A Phantom Enchantment (6 page)

“Oh yeah,” Elise said. “And maybe like on
The Voice,
the judges have their backs turned to the performers, so Erik's scars wouldn't matter.”

“But when the judges turn around and see him, they recoil in terror,” I said. “And then they cut him during the next round, which enrages him.”

“But Christine makes it through,” Flynn said. “And now Erik is determined to help her win so she'll fall in love with him. But another contestant falls in love with Christine, and Erik sets out to destroy him.”

We started hashing out our ideas on paper, and Owen seemed really enthusiastic. “I don't know anything about opera,” he said. “But I'm excited to help you guys with this.”

“Yeah, we can pool our skills,” I said. “I'll start writing the libretto. You and Flynn can work on the score.”

“And what will I do?” Elise asked.

“You, my dear, will sing the part of Christine when we win the competition,” I said.

This seemed to appease her for the moment.

 

But the opera project was the least of Elise's concerns over the next few weeks as a real love triangle emerged between her, Owen, and Jean-Claude. Elise seemed to enjoy it, encouraging both of them when the other wasn't around and making promises she had no intentions of keeping. All of this made for some interesting screwball comedy scenarios that might have been funny if Owen's feelings hadn't been at stake.

Owen and Flynn were staying at a hostel a few blocks from our dorm but frequently showed up unannounced. On one of these occasions, Elise burst into my room with Jean-Claude and asked me to let him hide out there until I heard the toilet flush, at which point I was supposed to sneak him out my door. The first time it happened, I acquiesced, but I felt so guilty about it later that I finally confronted her in her room.

“So what's going on with you and Jean-Claude?” I asked.

“We're just having some fun.”

“What about Owen? I thought you liked him.”

“I do,” she said. “But what he doesn't know won't hurt him. Besides we never said we were exclusive.”

“Just because you never said it doesn't mean he can't be hurt. He's my friend, too.”

“Yeah, that's why you kissed Flynn last year even though you knew Owen was in love with you?” she said, her voice growing icy.

I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. “Whoa, this doesn't need to get nasty. I knew that was a mistake and I was so sorry for it. That's why I'm trying to prevent him from getting hurt again.”

“I know, you're right,” she said. “I'm sorry. It's just . . . my parents' divorce is really getting to me. I think I've lost faith in relationships. It seems easier to have a lot of meaningless ones than to try to hold on to something real. Does that make any sense?”

“I guess,” I said.

“Can I tell you something?” she said. “I get freaked out when a guy starts getting all mushy and romantic. I think to myself, Can't we just have a good time and not start making big romantic proclamations to each other?”

I laughed, but inside I wondered if Owen had used the “L” word and scared her off. The thought of Owen telling Elise he loved her made me more jealous than I cared to admit.

“It sounds like you're afraid of getting serious,” I said. “Because that's when hearts get broken.”

Her briefly vulnerable attitude turned steely and remote again. “I'm not afraid of anything,” she said. “I like boys, Emma. Cute ones. Do you know how many hot musicians go to Berklee?”

“Berkeley, California?”

“No, Berklee College of Music. It's in Boston.”

“Is that where you're going next year?”

“If I get in. I applied early action, so I should know by the end of January. If I don't get in I'm going to kill myself.”

“That's a little dramatic.”

“No, Emma, you don't understand. I was meant to go there. That school is my soul mate.” I couldn't help but laugh. Whatever commitment she lacked in her love life she certainly made up for in her college devotion. “What about you?” she asked. “Have you decided where you're going?”

“I'm leaning toward Amherst or Hampshire, but with Gray stationed in Miami, I applied to the university there. My dad doesn't know about it.”

“Look at you, Miss Rebel,” she said.

The truth was, I couldn't really see myself in Miami. But I wasn't sure I wanted to stay in Massachusetts, either.

In fact, it surprised me that Elise wanted to go to school in Boston so close to where we'd grown up. Because what I hadn't told her or my dad or Grandma or even Gray was that I'd applied to NYU, Johns Hopkins, and Emory, too. Not only did they all have stellar creative writing programs, they were all at least four hours away from Hull's Cove.

