Four more, countdown time!

I apologize if this chappie appears to have ADD. I wrote it over the course of about six days.

Disclaimer: I own neither the concept, the setting, the title, nor most of the characters. I may as well bear no responsability for this fic, which luckily means that I can blame other people for how bad it is!

The Way We Live Now
-Tales of NDCSH-

36

Walking through the hallways to and from the change rooms, Esmeralda could feel the revelry, the effortless joy, in the air. The last day before the holidays was a holiday in and of itself. The one-half of the school's population who had bothered to come in were making enough noise to compensate in treble for those who were missing.

In the drama room, however, an electric tension crackled through the air, as small knots of students perfected their stage make-up, ran over songs and dances, prepared themselves to perform. The Christmas assembly was always a grand affair. It took all morning; students could audition to perform in the set; and every year, the teachers prepared a special act to cap off the festivities.

Phoebus and Quasi were waiting for her, sitting cross-legged in the corner nearest the other door. "I don't think I need to tell you how beautiful you look," said Quasimodo, when she approached them.

Esmeralda did a twirl, so that the skirts of her new dance dress belled out. It was crimson, sleeveless, and fit snug to her torso but broke at the hip into long, billowing skirts. She loved the simplicity of it.

"Phoebus, on the other hand-" Quasi added, smirking at her boyfriend- "had better think up something complimentary to say within the next ten seconds."
Phoebus, who had been tuning his guitar from a chair in the corner, threw Quasi a mutinous look, and then his gaze returned to her. He made a sheepish face. "I- it's really- uh- red. I mean- that colour, it looks really good on you."

Esmeralda wouldn't press him any further than that. Guys, other than Clopin, could not be expected to be insightful on the subject of clothing. Even Clopin's insights were usually brightly coloured and silly, and a disproportionate number of them involved tight pants or pirate hats.

The drama room door opened, letting in a brief babble of sound from the corridor, and a figure slunk inside, a figure in a purple cape with a massive hood that concealed his face. He had an accordion tucked under one arm.

"Hi, Clopin," said Phoebus.

Clopin threw down the hood, scowling. His hair was a static-y mess underneath. "How did you know it was me?"

"Who else would own a purple cape? Or a frigging accordion?"

Clopin stuck out his tongue, and started to remove the cape. He was wearing a Santa Claus coat underneath it, and as they watched he extracted a matching hat from the coat's pocket and jammed it on over the mess that was his hair. The accordion made slight wheezing noised as he moved. "Fermes-toi. Did you learn those chords I gave you?"

"How can I answer? You just told me to shut up," observed Phoebus, who was enjoying being irritating.

The other door, which led to the stage, opened slightly, and the head and scrawny neck of Mr. Cummings appeared. He, too, was wearing a Santa Claus hat. "Clopin, are you ready? We're about to start."

Clopin was MC-ing the assembly, as per tradition. He'd been doing so for the past two years. He nodded, grinning a demented grin. "Bring on the audience."

Mr. C waved him through the stage door. After a moment, they joined him, to watch from backstage. The auditorium and stage had been lavishly decorated for the occasion. Red and gold streamers crisscrossed the rafters of the high ceiling, with paper snowflakes dangled cheerily at their conjunctions. The visual arts department's work was on showcase at the back of the room, artwork in every form of media filling the many glass trophy cases that were set into the back wall.

Esmeralda loved watching Clopin in his element. Her cousin had been born to be onstage- it was there in his flamboyant clothes, his elastic body, his wide devil's grin. Waiting with him behind the drawn curtain for his cue, she could hear the muted roar of the audience, and his excitement was palpable.
From the other side of the wings, Mr. Cummings gave him a wave to signal his cue.

"That's me," said Clopin, in a hushed voice. He adjusted his grip on eth accordion.

"Break a leg," Esmeralda replied, drawing back to watch with Phoebus and Quasi as the curtains opened.

Clopin bowed his head, still holding the accordion, and walked on, playing a simple, repeating melody that was all but lost in the sounds of the crowd. When he had reached the microphone, he stood at it and continued playing, like a lone piper but much stranger, until, out of pure fascination, the audience had quieted itself to listen to him. He waited until the only sound was the humming voice of the accordion.

Then he took the microphone from its stand and addressed the audience: "Hello Notre Dame!"

