Beep…beep…beep…beep BEEP beep.

The fat lady who was standing in front of me gazed avidly at the screen that displayed her order, waiting eagerly for the moment when she would be able to point triumphantly and shout that I'd made my first mistake. Twenty cents here, thirty there…I was reminded of a phrase that had been hammered into me in elementary school by one of the more sympathetic nuns.

Most penance is just a martyrdom of pinpricks.

Thinking of that old fashioned, parochial Catholic school just gave me painful memories of the good days when we'd lived in the city. I shut down on that train of thought, and concentrated on the monotonous beeping of the register. I felt my own heartbeat sluggishly ringing in time with that hypnotic, mind-numbing noise, and my eyes fluttered closed as I sighed. My hands, though, well-attuned to the motion now, continued to work.

"Hang on there miss…that was advertised on the shelf as being $1.79."

My thoughts were disjointed, and I opened my eyes, turning towards the screen to see where the glowing green numbers had spelled out a damning $1.99 next to a box of pasta. I did not want to bother looking for the right price. So I did what I normally do in these situations. Put on the 'customer service' face, and settle.

"I'm very sorry ma'am. I'll take the extra twenty cents off for you, if you'd like."

She gazed at me with the eyes of a shrew. "Connecticut state law says that if an item rings up at the wrong price, I get the item free."

Damn. I hate it when they know the rules. I turned off the conveyer belt, trying hard not to sigh my disgust, and opened the store's weekly flyer. Barilla pasta was $1.99 a box, while the generic brand beneath it was $1.79. I turned the ad around and showed her the mistake.

"You got the wrong brand, ma'am. You got Barilla, and it's the store brand that's on sale this week. Do you still want it?"

She looked at me as if I had tried to wrest the precious pasta from her hand. "Of course I want the damn pasta! I have to eat, don't I?"

I made no response and went on ringing her order. I heard her mutter something about 'false advertising' and 'misleading labels' under her breath, but I just sighed again and finished, glad to have the woman off of my hands.

Tuesday evenings, for some reason or another, are the evenings when the elderly come out to the store in droves. Rather wickedly, I refer to it as the Geriatric Crowd. There is no single group of people more irritating to deal with at a store than the elderly. If you don't believe me, work in a store for a while and deal with their endless barrages of hassling. In a way, it's understandable. They come from a time when prices, even for little things, might have been negotiable. They don't understand the computer or monitoring systems. And a good deal of them have paranoid anxiety disorders. Not good combinations, let me tell you right now.

But at eight-thirty in the evening, it was time for most of them to hurry on home. Many of the cashiers were dismissed as well, as the crowd in the store shrank dramatically. I was on till nine-thirty, unfortunately, and now I had an hour in which I could do several of the many interesting store activities.

1) A slogan of the managers is 'if there's nothing else to do, clean'. Each one of the registers had to be shining by the time you were finished, and if that meant staying late, without pay, that was exactly what one had to do. Of course, the danger with this operation was that each and every time you got the bottle of bleach solution out to whitewash the sides of your register, a customer would come up. And that meant getting up, putting the bleach away, and getting all your hard work dirty again.

2) Returning things is the most popular activity, but not one that was granted to cashiers very often. This meant taking all the things that had been stowed under your register by customers who didn't want them, putting all of them in a cart, and dropping them back onto the shelves. This was a good thing, because no one could say how long it would take you to walk all over the store, but it was bad because the managers were loathe to give a cashier that much personal freedom.

3) There are always pens to be played with.

4) On a slow—very slow—night, you can have bleach solution fights with your friends. Of course, that all depended on whether or not you liked going home smelling of chlorine. Besides, it was seriously frowned upon by the management. Also, I was never close enough with any of the people here—besides my best friend Meg—and it was bad manners to squirt anybody with bleach solution without a personal acquaintance.

5) Thumbs may always be twiddled.

Each of these scintillating activities spoke to me, but I, seeing as there were no managers patrolling the front end at the moment, chose instead to pull my book from my back pocket (cleverly concealed under my uniform) and read.

Of course, the moment I got to the good part of the chapter, I heard footsteps on the end of my register. I closed my book and slipped it into the draw at my register, in time to look up into one of the most attractive faces I have ever had the good blessing to see. I don't usually notice men, especially at the supermarket, but I had to catch my breath quickly for this one to avoid either letting my jaw drop or starting to drool.

"Excuse me, miss, but are you open?"

French accent. I seemed to be bumping into a lot of Europeans recently. I smiled (a real smile this time) and nodded.