I'm not sure why this appealed to me so much. It was like coming to Paris had somehow made my home seem smaller, and I wasn't sure it would be big enough to hold me when I got back.

C
HAPTER
6

W
ith Elise juggling two boyfriends and me trying to hide it from Owen, he and I began working long hours on the libretto for our new
Phantom
. Even though we'd written an outline together, I was having a terrible case of writer's block and couldn't seem to get the songs down on paper.

Sitting at a café one afternoon, Owen asked me what was holding me back.

“I don't know,” I said. “I'm afraid I might suck. I've never been comfortable sharing my writing with anyone. You know that. But this time, my words might be sung on a stage in front of a live audience. That terrifies me.”

“Well, don't think about that right now,” he said. “Just think of the story you want to tell. Imagine an audience of one, and write only to him or her.”

It was good advice, because the minute I imagined myself telling the story to Gray, I could suddenly see how to incorporate elements of our relationship into the script.

“So what if I write a duet between Raoul and Christine as they're falling in love with each other, but Erik overhears it and gets really angry?” I said. “He decides he wants to destroy not only Raoul but the entire competition. So he plans to kidnap Christine during the finale and blow up the theater with everyone still inside.”

“Oooh, that's good,” Owen said. “Get writing.”

So I did. Over the next few weeks, I wrote the duet between Raoul and Christine and a song called “The Phantom's Revenge.” Now it was up to Flynn and Owen to set them to music. And I knew the perfect thing to inspire them: a trip to the opera for Owen's birthday.

The night was cool and crisp, and dry leaves scudded across the cobbled streets. Elise insisted we eat dinner at one of the swanky riverside cafés, and since she also insisted on paying, we didn't argue. We dined on a selection of bread and cheeses, garlicky escargot, asparagus in mousseline sauce, duck cassoulet, wild-mushroom-and-saffron ravioli, followed by lavender crème brûlée. I snuck a peek at our bill when it arrived and nearly gasped when I saw 150 euros.

On the way to the Opera House after dinner, we passed a guy selling padlocks at the Pont des Arts. Curious why anyone would sell padlocks here, we asked him what he was doing, and he explained that he was selling “love padlocks.” A couple was supposed to write their names on the padlock and then lock it on to the bridge. Then they'd throw the key into the river as a symbol of their undying love. The only way to break the bond was to find the key at the bottom of the Seine and unlock the padlock.

“Let's do it,” Elise said, grabbing Owen by the arm. I almost choked, as I'd been witness to Elise's double-timing with Jean-Claude on more occasions than I could count. I hardly thought their love was the undying kind.

While she was trying to talk Owen into it, I bought a double-hearted padlock. The guy had Sharpies available so I wrote Gray's name next to my own. The man helped me find a spot along the very crowded bridge and watched as I locked it in place, tossing the key into the Seine and feeling a rush of emotions—love, pride, fear, and dread.

“I suppose this means you and I won't be snogging after the opera?” Flynn said as I walked back to meet them.

“Not a chance,” I said.

“I know that kiss we shared last year still haunts you. The memory is starting to fade, and you're beginning to wonder if it was as scorching as you remember.”

I shook my head and laughed. Tonight Flynn looked like a handsome street urchin wearing the throwaways from some misbegotten marching band. He'd found this crazy tuxedo at a thrift shop, with toreador pants and a cropped jacket with silver embroidery and epaulettes. The weird thing was, he pulled it off.

Owen and Elise were still fighting over the padlocks, and I didn't want it to ruin the evening. Or Owen's birthday. “Guys, we should get to the theater,” I said, my lame version of an intervention. “I want to take some pictures before the opera begins.”

They reluctantly agreed, but despite the delicious meal we'd eaten, we all left with a sour taste in our mouths.

The Palais Garnier was even more magnificent than I had imagined. Its façade looked like an ornate Greek temple, topped with that famous green dome and a frieze flanked by two golden angels on either end.

