Hah! I did it!

I never thought I'd have time to post this until next week. But I did!

anyway, on to buizness. For the partially illustrated version, search 'THSOND' on Deviantart.

The High School of Notre Dame
Chapter Eight
But Mess Them Up We Do

Quasimodo found Phoebus only half a block down his street. He'd been lucky- much further and he might not have been able to catch up. He had kept to cover of houses, mostly, and now he stepped out from behind a garage about a hundred yards away. "Hey! Phoebus!" he called.

Phoebus turned to look, and then smiled wryly. "You decided to man up, eh?"

Quasimodo knew Phoebus had won, but he wasn't going to listen to him gloat. "You need my help finding her anyway."

"Y'know, I'm not sure I do," said Phoebus, looking annoyed, "I think I know this town pretty well, seeing as I'm not afraid to walk the streets-"

"I've got directions," said Quasimodo, and Phoebus promptly ended his speech, looking expectantly at Quasimodo. "Well, what do they say?"

Quasimodo took the scrap of paper out of his pocket and unfolded it. On it were a few lines of his own hurried handwriting. "Well, they're sort of directions," he said, frowning.

Phoebus grabbed the scrap of paper, squinting at it. "Begin at the north of a starry night. Turn towards-" He stopped reading, his brows furrowed. "What the hell is this supposed to be?"

"It's a riddle," said Quasimodo, stating what he thought should have been obvious.

Phoebus glared at him. "Well why did you-"

"I didn't write it," said Quasimodo, irritably, "she sent it to me."

Phoebus started down the street at a high pace, forcing Quasimodo into a sort of lopsided half-run to keep up with him. For what had to be the millionth time in his life, Quasimodo wished he were normal. He would have been able to go faster if his legs were the same length. "This is nonsense," growled Phoebus. "Why doesn't she just give street names like everyone else?"

Quasimodo frowned, thinking of the first line. "She does," he said. "Give me the paper."

Phoebus thrust out an arm at Quasimodo, the scrap of paper crumpled slightly in his hand. Quasimodo took it, and grinned triumphantly. "Begin at the north of a starry night. Starry Night- Van Gogh!"

Phoebus looked perplexed, and angrier still. His eyebrows were practically touching over the bridge of his nose. "Van Gogh, like the painter? What's that got to do...?"

Quasimodo snorted, rolling his eyes. "You're an idiot, Phoebus, it means Rue Van Gogh. Starry Night is pretty much his most famous work. We start at the north end of Rue Van Gogh."

"Don't call me stupid," Phoebus warned.

"You are stupid," said Quasimodo. How could Esmeralda make out with such a Putz? "How do we get to rue Van Gogh from here?"

Phoebus leapt on the question. "Now who's the idiot here-" he began, his expression vicious. But then he cut himself short, and stopped walking altogether. "Okay, hang on a minute." He held up his hands, a gesture of peace. "I can't figure out the... weird Arts riddle, and you don't know your way around. If we want to find her we're going to have to work together."

Quasimodo hesitated. He looked at Phoebus, with his cocky smile and blond hair and chiselled good looks. Then he looked at the note in his hand.

He couldn't leave Esmeralda's safety in the hands of such an idiot. "Okay," he said, scowling, "fine. For her sake. Now how do we get to Rue Van Gogh?"

Phoebus stared to walk again, gesturing impatiently for Quasimodo to follow him. "It's a little ways from here."

Quasimodo suspected the longer-legged Phoebus was going so fast more to bother him than help Esmeralda, but he did not allow himself to fall behind.

"What's the next bit say?" asked Phoebus.

Quasimodo examined the paper. "Turn towards Hell-child's doom at the first opportunity," he read.

"Hell-child's doom," said Phoebus, dubiously. "Geez. Maybe Frollo wasn't making the drug thing up."

For a moment, Quasimodo wondered if it was true. Then he looked at the riddle again, and laughed out loud. No. Drug dealers would not write a riddle like this. "Oh, wow, Esme," he murmured, still laughing.

"What?" Phoebus demanded. "You know what it means?"

"I don't believe it," said Quasimodo, grinning, "It's a Hellboy reference. The right Hand of Doom. So we take the first right."

"Uh… Hellboy?" Phoebus was clearly unfamiliar with the concept.

Quasimodo sighed, rolling his eyes. "It's a comic book series."

"I don't read comics," said Phoebus.

"I'm not surprised," said Quasimodo, "Literacy in general doesn't seem like your style."

Phoebus bristled, looking mildly hurt. "That was uncalled-for."

Quasimodo looked at the pavement, chewing his lip. It had been uncalled-for. Phoebus could have made thousands of cruel remarks about his looks, but he hadn't, and Quasimodo owed him the same courtisy. "…Yeah. Sorry," he muttered, feeling flushed and annoyed at Phoebus for having a point.