"Yes, sir."

He pulled two fully loaded shopping carts into my register. I still couldn't help smiling. I'd have him for a good fifteen minutes then. I had no bagger, and it would take an awful long time to put his order in bags. When he'd unloaded the first of the carts, he looked back over at me and smiled.

"I just moved here. Can you see that? I have to buy everything new again."

I smiled back, ringing his order with restrained enthusiasm. "Where did you move from?"

"Toulouse." He said. Then he quickly caught himself, reminded that I might not know what country Toulouse was in. "I am French, mademoiselle."

"Yes," I was well aware where Toulouse was, "my father took me there eight years ago. I think that I liked it even better than I liked Paris. All the cities were bathed in rose-colored light. It reminded me of Italy, except there, everything is gilded."

He looked briefly nostalgic. "I am not certain that I would say Paris is less beautiful than Toulouse, but since I was born there, I am a poor judge. My family is an old aristocratic one, so I have many memories and much history there."

I scanned another item thoughtfully and slipped it into plastic. As I put it down, the heavy pot clanged against my register. "Did you move here for your business?"

He faced me again as he replied. He was very scrupulously polite that way, refusing to keep his back to me when he spoke. "I suppose you could say that. I am a teacher, and my university in Paris wanted me to have experience abroad before they gave me my secondary degree in English education. I suppose you would call it an internship."

"So you'll be teaching near here then?" Unconsciously, I was telling myself not to get my hopes up, that it would be insane if he came to teach at my high school. But, at the same time…he was shopping at this store!

"The school I will teach at will be…euh…this name is always difficult to pronounce, Pawtucket High School."

My heart stopped. But I pulled a very nonchalant face and asked another, very discreet question. "What classes?"

His face puckered up in an absolutely adorable way when he was thinking. "I believe the honors French classes in the third year, one of the advanced placement courses for English literature, and the advanced placement fifth year French class."

Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!

Again, I was entirely nonchalant. Nothing like letting one of your teachers know that you think he's incredibly good looking. "I'm in that class. What a great way to have power over your teacher," I continued, jokingly, "I control your food supply!"

He laughed, revealing one of the most lyrical sounds I had ever heard. "Well, I hope that you do not make a butchery of my language; if that is the case, I shall have to find another place to shop."

I smirked. "That's the beauty of it. There are no other supermarkets for miles. I control you!" I laughed, rather wickedly. He took it in the spirit it was intended, and smiled again. It was amazing how his smile just seemed to bring illumination to his whole face. I looked forward to the good times that I was going to have in class from now on; no more doughty Madame Lynsbeck. From now on, I was going to be looking at a French demigod. Tall, blond-haired, blue eyed demigod. Meg would be furious that she'd wasted her time with Spanish for the past four years. I'd always told her that French was a more attractive language.

Unfortunately, I'd run out of items to scan. And bag. It was time to say 'farewell'.

"Can I have the privilege of knowing the name of my new teacher?" I could not believe that I was bold enough to ask.

"Certainly, mademoiselle." He swept down into a very dashing bow. "My name is Raoul de Chagny."

He took my hand and kissed it, teasingly. His dark eyes flicked up to mine, and I was completely taken in. I knew, or rather, was conscious, of the very silly grin on my face, but I was also aware that it would be impossible for me to look any other way. I've always had a weakness for beauty, and this Raoul had it in abundance. Mental note: he is not Raoul. Mr. Chagny. Mr. Chagny.

"I would also appreciate the knowledge of your name, mademoiselle."

"Oh!" I was thrown off balance. "It's Christine."

He smiled again. "It is a lovely name."

I could think of no proper response, so I decided to go with security. "I look forward to seeing you tomorrow then."

"Until tomorrow, mademoiselle. Au revoir."

I smiled. "Au revoir."

"Oh, Meg, he's the most attractive man I've ever seen!" I gushed, walking with her the next morning to school. "I mean, he looks like…like…I don't even have any words for it!"

"He really must be something if he's got you all hot and bothered like this!" Meg exclaimed, tossing back her short honey-blond ponytail and giving me a wicked look. "I've never heard you go on and on about someone like this before. So…am I gonna get specifics, or do I just get to hear you ramble?"

"Mmm…" I hummed, deciding what to tell her first. "Blond hair, rather long. He wears it pulled back in a ponytail."

Meg grunted. I could tell she was intrigued, but putting on the show of being unimpressed.

