Categories > Books > Phantom of the Opera > The Phantom Romance
The following day, I woke up at 6:20, tired and stiff. After I'd met up with the person I could only identify as the Opera Ghost, I'd fought with my father. As usual, it wasn't entirely pleasant. I had decided to take a soccer ball outside and vent my fury on it. I hadn't played soccer since the fall season, though, and my muscles knew that. But who cared about that now? I needed to get dressed.
I hopped out of bed, shivering from the cold. Throwing open my closet, I stared into its glorious messiness and wondered, what did one wear when meeting an Opera Ghost? Something sweet? Something sexy? Something old-fashioned? I shrugged to myself, wondering why I cared so much. After all, it was probably just a demented janitor who knew something about music. With this thought, I decided not to wear anything too provacative, lest he turn out to be a creepy old man. I pulled out a 40's style skirt that was, well, a little short, but not too short, and a high-necked red sweater. Red was my favorite color of all time, and I seemed to end up wearing it a lot more than other colors.
I slipped the sweater over my bare chest, feeling its itchy warmth spreading across my neck and shoulders. The skirt was tight in my waist-- I'd gained weight that year-- but somehow, I made it fit. Having to pull it higher up to the thinner part of my torso had made it a little indecently short. But I didn't care. It was too early to think about being decent or modest. Anyway, what could happen in the basement of a school? Surely nothing too horrible.
"Elizabeth, you're going to miss the goddammned bus," yelled my father up the stairs.
At a breakneck speed, I began to toss books, papers, pencils, and other important items of interest (such as pineapple-scented hand lotion) into my backpack. I wasn't afraid of my father, really, but I didn't feel like risking an explosion, especially not at 6:27 in the morning. Was I really that late? I didn't think I was, but I suppose I could've been mistaken...
As I ran downstairs and walked past my father, who was eating an apple at the counter, he spoke in the same harsh tones.
"You'll be home on the bus today, right? Callbacks are over."
"Er..." I hesitated. "Actually, I've got rehearsal tonight until 8:00."
"For WHAT?" he snapped.
"Choir." My, was I a cool liar.
A heated argument ensued, mostly involving my father yelling about the worthlessness of music as well as the worthlessness of my pursual of it. I could record exactly what words passed between us, but it still hurts too much to think about. That morning, I left the house with tears rolling down my cheeks. I hated it when I cried, because I did it so rarely, that, when I did cry, the emotional exhaustion was body-breaking. I'd never cried over a bad grade or a broken heart, though my heart had been broken once or twice. My father, however, had the power to turn me into a total child. But mostly I tried not to cry. I was often tempted, but I rarely took the bait.
Once at school, I headed straight to my locker without stopping to socialize with anyone I knew. Frankly, my mood was strange that day. I'd just fought with my father, I had no chance at getting a part in the musical, Sean Winters was dating a talentless senior with legs like toothpicks, and that night, I was meeting an Opera Ghost. Admittedly, the last part wasn't so bad... It would actually probably be slightly interesting, if the Opera Ghost did not turn out to be a rapist. Still, I was in no mood to entertain any of my friends. Especially not Amy, who was unfortunately coming down the hall just as I'd decided I wanted to be alone.
"Oh ELIZABETH!" she cried once I was in earshot. "You were so good at callbacks yesterday... They HAVE to give you the part. I mean, you were making a really weird face when you sang-- You kind of always do that, no offense-- and Yeah, Jessica Klein is really good at acting, but I mean-- For Sarah Brown, who needs to ACT? It's about the voice. And you have that voice. Wasn't it funny when you read with Sean Winters though? I thought I'd die!"
"Hilarious," I commented softly.
"What's wrong? Are you okay? You left in such a hurry yesterday. I think Sean was looking for you, too, but you seemed so upset I told him not to bother. Actually, I would've told him not to bother even if you WEREN'T upset because really, I don't think you should be messing around with him. He's not a nice guy and anyway, don't you have a boyfriend? How IS he, by the way? You never even talk about him anymore!"
"God, Amy!" I spat suddenly. "Do you ever shut the hell up?"
Her eyes widened even more than usual as she stared into my flaming pupils. Though I knew I was being more than a bit harsh, I thought that if I hadn't yelled at her to stop, I would've hit her instead. She was so incredibly naive and frankly, I'd reached the end of my tether. Sighing resignedly, I picked up my backpack and began to walk away.
"Where are you going?" Amy exclaimed.
