Prompt: Write in a genre or voice you're not comfortable in.

Character: Trent

Words: 864

Contrary to popular belief, Trent didn't come to Dalton Academy by choice. Contrary to popular belief, he hadn't always been a Warbler. In fact, there was a time when he easily could have been a member of Profesor Schuester's glee club, New Directions.

He'd been a freshman, disgusted by his Spanish teacher's lack of ethics. Trent saw him pass Brittany Pierce, who answered every question on their midterm, with a detailed drawing of a sombrero. Trent saw him make a mockery of Spanish culture in a way few students noticed or cared about. So, when Profesor Schuester mentioned the glee club in the last five minutes of class, encouraging them to sign up, Trent's heart ached.

Singing was his passion. He'd spent all of the previous summer in his room clicking through songs on his I-Pod, perfecting Coldplay, Katy Perry OneRepublic, Beyonce, Adele and Rihanna. Trent had no doubt. He'd thrive in a club like that. But he couldn't join on good conscience. Even as a freshman, he had high standards. So, he'd studiously done the work, trying to ignore the way his insides ached whenever he passed the choir room.

And then?

Well, then everything changed. A Friday night just like any other. His parents out on date night. Himself, at home, doing homework without the slightest clue. His earbuds blocked the sound of sirens two miles from the house, where his parents' car had crashed.

The next months were a blur. Trent moved in with his aunt and uncle, and lost his grip on absolutely everything. Caffeine pills and cigarettes quickly became the gateway to alcohol. His aunt and uncle were casual drinkers. Trent quickly became more than that. Drinking made him forget. It also turned him into a terrible person. He was violent at home. Cut school. Got suspended for fighting. Trent, the guy who didn't believe in violence. It was crazy. He hurt so much.

The summer after freshman year, there were whispers of changes. They insisted he talk to someone about his losses. He did, only because he wasn't given a choice in the matter. It helped a little, but it didn't bring his parents back. It didn't change the fact that they introduced themselves and then him, as "our nephew." Like he could ever forget that he would never be anyone's son again.

He was still floundering. They drove by the place the accident happened every single day. There's a lot of those days, weeks and months that he'd simply lost. He had no idea what happened between April and September, but suddenly, there was Dalton.

A boarding school.

Apparently, he was still hard to handle. ("You need structure.") Rules. ("There's a dress code.") People who cared. ("Zero tolerance policy, strictly enforced.")

Trent's first day at Dalton, he couldn't help feeling that he'd been given up on. Truly. Even with months of counseling behind him, Trent found himself battling anger at unexpected triggers. The sight of kids with their parents. Someone laughing. But the conversation with the headmaster stuck with him. He'd said it was a second chance, coming here. He'd encouraged Trent to take it. Any violence or banned substances and he'd be expelled. There would be no discussion.

And though no one said it, Trent knew he had no third option. His aunt and uncle had used money he didn't know they possessed on tuition for this place. Because he wasn't allowed to fight, or drink, he turned again to music. He blocked out his roommate. Lost himself in studying. Did everything he could to stay busy so he would not have to think of the hole he felt inside when he thought of his parents. The emptiness they once filled without him even realizing it.

It was late one night when Trent heard it. "You should join the Warblers, dude." That was it from his roommate, who barely spoke two words to him. But, as it turned out, they were worth listening to.

Later, he found the sign up sheet and added his name. Midweek, he sat on a bench outside the rehearsal space near a kid about his age. Small, though. And his eyes. Trent saw the anger in them.

"Are you auditioning?" the kid asked, his voice carefully controlled.

"What's it look like?" Trent snapped.

Something flashed in the kid's eyes. "I know you."

"I doubt it," Trent scoffed.

"You're the one who had all that trouble at your old school, right? From Lima? I heard about that."

"Screw you," Trent spat, and glanced around to be sure no teachers overheard the insult. He took a deep breath, deciding to try again. If he got to sing, maybe things would get better. He shifted uncomfortably in the blazer and slacks. "What song are you singing?"

"I don't know. We won't until we get in there."

"We?"

"They audition in small groups. To see how we blend. If we can work well together."

"I'm Trent," he introduced, extending a hand in a way that felt foreign and familiar all at once. Courtesy felt like a comfort. Maybe, he could do this after all.

"Good luck, Trent. I'm Blaine," the other said, shaking his hand.

The End.