Smoke & Mirrors

Chapter 02

Thinking that Andre, the new manager, might have more work for her to do (for a nice bonus, she hoped), Christine trudged down the stairs to his office. She opened the door just in time to hear him say: "I'm sorry, but Box 4 has already been taken for that performance. Will Box 5 do?"

Christine stopped dead, not believing what her ears were telling her.

He was renting out Box 5?

The conversation went on without a hitch. "Oh, good, I'll put you down for it…the fourteenth, yes, yes, I understand… well, thank you again. See you on opening day."

Christine backed away from the door slowly, letting it fall closed without a sound. Her head was reeling: what in the world was Andre thinking? Surely he'd heard the legends—no sane man would rent out that box if they knew!

Or was Andre erring in ignorance?

But if that were the case, why hadn't someone told him?

Christine was catapulted out of her thoughts when a hand gripped her shoulder. It was Meg.

"What's going on?" the blonde asked in hushed tones, seeing Christine's shell-shocked face.

"Didn't your mom tell Andre about Box 5?"

No more words were needed to get Christine's point across; her face said it all. Meg's grip on her friend's shoulder tightened as her face paled dramatically behind its skin of makeup. "Don't tell me—"

"He's renting it out," Christine whispered. "That skinny fool is renting out box number five!"

The two girls stood staring at one another, aghast and speechless. Their shocked silence as so absorbing that they jumped violently when a loud, booming voice suddenly asked: "What are two fine young ladies whispering about in the dark?"

Andre's business partner and co-manager, Firmin, had somehow crept up behind them. He, in contrast to the long and lean Andre, was a short, portly man with thinning hair and basset hound eyes. If Andre was a skinny fool, the Firmin was a fat fool. They made a good pair.

Meg was the first to speak. "Well, sir, I…"

"Yes, Miss Giry," he laughed. His deep baritone possessed the quality of a doting uncle's. "What is it?"

"I was wondering if you knew anything about the legend of the fallen chandelier… and Box 5?"

Firmin gave the two girls a patronizing look. "Now, girls," he said, "aren't the two of you a little too old to believe in ghost stories riding on no more fact than embellished coincidence and drunken speculation?"

"You mean you know the tale of the Theatre Ghost and still rent out the box?" Christine cried in surprise. Her heart began to thud unevenly. "Don't tell me you're going to cut off the allowance, too!"

Meg looked similarly aghast. "All of the accidents! The deaths! Ever since Box 5 was perpetually reserved and the monthly allowance given, they stopped! That can't be coincidence!"

Firmin laughed, fat jowls jiggling, as if sharing a private joke with himself. "Coincidence, bad luck, whatever—not renting out that box is bad for business, as is giving money to whomever it is that takes those checks your mother lays out." This last was delivered with a meaningful look at Meg. "Whomever benefits from them must be living quite comfortably, indeed. I hear you and your mother recently purchase a new apartment, Meg. How is it suiting you?"

Christine's ears burned at this last. Was he accusing the Girings of stealing the allowance? Beside her, Meg's fists clenched and began to shake with carefully suppressed rage.

Firmin looked at his watch, pointedly ending the conversation. "At any rate, I'm in a hurry. Andre and I have a few business details to work out, you understand. See you later." He promptly strode into Andre's office and shut the door firmly behind him.

"Can you believe it?" Meg fumed as she and Christine walked down the hall. Their feet—Meg's in boots, Christine's in sneakers—created quite a racket in the narrow hallway. "Accusing me and mom of taking the money! Of all the nerve! And renting out Box 5! Just who does he think he is?"

"The manager," Christine said, tone even. "Which means he can do anything he wants."

They walked, trading grievances and condolences, until they came to the primary bar located underneath the main staircase. Ms. Giry was checking taking inventory on a clipboard when she noticed the her daughter and Christine. Seeing Meg's enlivened state and Christine's pale cheeks, she put down her work. "What's wrong?"

Quickly, Meg and Christine filled her in on what had happened. "Can you believe it?" Meg asked when they were through, and repeated: "The nerve!"

Ms. Giry did not reply right away. Her thoughts were obviously elsewhere. "It is troublesome," she muttered, eyes distant as she took up the clipboard again. She made a detached check mark. Then she was all business once more, eyes clearing of their clouds. "I'll speak to Andre and Firmin about it." Her face went very, very still as she added: "Or perhaps the Ghost will beat me to the punch."

Christine's blood went cold; icily so. The accidents she imagined the Ghost were capable of were horrific, but she knew that they would pale in comparison to the thing the Ghost was actually capable of. The rumors were graphic enough. It had been a long time since he'd last struck, but the descriptions of his deed were still fresh and untarnished by time. Christine had no desire to ever see him angered again.

Maybe… the thought came from nowhere: maybe Christine could keep him from hurting someone. Maybe, if she got to him first, he'd take the news better.

