"Be ready by 6 in the morning. I expect you to be no later at the bottom of the staircase. You may unpack, then join the others for dinner down the stairs." The door softly closed and Alison looked at where her boss had stood moments before. She held her tongue to refuse saying anything else, deciding to save it for her writing that night. She already didn't like Madame Petit as much as she hoped.
Alison looked around her room. There was a single bed in the room that was made up with starchy sheets and a blue quilt and feather pillow. Her suitcases sat on the sheets of the bed, still closed and ready to be unpacked. The vanity in the room took up the most space with a large mirror attached to the wall and a clear area to place various perfumes and cosmetics. Alison made a note to place those specific items there.
On the wall opposite the bed was a wardrobe that reached the top of the wall and held wire hangers for her clothing. The window next to her bed was circular and cast shadows across the floor with the midday sun.
Alison sat on the bed with her feet tucked under herself as she looked at the barren walls. She couldn't believe she was finally in Paris, the city she had dreamed to live in one day. She had been to France once in her life, but it was only for a connecting flight and she didn't see much of anything. Now, her second time in the country, she had seen the bright lights of the Eiffel Tower and fell in love with the glow of the city. She hadn't seen anything else, or tasted the legendary foods and wines, but hoped to do that soon.
She opened her suitcase and looked down at her clothes, wondering if she packed the right clothing to wear for the opera house. She wasn't sure what they wore in Paris, or if there was a certain dress code. She only packed two dresses and a nice suit while the rest of her options were t-shirts, sweatpants, shorts, or jeans. She had two pairs of shoes - her old Converse and her athletic shoes. Nothing else, as she figured she would spend enough time in the city to go shopping for other clothes. She never wore anything name-brand, much to her mom's displeasure - Alison just didn't like the clothes that kids like her with her type of social status seemed to wear. She didn't like heels. She didn't like cropped shirts. She didn't like makeup caked on. She didn't like the trends of the day.
She pulled out her photographs from the top of the pile of clothes, examining each one closely. There were several of her with her mom, most of them out in public, and some of her with her dad. There was even the occasional photo with her younger sister, Caroline. She hung up the photos next to her bed, and placed the single framed photo on her desk. It was her favorite - a picture of her and a friend from college. Jake, who was hugging her, was the only real friend she'd had. When they'd met, he never knew that she was the daughter of Sara Monahan but he still treated her kindly. That was how she knew he would be a great friend.
Alison looked out the closed window to the streets of Paris, looking to see if there were any familiar faces. There were tourists with cameras, residents with groceries, parents with children. There were even elderly couples making their way down the street.
When Alison had realized she hadn't moved for a full minute, she walked back to her suitcase to continue the process of settling in. She hummed quietly to herself as she started placing shirts on hangers, folding pants into drawers, and carefully tucking her dresses away. When she had begun to hang up a large Wicked poster, there was a knock on the door followed by it opening.
"Bonjour, mademoiselle!" Alison looked over the petite blonde in the doorway who was wearing light overalls and a short shirt. She had her hair in two long plaits tied with red ribbons. "Ah, you must be the American, correct?"
"That's me," Alison said with a kind smile. She held out a hand, and the girl looked at it curiously before shaking it lightly. "I'm Alison Monahan. Just call me Ali."
"Ah, Ali. I like that!" She kissed Alison twice on the cheek, then pulled back to smile at her. "I am Adele Martin."
"Nice to meet you. Are you from France? You have a beautiful accent," Alison said, standing onto a chair in the room to hang a second poster.
"I am! Such a beautiful country." Adele sat down on her bed, watching her work. "I am sorry to intrude. I heard from the dancers that a new painter was here."
"Yep, that's me," she replied, placing the poster on the wall.
"I see, I see. And you've met Madame Petit?" Alison turned around with a lopsided smile, her blue eyes shining with humor. Her chestnut brown locks gleamed in the sunlight in a wild mess of curls.
"Yes." Adele laughed, throwing her head back.
"Oh, Madame Petit! She's terrifying, but she is the greatest teacher I have ever had. You will learn to love her," Adele said, "and she will learn to love you."
