Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera the novel/movie/musical by Gaston Leroux/ Susan Kay/Andrew Lloyd Webber, nor do I own Erik. :( But he's still on my wish list ;)

A/N: As stated in the summary, this phanfic is a modern-day high school version of Phantom of the Opera. There will be no Raoul-bashing. This is my first fanfic so please don't be too harsh, though by all means, review to your heart's desire. I won't object. :P Criticism is welcome but there's no need to be mean, not that I'm assuming any wonderful Phantom fan is. I've only started grade 9, so i haven't learned much that will help me write a story, especially one where the characters are in a grade ahead of me (yes, both Erik and Christine in the same grade, it was the only way i could make things work) so helpful criticism will be appreciated. Now that my overly long author's note is done…Enjoy! :)

Chapter 1

"There," I murmur after adding a finishing touch. I step back to admire my handiwork. Simple blue covers drape neatly over the twin bed, and all my work is in its proper spot in my desk, as well as my clothing in my dresser. There's not much for decoration; a simple mirror on top of my dresser with a framed picture of my father and mother before I was born.

I gently caress the faded picture of my parents. So much has changed.

Carefully I place it back down and look around my side of the room with a small smile, shaking away my doubts. It's not much, but it's all I need. Understated and simple perhaps, yet I can't ask for more.

Unlike my roommates taste for more…expensive décor.

My roommate, who has yet to make an appearance, has draped her side of the room in flamboyant pinks and yielding oranges. A feather boa lies atop her dresser, encircling a vast amount of perfumes, lotions, glosses, and powders. More than I have seen outside of makeup stores. It's overly done to the point of gaudiness. Somehow the girl has even fit a pink bejewelled full-length mirror between her dresser and her desk. Speaking of which, she seems to have no study materials to name of beside a few sheets of music.

My curiosity peaks. What kind of music does my eccentric roommate like? My own collection is mostly classical and rests in tall stacks beside my bed. Feeling sneaky but too curious to resist, I creep to my roommate's desk. Of the few CD's she has, I guess that most of her music was on her iPod, I could assume that my roommate enjoys modern pop music. One or two albums even have songs that I will, grudgingly, admit to like.

When I cast a glance to the sheet music for sopranos and I feel my mouth open with an audible pop and I can only stare wide-eyed. Written on the page are high notes that can surely compete with my own high register and series of crescendos and accents and dynamics are abundant. I feel my stomach flip and suddenly I don't feel quite so confident.

"What are you doing?"

I jump, pulling my hands from the music like it burned me, and I turn to face the girl who stands in the doorway of the room.

With one look I know the girl glaring at me with her hands on her hips is my roommate. Vibrant red curls frame a heavily made up face and flow down to her tan shoulders. Her golden skin and envious figure are accented by a pink sequined tank top and silver mini skirt that was so short it was almost indecent. Long legs are made even taller by her silver stilettos. The girl towers over me and I'm just below average height. Her fiery nails match her lips and her temper it seems, as she gave me a fully charged death look.

Is the girl gaudy and overdone? Extremely so. But she certainly calls attention with a high confidence. It's enough to make me shake in my old comfy sweats.

"I-I-I uh," I stuttered. I had been here since sixth grade, yet I don't know this girl. It's not like I know everyone, but it's a long time to be with the same people, and I've never seen her. She must be new.

"Do not touch my stuff," the girl warned me venomously. I could hear the slight Spanish accent in her voice. Somehow it makes her even more intimidating.

My roommate crosses to the desk and I practically jump out-of-the-way for her. By her careless air, I can tell she's used to people clearing out-of-the-way for her. She picks up her sheet music and shakes them so the edges all line up. Feeling uncomfortable in the silence, I stick my hand out nervously.

"I'm Christine. Christine Daaé."

"Carlottta Guidicelli," says the girl without a glance at my hand. Instead she chooses to blow across the music then brush it with her hand to be certain it is rid of my germs. I quickly drop my hand in embarrassment.

"That looks really hard. You must be good," I try again at being social. It was never one of my skills.

Carlotta laughs but it's not a joyous sound. "Of course," she says. "Did you think I was accepted on luck and childish dreams?" The look she gives me makes it clear on how she thinks I was accepted.

