Disclaimer: I don't own the book. I don't own the musical. I don't own the movie. I don't own that weird Lon Chaney guy who doesn't make any noise… Pretty much, when it comes to owning PotO I strike out.

Also…I don't own Adobe InDesign. For those of you who don't know, InDesign is a computer program that allows you to make newspaper pages. It's cool, but I don't own it. I don't own the Associated Press, either. The AP is a media organization. If you want a full explanation check out their website. Anyway, the journalists of Hayfield use their writing style. I did create the Associated Press Hayfield Branch... I don't think the AP has branches in high schools.

Chapter Three

Christine tiptoed through the dank cellars, pushing her cart quickly in front of her. She had made it well known that she didn't want to be down there, but Sandy had insisted on it. That darn Sandy! Christine wondered, not for the first time, why a janitor couldn't bring all the junk down here. It was one of the many mysteries of the world. Christine couldn't shake off the feeling that she was being watched.

"Here we go…good riddance!" Christine muttered as she dumped the cart of empty ink cartridges, used-up rolls of paper, several soda cans, and Meg's telephone into a trash bin. After thinking about it for a second, she heaved the cart itself into the bin. If Sandy wanted her precious little table-on-wheels, she could come down here and get it herself!

As she turned to leave, Christine once again got the feeling that she was being watched. Suddenly, and without warning, the lights went out. Christine screamed and backed up against the trash bin. Her heart beating like a bass drum, she looked into the blackness, willing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She started freaking out when she couldn't see her hand in front of her face.

"Somebody help me!" she shrieked, tears pouring out of her eyes. "Somebody, anybody! Help!" Breathing hard, she listened for any reply.

"Wandering child so lost, so helpless…"

Christine froze. A deep, entrancing voice called to her from somewhere in the depths of the darkness. Without thinking, she moved forward.

"Yearning for my guidance…"

Christine closed her eyes and walked, her hands outstretched. Totally trusting, completely confident, she stepped forward until her hands made contact with smooth leather.

"Christine…" The leather gloves closed around her hands and pulled her forward into a wall of warmth. Christine collapsed into the arms of her rescuer, whose strong arms kept her from sliding to the floor. She rested her chin on his shoulder. He stroked her hair and whispered comfortingly to her. "It's all right, Christine. You're safe…"

"How did you know I was down here?" Christine asked softly.

"I've been watching you," her rescuer whispered into her ear. "It's easy to get into trouble down here. I wouldn't want trouble to befall you…"

"I don't mean to sound ungrateful," Christine murmured, "but why did you come after me?"

The dark person laughed. "Why wouldn't I come after you? You are the sweetest, most innocent person who ever attended this ghetto that they call a school." One gloved hand held Christine securely around the waist. The other reached up and stroked the girl's pale cheek. Christine pressed her cheek against his smooth touch. "I love you, Christine. Know that wherever you go, I will always watch over you. Oh, Christine…Christine…"

"Christine? CHRISTINE!"

Christine jerked awake to see Meg staring at her oddly from her cluttered desk. "Stop drooling on my article!" Meg yelped. "I spent two hours on that!"

Christine tried to wipe her mouth inconspicuously. "I wasn't drooling!"

"Of course you weren't," Meg said sarcastically. "You were definitely daydreaming, though! What about?"

"I'm not telling you!" Christine said defensively. "No way in heck!"

Meg grinned. "You were dreaming about a guy!" she giggled in an annoying singsong voice. "And I bet I know who it was! It was Raoul Chagny!"

"Raoul? There's no way I was... Actually, he's hot, too," Christine sighed, a dreamy look coming over her face.

Meg giggled. She did that a lot. "Christine, Christine…so new to the world of boys. Am I right in assuming that you've never had a boyfriend?"

"Yeah," Christine confessed.

"Don't worry…you'll meet the right guy someday," Meg assured her. She looked like she was trying hard not to laugh. "So…did you finish editing that article before you flooded it?"

"I finished yesterday," Christine said, handing the article to Meg with a practiced annoyed expression on her face, getting ready to launch into her rehearsed speech. "I now officially have nothing to do. I am so freakin' bored, Meg! I've played enough Solitaire to last me three lifetimes, set the Minesweeper high score for eight seconds on beginner, emailed all my friends five times, and now I'm out of stuff to do! Can I write something? Please? I've been doing absolutely nothing for…what? Four weeks? Five? I want to write an article!"

Meg shrugged. "It's okay with me if it's okay with Sandy. She's in charge of that area, you know. Go ask her for a column or something."

Christine shrugged. "Okay. But if she bites my head off I'm suing you."

Meg smiled. "My aunt's a lawyer. I'll see you in court."

