A/N: ((sighs)) Still no answer from UbiquitousPhantom. I hope she's all right. Eesh!

Please excuse any errors!

I apologize for the delay. I ended up in the hospital, and I've been recovering for the last month or so. Updates will be slow due to the fact that I'm not supposed to sit for too long. Plus, I'm moving in the near future. Oh, and my computer got a virus that likes to shut down Word, so I have to use alternative computers. All in all, my personal life is just…bleh. I hope that you'll bear with me. The story really is finished offline (if that's any consolation)!

Not that it matters, but I gotta say: I love Madame Giry. In the book, she's hilarious! Hehe.

Also, I've bumped this story's rating up to M just to be safe. The language isn't that bad (ish), but sexual situations do arise later on. In fact, innocence versus maturity turned out to be a theme. For the most part, though, the story is safe for teen eyes.

I just realized that my dividers didn't show up. I do not have time to go through all that and add these little lines right now! Maybe one by one...eventually.... Bleh.

Enjoy!


Chapter Eleven: A Little Too Close to Home

After prayer service on Wednesday, Erik and Christine convened at the organ console as usual to chat. She confessed, "I know that I'm late in saying this, but getting a new doctor came just in time. My original doctor was going to move soon—to a different practice. Mama Valerius and I were just about to start looking at other people."

"Well, I'm glad that things worked out, then." He knew the answer, but he couldn't resist asking, "Do you like your new doctor?"

She laughed. "Very much. He's very kind." She couldn't say why she did it, but she asked, "Will you be coming to Meg's show? It's Friday—or Saturday. I'm going Friday."

Erik gritted his teeth. "I don't think so. For one thing, I'm not invited. For another, I don't do well with crowds—especially crowds full of young, stupid people. As much as I'd love to share the evening with you, I don't think that I can."

"Oh." She wilted. She thought it had been a great idea. "That's too bad. Have you ever been to a dance show?"

"Not at a high school, no. I've watched dancers at Juilliard perform, though."

"Heh. Somehow, I keep forgetting that you went to Juilliard, so when I get reminded, it blows me away."

Things got quiet, and Christine smiled, nodding just because it was silent between them. "So…uhh…" She snorted with amusement. "I still owe you a proper hug, don't I?"

His heartbeat picked up speed. "You don't have to."

"Oh! Don't worry! I'm not going to do it now. That'd be a little awkward. I haven't done it yet, because I don't think Mama Valerius would be too happy." She half-joked, "Maybe I'll save it for your birthday. When's your birthday?"

"November thirteenth."

When she grinned, it made him nervous. It forced him to confess, "I hate my birthdays."

"That's okay. Somehow, I never get very excited for my birthday. I mean, I get excited to see my friends, but, other than that, I don't care. I don't care if I get absolutely no presents as long as people show up; however, since it's the holidays, there are some of my friends who are usually out of town, so that's a bummer. I hate how Mama Valerius tries to make such…extravagent, I suppose is the word that I want is—extravagent parties. I've always been content with just hanging out and having funs with my friends. I don't care about decorations—though they are pretty. I don't care about eating at an expensive restaurant—that just makes me feel uncomfortable. I'd take a homemade cake baked with love over something store-bought any day. I have to admit, though: I like dressing up for my birthday. I like feeling pretty."

He smiled. "That's natural."

"I like thoughtful gifts instead of things like gift cards or money straight-up. I can't draw to save my life, but I always make cards by hand for my friends' birthdays—particularly because it makes them laugh. Fair warning: you are going to get a crappy, handmade card for your birthday and a lame present that will be from the heart. I won't be able to live with myself if I buy you something, because anybody can buy someone something; it takes much more creativity to make something, you know?"

Nodding, he agreed, "Mm-hm."

"Then again, it can also take thought to pick out something, so something store-bought has the potential to be thoughtful. I guess it just comes down to the gift-giver's intention."

He nodded again then hesitantly said, "I'm sure that it wouldn't be lame."

"Uhh…I wouldn't be so sure. One time, for Meg's birthday—which is June fifth, by the way, something I've always liked because it's near my dad's—uhh…what was I saying?"

A small laugh popped from his mouth. "Meg's birthday."

"Oh, yes! One time, for Meg's birthday, her Sweet Sixteen, actually, I made a scrapbook of us from childhood. There were some dance pictures in there from my brief stint as a dancer, mostly Nutcracker, some in a studio from class, but a lot of the pictures were just random ones from us growing up together. I tried to make the cover look pretty, but I don't think it was. I used a lot of pink ribbon, because Meg's favorite color is pink. And even though she thinks that my handwriting is ugly, I painted a title on the cover."

He mused, "I haven't seen your handwriting, but I'm sure that it's not ugly."

"Not to be conceited or anything, but I think that her handwriting's uglier than mine. Chad's got nicer handwriting, and that pisses her off. Haha!"

"And Chad is her boyfriend?"

"Ah! Yeah!" She beamed. "I love that guy! He's always good for a laugh, and he's always happy, which is refreshing. He and I get along really well. We're kind-of similar."

Chuckling, he replied, "It seems like it."

"And he's super romantic! Like…wow. I don't know if they're just lines, but he says the most beautiful things to Meg. Like, before they started going out, Meg asked him, 'What's one thing that you don't like about me?'

"Because she was dating someone else, he said, 'The fact that you're not mine!'"

As Christine fanned her curled-in lips, Erik chuckled again. He quite liked that statement. She continued to give examples of Chad's romantic words and gestures.

"And Meg and her friends were hanging out one evening at the beach or whatever, and they were asking each other what things reminded them of one another. 'Name one thing that reminds you of me.' Chad said to Meg, 'Sunset. You remind me of a sunset: so beautiful that I can't wait to see it again.'" An "Aww!" escaped her, her eyebrows up high as she simpered. "He's so damn sweet! Oh! Get this! They were dating before he officially asked her out. She spent half the summer going crazy over it, wondering when he'd make it official. One day, he takes her up into the mountains, and she sees words written on the side of the road as they go up. 'Will,' 'You,' 'Be,' 'My'…

"She always tells it as 'I started to say, "Ha! It sounds like someone's gettting asked out!" but I shut up because I relaized that it was me. So, the full thing said—obviously, 'Will You Be My Girlfriend?'" Christine made a small noise of frustration yet grinned. "That's so romantic that I can't stand it! Oh! And then they had a picnic up there! Granted, it was KFC—but that made it sweet, because Meg loves KFC!" She sighed, smiling dreamily. "They're so cute together!

