Had they known about her hidden genius? If so, why had they kept it hidden? And why had she herself hidden it? Strangely, she was not known to have a teacher.
All this was inexplicable.
From "The Phantom Of The Opera" by Gaston Leroux
"Mandi, I look like a whore!"
Amanda Geary raised one perfectly arched eyebrow and smirked. "Christy, we are trying to go out and seduce some young, hard-bodied punks. Looking like a proper whore is precisely the point!"
Christine Dawson scowled and made a valiant last attempt at pulling the hem of her dress down, which only succeeded in exposing more of her bust. "Ok, I can understand the whore dress, the whore make-up, and even the ripped leggings," she pointed at the various items as she spoke. "But what's so sexy about Doc Martins?"
Mandi glanced briefly down at the scuffed up pair of boots that Christy was borrowing and then held up two cherry-red lacquered nails. "Two reasons. First, it's a required part of the punk image; second, you'll be glad you've got them when you see the floor of the Roxy."
"Speaking of that, why are we even here? You're mother's going to absolutely eppy when she finds out!" Christine took a step closer to her friend as three leather-clad boys no older than sixteen openly leered at her as they walked past.
Mandi gave one of her trademarked high-lilting laughs and tossed her hair, the streaks of pink and green flashing in the streetlights. "Mum knows exactly where we are! She was glad to let us go!"
Christine's jaw dropped in shock. "What? Doesn't she have any idea the trouble we could get into?" She stopped when she realized she was repeating her own strict mother verbatim.
Her friend gave a sympathetic laugh. "Don't fret Christy, Erik and Darren will take care of us! Now come on! We're already late!" She grabbed Christine's hand and dragged her forward.
Christine hated the club instantly. Filthy, grimy bodies on all sides surrounded her and more than once Christy could have sworn that some hormonal teen copped a feel as he slid by.
Mandi had called this a concert. Apparently, the two boys she was moving in with were a part of a famous local punk band, and she had gotten tickets and backstage passes for her birthday. Christine would be damned if she could hear any music though.
She leaned close to Mandi and had to scream to get her attention. "So where's this music you mentioned?"
She was rewarded with a blank stare for a moment while Mandi worked out what she had said. "We have to get closer!" she replied grabbing Christine's arm and pulled her through the throng of people.
"Get CLOSER!" That didn't make sense. How was the ruckus of screams and pounding, ambiguous bass-line going to improve by getting closer?
Christine wasn't aware that they had traveled the length of the club, but suddenly, she was standing in front of the stage. None of the three men were playing, and she was grateful for a brief lull in the noise. Then Mandi started screaming again.
"OY! Darren! Erik!" She waved her hand like a maniac and after a moment the bassist glanced over and beamed. Christine judged the handsome black boy to be in his late twenties as he strode across the stage and knelt at the edge.
"Where the fuck have you been Mandi?" he called with an open, likable grin. "We've just about finished the set!"
She flashed him an apologetic grin and punched Christine lightly in the arm. "I know Darren, I'm sorry, but someone couldn't get her ass in gear!"
Christine grimaced and rubbed her arm; Darren gave her a good-natured wink and then nodded back over his shoulder towards another member of the band who had his back to him. "Erik'll be glad to see you. You girls coming backstage after the set?"
"It's a dead cert!"
She heard Mandi answer and saw Darren move away out of the corner of her eye, but her attention remained focused on the boy he had indicated. Erik. He was tall and thin almost to the point of scrawny, but his bare back was muscular and lean. Dressed only in a tattered kilt and a pair of broken-in, black Chuck-Taylors, he cut an attractive figure. Except for the massive tattoo that covered the upper half of his back.
Christine couldn't see it clearly from her position; she thought she could make out two winged figures on each of his shoulder blades. She watched him toss his head back as he drained a bottle of water, the muscles of his arm clearly defined as he flung the empty bottle away. The band of flames the circled his left bicep seemed like an overt attempt at being tough, and Christine prepared her ears for the worst as the boy turned and approached the mic.
He was not what she had expected. Well, that wasn't entirely true. While the pierced nipples made her want to cross her arms protectively over her own chest, neither they nor the silver labret just below the center of his thin lips particularly impressed her. His jaw length straight black hair wasn't too unique, and the shock of crimson that fell down over the left side of his face seemed downright tame in comparison to some of the hairstyles around her. The mask was special though. Its grinning white visage covered all of his face except for his mouth and chin. The effect of the savage leather grin contrasting the tight-lipped frown was unsettling, and Christine fought down a shiver as a spot light caught his mismatched blue and gold eyes and made them glow briefly as he reached the edge of the stage. There was a sense of weariness around the corners of his lips and along the line of his shoulders that made her wonder if he was in his thirties.
Christine jumped violently when Mandi screamed again. "Erik! Down here!"
And then suddenly he was a young man as he glanced down and spotted Mandi; his eyes brightening and then narrowing slightly as his lips split into a wide, toothy grin. Erik looked briefly at Christine before giving Mandi a roguish wink and turning back to the audience.
He licked his lips and then sneered at the crowd. "Alright, you ungrateful, motherless wankers, this is the last fuckin' song!"
Christine frowned at his language, and then wondered why she was surprised. He was only some punk-kid after all. Erik pulled a sleek, black and white bodied Stratocaster over his shoulders.
The audience surged forward like a filthy wave; nearly crushing Christine and Mandi against the barrier keeping the stage clear of over-eager fans. Erik's voice rose easily over the din. "And this song is for a very dear friend of mine, and if you don't like it, you can bugger off!"