"She seems intimidating," Alison admitted, stepping down from the chair.
"Ah, she always does that with the new stagehands." Adele stood from the bed and picked at the paint on her hands. "A test of strength."
"I see."
"And I assume she told you of our Phantom?" Adele asked, scanning a picture of Alison with her little sister. Alison furrowed her eyebrows, turning to look at the friendly girl.
"She did. But it's a book."
"My favorite, actually." She stood straighter and brushed off her shoulder. "But I - and the other stagehands, of course - know he exists, mind you."
"How?" Alison asked, genuinely interested. "I find it hard to believe."
Adele glanced around the room, her eyes lingering on the wardrobe and later the mirror. Her eyes finally landed on Alison.
"I've met him, of course. During a practice set. He sent us a note, demanding our lead to resign, but she refused. Her leg was broken when part of the set fell on her without anyone around," she explained, "I was sent to go backstage and find the problem. Instead, I found him lingering above the stage. He looked at me before disappearing."
"Maybe it was-"
"Trust me, that's what I thought as well. But you can't mistake a white mask like his." She walked to the door and placed her hand on the knob. "It is almost time for supper. Join me?"
"Just let me grab my phone," Alison replied, digging through the second suitcase for it. Once it was tucked in her pocket, she followed Adele down the hallway. She stopped five doors down and pointed to one that had her name on it.
"That would be my room, of course. You need anything, you come to me." She continued on until she reached the end of the hall and pointed into the large bathroom there. "Our bathrooms. Shared with four others. All are decent girls, do not worry."
They turned down the hallway until they reached the elevators and Adele hit the down button. Alison looked at the brightly-painted murals on the walls, the flowers in vases. The doors opened and both girls stepped into the elevator. It was a short trip down two floors, and once they were down there they joined a small group of four other girls that Alison assumed were the other painters. They looked towards Adele and smiled, all gravitating towards the small girl. Then they noticed Alison and looked at her curiously.
"My friends, this is Alison. The girl Madame Petit told us of three weeks ago," Adele said, locking arms with Alison with a smile. "She is a sweet girl. This is Julia, Antoinette, Josephine, and Carmen."
The dark-haired girl with dark eyes said, "I would be Josephine, head painter."
"And newly engaged," one behind her laughed, causing a laugh to erupt from her throat. "We will miss you when you move out!"
"Congratulations," Alison said, smiling brightly. "It's nice to meet you all. I can't wait to begin work with you."
"We as well. I have seen your work from Madame Petit. It is stunning, mademoiselle!" She smiled over again to the redhead who paid her the compliment.
"Oh, thank you. I am Antoinette. Named after the beheaded," she said dramatically, making a slicing motion across her neck. "Oh, my mother . . ."
Carmen was the last girl, who looked much like Josephine but softer and wider. She smiled when her eyes met Alison's.
"I love the blue of your eyes, young mistress," Antoinette said, following Josephine down another hallway to what Alison assumed was a kitchen. "So vibrant, lively."
"Oh, thank you."
"What region of America do you come from?" Carmen asked as Adele linked arms with Alison once more.
"Chicago area," Alison replied. "You know it?"
"I do! Oh, what is it like? I have wanted to go for years!" Carmen had a hopeful look in her eyes, and Josephine rolled her eyes.
"Little sister, calm yourself."
"I hate when you call me that," Carmen muttered, crossing her arms. "You are as rude to me as the Phantom."
Alison raised her eyebrow at the mention of the Phantom again, but said nothing.
"And what has he done to you, other than move your paintbrushes? Or was that a lie as well?" Josephine had a satisfied smile on her lips, and Carmen glared at her sister.
"I did not move them. I do not know what I did to anger him."
"Ah, you do not have to make him angry. He only enjoys toying with us, remember?" Antoinette said, and then looked over at Alison. "Do not be frightened if he moves your belongings. He likes new stagehands."
Great, Alison thought to herself as they walked into a large kitchen with several tables. Many of the stagehands were already sitting at the tables, eating different foods. A supposed phantom haunting me? I doubt that . . .