"Who does he think he is," whispered Phoebus, teasingly, "a rock star?"

"Shh," murmured Esmeralda.

Clopin began to pace comfortably across the stage, speaking in a measured, reflective voice. "Well, ladies and gents, the holidays are coming. The calendar year draws to a close, and with the winter solstice comes good cheer in the hearts of men, as we celebrate the birth of our saviour. Which," he added, with a sudden grin, "is the only reason why I am wearing this ridiculous outfit. And so, in the spirit of goodwill, I welcome you all to our humble school's 34th annual Christmas assembly!"
People cheered, but it was a low cheer, as if they were trying to save their voices for later.

Clopin, reading from a list of acts given to him by Mr. Cummings, introduced the first act. It was a duet of Silent Night, performed by two nervous but sweet grade nine girls. The crowd, seeming to sense how self-conscious they were, whistled and thundered its appreciation.

Then Mr. Cummings came on with his cello, to do a quartet arrangement of O Holy Night with Madame Tremblay, the French teacher who also played the flute, and two piano students. Esmeralda wasn't partial to straight classical, but had to admit it was excellent. Both teachers, Mr. C especially, were beloved enough that the applause was thundering. It gave Esmeralda shivers to think that she would be onstage next.

As the audience began to quiet again, Clopin glanced towards the wings to see if she was ready. She nodded at him.

He cleared his throat into the mic, to attract their attention. "And now, a dance performance by one of our most accomplished students; a spectacular young woman who needs no introduction- La Esmeralda!"

Somehow, there was room in her head for it to occur to her that it was cute how he always referred to her as "la", like she was some exotic Queen who somehow merited being addressed with that extra article. Esmeralda crossed onto the stage, using the graceful heel-toe walk all dancers are taught for performance, and found her opening position just as the music began.

She was dancing to the Barenaked Ladies/ Sarah MacLauchlan cover of 'God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen', and part of the reason she had been so nervous was that she had hardly prepared at all. Her decision to actually participate in the assembly at all had come less than a week ago, and there hadn't been time. She was going to improvise. But that was one of the great things about interpretive dancing- you could improvise, without anyone knowing the difference.
At least she knew the song quite well. She followed its tone and mood, used its shape as a structure in which she could build her own creative blend of every dance she had ever been taught. She nearly forgot that the audience was there altogether; her mind focused itself without effort, as she rode the inevitable high that came with being onstage.

She was disappointed when the song ended. She had been enjoying it. But, as she bowed and slinked offstage, giving Clopin a surreptitious low-five, she consoled herself in the fact that she would have several other acts in this show.

"Amazing," whispered Phoebus, into her ear, his breath tickling her neck.

"Clopin says we're on after one more act," said Quasi, and he cleared his throat nervously as another dance act entered the stage. They- that is, the four of them, plus a few of Esme and Clopin's more musical friends- were doing four different songs for the assembly, and Quasi was singing for most of them. Their vocal class was also performing their set at some point, including 'Bridge Over Troubled Water', which meant he would be singing his solo. It did not escape Esmeralda that he had never performed in public before. She could understand his nervousness, but she knew he was in for a pleasant surprise when he, too, discovered the glorious and terrifying rush of the stage.

"You'll be great," Esmeralda whispered to him, "We're totally ready."

And when, after what seemed like an eternity, they finally did get their first set, he was fine; the moment he opened his mouth his face calmed. They had decided that for each set they would do one contemporary Christmas song and one traditional one, and so they played 'Ring Out, Solstice Bells', and then 'Hark the Herald'. Phoebus did well on the guitar, considering he'd been playing for only a month; he couldn't do fancy finger-picking, but he could certainly follow the chords. Clopin, mercifully, had put the accordion aside, and was helping Phoebus along wit his own guitar. By the end of the second song, it was clear that Phoebus and Quasi were already enjoying themselves.

They took their bows, and the cheers of the audience rang in Esmeralda's ears.

Their next set was not until much later, so they snuck into the audience to watch the show. It was good this year. The arts department had produced a huge array of Christmas skits, songs and dances, and each performance was made ten times more enjoyable by the fact that Esmeralda knew most of the people who were onstage. This; she decided, was what school spirit was meant to be. It was like reading a yearbook that would come alive and sing to you.

