Best-Friend Duties
Meg filled the mug with steamed milk and cocoa. She passed it to Christine, who passed it to the customer, politely inquiring whether he would like whipped cream, nutmeg, or cinnamon on that. The man replied that he would love some whipped cream and cinnamon on top. Christine lifted her hand to shake the cinnamon, and Meg saw a folded piece of white paper fall from her pocket. Before Christine finished her transaction with the customer, the paper was tucked neatly into Meg's own pocket.
Christine bit her lips and tried not to laugh. Meg was even more curious than she; there was no way Meg would ever pass up the temptation of The Mysterious Falling Note. Now she'll go to the back, peruse it, maybe make a copy, and then come back and say...
"Hey, Miss Chris. I found this on the floor. Is it yours?" Meg handed the schedule back to her. "Thanks! I would have been looking for that all over." Christine tucked the paper back in her pocket. "So, when are we going to get together again? I haven't spent a full evening with you in a long time."
"That's because you're always with the Masked Wonder. But, hey, it's cute to see you so in love." Meg's wry inflection belied her words.
"I can't help but notice your tone isn't exactly fond...is there something you don't like about him?" Christine asked, feeling entirely sneaky. She knew exactly why Meg was upset with Erik, but she wanted to see how deeply Meg would be willing to dig her hole.
"Oh, it's nothing. He just..." Meg fumbled, looking for a good explanation. "Maybe I'm just jealous of all the time he gets to spend with you."
"Oh, come on now, you get me every day we work."
From there, the conversation descended into friendly pass-the-time banter. Christine wanted Meg to think that she'd gotten away with the schedule-heist, and Meg wanted no further discussion of her feelings about Erik. It wasn't that she disliked him, necessarily, but she definitely questioned his commitment to Christine. After all, if he truly loved her, he'd help her realize her potential. If he truly loved her, he'd throw her over his shoulder and drag her back to the school.
The afternoon shift arrived, releasing the two friends to the warm, wet day. Meg offered to walk Christine home, but Christine demurred, as expected.
"I'm going to Erik's...he's going to help me make a call." Christine shot Meg a look that warned her not to make a public display of the two of them.
"A Call? The Call?" When Christine nodded, Meg grabbed her in a bear hug. "Good for you, Miss Chris. Good for you. You'll beat me with your backpack if I squeal, but just know that intense inner-squealing is going on as we speak."
"I thought it might. Save it until I call you back. If there's good news we'll go running with outer-squealing around the block. Ok?"
"Ok." Meg hugged Christine again, then skipped off down the street. Her friend was finally coming around. Maybe Erik was good for her after all.
Christine sat on the black suede couch, staring at her cell phone as though it might suddenly explode in her hand. Erik sat next to her, one arm around her waist. Every few seconds he'd give her a little squeeze. The Lawrence Conservatory Dean's number was already on the screen. One touch of the SEND button, and Christine would be well on the road to facing her greatest fear.
"I can't do it, Erik. You do it." Her eyes had a flat gleam and her hands were shaking.
"You can do it. Just put your thumb on the button. Don't push it, just set your thumb on it." He waited until her thumb hovered right over the button and then tapped her thumb down. She shot him a drop-dead look, to which he could only shrug. He gestured at the phone, which was ringing.
"Lawrence Conservatory, Dean's office. May I help you?"
"Yuh...er..yes. I mean. Um." Christine looked at Erik to gather strength. She cleared her throat and began again. "This is Christine Daae. Dr. Corringer has been trying to contact me for...quite some time now."
"Of course. Ms Daae. I'll see if he is in. One moment." classical music began to play softly in the back ground. Christine looked up to Erik and mouthed I'm on hold. Erik responded by kissing her cheek and giving her a cheesy thumbs-up.
"Miss Daae?"
"Yes ma'am."
"I'm transferring your call. Thank you."
The phone emitted three high-pitched beeps, and then a man's nasal voice answered.
"Christine! It is delightful to hear from our star cellist. How have you been?"