Christine walked down the narrow aisle between the cubicles and approached Sandy's desk. Sandy was currently scribbling frantically with a pen with one hand, typing quickly on the computer with another, and talking on two telephones at once. Christine had to wait ten minutes before she hung up. "Speak."

"Can I write an article?" Christine asked bluntly.

"No."

"Why not?" Christine wailed.

"There's no room in the paper, and I don't think your skills are up to scratch yet," Sandy replied without looking at Christine.

"But I've been here for four or five weeks and done absolutely nothing!" Christine argued.

"Cry me a river. Better yet, go join the Journalism Club."

Christine turned and stalked back to Meg's cubicle. "Biotch," she muttered under her breath.

"I heard that!"

"I know you did!"

Christine returned to the cramped office to find Meg talking on the phone, looking rather pale. "What's up?" she asked when Meg hung up.

Meg didn't say anything for a moment. She trembled, growing paler by the moment. Then she burst into tears, sobbing, "They're racking up my schedule!"

"Huh?" Christine sat down, raising an eyebrow at the over-dramatic Meg. "What are you talking about?"

Meg sniffled. "Well, the people down at the main office finally decided to solve the problem of overcrowded classrooms. How did they solve it? They moved poor, undeserving girls into other classrooms in other periods!"

"Sheesh," Christine muttered, cringing slightly. "How bad is it?"

"Horrible!" Meg wailed. "The only classes I didn't get removed from are Journalism and English!"

"What's your new schedule like?" Christine asked.

"Well," Meg started, consulting a small slip of paper, "I've got second period science…"

"I'm in that class!" Christine said happily.

"…and third period Trig…"

"I'm in that class, too!"

"…fourth period is still English. Fifth period is Gym…"

"Funny. I've got Gym fifth, too."

"I've got sixth period History and seventh period Art."

"I've got sixth period History, too, but I've got Latin seventh," Christine said, slightly suspiciously. "Why are you in all my classes but Latin?"

Meg shrugged miserably. "I don't know. You'd never catch me taking Latin… Latin's icky."

"No it's not!" Christine argued.

"Yes it is!"

"No it's not!"

"Yes it is. I'd never take Latin! Not even if someone held a gun to my head!" Meg said seriously, pointing at her head. The phone rang. She picked it up and answered, "Hayfield Times, Meg speaking. What? WHAT? EXCUSE ME? That's stupid! I refuse to take it! I…it's…oh, come on! That's freakin' stupid! Hello? Hello? Crap!" She hung up.

Christine grinned crazily. "No way! You did not just get signed up for Latin!"

Meg scowled. "Seventh period. Big surprise."

Christine burst out laughing, falling out of her chair and rolling on the floor. "I'd never take Latin! Not even if someone held a gun to my head!" she mimicked, howling with laughter.

"Shut up," Meg grumbled, looking surly.

Christine stood up. "Cheer up, Meg! Latin's not that bad!"

"Yes it is!" Meg retorted.

"You haven't even tried it!" Christine pointed out. "You don't know a word of Latin! How can you tell if it's bad?"

"I know this," Meg said. "Latina est maximus crapius!"

"It is not!" Christine argued. "Latin is…Um…Latin is the uh…base of…um… many of the words in the…English lang- Okay, you're right. Maximus crapius."

The phone rang. Meg picked it up. "Hayfield Ti- WHAT? You got it, too? That's messed up. Man, that's terrible, Kaila! Yeah, they changed my schedule, too!" Meg listened for a minute. "That's STUPID! Gotta go, Kaila. Gotta make some phone calls."

"What's stupid?" Christine asked.

"They changed Kaila Towerson's schedule, too," Meg said, already dialing. "Get this- she has the same exact schedule that we do! Latin included!"

Christine rolled her eyes. "Heads are gonna roll."

Meg called the entire Journalism staff and found that everyone in the tenth grade had been given the exact same schedule. Nobody was happy about giving up one of his or her electives to take Latin. Everyone envied Christine because her schedule didn't change at all.

"This is not good," Meg muttered as she hung up the phone for the last time. "Something bad is going to happen. I can just tell…"

A bloodcurdling shriek rent the air. Christine and Meg scrambled over to the door to peek around the cubicle.

"NO!" Sandy was shrieking, out in the hallway. "NO! YOU CAN'T DO THAT! YOU IDIOTS CAN'T DO THAT!" She was silent for a moment, and Christine could hear someone talking softly. Another moment passed. Then- "STAFF MEETING! EVERYONE INTO THE CONFERENCE ROOM! EVERYONE! NOW, DAMMIT!"