"The prettiest blue eyes I've ever seen…in anyone! They look like sapphires, I swear to God, Meg!"

"I thought your type was tall, dark and handsome."

"It is!" I exclaimed, tossing my curly hair back in the morning breeze. "And this time I've fallen for Prince Charming. I'm so glad I have first period French."

Meg shook her head. "I've never seen you like this before." We trotted up the steps to our traditional red-brick schoolhouse and headed to our lockers. "He really must be something, I repeat. I think I'll have to come with you to check him out."

"You're going to be so upset that you took Spanish and not French." I said, taking out my textbook and unloading my spare gym clothes. "I mean, listen to me! Four years I go through this school without seeing one guy I like, and now I fall for a teacher! Just my rotten luck."

"You can't have fallen for him," Meg remonstrated, "you don't even know him."

"Still," I said, getting my devious look, "he can't be that old, and he is going back to France to finish his educational degree. The same rules don't apply, do they?"

I was teasing, but even so, Meg was too perverted to actually look shocked at my train of thought. She only looked at me in her special way, and then smiled. "I'll take a look, and see if it's worth it."

"Good morning, ladies."

I knew the voice and was firmly convinced that I would look nothing but nonchalant. We turned around and I sensed, rather than saw, Meg's dropped jaw. He gave us the most heartbreaking smile and turned to me personally.

"Bonjour, Christine."

I did not normally like the sound of my name with a French accent, but that was probably because I'd never heard it purred before. I decided that I preferred it this way. "Bonjour, M Chagny. Comment allez-vous, aujourd'hui?"

"Excuse me," Meg broke in, obviously having control over her jaw again, "but it's bad manners to have a conversation where not everyone speaks the language. How are you, Mr. Chagny? My friend's told me a lot about you."

I would have growled under my breath, but Raoul—Mr. Chagny—seemed to think nothing of the matter.

"Of course, miss, my apologies. I only wanted to ascertain whether or not my student was as fluent as she claimed. Very good, Christine, your accent is quite nice." He favored me with a lingering glance, and then turned to Meg, dipping his head politely. "And may I inquire as to your name, miss?"

Meg looked completely and totally besotted. "I'm Meg Tabin. Christine's my friend."

"I look forward to seeing you again, mams'elle. And now if you ladies would excuse me, I must prepare my lesson before my first class arrives." His eyes were back on me again. "Good day, ladies."

I think the most that Meg and I could manage was a nod. He smiled on us as he turned away, and I felt Meg sigh next to me. She turned and stared at me, long and hard.

"He's worth it." There was a pause. "Damn, I wish I'd taken French!"

After one lesson, I could safely say that taking French would never be the same. I had been blessed, the first two years of my experience, with a woman who was an excellent teacher. Then, when she retired to care for her first child, I was stuck with two doughty, French wannabes, who insisted the entire class period be spent reading and discussing works entirely above our comprehension levels. This Raoul Chagny was at least second best, and his looks might well land him in the lead. He was engaging, conversational, focused and kind, encouraging everyone to reach in the language, and yet correcting us and complimenting us when we stretched. He made no comments upon our accents, even though we must have sounded terrible to him, and when we complained in turn about the rapidity of his speech, he slowed down to accommodate. Of course, there was a lot of whispering in the class, especially around the girls, and I knew that most of them would talk of nothing else for the rest of the week, but I was glad that I got to see him outside of class.

I was thrilled, moreover, that Meg couldn't just say I liked him for his looks. There was a sharp, inventive mind underneath the waves of golden hair, and I got to see it. Yes, I floated through the rest of the day, happy as a clam at high water—where did that expression come from—and sooner than I thought, school was over. Thankfully, I had no work that day. Meg and I decided to walk around town. We just left our bags in our lockers (after a good deal of shoving and not a little swearing) and set off. The spring air was just warming up, and after five minutes we both took off our sweatshirts, wrapping them around our waists and reveling in the freedom and mobility.

The thing I loved most about Meg was that she had the same mind as I did. We didn't always have to talk if we were together; most times, we just preferred listening to music, reading, or thinking silently together. Of course, we talked endlessly when we had the right topic, but today was a day for reflection, and we made the unspoken agreement to walk silently.

Meg Tabin was a newly transferred kid to my school, and even though she had settled on my street, we might never have met if she hadn't also transferred into my dance group. Since I was never close to any of the girls there (in general they were too perky for me) and since she didn't know anyone anyway, we managed to gravitate together, and soon we were good friends. Both types of loners, with never any more than three or four close friends at a time—even though she was far more social on the internet, which I could never be—it seemed that we had always been close friends, even after only a month of talking.

