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Previous parts of Trent's story are indexed here.
As always, Ru belongs to the lovely![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tsuki_no_bara, and Holey Rites, like the rest of Eden, belongs to the wonderfull cicirossi. Comments of any sort are most welcome.
***** ***** *****
By the end of their three hour session Ms Carech had made it abundantly clear that she was not going to be the one recommending him as an understudy to the corps du ballet with the actual company this semester. If he couldn’t get the knack of that entrechat passage he may as well pack up and go home, in fact. Well, Ms Benson was still pushing for him to try for the role, but he could feel that something wasn’t perfect, and when the whole point was a stage full of perfectly uniform movements ….
“Did you even begin to comprehend the assignment, Mr. Donovan?”
His composition professor slammed Trent’s folder down on the table as punctuation. Trent snatched his attention back from rerunning his internal record of the earlier class and gave Mr. Matthews his full, if slightly stunned, attention.
“You can read, I take it? Perhaps you would care to stand up and share your interpretation of the question with the rest of us?”
Mr. Matthews gestured theatrically, taking in the whole class. Their silence was almost a palpable presence. Trent ducked his head to push Cameron’s smirk out of his line of vision and took a deep breath. He pushed back his chair and stood.
“This morning, if you could manage it.”
Trent could feel his cheeks burning already.
“The assignment was to compose a piece suitable for a pas de deux, to form part of a divertissement. The ballet as a whole reflects topics of sacrifice and love.”
He spoke clearly – no point getting pulled up for mumbling.
“And what form was this masterpiece of the compositional arts to take?”
Trent’s grip on his class folder tightened. He focused on paraphrasing the assignment.
“A score, accompanied by an introduction detailing it’s place in the ballet, and the style and tone of the piece, and a critical assessment of the music’s construction and the choreography envisaged.”
Mr Matthews raised a graying eyebrow.
“My my, Trent. You can read. I’m sure we are all quite impressed.”
Cameron had the gall to snigger softly. The teacher made a precise quarter turn to face him.
“Cameron, perhaps you could remind us all of elements of a pas de deux?”
“The five elements of a grand pas de deux are: entrée, adage, variation for the female dancer, variation for the male dancer, and then a coda, in which both dancers dance together once more. The strict form need not be followed for a shorter piece, sir.” Cameron recited in a sing song voice.
“Thank you Cameron.” Mr. Matthews turned back to Trent.
“Now, Trent.” He began. “Did that sound at all familiar?”
“Yes, sir”
“Well then, would you kindly explain why you felt it to be acceptable to turn in this pathetic offering!”
His voice was rising, and Trent was uncomfortably aware that he had no idea what he had done to so offend him.
“No? Perhaps this will jog your memory.” He snapped, snatching up the folder and stalking to the upright piano. He flicked the binder open and picked out a passage impatiently.
Trent stood silent.
“Well?!”
Nothing for it but honesty.
“What would you like me to explain Mr. Matthews?”
“This!” The teacher gestured sharply to the piano. “What were you thinking? Did you perhaps imagine that I assign grades using only the power of telepathy and would not, in fact, read your submission? Or did you perhaps allow yourself to believe that I am some form of idiot savant incapable of distinguishing between the labors of a competent student and the last minute scribbling of a lay about?”
Trent was stunned by the gross unfairness of the attack. He’d spent weeks on the project, even turning down his semi-regular trip to the movies with Ru because that was the only time he could get a practice room with a piano.
“I though that I had answered the assignment, sir.” He replied carefully as the silence stretched longer and longer. Mr. Matthews' jaw clenched visibly.
“You thought, did you? You thought! Do you even begin to understand what is wrong with this?”
The binder hit the table, sliding towards him with a clatter loud in the heavy silence.
“I don’t know Mr. Matthews.”
“No, Mr. Donovan, you do. Why is this piece unacceptable?”
By now Mr. Matthews was roaring as though Trent were half a stage away rather than the few feet that separated them.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Trent! Insolence does nothing to help your case. Now answer the question!”
His face was hot, his throat tight, the sound of his blood so loud in his ears his voice sounded distant when it came in a rush.
