FicWad

At the time I thought I was doing the right thing. I guess I don't really know, now. I only knew that I was doing all I could to serve my first love: music. I was taking serious risks, but I didn't know it at the time. I just thought I was being adventurous. I didn't know what kind of line I'd crossed. I was too naive to know.

The days began to turn into weeks, and before long, musical season was in full swing. I found it easier to make excuses to not be at home anymore, and one particular night, I decided to just stay after school until 7:30 instead of going home and coming back. I told my dad that I had rehearsal again, and though he was angry, he believed me. It wasn't that my phantom was planning to see me anytime before seven, but I didn't want to go home. Things at home were worse than I could ever remember them being before. They were even worse than before my mom left.

When I was younger-- say, eight or so-- my parents were the best people in the world. They loved each other. They would kiss in front of me, sometimes for a minute or so at a time. I used to gag and make faces, but I liked it, as strange as that sounds. It was the way I knew that they still were mad about each other; it was the way I knew that our family wasn't falling apart. A lot of my friends in elementary school had divorced parents. I used to think that having divorced parents would be the worst thing in the world.

After my tenth birthday, things started to change. My dad started to work a lot more, since he was up for partner at the law firm he worked for. My mom used to complain that he was never home with us, even though I'd begun to notice that she made lots of excuses not to be home, either. They hired a babysitter named Mary would used to stay with me after school and drive me to soccer. I liked Mary, but she used to make comments that suggested that my parents wouldn't be together much longer. Not only did I think she was insensitive, but I thought she was wrong, and I told her so. Then, one night, I was in bed when I was awoken by shouting from downstairs. It was about two in the morning. I crept to the top of the stairs to listen. I heard everything. My dad calling my mom a slut, my mom calling my dad a workaholic who didn't give a crap about this family... My mom saying that she'd found someone who actually would care about her, that she'd found someone who still was interested in someone other than himself. It finally ended when the door slammed and my dad started crying. I only realized I was shaking after it was all over. I didn't cry that night. I just crept back into bed and tried to fall asleep, though the effort was futile.

The next day, my dad left the house early in the morning. My mom came over to pack her things, but she stopped to talk to me, too.

"I love you, Lizzy. This has nothing to do with you. Your father--" She never used to call Daddy that-- "Will take good care of you. We'll see each other on holidays and weekends, even. I won't be far. Things will be just the same as they always were, except that you'll have two houses instead of one. Won't that be fun?"

"You love him more than you love us?" I said dryly. In the absence of parents, I'd begun to develop an attitude. Mary never bothered to try to keep my snideness in check.

"Don't say that. It's not true." She reached out and tried to ruffle my hair, but I jerked away. "Oh Lizzy, my Lizzy," she cried helplessly. "Don't make this worse than it is"

"There'd be nothing to make worse if you weren't already leaving," I replied.

"Lizzy," she said pleadingly.

"My name's Elizabeth," I snapped.

When I could help it, I never allowed anyone to call me anything but Elizabeth since.

My father began drinking pretty soon after that. I didn't really care; he wasn't violent when he drank-- if anything, it mellowed him out a bit and made him less irritable. I tried to comfort him the best I could, but I was a living reminder of the woman who'd left him. It wasn't even that I looked anything like her-- I'd inherited all my looks from my dad-- but I'd grown up in the same house as her, and I had all the same mannerisms, habits, and nuances. Sometimes when I'd come to kiss my dad goodnight, I could smell the whisky on his hot breath, and he'd mumble, "Aw, Janice, going to bed so soon? Won't you wait up for me?" I always left quickly after that. I would become afraid sometimes that he'd forget himself.

When I hit 14, my dad suddenly straightened out for no apparent reason. He joined AA and started dating again. He'd never really settled down with another woman, but I was glad to see that at least he had something of a life back. Yeah, I was glad, until it started affecting me. Because he'd straightened out, he decided that I had to straighten out, too. It's not that I really needed any straightening out-- I was a good kid, not to mention pretty smart, and I got okay grades, though I didn't consider myself anything of a scholar. I never really worked to my full potential, mostly because I was too busy writing or reading or singing. I thought subjects like Biololgy and Math were too boring to be bothered with, so I scraped by with B's and the occasional B minus. After my dad was almost finished with the program, though, he decided that this wasn't good enough. It came as something of a shock. I came home on the bus as usual when I noticed that my dad was standing at the door, waiting for me. He had my report card in his hand. I didn't understand why he looked so angry. It was only the second trimester in my freshman year of high school, and he'd never cared about grades before, anyway. Unless I'd actually failed a subject, I didn't see why he'd be upset about my grades.