Mandi suddenly squealed and clutched at Christine's arm. "That's my song! He's playing my song!"
Before she could reply, the opening chords overwhelmed Christine. It was loud, ragged, and not subtle in the least, but there was something intangible, beneath the growling chords that drew her inexorably in to the rhythmic push and pull of the crowd.
I
know where you go when you want to fall
Why
do you want to be broken?
I
know where you go when you want to fall
Yes
your friends they tell me everything
Erik played the guitar with his entire body. As his fingers flew over the strings, his shoulders curled over while he pressed the body of the instrument into his flat belly. His entire frame was tight with energy as he snarled into the mic.
Yes
I know where you go
Yes
I know what you do
Yes
I know the awful things you say
And
who you say them to
Yes
I know where you go
Yes
I know what you do
She leaned back over to Mandi; her eyes riveted on Erik. He did cut an attractive form; eyes shut tightly as the heavy rhythms of the song poured from him. "Quite the singer," she commented. She would almost swear that Erik had been trained at some point in his life. His voice was an exercise in contrasts; tightly controlled as it rolled smoothly over the melody, and in the same strong breath it was a raw wail that chilled her to the bone. She was irrationally reminded of an ancient tapestry she had seen on a childhood trip to a museum. Erik's voice was larger than life, inconceivable in its intricacies, rich with profound beauty, and coming apart at the seams.
I
know how you feel you get crazy inside
They
say it runs in the family
I
know just how you feel when you get crazy inside
Your
mom she said that you are just like me
Christine leaned over to Mandi, and tugged on her wrist. "He wrote this for you?" There were tears in Mandi's eyes as she turned to face her.
I
can see it in your eyes
I
can see it in your shaky hands
Guess
I think you think I'm stupid
You
don't think I understand
Guess
I see you when I see myself
When
I was a younger man
"He wrote this song after I went through a huge depression a few years ago!" she explained trying to keep her voice steady. "I had stopped eating and no one could get me to listen!" She turned back and stared adoringly at Erik.
When
you were a child
You
were happy and free
You
were my reason to live
I
would die when you smiled at me
I
can still see you
I
remember you painting
Sunflowers
in your room
"Erik saved my life, Christy!" There was no denying the sincerity in Mandi's eyes.
Christine looked back at Erik, feeling strangely grateful. She hadn't known Mandi then, and couldn't quite imagine the bubbly, generous, smiling girl she'd gotten to know over the past three months letting anything faze her optimistic attitude.
I
see you run around in circles
I
see you digging your own hole
I
see you fight the fights you just can't win
I
see you losing self-control
What
it does to me deep down inside
I
hope you will never know
Her eyes lazily traced the appealing lines of Erik's body, down his sleek, glistening biceps and forearms to the sharp lines of his muscled calves. Her lower belly began to burn as she watched him writhe and slide his guitar along his stomach while he sang; his thin lips almost caressing the mic as his voice became a gritty wail.
When
you were a child you were happy and free
You
were my reason to live
I
would die when you smiled at me
I
can still see you painting flowers on the wall
I
remember you happy, I remember it all
The chorus was smooth and catchy, Christine starting singing along without thought. The entire crowd was roaring, and she let herself fall into the words.
When she glanced back, she realized he was staring at her as he sang.
When
you were a child you were happy and free
You
were my reason to live
I
would die when you smiled at me
I
can still see you, I remember you painting
Sunflowers
in your room
Sunflowers
in your room
Sunflowers
in your room
The blush she had hated since she was old enough to be aware of it bloomed across her cheeks. Why was he looking at her? He couldn't possibly have heard her voice over the whine of the speakers and screams of the crowd. His harlequin eyes were deeply unnerving and impossible to read; one was a clear, cool, welcoming blue that drew her in, and the other was a harsh, almost unnatural golden amber that shut her out. She wanted to hold his gaze and hide her eyes in the same moment and was torn by the two desires.
Why wouldn't he look away? She shifted uncomfortably against the push and pull of the crowd, her hand rising to cover her mouth in an unconscious, defensive motion. His control over the guitar never faltered, and his voice was the same powerful wail, but his attention was all on her. It went beyond simply uncomfortable, or freaky; she felt like he could see all of her secrets and fears.
And then he blinked, and the moment was broken. He flashed her a brief grin and looked at Mandi, who had her arms in the air as she swayed along with the sweaty mass of people.
All
I want to remember
Pretty
pictures on the wall
I
remember you happy, I remember it all
All
I want to remember
Sunflowers
in your room
Sunflowers
in your room
Sunflowers
in your room
The final chord hung in the air for one breathless, reverent moment the crowd was silent. Erik looked suddenly more than simply a young man. He looked out of the audience with a sedate predatory gaze, his shoulders hanging loosely, his hair falling into his face. There was something indescribably primal about him.
And then the crowd exploded. Instantly bodies pressed in on all sides and Christine struggled for breath. She clung desperately to Mandi's arm as her friend dragged her through the throng of screaming teenagers and spiked hair.
The band had already fled the stage and disappeared through the nondescript door in the back wall. She and Mandi fell in step with a chain of girls; each one trying to expose more skin than the last. Christine frowned in distaste as another flip of badly feathered hair caught her in the face. Honestly, if that chippy didn't quit shaking her head soon, then she would get Mandi to do something rash.
They finally reached the door and through some careful wriggling, muffled swearing, and strategic pulling of hair, managed to maneuver into the backstage area.
Mandi turned to Christine with a wolfish grin, "Let's have some fun!"