Phoebus smiled, apparently pleased with the progress he was making. "Y'know, I've been trying to figure out why we seem to hate each other so much."

Quasimodo resisted the temptation to roll his eyes. "Any breakthroughs?"

"Sort of," said Phoebus. "I think you're jealous."

Despite whatever brief truce had been made between them, Quasimodo badly wanted to punch the blond boy in the face and take away some of his precious good looks. He set his teeth, his face twisting into a firm, ugly scowl. "Jealous?" He said, his tone ironic and bitter, "Now why would I ever be jealous of you, Phoebus?"

Phoebus looked perturbed by the sudden bout of vicious sarcasm. "…Huh. Well, it's not just the looks thing, is it? You wouldn't be jealous of every guy you met- I mean, not meaning that as an insult, but…"

Quasimodo looked at Phoebus, uncomfortable, trying not to offend even after a heated argument, and his anger melted into exhaustion. It wasn't fair to hate him. Quasimodo knew he'd been behaving like Frollo, mean and bitter and vindictive about petty things. "Don't worry about it," he said, looking at his shoes, "it's not like I haven't heard it before."

Phoebus frowned slightly. "It's not- Oh, God, is it Esmeralda?" He suddenly looked horrified. "I know you're crazy protective of her and all but…"

Maybe Phoebus was a little more perceptive than he seemed. But what kind of a lunatic wouldn't be smitten with her? He said nothing, still staring at the ground and feeling humiliation roll off him in waves. It was one thing to think of her like that in his own head, but Phoebus knowing about it…

Phoebus took his silence for a yes. He still looked shocked, and saddenned, and it ony served to make Quasimodo feel more ashamed. "Oh, man, I'm sorry, but-"

"No," said Quasimodo, looking up at Phoebus in an attempt to salvage his own pride, "It's okay. I never thought- er- you know." He felt his face flush, and the heat was almost unbearable under the glare of the Semptember sun. He swallowed. "She's happy, that's what matters."

There was a pause. Phoebus looked almost touched. "That's- really mature of you." He let out a small, nervous laugh. "Way better than I could do- I'd hate me if I were you."

Quasimodo smiled. "Well, one more thing, Phoebus."

"What's that?"

He grabbed the blond boy by his collar, as he had done only weeks ago, and lifted him bodily into the air. Phoebus looked almost unsurprised. "For every tear she sheds on your account," said Quasimodo, with what would have been a very threatening manner were he not still grinning, "I will personally remove one of your vital organs."

Phoebus pretended to look terrified. "What if we're chopping onions or something?"

"For those, I'll be very generous- just your appendix." Quasimodo set him down, releasing his collar. "You don't even need that."

--

Quasimodo looked around, glad that dusk was falling. Rue Van Gogh was nearly empty, but not entirely. He wished he'd brought a coat, or something more concealing than his school uniform.

"D'you get the impression we're being watched?" asked Phoebus, with a grin.

"Don't remind me," said Quasimodo, feeling the eyes of every pedestrian in the street boring into him. "My only consolation is we won't get mugged. Everyone's too scared of me."

"So there are some perks then?"

Quasimodo got the impression Phoebus was still trying to cheer him up, after earlier, and he was mildly grateful. Even if it was a little patronizing, it was effective. He never would have dared to do this on his own. "Well, I always get plenty of space in a crowd."

"Here's the right turn," said Phoebus. "Rue Danté. Hell-child's doom."

"Whoever wrote that thing is very clever," said Quasimodo, brandishing the riddle. "Where the numbers turn Prestissimo, hail Cesar, but go round the back to the door as blue as Elphaba. Huh. I get the first bit-" He frowned, trying to remember from voal class how many beats per minute prestissimo meant. "When the street numbers hit about 220… but I dunno about the hail Cesar bit. And the doors- Elphaba's green, not blue, everybody knows that."

"Uh," said Phoebus, looking awkward.

"Never mind," said Quasimodo. "Maybe it'll make sense when we get there."

They walked a little further, in quiet, and darkness was falling fast. Quasimodo, who had previously blessed the dark, started to wish he had a light. He thought he could hear footsteps behind him, but when he looked over his shoulder, there was no-one there. Rue Danté was a mix of houses and stores, and it seemed to go on forever. When they knew they were very close to the street number they needed, a hulking, circular building appeared from behind a thin veil of city trees. It was lit up like a great round beacon by yellow spotlights, parking lot crammed with cars. The Coliseum Cinema, proclaimed the sign.

Quasimodo and Phoebus looked at each other, and for once Phoebus was clearly thinking what he was thinking.

"When in Rome," said Phoebus. "I should have figured. Where are we supposed to go now?"