"And he's always super considerate of her. He takes her out to nice places; he makes sure that she eats and drinks enough to fuel her energy for dance; he tells her to be careful about injuring herself; he tells her to believe in herself more. Ugh! He's the perfect boyfriend, so I don't blame Meg for trying to find faults in him or for being afraid that their relationship will end. I tell her not to worry—to just enjoy everything as it happens—but I can see her side. They started going out at the end of July, though, so, by now, she's calmed down a bit. She's still worried, though."

Erik smiled and tried to keep his nerves at bay when he asked, "I take it that you like big, romantic gestures?"

"Hmm…not necessarily big gestures, but romantic gestures, yes. It can be a tiny thing, but if it's thoughtful I'll love it. If it's a big thing, I'd probably just laugh—depending on the context. …How about you?"

He blinked, frowning at her. "Me? I don't know. I've never had a relationship before."

"Aww!" A little pout formed, rapidly turning into a smile. Her fingers went to her lips before her hand touched his shoulder. The touch soaked into him, and his heart raced at the fact that he now indirectly felt her lips on his shoulder. "That's okay! You'll find someone to love you for your music!" She punctuated this by squeezing his shoulder.

His head bowed as he clenched his jaw. "Your optimism astounds me." He felt nauseated. His shoulder burned. He wanted nothing more than to grab her, pull her to him, and hold her…hold her and never let go. It was maddening to think how quickly he had fallen for her. His mind told his heart that it should pull back and be cautious, but his heart just laughed. It was too late for that. Christine illuminated his darkness like fireworks, and the afterimages would always burn in his brain.

"Hey! I'm just sayin': music moves people. What girl wouldn't want to be serenaded?" She shuddered at the pleasant tingles she got, grinning at the idea. "Of course, I'm a sucker for love songs. It doesn't even have to have words; it can be an instrumental; as long as I feel the love in it, I'm head over heels." She blushed when Erik stared at her. "What?" A self-conscious grin crept onto her face.

"Nothing. You're just…" He sighed. "…very sweet."

She shrugged. "I guess. …Random question! You don't have to answer if you find it too personal."

"All right."

Tittering a little, she inquired out of pure curiosity, "What do you think you'd want in a girl?" She liked picturing Erik with someone. She wasn't at the point where she pictured the two of them together, but she liked the idea of Erik finding love.

"I don't know. I haven't given it much thought."

She narrowed her eyes in exasperation, demanding, "Well, take some time to think, then!"

'Don't say "You"! Don't say "You"!'

Swallowing down the word, he mused, "Someone…" like you. No! Don't say that! "Someone who will love me for my music and not care about my face." You. You. I only want you.

Christine nodded. "Simple but sweet. I like it. I'm not very picky, either. I just want someone who will love me and really support me throughout my life—not financially, because I plan on supporting myself in that aspect, but emotionally; you know, moral support. It'd be interesting if he liked foreign languages and the same type of music as me, but it's not a requirement. Of course, if he happens to hate any of the languages that I speak, then he's obviously not the one for me.

"I could probably be content being single for the rest of my life, but it would be nice to have someone to come to home to, you know?"

"Yes." Oh, how he knew—how he longed for it!

She amended, "I do actually have a requirement—a stipulation, if you will: he has to truly enjoy listening to me sing and not just tolerate it. I don't say this for me; I say it for his sake, because God knows that I'm addicted to singing."

Erik muttered, "Christine, that's so obvious that it doesn't count as a requirement. If someone doesn't like your voice, they are a fool, and they are unworthy of your attention. If you're smart, you won't associate with them. You should surround yourself with people who admire your talent, not people who try to silence you—usually out of jealousy."

"Yeah, I know. I was just…letting you know."

"Hmm. I hope that you pick wisely enough to at least get that aspect in a man. If you don't, I'll be quite disappointed." His heart ached while the back of his mind hissed that he'd be damned if he let someone else have her.

Her curiosity got the better of her, and she wondered, "Have you ever liked a girl at least?"

"Yes." He cursed the fact that she somehow always drew the truth out of him. Now, she was going to ask more questions, and he'd have to dodge them.

She beamed, but her heart cried out in dismay and jealousy, which confounded her. She had no reason to be jealous! "What was she like?"

"Talented musically, beautiful voice, lovely smile, softspoken…"

"Aww!" She could tell from his tone that he really liked this girl, which she found terribly sweet. His voice was much gentler than usual. "Did you ever talk to her?"

He tried desperately not to grimace as he responded, "Yes."

"Where'd you first meet her? Juilliard?"

He smiled. As long as she didn't ask for a name, he could reply honestly. "At her church."

"Oh! Neat! Let me guess: she was singing with the choir."

Chuckling, he nodded, agreeing, "She was indeed."

Christine touched her heart, gushing, "Aww! That's so cute! So, it was like 'love at first sight' kind of thing?"

His heart pounded harder. "Yes. …I desperately wanted to hear her sing, because I sensed that she had a beautiful voice, but I couldn't hear it; she blended with the choir."

"Aww. That's too bad. She didn't have a solo or anything?"

He laughed and shook his head. "No. She was too shy, I think."

"How'd you two start talking? Did you talk to her, or was it the other way around?"

He cast his mind back. It seemed like a lifetime ago. "She spoke to me."

Christine chuckled as she said, "It reminds me of when we met. We didn't even say hello to each other. We just started a flow of conversation. That was probably my fault. I tend to do that with people. …What did I say? I said that I couldn't take 'Deck the Halls' seriously, and then you said…uhh…" She blinked rapidly as she tried to recall. "What did you say? I remember feeling a little affronted by it."

He offered, "I said, 'It's a pity that you couldn't sing well because of it,' because you said that the carol makes you laugh."

"Oh, yeah!" She giggled. "Man! Now that I know you, that's hilarious and so fitting!" She giggled some more. However, she got a little depressed when she asked, "It's always been about my voice, hasn't it?"