She reached out and grabbed me by the left wrist, hard. I winced visibly, quickly withdrawing my arm from her grasp.
"Ow," I said softly.
"What is it?" She stared at me quizically.
I grinned impishly. "Nothing, nothing at all. I'll catch up with you later, okay?"
"But why--" Her eyes then suddenly glowed with understanding. "Oh, I get it."
She winked at me. I raised an eyebrow in return. Why was she staring at me so? Then I realized that she was looking at me, but not really seeing me-- She was seeing the person behind me. My heart sank. I'd been caught. I whirled around, only to find myself face-to-face with Larry, my oh-so-charming and oh-so-boring boyfriend.
"Excuse us," he said in his nervous, high-pitched voice, looking over at Amy and nodding.
"Er, ah, hi," I managed to say before he could speak. "I meant to call you last night, after I-- but I had a lot of Biology work to do, especially since today is--"
"Look, I need to talk to you." Larry stared at me intensely, his turquoise eyes radiating with both affection and disappointment. It was those eyes that had first led me to believe that anything other than boredom could exist in this relationship. "You never call me, you never talk to me in the halls anymore... What's going on? Is it something I did? Did I do something to upset you?"
"No, no, no," I laughed, my cheeks burning with scarlet. "Nothing, nothing you did. I've just been busy, that's all."
I didn't have the heart to tell him that the only thing he did to make me lose interest was... well... nothing.
"I feel like you've been so distant lately. We haven't hung out properly in weeks, and we've never even..." It was his turn to blush. "We've never even kissed."
"I've just been busy, Larry. I swear. It's not you. I'll try to be more attentive." I gave him my most winning smile and then leaned upwards and kissed him on the cheek.
That little kiss was enough to reassure him for a week at least. Already, the red was gone from his cheeks and was replaced with more of a pinkish glow.
"So, do you want to take a walk around the grounds?" he asked shyly.
"Take a walk around the grounds" was Madison High speak for "Want to go under the bleachers and make out?" As I stared into his eager face, I realized that I... I just couldn't do it. I didn't like kissing that much that I'd do it with just anyone. I'd actually only kissed two boys, and they'd never really inspired me very much. I enjoyed kissing Sean now and then, but mostly because I was addicted to the excitement of doing something "wrong." It never made me ache with sexual longing, not in the way ridiculous porno-type books described. It was more of a, "Wow, I'm kissing someone, how great is this?" Right then, I wasn't about to give up the third kiss of my life to an overeager schoolboy.
"Maybe... maybe tomorrow," I said, laughing lightly. Before he could respond, I turned and walked in the opposite direction. I knew I'd pass Amy on the way back, but it wouldn't be so bad... Maybe if I was lucky, I could convince her to come upstairs and let me try out my latest lockpicking technique on the auditorium doors. One day, we'd break into that auditiorium. And when we did, there'd never be any going back.
*
"You are late."
"It's 6:59!" I exclaimed, pointing at my watch in protest. A second later, I realized how incredibly stupid this was, considering that the Opera Ghost and I were immersed in complete darkness.
"My watch says 7:01. Therefore, you are late. Is there to be any further argument?"
For a moment, I was almost inclined to turn and run back up the stairs, but after I'd calmed down a bit, I realized that he was making some sort of joke. I laughed nervously. "You are teasing me," I said.
"If you are as apt in music as you are in social skill, then your genius will soon surpass even mine," laughed the Opera Ghost. I took comfort in noticing that his laughter was much less harsh tonight... It was almost sweet and boy-like, as compared to the maniacal quality it had taken on just the night before.
"Let us begin. I am not fully aware of your talents, and so, consider this your trial training session. If I find you completely inadequate, then I'm afraid I will be unable to train you with any real enthusiasm. Sing an E flat scale, if you will."
His words stung me slightly. Completely inadequate? Had he not heard me sing before? Why would he have offered to train me if he were not sure that I had at least some talent? Out of the darkness came the E flat from a pitch pipe, and so I had no more time to contemplate these questions. I sang it obediently and as perfect technically as I could.
"Continue."
"What do you mean?" I breathed.
"The second octave, my dear."
I swallowed nervously. I'd heard more seasoned singers than myself who were unable to hit an E flat above high C. Still, not wanting to disappoint my new teacher, I remembered all I could about breath support and just went for it. Though I hit the note, it was not pretty. Then again, I didn't expect it to be.