"Elizabeth, this is unacceptable," he told me as I came through the door. "I received your report card today, and I noticed that you had two B's."

"That's not bad," I said weakly, bewildered by his sudden change of attitude.

"Not bad? Not bad is for losers," he hissed through his yellowed teeth. "Don't you care about your future? Don't you want to be successful? Don't you want to strive for the best?"

"But I--"

"I don't want to hear excuses. You're grounded until you can prove that you can concentrate more effectively on your studies." He paused, then continued the sentence. "I think that, since you've already displayed enough irresponsibility, I will have to cancel your piano lessons."

"Dad, I need those," I exclaimed, my face paling. "I've got a solo in the next concert, and I'll never get it right if I don't have--"

"Don't argue with me. If you were as good at arguing as you are at studying, maybe you wouldn't be in the place you are now. Get upstairs and open a book." He ripped the report card in two and left it lying at my feet.

From then on, school came first. If I came home with anything less than an A, I was grounded and certain privelages were slowly taken away... Art lessons, books, time out with my friends. Singing was the last thing to be touched. My dad knew how I felt about my singing. I thought that maybe his heart had made him decide not to take away the one thing I loved the most. I thought.

It was my own fault, really. Mid sophomore year, I snuck off campus to go to the coffeeshop down the street during school hours. I was caught, of course, and I received three after school detentions for it. Because the crime was considered somewhat serious, I had to get a note signed by my dad that informed him of the misdemeanor. I remember being a little scared, but I was completely unprepared for the reaction I got.

"Elizabeth," he breathed as he read the note, "I want you to pick up the phone and tell your voice teacher this very moment that you've decided that you don't like singing anymore. Go on. Pick up the phone. I'll watch you."

"Dad, please," I begged. "I'm sorry. It's not that huge of a deal. I won't do it again."

"Pick up the phone!" he snapped, leaning against the counter.

So I did. My voice teacher almost cried, saying that I had such an unusual talent, that I was the only one of her students that she could see actually making it in the business someday. I almost cried, too, but I managed to keep my voice steady and calm. I had to learn to not cry, I decided. That type of weakness wasn't going to help matters, especially not anymore.

After I hung up the phone, my father said, "Go to your room. I don't want to see you again for a week."

He locked the door behind me. It was open when I woke up, but I did as my father said and stayed out of sight for the rest of the week. As the years went on, I became desperate. Isn't that what creates these types of situations? Desperation? It was impossible to recognize at the time. Either way, I became desperate for something that offered happiness. Very little could make me happy anymore. Choir was pretty much the only source of music I had left. I had friends, too, but they could never fully know me without knowing what made me come to school with that vacant expression. They would never know because I would never tell them.

I spent the first half hour after school in the basement near my locker, sitting and going over my Biology notes. It was rainy and dark, but the fluorescent lights over head offered at least a bit of light. It had only been 45 minutes or so that I'd been studying, and already I was becoming bored. I couldn't focus very well on schoolwork, especially not lately. For a moment, I yawned and closed my eyes, leaning my head against the cold metal of the red lockers. Then, without warning, I heard the traditional electric buzz that accompanied the flickering of the hallway lights. He was here. It was early, though; we usually did not meet until 6:30 at the earliest.

For some reason, my heart began to race. I was excited that he was here. Something about him warped my mind; I found him like a drug, addictive and intoxicating. I found that he occupied my thoughts long after our sessions had ended... In fact, he was just about all that occupied my mind anymore. Even my friends began to notice how moony and dazed I'd become lately. Amy was short-tempered with me, and Sean had begun to try to get me to notice him again. When he came over to wrap his arms around my shoulders and be the flirtateous moron he is, I caught myself wishing I still got excited when he paid attention to me. But I couldn't care anymore... Not when I had an opera ghost who I found infinitely more interesting. As for Larry... I avoided him as much as I could, though I began to wish that he'd just break up with me and save me a lot of trouble.

