Chapter Nine: Proposition of a Revealing Nature
"No."
There was a bit of a pause.
"Why not?"
"For," said Erik, his tone turning dangerous, "exactly the same reason I have been answering in the negative the past ten times you asked me."
"Oh," said Lonny, and for a brief second he hoped she had at last given it up as a bad job. Then she went on, "Maybe that's your problem. You're too negative. You need some optimism in life, Erik, something to put a smile on your face. As you walk down the lane, just singing— singing— you're singing in the raaaaaaain!"
These last few lines were delivered on her knees, arms spread wide, face upturned, eyes closed. She opened them, and blinked at him a few times. Erik scowled at her.
"Kindly never do that in my presence again."
"Huh." She got to her feet. "Maybe you can give me singing lessons as a thank-you for me letting you stay in my room."
"Perhaps." Erik's tone indicated that it was highly unlikely.
"Or maybe," Lonny suggested, "you should just give in and write a story, like I suggested."
"I won't! I refuse!"
"But it'd be the definitive version—"
"Not a chance," said Erik, and folded his arms firmly.
"But it'd be popular, I bet, and everyone would love you, and you'd get tons of reviews, and I bet it'd elevate my readership a bit—"
"Fan fiction," said Erik with a glare. "Of which the chief rules are 1. Keep your readers' interest in any way possible, even if it means prostituting all the male characters. 2. Never proofread, for it is entirely pointless, and misspellings often add an element of amusement to stories that otherwise would be completely devoid of entertainment. 3. Pander to the audience, if possible, by including their names in the story and giving them interaction with their favorite character, whether they fit in the plot, if there is a plot, which is unlikely, or not. 4. Find someone who seems to have a lot of readers, and plagiarize their ideas. Not to mention the basic tipoffs of popular writing— if there is any mention of thighs by the second chapter, there will be illicit relations soon afterwards. Should there, God forbid, be an occasion of lightheartedness, the comedy must be overdone and slightly offensive, and the angst should be milked for all it is worth. And let me not even start to discuss the punctuation— nearly everything I've read has been marred by the spurious misuse, abuse, and overuse of punctuation; commas and exclamation marks flying everywhere as though caught in a high wind. This— this is what you would ask me to write? To expend my genius on, as though I had nothing worthwhile to do with my time?"
Lonny blinked at him for a few minutes. "Well," she said brightly, "you seem to have the basics down rather well. Perhaps you could just—"
"No."
His tone was definite, and rather scary in that it conveyed the suggestion of the possibility of punjabbing in the near future. Lonny sat on the bed and stared at him.
"I think its—"
"No."
"But I—"
"No."
"Look, if you—"
"No."
"Can't I just—"
"No."
Lonny let out an exasperated sigh and flopped back on the bed, hitting her head on the wall. "Ow," she said, in as pitiful a tone as she could manage. Erik ignored her, and turned back to the computer.
They stayed like that for a while, Lonny contemplating the ceiling and Erik contemplating the concept of appearing in a Speedo. He was about to smash in the computer with a nearby golf club when Lonny sat up and said, "What about if the story ended differently?"
Erik glared at the computer and said, "It had better end differently! As if I would ever display myself in such a costume!"
"No, I mean— your story. Suppose we— alright, you, suppose you wrote it and somehow— reality altered, so that Christine stayed with you, instead of going off with the fop?"
Erik turned to look at her. Clearly it was an intriguing idea to him, and, just as clearly, he didn't want to admit it.
"Go on," he said.
Lonny grinned manically. "Magical things happen every day," she said. "Wonderful, magical, mystical things. Wonderful, magical, mystical, mysterious, arcane, phantasmal, tremendous things. The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, for instance, finally was made into a movie after, I think, some thirty-odd years. After that, I have faith."
"Faith in what?" queried Erik suspiciously.
"In everything," said Lonny, "it saves time."
She got to her feet and spread her arms in order to expound more adequately, but words failed her and she simply stood for a moment, rocking back and forth on her heels.
Erik stared at her. Obviously she couldn't really see his expression, but she could feel one eyebrow raising sardonically, and finally she managed to speak.
"Look, you were once a fictional character."
"Not according to Leroux," said Erik stiffly.
"Well, I wouldn't know about that, not having read it. But you were once. And then somehow you became real, slid into reality without a second thought. Words have power. Whose to say that it couldn't happen again?"
His yellowish eyes remained fixed on her, and clearly he was thinking about this. Lonny bit her lip, hoping he would throw himself into the dubious logic of her proposition and overlook the fact that she had made it up on the spur of the moment. And anyway—
It could happen.
It was unlikely— astoundingly, amazingly so, but still. The possibility was there.
Lonny was not very old, but already she had learnt not to give up on the ability of life to surprise the crap out of you when you least expected this. She had gone a long ways to learning this the night before, when the Phantom of the Opera crawled in her bedroom window.
"Alright," said Erik. "We shall give it a try."
Lonny grinned and dropped her arms down to her sides.
"That's all I ask of you," she said, quite conscious of the fact that she was borrowing words from the musical. She did, however, manage to refrain from breaking into song, since Erik had asked her so nicely. "Just a try. What more can anyone ask? Apart from muffins."
Erik scowled at her abruptly.
"Nevermind," said Lonny, "not important. Now. You want me to type? I type pretty fast."
She gestured for him to move out of the chair so she could sit down, and he did, slowly and regally rising to full height, looking down at her over the mask.
"You don't need to do that, I am already suitably impressed," she told him. He ignored her, stepped away, and sat down on the bed, stiffly; clearly he was not used to other people's beds. Well, Lonny thought, he wouldn't be, would he.
She sat down and popped her knuckles, wiggling her fingers over the keys before calling up WordPerfect. "What shall we call it?"
He dragged his eyes away from a deep contemplation of his hands, and glanced at her. His mouth opened slightly, and for once he appeared to be totally without a reply of any kind. Lonny took this in, and said suddenly, "You know— I think I have to read the original book."
"Yes?"
"Yes," she said. "I just don't get you at all."
Again, she felt the presence of that invisible eyebrow sliding up on the invisible forehead.
"And you believe that reading the book will help?"
"Why, won't it?"
Erik snorted.
Lonny shrugged.
"I do not know what to call it," said Erik. "I am— not used to naming things."
Lonny nodded and began to type. "Not a problem."
Erik sat patiently, absentmindedly digging the toe of one of his shoes into the carpet, and smoothing the thick material of his jeans over his bony knees; plucking the rumpled sweater into neatness, till the lines were smooth and straight. Then he looked up, to find Lonny grinning at him.
She gestured at the screen.
"What do you think?"
Erik stood, came forward, and bent over her to read the words on the screen. His breath stirred Lonny's hair, and as he bent awkwardly to avoid touching her, she thought to herself that it wasn't exactly death he smelled of— the scent was more the accumulation of years, an ancient dust, too many nights spent alone.
He read the title aloud.
"Behind the Mask: Musings and Reflections of a Disfigured Musical Genius."
Lonny waited with almost-bated breath.
Finally, Erik nodded.
"Well, its got a bit of a ring to it, doesn't it?"
It was at that point that the very first bit of her dedicated phangirl-ness began to peel away, revealing a soul beneath that was truly touched by the idea of star-crossed love.
It took her a very, very, very long time to realize this, however.
