Christine wore her best clothes. They still weren't great but there were no holes in her grey t-shirt and her jeans actually fit - she had thrown them in the dryer with a load of Mrs V's clothes the night before just to make sure that they would. If Christine owned makeup she probably would've used it. She was almost glad she didn't - she had a feeling she would've looked more like a clown than anything. She had even thought to tuck her hairbrush into her backpack and double checked to make sure she had a hair tie on her wrist before she left the house to go to her bus stop.

She floated through school. Even Mr Gondell's relentless teasing hadn't been enough to bring her down. Come to think of it, she had hardly finished the homework. She had spent her weekend floating too, helping Mrs V around the house and humming to herself. Mrs V said it was nice to see her so cheerful. Christine wondered if it was too early to be hopeful but she had already begun to build a castle in her head - he seemed so sure, so confident and with his resume, well, he must know something, right?

Two thirty in practice room B. She had repeated it to herself a million times, worried that she would forget it. He seemed the serious type - she was half afraid that if she was a minute late he would withdraw his offer completely. Christine wasn't sure why that scared her. It certainly wasn't like she had expected anything like this to happen to her.

The bell rang at two sixteen. By two twenty she was already standing outside of the heavy practice room door. She killed as much time as she could by pulling her hair into a sloppy ponytail but she had nothing more to fill the long minutes with. Better early than late, she thought, pushing the door open.

He was already there. His briefcase was on the floor and he was sitting on the piano bench, the upright piano completely opened in front of him. He didn't jump - he only glanced toward her as she closed the door behind her.

"You're early."

He didn't sound annoyed. If anything he seemed halfway pleased. Christine let herself relax with that. "I didn't have anywhere else to go."

"Better here, then," he said, standing and making his way to her. He slid the backpack off of her shoulder and paused, holding it by the handle. "Do you have a locker, Christine?"

"Yeah," she answered, crossing her arms. "Why?"

She watched speechlessly as he sat on the piano bench and unzipped her backpack, digging through it. "Five textbooks," he counted. "Three notebooks - and a novel. Use your locker. This is too much weight to carry around all day. And for god's sake, use both straps."

"It's broken," she mumbled in a half-hearted defense of herself.

"What is?"

"The other strap."

His long fingers ran over the broken strap. "So it is," he muttered, more to himself than her. "Probably because you carry so much around. Use your locker."

She nodded, feeling her blush color her cheeks. With her nod he zipped the backpack closed again, setting it just behind the door.

"I am not quite ready yet," he said, returning his attention to the piano and plucking a single key. "These instruments are abysmally maintained. I don't think this piano has been tuned in a decade. You will have to bear with me."

"I don't mind," she admitted quietly. "I'm just happy to be here."

He reached into the piano, turning something that she couldn't see from where she stood by the door. "Your parents are okay with the arrangement?" he asked, reaching down and pressing a single key on the piano with his free hand.

Christine slid down, sitting against the wall. She pulled her knees up and wrapped her arms around her legs, resting her chin on top of them as she watched him work. "Mrs V told me to be good and not to stay out all night. I didn't really… tell her, I guess. I just said I would be late."

"Who is Mrs V?" he asked, his eyes trained on the piano strings.

"My foster mom," she answered quietly. "And Mr V won't really care as long as I'm quiet when I get home."

"Foster care," he muttered, plucking at another key. "Are your parents dead or unsuitable?"

The odd thing was, Christine felt like he was actually listening to her. He didn't turn toward her, he didn't give any indication other than his basic questions but something in her believed that he genuinely wanted to know. "My dad died when I was six," she answered, trying not to dwell too hard on the thought. "I never knew my mom. She left when I was real little and from what I understand, cuz I mean, I listen a lot, she signed some papers so she didn't have to deal with me anymore. I dunno if she even knows that dad's dead or where I am."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Christine believed, wholeheartedly, that he was. He said it with such a sympathetic tone that it would have been hard to convince her that he was lying.

"Why did you not tell this Mrs V about our lessons?" he asked eventually, breaking the silence that had settled between the infrequent notes that rang out as he tested his tuning.

Christine shrugged, leaning back against the wall. "She didn't ask. She had - well, she has a lot to worry about. I try my best to not make things harder."

"She is responsible for you and has no interest in your whereabouts?" he asked softly. "I think I am beginning to understand you."

He was silent for a long moment and then, finally, he stood.

"Stand up," he demanded. "We are ready - do not be discouraged, Christine. I have your music and it is ready for you but we may not get to singing - not in these first few lessons. From the ground up, yes?"

"Right," she answered softly as she pulled herself up. Christine had no idea what she was agreeing with but she thought he must be right. He had complained about her technique. She had no idea what exactly that meant but she guessed that whatever it was, he would fix it.

"Back against the wall, Christine," he said, two of his fingers pressing against her shoulder. "We will begin with posture - it's the foundation we will build on. This is why I do not want you carrying so much around. Your posture is already terrible."

She lined herself against the wall as best she could. "Like this?"

"Somewhat," he murmured. His long fingers reached behind her head, pulling the hair tie out. "It will disrupt the lesson," he said, only half apologetically as he held it out to her. He stood back from her a great distance but his hands brushed against her gently.