He uneasily answered, "I guess, though I do like you as a person."

Christine blushed as she grinned, immediately feeling better. Embarrassed as she now was, she decided to change the subject. "So, what happened between you two?—between you and that girl?"

A bitter laugh popped from him. "Nothing."

"Nothing? Why?"

He sighed. "It wasn't meant to be. I never expressed my feelings for her. I'm…I was scared to get too close."

He really hated himself for opening up to her, but she was kind and a good listener, and something about her eyes bewitched him into thinking that it was okay to be honest with her. Nonetheless, he scolded himself, insisting that he needed to learn to put distnace between them. It confounded him that he spoke to no one then, all of a sudden, conversed easily with Christine. He didn't like conversation; he found it boring and downright irritating. Suddenly, the reason why he opened up to her so easily occurred to him: If he opened up to her, she'd open up to him; he kept the communication going so that he could learn more about her. He'd say anything just to see her smile at him or hear her voice tickle his ears, which made him think that he needed to be more careful about what he shared.

"Oh." She pouted. "That would have been such a cute story! You meet; she hears you playing on the piano or the organ—whatever the church has—and gets entranced; you start talking; you become friends. Friendship turns to love; you enter a relationship with her…happily ever after. Hee hee! Was she a voice major?"

"She loves opera." He was playing with fire. Luckily, Christine heard what she wanted to hear.

Christine gasped, complaining, "Why didn't you keep in touch with her? She sounds perfect for you! You should get in touch with her! What if she married someone else?"

"That's exactly why it would be stupid to call her." Never mind that this older woman that you're dreaming up doesn't exist.

She retorted, "Okay. What if she's not married? Huh? Then you'd have a shot!"

He shook his head. "I'm happy as I am."

Heaving a sigh, she mumbled, "Okay. If you say so. I think a relationship would do you good, though."

His tone became dry as he replied, "I'll keep that in mind."

Right at this moment, Mama Valerius signaled to Christine, who nodded. "Looks like I've got to go. I'll see you…tomorrow. Heh! I can say that! I was going to say 'See you Sunday!' but I can say, 'See you tomorrow!' It's nice."

"Yes, it is."

He still wans't used to hugs. He continued to brace himself each time that she hugged him. This night was no different. "Mmm! Good night, Erik! Sweet dreams!"

"You, too, Christine."

He sighed as he watched her leave. It was depressing to know that she would probably never see him as anything more than a friend or vocal instructor. As much as he hoped for (and deliriously entertained) the idea of Christine loving him, he knew that she wouldn't. How could she? She was so young and naïve; she really knew nothing about him. She was as warm as the sun while he was cold like the moon. If they were together, he'd dim her light and chill her natural warmth.

He told himself that he should just be happy with her friendship, but he knew that he couldn't. Whether now or later in life, he'd always desire her love; he'd always need it.

As he made his way to his car, he scoffed and muttered to himself in his native tongue how ridiculous it was that he even loved her. She was a silly girl, so it was silly to love her.

Back home, he poured his depression into his music, but it became lighter and sweeter as he thought of how kind and optimistic Christine was.

Suddenly, Little Giry banged on his wall, shouting, "God damn it! I'm trying to do homework! Shut the hell up!"

He called back, "Do your homework in your room instead of the living room!"

"No! Fuck you! Go play the violin in the living room!"

"No! I'm composing!"

Having just returned to the floor, Meg got up again from her pile of papers, her binder, and her textbooks. She climbed on the couch and yelled, "So, take some paper into the living room with you and compose there! GOD! You're such an ASSHOLE! Ugh! I hate you so much!" He chuckled, and it apparently carried. "Hey! Don't laugh at me! I'm not kidding! You know, Christine doesn't like inconsiderate people!" His amusement died instantly. "She'd probably think that you were rude for playing while I'm trying to do homework!"

He retorted, "She'd probably think that you were rude for how you yelled at me instead of asking me politely to stop playing. Did you ever think that I might be more amenable if you requested instead of commanded?"

Meg blinked, her brow furrowing. That thought hadn't actually occurred to her. "No, actually, I hadn't. I thought that you'd still be an ass. Would you please go to a different room so that I can do my homework in here? I go stir-crazy in my room." In general, she couldn't concentrate in the apartment. It's why she liked doing her homework at Chad's parents' house—but he wasn't off work yet.

Erik rather liked annoying his neighbor, but the thought of Christine being proud of him for being considerate seduced him. "I will. Thank you for asking this time. Good luck on your studies." After putting away his violin for the short journey to the living room, he gathered up some spare, blank staff paper and migrated.

Meg had to admit that the music hadn't been bothering her that much. She just had a bad day, because the girls on her dance team refused to listen to her—and their show was coming up in two days—practically one day by this point. They only had one last tech rehearsal and a dress rehearsal (or two, given how many runthroughs their coach wanted) before the show! Still, her pride wouldn't let her apologize, and it was obvious that he'd moved into a different room, anyway.

In a way, she missed the music. It had been really pretty. In fact, she had absentmindedly been choreographing to it in her head instead of focusing on her homework. Now that it was gone, the sound barely reaching her, she felt empty without it. It was easier to study, but she felt depressed. It didn't occur to her that the song had been a happy, loving one for a change. He normally played angry music that gave her chills. For once, she missed the music instead of feeling glad to be rid of it.


The night of Meg's dance show arrived. Christine rather regretted choosing Friday, because Friday night was always the rowdier night. She sat with Meg's mother, Chad, and his parents. Mama Valerius couldn't tolerate the noise and general rudeness of the audience, so she never came. She preferred to watch the DVDs. Their driver, on the other hand, happened to be in attendance, because he liked dance. In fact, his daughter was on Meg's dance team.

Since they adored her, Chad's parents spoiled Meg, who then felt guilty that she couldn't get nice things for them. While Christine, Madame Giry, and Chad's parents only went to one night, Chad went to both. He brought bouquets both times.

Meg had mentioned prior to the event, "I asked him since he planned to buy the tickets pre-sale, 'Which night do you want?' You know what he said?

"'Why are you asking? You know I'm going to both!'"

It was at this point that both girls gushed over how amazingly considerate the guy was.