But it was the interior that swept me away, taking me back to turn-of-the-century Paris. We walked past the buxom Greek goddesses holding the weight of this golden world on their heads and floated up the Grand Staircase in a daze, taking in the grandeur of our surroundings—the marble columns and arches, the ivory cherubs, the baroque intricacy of the ceiling, and the warm glow of a dozen candelabras.

Once on the second floor, we watched the parade of beautiful people below us strolling down corridors, kissing in alcoves, perching on gilded landings. I took a number of photos and texted them to Gray, Michelle and Jess, my dad, and Grandma.

The theater itself was immense, round, and sumptuous—like a decadent red velvet layer cake. The domed ceiling was awash with the vibrant colors of a Chagall painting, from which hung the famous chandelier, said to weigh six tons. No wonder Gaston Leroux had woven this into his Phantom story. Even with our modern knowledge of engineering, I still marveled at how it hung there, seemingly suspended in midair.

Finding our seats was an adventure, as we were on the third loge sandwiched tightly between dozens of seated guests. Elise squeezed into her seat first, followed by Owen, then me, then Flynn. Our seats were so close together I could smell Owen's and Flynn's colognes competing.

The opera was
Orphée et Eurydice,
a tragic myth about a man who descends into the depths of hell to retrieve the woman he loves. Of course it doesn't end well. Orpheus sings his emotional plea to the gods, begging them to bring Eurydice back to life. The gods agree given one condition: He must leave the underworld without looking back at Eurydice.

He agrees, and Eurydice is resurrected. But she doubts Orpheus's love and refuses to follow him unless he looks at her. Orpheus finally relents and turns to embrace her, but her body falls limp in his arms. A grief-stricken Orpheus sings his final lament: “What shall I do without Eurydice? Where shall I go without my love?”

At the height of this drama and passion, Flynn flopped onto my shoulder, sound asleep. “Are you for real?” I said, waking him up.

He startled, then laughed at himself. “Sorry. Too much wine.”

As the curtains closed, the audience applauded, but there was an undercurrent of discontent.
How could the story end this way?
In general, people didn't like sad endings, even in France, a country that elevated the cruel ironies of life into an art form.

The four of us gathered our jackets and stumbled out of the Opera House onto Rue Scribe, the street made famous by Gaston Leroux as the source of the hidden entrance to the Phantom's underground lair.

“So what did you think?” Elise asked, pulling out a cigarette.

“Flynn fell asleep,” I said, bursting out laughing.

“Are you kidding?” Elise said.

“I told you opera wasn't my thing,” Flynn said.

“Then how are you going to help us with our opera?” I said.

“Well, it's going to be a
rock
opera, right?”

Owen had been silent since we'd exited the theater, but now he said with an edge to his voice, “So you smoke now?”

“I only smoke when I'm in Paris,” she said. “You know,
when in Rome
. . .”

“But we're not in Rome,” Owen said. “If you were in Afghanistan, would you wear a burqa and let your father sell you off in marriage?”

“Of course not. You're being ridiculous.”

Flynn shot me a look that said,
Uh oh, here we go
.

Knowing it was best not to get involved, I snuck a glance at my phone and saw that Michelle had texted me back.

My father had texted me as well:
Emma, please call home as soon as you can.

That seemed a little urgent from him, but it had been five days since I'd last called home. Still, I felt uneasy as we walked back to school. What if something had happened to Grandma? She had been a little loopy these days.

While Flynn and Elise joked around and Owen sulked, I was in my own world of worry and angst.

“You guys want to get a drink?” Flynn asked. “The night is young.”

“I need to call my dad,” I said. “He just texted, and I'm a little worried. I think I'm going to call it a night.”

“Aw, come on,” Elise said. “You're no fun. What do you say, Owen?”

“I'll walk Emma back,” he said. “You two go out and be French together.”

“Owen, don't be like that,” she said, sidling up next to him and flashing her most charming smile.

“I don't think Emma should walk home alone. It's late. And I'm not really in the mood to go out anyway.”

