"Whatever is done for love always occurs beyond good and evil."
- Friedrich Nietzsche
One.
Despite the ridiculously oversized traveling mug recently drained of its caffeinated contents—truthfully, a larger percentage being French vanilla flavor shots and packets of sugar rather than actual coffee—she could feel her interest waning gradually from the small printed text propped open on the table. The cover would read Social Learning and Personality Development, although it may as well have been written in Latin. Ordinarily, the topics discussed within the textbook would have been intriguing to Christine, as intriguing as any Cosmopolitan laying in pile back in her dorm—but not tonight.
The library was extensive, large as any abundantly funded University could accommodate. The snowfall that had begun as a light flurry that afternoon was steadily becoming a full-blown blizzard, as viewed from the ceiling-high windows situation past the technologically-enhanced computer area. There was absolutely no rush to hurry out into the storm and blindly wander across campus, hoping to reach the women's residence building before a bluster of wind caught her at a bad angle and she found herself dangling helplessly from the flag pole. A vague huff of laughter escaped her. She wouldn't even be surprised—that was her luck.
She halfheartedly watched fellow students bustle throughout the building, piles of material spilling over desktops and tables, fingernails bitten to awful stubs, and hair sticking up at odd angles due frustrated head-massaging. It was finals week, and Christmas was literally right around the corner. She could literally turn a corner and there would be a man dressed as Santa Claus handing out candy canes, and students wearing red cotton-balls on their noses humming carols. Campus had exploded in a sea of green and red—although it was not politically correct to assign one holiday to this time of year, that didn't stop people from actually doing it. Her own belongings were haphazardly thrown together in several suitcases already, so overwhelming was her excitement to spend winter break with Auntie Valerius.
Despite the excitement, there was a suppressed feeling of despondence. Family-type holidays were always difficult, regardless of how desperately she attempted to seem cheerful.
Auntie Valerius was the best caretaker a young woman could dream of—she was not only patient and understanding, but somewhat eccentric and full of endless quips and ideas. Being raised in her household was something Christine could never be anything but grateful for, but the circumstances in which she found herself adopted were dismal. There was nothing to remind her of her mother but a handful of photographs, but she was beautiful. In all of the pictures, she was laughing—she was laughing with her hand raised to cover her mouth, eyes sometimes open and other times closed. She had waves of golden hair and a long angular face that she passed on to her daughter, but her eyes—azure and constantly dreamlike—were her father's.
Her father had been a quiet man, bearded and tall. He was often away, mentally, and Christine would never be lonely or sad due to his introspective tendencies, because she also inherited them. They both had their music, and their books. She was very little when he began to read to her, fairy-tales of wolves and princesses, all with their own specific morals on humanity. She was slightly older when he accompanied those stories with a melody, violin melodies of his own composition. That was the time when she had met Raoul, and had teased him mercilessly for his posh name until he cried. The mere memory of that brought a deep hue of red flooding into her cheeks, and an impish smile to her lips. Despite her relentless taunting, he had dived into a fountain in the city to recover her red scarf—a blustery day in fall, a loosely adorned shawl, a young boy with sopping wet clothes clinging to him, and a nanny close to tears. And Christine had kissed his cheek, and weeks later his father had business in a different State and they moved away, as Raoul sighed they were prone to doing.
Life did not change dramatically after her close friend moved away, aside from the fact her father began to cough more often and slept a great deal more than she thought normal. Life changed slightly when they took in residence at Aunie's house, although Christine continued going to school and participate wholeheartedly in choir. She avidly tried out for every solo available and auditioned for every open position in every school put on. She began taking ballet classes under the strict and firm guidance of Miss Giry, and with a quickness only little girls can accomplish, became the very best of friends with her daughter, Megan.
Life came to a sudden halt and became abruptly distorted when her father passed away. Those were hectic and terrible days, in which Christine had only the willpower to hide away, wearing his overlarge cardigans and clutching his violin, sniffling and not fully understanding.
Regardless, years continued to churn onward. There was a part of her that never fully recovered, and that was to be expected—not quite so carefree and enthusiastic, though she never wondered how crucial a role that aspect of her personality was. She continued to participate in choir and other school-held drama productions, continued arriving exactly on-time for every ballet rehearsal and recital, but the stamina and drive to bound forward to try out for any available role was diminished. No one except her closest friend took notice as she gradually faded into the background of every event, and buried ever deeper into the land of fiction, and both Meg and her mama were at a loss of how to bring back the vivacious charismatic young girl. Eventually, they accepted the new slightly resigned and withdrawn Christine with tender affection, as one might handle delicate China.
Oblivious to the magnitude of reality, Christine plowed through her studies with an efficiency that stemmed from a lack of social activities and a mature interest in various subjects. It was in this way that she arrived at the University of Seattle, sharing a suite with Megan and two other girls. They were nice enough and attempted to bribe her into accompanying them to parties, bars, and sporting events—and some days, she even accompanied them without struggle, and though her cheerful humorous demeanor would never reveal otherwise, she longed for the solitude and tranquility of home, a blanket and a heavy novel.
It was just that afternoon that they had cornered her in the small but efficient kitchen that accompanied their suite, bombarding her with pleas and squeals about some frat party and all of the liquor and good times that would be had. She had laughed and shaken her head in polite declination several times before the smile began to fade from her face and they sighed in resignation, before Meg pranced in her line of path towards the microwave.
"Well, I know one really juicy detail about this party," she fluttered, casually leaning against the counter and crossing her long tan legs. Christine ran one hand over her forehead and into her sloppy bun, noting how pale her own skin was in comparison. "And it will literally make you spill your lumpy oatmeal all over this kitchen."