Christine found herself holding her breath as he pushed her shoulders back.

"Don't lock your knees," he pointed out. "You should know that well enough singing in a choir."

"M'sorry," she mumbled, trying her best to relax.

He sighed, hooking one of his long, cool fingers under her chin and tilting it up. "Better," he said, looking into her eyes. "How does this feel, Christine?"

"... Weird," she admitted, swallowing slowly. He was staring straight into her eyes and there was something… well, something just a bit off that she couldn't really put her finger on.

"Uncomfortable?"

"No, just," she sighed. "Just different."

"Good. Different is exactly how it should feel," he said softly, taking a step back and looking her over carefully. "Eventually it will become second nature… just make sure to keep your chin level. You stare at your feet far too much. Think of it like a straw. If you bend a straw it is quite difficult to use. The same applies to airflow. Does that make any sense at all?"

"Yeah," she answered simply, suddenly uncomfortable under his eyes.

"Does it really?" he asked, tilting his head slightly. "If it doesn't then tell me - I do want you to understand what we are doing. If you don't then I'm afraid you won't understand it's importance."

"It does," she said softly. "It really does, Dr -"

"Erik," he said simply, cutting her off.

"... what?"

"My name is Erik," he said, sliding the edge of his pointer finger under her chin to correct her already slipping posture. "That is what I want you to call me."

"Okay," she whispered. Christine wasn't sure what the sudden twist in her stomach was but he didn't give her long to dwell on it.

He blinked, gave her half a smile and said, "Breathing is important. Probably the most important thing next to posture. Take a deep breath, Christine."

She gave her best effort. She always got nervous when the doctor told her to take a deep breath too. His finger under her chin was almost as cold as the stethoscope and her breath quivered as she pulled it in.

"Absolutely wrong in every way." He didn't sound annoyed; instead he sounded almost amused. "Try again. I am only here to help you, Christine, not judge you. You have no reason to be so nervous."

Her next breath was just a little steadier, just a little more firm.

"Better," he said slowly. "Still wrong but much, much better." His hand moved slowly, the tips of his fingers brushing against her stomach gently, just under her ribcage. "You should feel it here, not in your chest. Close your eyes and try again."

She wanted to tell him to stop touching her. Something about it was ridiculously distracting and she wasn't sure why. His touch was cold, almost clinical. It wasn't inappropriate but something told her that the flutter deep in her stomach when his fingers brushed over her was.

Instead of saying anything she closed her eyes, just as he asked, and took another deep breath.

"Good," he said softly. "Better. Much, much better, Christine. You see? Hardly twenty minutes in and we've already made some progress. That is how it should feel every time."

Despite his assurance that she was now breathing correctly, like she ever would have known there was a wrong way to breathe, he continued with the exercises for far longer than Christine would have thought they needed to.

By the time he let her stop she was ready to hold her breath in defiance.

"We will do a few warm-ups," he promised her when they finished. "Then I will take you home. It's already getting late… how old are you, Christine?"

She was already sure that she would have trouble keeping up with his bouncing thoughts. He seemed to change topics on a dime and she hesitated for a moment, not sure if she had heard his question right. "I'm fifteen," she answered eventually, realizing that if she didn't give him something he would just keep staring at her in that way that made her nervous. "I'll be sixteen in a month and a half."

"The voice does not fully develop until the late teens if you are lucky, sometimes not until the early twenties," he said matter-of-factly, sitting at the piano and glancing toward her. "I say this because I do not want you to be discouraged if you are not yet ready for the pieces you want to sing or if you struggle a bit in the beginning. It is completely natural and we will not want to push it - not when you are still developing and can so easily be damaged. Your range will shift; your vibrato and control may be atrocious for a time. We will battle through it. It is all perfectly normal. So long as you stay here, with me, we will navigate it perfectly fine."

She didn't answer him. She wasn't sure what kind of answer to give him that didn't sound like doubt. If my voice isn't developed how do you know that it's actually any good? Eventually he played a simple scale with one hand.

"Hum, Christine. Do not forget your posture and breathing, even with a hum."

They ran through the scale multiple times, rising up it and descending. First on a hum, on staccato 'ah's, and then on an 'ooh'.

He gave no verbal indication that he was finished with her for the day. He simply stood, suddenly, and reached for her backpack. He slid the single intact strap over his own shoulder, picked up his still unopened briefcase and led her out into the deserted hallway.

This time, when he led her to the BMW in the parking lot, she didn't stare at it open-mouthed. She simply climbed into the passenger seat and buckled herself in.

He was silent up until he pulled into her driveway, shifting the car into park.

"You will come to me tomorrow," he murmured. "At the same time. Do not forget to use your locker, Christine, and remember your posture. The best thing you can do is practice it. We will work on your vowels."

Christine felt almost robotic as she climbed out of his car. She dug through the backseat for her backpack and when she finally got inside of the house she leaned against the door for a long minute.

Eventually she pulled the door back open, peeking out to find the driveway empty.

She wasn't sure why she suddenly felt so confused.