Christine grinned. "Yay. I'm never allowed in staff meetings!"

"They're usually boring," Meg assured her, "but this one proves to be interesting! Come on."

Five minutes later, the entire Journalism staff was crowded into the conference room. Sandy stood at the front, seething at Richard Firmin, Giles Andre, and the guidance counselor, Mrs. Waver. Christine remembered that Firmin and Andre were the county student representatives of the Associated Press Hayfield Branch. That could only mean trouble…

"Well, it appears we are having a change in management!" Sandy hissed. "SOMEBODY mouthed off to the APHB about my methods of running the business!"

Christine couldn't help but notice how Meg had suddenly disappeared behind a large easel.

"Calm yourself, Sandy!" Mrs. Waver ordered. "I've said it before and I'll say it again; we are not firing you! This is simply part of the Hayfield Under Construction- Inside and Out plan. Along with this, we're trying to fix the schedules of all our students so that they're-"

"SO THAT'S WHY YOU'RE JACKING UP OUR SCHEDULES!" Meg shrieked, jumping out from behind the easel. "I REFUSE TO TAKE LATIN!"

"Miss Giry, please contain yourself!" Mrs. Waver barked, covering her ears. "Latin is not optional! The entire student body is now taking it. The schedule changes are meant to make the newspaper, along with other teams and organizations, more efficient. All the staff members will be put together with the other staff members from their grade. This way you'll be able to-"

"But then why do I get fired?" Sandy interrupted. "Why do these bozos get the editorship?"

"You're not getting fired!" Mrs. Waver said again, getting angrier by the second. "You've been editor for two and a half years, Sandy! The Handbook for Hayfield Clubs and Businesses says that's against the rules!"

"These two jerks will ruin the newspaper!" Sandy practically sobbed. "The Times will never be the same!"

Mrs. Waver sighed and closed her eyes. Christine was sure she heard her mutter, "I need aspirin."

The bell rang, but nobody moved.

"Everybody go to your next class," Mrs. Waver ordered. "Remember to follow your new schedule. You'll be excused for not having the materials you need for Latin. Get going, people! You only have five minutes!"

Meg turned to glare at Christine. "I speak for the entire tenth grade Journalism staff when I ask, 'What do we have second period?'"

"Meg? What the heck are you doing?" Christine asked.

Meg currently had her head stuck as far back into her gym locker as she could. "I'm trying to smother myself with these toxic gasses," was her muffled reply.

"As disgustingly smelly as these lockers are, I don't think you'll be able to kill yourself with them," Christine said. She sat down on the bench and tied her shoelaces. "Fifth period gym isn't too bad."

"It's right after lunch!"

"Okay, that stinks. But there are a lot of cute guys…"

Meg pulled her head out of the locker. "How cute?"

"Well, the entire football team just got moved to fifth, and so did…"

"The entire football team? Say no more, Chrissy- I'm sold!" Meg cried.

Christine smiled. "I know, Meg. I know."

"Hurry up!" Meg shouted, slamming her locker shut. "Tie faster! Faster! Let's go!" She pulled Christine off the bench and dragged her to the gym. There they stood ogling the boys from a safe distance. Or rather, Meg was ogling the boys. Christine was rolling her eyes.

"Did I tell you, though, that Mr. Cookley makes fifth period do pushups in bulk?"

"Say WHAT now?"

Christine was always tired by seventh period. She never fell asleep in class, though, unlike somebody she knew…

"Meg! Wake up!"

Meg yawned and opened her eyes. "Is it 2:10 yet?"

Christine checked her watch. "No. It's only 1:30."

"Oh…my…GOD!" Meg hissed in agony, smacking her head on her desk. "WHY is time moving so slowly today?"

"It isn't."

"Miss Giry," the teacher, Miss Roses, called from the front of the room. "Since you seem so bored, why don't you string together a sentence with a noun, adjective, and verb?"

Meg blinked stupidly at her. "Uh…Latina est maximus crapius?"

"This is it."

"The moment we've all been waiting for."

"We've worked so hard for this one moment, so don't let us down!"

"They'll be pushovers, I just know it!"

"Go on, Christine! The time is now!"

Christine took a deep breath and stepped out of the labyrinth of cubicles. Her "support team" whispered encouragement to her. She glanced back at the group of anxious journalists and said, "Jeez, people…calm down!" She approached the desk that used to belong to Sandy, but which now was occupied by Firmin and Andre. However, a group of eleventh grade journalists beat her there.

"Firmin! Andre! We want a word," a girl named Dimmy Katmakos barked.

The new editors looked up suspiciously. "What?"

"This new rulebook ain't gonna fly," Dimmy announced. She slapped the pamphlet down on the desk. "Tell 'im why, Brendan."