Everything that was dear to her, besides her family, was here in this room. She felt infinite.

About an hour into the show, a teacher whom Esmeralda recognized from her brief stay in Quasi's art class earlier that year, came onstage with a ring of keys. She chose one, and inserted it into the keyhole of a small device to one side of the stage. As she turned it, a large projection screen lowered itself in front of the stage.
Esme could not remember something like this happening in previous years. Interested, she leaned forward in her seat, peering over the heads of those in front of her. Someone had turned on an LCD projector; the screen now read, in an elegant, flowing font, "Art Club highlights, 2009". As she watched, the opening chords for "Kodachrome' hummed through the auditorium speakers, and the screen changed to a skilful oil pastel image of a horse's muzzle. It was a slideshow, of all the best works.

Esmeralda turned to Quasi. "Did you know about this?"

He nodded, grinning. "The teachers said we should give the non-performing extracurriculars a chance. Watch; some of these are really good."
They were. But after a few slides, they showed one which was perhaps a cut above the rest; a minutely detailed black-and-white pencil rendering of a church bell tower. It was so precise as to look almost real. One of the church bells was visibly rougher, older and more clumsily cast than the others, and into its flank had been carved the word 'famille'.

"That one's yours," said Esme to Quasimodo, without a shadow of doubt.

Quasi was trying to scowl, and failing; a smile kept breaking through it. "They weren't supposed to use any of mine. I'm the organizer. It's not really fair." But he was plainly glad they had chosen it.

The image that followed it was a cartoon sketch of a confused-looking Chinese dragon sitting under a maple tree. Quasi laughed when he saw it. She didn't know why.

After the slideshow, there was another dance act and a skit from Monty Python. Then one of the gym teachers came onstage, carrying a fistful of athletic medals, and, slung over one shoulder, the school's athletic banner, which bore the sports team logo of the Notre Dame Avenging Angels. Esmeralda didn't generally take much interest in the sports team, but she'd always liked their sports logo; the mascot was a very cool-looking angel holding a two-handed sword, and looking good and ready to smite something.

"I think this is about us," whispered Phoebus, directly into her ear. She loved it when he did that. It was harmless, yet strangely intimate.

Clopin, once more wearing the accordion, surrendered the microphone to the gym teacher- she thought his name was Mr. Kurtz - who addressed the school. "I'd like to take this opportunity to applaud the Football team," he was saying, "Who recently came second in their regional tournament."

The crowd burst into cheers. Esmeralda leaned over to kiss Phoebus on the cheek.

Mr. Kurtz waited for the applause to dim slightly, lifting the banner aloft. "If the team wanted to come onstage at this point..."

Phoebus grinned, and Esmeralda gave him a slight shove in the direction of the stage. "You're the captain. Get up there."

The football team filed up the staircase that lead onto the stage. She was pleased to note that among all of them, Phoebus was second-tallest and definitely best-looking. Onstage, Mr. Kurtz got the team to line up, and walked down the row, giving each a firm handshake and slipping a silver medal over each head. Phoebus, as team Captain, was at the very end of the line, grinning nervously and fidgeting. Even from the distance of the stage, he kept trying to catch her eye.
When Mr. Kurtz got to him, he draped the school banner over Phoebus's shoulders, clapped his hand in a massive handshake, and then turned to the crowd, saying, "Our team captain, Phoebus Chateaupers" Applause rang through the auditorium.

Esmeralda had seen a million athletic awards being given, but she was resolved to really, really care about this one. She whooped and catcalled, so that he would be sure to hear her.

Phoebus returned to his seat beside her in the audience, still wearing the banner. He was crimson in the face, but he looked pleased. "Think they'll let me keep the banner?"

"Probably," said Esme, who had no idea at all.

Three more acts, and then Clopin signalled to them from the stage with a gesture of the hand. Their final set was coming up. Then it would be the teacher's act, the awarding of the pins, and the vocal class would close the show with their set, inclusing 'Bridge'. She got the attention of the two boys, and they slipped from their seats to wait backstage.

For their final act, they played 'O Come Emmanuel' and then 'Fairytale of New York'. It had felt good before, and now it felt brilliant. Quasi seemed quite comfortable now. He, Clopin and her did a three-part harmony for 'O Come Emmanuel' that Clopin had worked out, and with Phoebus's simple guitar chords underneath, it sounded ethereal and magical.