I feel my face flush in anger but I keep back a biting retort. Of course I don't think that's how people were accepted. But she's acting as though this were some prestigious performance learning center, when in fact, it is just a performing arts school. A fairly difficult one, with rooms to board and fancy architecture and a high calibre staff, but yet still a high school. The auditions weren't too hard, though I had still done my best.

The vocal training in the months leading up to my audition were increased tenfold, which is saying something since my training was already intense. My father and teacher had both been concerned that I was neglecting my studies, but all of my reports came back with high averages. My social life had also been of their concern, but I had always been a quiet child and had few friends. Giving up the few I spent limited time with in turn for music had been no hardship. In fact, though I sometimes felt embarrassed to admit it when I was younger, my father was my best friend and closest companion. If only I could go back and take away that childish embarrassment.

I feel tears come to my eyes and look back Carlotta's way only to see her freely changing into silk pajamas and showing off lacy lingerie, knowing that with her looks she has nothing to be embarrassed about.

I get up and walk to the window that splits our room in two evenly if the door hadn't been on my side.

Carlotta had hung a glittering pink curtain above the window, and I'm glad it doesn't obstruct the view. Outside it seems like we are in the middle of a field perhaps, or in the middle of nowhere, though I know the city is very close by. The trees give off a nice smell through the open window as a cool breeze blows in. I can almost imagine the pixies, faeries, and nymphs playing about in the dark as I used to pretend to see when I was young. I remember my father playing along before he had gotten sick and the little boy, Raoul was his name, who was my closest childhood friend before he moved away and I never saw him again. We'd pretend to search for faeries and I would always claim to see one, much to our excitement. We'd go door to door in the small little town by the sea, asking if the owners had any stories to share, like kids in costume asking for Halloween candy. No one ever turned us away.

My favourite story, as a child and now, is a story about a young girl called Little Lotte and her Angel of Music. The story spoke of a blue-eyed blonde haired young girl who wants for nothing but music. Her Angel of Music possesses the ability to produce the most beautiful heavenly music. He teaches Little Lotte all he knows, who becomes almost as great as her angel.

Raoul and I would ask to hear that one all the time. Then Raoul would tug on one of my blonde curls and call me Little Lotte, for I look just as she is described, and Raoul would take his violin lesson, because as he said, he couldn't have a girl completely out doing him, as that would just be embarrassing.

Finally I pull away from the window to see Carlotta, in surprisingly modest pajamas given the rest of her wardrobe, leaving our room to use the dorm bathrooms. I decide to use the spare time to change in privacy then head out to the washroom's myself.

Once in bed I find myself lying wide awake as Carlotta snores loudly in the bed next to mine. My thoughts lazily float from one topic to another. From wishing I had brought earplugs to wondering what I should wear tomorrow. They float to more anxious thoughts like how hard will my classes be this year? To sadder thought wishing I could have my parents back.

Suddenly it hits me in one big rush, as it does on many sleepless nights. My father is dead. There is no home with a loving family waiting for my safe arrival, no one who will love me through all my faults, no one for me to think of when I am scared or when I need that extra confidence when I perform. No one. Because he's dead.

0000000000

Gustave Daaé and Sofia Daaé had been young when they were married, and completely in love. They traveled far and wide, performing duets as Gustave played the violin and Sofia sang. Their angelic music was not only heavenly to the ear, but to see them perform together was almost to fall in love yourself. From the way they looked into each other's eyes, to how their emotions flowed through the air in song, they could only be bested by few. For all their talent, the Daaé's only performed at shows and festivals, thus they earned little more than what they needed to easily get by. They didn't want fame and fortune. They were happy as they were. Years later, they still performed until an unexpected pregnancy led to less traveling and less exertion for Mrs. Daaé.

When their child, a daughter, was born, there were complications. After holding her daughter for mere minutes, enough to caress her child and name her Christine, Sofia Daaé passed away.

Raising a child on his own was not an easy task for Gustave, but he put all he had into it, and soon everyone except a few forgot about the performing Daaé's. With this came little means of income, yet they pulled through. Christine was not like most children, and the only entertainment she desired was from music.

They lived respectfully well and when Christine was in sixth grade, her father heard about a performing arts school nearby, and urged Christine to audition, as well did her vocal teacher, whom they acquired by his close friendship with Gustave.