Thus far, after a few months of dating, Meg had only managed to unearth the flaws that he had a small tattoo on his back (of which his conservative parents knew nothing and of which they would disapprove), he smoked, and he was obsessed with the maintenance of his car. The fact that he liked to be a smartass could be vaguely annoying, but it was more endearing than anything. Christine found herself amused—perhaps because she was not the target of it. She and Chad got along quite well, because they both loved to tease Meg and joke around about it. They were both happy, smiley people who were usually polite and attentive when listening. Of course, Chad's attentiveness went out the window when Meg entered the equation, because his focus would always shift back to her, but that was okay. Christine expected it by now, so, when it happened, she just cut out and let them converse. Her stories weren't really important—only vaguely amusing.

Chad's parents were lovely, kind people who happened to be loaded. This night was the first time that Christine met them.

She shook the hand of Chad's father, who was of medium-height, stout, and had a black mustache. He rather intimidated her even though he acted kind.

In a pleasant surprise, Chad's mother was her height, her petite stature in general, with hair to match her name: Sandy.

Christine didn't have anything against tall people, but she greatly enjoyed meeting (and hugging) people like her. Regardless of their personality, tall people tended to intimidate her while making her feel like she stood in a hole. It mystified her that she felt so comfortable around Erik, who had to be over six feet tall.

'Well, no, when I think on it, he intimidates me. Wait. It's not his height that intimidates me, though! It's his musical genius! …It's both. When he's sitting, making music, I get intimidated; when he's walking with me, I get anxious thanks to how he towers. I'm barely even five foot one!'

She pushed the matter aside so that she wouldn't space out and miss any comments directed at her, putting on a smile just in case anyone had said something already.

To her delight, instead of a handshake, Sandy claimed a hug, which Christine was more than happy to give. It made her realize where Chad got his friendly, easygoing attitude. The woman was a kindred spirit, and Christine enjoyed talking with her. She was actually bummed to go inside and sit down, where she sat next to Chad, who sat next to Sandy, with Chad's father on the end. Madame Giry sat on Christine's left, so it wasn't entirely awkward; she wouldn't feel like she bothered Chad or his parents; she at least had someone truly familiar with which to speak.

Dancer that she was, Madame Giry almost always had her brown hair up in a bun. Tonight, though, she merely had it in a braid. (Meg ended up with black hair thanks to her late father.) Clad in a black dress that revealed no cleavage yet showed off her forearms and calves, her silver cross on display, she was simple yet proud with an air that said that she thought that everyone knew her—or, in this night's case, her daughter. Meg was in at least twelve dances.

Meg was, in fact, very well-known amongst the school for her dance career at it. People she didn't even know would come up to her and greet her by name, which was annoying for the fact that she didn't know them. Most remembered the girl as a blonde since Meg had a fondness for bleaching her hair and had been blonde for her freshman and sophomore years. Christine recalled that her friend deemed it prettier and said that she liked how easily she stood out on stage with the lighter hair color. She found it amusing that Meg couldn't remember why she had dyed it back to her natural color; yet she couldn't remember either. All of Meg's friends told the petite dancer that she looked better as a blonde—with the exception of Christine, who kept mum on the matter. She preferred Meg with her natural hair color.

Madame Giry came across as strict, but there was a surprising gentleness underneath it all. In her lap, she had a bouquet of pink roses for her daughter. She was very tender to Christine. For instance, in the few minutes before the lights went down, she touched the girl's hand and smiled at her, squeezing her hand as she said with her accented English, "It's good to see you, sweetheart."

"It's good to see you, too, Madame." However, her heart ached. She had trouble being around the woman, because she associated her with her father. The two had been good friends—both widowed, both single parents, both in love with dance and music. In a way, they parented together, each fulfilling the role that whichever girl lacked. When she saw Madame Giry, Christine expected to see her father appear in the vicinity. It broke her heart. In a way, she had gone out of her way to avoid seeing her former surrogate mother. It just hurt too much to see her. She even went to Christine's church, yet she avoided the girl out of respect of their unspoken agreement.

Madame Giry had been there for the shift into puberty, the one to help her out at the embarrassing moment in her life when she had her first period—which coincided with the evening that she had a band concert. She had always sat front and center with her flute, so she was already stressing about the concert when she discovered the disconcerting stain in her underwear. Thankfully, she hung out Chez Giry, anyway, so the only embarrassment came with telling the elder female about her dilemma.

Sometimes, they went shopping together. Sometimes, Madame Giry had helped her do her hair for school or for outings. Back then, she was too young to wear make-up; she hadn't even got her first make-up kit until she was thirteen. Madame Giry had been the one to bathe her upon her release from the hospital. The woman used to be her confidant for those little female things that she couldn't tell her father. When she and her father moved away from the apartment complex, Christine had hugged Meg and her mother like she was never going to see them again—miraculously not crying for once.

Although Madame Giry and Mama Valerius were friends, they never really hung out. Christine never saw Madame Giry unless in passing (perhaps when leaving the Giry apartment after hanging out with Meg) or from afar (such as at church). She avoided looking her way. The only real times that they saw each other coincided with Meg's dance performances—her school ones, winter and spring, ballet recitals, and The Nutcracker in December. Typically, they sat near each other but didn't talk. At the two or three ballet performances throughout the year, which Mama Valerius actually attended, the two adult women talked instead. Though she always sat next to Madame Giry at Meg's dance shows, Christine wasn't entirely happy to do so; she felt oddly anxious; she didn't like looking over or talking to the woman. Of course, faced with annoying Chad and his parents, she preferred conversing with Madame Giry if she talked at all.

She wondered if things would be different if Meg's shows weren't in January. True, there were some near the end of the semester, but the main ones were in January. In her opinion, things were just as tense in the late spring.

Christine hated January, because it always reminded her of her father and his death. And now, she had Madame Giry's presence to remind her. All in all, it was bittersweet to see the woman again.

The normally quiet, well-mannered teen told herself to breathe instead of yell as the crowd just would not shut up. The rude and obnoxious behavior was one of the few things that could get her angry.

