 'And they sent me here. It's a chain, you see. A chain of people who can't put up with me and all the trouble I am ... people who don't want me.'

She looks away in sadness and fixes her eyes on the wall in front of her as though this is punishment for her eyes to prevent them from crying. Will looks at his goddaughter with a saddened look, but his brain is shouting questions at him frantically. Did that mean she is to stay with him? What is he going to do with her? What about her mother? What is the reason for all this moving around?

'Callie ... ' he murmurs and goes up to her. 'If you so wish, you can stay here for a while. But I kinda need an explanation as to what on earth's going on with your mom and your aunt and uncle.'

Callie pauses for a moment and reaches into her bag, feeling around for something before finding a letter, crumpled and torn as though it has been shoved in that bag and removed to be looked at more than a few times. She hands it to her godfather who does not spare a glance at the letter and instead stares at her, conflicted and not knowing what he should do. Finally, he conjures up the words he needs to say to her.

'Go to the spare room. First door on your right. Put your stuff there for now. I'll speak to you in a moment.'

She nods and swiftly makes her way to the room without another word in reply. Once he hears a door close, he makes his way to a sofa and sits down, the letter in his right hand, his eyes waiting to glimpse the words written on the page. He recognizes the writing to be that of Charlotte, the wife of his cousin David. It is addressed to her sister, but he knows that the name is only written in as a substitute; Charlotte must have known that her daughter would not stay there for very long. It should say 'To whom it may concern'. He inhales deeply before beginning the letter about his goddaughter, the letter containing the answers he needs to be answered.

I am sorry to do this, but I am sending Callie to stay with you. I understand that this is difficult and believe me, I have exercised every possible situation here. I think that staying with you may be just the thing she needs in order to change. I cannot control her any more. I do not know what to do anymore.

She has been thrown out of three schools in eight months. I have tried many others, but one look at her record and they're already shoving us out of the door. She drinks, she stays out until all hours and she's made friends with the wrong people, people I know have influenced her behaviour. Every day, I see a little bit of my girl slipping away. It's as if I don't know her any more.

The situation with her father has become terrible. She has not seen him in years and we do not bring him up in conversation at all. She has not mentioned him since the day he left when she was eight. I've always known that this has been some reason behind her behaviour.

The most heartbreaking thing is that she has completely lost her love of music. She used to be so talented. She was a singer, she could play a variety of instruments. These days, she won't go near them or touch them. She barely even hums. She is without the very thing on which she used to thrive.

The truth is I miss my little girl. I don't even know her anymore. I hope that after this, she will return to me.

The spare room is much bigger than my last room, at my aunt and uncle's, almost twice the size. Their oldest child, my cousin, had gone off to college last fall and they had a room to spare; it was dark and dismal. Think Harry Potter's cupboard under the stairs with a few more spiders and a window.

I dump the bags on the bed, marking my territory in a way, before sitting on the edge of the bed, my palms pressed against the soft sheets, my fingertips soaking the new touches. I breathe in the scent of the room – sweet, perfumed, almost sickly. My eyes scan the room with quick, even glances, gathering up information about every inch of this place. The walls are a soft white, obviously the colour of a spare room; it does not define the owner because there probably has never been one. The bed is simple and pushed against a small window that looks out onto something I can't be bothered to see right now. There is a wardrobe and a large mirror that shows my reflection. I do not look there. I am not vain as some people at my last school thought.

I curse as the thought leaves my mind and is replaced by another. School. Will is obviously not going to let me just skip school – he is a teacher after all. Maybe this would be time to drop the bombshell that I've been kicked out of three schools, for various reasons. The first was for skipping; I couldn't bear the teachers or the students so I found other things to do with my time, things that my mother thought were not fit for between nine and three. Next home, next school. I was thrown out for fighting. Come to think of it, that was the same reason as the last school. Although I had good reason and the girl who I whacked threw in some good punches too, I was packed off and sent here to stay with my godfather.

What did my mom want me to do after this one? It was inevitable that I would be cast out of here too. Soon, no school – or home – in Lima would have me. Maybe then, back to Mom ...

No.

I can't think like that. I have to stay positive.

I punched the girl at my last school in the face because she took a swing at me. Verbally and then physically. She told me that no one would ever want me, that my mom didn't love me and neither had my dad. That, she said, was the reason he'd walked out on us. She stopped speaking then when my fist came at her face.

I didn't mean to. I got defensive. My mom may have shipped me to various relatives across the state, but I had to defend her.

It was all my fault. All of it. I'm too sarcastic, too defensive, too damn bitter.

I need a fresh start.

I have issues. There is no denying that. Maybe this time, for the first time, things will be different.

'Callie?' calls Will from the living room.

I take a breath and, fiddling with one of my rings, open the door, walking to where he is waiting. My mom's letter in his hand, the other resting on his leg, he looks at me with a mix of sadness and ... disappointment?

'Sit down, sweetie,' he says.

Sweetie. That's always a bad sign. Everyone always uses pet names when they're about to say something big. I've heard the lot. Honey, baby, darling, even the sickening 'precious'.