"Mama, I've been wondering," Meg said slowly as she sank onto one of the barstools, oblivious to Christine's state. She pillowed her head on her hands and asked: "Why would a Ghost need the money we give him every month? I mean, it's not like he eats or anything, so I just wondered…"

"His reasons are his own," Ms. Giry said quickly. Her eyes flickered at Christine.

The glance worried Christine. Did the older woman suspect something? Christine settled onto a stool next to Meg, running a hand through her dark hair. What did Giry know about the Ghost, and about his connection to Christine? What wasn't she saying about him? A tremor shook Christine's hands, but she stilled the tremble quickly. No one could find out; she couldn't show her worry. That was paramount.

"I never did finish the lights," Christine muttered, trying to get away. The sooner she took care of things, the better. Though this was a lie, she didn't feel bad about giving it. Her real reasons were too important. With a grunt she got off her stool. "I'll be in the sound box."

Meg laughed. "And I never did call David." Her smile faded. "Hey, Christine—why were you by Andre's office? I thought you were working on the lights."

That stopped Christine dead. It was just like Meg to notice too much. Thinking fast, she said: "There was a note on the central switch board, telling me to come down to talk to Andre. But then, after the incident with Firmin, I didn't have the heart to go inside."

"I didn't see a note," Meg said, confused.

Christine shrugged. Meg really was too perceptive. "Must've missed it. Either that or he put it there when we were all onstage."

"Strange, we didn't see him," said Ms. Giry. "The stairs are in plain view."

Christine met the older woman's dark eyes, though only reluctantly. It was easy to see where Meg had gotten her insightfulness. "Yeah, that is weird."

They traded a level stare for nearly ten seconds, and Christine felt her pulse begin to pound. This woman was suspicious of her. She knew it, and hated it, because she didn't know how to fix it.

But, then, Giry looked away. "I guess we'll see you later, then."

Relieved, Christine nodded and waved to the mother and daughter. Feeling triumphant that she had averted a crisis, Christine all but flew up the stairs to the sound box. She wasn't surprised to find that the lights had been turned off and the chairs pushed back under the desk.

Knowing that he would eventually come around, she sat in her favorite wheeled chair and began to fiddle with the light board. Only, sitting with her back to the mirror was making her nervous, so she turned around to stare at it. It always made her wonder if the mirror was a one-way: she could never see the Ghost, but he commented on her every move, making her think it was transparent from the other side. It was either that or he had hidden cameras all around, but that didn't seem to be his style. Or maybe he really was a ghost. But, if that was the case, why was he able to organize her desk and flip off the lights every time she left the room?

"Where are you?" Christine whispered to herself. Her words vanished into the still air. "Where are you—you're always there, watching me, so why not now? Why?!"

There was no answer. It seemed Christine's secret was feeling contrary today. She glanced at her watch: 7:30. Patrons would start drifting in soon, come hell or high water, and Christine realized she would be pulling a long night. If she wanted to talk with the Ghost, she would have to wait for the show to end. He never came to her unless the theatre was completely deserted. When people were in attendance, his shadowy form could be glimpse in Box 5, or flitting amongst the rafters or prowling on the catwalk, but never in the sound box. Never close enough to talk to.

Suddenly, the intercom system set next to the door buzzed, making her jump. Feeling silly, Christine rose and pressed the talk button. "Yes?" she said, and lifted her finger away.

"It's me, Andre," said Andre. His voice crackled with static. "There's someone here to see you."

"Name?" asked Christine. She didn't have many friends, and there was no way her brother would be here (he was drunk under the table by now)—so who was it?

"Uh…" There was a pause, and then: "Says he wants it to be a surprise. And, Christine, he's pretty insistent about seeing you. Can I send him up to the box, or do you wanna come down?"

She deliberated. "Send him up. Does he know the way?"

Another pause. Then, in a surprised voice: "Yeah, he does, actually. He's on his way." The line went dead.

Christine sat down to wait, and didn't have to wait long for the door to burst open. A man, probably nineteen or twenty, strode in. He had wavy gold hair and flashing blue eyes, a handsome face and an obviously muscled body. His leather jacked squeaked when he moved.

"Raoul!" Christine cried, jumping up. "Oh my gosh! When did you get back?"

The man, Raoul, smiled and held open his arms. Christine practically jumped into them. "It's winter break at the school," he said in a surprisingly deep voice.

"Oh!" Christine blushed, feeling like a fool. "Christmas! I forgot!" Raoul was attending a famous music school with a full ride scholarship. He'd been the rhythm guitarist in Christine's older brother Avery's band until college had "stolen him," as Avery put it. Christine's brother was of the belief all you needed was determination to get a well paying job. Unfortunately, it didn't come that easy for musicians. You needed money, time, and talent, too. Lots and lots of talent. Raoul had it in abundance. He also had the most uncanny luck, which, in some instances, was more useful than having talent. This luck was what got him spotted by a school scout, looking for new blood.

Raoul chuckled. "Yeah, I can see that." His face grew a bit more somber as Christine stepped back. "I really wanted to see you, Christine."

