This chapter kept coming out wrong. I had to re-type it at least four times. Thank you to my dear, faithful Reiko Rose (), who reviews every chapter (and you know that I live and die for reviews) as well as to The Little Corinthian. And to answer your question, Rose, Deea is emotional, emotionally attatched to the role of Christine (she's wanted to play it since age 11), and she and Katie both know that if not for Erik, Deea would have gotten the role. Plus, she has a jealousy problem. Come to think of it, so do I…

I was in shock. Deea had been a constant, ever since kindergarten when we shared cookies at snack time. Our friendship had survived Deea's family moving away for a year and a half, my father's death from cancer, the upheavals of middle school—and now it was over. Because of a high school production of the Phantom of the Opera and singing lessons from a disembodied voice.

It was about nine on a Friday night, but I crawled into bed, hugging my pillow for comfort. Deea was gone…Deea was gone…my only bloody friend in the whole bloody world was gone… I cried, cried as I hadn't since Dad died when I was ten. My tears went on for a long, long time, and when I began to wind down, my pillow was spotted, my face was blotchy, and my eyes were red. But I wasn't asleep, which had been my goal, or dead, which had been a faint hope.

With nothing else to do, I went downstairs to get my book. My 'research.' I curled up on my beanbag with a bag of chips and set to reading. It wasn't easy; for one, my eyes periodically teared up again, for another, it was almost impossible for my sleepy brain to decode the 1911 language.

My eyes were even redder, my chips were long gone, and my temples were throbbing when I finally finished the darned thing. I lay back in my beanbag, debating whether or not to go to bed, mulling over the story. 'Demented' was the first adjective that came to my mind to describe the thing, but somehow that didn't seem right. One thing that seemed just too weird to be coincidence was the fact that the Phantom was named Erik. I'll tell Erik on Monday…oh, right, he already knows…okay, fine, I'm going to bed.

Next morning, I resisted waking up for as long as I possibly could—the oblivion of sleep (even when said sleep was filled with dreams about corpses with glowing golden eyes) was so many million times better than anything the real world had to offer.

Through cracked eyelids, I surveyed my room—childishly painted purple and green, white carpet on the floor, closet, dresser, bookshelf. Behind the sheer, useless blue curtains over the window, I could see that the sky was blue, the sun was shining, and the maple tree right outside was an unbearably cheerful shade of green. Birds sang ironically. "That's right, world, mock my pain,' I grumbled as I stalked toward the bathroom, shooting the window another baleful glare.

I was a mess. My fine, shoulder-length hair had outdone itself for tangling and my eyes were crusty and red. Oh, hell.

And Deea hates you.

"Shut the crap up!"

Well, it's true.

"Oh, that's right, make a miserable day miserabler!"

That's what I do!

I yanked a brush through my hair, pretending that the fresh tears flowed from the pain. Not bothering to change out of my pajamas (I slept in an oversize t-shirt that ended at mid-thigh), I stomped downstairs. Ignoring my mother's cheerful greeting, I poured a bowl of cereal and attacked it as if each individual Cheerio was the cause of all my problems.

When the cereal was in its death throes, I threw it into the sink and ran out of the house, still in my pajamas. I had no idea where I was going but found myself at my lesson place, and Erik became the source of all my problems. "You miserable twit!" I shrieked. Tears began to stream down my face again. "You made me lose my only friend! You—"

—Stop shrieking, Katie, you'll ruin your voice.—

"My voice can tear itself to shreds for all I care! If it weren't for my stupid bloody voice, Deea would still be my friend, and I could still be normal, and I wouldn't hear voices in my head, and…and…"

—Delaina has a problem with jealousy.—

"How would you know? She's my best friend!"

—Up until now, you haven't been worthy of jealousy.—

"Thanks."

—Think about it, Katie. Use your head rather than your heart for once about this girl and think. And you know perfectly well that if you didn't want to kill me right now, you would think twice about saying that your voice didn't matter.—

"I hate you, but you may be right. Thank you."

—Your voice is my primary concern. I don't do it for you, believe me. And while you're here, we can begin our lesson.—

It took a while, but after an hour or so of singing, I felt better. Better enough, in fact, to realize that I was in my pajamas and that I should probably go home and get dressed. "Um, Erik? I'll come back later to finish the lesson, I promise…" He had disappeared. Brilliant. But against my will, my bad mood had disappeared, and I hummed happily under my breath as I made my careful (I was barefoot) way back to my house. Better, I no longer hated the beautiful day. And it's all Erik's fault…

Well, I prefer being coerced into happiness than being miserable of my own accord.

Misery is your natural state.

Shut up. I showered, dressed, did not look at the picture of me and Deea I kept above my dresser, and went downstairs in search of something to do. Something came to me instead: after about an hour of mindless boredom, the phone rang. Who in the world…Deea! I raced to pick up, but it wasn't Deea. It was Erik. Infinitely less than my best friend, but…

"Oh, hi, Erik. What's going on?" And why is he calling me? I only met the guy a week or so ago, barely. Not counting chorus. And wow, you could seriously fall in love with the guy if he only ever called you…

"Um, I'm sorry, this must seem random, but…" Silence.

"But what?"