"Ummm...it's nice to talk to you again, too." Christine felt the air thicken around her. She felt as though she was speaking unbearably slowly. "I...was...considering...your offer. Is it...still...on.. the table?"
"Of course, Christine, of course. The next concert is in two months. June 16th. Usual time, usual place. Do you think you can make that date?"
"I think so. I mean, yes I can. I mean, yes I will." Noticing that she was babbling, Christine reverted to form. "Thank you for giving me this opportunity, Dr Corringer. I am in your debt."
"We will have your name on the program as a special guest. I would give you all the details of when to arrive and where to go, but I bet you already know them. Do you have any idea what piece you will be playing?"
"Would an original composition be admissible?" While hopeful, she expected nothing.
"Not normally, no. Is this your own work?" The sound of a pencil flying over paper echoed across the connection.
"It is."
"I will make you no promises, but if you send a recording of the piece, along with sheet music and title to me, I will have the board review it and get back to you as soon as possible. Can you do that?"
Christine nodded, and then realized that Dr. Corringer could not see her head bobbing. "Yes. That's more than fair."
"I am glad you called, Miss Daae. We have been worried about you. And again, we apologize for that dreadful incident. Certain guidelines have been put in place to assure that nothing of the sort ever happens again."
"Thank you. Expect a recording from me soon."
"I look forward to it. Have a good afternoon, Christine."
"Goodbye." Christine pushed the last word out, flipped her phone closed, and then collapsed into Erik's arms, groaning, "And that was just the phone call! Crud! Erik, my heart is going to leap out of my chest and do the Charleston across your living room floor."
"It's hardwood," He hugged her. "Maybe we could take lessons from it – I don't know how many more times I can waltz."
Christine giggled into the hollow of his shoulder. "I don't know. Bodily organs may dance very differently from the way we do. Different appendages, you know."
"Now." Erik took one of her hands into his and began gently massaging it, as the nurses in the hospital had done for him sometimes after a procedure. "Tell me what the arrangements are. I heard something about using your own composition..."
"There is a performance on June sixteenth. We'd have to arrive in Appleton the day before. These concerts are always held at seven-thirty pm. I'd be listed as 'a special guest', which is very nice. I'd perform, stand for evaluation the following day, and hopefully that would be that." She sat back on the sofa with a comfortable sigh. "That's lovely, Erik. I may force you to do that every day for the rest of our lives. But yes. I want to perform the piece I wrote for you. Normally, that would be strictly verboten, but apparently they are willing to make a great many concessions to me. They want the score, the title, and a recording. And my guess is that they'll need it within the week."
The right hand was warm and tingling; not a bit of its anxious chill remained. Erik traded the warm hand for the cold one and went to work again. The strength and flexibility of her hands delighted him. So many women had soft, tiny, useless hands. These were strong, capable hands, filled with power and purpose and talent. The nails were clipped very short and neat, like his own, to keep them from interfering with fingering. He knew which muscles were built up by fingering and which by bowing, and he knew which tendons were likely to revolt from overuse if not babied.
"That's an awful hurry, considering that you have never bothered to put even the basic score down."
This evinced another agonized groan from Christine. "Terrible confession time: I hate writing notation. Despise it. I'm not terribly talented at it and I tend to leave out important things like the key and the tempo."
"Which is just one more reason why..." Erik kissed her hands , then as he rose from his comfortable seat, risked stealing a couple more kisses on her wrist and forearm as well, "...you are so lucky to have a wonderful fellow like me." He went to his desk and rifled through one of the stacks of papers. "Here we are. But I took a liberty. I added the violin counterpoint. The cello melody line looked so lonely there by itself."
Christine was virtually dancing around him by this time, trying to see what he'd done. "You're too wonderful for words. Seriously. Let me see!"
Erik's mouth twitched in rising laughter. He'd never really had the chance to be a kid – watching Christine give way to giddiness woke something within him. "Hold on, hold on. You said they want a recording. Well, over here – as though you'd never noticed – we have my personal recording studio." He fussed with the stack of machines and microphones for a moment. "All we need..."
