A/N: Hooray for Earth (I couldn't resist. Invader Zim rocks)! I'm trying to be witty, but it's early and I'm all wittied out.
Responses (YAY!)
IflyNAVY-Why thank you. (again, all wittied out)
Silvermasque-Although that would be EXTREMELY fun, to have a married TEACHER be obsessed with Ruffle Boy, Mrs. Bowers is too busy being Lucibowers to sing.
Beverly Vulcan Princess-Wait a minute. Why am I talking to you? I never saw you review:grins: Trisana picks you up, waves you around, and tosses you into a pile of pillows! And she hates Andrew Lloyd Webber for publicizing a story of people with similar names, 'cause now Ruffle Boy expects her to go out with him.
Onashii-Fine, fine, I give in. I actually did come up with a good way to put him in, so look for him prolly in this chappy, at least a little bit. Ssh, though.
Disclaimer: I own SOME people, so fwah:sticks tongue out at general populace:
♫ ♫ ♫
After school that day, Raoul wasted no time booting up his computer and Googling 'Eric.' He knew the likelihood of him finding anything, much less anything useful in the 74,800,000 sites that popped up was quite slim. But maybe there was some mythological figure by that name, something that would cause Christine to mention his name.
After thirty results, Raoul gave up. These were just homepages of random guys that were named Eric. He'd have to ask that—rather pretty—lump of green that was Christine Daae.
Raoul sighed. He had an essay for Shouting Spreadborogh due, but he decided to put it off for some much needed primping. He still hadn't had time to brush his hair adequately, and it was lacking some of its shine, so he sat down at his vanity and got to work.
♫ ♫ ♫
Christine looked blankly at the empty Microsoft Word document in front of her. She was expected to write some analysis or something on Romeo and Juliet. She glanced sidelong at her bookshelf. It was right there…and so tempting… No! she thought. Remember, Christine, you nearly failed science last year when you were reading instead of disproving the speed of light or building things out of toothpicks or whatever else you're supposed to do in physics!
Christine decided that she could start with a 'proper heading.' Spreadborogh was very proper. Course name and class period on the top line on the left side. Assignment below that. Name on the top line on the right side. Date below that. (A/N: Sounding familiar, BVP?) She remembered a quite eloquent phrasing about Romeo and Juliet in a book she'd read, and hastily flipped it open. It was plagiarism, she knew, but she was going to be rephrasing it. And, on that note, what were the odds that Shouting Spreadborogh had read Q-in-Law by Peter David? Next to none. She abhorred all forms of science fiction.
Christine found the page she was looking for, and typed in something about parental neglect and teenage suicide, but the underlying romance of it all. A thousand words melted away before she knew it. Thank you, Data, she thought as she printed it out. (A/N: If you're about to kill me for making Christine a sci-fi fan, deal with it. She's not overly obsessive, and doesn't like much more than Star Trek and Stargate.)
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Meg sat painting her nails, sore all over, wondering what her friends (and enemies) were doing right then. Christine's either singing to herself, trying to make her range higher so she at least has a chance of getting through the pre-pre-audition, or doing homework. Poor girl, she decided. Cécile is more than likely screaming at some guy on the phone or IMing her sister back in Paris. Raoul, I bet, is brushing his hair. Charlotté's trying to break the windows; I can hear her from here. What cruel god made Christine and me have to live across the road from that monstrosity?
Meg wondered why she hadn't flunked out long before now, and decided that it was her mother. Oh, no, her mother wasn't bribing anyone, but the entire school knew that Antoinette Giry was the only respectable ballet instructor in the city, sad as that was, and everyone knew it, and didn't want to offend her by flunking her daughter. Meg snickered at the thought. Those poor fools think that she'll be offended and quit her job or something.
♫ ♫ ♫
The next day at school, Christine ran into Raoul again. He wasted no time. "Who is this Eric?" he asked.
She turned pale white. "W-what do y-you know a-bout E-Erik?" she stammered.
"You mentioned him to me in your torrent of French yesterday."
Christine sighed in relief. So he didn't know anything. She consulted her watch. "Sorry, but I'm running late, and if I don't get to Dr. Mueller's class in time…" she shuddered at the thought.
"Not so fast," Raoul said, grabbing her arm. "There's a good twenty minutes until class starts."
She shot him a withering glare. "You really are new here," she commented, "not to hear about Dr. Mueller. Now, if you'll please excuse me, I have to get to class." When he didn't show any sign of releasing her, she pried her arm out of his fairly weak grasp.
"She's not lying, you know," a voice whispered in Raoul's ear.
He jumped a good two feet straight up, and turned around to see that…Meg Giry, that was her name. She'd stormed off (he'd decided that even 'stalked' was too mild a term) after he'd barely started flirting with her. He wished she'd quit sneaking up like that.
"How do you know? Do you have Dr. Mueller?" Raoul asked.
"No, I'd never do that. But I know."
"How? Christine could be lying."
"How, monsieur? I," she said, sweeping into a formal curtsey, "am the local Gossip Queen. I know everything there is to possibly know about the denizens of these halls."
"What does that d word mean?"
"Denizen?"
"Yes."
"Oh, there's the bell. I have to go, or I'll be late."
What's a denizen? he thought.
♫ ♫ ♫
The rest of the day flew by, and it was all at least average, except Christine got an 'F' on her essay. Romance isn't an underlying topic, it's the main theme. Try harder to figure that out when you do Macbeth tonight.
Christine glanced sidelong at Meg's essay. She'd barely scraped by a passing grade. She looked at Raoul's. It was covered with strands of long blonde hair, but had earned a B plus.
"To continue with our studies, you will be expected to write an essay of the same length about Macbeth tonight," Mrs. Spreadborogh shouted.
♫ ♫ ♫
As the bell rang after the last class, Christine told Meg that she'd walk home herself and not to wait for her. She said she wanted to think.
Meg nodded. It wasn't an unusual request. "Very well. I'll see you in a while, then."
Christine smiled back at her friend. "Maybe not. You have dance today, remember?"
Meg groaned. "What day of the week is it?" she asked.
Christine giggled slightly. "It doesn't matter. You have dance every day, remember?"
"I just want to know how many days until the weekend when I can have some rest," Meg stated.
"You know as well as I do that your mother wants to work on your solo, and has scheduled extra practices this weekend," said Christine primly.
"Slavedriving mother," Meg muttered, then headed out to her car.
Christine grinned at her friend's retreating back. She did have some thinking to do, and knew the perfect place to do it.
♫ ♫ ♫
In the school auditorium, Christine sat on the stage, looking out at the dark room, dangling her feet over the edge. She really wanted to sing, and she wanted to sing from her favorite musical, but there were no parts an alto could do. No female parts, that is. She could easily master Raoul's, but wouldn't lower her standards so much. She sighed. There was nothing she could do. The janitor would be coming by soon, and she didn't want to get caught.
She stepped onto center stage, and said, "O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?" remembering the debacle in English, giggling at the overly formal dialect. This having been said, she ran off the stage, and out of the theatre.
And long after the echoes of her feet had faded, a voice from the rafters answered, "Herefore I art."
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A/N: I wanted to make this a MAJOR cliffie, but I decided that I'll be nice to you guys, if you just REVIEW.