The show opened with the officers (and a couple of members) reading off their coach's credentials and rules of the auditorium. Christine knew that Meg was secretly pissed that she was lieutenant instead of captain. She had been on the team for three years already, and she worked harder than anyone; she had more dedication than the entire team combined. Plus, given her years of ballet training, she was the most skilled. Christine began giggling when Meg suffered from a fit of giggling due to pre-show jitters. It was so bad that, after she straightened from doubling over for a moment, she giggled anew and had to pass off her index card and microphone to be read by the next person.

It was a very long show—two hours that seemed to drag on forever. Honestly, Christine didn't enjoy sitting through anything that lacked Meg, because the girl made the dances (in her biased opinion). To give the dancers time to change, there were usually vocalists stuck in between. One or two were good; most were pitchy. Christine hated herself for judging them, because she knew that she would sound just as bad due to her nerves. Thinking this made her giggle, because Erik would have a field day with her if he knew that she thought this way. This reminded her of his talk to find venues for her.

'Oh! Please don't let him realize that singers can audition for this and Best of Broadway!'

In general, Christine liked this show a lot more than previous ones. Meg was in almost every dance, and she shone. Christine particularly liked the lyrical and jazz pieces. It opened with Meg's favorite dance: "Golddust" by Tori Amos. Christine loved the song and the dancing itself but wasn't sure if she liked the costumes for it or not. The dancers wore flowing, champagne-colored lyrical tops and brown dance shorts; brown ribbon wrapped around one thigh just once and ended at the knee while strips of material to match the top wrapped in a criss-cross pattern just above the elbow on the same side. What she loved best—what she waited for—was Meg's solo. She had heard so much about it from Meg that she craved the sight of it. It was beautiful—much too short in Christine's opinion.

Meg brought class to the show. She was the most talented dancer up there—the most expressive, the most exacting, the most experienced. Even with her dark hair this year instead of bleached blonde, she stood out.

Christine eagerly anticipated the lyrical dance choreographed by Meg's friend Josh (who was not on the team but who was in Advanced Jazz). At intermission, she glanced at her program. Meg would be on pointe, dancing to "Alabaster Box" by CeCe Winans. Meg didn't disappoint. She was clad in a long, flowing dress that seemed to be purple yet green while sheer, her sleeves spaghetti straps to leave her arms free, the neckline swooping and flattering to her short form. She glided across the stage with bourrées amongst "angels" (dancers in white) and her friend Josh, who was apparently representative of Jesus. Her hair was in a bun, her make-up lovely. She "hinged" (as Meg would call it) at one point, falling on her knees as Josh helped her to her feet, took her hand, and guided her back into dance, just in time for Meg to have a beautiful, unaided penché at the front corner of stage right, a spotlight on her as she leaned with great balance, her supporting foot flat, her line beautiful. The crowd cheered as she held it then flew to "Jesus". At the end of the dance, she and her savior went off hand in hand, walking through the center to the backdrop before the lights went down.

Everyone applauded. Christine smiled when she looked at Madame Giry and found that the woman was crying and trying not to sob too loudly. She had to look away so that she wouldn't join her.

Quite relieved when the show ended a few dances later, Christine followed everybody to the foyer, where they searched for Meg. Since it was stuffy, they migrated with everyone else to the cement platform outside the glass doors of the entrance to the school auditorium.

After much waiting, they spied the dark-haired dancer. Wearing her dance jacket and pants to cover her body tights, dance shorts, and thin shirt, she took awhile to get to them, because she stopped to hug and talk to her fellow team members. When she approached, Christine marveled at how much stage make-up there was. It never failed to stun her. Meg's hair being slicked back into a ponytail wasn't anything new, but it still amazed her. She rushed forward to be the first to hug and compliment Meg, who then shared embraces with everyone else before asking, "What were your favorite dances?"

Christine offered, "I liked 'Golddust'—but you know that I love Tori Amos. I also liked that lyrical with the aquamarine dresses—the one with the sequins on the bust!"

"'Slow Me Down'?"

"Umm…I think that's what it was. I don't know that song, but I like it now."

Meg sang, "Doo-doo doo-doo," and Christine cried, "Yeah! That one!" The dancer nodded. Christine added, "I loved 'Alabaster Box'. It was beautiful."

Her mother said, "I cried."

Christine laughed and replied, "She did."

Madame Giry teared up as she stated, "Je suis si fière de toi." 'I'm so proud of you.'

Meg knew that her mother rarely cried, so the news almost made her cry. "Merci, Maman." She hugged her, squeezing her tightly, dwelling on the pride and joy in her heart so that she didn't cry. She pulled away and asked, "What other dances did you like?"

Always ready to gush about her favorite dancer, Christine answered, "I liked the one at the end—'Untouched'. That blue and black costume looked really flattering on you; I liked the garter on your leg. I also liked the trio in the white dresses."

"'Silence'? The one that Andy choreographed?"

"Yeah! I liked that other one that he choreographed, but it made me cry." She had kept her sobs locked up, but she had shed tears over it.

Meg thought on which one this might be and responded, "Oh, 'Passage'? Yeah, it's a sad song." She rapidly turned to Chad, beaming as she asked what his favorites were.

Christine blinked, choking down her hurt. It wasn't just a 'sad song'. It was a song about someone dying in a car accident. She had cried because it made her think of her mother.

She didn't know why this wounded her so much, and she was horrified to find that it was extremely hard to shove down the hurt and smile for Meg. She was not about to ruin the mood by pointing out why it made her cry; she wasn't about to make Meg feel guilty for not warning her about it; she wasn't about to depress everyone.

After some discussion, Meg went off with Chad and his parents, her mother politely refusing to join them. She slipped her daughter a twenty as she kissed her cheek, not wanting her to impose on Chad's family. Chad's parents would refuse it, telling Meg to keep it for snacks and water for dance. The little group left, and Madame Giry touched Christine's shoulder. The girl flinched and recoiled with a tiny gasp.

"Have you had dinner?" that familiar, French voice asked.

Christine smiled and stated, "Yes."

"Would you mind accompanying me, then, to get something to drink? I'd like a chance to talk with you."

Sighing on the inside, the teen continued to smile as she nodded and said, "Okay." She looked to her driver.