A candle flickered to life down the hall. I leapt up from the floor, my Biology notes immediately forgotten. My heart was thumping painfully in my throat, but I didn't care. The man-- or ghost-- or whoever, whatever this thing was-- was here. My master was here to instruct me.

"Hello, Erik," I said shyly. For good measure, I added, "Sir."

"My ingenue," he replied. I couldn't help but notice how warm his voice had grown towards me since the beginning of our acquaintance. I also couldn't help but notice that despite this warmth his voice still made me shiver slightly. "I didn't expect you to be here so early."

"I thought I could get some more work done here than at home," I said simply.

There was a brief moment of silence before he spoke again. "I see. I don't wish to start your training so early, though... It is harmful for such a young voice to train so intensely for so many hours."

"Well, I can go back to work or something..." I faltered.

"No," he replied thoughtfully. "There's no need for that. Perhaps..." He hesitated. "I've been wishing to speak with you more. Of course we should not grow too close, because that's unseemly for a teacher and a pupil, but we have never just... spoken."

My heart leapt. I had been dying to ask him a thousand questions from the first moment I'd met him. Things like, who are you? Why are you here? Are you human or spirit? Are you the boy that Miss Lazerth talked about? Does that mean you're a murderer? Why did you kill someone? Will you kill me? Why do you wear that mask? Can I see your face? Why do you train me? Do you...

"Would you like, then, to go for a walk around the grounds?"

Without warning, I burst into laughter. I knew it was immature of me, but all I could think was, my opera ghost was asking if I'd like to make out under the bleachers.

"Why are you laughing at me?" he snapped. I could tell from his voice that he was frowning.

"It's just... in school... People say that when..." I tried to control myself, but I was already too excited and giddy. I doubled up in laughter.

"Silly girl," he sneered. "Come on. Let's go."

My laughing ceased for a moment. "But it's raining!"

"I prefer the rain to sunlight," he replied coolly and without explanation.

He did not take my hand as I almost expected him to, but once we were outside, he took his billowy black cloak and wrapped half of it over my shoulders so to shelter me from the rain. I'd never been this close to him before, and in spite of myself, it made me feel even gigglier than I did before. I was trying to control myself, though, because I could tell my high girlish spirits irritated him. There wasn't much light outside, but there was more than I'd ever had with him. I noticed that his face was almost entirely covered by the mask, except for his lips, which were, for lack of a better word, sloppy, though overall they were straight and full. Still, there was something about his upper lip that faded to the left, and his lower lip was slightly too big as compared to his upper lip. I didn't mind them, though. They were very red-- redder than most men's lips. In spite of myself, I found myself wondering what they'd feel like on my mouth.

"These grounds are beautiful," he said once we'd begun to lap around the school. "I remember when this school was not even a school, but a center for the performing arts."

"Did you train there?" I asked eagerly.

"No, I would have been too young. I just remember." He stared out over the grass field, raindrops dewing the mask. "Come, let us go on the pier."

He was referring to the delapidated wooden pier that stretched into the river that bordered the school. It was so old that, even ten years ago, two kids were swept upstream after some of the planks gave way beneath them. My breath caught in my throat. I did not want to go there. It was cold and windy on that pier, and anyway, I'd never been that close to the river before. Something about its vastness frightened me. It was not a friendly little stream like most towns had, but rather, a huge, rushing body of water.

"Students aren't allowed," I muttered, resisting his push forward.

"I am not a student; I am a teacher. And you are my student, and right now, I say that it is allowed." He smiled crookedly and pulled me with him. He was surprisingly strong for a man with such a thin frame.

"Please," I gasped as he steered me towards the river. "I'm scared."

He stopped for a moment. "Good. That is what I was hoping for." Again, his strong grasp led me towards the river.

"You want me to be scared?" I exclaimed, trying to wriggle out of his grasp. "Most teachers I know wouldn't want their own student to be scared."

"This is a little exercise that I myself have practiced. Come, step up. Don't step on that dark brown plank; you will plunge into the river. That's right, the light one."