They approached it through the parking lot, Phoebus without hesitation, Quasimodo skirting around cars to keep mostly hidden. No-one was in the parking lot, but it made him more comfortable. "We go in," he said. "Though the door as blue as Elphaba, whatever that's supposed to mean."

Phoebus stared at the building's façade. "Uh, Quasi- the doors are all blue."

"Oh," said Quasimodo, feeling foolish. Had they come this far just to- Oh, but of course. He snapped his fingers. "That's it- we're looking for a door that isn't blue. Green, probably. And it'll be round the back."

He followed Phoebus to the back of the great, circular monolith, thinking that this was how bank robbers must feel when they successfully cracked their first safe. There was much less light back here, and the façade was not nearly as glamourous- there were no giant letters or movie posters, only a series of dingy blue doors, one of which had lost its paint to reveal greenish rust underneath.

"That's the one," said Quasimodo. He hesitated, reaching for the handle, and looked at Phoebus. "For Esme?"

"For Esme," Phoebus agreed, and Quasimodo tried the handle.

The door was unlocked, and despite its ancient, rusted appearance it opened quietly. They found themselves at the top of a staircase, and there was a warm glow visibly eminating from somewhere near the bottom. They could hear racous laughter from somewhere.

"Age before beauty," said Phoebus, slipping inside. Quasimodo, rolling his eyes, followed him down the staircase, and as they descended the voices got louder, and they could hear muffled snatches of conversation. From the sound, there were quite a lot of people inside.

There was a brief stretch of unfinished hallway after the staircase, bolts and rough wooden planking showing through like x-rayed bones, and it led to a wide doorway that had been decorated to an almost gaudy extent with masquarade-style masks and colourful strings of beads. Above the door was a small plaque that read;

The Miracle Workers
are hosted, sponsored,
and entirely created by the
Trouillefou family.

"I guess Clopin's family owns the theatre," said Phoebus, tapping his fingernail against the hard laquered surface of one of the more colourful masks. "Looks like his kind of… thing."

"You know him?" asked Quasimodo. He wouldn't have thought the captain of the football team would have mixed much with the drama kids.

"Not personally," said Phoebus, "but everybody knows about him. He pretty much owns the arts department."

Quasimodo knew it was true, and wondered how he'd managed to keep out of Clopin's way since his traumatic first day. He didn't entirely like the idea that he was about to come face-to-face with him. He didn't want to hold a grudge over the first day, since Esmeralda was so confident that Clopin hadn't meant to cause any harm, but the idea of meeting someone so influential and talented was daunting.

Phoebus did not seem to notice Quasimodo's anxiety. He tried the door handle, scowling when he found it locked, and rapped on the door with his knuckles. "Hey! Let us in, it's important!"

--

Clopin held a needle in one hand, threaded with a double-length of blue thread, and an oddly-shaped piece of felt in the other, and he had one eye on what he was sewing and one on the film that was playing, projected onto a screen similar to those in the theatre upstairs. It was Casablanca, chosen by Esmeralda, and Rick was wondering, vocally and drunkenly, why Elsa had come back into his life. Clopin had always identified most with Sam, their black piano player. He had a theory that Sam had been trying to get Rick back together with Elsa from the very beginning. Esmeralda, beside him on one of the old, beat-up sofas, was watching the screen with rapt attention, already crying a little. She empathized enormously with Rick.

In the other room of their basement clubhouse, almost every Miracle Worker besides Esme and himself were watching Bon Cop, Bad Cop and having what sounded like a roaring good time, but he knew Esmeralda had been having a rough few weeks and he was happy to give her a bit of company. Not only was it beneficial to her, it might prove useful to him.

She seemed happier than she had been in a long time, but she wasn't yet willing to tell him why. He planned to keep working on her, because the reason for her happiness was no doubt a vital detail.

Suddenly, a girl whose name was Amy stuck her head through the doorway and cleared her throat to attract his attention. "Clopin?"

He looked up. "Oui?"

"Someone's at the door. Not members. They say it's important. Should I let them in?"

"I'll deal with it." Clopin laid a hand on Esmeralda's shoulder, letting her know he'd be back, and speared his needle through the fabric he was working on for safekeeping. Then he set it aside and got up, following Amy into the larger room.

The someone who had been at the door was still at the door, knocking loudly and impatiently. Clopin bent slightly at the knees to look through a peephole in the door-frame, cleverly placed so that it looked directly through the eye-holes of one of the masks pinned up outside. He found himself looking at a well-built blond man, only a little shorter than himself, who still wore the Notre Dame school uniform, complete with a tiny pin that proclaimed him to be the Captain of the Football team. Clopin had a vague idea who he was, since they had been in the same Science class two years ago. Dweebus, or something like that. How had that forengie found his way here?