He smiled and said, "I'll let her know. Have fun." He then went to locate his daughter amongst her friends, hoping to take her out to celebrate. It turned out that all the dancers were going out together (with the exception of Meg, who was tired of hanging around the girls and ready to relax with her boyfriend). The brunet hugged his daughter, telling her that she was beautiful before he pinned her down on if she had a ride home. Meanwhile, Madame Giry guided a tense Christine to her familiar, silver sedan.

"Where do you want to go?" her friend prodded.

"I don't know."

The woman admitted, "I don't really feel like going out for drinks. Let's just head back home. We can have something there."

It was like a sock to the gut. "You mean…to your apartment?"

"Yes. …Sorry."

"It's okay." She belatedly added, "It'll be nice to sit and catch up in private."

Madame Giry smiled and patted her knee, garnering another flinch from her passenger. As the silence stretched on, she turned on a CD full of famous classical piano pieces. It earned a small smile from Christine, but it didn't last: her smile fell, and she watched the night pass by through her window, not saying a word. Madame Giry was greatly familiar with this. There were times where Christine liked to be quiet, and riding in a car was one of them. There were exceptions, but, mostly, in the car and at mealtimes, Christine liked to sit quietly. The music only served to fill the silence; it didn't alleviate any of the awkwardness that lingered between them.

Just as she knew that it would, the drive to the apartment complex played tricks on Christine's mind. In the parking lot, she hunted for her father's gray Honda. When they got into the elevator, she accidentally pushed the button for the second floor instead of the third. Thus, the elevator stopped and opened on the second floor, tempting her, beckoning her to get out and walk to her old door. She realized that she held her breath only once the doors closed, the machine ascending again. She and her companion said nothing to each other until they reached the door. As Madame Giry unlocked it, she said, "I apologize for the mess. Meg and I were in a bit of a rush since she had to be at the school at five-thirty."

"That's fine. You forget: I grew up with Meg."

The woman turned and smiled. "I didn't forget." Holding the door open for her guest, she frowned when she noticed the way that the girl regarded her next door neighbor's door. "Is something wrong?"

Battling the urge to go to Erik's door, Christine shook her head, smiled, and entered the Giry apartment, her host shutting the door behind her.

"Take off your shoes. Make yourself comfortable. Do you want anything? Water? Juice? Hot chocolate?"

Since it was winter, Christine grinned and replied, "Hot chocolate, please. Thank you."

"No problem."

While Madame Giry set to heating the tea kettle for Christine's mug of instant hot chocolate, Christine sat at the little table and sighed quietly. She wasn't comfortable in the apartment, which was odd, because she knew it so well; she used to be comfortable in it. She was comfortable in it around Meg, which had to mean that it was Madame Giry's presence that so disturbed her.

She turned a little in her chair and looked behind her at the wall, wishing that she could see Erik. She felt oddly trapped. She wanted to yell at the strange sensation that made her chest tight. She really didn't want to talk to Madame Giry at the moment. She didn't feel like talking to anyone—not even Erik; she just wanted to see him.


Removing his headphones, which he set on top of the keyboard once he turned it off, Erik glanced at the time on his computer. He hadn't heard the voices out in the hall, but he abruptly had the urge to get into contact with Christine. He had just logged into his e-mail when he heard Madame Giry's muffled voice say, "Here you are, dear." It was followed by Christine thanking her. Since it sounded like they were closer to the kitchen, he migrated to his own to eavesdrop.

For once, Christine was quiet. They were both quiet. It was greatly frustrating.

'Why aren't they talking? Why is she there, anyway?'

He hadn't heard any sounds of Little Giry, which had to mean that she was still out and about with friends, which made him wonder more why Christine was in the apartment. He felt possessive. He didn't like that she was over there. He wanted her over at his place, which was ridiculous (and bad). More than anything, he wanted to know the reason for her stopping by.

Christine sighed, her hands wrapped around her mug as she stared at the chocolate liquid out of which steam rose. "I haven't had instant in awhile." She cracked a smile. "I'm afraid that I've been spoiled. We always make ours from scratch."

Madame Giry sat down with her own mug of hot chocolate and murmured, "Hmm. I can imagine."

"Instant hot chocolate. Heh. Reminds me of the good ol' days."

The woman jabbed, "Sorry it doesn't have marshmallows in it."

Christine laughed. "That's okay. …I feel like a kid again. I feel like I should check to see that my glasses are on. I'm actually a little panicked that they're not on my face." Another laugh popped from her as she rubbed at her temples then the bridge of her nose. After a moment, she hesitantly confessed, "I miss you…but, at the same time, I can't…I can't…you know."

"Be around me?"

The girl winced but nodded, her eyes turning downcast so that they regarded her hot beverage. "I do miss you, though."

"I miss you, too." She blew on her drink then carefully sipped it. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Christine shook her head.

"Do you want to talk about tonight?"

She now emitted a wry laugh. "No… I've never cried in front of you, and I'm not about to start."

"You already did. You cried during the show. I saw it."

Christine refuted, "That's different. That's…in the dark and hidden…and not direct. I wasn't aware that you were watching me."

"Christine, you used to tell me everything. Don't shut me out now. You should talk about it. It's healthier than keeping it in."

She tried hard to fight it, but Madame Giry's words worked. "It's not even the song that bothers me now. It's that Meg didn't think to warn me. She didn't think to warn me, and she didn't seem to remember…" She gritted her teeth and gripped the piping hot mug for a split-second, her hands soon sliding to her lap. "I'm angry, and I'm hurt. …I don't want to talk about it. I'm too pissed off." She chuckled, smiling ruefully. Lifting the mug, she blew on it and took a cautious sip. It was still too hot to drink, so she set it back down.

"Meg was young when you two first met, and she had a lot on her mind tonight. She loves you. She'd do anything for you. You know that."

"Yeah, I know. That's why I didn't want to ruin her night. I didn't want to be a psycho and be all, 'Do you know why I cried? I cried because that song reminded me of my mother! Do you even care?'" She laughed, but her heart hurt. "I know that she cares about me. Besides, I get tired of telling people about how much I miss my parents. It's been years. I'm basically over it. It just sucks when shit like this pops up—excuse my language."

Madame Giry blinked and laughed out of shock. "You never swear."

"I do when I'm agitated." She cracked a lopsided grin. "Wouldn't my father be so pleased to hear such unladylike language from me?"