"Your upper range is disgustingly untrained," the Opera Ghost said, sounding disappointed. "Have you never had lessons?"
"I took them for about a year, but my father made me stop," I replied, my voice shaking.
"I see," he said softly. "Ah, well, you are young yet, I suppose. Now, let me hear you sing a song. What is your favorite song?"
"'On My Own'," I cried eagerly. "I love it more than any song I've ever heard."
There was a brief silence. I'd thought for a moment that he might have left, but then he spoke. "From Les Miserables?"
"Yeah. I'm sure you know of it."
"Of course I know of it. Every female singer, good or bad, young or old, feels that, when they are singing 'On My Own' that they are again a 17-year-old girl wandering the streets of Paris searching for true love. Meanwhile, they fill my precious auditorium with noises that would be better made by a dying cat."
"Oh. Er. I take it you're not a fan, then?" I breathed deeply.
"Again, your social astuteness does you great credit." I could almost hear him grinning as he spoke those words. "Tell me, do you like anything that is a little less... contemporary?"
"I AM a fan of Puccini, but I try to keep that to myself," I admitted, hoping that he would not humiliate my taste in music again. "But if you aren't..."
"Ah, finally, we find common ground! Sing for me. 'O Mio Babbino', I presume?"
"Of course!" I smiled, pleased that he could be so well-acquainted with one of my secretest passions. Breathing deeply, I opened my mouth wide and allowed the Puccini aria to flow from my mouth. When I had finished, the Opera Ghost was silent. Then, I heard his breath catch slightly in his throat-- If that was possible for a ghost.
"You have potential."
"That's all?" I didn't bother to hide my disappointment.
"What would you have me say? That you are perfect, in no need of training, a complete genius? You know this is untrue," he laughed. Just then, a light flickered on overhead. "I will not flatter you as the rest of this school does."
I stared into the shadows made on the wall by the sudden appearance of the light. Against the peeling paint was an image of a human of almost unnatural proportions; he was tall and well-structured, but he seemed so thin that a sudden breeze might blow him away. A long cape reaching his mid-calves hung around his neck, and while I would normally find this strange, I couldn't help but feel that it fit him perfectly. Without warning, the actual man himself stepped out of the shadows and into the eerie light. His hair was blacker than any I'd ever seen and across his face was a mask.
I sucked in a gasp of air very suddenly. "Who... who are you?" I stammered.
"You may call me Erik," he said simply. "We have much work to do. Let us begin."
I hopped out of bed, shivering from the cold. Throwing open my closet, I stared into its glorious messiness and wondered, what did one wear when meeting an Opera Ghost? Something sweet? Something sexy? Something old-fashioned? I shrugged to myself, wondering why I cared so much. After all, it was probably just a demented janitor who knew something about music. With this thought, I decided not to wear anything too provacative, lest he turn out to be a creepy old man. I pulled out a 40's style skirt that was, well, a little short, but not too short, and a high-necked red sweater. Red was my favorite color of all time, and I seemed to end up wearing it a lot more than other colors.
I slipped the sweater over my bare chest, feeling its itchy warmth spreading across my neck and shoulders. The skirt was tight in my waist-- I'd gained weight that year-- but somehow, I made it fit. Having to pull it higher up to the thinner part of my torso had made it a little indecently short. But I didn't care. It was too early to think about being decent or modest. Anyway, what could happen in the basement of a school? Surely nothing too horrible.
"Elizabeth, you're going to miss the goddammned bus," yelled my father up the stairs.
At a breakneck speed, I began to toss books, papers, pencils, and other important items of interest (such as pineapple-scented hand lotion) into my backpack. I wasn't afraid of my father, really, but I didn't feel like risking an explosion, especially not at 6:27 in the morning. Was I really that late? I didn't think I was, but I suppose I could've been mistaken...
As I ran downstairs and walked past my father, who was eating an apple at the counter, he spoke in the same harsh tones.
"You'll be home on the bus today, right? Callbacks are over."
"Er..." I hesitated. "Actually, I've got rehearsal tonight until 8:00."
"For WHAT?" he snapped.
"Choir." My, was I a cool liar.
A heated argument ensued, mostly involving my father yelling about the worthlessness of music as well as the worthlessness of my pursual of it. I could record exactly what words passed between us, but it still hurts too much to think about. That morning, I left the house with tears rolling down my cheeks. I hated it when I cried, because I did it so rarely, that, when I did cry, the emotional exhaustion was body-breaking. I'd never cried over a bad grade or a broken heart, though my heart had been broken once or twice. My father, however, had the power to turn me into a total child. But mostly I tried not to cry. I was often tempted, but I rarely took the bait.
