A/N: I always wanted to combine all the evil teachers I've ever met into two great lumps of evilness (Dr. Mueller and Mrs. Bowers, if you never read the last chappy). I wonder, can you guess the name of the new kid that Tiffany and Ashley were fighting over. I'll give you a hint. He's a character you've been expecting (probably dreading), and there is no sign of a mask anywhere on his person.

I haven't gotten any reviews since I posted the last chappy, but I'll just tell myself that any reviewers are all doing summerish things that don't involve a computer. I've been making an effort to make my chappys longer, and amazing (!) it worked out. YAY for me! And YAY for my two muses, Anya, the wi'ich, and Christine, the kitten (who I need to go get so she can help me). And there will be fop-bashing in this chappy, and probably the ones to come. If you like Raoul and take offense at that, you need to be locked up, for no one can like Raoul AND Erik.

Disclaimer: Must you rub it in?

♫ ♫ ♫

The 'new kid,' who was by now very familiar with that label, strutted down the hall, reveling in the fact that even more people noticed him than they had at his old school, unlikely as that seemed. He brushed some of his shoulder length blonde hair out of his eyes, wishing he'd had time to put it up in a ponytail that morning. But, alas, his primping time had been a mere half of what he normally had, since he—a senior—had had to rush down to the school at seven o'clock that morning to correct a misunderstanding with some paperwork. Apparently, some secretary hadn't been paying attention to what he was saying and had put down 'Raoul de Changy' as his name. Not that he minded being compared to that Raoul, but if his mom came in and said, 'Hi, I'm Emma Changy, and I need to pick up my son.' 'What's his name?' 'Raoul Changy.' 'I'm sorry, we don't have any students by that name.' You wouldn't believe how many problems two letters could cause.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he nearly steamrolled over a girl with black hair. He nearly tripped, and had to throw his arms around her. He held her there for a moment, then stepped back to get a good look at her.

"Vous abruti ! Disparaissent la vis vous-même ! Je ne suis pas intéressé par vous, vous hybride ! Stoppez se frotter partout je ! Damnez-vous à l'enfer et au dos ! (You asshole! Go screw yourself! I'm not interested in you, you bastard! Quit rubbing yourself all over me! Damn you to hell and back!)" she shouted.

Raoul apologized foppishly, "I'm sorry, but I don't speak French. What did you say?"

"Vous abruti ! Disparaissent la vis vous-même ! Je ne suis pas intéressé par vous, vous hybride ! Stoppez se frotter partout je ! Damnez-vous à l'enfer et au dos ! (You asshole! Go screw yourself! I'm not interested in you, you bastard! Quit rubbing yourself all over me! Damn you to hell and back!)" she repeated.

"I'm sorry, but I don't speak French. What did you say?"

"Vous abruti ! Disparaissent la vis vous-même ! Je ne suis pas intéressé par vous, vous hybride ! Stoppez se frotter partout je ! Damnez-vous à l'enfer et au dos ! (You asshole! Go screw yourself! I'm not interested in you, you bastard! Quit rubbing yourself all over me! Damn you to hell and back!)" she said, even more loudly and insistently.

Some of the people in the hall had overheard the altercation by now. The ones that took French blushed slightly.

Raoul was looking around bewildered as to why so many people were turning red around him. "Look," he said to the strange girl, "I'm sorry if I offended you in any way."

She just glared at him as if he was some beetle with extremely pretty hair. (A/N: This or any other description of Raoul's hair as anything other than pansyish is his own opinion of himself. I do not think his hair is pretty at all.) "Regardez, garçon de ruche, gardez vos mains au loin de moi et pourriez-vous immobile avoir une tête à la fin du jour, obtenue la ? (Look, ruffle boy, keep your hands off of me and you might still have a head at the end of the day, got it?)" she snapped.

One girl giggled as the black haired one walked away.

"Don't worry. That was Cécile Jammes, our French foreign exchange student. She doesn't like being touched," said a voice in his ear.

Raoul whirled, nearly stepping on a graceful looking blonde girl. She smiled at him. "I could tell that," he said dryly. "I don't speak French. What'd she say?"

"Ah, she just cursed at you. Nothing major. Meg Giry," she introduced herself, holding out her hand. "Touch me and you die," she said, as he reached to shake her hand. Meg shoved her hand back into a pocket.

