A/N: Lake Guntersville rocked. We even got a boat to tow us. Me, my dad's girlfriend's son, and my dad's girlfriend's friend and his son. So if that was you in the boat, thank you muchly. This next chappy's a tad different from the book, 'cause Erik can do calligraphy. Oh, and I have to use you guys to rant. Do any of y'all watch Spike TV? Television for Men, I know, but it's also The Official Home of Star Trek: DS9 and Star Trek: TNG and MacGyver is on it as well, in addition to CSI, so on a good day I can watch for eight hours (2-DS9, 3-TNG, 1-MacGyver, 2-CSI). ANYHOODLES, at the end of every show, they have this jingle to advertise for their James Bond Movie Month. One line goes. "His real secret weapon he keeps in his pants." It goes downhill from there. There, I ranted.
Dragima-Heehee. You know, I might just not have anything involving Erik for a while, just to be evil. No, I'm just kidding. I guess you know, from reading my Authoress' Note. Whatever.
♫ ♫ ♫
Kristi Bowers,
It has come to my knowledge that you have made changes to my musical that I did not authorize. Among these are removing the string section of the accompaniment, changing the lead part to that of a soprano, and removing the ballet. I understand why you did this. You are far too lazy to seek out students to make a string section, and will allow the school band to completely butcher my work, and drown out any sparse talent that might be on the stage. You made the lead a soprano part because you possess an innate dislike of large alto parts, due to your extremely inaccurate belief that there really are no altos, and that section is populated by sopranos who are merely too lazy to increase their range. The ballet you removed as a slight to Madame Antoinette Giry, who is a woman I hold in the highest esteem. I demand that you restore my musical to its former glory. If you wish to give a letter to me, speak to the aforementioned Madame Giry. Should these demands be ignored, a disaster beyond your imagination will occur.
Your most obedient servant,
Anonymous
Postscript: Did you know that some of the members of the alto section of your Concert Choir refer to you as Lucibowers?
The words sprawled across the page in elegant red letters. He only included the exact quotes from his nineteenth century counterpart for dramatic effect. He tucked the note into an envelope, scrawled 'Kristi' on it in a fair impersonation of Charlotté's writing, and set it on top of a pile of such letters.
Erik looked around Mrs. Bowers' office, taking the opportunity while he was here. It was a complete wreck. There was sheet music, CDs, videos, and love notes from Charlotté everywhere, even on the keyboard and printer of her computer. Someone should really come and clean in here sometime, he thought, looking with displeasure. Maybe I can get Charlotté to come clean it. You know, that's actually a really good idea. Pulling a clean sheet of paper out of her printer, he cleared a spot off of her desk and began to write, although not in his normal elegant script, but an almost childish scrawl identical to that of Mrs. Bowers'.
Charlotté,
I have a job for you. I need you to clean out my office for me sometime.
K.
Passable, he thought, slipping it into a pile of 'outgoing' notes on the desk, then maneuvered the mess around so it covered the blank spot he'd written the note on.
Erik scratched an itch on his forehead, and his finger bumped up against his mask. Not only is it offensive that she named me Erik, making a joke at my expense, but she won this particular mask at an auction on EBay, and it was supposedly actual memorabilia from the 2004 movie. Does her sense of humor ever fail? he thought.
Erik exited the office before he could be tempted to graffiti the room, or something of the kind.
♫ ♫ ♫
Raoul sat, trying to watch TV, his hair in curlers.
"Honey, do you have homework?" his mother Emma trilled behind him.
Raoul was unresponsive, his only reaction was to flip the channel.
"Honey, do you want some dinner?"
Flip.
"Honey, do you want to watch a movie?"
Flip.
"Honey, can I get you anything?"
Flip.
"Honey, do you want to come swimming?"
Flip.
"Honey, do you want to play a board game?"
Flip.
Ring.
"Honey, a girl is calling for you."
For the first time, Raoul spoke. "Who is she?"
"Oh sorry, she just hung up."
Flip.
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A/N: Utterly pointless, I know. Sue me. I just wanted to establish the Raoul/Emma relationship.
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For lack of anything better to do, Christine booted up Madness Interactive. Her essay on Macbeth was in her printer, her science project for Chemistry on mole calculations been and gone, her fifty page term paper for Dr. Mueller completed a good week ago, the day it had been assigned. She knew better than to take chances where Dr. Mueller was concerned. 'Ze smell of science,' as he called it, was the punishment for a student that was late with anything. The student teacher, McPhearson, who was unlucky enough to get Dr. Mueller as an assignment often compared it to blood, urine, and feces.
Christine ran through the tutorial again. It was a long time since she'd been bored enough to play this. Soon, however, she was beating up guys like there was no tomorrow. A whirlwind of blonde hair sprung up in her imagination every time she killed someone with a urinal. Madness Interactive soon lost its charm, though. As did Kitten Cannon. And Prachka. And Spacerunner. And even FlashTrek. You could only laugh about planet Biatch in the Hitcha sector needing a shipment of toilet paper, or planet Vulcan needing a shipment of swingsets so many times before it got old.
Christine looked at her clock, noticing that it was a little after midnight. This was not good. She logged off her computer and went to bed, putting in her earplugs lest Charlotté's 'practicing' disturb her.
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Meg sat in her room, so sore it made her sore even to think about it. She was covered in those heat wraps literally from head to foot, not that they were doing a bit of good. Why did she have to be a good ballerina? Why did she have to be flexible? Why couldn't she be properly clumsy? Moreover, WHY did her mother have to be Antoinette Giry? Many other girls described their mothers with…colorful…descriptive words, but only her name was necessary to strike fear into the hearts of 'the young ladies of the ballet,' as Antoinette referred to them. She still couldn't figure out why her mother wouldn't let her use gel pads in her pointe shoes. Considering that she was on pointe for a minimum of an hour at least five days a week, she would be allowed. Nope. Not in her house. Meg climbed into her bed, wincing. Within five minutes of turning off the light, she was unconscious.
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Compared to the utter boredom of Christine, and the exhaustion of Meg, Cécile was the opposite exactly. She was having the time of her life, prank calling boys at school. She'd already called Raoul Changy's house at least a dozen times, giving a different false name each time. Once she'd even had the nerve to claim to be Charlotté, which delighted her to no end.
One more time, she told herself. She dialed the phone.
"Hello?" asked the woman Cécile presumed to be Raoul's mother answered, sounding haggard.
"Hello, I need to talk to Raoul," she said, making her voice sound deeper than it did usually.
"Umm…who is this?" she asked, sounding cautious.
"My name is Emma Changy," Cécile said. "I know Raoul from school."
"Emma Changy? I hardly believe you. I'm Emma Changy."
"Really?" Cécile asked, pretending she didn't already know. "That's terribly interesting, but I need to talk to Raoul urgently."
"OK…He's watching TV. I'll put him on."
Cécile heard a conversation between Emma and Raoul through the phone.
"There's a girl for you," Emma said. It had gone this way many times.
"Mother, that's the fifteenth time you've said that tonight. Every time she's mysteriously 'hung up.' Gimme the phone now. Hello? Hello?"
All he heard was a dial tone.
Cécile laughed hysterically, then decided to start balancing some equations that needed to be done for the next day.
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A/N: Tell me what you think. I'm going to go play Scrabble. Adios!
