September 1985

Whenever Erik wasn't in class, he was in the theatre workshop. The first years of his schooling had been an absolute mess of consistent harassment from his classmates, many who threatened to rip off his mask. He became a distraction almost instantly upon walking in the classroom, so it was no surprise when the administrative staff at his schools agreed to letting him gather his work from his teachers and head off to someplace where he wouldn't be a bother. The workshop was a perfect place for that and more.

Keeping his mind off of things was Erik's number one priority, and doing so meant occupying himself with even the most mundane tasks: sweeping the floor, organizing paint brushes, labeling containers. Whatever he could find, he would do.

Usually, he picked out small tasks for himself, but as it seemed Mr. Poligny's classes were improving at their cleanup ethic, there wasn't much work left for him. Except for the horrendous pile of two-by-fours in the workshop's corner.

No one ever properly put the wood away. The "wood corner" of the workshop was a constant wreck: facing stacked randomly on the racks, jacks scattered about, planks tossed into a pile like firewood. Erik often had to turn his back to it, not wanting it to be his responsibility because, frankly, it wasn't. But he couldn't take it anymore. Four years of high school and this pile had grown into a nightmare.

Once he had several piles going in the center of the workshop—all separated by size—the task suddenly seemed like less of a nightmare. Measure, toss, measure another; it was just another job.

He was halfway through when the door creaked open, and he allowed one more two-by-four to join its family on the floor before he looked up to regard whoever was peeking in, thinking maybe it was a teacher wondering what all the racket was. Instead, he found a girl.

Her expression was no surprise; he had become numb to that silent gape which had once disturbed him, or at least he tried to convince himself that he had.

"I-I'm sorry," she apologized meekly.

Perhaps it was just the fact that she didn't immediately back away after meeting his gaze, but he couldn't stop that deep bunching of nerves within him when she spoke.

"I was looking for the theatre teacher. Do you know where he is?"

It took Erik a moment to realize she had asked him a question, too caught up in the fact that she was still standing there, and panic swiftly stole the position of the nerves. "Have you checked the theatre?"

His eyes shot wide as soon as he realized exactly what he had said, and her lips quirked as if to repress a laugh. Oh, this wasn't going well. This wasn't going well at all.

"I've been looking, but he doesn't seem to be around."

Erik's mind ran with a few possibilities as to where Mr. Poligny might have been. For once in his life, he could help another student, and he couldn't let her down.

"Would you like some help?" Her voice broke him from his trance, and his eyes shot back to hers. She nodded in the direction of the wood stacked against the wall. "I could help, if you'd-"

"No thanks." Nerves tangled every way in his gut once again, and he tightened his jaw to reduce his embarrassment at the sight of her surprised blinking. Oh, he could not interact with people his age for the life of him.

"I-I mean," he corrected himself frantically, knowing he would surely damn himself for all eternity if he scared her off, "you could stay in here. Mr. Poligny usually comes in to check on me around this time."

His eyes glanced to the clock hanging on the wall. If they were any bit lucky, he would be by within the next hour.

"I guess it would be best to stay put if he is going to stop by soon."

Another set of nerves shot through him as she crossed to a stool by the paint cabinet, smiling contently as she made herself comfortable. Now that she'd stepped out from the dark passageway, he had a better picture of her: long curls, blue eyes, button nose. She was shorter than him, as most people were, but considerably tiny.

It stunned him how comfortable she seemed now, glancing to her surroundings in curiosity. She must not be a theatre student, he thought, considering how she treated the space with such unfamiliarity.

"What's your name?" the question shot out of him almost desperately. He started bashing himself when her head swung back to him, but her gentle eyes were quick to soothe his inner turmoil.

"Christine," she said.

There was something about it then, he realized, how a simple exchange could mean so much more.

"And you?"

"Erik."

It felt odd saying his name. He convinced the school that he needed it left out of the yearbook and theatre programs due to "religious reasons" when, in reality, all he wanted was to be forgotten after high school. He could just disappear, and no one would question who the boy named Erik was and where he went to; no one would have to bear the burden of remembering him.

But now, sitting several feet away from him, was a reason to exist—someone who could look him in the eyes as people should look at one another, someone who genuinely seemed to care about an ordinary bit of information. He could exist, he thought. He could exist because of her.

"Erik," she repeated with a smile, and his heart staggered accordingly. "I like that. Are you new here?"

He swallowed. She must've seen right through him. It must've been obvious he was not like the other students. "No. I've been here for four years."

"Oh!" Her cheeks reddened as she laughed. "We're both seniors! I'm new here. Well, sort of new."

He cocked his head in interest. "Where are you from?"

"I was born here, but then my mother..." she paused as if questioning her response, lowering her voice, "my mother passed, and my dad decided to pick up the lifestyle of a traveling musician, so I've been on the road for ten years."

She had ducked her eyes in what Erik recognized as an act of avoiding pity. He did it quite often himself when the school counselor or Mr. Poligny checked up on him and he had no good news to offer. When she finally met his eyes again, he welcomed them with a small smile, and she smiled as well.

"What does your father play?"

"Violin," she sighed, her eyes raising to the ceiling dreamily. "He treats that instrument like a second child. Sometimes I miss hearing him play every night."

Her eyes had dropped back to the hands in her lap, and Erik stood there watching her twiddle her fingers. He would've been embarrassed by the fact that he ran out of things to talk about if the silence hadn't been so comfortable. It seemed like a day for many firsts—a first for the pile of two-by-fours, a first for having actual interactions with another student, and a first for comfortable silence between him and another person.

"Are you going to the party this Saturday?"

"Party?" The fact that she could even consider some weird kid in a ski mask as a potential guest on a list for such an event was oddly commendable and laughable all at once.

"Yeah, the De Chagny's are throwing a party to celebrate the new school year. Seniors only."

He turned quickly to regard the pile in the corner once again so he could spare her the scowl that was forming on his face.

She still caught the edginess in his frame. "Did I say something wrong?"

Christine's eyes read of nothing more than desperation when he turned back, pulling a two-by-four from the top of the stack. "No. It's just the De Chagny's."

"What about them?"

He tossed the two-by-four into its designated pile. "They act like they own this town. Everyone seems bought-out by them."

"I think they're nice."

The bashful defensiveness in her tone told him it was best not to argue, and he didn't want to anyways. Not if it meant upsetting her.

"You should still come, though. It'll be fun."

"If your idea of 'fun' is getting wasted," Erik added, controlling his voice so that his comment didn't come across as harsh.

She chuckled. "That's just even more of a reason for you to come: so I won't be the only sober one there."

There was something in her eyes, he realized, that made it hard for him to look away. For once in his life, he had the opportunity to join the land of the living, and still, there was that sharp voice hissing in the back of his mind, begging him not to.

"Where will this party be?"

Endless Love - Diana Ross and Lionel Richie