I would like to teach you.
For a long time, Christine stared at him. She wasn't sure what to say, or what to think. Her. Teach her. Of all of the people that had stood up and sang for him, her. No one ever saw her. She had never been anything special to anyone but her father.
Here was a highly respected and admired composer, picking her.
When she found her voice again, it was stuttering. "I - I can't, I mean… I can't pay you or -"
"Don't insult me," he answered, his tone light. "The only payment I will require is your dedication - to music and your lessons. I can make you something, Christine. You only have to be willing to put in the work."
She swallowed thickly. "You don't want me to pay you?"
"My work will be repaid in time," he answered, tilting his head as he seemed to consider her. "Anyone else would be overjoyed but you seem… frightened. What are you afraid of, Christine?"
She pulled at her hoody. What was she afraid of? It was a simple question but she wasn't sure how to put her answer into words without offending him. It was honestly herself that she was afraid of. If she didn't believe in herself how could anyone else? Her dad has shaped her dreams for her. She would be someone, be something. He had filled her head with the image of her name up in lights. He had often told her that she sang before she talked, that music was what she was meant for, that God's plan would fall into place and she would find the opportunity if she only believed hard enough. Maybe that was what she was afraid of. What if she didn't have it in her? She wasn't sure that she would want to know. Would he be disappointed if she couldn't do it? Would he be disappointed if she didn't take the chance?
"It's a simple question, Christine," he said, his voice smooth and honeyed. "All you have to say is yes or no. Let me help you."
She blinked at him. The dulcet tone of his voice was relaxing and reassuring. She took a moment to look at him; really look at him. His thin build and thick hair, his slender musician's fingers, his nice clothes, his intimidating height.
"I see you, Christine," he murmured, sitting back on the edge of the piano bench. "I see you - really see you - just as you are. I see what you can be. No one has ever seen you before, have they? They didn't see me either, Christine. Work with me. Say yes."
"Why me?" she whispered, the question burning and refusing to be held back.
He stared at her, drawing the tips of his fingers together in a temple in his lap. "You are what I've been searching for," he said slowly. "I didn't know it, could never quite pin it down, but now I know. It was you. You will be helping me just as much as I will you, Christine."
Her name on his lips made her shiver. His low voice caressed each consonant and vowel as though they were sacred. Something about him screamed danger to her but she looked into his eyes and all she could see was gentle honesty.
"I - I'll try," she answered eventually.
"That wasn't the question," he murmured. "I need to know that you will dedicate yourself; to the music and your voice. I am a demanding teacher, Christine. I will push you. I will make you shine if you let me. But I need your full dedication. I will make you shine but I need your full trust."
"I'll trust you." His words were pretty and confident and she wasn't sure that she could find it in her to turn her back on them.
"No matter what," he added, his eyes still fully trained on her. She nodded and he sighed, seeming to relax with her agreement. "We will do wonders together, Christine. You and I. We will start Monday, after school. You will meet me in practice room B. Two thirty exactly. I will expect punctuality. That is when the work will begin."
"Are we - are we finished for today then?" Christine couldn't quite keep the desperate edge out of her voice. The music felt safe. His melody had wrapped around her and she felt free in a way she hadn't since her father died. When he played it was almost like her dad was there again, standing right beside her. Even through the most simple exercises he had guided her on she felt him there, his hand on her shoulder while he whispered all those long-forgotten dreams in her ear with a voice she could hardly remember.
"You seem disappointed," he said sympathetically. "Only for today, sweetheart. We have many months and years of music ahead of us, I promise. It is good for you to be disappointed. Promising, indeed. But I couldn't forgive myself for encouraging your bad habits. On Monday we will start from scratch." He stood suddenly, snapping the top of his briefcase that rested on the lid of the piano closed. "Come. I will take you home, Christine."
Her fingers were warm. He hadn't actually expected her to take his hand when he offered it but she had; it was too late to take it back and all he could think about was how utterly warm and soft her fingers were. When he heard her sing he thought he was lost. It was really when she touched him. He wouldn't be able to explain what exactly he felt other than warm but it was there, blossoming, and he wasn't sure that it was an entirely good development.
She hadn't flinched at his cold skin. She hadn't seemed to notice it at all.
Christine didn't seem quite as plain when he glanced back at her. She had a youthful aura about her that was difficult to pin down. Her eyes were bright blue and if her hair was properly cared for he was certain it would be the envy of her classmates. Her pale skin seemed to have a certain glow about it that he hadn't noticed upon his first appraisal of her - maybe it hadn't been there. Maybe it was only hope that brought it in.
