Note- I know it's been taking forever to update this. I actually have written several chapters ahead. But the story just wasn't flowing the way I wanted it to... You see, T.P. could be a musical genius, an algebra whiz, a coach, etc... I just didn't know which one to use! AH! But, I think it's fine now... Sorry about taking so long! Thanks for staying interested! Also, this chapter initiates the 'angel' quality. In the book, Christine describes his intentions simply as, "He asked to give me lessons," or something like that. So, this was a hard chapter to write! But, I finally did it!

Christine's eyes gradually adjusted to the light. Startled, she clutched the pepper spray once more and cautiously looked around. "WHO ARE YOU?" She said, defiantly.

The hand she had felt and the body to go with it had apparently vanished into thin air. She couldn't see any means to hide oneself easily in this bare room. She began to search under tables and chairs.

High above, a quiet 17 year old in a mask and black hooded sweatshirt peered through louvers of the air duct in the girls' dressing room.

Christine sat down. "I can't believe this... I know you're here! Why are you hiding from me?"

"It was her... I knew it!" T.P. was elated. He had seen her in the morning... Seen her in the halls... And then, in the theatre, the last place he expected her to be. He had brought her here; he had succeeded. But... Now what?

flashback

"Leave me alone! I want to be ALONE!!!" Christine yelled.

Christine ran as far away as the stage as possible. The old community theater was dark as her cries echoed their way before her.

Meg couldn't keep up. "Christine, wait! What's wrong?" she yelled after her, but Christine kept running, oblivious with sorrow.

Christine dashed to up the stairs at the very end of the backstage and climbed to the very top catwalk. She knew she could be alone there, although, she was very alone in this area anyway. No one ever came back there. It was said to be haunted.

"Oh!!! I HATE Carlotta!" She cried, knowing no one could hear her. "I hate her stupid accent and her stupid hair and her stupid voice! Oh Lord, curse her voice!"

Christine rarely acted like this. It wasn't her personality to 'hate' someone. 'Hate', in her religion, was a very strong word, used only in extreme cases.

Her anger faded into sorrow once again and she put her head on her knees and wept. "Oh..." she whimpered. "I can't stand her... She took Raoul, and now the lead!" Finding it uncomfortable to sit like that on the iron catwalk, she lied down and closed her eyes.

T.P. felt something similar to a raindrop fall on his head. "No..." He scoffed to himself, "it CAN'T be raining indoors." He looked up and saw the figure of what looked like a little girl.

"Not another NOSEY ballet brat I have to scare away..." He thought, "Oh well, comes with the territory..."

Silently, he climbed the catwalk, when it should have been called the T.P. walk, since not even a cat could have mastered it better than he. Noiselessly, he reached the top and saw that the little girl was crying.

T.P. watched her, and pitied her, but only for a moment. "Oh no! I've lost my tutu and I don't know where it is!" he imitated to himself.

Christine sat up straight immediately. "I have to get back... I have to face them... But what will I say?"

She sat Indian style and put one elbow on her knee and rested her head on it. She sighed, "If only you could help me, Dad..."

T.P. smirked, "We've got a nutty one over here!" He thought. "This is too easy..."

More silent and relentless tears appeared in Christine's eyes again. "No one understands... No one will ever understand me... I'm too different."

T.P. froze. "You, different? Why, you're beautiful..."

He began to climb back down the stairs, until Christine's soft voice stopped him in his tracks, "Who's there?"

He didn't realize that he had said that out loud. He winced. "I've been caught..."

"Who's there?" Christine repeated.

"Think... THINK!" T.P. thought.

"This silence is getting to me... I'm hearing things..." Christine said aloud.

"PHEW!" T.P. sighed out loud.

"Ah hah! Someone IS here! Who are you?!" Christine demanded.

T.P. had to think quickly. Finding him here, now, would not look good. It would never look good if it involved him. For some reason, a masked 17 year-old in a hooded black sweatshirt didn't exactly flow well with everyone...

T.P. rarely found an occasion when his intellect couldn't get him out of trouble. "If I can get the whole community to think this theater is haunted, then I can certainly fool this child!" He thought, confidently.

"It's... It's a friend. I've come to help you..." T.P. immediately shook his head. "She'll never believe it!"

Indeed Christine was skeptical, at first. She looked around and peered through the iron of the catwalk. But, this was futile since T.P. blended perfectly with the dark theater, and since he swiftly hid the white of his mask beneath his hood.

"God?" Christine asked innocently.

T.P. almost laughed aloud. "I'm definitely the last thing from God!" he thought.

"No... God wouldn't waste his time with me..." Christine said.

T.P. pondered this. "That was the exact thing I was thinking a few days ago..."

"Are you an angel, then?"

"What the heck?" T.P. thought. "Yes, I'm an angel."

Christine smirked, skeptical. "Okay... Do you know that Angel of Music? Mama Valerius talks about him constantly."

T.P. thought that sounded familiar, like out of a book he read a long time ago...

"So?"

"I AM the Angel of Music."

If it was possible, Christine's wide, green eyes got bigger. "No way! Seriously... I must be dreaming..."

T.P. thought, "Is this wrong? I shouldn't pretend to be someone I'm not... Well, if I can pretend to be a ghost, and pretend not to exist, than how hard can this be?"

"No, you're not dreaming... I am the Angel of Music. What is your name?"

"Gulp Christine..."

"Christine..." T.P. repeated to himself. "Well, Christine, why are you crying?"

Christine looked down. "I don't want to waste your time..."

"Trust me, there's no where else I'd rather be. Just start talking; I'll listen."

Christine, still not believing that this "Angel" was real, decided it was safe enough just to tell him her problems. She didn't want to go back to rehearsal just yet...