I do as he says and sit on the couch facing him. My knees together, my hands clasped and resting on them, I watch him in anticipation, waiting for him to offer to put my bags in his car and drop me off at the nearest bus station.

'I read this,' he says, referring to the letter by raising his hand an inch or two. 'From your mom. Is it true?'

'Is what true?' I say.

'That you got kicked out of three schools?' he says as though he still can't believe it.

I nod, feeling ashamed, but I put on my bravado. My acting face. I can't afford to be pitied.

'Yeah. For skipping and fighting.'

Will repeats, 'Fighting?' and tuts to himself, shaking his head, running his free hand through his curly hair.

'I'll get my stuff then,' I say, sensing the words floating around in the air.

'What?' he asks.

'My stuff,' I repeat. 'I'll get it and you can give me a ride to whichever mode of transport is easier.'

Will looks at me incredulously. 'Why would I throw you out?'

'It's what everyone else has done,' I shrug.

Will reaches across the table between us and lightly touches my hand. A fleeting gesture of affection. I haven't had one in a while so I flinch and recoil from the touch. Not because I don't want it. It's been so long. I'm used to shouting matches and slamming doors, not kind words and heartfelt deeds.

'I won't throw you out,' he says, almost like a promise, a vow.

A corner of my mouth tugs at a smile and I stare at my godfather. I may have changed like I said, but he is still the guy I remember.

'But we're going to have to do something about school.'

I groan then and lean against the back of the couch, rolling my eyes. 'School and I don't exactly see eye to eye, Will.'

'Since when did you start calling me Will?' he asks curiously. 'You've dropped the 'uncle'.'

'It's not as if I've seen you everyday and known you enough to call you 'uncle', though, is it?'

Will nods as if he agrees somewhat and continues. 'You're good, Callie. You could have aced all of your classes if ... '

I finish his sentence. 'If I hadn't spent so much time getting kicked out of them.'

'Right,' he says. 'I could always talk to Principal Figgins at McKinley, see if we can arrange something.'

I feel something I haven't felt in a while. Hope. A shimmer of hope that hasn't passed through me in such a long time.

'Okay,' I murmur. 'What about my track record? Not exactly the model student, am I?'

'That's for me to deal with,' Will says. 'All I need you to do is hold up your end of the deal.'

'Deal?' I say the foreign word.

He takes a breath and begins, 'Here's what is going to happen. You'll stay here with me, see how that goes. Any trouble and ... '

I wait for the part about throwing me out, but it doesn't happen. It isn't even mentioned.

' ... we may have to have a talk. Okay?'

'Okay. Anything else?'

'Yeah, there is. I want good grades from you, a spotless attendance record and enthusiasm. Do you think you could manage that?'

'You get me into that school of yours and I'll be there for more hours than any teacher or student combined.'

He grins. 'And there is one more thing. Your mother mentioned something about you not wanting to do music anymore ... why?'

I freeze, stiffen. My hands clasp even tighter together and my teeth grind against each other. I look at him with a steely gaze.

'I still listen to music,' I whisper almost incoherently. 'I just ... '

'Your mom says that you don't sing anymore. You won't go near a piano or a guitar. Why, Callie?'

'Because I don't want to. And I don't want to talk about it either.'

'Why not?' he persists. 'There must be some reason. You used to love music.'

'That's the operative phrase though,' I snap. 'I used to love music. Past tense. It's in the past.'

'Callie, please,' he continues, not knowing that he is wandering into dangerous territory. 'Music was like fresh air to you. You loved singing and dancing and anything to do with music. Why not now?'

'Because.' I finish ultimately and stomp off in the direction of the spare room, now my room.

'Callie!' Will calls after me, but he is ignored as the door slams shut.

Angrily, fuming with rage, I rummage through my bag for my iPod and all but slam the earphones into my ears. I flick through my songs and find my vast collection of Queen songs. My favourite band. I hear Freddie's voice and I feel at ease. It seems at times that only he understands me. His music speaks to me on such levels that no other person can. I lie on the bed and close my eyes, allowing my idol's voice to fill my head with dreamy melody and beautiful words.

She's a Killer Queen
Gunpowder, gelatine
Dynamite with a laser beam
Guaranteed to blow your mind
Anytime

I glance back at the door, Freddie's melodies accompanying the turn of my eyes to the wooden surface. It isn't Will's fault. He should know why I hate music. I can sing pretty well. I taught myself to play piano and guitar. But now, I can't bear to do anything. My lips only form the words of the song in my ears, but my voice has been stopped. There is no real sound. Only a whisper.

It is too painful. Memories. All of it.

I answer Will's question to myself, rolling back so that my eyes are turned to the ceiling.

'Because it reminds me of him,' I say, tears filling my eyes.

A face flashes of my father showing me how to approach singing one of the songs heard on the radio. Picking me up after rehearsals for the school play. Buying me my first guitar. Playing with me.

Then, they turn dark.

Shouting. Fighting. Finally, there's the ...

Leaving. Abandonment.

I throw a fleeting glance at myself in the ornate mirror. Callie Taylor, the teenage tragedy whose father abandoned her as a child and destroyed her love of music, set to the music and lyrics of one Freddie Mercury.