And in a rush, an odd sound for such a uniquely beautiful voice, "I was wondering if you would look over a piece of music of mi—for a friend."

"Say that again?" (If truth be told, I had understood him, but I wanted to enjoy his voice. It was like listening to my Erik, except he wasn't being a controlling arse).

"I was wondering if you would look over a piece of music for a friend of mine," he repeated again, more slowly.

"Sure. Um, I don't know where your house is, maybe we could meet somewhere? In about half an hour?"

"That sounds great. In front of the ice cream place?" with perhaps unnecessary enthusiasm.

"Great, see you there." I had half an hour to get thirty miles on my bike, combined with any buses I could find, to go somewhere that sounded, all of a sudden, like a date. Bugger.

Luck and the city transit system were with me, and I made it to the ice cream place with perhaps thirty seconds to spare. Erik was standing in front of it with the air of someone who had been waiting for some time. "I am not late," I preempted any accusations of being thus by saying.

"I wasn't even going to mention it. Here's the piece, and do you want some ice cream?" He offered me a manila folder (like the ones in the back of his car, I remembered) and further solidified my fears that this could be a date. Part of me (though not a large part) wanted to say no (as I've said, my heart belongs to my darling Jared) but something in his eyes reminded me of when Deea did puppy dog eyes, and the reply forced its way through my lips without my consent.

"Okay." Again, the smile that lit up his whole face, and I felt guilty for considering refusing. "And I shall completely forget that I just ate breakfast." Well, we both got ice cream (mine was mint-chocolate-m'n'm-cookie-dough and his was chocolate, for those who care) and I was astounded to discover that this antisocial boy, irrespective of his looks, was such a genuinely interesting person. "I'm sorry," I confessed to him when we were leaving, "I'm afraid that I believed stereotypes and related evils. I had no idea you…well, I had no idea you were such a great person."

"I wouldn't be so quick to call me that," he said, sadness brightening his glowing eyes. "I'm—"

"No you're not. I have a very sensitive weirdness detector," I assured him. And I was being completely honest.

"Thanks, Katie. That means a lot to me." Another glowing smile, and I sternly reminded myself that I loved Jared. Erik had friend-potential (a valuable quality these days, though), nothing more. "Do you need a ride home?"

Oh, no, it's only thirty miles, on a bike, on a full stomach. "No thanks, I've got my bike."

"Well, see you on Monday then, bye," he said. Resignedly. He said it resignedly, in a 'she agreed to come at all and you should be grateful' way. I stuffed the folder of music (which, no, I had not forgotten) into my purse and started for home.

With the bus ride, the trip home was forty minutes, which gave me plenty of time to think about Erik. I wasn't being stuck-up when I spoke of his resignation when I refused his offer of a ride home, he wasn't the first boy to have a crush on me, and I recognized the signs. That's all I thought it was, though, a crush. And he wasn't the worst boy to have a crush on me (no, that title went to the 12-year-old science geek when I was at summer camp), he just wasn't Jared. He's nicer than Jared. Jared wouldn't give you the time of day.

He just…

Just nothing. He even refused to acknowledge your existence when you got Christine! For that I had no argument.

I wasn't a particularly good piano player, but I sat down in front of ours anyway to try Erik's music. Darn, that stuff looks complicated…

God, that's amazing. And it was. Even just the melody, even in my clumsy hands, was hands-down the most impressive I had ever heard. I played on, enthralled. And when I finished, I was left with even more to think about.

I replayed my phone conversation with Erik in my head. "I was wondering if you would look over a piece of music of mi—for a friend." 'Of mi—', could that have been 'of mine'? If that's true, and this beautiful piece was something he'd written…

Erik must be a genius.

Then I thought about his physical appearance…strangely skeletal. Erik from the book was skeletal…I knew that my thoughts were ridiculous, but I was on a role. Erik from the book had a fantastically beautiful voice…my Erik had a fantastically beautiful voice…Erik Mercer had a fantastically beautiful voice.

My dream—the Phantom from the movie had metamorphosed before my eyes into the Phantom from the book, though I hadn't yet read the book. And—and—

How could I have been so stupid?! My Erik, the Erik in my head, and Erik Mercer, and Erik from the book, had to be related or something…heck, they might be the same people, no, that couldn't work, because in Erik Mercer, the skeletal effect was diluted, as if by several generations…

Okay, you idiotic girl, the facts.

Erik Mercer, my Erik, and Erik in the book are musical geniuses.

You don't know that Erik wrote…yes, fine, you do.

Erik Mercer, Erik from the book, and my Erik are somewhat skeletal in appearance. And they all have glowing golden eyes.

If your Erik is the person from your dream.

He is.

Well? Make up your mind.

My Erik is the Phantom. He is Erik Mercer's four-times-great grandfather.

Are you sure?

Yes. Yes, I was sure. And I still had way too much to think about, and too much unexplained. (For example, how did the Phantom have kids at all?) But I was sure.

Monday is going to be weird… And then,

I have to talk to my Erik about this

And there you have it! Katie's epiphany, and congrats to those of you (the ones who are neither deaf, blind, or monumentally stupid) who figured it out before she did. Please review, constructive criticism is welcome as well!