"It's raining," I mumbled. "Everything looks dark."

"Don't be so prissy, Elizabeth," he snapped suddenly. It was the first time in our acquaintance that he'd called me by name. "I won't let you die."

This was hardly a comforting though. I warily balanced myself on two "light"-looking planks, neither of which felt very secure. They tottered uneasily beneath the soles of my rain-soaked sneakers, causing the hair on the back of my neck to stand up. My heart was racing uncomfortably in my throat, and for a moment, I grew dizzy as I watched the waters rushing over the meager four planks holding up the wooden pier.

"Please, Erik, I'm afraid!" I cried, swaying uneasily.

"You are in love," he said. "You are in love with someone-- Me, perhaps-- or anyone whom you choose to be in love with-- but you are in love, and you must tell me about it."

"What the heck?" I yelled, shivering nervously.

"Look at me!" he yelled back. "Look down at me and sing me your favorite love song. And when you sing it, be in love! Overcome your fear-- You are not on a plank about to plunge into a roaring river! You are somewhere else-- a meadow, a ship, a Juliette on her balcony! You are in love! Look at me and sing."

I turned and faced him slowly. His eyes were flaming with something between determination and insanity, and I did not wish to disobey him. I whimpered softly, then took a few deep breaths to prepare myself for the vocal attack. Finally, my vocal chords began to tremble and the first few notes of a familiar Rodgers and Hammerstein tune began to come out.

"If I loved you,
time and again
I would try to say
all I'd want you to know..."

"Go on!" Erik roared, motioning wildly with his hands. "Keep singing! Sing on!"

I gasped and continued.

"If I loved you,
words wouldn't come in an easy way,
'round in circles I'd go..."


But he seemed dissatisfied. I tried to forget that I was standing on a pier on the edge of a river... I tried to pretend that I was in love. But it was too loud-- the water was crashing over the muddy soil, and the rain was pounding on my skin, and I could not imagine that anyone could be in love on such an ugly day.

"Come down," he ordered.

He offered me his hand, which I accepted. He helped me onto the wet grass, then immediately let go of my hand. His black cloak billowed behind him as he stalked off, leaving me wet and shaking in the rain. Where was he going? Surely he was not that displeased as to leave me? I did not know if I should follow him or not. I did not want to risk his anger, but at the same time, I could not bear to watch him go.

"Where are you going?" I shouted, trotting after him. "Are you leaving me?"

"Don't be dramatic, my ingenue," he replied coldly, whirling around to face me. "I am merely displeased. I cannot train you while you are so obstinate."

"I don't know what you wanted me to do," I cried, my throat growing tight with pain. "I don't know how pushing me onto a dangerous pier and making me afraid helped my voice or--"

"This is not about your voice. You can sing, I can hear that. Anyone can heart that. Ms. Lazerth can hear that you can sing. But you are like an automaton-- You sing as if, when I switch a button on, you are a record. There is no life in your voice-- No shimmer of love, no gleam of hope. It sounds flat-- not literally in the musical sense-- but flat and dead as if it were coming from a corpse who had lost all sense of feeling. You will never be a great singer if you do not change. At least pretend that you feel something-- Love, or joy, or sadness, or anything." He broke off. Then he added in a strange voice, "Do you... Do you even feel, my ingenue?"

I stared at him blankly. I had been insulted worse before-- my father had sowed insults into my mentality daily for years-- but this was different, because deep down, I knew what Erik had to say was true. After being called irresponsible and selfish for the thousandth time, the words lost their meaning. But here was my teacher, the enigmatic man or ghost or spirit that had promised to guide me into greatness, saying that I would never be great. My heart was suddenly grasped with a coldness that I had only known once before, with my father. I felt hatred.

"Goodbye." I wrapped my arms around myself and walked past him without meeting his eyes. I stared straight ahead at the brick building in front of me and moved towards it, just like-- as Erik had said-- an automaton.

"Where are you going?" he called after me.

"I'm disappearing," I replied.

I knew he was going to come after me. But I had not played soccer for eleven years for nothing. I slammed my feet into the wet grass and ran as fast as I could. I never wanted to see him again. At that moment, I hated him. I hated him even more than I hated myself.