The woman across from her agreed, "He never did like swearing."

"He said once, 'For every curse word, there has got to be a better, cleaner word for it.' It's why I try not to say 'So-and-so was bitching'. I try to say that they were complaining, but sometimes I slip up and say 'bitching'."

Madame Giry nodded. "That's understandable. There are so many lovely words that it's a shame to choose some of the basest ones. I'm sure that you'd rather be articulate and sound intelligent than uneducated and crass."

"I do indeed."

After this, they fell quiet. They drank their hot chocolate in silence, leaving Erik frustrated and hungry for more. He stood with his ear near the wall for what seemed forever before Christine said, "I should get home. I'm pretty tired."

"I'll drive you." He heard mugs set upon the counter.

"Okay. …Madame?"

"Yes?"

"…Thank you for tonight."

"You're welcome. It's a shame that we're both so busy. …Meg tells me that Erik's your vocal teacher."

Now, his heart raced. What would she say back?

"Oh. Yeah. He is."

"Hmm. You'll have to sing for me sometime."

Christine promised, relieved that this was all that her friend said, "I will." Erik smiled simply because he could hear the smile in her voice. "One of these days. Someday. Eventually."

"Good. I miss you."

"I miss you, too."

From the sounds of movement, he assumed that the two hugged. His neighbor said, "Let's get you home."

Before Christine left, however, she requested, "Could you not mention this to Mama Valerius? She's probably already asleep—or at least ready to go to bed—but I'd like it if this stayed between us. I don't want her needlessly worrying."

"Sure, dear."

"Thank you."

All of a sudden, he heard the door close. He went to his own, his hand pressing against it with longing. He didn't want her to go. Just having her in the vicinity filled his heart with joy. When the sound of elevator doors opening hit his ears, his heart broke. He had no idea that Christine had glanced at his door more than once (first, while Madame Giry locked up; second, while the woman dug through her purse for her car keys as they waited for the elevator). If he did, he might have felt a little happier. Instead, he felt agitated. He paced around his apartment, going from room to room with no real purpose. He could still feel Christine's tension in his heart. He needed her to let everything out so that he could go back to being happy, because he was only happy when she was happy. Before her, he didn't really know joy, so he couldn't stand the mere thought of her unhappiness. She needed to be happy. If she were unhappy, it unbalanced him.

He finally settled at his computer. He wrote an e-mail, hoping to entice one from her. He kept it simple.

Dear Christine,

How was the show? I'm sorry that I couldn't accompany you. I hope that you enjoyed it.

Sincerely,

Erik


When she got home, Christine found that Mama Valerius had already prepared for bed. The two women greeted each other pleasantly and even hugged before Madame Giry stated, "I'd stay, but it's late. I need to get back."

"That's fine," Mama Valerius said, touching her long hair as it hung down for once. "I wasn't expecting you to drop off Christine."

"Well, it would have been silly not to. Besides, I wanted more time to catch up."

"That makes sense. I'll let you get going, but we should have coffee one of these days."

Madame Giry smiled and nodded. "Yes. Good night!"

"Good night!" She shut the door, only a little embarrassed that the other woman caught her in her nightgown and robe. Fixing onto Christine, she gave her charge a hug and a kiss to forehead, stroking her hair as she asked, "Did you have a good time?"

"I did. You'll really enjoy it when you see it on DVD."

Her guardian smiled. "I'm sure I will. I'm pretty tired, so I'm going to bed, but I'm glad you had fun. I love you. Good night."

"Love you, too. Good night."

Upstairs and too upset to go to sleep, Christine had herself a good cry. Part of what made her so sad was that missing her mother made her think of her father, how they had grieved together, so she thought of both her parents at once. It was like an anvil on her chest.

She wanted to call Erik, but she was afraid that it was too late, so she checked her e-mail, planning to write him. To her relief, he had opened the door to communication: he had already sent her one. It wouldn't bother him terribly if she happened to respond to his e-mail.

Dear Erik,

I'll try not to ramble. Hopefully, this e-mail will be semi-straightforward.

The show was beautiful. I enjoyed it. There was one song, however, that got to me. It's called "Passage" by Vienna Teng. Here's a link:

She went off to find a proper link to give him then returned to the e-mail.

They cut some of it for the show so that the dance wouldn't be too long.

There's a lot of it that gets to me, but one line actually disturbs me:

"They burned me till I glowed and crumbled to a fine, gray sand…"

My mother was cremated. ((breaks down sobbing)) She died in the spring. We had a service for her in Denver, but my father and I went to Pennsylvania to spread her ashes. That summer, he and I went to Sweden. I think he needed the comfort.

Why didn't Meg warn me? Is it my fault? Did I not mention my mother's death enough? It probably got overshadowed by my father's death. She was there for my father's death; she knows what my triggers are on that. I guess I don't blame her for not remembering my mother. That was before we met. I never really talked about it…but I did at least mention it.

No, you know what? I don't blame Meg. I didn't mention it enough. It's my fault. ((breaks down again))

I'm going to bed. I'll talk to you tomorrow. Sorry for dumping all this on you. I didn't know who else to tell. I hung out with Mme. Giry, but I couldn't bring myself to open up to her. When I got back, Mama Valerius was on her way to bed. I actually don't feel comfortable crying in front of her. I feel like, if I were to cry in front of her, that she'd try to tell me to toughen up. She's the type of person who cries very little and believes in showing your strength instead of your weaknesses – in being cheerful instead of wallowing.

Maybe not, though; maybe she'd hold me and stroke my hair and kiss my forehead. She's very loving and considerate toward me. Maybe I just don't want to ruin her night with it. Maybe I don't want to open up like that to her. Sometimes, I feel close to her; sometimes, she feels like a stranger.

I'm confounded that I lacked the courage to open up to Mme. Giry. When my father died, I didn't talk much. The most I'd say to the people around me was that I missed him. It's that same feeling, that tension, that anxiety. I couldn't bring myself to talk to someone who practically raised me. How awful. I feel like a coward. I feel pathetic.