His sudden intensity surprised her. "I've missed you too," she blurted. "Really, I have. The band fell apart without you." Raoul had been the only responsible member of her brother's band, Gilgamesh, and when he left the rest of the members drifted away until the band was nothing more than Avery's idle dream. That's when he'd taken heavily to the liquor bottle.

At her words, Raoul's face grew morose. "That's not what I meant. I missed you. Not the band." He grinned crookedly. For as long as she had known him, Christine had adored that slanted smile. It made her glow to see it now. "You."

Christine's face grew hot. She didn't know what to say (somehow, she always managed to get tongue tied around Raoul), and settled with: "Thanks." They stood in awkward silence for several moments, not wanting to look one another in the eye. But, then, Christine found herself struck with a case of the giggles, and soon both were laughing at themselves.

"God, it's good to see you," she giggled.

Raoul opened his mouth to reply, crooked smile still on full display, but the intercom buzzed again, cutting him off abruptly. "Christine!" it wailed in Meg's voice. "Christine! Are you hogging Raoul? Is he here?"

Inwardly, Christine frowned. She didn't want to have to share her friend. Meg had had a crush on him for ages, and for some reason the thought of him reciprocating her emotions made her cringe. Was she jealous?

Raoul walked across the room and thumbed the intercom. "Hey, Meg!"

There was a squeal, made tinny by the bad connection. "Ooh, Raoul! Come down here and talk to me! I'm all alone setting up the bar!"

"Only if there're free drinks involved," he said, with a blithe smile at Christine. He mouthed the word 'sorry,' and she smiled back, though the expression was forced. She did not want to share Raoul!

"Anything for you!" Meg sighed, then playfully snapped: "Now get your butt down here!"

Raoul straightened and looked at Christine, who said: "I guess I'll see you later, then." She turned back to her work, and felt her throat constrict threateningly. Was she about to cry? She closed her eyes and tried hard to not let tears fall. Why was she crying? This wasn't like her. It was only Raoul!

Or… was he the reason?

"Yeah," Raoul murmured. He fidgeted, then said (with no small amount of hesitance): "Hey… um… would you like to grab a bite to eat with me after the show tonight?"

Christine tore her eyes from her desk and stared at Raoul. Was he asking her out? Her practicality overrode her disbelieving joy. "You do realize that that'll be at, like, four in the morning, right?"

He fidgeted some more, bright blue eyes nervous. "Yeah, I know." He perked up. "How about pancakes?"

"Huh?"

"IHOP's got 24 hour service."

Christine just stared, so Raoul reiterated: "I'd like pancakes at four in the morning. Who wouldn't? It's a nice sugar rush to help you stay up. You wanna go, right? Just us, no distractions. We need to catch up."

It didn't take much deliberation for Christine to make a decision. "I'd love to," she blurted.

Raoul smiled the widest he had all night, and Christine's heart leapt to see the crooked grin. "It's a plan, then." He mock-punched her arm gently. "See you later, then. Gotta go pacify the Meg Monster." He headed for the door.

"Uh, Raoul?" Christine asked just as he stepped out. He poked his head back in, smiling.

"Yeah?"

Christine hesitated. "Is our IHOP run… well, is it a date?"

His smile faded. "Can it be?"

Christine's palms were suddenly sweaty, and all of a sudden she was self-conscious of her tattered jeans and faded sweatshirt. Why hadn't she worn something nicer. Slowly, heart pumping blood at an almost unsightly rate, she said: "Yeah."

"Then it is." Raoul waved, smile returning in full force. "Catcha later." Then he was gone.

When the door shut behind him, Christine's knees were knocking so badly she had to sit down. Her hands shook even worse, but her smile was as steady as the sun.

"A date with Raoul," she whispered. "A date." And then, as if she couldn't believe it: "A date!" She got up, knees back to normal, and spun on her toes. "Yippee!" Elation bubbled through her from head to toe; nothing anyone could do or say now could cast a pall over her day.

Except, of course, the thought of what her secret would have to say about her date.

Doubtless, he would not be pleased.

AUTHOR's NOTE and/or PATHETIC APOLOGY

Um… hi. I'm a ChristinexEric shipper, but Raoul… well, love triangles are the meat and potatoes of Phantom, right? Even though it makes my stomach churn to portray Christine as ga-ga over Raoul, I felt it had to be done for the story's sake.

I'm not telling you the ending pairing, but don't worry, not all hope is lost you CxE shippers! There'll be plenty of EricxChristine bits throughout this fan fic for you to mull over. I'm thinking… next chapter, maybe? Now I just gotta ago write it… hope you enjoyed this chapter! Cheers!

Oh, and I forgot to ask-- which would you prefer: more frequent updates of shorter chapters, or chapters of the current length at the current pace? for example, I could have gotten all of this information out by now, but it would have been in shorter bits. I, personally, like longer chapters, but I want to know my reader's opinion. Just review or PM or whatever and tell me which you'd like better, okay? I've never known which was more effective and would like to find out. Who better to ask than my readers? Thanks!

T.