"...is a drummer, for people who only need a beat?" Christine poked him gently in the ribs as she teased.
"No. Silly girl. All we need are instruments and we're ready to go. Shall we?"
Christine mocked his formal tone by dropping a deep curtsy. "After you, maestro!"
He bowed in return, "Talent before beauty, my love. You go ahead." She swished down the hallway with her nose in the air.
Soon, the air of playfulness was gone. Two very serious artists huddled over the sound equipment, allowing nothing less than perfection to be committed to tape. The finished product Christine dropped in the mailbox two hours later was a fifteen-minute work of art.
As promised, Christine called Meg, who came rushing over to bring celebration cookie dough and a bottle of Solitude – one of the best rich, red wines ever to grace Christine's palate. There was a great deal of squealing, both external and internal before Meg began to calm down.
"I'm so glad he could make you do this..." She had claimed the papasan for her own. Christine lounged comfortably on the floor, playing her flute softly and reflecting that she had not done enough breath training recently.
"He didn't make me do anything. He just..." she spun her flute a couple times, deep in thought. "He's impossible to explain. Erik would never make me do anything; in this case, he showed me the wisdom of one choice by contrasting it sharply with another. Somehow, he can convince me to open my eyes to things I've never considered without making the slightest argument."
"I wish I knew how he does it. Have you given any thought to what you will wear? None of your old things from those days will fit. You haven't been a size 20W for a long, long time." Meg spooned a large gob of cookie dough from the wrapper and shoveled it in her mouth. "No thanks to me, I guess. What are you now?"
"A fourteen."
"And I bet you have barely updated your wardrobe since I dragged you out that day."
"Not a whit. You should talk to Erik. He was babbling something about pearls." In truth, Christine was beginning to think a little shopping trip might be in order. "I don't think he was talking about plastic ones, either."
"You can't afford real pearls!"
"That's what I said, and he said, 'you've done your part. Let me do mine...' He starts talking in that voice and I can't begin to argue. He just sounds so damnably reasonable."
"If the man wants to buy you pearls, girl, you let him. It's not like you aren't worth it." Meg stood up a trifle unsteadily and walked over to Christine's pathetic wardrobe. "Let's see what you do have. Hmm...drab, drab, drab, boring, boring, -paisley, Christine? - boring, frumpy...Ah, here's that skirt I forced you to buy. Ok. I am staying over tonight. In the morning, you are going to fix me scrambled eggs and toast, and then I am taking you out shopping for your performance get up." Meg dug in her purse and waved a credit card in the air. "Let a man drape you in jewels if he wants to, but never let him pick your clothes. That is what best friends are for."
It took five hours and nine different stores, but Meg was finally satisfied with the outfit they put together. Even through the queasiness of a mild hangover, Christine looked good – better than good. A tailored black dress blouse, layered nicely over a lace chemise, and loosely belted with a silver chain drew attention to Christine's steadily reappearing waistline. Her full black skirt flowed smoothly down to her ankles. The sensible MaryJanes had been replaced with snappy black high heels that strapped in a coil around her ankles, accentuating their shapeliness.
"From what you've said you'll have some accessories soon enough...especially after he sees you in this. The hair needs something," Meg muttered, wrapping a few sections around her fingers and squinting at it critically. "So does the face, no harm meant..."
"The hair always needs something," Christine rolled her eyes. "and none taken."
"When is the last time you had a trim?" The question was obviously rhetorical. Meg was already hauling Christine down the street towards the Chakras beauty spa.
"We don't have an appointment..." It wasn't much of a defense, and Meg blew through it easily.
"We don't need an appointment. I know Marcus. I know Stephanie. I knew Kevin and Lori and..."
"Ok. Ok. I'm not going to fight you this time. It's your debt, not mine."
With a grin, Meg dragged her friend into the hair-spray scented hallows of the salon where a legion of trendy beauticians descended on the pair with hungry smiles.