Once at school, I headed straight to my locker without stopping to socialize with anyone I knew. Frankly, my mood was strange that day. I'd just fought with my father, I had no chance at getting a part in the musical, Sean Winters was dating a talentless senior with legs like toothpicks, and that night, I was meeting an Opera Ghost. Admittedly, the last part wasn't so bad... It would actually probably be slightly interesting, if the Opera Ghost did not turn out to be a rapist. Still, I was in no mood to entertain any of my friends. Especially not Amy, who was unfortunately coming down the hall just as I'd decided I wanted to be alone.
"Oh ELIZABETH!" she cried once I was in earshot. "You were so good at callbacks yesterday... They HAVE to give you the part. I mean, you were making a really weird face when you sang-- You kind of always do that, no offense-- and Yeah, Jessica Klein is really good at acting, but I mean-- For Sarah Brown, who needs to ACT? It's about the voice. And you have that voice. Wasn't it funny when you read with Sean Winters though? I thought I'd die!"
"Hilarious," I commented softly.
"What's wrong? Are you okay? You left in such a hurry yesterday. I think Sean was looking for you, too, but you seemed so upset I told him not to bother. Actually, I would've told him not to bother even if you WEREN'T upset because really, I don't think you should be messing around with him. He's not a nice guy and anyway, don't you have a boyfriend? How IS he, by the way? You never even talk about him anymore!"
"God, Amy!" I spat suddenly. "Do you ever shut the hell up?"
Her eyes widened even more than usual as she stared into my flaming pupils. Though I knew I was being more than a bit harsh, I thought that if I hadn't yelled at her to stop, I would've hit her instead. She was so incredibly naive and frankly, I'd reached the end of my tether. Sighing resignedly, I picked up my backpack and began to walk away.
"Where are you going?" Amy exclaimed.
She reached out and grabbed me by the left wrist, hard. I winced visibly, quickly withdrawing my arm from her grasp.
"Ow," I said softly.
"What is it?" She stared at me quizically.
I grinned impishly. "Nothing, nothing at all. I'll catch up with you later, okay?"
"But why--" Her eyes then suddenly glowed with understanding. "Oh, I get it."
She winked at me. I raised an eyebrow in return. Why was she staring at me so? Then I realized that she was looking at me, but not really seeing me-- She was seeing the person behind me. My heart sank. I'd been caught. I whirled around, only to find myself face-to-face with Larry, my oh-so-charming and oh-so-boring boyfriend.
"Excuse us," he said in his nervous, high-pitched voice, looking over at Amy and nodding.
"Er, ah, hi," I managed to say before he could speak. "I meant to call you last night, after I-- but I had a lot of Biology work to do, especially since today is--"
"Look, I need to talk to you." Larry stared at me intensely, his turquoise eyes radiating with both affection and disappointment. It was those eyes that had first led me to believe that anything other than boredom could exist in this relationship. "You never call me, you never talk to me in the halls anymore... What's going on? Is it something I did? Did I do something to upset you?"
"No, no, no," I laughed, my cheeks burning with scarlet. "Nothing, nothing you did. I've just been busy, that's all."
I didn't have the heart to tell him that the only thing he did to make me lose interest was... well... nothing.
"I feel like you've been so distant lately. We haven't hung out properly in weeks, and we've never even..." It was his turn to blush. "We've never even kissed."
"I've just been busy, Larry. I swear. It's not you. I'll try to be more attentive." I gave him my most winning smile and then leaned upwards and kissed him on the cheek.
That little kiss was enough to reassure him for a week at least. Already, the red was gone from his cheeks and was replaced with more of a pinkish glow.
"So, do you want to take a walk around the grounds?" he asked shyly.
"Take a walk around the grounds" was Madison High speak for "Want to go under the bleachers and make out?" As I stared into his eager face, I realized that I... I just couldn't do it. I didn't like kissing that much that I'd do it with just anyone. I'd actually only kissed two boys, and they'd never really inspired me very much. I enjoyed kissing Sean now and then, but mostly because I was addicted to the excitement of doing something "wrong." It never made me ache with sexual longing, not in the way ridiculous porno-type books described. It was more of a, "Wow, I'm kissing someone, how great is this?" Right then, I wasn't about to give up the third kiss of my life to an overeager schoolboy.