Polish to her voice, polish to her appearance and she would never be forgotten again. Erik was almost envious of her - the work would fall on him and he had no doubt she would reap the benefits. She was young, malleable, and so long as he was careful to keep her in line and on track she would flourish beautifully.
Even as he led her through the nearly empty hallways and bright fluorescent lights out toward the parking lot his mind wandered far. He was home already, tucked away in his music room and digging through sheets of music.
Erik released her hand to dig through his pockets for his car keys. It wasn't until he unlocked it and threw his briefcase thoughtlessly into the back seat that he glanced over at her and saw the wide-eyed way she stared at his dark grey BMW, her arms wrapped tightly over her chest.
If she was so easily impressed it boded well for him.
He walked around the car and held the passenger door open for her, waiting patiently for her to climb in. She slowly buckled the seatbelt, chewing the inside of her lip and looking over the leather interior. Erik closed the door and slid into his own seat, turning the key and lowering the volume of the radio so that he could hear her easily over it.
There was already quite a stack of music in his mind as he asked her for her address and pulled out of the parking lot.
"What kind of music do you like, Christine?" he finally thought to ask, attempting to distract her from the nervous way she evaluated his car.
"Oh," she answered softly, staring out of the window. "I like - I like a lot of music."
Erik had always hated the cop-out of an answer. "Tupac and Britney Spears," he teased gently. The fact that she had slipped so easily back into her nerves was disheartening - just another hurdle to get over. He was more than sure there would be a few of them.
"No," she huffed. "I mean, I like a song or two by Britney. But I like - I mean, I really like a little bit of most of everything. I really like music."
He hummed, glancing at her at a red light. "Tell me what you want to sing. If you had to pick one song right now, what would it be?"
"It's gonna sound really stupid," she said softly.
Judgement. He had already learned it was a fear of hers. If she was quiet and hid she never had to disappoint anyone. Erik recognized it because it was familiar - he had lived that way for a long while too. "Tell me anyway," he coaxed. "I would like to start you with something you want to sing."
"Do you know Cirque Du Soleil?" she asked, finally looking at him.
"It would be difficult not to," he answered. "It's quite popular."
She nodded, tucking her frizzy curls nervously behind her ear and looking back out of the window. "They have a really pretty song that they use. I like it a lot. I think Josh Groban sang it too. It's… I really like it." She paused, taking a deep breath. "It goes… Let me fall, let me climb… I really like it a lot. I would sing that one."
Her voice was shaky and nervous. She was sitting down and she still wasn't breathing properly. Erik still heard something almost reverent in the two short lines she let herself sing. "I know it," he said, putting the car in park in the driveway of her little ramshackled house. "It is a pretty song. It will need some transposing but I will have it ready for you on Monday. We will start with that. Do you remember, Christine?"
"Two thirty," she answered. "Practice room B."
"Very good," he murmured. "Enjoy your weekend and be refreshed and ready to work come Monday."
Erik had originally thought to order her an Uber when he promised to get her home. He hadn't been able to do it. She was his project. She was precious cargo and he wasn't going to put her in a car with a stranger and wish her luck - he knew what lurked in the world, particularly in the area she lived, and mostly because he was one of those things that lurked. She didn't need to know that.
He sat in the driveway until he watched her disappear into the house.
"Where have you been?"
Mrs Valerius' voice was the first thing Christine heard as the door latched behind her. She knew that she should have called but she didn't have a cell phone and she would have had to walk away from the music and…
"The most wonderful thing happened!" Christine said, unable to hold it back anymore.
"I'm sure it has."
Christine's excitement melted away into guilt as Mrs V came around the corner, a baby in each arm and her hair disheveled. Mrs V took on a lot of work and she was always tired, so tired. Christine stepped forward and took one of the wriggling infants into her arms. "I'm sorry that I'm so late," she offered.
Mrs V waved her free hand dismissively. "Bradley needs a change," she instructed. "They both ate - Cindy beat you home and she needs help with her hair - she has a school concert or something tonight."
"Mrs V?" Christine asked softly, shifting the babe in her arms.
"Hm?"
"I'm - I'm going to be late on Monday too. And… I might be a little late every day this week."
Mrs V smiled tiredly. "I suppose Cindy is old enough to start picking up some of the slack," she sighed. "Don't be out all night and stay out of trouble, Christine. You're a good girl. I'd hate to see that start to change now."