Know what one of the best parts of Halloween is? The special showings of 'Rocky Horror Picture Show' on TV.

Sorry I didn't update sooner. Meant to, but didn't. Sorry.

Big crazy happiness for SodaNDallysgrl410 who was the 100th reviewer - 100 reviews being the big thing I've been going for ever since I started on this site more than a year ago. w00t w00t.

Three chapters left, including this one. :-(

Side Note -While Naomi is talking to Mr. Whitby durring this chapter, they have a debate about something (Which I quite love). Naomi's last thoughts on the matter are a slight joke that I put in that will probably make sense to anyone who is musical-savvy.

How can I help it if I think you're funny when you're mad?
Trying hard not to smile, though I feel bad,
I'm the kind of guy who laughs at a funeral,
Can't understand what I mean? Well, you soon will-
I have a tendency to wear my mind on my sleeve,
I have a history of losing my shirt,

It's been one week since you looked at me,
Threw your arms in the air, and said, 'You're crazy,'
Five days since you tackled me, I still got the rugburns on both my knees,
It's been three days since the afternoon,
You realized it's not my fault, not a moment too soon,
Yesterday you'd forgiven me,
And now I'll sit back and wait 'till you say you're sorry.

-'One Week' by the Barenaked Ladies

I breathed slowly as I extended my leg and failed to hold it out for the length of time I'd been trying for. While I'd performed in Texas, I'd been given as extensive a crash course as was possible in ballet. I hardly considered myself good, but I found that I quite liked the dance. In any case, it was helping me keep my frustration down to a minimum at the time. I'd had quite a fight with Sodapop that afternoon, and had chosen not to return back to our hotel yet.

"Naomi," Soda said tentatively, "Mrs. Crawford just called-"

"Who?" I asked, frowning as I attempted to brush Marie's hair. I would have expected to be better at it, having hair as curly as my own, but it becomes difficult when the owner of the hair is screaming.

"Brenda Crawford," he said, "Sandy's mother."

I snorted lightly, "And what does the world's greatest mother have to say?"

"She... she wanted to know if... well, you know how we're going to be moving around alot?"

"Uh... yeah, I guess so..."

"She wanted to ask if she and her husband - Sandy's father - could take in Marie for a bit?"

I spun into a pirouette that was a little faster than I intended, tucking my arms in towards my chest and squeezing my eyes closed. I was surprised when I finished it properly. Gripping the barre, I pulled myself onto pointe - it was getting a little easier, considering how quickly I had been forced to learn.

"Naomi?"

I was startled out of my trance with the wall by the sudden voice of Miranda, the owner of the ballet studio.

"Oh, are you closing?"

"Soon. You can use the stage, if you want."

"The stage?"

"Yeah, in the main theatre? It's called a stage." She commented dryly, the corner of her lip twitching slightly.

"Oh, ha ha." I snapped, grinning, "Alright, I'll just go there."

Exiting through the main doors which led directly into the smaller Biltmore Theatre (I considered it large, but apparently it was not as big as several other Broadway theatres), I felt a little more confident. I'd spent half my life in theatres, and I felt at home.

Once I was on the stage, I pranced lightly about the front, on and off of pointe, allowing myself to remember how the argument had developed.

"No," I said for the umpteenth time, "No, I will not allow those people to raise Marie! Look what happened to Sandy!"

"They raised two kids before her, and one's graduating next year, and those three are fine! They know what they're doing!"

"We didn't go through all those court procceedings just to give her back to them!"

"Naomi, it would only be for a little while - just long enough for us to be ready to take care of her-"

"No," I said, shaking my head, "No, no, no, she can't go back to them!"

Once a battement landed me flat on my backside, I decided that I had danced myself out for now. Tugging my pointe shoes off, I massaged my sore feet, then, by an impromtu decision, I stood up and started to sing. I felt completely sick of any operas or musicals I knew, so I chose to sing an aria that had continually stumped me while I had been taking lessons.

"Quando men vo soletta per la via,
La gente sosta e mira
E la bellezza mia tutta ricerca in me
Da capo a pie'..."

"La Boheme?" A voice commented from the doorway, "Puccini. A nice choice. Mind, you were a bit sharp in places-"

"I know," I said quickly, recognizing the face of one of the men who had been seeing over auditions, "I wouldn't have sang it if I knew anyone was listening-"

"Something you should know about these theaters, Miss Sterling, is that someone is always listening."

"I'm just tired," I admitted, "Of all this. Everything."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. It's... I found out that the biological grandparents of my adoptive daughter want to take her in for a little while, and I can't seem to allow that, not when her mother - their daughter - went so wrong. I had a huge fight with my fiance, and Idon't even know why I auditioned for this part - just because there were auditions on Broadway and I have to make a start somehow, even though I just spent three months before my engagement performing in Carmen in Texas."

I exhaled heavily, feeling an enormous weight off my back. The judge - Mr. Whitby - furrowed his brow.

"You don't seem that old."

I smirked cynically. "I'm not. I'm seventeen."

"Seventeen? Performing in Carmen?"