"Maybe... maybe tomorrow," I said, laughing lightly. Before he could respond, I turned and walked in the opposite direction. I knew I'd pass Amy on the way back, but it wouldn't be so bad... Maybe if I was lucky, I could convince her to come upstairs and let me try out my latest lockpicking technique on the auditorium doors. One day, we'd break into that auditiorium. And when we did, there'd never be any going back.
*
"You are late."
"It's 6:59!" I exclaimed, pointing at my watch in protest. A second later, I realized how incredibly stupid this was, considering that the Opera Ghost and I were immersed in complete darkness.
"My watch says 7:01. Therefore, you are late. Is there to be any further argument?"
For a moment, I was almost inclined to turn and run back up the stairs, but after I'd calmed down a bit, I realized that he was making some sort of joke. I laughed nervously. "You are teasing me," I said.
"If you are as apt in music as you are in social skill, then your genius will soon surpass even mine," laughed the Opera Ghost. I took comfort in noticing that his laughter was much less harsh tonight... It was almost sweet and boy-like, as compared to the maniacal quality it had taken on just the night before.
"Let us begin. I am not fully aware of your talents, and so, consider this your trial training session. If I find you completely inadequate, then I'm afraid I will be unable to train you with any real enthusiasm. Sing an E flat scale, if you will."
His words stung me slightly. Completely inadequate? Had he not heard me sing before? Why would he have offered to train me if he were not sure that I had at least some talent? Out of the darkness came the E flat from a pitch pipe, and so I had no more time to contemplate these questions. I sang it obediently and as perfect technically as I could.
"Continue."
"What do you mean?" I breathed.
"The second octave, my dear."
I swallowed nervously. I'd heard more seasoned singers than myself who were unable to hit an E flat above high C. Still, not wanting to disappoint my new teacher, I remembered all I could about breath support and just went for it. Though I hit the note, it was not pretty. Then again, I didn't expect it to be.
"Your upper range is disgustingly untrained," the Opera Ghost said, sounding disappointed. "Have you never had lessons?"
"I took them for about a year, but my father made me stop," I replied, my voice shaking.
"I see," he said softly. "Ah, well, you are young yet, I suppose. Now, let me hear you sing a song. What is your favorite song?"
"'On My Own'," I cried eagerly. "I love it more than any song I've ever heard."
There was a brief silence. I'd thought for a moment that he might have left, but then he spoke. "From Les Miserables?"
"Yeah. I'm sure you know of it."
"Of course I know of it. Every female singer, good or bad, young or old, feels that, when they are singing 'On My Own' that they are again a 17-year-old girl wandering the streets of Paris searching for true love. Meanwhile, they fill my precious auditorium with noises that would be better made by a dying cat."
"Oh. Er. I take it you're not a fan, then?" I breathed deeply.
"Again, your social astuteness does you great credit." I could almost hear him grinning as he spoke those words. "Tell me, do you like anything that is a little less... contemporary?"
"I AM a fan of Puccini, but I try to keep that to myself," I admitted, hoping that he would not humiliate my taste in music again. "But if you aren't..."
"Ah, finally, we find common ground! Sing for me. 'O Mio Babbino', I presume?"
"Of course!" I smiled, pleased that he could be so well-acquainted with one of my secretest passions. Breathing deeply, I opened my mouth wide and allowed the Puccini aria to flow from my mouth. When I had finished, the Opera Ghost was silent. Then, I heard his breath catch slightly in his throat-- If that was possible for a ghost.
"You have potential."
"That's all?" I didn't bother to hide my disappointment.
"What would you have me say? That you are perfect, in no need of training, a complete genius? You know this is untrue," he laughed. Just then, a light flickered on overhead. "I will not flatter you as the rest of this school does."
I stared into the shadows made on the wall by the sudden appearance of the light. Against the peeling paint was an image of a human of almost unnatural proportions; he was tall and well-structured, but he seemed so thin that a sudden breeze might blow him away. A long cape reaching his mid-calves hung around his neck, and while I would normally find this strange, I couldn't help but feel that it fit him perfectly. Without warning, the actual man himself stepped out of the shadows and into the eerie light. His hair was blacker than any I'd ever seen and across his face was a mask.
I sucked in a gasp of air very suddenly. "Who... who are you?" I stammered.
"You may call me Erik," he said simply. "We have much work to do. Let us begin."
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