While not expecting anything promising to come from her audition, Christine threw herself into rehearsing. As the audition grew closer, Gustave became sicker. He had begun fighting cancer for the past few years, and suddenly his health went rapidly downhill. Christine forsake her training to be with her father. He wanted her to keep practising as her audition was a month away.

One morning, looking at her father, Christine knew that day would be the day. Gustave took her by the hands as the light of early dawn shone through the window, and told her he loved her and didn't want his death to keep her from living her life. He said that she should never stop her music, for her voice was a beautiful thing and would get her far. In his last breaths, he promised he would send his Little Lotte, his Christine, her angel of music when he was in heaven. Then he closed his blue eyes and with a small smile on his face, he passed away.

Christine continued to sing, as it was her father's wish, but her spirit was gone. Her technique and articulation was perfect, yet without her heart, it immensely dulled what was once a heavenly voice.

At her audition, she couldn't help but remember her father and his wish for her to do her best. Though not the joyous sound it used to be, her pain and sorrow flowed through her voice, and for a few minutes in what had been a month, it sounded as extraordinary as it had been before.

She passed her audition with flying colours and was accepted right away. Christine could hardly feel excited as the death of her father was still so raw, and singing for him had been like tearing open a healing scar.

0000000000

I cry into my pillow in the dorm room, feeling the unbearable ache for my father overwhelm me. I know that sometime during the night, my muffled sobs quiet and I finally fall into a restless sleep.

When I wake, I find myself clutching my blankets with traces of tears on my cheeks. I had another nightmare. I look at Carlotta's sleeping form and I feel relieved that I had not woken my roommate by screaming as I did sometimes in my sleep. I have a feeling that specific conversation, much like any conversation, would not go particularly well.

I glance at the clock on my desk, reading 9 am. Today is Monday, and also the last day of "activity week" as the teachers call it. It's where everyone can meet and hang out, especially different dorms and floors and roommates, since it would be quite awkward to not know your roommate. Or apparently so, according to the website.

Different rooms, floors, and dorms can compete in games and contests. There are all sorts of games as well. I won't be going for that, though. I'm going to get a sense of the school and the people there. I'm not planning or expecting to make friends. I really don't know how to behave around people. I'm shy, and others tend to find it weird.

I slowly get up and neatly pull the covers back up on my bed, from where they had fallen to the floor in a heap during the night. I dress in skinny jeans, faded converse, and a blue top Papa had once said brought out my eyes. As I dab on the tiniest bit of makeup in front of my mirror-a rare event for me, I find myself idly wondering if what Carlotta wears is even allowed by school policy.

I look back at the clock, seeing that only eight minutes have passed. I expect to be back around lunch, and I could rehearse a bit then. Hopefully Carlotta will be out by that point and not returning for a while. I cast a glance toward her bed. She continues to snore contentedly loudly. If she ever got up, I suppose.

With one last glance around the strange dorm room, I head to the first floor where the "family room" is, or rather a place to hang out. The way the dorms are set up is that there are eight, not connected to the main school. Each grade has their own with the first floor as a den, and the next two for rooms, and they aren't co-ed dorms. I know it sounds huge, the school and the property are, but the dorm houses aren't. There are many students who attend Leroux Academy, School for the Performing Arts, and many who live there, though a few live in the city and take a bus in. It is one of the best performing arts high schools to get into, and it is common to find students who come from places many hours away.

As I walk down the stairs from where my room is located on the second floor, the talking and giggling from other tenth graders becomes louder and more annoying with every step. I've never been a people person, and I definitely don't fit in with gossiping teenage girls. I may look the part, a tiny wide-eyed curly-headed blonde, but this is why you don't judge people by their appearance.

I slowly finish my descent into the room. No one notices. Already they're clustered together, though I have to admit most of them have known each other since they were in middle school. I recognize almost all, and I could probably join in on half the conversations without getting a look that clearly states what-do-I-think-I'm-doing, yet I don't. I don't want to. I never want to.

I've been here since sixth grade, yet I am close to one or two people, and I knew both were not in the room. It should feel pathetic and sad. Sometimes it does. Usually it doesn't. I haven't cared in a while and I'm not about to start. All I need is music.