“Fine.” Elise pouted. “Flynn, you still up for a nightcap?”

“Have I ever said no to a drink?”

“Maybe we can call Jean-Claude and find out what he's doing.”

Elise had pulled out the big guns and was pretty much dangling the threat of Jean-Claude right in Owen's face.

“All right, well, you kids have fun,” I said, trying to keep things light. “I'll see you tomorrow morning?”

“Maybe,” Elise said coyly.

Owen gritted his teeth, and I grabbed his arm and walked him away before tensions could flare any higher.

Poor Owen. It seemed he was always unlucky in love. Last year, Michelle had broken his heart when she revealed she was gay. Then I led him on by kissing him, and worse, by kissing Flynn a few months later. And now Elise was screwing him over, too. Why did it seem that nice guys truly did finish last?

We were walking past the Tuileries, all lit up like a fairy's garden. The Ferris wheel cast its giant reflection onto the fountain, and up ahead, the Louvre and Pei's pyramid lit up the sky like a fantastical mirage. The night seemed far too magical for the way we were both feeling.

“You okay?” I finally asked.

“I don't know, Emma. I can't figure Elise out. I mean, I knew the distance might be a problem this summer. But it's almost like she's trying to hurt me.”

I took his arm again. “Look, I know it's no excuse, but her parents are embroiled in this ugly divorce right now. She hardly ever mentions it, but I think she's having a more difficult time with it than she likes to let on.”

“I know, but I'm tired of getting my hopes up only to be disappointed.” I frowned and put my head on his shoulder as consolation. “And what about you?” he said. “Are you and Gray making it work despite the distance?”

“Yeah,” I said. “Of course, I miss him. But I know it's only temporary. It sounds silly, but I think we're soul mates.”

Owen scoffed. “You'd think if you were soul mates, the universe might make it a little easier for you to be together.”

I tried not to look as hurt as I felt. “You think the idea of soul mates is stupid, don't you?”

“Not stupid. Just . . . optimistic.”

“Well, you know me,” I said. “Miss Sunshine and Roses.”

That finally got a laugh out of him. “It's great talking to you again, Emma. I miss this.”

“I know. Me too.”

I shivered from the cold, or maybe from the sense of unease I'd had ever since getting my father's text. Owen noticed me bracing against the chill and suggested we take the Métro the rest of the way. I was grateful since I was anxious to talk to my dad. It was just around five thirty at home. Dinnertime. Barbara would be practicing some experimental dish in the kitchen, and Grandma would be sipping her first old-fashioned of the night. My dad might be stealing croutons from the salad bowl, and jazz would be blaring from the kitchen radio.

I was so enamored of my little scenario that I didn't realize we'd reached the Bastille Métro stop. Owen walked me to Saint-Antoine's back gate, which now filled me with dread. I paused with the key in my hand.

“Well, this is where I get off,” I said.

“Want me to stay with you until you call your dad?” he said. “In case something's wrong?”

“Nah,” I said. “You know me. I worry too much. It's probably nothing.”

“As long as you're sure.”

“I am. But aren't you forgetting something?” I said. He shrugged. “Last year, you may recall that I made a promise to sing a certain song to a certain someone on his birthday.”

“No!” he said. “You remembered?”

“Yep.”

“And after the karaoke debacle last year, you're still going to do it?”

“Yep.”

“So let me get this straight. Emma Townsend . . . is going to serenade me in an alleyway in Paris. Don't you think I might get the wrong idea?”

“Don't worry. This will be anything but romantic. You ready?”

“Hit me.”

I proceeded to sing Owen the most terrible rendition of “Happy Birthday” ever, using my unique Muppet stylings to make Owen laugh.

But then he got serious. “Emma, I know you like to joke around, but you have a much better voice than you give yourself credit for. Have you ever taken a singing lesson?”

I laughed. “Let's leave the singing to you, and I'll do what I'm good at. Writing.”

“Or we could do both together,” he said. “I've written a few songs in my day. I'd love to collaborate with you more on the opera. We make a great team.”