I remember the day when I first encountered Christine. She was just twelve years old and applying for one of the many fine arts schools under my control.

I did not love her then… not as I do now. I am many evil things, but I am no pedophile. And yet, something about her attracted my attention.

Oddly enough, all this happened before I even met the girl.

You see, the school had encountered some streak of difficulty and, when I became their primary donor, I insisted that I take an active role in setting everything to rights. It hadn't taken long, once those idiot managers realized it was in their best interest to put me in charge.

In a way, it was refreshing to take a hands-on approach to something after so many years of doing my work indirectly through one representative or another. I have reached a point in my life where my companies and organizations are self-sustaining, for the most part, and require only the occasional check-up. This is how I prefer things to work. It gives me time to work on my music without distraction. I am not a micromanager.

So I guess you could say that rebuilding the failing school was like a hobby for me. A way to fill my time between bouts of inspiration.

Anyway, one night I was looking over enrollment applications. Choosing the right students for the program was a vital aspect that had been sorely neglected. Not only do they need exceptional talent and skill, they need to have ambition and a teachable spirit. In short: we do not teach beginners. We merely polish what is already there.

Furthermore, this being a boarding school, we needed to find students with the right temperament to be away from home for long periods of time.

Originally the managers thought me mad. They are idiots.

I had initially wanted to go so far as to re-evaluate the existing students. Jane Larson—now known simply as La Carlotta—has become a quite famous opera singer… but I find her voice so despicable I cringe to have to claim her as one of our graduates.

Still, among other things I am a businessman and it would be a disaster to expel the entire student body and force them to reapply.

Ah, but I am getting off track, am I not? Right. As I was saying…

The applications that had made it through the first screening process (I let someone else take care of the busy work) came to my desk for the final approval. I skimmed essay after essay, genuinely bored, when I came across one that was so entirely unlike the others that it made me pause and look at it more closely.

For one thing, it was handwritten. Most of these applications are typed out by parents or school guidance councilors, highlighting each student's unparalleled genius and ability. The essay portion said less about the student and more about the parents' delusions of grandeur.

But this… this was so completely genuine that it made me smile. I stopped what I was doing to closer read an essay that was clearly written by a twelve-year-old.

Tell a little about myself? I suspect one would have to think very highly of themselves to be able to fill up three pages on that. I don't know what you expect of me, but I'll do my best.

Let's see, where to begin? I am twelve and three quarters and about to enter the seventh grade. But of course you knew that since I wouldn't be applying otherwise.

I am much shorter and much chubbier than I'd like to be, but Father says that dieting is not for children. I have brown hair. I suppose you could call it curly if you were being especially nice but most people would call it frizzy. I have blue eyes that are just blue. They are not cobalt or sapphire or turquoise or any of those other special colors the heroines in books have. They are the kind of just blue that doesn't stand out but clashes with every shirt I own. I am very nearsighted… or farsighted… I never remember which is which. It's the one where you have to hold your book up really close and squint if you want to see it. Anyway, it means I wear big ugly glasses. The kind that make boys tease you. My dad says that someday I can get contacts when we have a little more money.

The more I continue on this line, the more I think that is probably not what you are looking for when you ask me to 'tell a little about myself'. I suppose it's your fault, anyway, for not being specific. I'll try to do better, though.

I get mostly A's and B's in school and I enjoy learning very much. Well, I enjoy learning most things—biology is gross. My favorite classes are Choir and Math (not because of the numbers part, but because Mrs. Hendrickson lets me read when I finish my work early). I am also in Band but I don't tell many people that since I'm afraid the choir people will tease me or call me a traitor.

My strengths include singing (obviously) and acting. My weaknesses include being too timid and clumsy. I heard you had to be well-rounded to get into this program. I hope that doesn't include a dance audition. I am a klutz. And I got a C- in P.E. because I can't climb ropes.

I think I would be good for this program because I love to learn and I want to concentrate on my singing and become a great musician. I also want to do this for my father because he is very sick and it would make him happy to know I am following my dreams. He is a violinist, by the way. We used to sing and play together all the time. Those are some of my fondest memories. Oh, by the way—this is a surprise for my father. He would be upset if I was rejected so I am not telling him I applied. Please don't tell him!

I don't know what came over me at that point. Her application was the kind that would be rejected from any self-respecting institution. From the essay alone I could list to you all the reasons a school like this should not accept her. I should have thrown it away and fired my assistant for wasting my time.

And yet, I was enthralled.

"Jules, fetch me the audition tape for applicant 0478!" I barked.

"Right away, sir," he answered, scurrying over to the catalogue. Jules really is a good assistant to have, though I would never tell him so. I don't know why he puts up with me. I imagine he'd leave in a heartbeat if I didn't pay him so much.

The recording of her singing was truly something. Her accompaniment was nothing but a violin—her father, I assume—and it was easy to tell by her relaxed tone that she never anticipated this to turn into an audition. I could actually hear her smiling. Truly marvelous.

The next day I went to the advising office, bypassing the front desk (I don't need any receptionist gaping at me. That is why I do most things over the phone, you see. It's more pleasant for everyone if they don't have to cover their shock at the mask and I don't have to watch them) and heading through a special door leading straight to the headmaster's office. The funny old man doesn't even see the mask anymore. It's amazing what enough money can do.

If only there were enough money in the world to make them see past what is under the mask. But, that's neither here nor there.

"Tell me about this applicant," I said, sliding the application across the desk. I think I intimidate him. Good.

The old man gave a horrified look. "Sir, I apologize! I have no idea how that got into the packet we sent you. It must have been a filing error. I will fire that intern today. Honestly, how something like this made it through is beyond me. I am terribly sorry for wasting your time, sir!"

"Now you are wasting my time. Just do what I asked you to do and stop apologizing."

"Right… right." He frowned, his glasses sliding down his nose a bit, as he called her name up on the computer.

"Christine Daae: daughter of Charles and Eloise Daae… father a concert violinist, mother deceased… middle-class, Caucasian… slightly above average academics, great instructor recommendations… Oh, it would seem her application was late. That is probably why it was misfiled."

"She will be accepted."

"But sir… you can't possibly expect—"

"If you value your career, it would serve you well not to argue with me. The president and financial managers have already given me authority over the administration of this institution. They will not be happy to hear that their most generous benefactor has withdrawn his support because of a disagreement with the headmaster."

He gulped. I remember that giving me a certain amount of satisfaction. That is the nice thing about having conferences in person. The headmaster typed a few things into his computer and then submitted it for acceptance.

The computer made a sound like a buzzer.

"Oh. It appears there is a note attached to this particular file. Apparently her application has been withdrawn… relatively recently, it would seem. Diane!" he called, beckoning his secretary, "Do you know anything about this?"

"Daae? Oh yes, sir. Someone called last week and withdrew the application. Her father has recently deceased. The poor dear… he left her with nothing—no family, no money—she's in foster care now, I believe."

"Well that's that, then. I'm sorry you had to come all the way down her, sir."

"I want her at this school."

"But sir—"

"Give her a scholarship—room, board, everything. Get someone to sort out the details. I don't care what you have to do, just get her here!"

I didn't give him a chance to respond before I stormed out of there. I figured he'd find a way if he knew what was good for him. I was angry enough that I needed out of that office right then. I don't deal well with people who make things more difficult than they need to be.

The fact that she was alone in the world just made me want her more. She needed me from the beginning.