A smart-looking guy with glasses and braces stepped forward, a red pen in hand. He opened the pamphlet to page five. "Firstly…we refuse to change our writing styles," he said matter-of-factly. "We've always used the Associated Press Style- we're not changing." He crossed out the paragraph. "Secondly…by no means are we lowering the price of the papers! It costs us approximately $200 each time we go to press. Our only profit is fifty measly dollars!" He scratched out the paragraph with a fury. "Thirdly…we can't keep up with your demands! There's no way we could print a paper three times a week- Twice would be pushing it! We don't have the time, money, or resources."

"Is that all?" Firmin grumbled.

"That's about it," Dimmy said, glaring down at the editors.

"I'll have you know that we refuse to change anything in this rulebook," Andre announced. He crossed his arms over his chest. "We can keep the AP Style, but everything else changes. We're in charge. We say what goes."

"Fine, then," Dimmy said calmly. "Then we (all ten of us) are leaving. We're going to change electives and then join the Journalism Club."

Dead silence met her words. Every staff member poked their head over the top of their cubicles to see what was going on.

"You can't leave!" Andre wailed. "Here- we'll compromise!"

"Nope. Already decided," Dimmy said, tossing her straight, black hair. "Come on, gang. Eleventh grade is out of Journalism."

Whispering and muttering broke out as all the eleventh graders left the room.

"It's too bad Ms. G. only shows her face once every ten thousand years," Christine heard Meg say. "Then this wouldn't have happened! None of it!"

Christine stepped forward apprehensively as the new editors watched some of their best reporters leave. "Hi!" she said brightly. "I'm Christine."

"What do you want?" Firmin sighed dully.

"Well, I was just thinking," Christine started, turning on the old charm. She grinned. "It looks like we just lost a lot of staff members. Since there won't be enough writers to cover the hole, why not let me write something? I'm not technically a reporter yet, but I'll do my best."

Andre and Firmin looked at each other, unsure of what to do. Firmin pushed the intercom button on his telephone. "Sandy! We need you!"

Sandy stepped out of her new little closet office and slammed the door behind her. Pasted onto her face was the biggest, ugliest scowl Christine had ever seen. "What?" she snapped.

"Ten writers just walked out on us," Andre told her. "Christine offered to write something. What do you think?"

"Absolutely not!" Sandy scoffed. "She's inexperienced in all aspects of writing, she's only been at this school for three weeks, and she's getting a B- in English. I say make her wait."

"Excuse me, Sandy," Christine cut in, "but I know much more about writing than I used to, I've been at this school for four and a half weeks, and it's an A-, FYI. I think I'm more than competent to write a simple news article."

"It's not a simple news article!" Sandy hissed. "This is The Hayfield Times! This isn't Creative Writing or the Journalism Club! People pay to read our paper. If all they get is cruddy work from an amateur-"

"You don't know how well I can write!" Christine retorted. "You've never read any of my work! Don't go assuming something that you know nothing about!"

"I've been with this business since my first day of high school!" Sandy growled, pointing an accusing finger at Christine. "Don't you go assuming that I don't know what I'm talking about!"

"Listen, oh mighty expert!" Christine snarled. "You don't know what you're talking about! I've learned just about every blasted thing I could possibly learn about Journalism! I know how to attribute quotes, I know how to conduct interviews, and I could work InDesign with my eyes closed!"

"ENOUGH!" Firmin bellowed, wisely. Apparently he could see that this was going to turn into one of those nasty situations that begin with harsh insults and end with a catfight. "Sandy, give her a column! She's the best we can get right now."

"But-"

"DO IT!" the editors roared in unison.

Sandy scowled and stalked back to her closet office. She came back out with a dummy copy of that week's Times. She flipped through to page eight and pointed at a small column in the bottom, left-hand corner. "There! Page eight! 250 words or less!" she raged. Then she turned on her heel and retreated to her tiny office, slamming the door behind her.

"YES!" Christine cheered, punching her fist into the air.

A/N: Hey, people! Long time no update! Sorry…as usual of late, my weekend was bogged down with all sorts of interesting but time-consuming stuff. Here's Chapter Three…not a lot of Phantom action, but don't worry…he's bound to show up again. He is the Drama Ghost, after all. The quote "Latina est maximus crapius" came to my attention through Chelsea Skywalker, who says someone in her class made it up. Thanks! Please review! Thanks to all my reviewers- you guys rock! Thanks for reading The Hayfield Times!

P.S. …you know where Christine's article is? Page eight, bottom left-hand corner, tiny column? That's where my article's going in my school newspaper…