"Then you better be prepared to clean it up," retorted a laughing Christine, nudging her friend away and setting the microwave timer.
"I know someone who's going to be there that you will definitely want to see," she continued as though there had been no interruption, and the other two girls exchanged giddy grins.
"Santa," Christine deadpanned.
"Raoul Chagny," Meg burst. One of the girls muttered 'shag-me' under her breath, and they had all laughed at the startled expression on their roommate's face.
He wouldn't remember me, she mused demurely, with a soft shake of her blonde head. The sky outside was rapidly darkening, though a thick wall of white was still visible due to spotlights situated on every public building on campus. It was a security feature that everyone seemed to agree was necessary, along with the motion-censored cameras attached on every corner of each building, and the tall blue poles situation every five paces that served as a phone-booth rape hotline. It was a wonder that they had not spotted each other the entire first semester, or even had classes together—most freshman courses were the necessary basics regardless of what major it pertained to. It was also a wonder, as she had been sure to grudgingly mention to her friend, that this was the first she was hearing of his attendance—and Meg had shrugged lightly with a simple, I just found out.
Regardless, her stance on the party had not changed. She would not gussy up and stumble blindly through ice and cold and wind (flagpole!) only to be vaguely recognized and said hello to, before being left to her own devices—which would be casually sipping her drink and possibly dancing with the other girls, avoiding the hungry gazes of a handful of men in the room while wondering where her favorite Jane Austen novel was hiding and if it was lost in her clumsy packing. There was one fact about her childhood friend that had not registered while they were both innocent and naive, and that fact was that Raoul's family was filthy rich—yacht owning, polo playing, horse-back riding on the beach, rich. She did not hold it against him; in fact, it made her happy knowing he could go through life carefree and happy. But they were not the same breed, and she would not pretend that they ever had been.
"Christine?"
I have never been right about anything in my entire life.
"Raoul," she sputtered, head raising slowly from where it had been resting on her arm. Eyes that had been staring blankly at the blurry text expanded before her skewed vision, now absorbed the young adult standing before her—so different than her memory, yet unchanged.
His bronze hair was still shaggy and untidy, carelessly brushed away from his face and tucked behind his ears—she noticed the flakes of snow still clinging to the locks—and his bright blue eyes, almost the same shade as hers but more spirited, and his straight teeth in a broad grin. There was the same stubborn cleft in his chin and the same sloping forehead, though now a slight scruff accented his jawline. His cheeks were slightly pink, and the tip of his straight nose, and she could not help but find this endearing—he was trying not to show how wholly out of breath he was. Taller, no doubt, and leaner with years of polo or football, no doubt he was enlisted in some American past-time, effectively filling out the hooded sweatshirt and sweatpants, embroidered with the University logo (redhawks pride!).
"Where's your coat?" She blurted, eyebrows nearly raised into her hairline.
He laughed. "I, uh," he paused, gesturing aimlessly towards the entrance, where a hard wind could be heard every time someone opened the glass doors. "I forgot it," he finished lamely, fixing his gaze once more on her, still grinning widely.
"Oh God," she could not help but laugh, one hand covering her face in exasperation.
She could not help but wonder how the grown Christine appeared through the eyes of her oldest friend—her blonde hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, wearing a simple striped short-sleeves shirt, jeans and boots. Most likely there was lines on her face from laying in such a strange position, no doubt he thought she looked plain with little to no make-up on, in comparison to the women he was used to being surrounded by. Despite all of the pondering in reference to her appearance, the same curiosity continued to hover in the back of her mind—did she look happy? It was a strange question, she did not want to address it, even in the quiet of her own mind, for the meaning of her vague worry. It was just that, he looked so content. He looked how a freshman in college should look, down to the tips of his fingers.
He sat down adjacent to her seat at the library table, scooting his chair in eagerly. "What are you doing here? I mean, well, obviously, look, you're studying like I should...probably be doing," he admonished lightly, before waving it away impatiently. "Meg Giry told me were here—" of course — "and, Christ," he faltered, rubbing his no doubt frostbitten nose almost distractedly, staring at the books. He raised his eyes to her again, voice dramatically quieter, as though he only just remembered what the setting was. "Am I interrupting?"
Barely recovered from the sudden turn of events, Christine shook her head slightly, mouth slightly parted in amazement. "No," she responded, and another grin lit up her old companion's face. "Breathe, Raoul," she managed to tease lightly, unable to completely fathom his presence.
He seemed to have the same difficulty because, after laughing at how easily her admonishments towards him came, he stared at her for an almost ungainly amount of time before admitting, "I really never thought I'd see you again."
She smiled and hoped that her face was not a radish, shrugged and looked down at her lap simultaneously. A cage-worth of butterflies seemed to have escaped into her stomach, and she blamed it on the caffeine. "Yeah, well," were the only words that escaped her before she questioned, "So, where have you been hiding all semester?"
The conversation continued to flow easily, each deeply interested in the others past adventures, until subjects began to run sparse and dialogue began to ebb away steadily. He sincerely asked her to come to the frat party, assuring her that it would be a night that would go down in college campus history, and she declined for what she hoped would be the last time that night. Though obviously crestfallen at her rejection, he asked hopefully if they could exchange numbers, perhaps meet up for lunch sometime, and smiled that same face-bustingly wide smile when she mirthfully agreed. And then he jogged down the steps and out into the snow, and Christine was left staring stunned after him, phone resting limply in her small hand.
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