“I don’t know. And I won’t know even if you shout at me for an hour because I. Don’t. Know! I’m never going to know because you don’t ever tell any of us what we’re meant to know, so I don’t know, I can’t know, and … ”
His brain finally caught up with the hot rush of his temper. Oh lord. Mr. Matthews' face was scarlet, his jaw pulsing with shock and fury. The other students were wide-eyed and stunned. He couldn’t be there a second longer.
He pushed the chair away roughly and marched, back rigid, to the door. He heard it bounce behind him as his march became a run, pelting flat out past down the empty corridor with hot tears blurring his vision, his feet taking him automatically to the dorm.
His flight and three floors of stairs did not begin to explain the short panicky pattern of his breathing as he leaned back on his bedroom door. What to do, what to do, what to do. A mental voice demanded that he march himself right back downstairs and apologize, and the twist in his gut re-enforced his conviction that he couldn’t – couldn’t go back, couldn’t be here, couldn’t think.
He grabbed his rucksack from the back of the chair with a jerk that sent the ladder-back clattering to the floor and he was gone again before it settled.
By the time Trent finally slowed his pace the cold air was burning his throat and the edge of something in his bag was raising a bruise where it had been thumping against his back. He glanced back over his shoulder, suddenly concerned that he might have been pursued, but all it told him was that he was not entirely sure where he was.
He walked on slowly. The churning in his stomach and the hitching of his breathing did not slow down to match. The fact that the air was cold and grey and damp and that his shirt was thin and his sneakers were decidedly not waterproof filtered through the fuzz in his mind.
He walked on, taking two left turns, until he finally spotted a familiar landmark. The little corner park, with it’s swings moving in the wind and the fountain switched off for winter meant that if he went this way he would eventually find the familiar comforts of Quoth’s. That would fix the cold wet and hungry parts at least.
With every step the idea of being fussed over by Mama Joumana seemed more and more inviting, and the inevitability of being entirely ignored by everyone seemed more and more certain. He squeezed his eyes shut and scraped a hand through his hair. Do I want a cup of coffee” should not be a hard question.
In the end the bright colors of the posters around the entrance to House of Pain decided him – even on a weekday surely there would be enough people for him to hide in for a while, just till he figured things out? He could pick up dye for Ru, in fact. That meant that he knew where he was, where he was going and why. That sort of helped.
Holey Rites’ sign caught his eye as soon as he started towards the double doors. As he went in to the building, he was remembering visiting the piercing studio a couple of times with Ru, when he was planning his eyebrow rings, and talking over placement and jewelry and then when he was having one of the earrings done.
He was also remembering sitting in Denny’s – sitting with Sari, in fact, who wouldn’t let him cling to Ru all night – and just watching as George’s friend from California Kat-short-for-Karl baited the waitresses by undoing his shirt, and causing a whole piercings-and-tattoos conversation that spilled over all three booths, with people comparing notes on styles and artists and studios and what was too much, and what hurt to have done. Sari had nudged him for not joining in, and he’d had to confess that he didn’t have any, ‘cos of school. Some of the things people had suggested sounded positively scary, but he'd always thought the ribbon of rings going the whole way up and around Dale’s ears was pretty cool, so when Sari had asked him what he’d get done if he could he’d said that, or maybe nipple rings. Definitely no tattoos though.
Outside, the final rounds of hugs and plans for tomorrow and offers of lifts the conversation had turned into a semi-public vote to decide whether Kat’s D-ring-and-vertical-stud on the left was more or less attractive than the ring in the right nipple. That had led to Mal ‘testing for functionality” which meant ducking under George’s arm to tug on first one and then the other to see how fast they made Kat flush and snatch at her wrists. She’d grinned up at him and wiggled drawn-in eyebrows and accused him of being a prude. Mal was tiny especially against Kat’s muscled bulk, and she pretty much intimidated Trent with her full-out attitude. When he and Ru peeled off from the others though, everyone was smiling and teasing.
When Trent found himself pushing open the door to Holey Rites he had already decided what he was going to do.