"Let us in!" said the blond one, in a voice that was heavily muffled by the wooden door and the noise in the room.

Clopin frowned, and looked again through the peepholes, trying to find the 'us'. It took him a moment- and then, when he adjusted the angle through which he peered through the holes, he saw the unmistakable form of Quasimodo, hunch-backed and red-haired and deformed. He had missed him, at first, because the poor boy was shorter by more than a head than his blond companion.

Clopin hesitated. That boy was the stepson of Vice Principal Frollo, who openly despised the Gypsies. Letting him in could endanger everyone here, even if he was Esmeralda's close friend. He couldn't risk the safety of the club.

…But then again- this might be exactly what he'd been waiting for! On the very night when Esmeralda's luck seemed to change, the deformed son of her tormentor had come with a mysterious stranger, bearing an urgent message…

He turned to the knot of Gypsies who had been distracted from the movie, and were waiting for him to make a decision. Normally, this would have been a choice he could make easily by himself, but when it came to Stories… "It's the lumpy kid," said Clopin, trying to get a laugh to hide his indecision, "with some football jock or other. Should I let them in?"

The Romany teenagers turned to one another, muttering. Most of them didn't seem too happy with the idea of two forengies entering what was supposed to be a Romany club, especially when one of them lived in the same house as Claude Frollo.

Suddenly Esmeralda appeared amongst the gathering of watchers, looking anxious and flustered. Clopin knew it took a lot to draw her away from Casablanca, and he motioned for everyone to be quiet so that she could speak.

"Phoebus and Quasi? Is that them?"

Clopin nodded. She didn't seem to have taken kindly to his casual insults.

"Let them in," said Esmeralda, without hesitation, and before he had a chance to make any kind of response, she had already crossed to the door and pulled it open.

The two white boys tumbled into the room, Quasimodo tense and quiet, Phoebus stressed and angry. When they saw her, they both let out breaths of relief. "Thank God," said Phoebus. "Why the hell didn't you let us in earlier?"

Clopin decided that this football captain fellow had to be a piece of the puzzle. Esmeralda had never talked to him before, and-

Was he the one who'd-?

Clopin swallowed. "Eh, Well, you know, security and all that, it's a tough time for us-"

"Yeah, I know," said Phoebus.

"Lumpy kid," said Quasimodo, dryly, looking up at Clopin. "Nice one."

Esmeralda stepped between them, speaking to the entire room. All eyes were on the four of them now, and the TV blared unnoticed in the background. "As far as I'm concerned, these two ought to be members. You don't know how much they've done for me- and for all of us. Rena and Michel could tell you that."

She gestured to a young couple who stood a few feet away, and they nodded, wide-eyed. "He-he stood up to Frollo. He got suspended and we got away," said the boy.

Esmeralda cast Phoebus a look, out of the corner of her eye, and Clopin realized exactly why she had seemed so happy earlier.

"Look," said Phoebus, addressing the entire room as Esmeralda had done, "we're here to warn you."

He was a loss to drama, thought Clopin. He had a loud and spacious voice, and he captivated his audience.

"Frollo's told the police you're dealing drugs," continued Phoebus, and throughout the room there were sounds of outrage. "There's going to be a raid later tonight."

"But they won't find anything!" shouted one of the older boys, from the back of the room. "They can't arrest us if there's no evidence!"

Quasimodo had said no more than four words up to this point, to Clopin, and when he spoke, the room went quiet. His voice was not loud, but everyone heard him. "That won't stop him. He has friends in the right places- he'll have a way of getting what he wants."

There was a brief silence. The Gypsies looked at Clopin, at each other, searching for an idea of what to do. They were frightened.

Phoebus took charge almost instantly. "We've got to leave now. I'd take anything with your name on it with you, and any valuables- if they search this place I doubt you'll get them back."

Clopin found himself admiring the man's ability to take charge. Then something occurred to him, and he felt a sinking sensation in his chest. "Phoebus," he said in a low voice, as chaos broke out around them and Miracle Workers searched frantically for their belongings, "What about my parents? They own the theatre. If Frollo says there are deals going on on their property-"

"You won't be helping them by being here," said Phoebus, "If the cops come and this place is deserted, it'll be that much harder for Frollo to convict anyone. If there's no evidence, it's bound to be nearly impossible."

Clopin nodded, and turned to help the Gypsies get their things together.

No story was worth this.


Okay, there we go.

Anyone catch the Fish Called Wanda reference in this chapter? Hearts Kevin Kline

By the way, Forengie is a mildly rude (I think) Indian term for white people. Gypsies were originally from Indai, though nobody knew it (hence the name), so I figured it'd work.

Thanks as always to Attaloi and my Ma.

-Mostly Harmless