"My parents were both opera singers." I decided to leave out the fact that I hadn't learned of this until recently, and that my biological father had died before I was born.

"Well, good job."

"Thanks."

"So, you don't really want to be here, auditioning?"

"I do... but I don't. I don't know... I want to be here, singing, acting, just performing on Broadway, and Hair is really making a mark - it's all about hippies and love and all that stuff, I mean, anyone who gets cast will have a name in the business, if they play their cards right..."

"Now, you tell me," Mr. Whitby asked, looking at me over the rim of his glasses, his white brow furrowing, "If you could do anything, what would it be? Right now?"

"I want..." I sighed, and studied my hands, then looked back up at him. "I want to go home, and plan my wedding with my friends and my mom and dad just like a normal person. I never got to be a normal kid, because I was always studying music or something."

"So do it." He said, shrugging, "Go have your wedding. See your loved ones. You'll be on Broadway soon enough, I'm sure."

I nodded, getting up to walk away, an momentarily wincing at the pain in my feet.

"Also," he said, wincing as well, "You might want to work on your pirouettes. They need to be a little tighter and quicker."

"How long were you there?" I asked, frowing.

"Since long before you came in. Sometimes I just sit up in my box and stare at the theatre..."

"Are you serious? Or are you just kidding around?"

"I'm serious," he said, frowning, "This building has been my life. Sometimes I just sit up there, and watch the stage, imagining that there's a performance going on..."

"You're really going to scare someone sometime, if they see you before you see them."

"Maybe this theatre needs a ghost... or at least a day dreaming old coot."

"Perhaps," I smiled, remembering Soda's story about being frightened as a child of a haunted theatre - and then remembering how angry I was with him.

"I tend to warn our pretty blonde singers away from the theatre ghosts," he commented, smiling as though sharing quite a joke. I looked at him blankly. He frowned.

"Have you never heard of the Phantom of the Opera?"

I still stared at him blankly.

"I... think... maybe I did... once..."

He sighed exasperatedly. "No one around here appreciates a good read!"

I shrugged.

"I tend to pay more attention to music then to books."

"But," he protested as we walked towards the exit, "There's music in the book!"

I shrugged again, smirking slightly at his exasperation.

"Oh, I imagine it will be a great musical someday, and you'll come back to me, already married and starting to wish you'd let your little one go to her grandparents so you could actually sleep at night, and you'll say, 'Mr. Whitby, won't you share what you know of this story?' and I'll be the one saying 'I told you so', and-"

"From your nice little box up there?" I asked, now grinning widely as he held open the door for me, "But no, I think it sounds more like it could be an opera. Not a musical."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, it's not believable that a story could possibly have such obvious allusions to opera, yet become a musical."

"I think, Miss Sterling, that you are mistaken."

"No, I believe I am not," I challenged humorously, "Such a story should only ever become an opera."

"I believe that a musical would appeal to the general public more."

"Obviously, though, the story isn't currently appealing to the general public, as I don't know a single thing about it-"

"Miss Sterling," Mr. Whitby cut me off, "Allow me to say two things without your interruption. One, yes, it will have to be a musical someday, and because of your indignant refusal, I believe I should like to start a bet with you - should the story become a musical, I will find you and have you audition. Should it become an opera, then I will audition. And two," he smiled, "This debate about a slightly obscure topic has proven to me that you have an accute knowledge about what works in the public eye, and the common sense of composers. You have a great career ahead of you, but first," he tipped his hat as he climed onto his old bicycle, "You need to take care of what's really important."

As I walked back to the hotel, I thought over the bet that I'd made with Mr. Whitby.

"A musical," I thought, smirking slightly, "That would flop right away."

I was quite serene as I entered the hotel room, although I wasn't sure how long I could stay that way.

"Naomi," Soda said slowly and calmly, "I know-"

"It's alright," I said, smirking slightly, "I'm not really hacked off right now."

"Well..." he didn't lose the tentative sound of his voice, "I told them... Marie's going to stay with them next week, until we get back. We'll talk about other stuff then."

My anger returned tenfold.

"You told them! Without telling me!"

"I did tell you, but you stormed off!"

"You never actually told me that you were going to do it! You made it sound like I had a choice in the matter!"

"Naomi, it's just like she's going to a babysitter!"

"I'm leaving," I snapped, "And I don't know where the hell I'm going or when I'll get back."

I remembered my mother's account of how she'd stormed out on dad all those years ago, and how he hadn't followed her. I still didn't understand it, why he didn't, and I couldn't imagine it happening to me. But here it was.

I was halfway out the door, when Soda caught my arms and pulled me back in.

"Let go of me," I snapped, elbowing him sharply, but he just held on tighter, pulling me back against him.

"Naomi, listen to me, you're under way too much right now," he said soothingly, as he might talk to an injured animal,"We're both still kids, when you think about everything, and it's hard for kids to raise a kid. Sandy made alot of things hard for us, and her parents want to help."

I stopped elbowing him, something that must have made him greatful, and exhaled deeply.

"I just want to go home," I muttered, "I don't care about this damn musical. I have lots of time to make a name for myself... let's just go home."

"Sounds just great to me."