As always, Ru belongs to the lovely
tsuki_no_bara, and Holey Rites, like the rest of Eden, belongs to the wonderfull cicirossi. Comments of any sort are most welcome. ***** ***** *****
By the end of their three hour session Ms Carech had made it abundantly clear that she was not going to be the one recommending him as an understudy to the corps du ballet with the actual company this semester. If he couldn’t get the knack of that entrechat passage he may as well pack up and go home, in fact. Well, Ms Benson was still pushing for him to try for the role, but he could feel that something wasn’t perfect, and when the whole point was a stage full of perfectly uniform movements ….
“Did you even begin to comprehend the assignment, Mr. Donovan?”
His composition professor slammed Trent’s folder down on the table as punctuation. Trent snatched his attention back from rerunning his internal record of the earlier class and gave Mr. Matthews his full, if slightly stunned, attention.
“You can read, I take it? Perhaps you would care to stand up and share your interpretation of the question with the rest of us?”
Mr. Matthews gestured theatrically, taking in the whole class. Their silence was almost a palpable presence. Trent ducked his head to push Cameron’s smirk out of his line of vision and took a deep breath. He pushed back his chair and stood.
“This morning, if you could manage it.”
Trent could feel his cheeks burning already.
“The assignment was to compose a piece suitable for a pas de deux, to form part of a divertissement. The ballet as a whole reflects topics of sacrifice and love.”
He spoke clearly – no point getting pulled up for mumbling.
“And what form was this masterpiece of the compositional arts to take?”
Trent’s grip on his class folder tightened. He focused on paraphrasing the assignment.
“A score, accompanied by an introduction detailing it’s place in the ballet, and the style and tone of the piece, and a critical assessment of the music’s construction and the choreography envisaged.”
Mr Matthews raised a graying eyebrow.
“My my, Trent. You can read. I’m sure we are all quite impressed.”
Cameron had the gall to snigger softly. The teacher made a precise quarter turn to face him.
“Cameron, perhaps you could remind us all of elements of a pas de deux?”
“The five elements of a grand pas de deux are: entrée, adage, variation for the female dancer, variation for the male dancer, and then a coda, in which both dancers dance together once more. The strict form need not be followed for a shorter piece, sir.” Cameron recited in a sing song voice.
“Thank you Cameron.” Mr. Matthews turned back to Trent.
“Now, Trent.” He began. “Did that sound at all familiar?”
“Yes, sir”
“Well then, would you kindly explain why you felt it to be acceptable to turn in this pathetic offering!”
His voice was rising, and Trent was uncomfortably aware that he had no idea what he had done to so offend him.
“No? Perhaps this will jog your memory.” He snapped, snatching up the folder and stalking to the upright piano. He flicked the binder open and picked out a passage impatiently.
Trent stood silent.
“Well?!”
Nothing for it but honesty.
“What would you like me to explain Mr. Matthews?”
“This!” The teacher gestured sharply to the piano. “What were you thinking? Did you perhaps imagine that I assign grades using only the power of telepathy and would not, in fact, read your submission? Or did you perhaps allow yourself to believe that I am some form of idiot savant incapable of distinguishing between the labors of a competent student and the last minute scribbling of a lay about?”
Trent was stunned by the gross unfairness of the attack. He’d spent weeks on the project, even turning down his semi-regular trip to the movies with Ru because that was the only time he could get a practice room with a piano.
“I though that I had answered the assignment, sir.” He replied carefully as the silence stretched longer and longer. Mr. Matthews' jaw clenched visibly.
“You thought, did you? You thought! Do you even begin to understand what is wrong with this?”
The binder hit the table, sliding towards him with a clatter loud in the heavy silence.
“I don’t know Mr. Matthews.”
“No, Mr. Donovan, you do. Why is this piece unacceptable?”
By now Mr. Matthews was roaring as though Trent were half a stage away rather than the few feet that separated them.
“I don’t know, sir.”
“Trent! Insolence does nothing to help your case. Now answer the question!”
His face was hot, his throat tight, the sound of his blood so loud in his ears his voice sounded distant when it came in a rush.