'Fairytale of New York' was a very different song. Clopin sang it with Esmeralda while Quasi provided a drum rhythm, because Quasi didn't trust himself to sound effectively drunk or Irish, and Clopin was an attention whore. But they all sang the chorus, even Phoebus, and the audience laughed at the funny bits, and it was perfect.

They took their bows, for the second time that night. Then they crept back into the audience for the teacher act, Phoebus whispering to her, "Thank God that's over," in a voice that made it clear he didn't mean it.

The teacher act was long, and so funny that it made her chest ache. It was a kind of an air-band 90's mash-up, complete with extravagant costumes and canned music. She spotted dozens of teachers she knew, though it wasn't always easy to tell under the thick layers of makeup and fake hair. Mr. Cummings, as head of the arts department, presided over the whole thing; a skinny, goofy, British Father Christmas, his face hidden behind a thick white beard.

At about the time that cheering was starting to hurt her throat, the music stopped, and the last of the teachers fled the stage amid the lasting cheers. The Mr. Cummings re-entered, beardless again, and when the last of the noise had died away he took the microphone from Clopin and held up a small object, something so tiny she couldn't see what it was from her place in the audience.

"As most of you know," said Mr. Cummings, in his thick English accent, "Every month we present pins to the students who display special dedication to their extracurricular activities. Well, this time I thought we'd do the presentation of the pins a little differently. See, we've done something that hasn't been done in over six years- we've created a new pin." He held the tiny object in his hand a little higher, so that it caught the light, and Esme could see its blue colour.

She thought she knew what this was all about. She hoped she was right.

"Until this month," resumed Mr. Cummings, "there has not been an extracurricular program for visual arts. But one of our students took the bold initiative to start one, and they've been tremendously successful, as you saw from the slideshow."

Murmurs shimmered through the audience. Esmeralda knew she had been right.

"Aside from being an excellent artist himself, he has worked hard to organize the club and is singularly dedicated to the arts." Mr. Cummings grinned, and looked into the crowd in the direction of their group. "I award the first ever Visual Arts pin to Quasimodo Frollo."

Around them, students burst into applause. Quasimodo was beloved. Even those who didn't know him knew who he was, and the feeling of affection the whole school had for him had been strong ever since October.

Beside her, Quasimodo was crimson with embarrassment, or gratitude, or both. He looked as if he were trying to shrink into the floor.
Esmeralda punched him in the arm, which felt a lot like punching a tree trunk. "Go up and get it, stupid," she said, teasingly.
He smiled sheepishly, and got out of his seat, limping up onto the stage. Mr. Cummings shook his hand, warmly, looking like a favourite uncle, and placed the tiny blue pin in his palm.

When Quasi had returned to his seat, amid continuous applause, he attached the pin to the front of his school vest, just above the Notre Dame insignia. It depicted a paintbrush and palette.

They awarded the rest of the pins, one for every extracurricular in the school. Esmeralda didn't win any this time, but she already had two- drama and dance, from previous years, which she still wore on her vest every day. It was traditional. They were badges of honour. Clopin had at least five of them; Phoebus had two. Now Quasimodo could call himself a true Notre Damer.

She nudged him. "Now all we have left to worry about is the vocal class set."

He looked relieved. He was so flushed and embarrassed he was slightly out of breath. "Just my Bridge solo."

"You'll be great," said Esmeralda, "of course you will."

Fluffffff.

Incidentally, the song 'Fairytale of New York' is one of the best, funniest, and most bittersweet Christmas songs ever. It's by the Pogues. Look it up. The lead singer sounds hammered (and since he's Shane McGowan, he probably is).

Again, Clopin's antics were inspired by this person I know who is a clone of him. Except that it appears I'm now actually predicting his actions. Today he said 'I was cold this morning, so I wore a Santa coat,'. He also mentioned the other day, after I wrote about the purple/yellow pants, that he wants either a pair of bright yellow pants or a pair of bright purple pants.

...This seems all very spooky to me.

Cookies (imaginary ones) for anyone who can tell me about the picture with the Chinese dragon.

-Mostly harmless