Raoul mimed that he'd been hurt. It'd worked with ice-sculpture girls before. This Meg Giry is a particularly…well-formed…ice sculpture. He hadn't seen the movie, just pictures online of Raoul de Changy. "Aah, your rapier wit, it pains me," he said.

"Vous voulez la douleur ? Essayez de porter un corset et des chaussures de pointe, vous bellâtre d'idiot, (You want pain? Try wearing a corset and pointe shoes, you idiot fop,)" she snapped, then walked away in much the same manner as that…Cécile Jammes. (A/N: So I stole from Pirates of the Caribbean? Sue me)

Raoul looked after her. French women, he thought, adjusting his extraordinarily pretty hair again. Or maybe it's women in general.

Another girl was walking toward him. He was a babe magnet today. Now, if he could get their phone numbers instead of them yelling at him in French. This one was a brunette. She eyed him carefully as she approached, as if he might bite her.

♫ ♫ ♫

So this is the infamous new kid, Raoul Changy, Christine thought. Why is my life turning into one big Phantom of the Opera? I hate Gaston Leroux, and Andrew Lloyd Webber, and Joel Schumacher, and anyone else who helped publicize Erik's sad excuse for an existence. And he should be showing up any time now, if the plot keeps going the way it is.

Christine surveyed him, feeling the same intense disgust as she did when she saw his widely bashed counterpart, the Vicomte, Raoul de Changy. How could I ever even think I was in love with that sorry excuse for a man? Yep, she was definitely going to be the first person to try time travel.

"Have you seen Meg Giry or Cécile Jammes?" she asked nervously.

"Yes, both of them," Raoul replied. "They yelled at me and then stalked off." He'd decided that 'walked' was too ordinary a term for the way that they vacated the particular piece of ground that he was standing on. "Do you have problems with being touched?"

"Only by some people," she said, sighing. "Christine Daae."

"Raoul Changy. Aren't we supposed to be lovers or something?"

Christine sighed deeply, and regretted giving her last name. "Raoul, je n'aime jamais vous, et moi volonté. Juste parce qu'elle s'est produite dans un film, ne signifie pas qu'il se produira dans la vraie vie. Le should've I a sélectionné Erik plus de vous alors, mais puisque je ne peux pas je le fait maintenant, (Raoul, I don't love you, and I never will. Just because it happened in a movie, doesn't mean it'll happen in real life. I should've picked Erik over you then, but since I can't I'm doing it now,)" she said rapidly.

Raoul felt drowned in a wave of French, but one word caught him, besides his own name. Eric, he thought. I shall have to look up this Eric.

Christine, too stalked off. Raoul sighed. Daae didn't sound French, so maybe it was women in general. He was losing his perfectly manicured touch. He consulted his schedule. English, Literature and Composition, with Mrs. Spreadborogh, he thought. (A/N: Momentary credit to The Year My Life Went Down the Loo) This should be fun.

He consulted the room number, consulted the signs, and walked down the hall, his ego slightly—but only slightly—subdued. He noted with amusement that he was going the same way that those three girls had gone. This had the prospect of being quite interesting.

♫ ♫ ♫

Think of me


think of me fondly,


when we've said goodbye.


Remember me


once in a while –


please promise me


you'll try.

Christine hummed to herself, getting ready for a fun day in English. Meg often compared the class to having your soul being ripped out and trampled on, and then being taught how to write essays. Christine agreed with the assessment.

She blanched as Raoul strutted through the door and took a seat fairly close to her, Meg, and Cécile. She was quite grateful when Shouting Spreadborogh started class immediately.

Meg turned to see if Miranda had screwed in her earplugs, but even she looked subdued. Something probably happened with that Dr. Mueller, Meg thought, unable to repress a shudder, and Christine just didn't get a chance to tell me about it what with the fight and the musical and all. Thinking of the musical made her quite bitter, but she couldn't get her thoughts out of that rut. I hope the anonymous writer of this mysterious musical really is Erik, then maybe he'll haunt Lucibowers until she puts back the ballet and changes the lead back to alto. That'd make some good goss, too. The fight, while interesting, will only make a few classes worth of scandal before it becomes old news, but a ghost… that novelty might last for days.

♫ ♫ ♫

A/N: How long should I make you guys wait before I introduce Erik (IF I introduce him at all…muahahaha)? R & R, please.