A/N: once again, thanks guys!
11. Practice Makes Passable
Jane passed by Trent's room to hear him strumming on his guitar, humming under his breath to himself. "How's it coming, bro?" she asked, peeking her head in. As usual, his room appeared like a nuclear explosion had gone off inside, leaving clothes and other debris scattered everywhere. Only the bed was essentially clear of detritus.
"Ok," he answered. "I have words. I'm working on the music now."
"Nice. Can I read?"
Trent nodded, not looking up from his guitar. Not sure if she should take the gesture as affirmative, or if it was just him keeping physical beat with the music, Jane decided to snatch up the sheet of paper anyways. Scratched across the paper in what passed for handwriting was Trent's new lyrics.
You've built your own personal cage
For your smiles and your laughter
Your love and your rage
You can't get out
I can't get in
I want to shout
My head starts to spin
My inhibitions are burning,
Through the smoke I see
Quiet girl,
You're lovely to me
You're my deep secret
Locked up in my head
Without you I sleep
But inside I feel dead
Quiet girl,
Under lock and key
Through the bars I see
Quiet girl, you're everything to me
Quiet girl, quiet girl
You're everything to me
Jane found herself reading through the verses once, twice, then three times before she looked up from the paper. Not because they didn't make sense in Mystik Spiral's usual non-coherent bizarre style, but because they were so unlike anything he'd ever written before.
"Wow, Trent," she said with a pair of raised eyebrows. "I'm impressed. These are actually good. I mean, they're quite possibly your best work yet."
Trent paused in his strumming to look up at his sister. "Thanks, Janey. Do you thinkā¦"
"That Daria will like it?" finished Jane. "Yeah, I do. It's good, strong poetry, Trent Lane style. She'll dig it."
Trent laughed, then coughed into his hand. "Let's hope."
"Keepin' the fingers crossed, bro. Speaking of which, where's the next gig at? What am I up against?"
"It's at a party, somewhere across town."
"What kind of party? Bar-mitzvah? High schoolers? College kids?"
"Older kids." Trent spoke in sentence fragments again, having had gone back to his guitar. "A guy I knew from high school. Rich dude, big house. There will be lots of older guys. You two won't have any trouble getting in."
"Hmm," mused Jane. "It's not getting in that's the chore, it's getting Daria THERE." She shrugged, looking forward to a challenge. "Doesn't matter. I'll do it."
Trent nodded again, picking out a slow riff on his acoustic. Once again unsure if his gesture was an agreement or a twitch, she wished him good luck, and vacated the room.
Later that night at practice, the bandmates read over Trent's new material. "Dude," said Nick, regarding the now crumpled piece of notebook paper clasped in his hand. "How did you come up with this?"
Trent shrugged in response, so uncharacteristically, Jesse gave an answer. "He wrote it for Daria, man. He's finally making his move."
Max gave a harsh laugh. "Dude, you want to get laid by the bookworm? I guess she's finally legal now. So much for being a criminale!"
Trent responded to the jeer with a glare in Max's direction. He was obviously in one of his less mature moods, to which the best remedy was usually ignoring his comments. It pissed him off, but was less likely to start a fight.
"I like it," said Nick. He stood still, reading over the lyrics again.
"Me too," said Jesse. "If we make something good out of it, we can use it for the Battle of the Bands."
"With a hard riff, this has potential," mused the bassist. "Maybe we'll actually win this year."
Trent bobbed his head slowly in agreement with all parties. "We can try it out at our next gig. See how the audience reacts," he suggested.
"Why? Because Daria will be there?" taunted Max, enjoying his childish humor.
If Jane does her part, thought Trent. "She might be," he answered nonchalantly.