“I don’t know. And I won’t know even if you shout at me for an hour because I. Don’t. Know! I’m never going to know because you don’t ever tell any of us what we’re meant to know, so I don’t know, I can’t know, and … ”
His brain finally caught up with the hot rush of his temper. Oh lord. Mr. Matthews' face was scarlet, his jaw pulsing with shock and fury. The other students were wide-eyed and stunned. He couldn’t be there a second longer.
He pushed the chair away roughly and marched, back rigid, to the door. He heard it bounce behind him as his march became a run, pelting flat out past down the empty corridor with hot tears blurring his vision, his feet taking him automatically to the dorm.
His flight and three floors of stairs did not begin to explain the short panicky pattern of his breathing as he leaned back on his bedroom door. What to do, what to do, what to do. A mental voice demanded that he march himself right back downstairs and apologize, and the twist in his gut re-enforced his conviction that he couldn’t – couldn’t go back, couldn’t be here, couldn’t think.
He grabbed his rucksack from the back of the chair with a jerk that sent the ladder-back clattering to the floor and he was gone again before it settled.
By the time Trent finally slowed his pace the cold air was burning his throat and the edge of something in his bag was raising a bruise where it had been thumping against his back. He glanced back over his shoulder, suddenly concerned that he might have been pursued, but all it told him was that he was not entirely sure where he was.
He walked on slowly. The churning in his stomach and the hitching of his breathing did not slow down to match. The fact that the air was cold and grey and damp and that his shirt was thin and his sneakers were decidedly not waterproof filtered through the fuzz in his mind.
He walked on, taking two left turns, until he finally spotted a familiar landmark. The little corner park, with it’s swings moving in the wind and the fountain switched off for winter meant that if he went this way he would eventually find the familiar comforts of Quoth’s. That would fix the cold wet and hungry parts at least.
With every step the idea of being fussed over by Mama Joumana seemed more and more inviting, and the inevitability of being entirely ignored by everyone seemed more and more certain. He squeezed his eyes shut and scraped a hand through his hair. Do I want a cup of coffee” should not be a hard question.
In the end the bright colors of the posters around the entrance to House of Pain decided him – even on a weekday surely there would be enough people for him to hide in for a while, just till he figured things out? He could pick up dye for Ru, in fact. That meant that he knew where he was, where he was going and why. That sort of helped.
Holey Rites’ sign caught his eye as soon as he started towards the double doors. As he went in to the building, he was remembering visiting the piercing studio a couple of times with Ru, when he was planning his eyebrow rings, and talking over placement and jewelry and then when he was having one of the earrings done.
He was also remembering sitting in Denny’s – sitting with Sari, in fact, who wouldn’t let him cling to Ru all night – and just watching as George’s friend from California Kat-short-for-Karl baited the waitresses by undoing his shirt, and causing a whole piercings-and-tattoos conversation that spilled over all three booths, with people comparing notes on styles and artists and studios and what was too much, and what hurt to have done. Sari had nudged him for not joining in, and he’d had to confess that he didn’t have any, ‘cos of school. Some of the things people had suggested sounded positively scary, but he'd always thought the ribbon of rings going the whole way up and around Dale’s ears was pretty cool, so when Sari had asked him what he’d get done if he could he’d said that, or maybe nipple rings. Definitely no tattoos though.
Outside, the final rounds of hugs and plans for tomorrow and offers of lifts the conversation had turned into a semi-public vote to decide whether Kat’s D-ring-and-vertical-stud on the left was more or less attractive than the ring in the right nipple. That had led to Mal ‘testing for functionality” which meant ducking under George’s arm to tug on first one and then the other to see how fast they made Kat flush and snatch at her wrists. She’d grinned up at him and wiggled drawn-in eyebrows and accused him of being a prude. Mal was tiny especially against Kat’s muscled bulk, and she pretty much intimidated Trent with her full-out attitude. When he and Ru peeled off from the others though, everyone was smiling and teasing.
When Trent found himself pushing open the door to Holey Rites he had already decided what he was going to do.