I recognize the dorm advisor who bounds in from outside where the sun is shining brightly. I realize I am one of the last to arrive. The dorm advisor wears a name tag that says "Sorelli" but everyone already knows who she is. She was introduced last year, as she is now a senior. I'm not sure why she wants to watch over a bunch of tenth grade girls, but I guess from all the dance classes she takes she has the energy.

She disappears down one of the halls, and I can almost hear the dramatic pause in the once consistent chatter as someone appears in the room. Somehow it takes me one guess to figure out who it is. I turn around to see Carlotta finally making her way down the stairs in a dress almost shorter than the skirt she wore yesterday. I realize she must have met everyone and made an impression at the start of activity week, because 95% of the girls surround her talking animatedly. The leftover 5% shoot envious glances toward Carlotta as they talk.

Could things get any worse?

"Ohmygawd," squeals one girl named Belinda in a low cut tank. "I almost didn't think you were going to come!"

"Of course," says Carlotta nonchalant. "I had to show off my new dress." This causes a whole new round of squeals that tempt me to put my fingers in my ears and recite the alphabet or whatever aria comes to my head at the top of my lungs. I refrain.

"Where did you get it? It looks so amazing on you," a brunette named Cynthia says.

"I know," Carlotta replies. "I got it in Paris, at a darling boutique. Daddy promised me after the mishap we had in Spain that I could buy anything I wanted.

"You're so lucky!" says Samantha, whipping out her cell phone.

"I know," she says again. They laugh and I roll my eyes.

"Who's your roommate?" asks Belinda. I pause and take a half step closer.

"Yeah, she's got to be cool."

Carlotta snorts. "I wish. I caught her pawing through my stuff when I first walked in the door last night."

I feel my mouth drop open.

"No way!" some of the girls cry.

"Yes," Carlotta nods sadly. "I was just going to greet her, but I walk in and she's going through the stuff on my desk. I asked her what she was doing and she couldn't even answer me properly. I'm pretty sure she stole something, because I can't find the diamond earrings daddy got me when I turned thirteen."

My stomach tipped and I felt like punching her. A girl like that could make me get in too much trouble to name, even though I've never done anything bad before.

"You're kidding me!"

"No!"

"How terrible!"

"Why don't you tell the principal?" asks Amber.

I feel nauseous.

"No, there's no point. I've just got to hold my head high and deal with it. Not sink to her level," says Carlotta solemnly.

"You're so nice," replies another girl gravely. I can't tell who it is. I'm too focused on whether to feel relief that I won't be kicked out this second, or nervous that surely everyone will know what I had supposedly done in a matter of an hour.

"Who is she?" prompts Cynthia.

"I forget, really plain-looking," says Carlotta. "Chris-Chrissy? She has a bit of a Russian accent. Looks Russian too."

"Christine?" asks Samantha, looking directly at me. I'm not sure if I should feel grateful for the surprised tone in her voice.

"Yes, that's it," says Carlotta glaring at me. "Christine Daaé."

I can't help but look at my feet as they all turn to look at me, every one. A few glared, some looked suspicious, but most seemed curious or confused, knowing me from class and not behind bars.

Their voices dropped as they whispered, and I didn't dare tell them their dramatic "whispers" carried across the room.

"Are you sure it was her?" asked Peggy, a dancer who was once my science partner.

"Si," answers Carlotta.

"Really? She always seems so nice. Quiet and reserved, but nice," inquires Sarah, another girl who was once my partner. She's a guitar player who performed an instrumental backing for the choir at Christmas when I had a solo.

"No, not to me," harrumphed Carlotta. They nodded and their discussion turned to other things. I breathed out in relief. So far my reputation, or lack of, is doing well for me.

"Sorry I'm a bit late girls," Sorelli says, rushing in. I've always like Sorelli, though I've barely ever talked to her. She's our lead dancer, yet she's not arrogant or conceited. She's very helpful to the younger dancers, or to anyone who has a question.

"We should head to the mess hall, and then you can go out for the activities. I trust all of you know them by now, and will show any new students the way?" Sorelli asks.

There are a chorus of yes's.

"Good," she replies. "Onward!" She gracefully walks out the front doors and we follow, me trailing behind Carlotta's new minions.