I had a lot to think about today. I felt a kind of chagrin as I walked along. It was so odd that after, as I had said to Meg, never feeling any sort of romantic interest in any kid at school before, now I was feeling it for, dare I admit it? two men!

The first, and the one that I felt comfortable telling Meg about, was obvious Raoul de Chagny. I had never met anyone like him. He was a golden man, warm, friendly, kind, charming…and hot as hell itself! But he had to be at least five or six years older than I, and if that wasn't enough of a barrier, he was also my teacher. That kind of a relationship would never ever work. And even if it were feasible, he would never look my way. I was dark and homely. No, I was stung by the bug of admiration, but it would never be requited. I would also never have the courage to tell him that I cared for him either. In other matters, I was as bold as a lioness. In matters of the heart, I was a weak, retiring lily. I was fortunate never to have come across a man to love before. If he didn't notice me, I would never let him know! Thankfully, I was blessed with a natural aversion to stupid teenage boys. Unfortunately, now it was apparent that I had a thing for men!

The other man that I thought about, and that fairly constantly, was the stranger that I had almost been run over by in the parking lot of the library. I was certain that I couldn't tell Meg about his one. I'd be completely overwhelmed by the mélange of strange, puzzling feelings and emotions. I'd never met anyone like him either. But with Raoul, my attraction had obvious, tangible indicators. I knew why I liked him. With the other, I sensed, rather than knew, what sort of a connection I had with him.

In fact, there were no marks at all for me to like on that man. His face was, literally, a blank to me.

Meg and I stopped for hot chocolate, and continued on towards the scenic lake, which was already surrounded by couples of various sorts, or mothers with their children. We appropriated our favorite spot on the retaining wall and gazed down into the water, still silent, for which I was eternally thankful. I would be no companion now, not in my mood.

What I sensed around the masked man (I had to label him that way, because I simply had no other) was intoxicating. Loneliness, darkness, silence, and yet…the most incredible light! The kind of light that shoots straight through the darkness to connect two hearts…and what I wanted, more than anything, was to know that those two hearts were his and mine. I sensed music, I sensed incredible intelligence, I sensed sensibility to the beauty of a rose, or even the violence of a thunderstorm. And overlaying all of these things…I sensed danger. Not petty, violent danger, that results from a flawed personality, or a minor anxiety disorder, but epic danger, the kind that stems from great deeds and redemption for them.

Now that was totally ridiculous, I told myself, as my more logical side came into play. What the hell was I thinking? This is the modern era, girl, not a Shakespeare! It's not King Arthur, and it's certainly not Beowulf. I dabbled my bare toe sorrowfully in the dark water. Those men don't exist anymore. Not here.

But I still imagined it. And I still yearned for it. And if I wanted anything from a man, I realized, was that kind of sense. I did not want a man that you can read about in any teenage novel, and I sure as hell didn't want some dime-a-dozen teenage punk who'd just grow out of all his dreams and ambitions to become a claims adjuster. Maybe the reason I liked men was because they'd already undergone the test of time that claimed so many lesser boys. I shook my head and smiled. My thoughts were so random and disjointed, as there wasn't even any purpose to them; I was building castles in the air, and sooner or later I would realize that air was nothing to build upon.

Meg nudged me gently. "I've come to a conclusion."

I smiled, not grudging her the intrusion. "What?"

She looked towards the sky, lifting her hand to shade her eyes from the sun, and swept her arm down, encompassing the whole lake in one grand gesture. "Raoul de Chagny is a fine man!"

I laughed, the sound echoing across the water. "That he is, Meg, that he is."

We spent the rest of the afternoon rollicking around the town, talking and laughing; the floodgates were open, and though we did not discuss what we had actually been thinking about, we talked about the rest of heaven and earth. But at five in the evening, I had to say goodbye. Nothing was going to stop me from going to make dinner for Daddy before he got home. As I trotted down my road, I imagined the scene; he'd come home, feeling worlds better, to a wonderful pasta and chicken creation by the world's greatest chef (moi), and he'd take his medicine right before sitting down to the greatest supper that he'd had in a good long while.

I was still thinking of that when I opened the door to find him half collapsed against the kitchen counter. I was still thinking about it when I called the ambulance. But when they arrived and took him with them, leaving me behind—alone—to deal with the shock, only then were all the ideas of a happy family dinner driven from my mind.