I don't know why I open up to you like I do or why it seems so scary to do so with anyone else. I don't know why I feel like you would understand, but I do. I know that other people must understand, but I still don't want to tell them. I think what it comes down to is that I want everyone else to think of me as happy-go-lucky and the good listener, the shoulder to cry on. Maybe I'm just scared to trust my friends. I don't know. Either way, I feel like it's easiest to tell you. Truth be told, I think that it'd be harder to do so face to face. It's easier to just type away. Regardless, though, I still prefer telling you to other people. Maybe it's because you never knew my parents. Maybe it's because you're someone new, someone objective, someone who won't try to throw clichés at me. I don't know.

I think I'm justified, though, in being upset. Aren't I? (Err… "Am I not?")

Oh! Here we go again! Boy, this is turning into a great, big sob-fest!

I don't remember my mother very well, but I do remember her a little. She was very pretty, with long, blonde hair and hazel eyes, and I loved the scent of her perfume. I was always jealous of her clothes and jewelry. Sometimes, I'd sneak into her room, into her closet, just to touch her dresses as they hung there.

Her vision wasn't the greatest, so when she prepared for bed she'd exchange her contacts for her glasses. I remember that they had big, round, brown frames. Sometimes, in the morning, I'd go into the kitchen and find that she hadn't put in her contacts, so she made breakfast with her glasses on. If I had forgotten mine, this usually reminded me to go put them on.

Both my parents were friendly, affectionate people who liked to hug. Thinking back on it, I can't help but touch my hair as I remember how my mother used to kiss my head. Ahh! Shh! ((blinks away tears))

My mother liked to dance in her spare time. She used to be a professional ballerina, but her Achilles tendon ruptured (more than once and eventually, after a few years, in both legs), and she had me to look after, so she stopped dancing professionally. She had matching scars on her heels. I used to trace them as I massaged her feet and rubbed lotion on them.

I think she always wanted me to be a ballerina, which is probably what got me sucked into it when I met Meg and Madame Giry.

She also liked to sing. She was in choir in high school, and she played accompaniment on the piano for the other choirs, even. I remember that her favorite Christmas carol was (believe it or not) "O Holy Night". I used to sing along to the recording of Sissel. One Christmas (the Christmas right before my sixth birthday, actually), my mother played accompaniment and sang it with me. Her voice wasn't very strong, but it wasn't bad. She told me that she loved listening to me sing – that it made her want to dance.

She had this music box that I loved; she kept her jewelry in it. I still have it in the garage, in a box somewhere. I remember that it was black—probably leather—and had multiple tiers. It had a gold clasp. I don't remember what it played right now, but maybe I'll hunt for it tomorrow and listen to it.

Sometimes, we'd just sit and listen to it together. I remember, one time, she let me try on a string of her pearls. She put make-up on me once. We'd sing together. I know this especially because of home videos – the ones that my dad couldn't bear to watch except once in a blue moon, so he tucked them in boxes.

Without video, I remember that she loved The Sound of Music. My father once told me that she told him, "When I was younger, I wanted nothing more than to be Brigitta. Oh, I wanted her long, dark hair!" I imagine her saying that every time I watch the scene where the children are introduced. It makes me smile. Apparently, she knew every word to every line in the entire thing. Truthfully, my love of the musical has nothing to do with her; I just like it because I like it, and because I like Julie Andrews.

My mother came from a wealthy family. Her parents died when she was in her twenties. I forget how.

She was from Pennsylvania, originally. My parents met in New York. My father played piano, played accompaniment for a class that she was in. He always said that she was a beautiful dancer. I can only imagine how wonderful it was for them the first time that he played the violin for her.

As I've mentioned, I was born in Sweden. They had me while they were on vacation. After that, we moved to Denver, because they didn't want to raise me in New York. I think they just picked a place at random. Lol. It wasn't really the best for my lungs, given the altitude. I think that's why I was on oxygen for so long.

Truth be told, it was her money that kept me and my dad afloat during the times where he wasn't getting as much work. There wasn't much money, though, and he wanted to save a lot of it for my college education. I'll get the money when I turn eighteen. I hope that it'll be enough to help me subsist, because I don't know if Mama Valerius will help me. I need to talk with her about it.

Have I ever shown you a picture of my mother? I'll attach one to this e-mail.

The picture that I've attached is (obviously) one of just the two of us. I'm sure you can tell, but that's me sitting in her lap, grinning like an idiot. Heh. My dad took the picture. I'm not wearing my glasses, because I don't like wearing my glasses in pictures. Only candid shots caught me with them.

My father helped me get over her death. Eep! More tears? I can't believe that I have any left!

Eww. This is getting gross. I need to go get tissues.

All right. Back to business.

As I said, my father helped me get over her death. He encouraged me to cry. He started talking about her, showing me that it was okay to. (Really? More tears/ sobs?) We looked through pictures together—watched home videos. We cried together. He held me and rocked me as we mourned.

He tried so hard to show me cheer and strength, but he never got over it. Sometimes, I caught him going through her old things—dresses, jewelry, perfume. Other times, I heard him crying from the other room. For a long time, he couldn't even play the violin. He made me keep singing, though, and playing the violin. We kept the piano, but we avoided it. At least, I did. My father played it from time to time. When we moved out here, from Denver, he put her things in storage – everything except the piano. It was her piano. …It's in storage now. A lot of my parents' things are in storage or the garage. Mama Valerius pays for it out of respect for me, and because it's not terribly expensive for her.

He played piano, but I never did. I refused to learn it. He didn't force me.

Oh, yay! More sobbing! How much more do I have left in me? Sheesh!

Heh. I said I wouldn't ramble, but I did, didn't I? At least it wasn't too much.

Thanks for listening.

Christine


A/N: I should ask my dad if he's ever been to New York. He grew up in Denver. I don't even know if he's been to the east coast. I know that my mom has traveled a lot, including France, Russia, and Japan. I'm not sure where else she has been, but I'm jealous. I wish I had the money to study abroad. ((sighs)) Someday…

Here are the songs that I mentioned:

CeCe Winans – "Alabaster Box"

Vienna Teng – "Passage"

Tori Amos – "Golddust"

Emmy Rossum – "Slow Me Down" (Yeah, I went there! XP)

Selena Cross – "Silence"

The Veronicas – "Untouched"

Please review!

Kagome-chan