Christine divulged her feelings about Carlotta wholly. She talked for what seemed like an hour before T.P. finally got a word in edgewise.

"Wait... So this Carlotta person's mother is the music director of this musical, not to mention the music teacher at the high school?! That is unfair!" T.P. was outraged at this poor girl's trials with this "Carlotta person".

"I KNOW! And you know what she said to me?"

"What?"

"She said I sang like a broken-winged swallow!"

"NO!"

"YES!"

T.P. suddenly got the feeling like he was at a girly slumber party, but he didn't care. Christine was the easiest person and girl he had ever been able to talk to. They were becoming very close...

Christine had never met or heard anyone like this. He was so kind... They were actually getting along. Christine could almost believe that he was an angel, but hopefully not. He was a nice enough person to her, willing to listen to her problems, that she didn't care if he wanted to pretend he was an angel or not.

"Something must be done... Justice must be served!" He said angrily.

"No... No, don't do anything. She may be ruthless, but she's still a person. You can't hurt her..."

T.P. furrowed his brow. "What?!"

"Don't do anything."

T.P. looked confusedly at her. "But, all the things you said..."

"It's just talk."

T.P. shook his head rapidly. "Women ARE fickle!" He thought. "Christine... Are you sure?"

"Yes. Please?" T.P. looked at her in a different way. He gazed at her, on the catwalk, her arms folded across her knees, talking to the ceiling, like she was praying. He knew he couldn't refuse her. She was a friend; for the first time in his life, he had a friend.

He sighed. He felt something very new swell within his heart. It was such a warm feeling, that he never wanted to let go of. He swallowed. "Whatever you want, Christine."

"Thank you..." She smiled. T.P. thought he was going to burst.

Suddenly, a voice came from the theater. "Do you think Christine went home? She hasn't been back for a few hours... Practice is over. We were going to walk home together." Meg was explaining to the others.

Christine turned her head abruptly to the general sound of the voices. She took in a sharp intake of breath.

T.P. wanted to scare them away, but nothing, not even his feet, could tear him away from Christine.

"I have to go..." Christine said.

"No... Stay with me. You can come with me..." T.P. said, subconsciously.

"Meg is waiting..." She replied.

"Will I see you again?"

"Someday... Maybe. I hope." She said.

Before T.P. could reply a meeting place, he had to jump out of sight. Christine started to descend the stairs.

T.P. called after her, "Don't tell anyone about me. It's our secret. Forever."

"I'll take care of it." Christine replied backwardly.

"Goodbye!"

"Bye, Angel!"

T.P. watched his friend longingly as she jogged gracefully down the steps. He jumped onto one the ropes and swung from it as he watched her join up with Meg. "Bye, Christine..." He sighed.

Elegantly, he jumped from the rope onto the catwalk and ran down the stairs. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he ran down more stairs to the basement of the theater. "Home..." He sighed.

This "home" T.P. referred to was the cellars of the theater. He walked past old set pieces from plays and musicals over the years, glancing occasionally backward to see if he was being followed. When he was sure he was certainly alone, he called aloud, "CHRISTINE! HOW I LOVE THAT NAME! HOW IT ECHOES IN MY EARS!" He smiled. The expression felt foreign on his seemingly constant forlorn face. As he danced his way to his room, a meek structure made from a cottage used in Snow White, he came across a mirror from a set used many years ago. He stopped in his tracks.

His smile almost immediately faded. "That's me," he said. "That ugly, bony skeleton in there is me..."

He swallowed as he recalled the disease that had misshapen his face and body since his youth. Leprosy. His mother had it. He had it. He was receiving treatment, and the symptoms were nearly gone, but the marks it had left were still there. "I still look like a monster," he said. He walked to the mirror and smashed it with a bare, clenched fist. "I THOUGHT I told father to put no mirrors in the basement!" he called out angrily.

"No matter..." He said, suddenly calm. His fist began to bleed. "I'll just tend to my wounds and accost father tomorrow... But tonight... I have to figure out a way to see Christine again... Without her seeing me." And with that, he strode elegantly off toward his room.

end flashback

Christine was still sitting there, in front of the girl's huge vanity mirror. She couldn't help but think of how ridiculous she looked in black clothes.

"Christine, black is certainly not you color... I like you in white..."

Christine gasped. "So you are here..." she said. "Well, I'm not afraid! Show yourself!" Christine was lying; she was terrified.

"At the moment, dear, it would be completely impossible to do so... Besides, you don't want to see me... You just want to hear me..."

Christine peered around. This voice was everywhere! She couldn't pinpoint it... But then, she remembered. "It's... It's you!" she cried.

T.P. nodded, "I thought you had forgotten."

Christine replied, "How can you say that? I've thought about you everyday!"

T.P.'s heartbeat quickened.

"What have you been doing?" she asked.

"Moving..."

"Where?"

"From one theater to the next, initially."

Christine wondered, "You live here? In theaters?"

"Yes. It is something, I'll tell you that. I get to see free shows whenever I wish."

Christine was terribly confused. "But... Why? There are plenty of beautiful houses in this town..."

T.P. laughed aloud. "It's very hard to explain, and even harder to understand."

"So... I don't mean to sound pushy but... What do you want?" Christine asked.

T.P. blinked. He had just wanted to see her, to talk to her... That was enough for him. It should be enough for her too.

"Well, I just wanted to know how your first day of school went. Was it well?"

Christine's jaw dropped. "You're kidding right?"

T.P. jumped. He didn't expect this sort of behavior out of her. She was quiet, innocent, sweet... What had happened?

"No, of course not!" he snapped. "I want to know." He genuinely wanted to know now; he knew something had happened.

Christine was cautious as ever. Her angel sounded mad... But angels can't be mad... "I don't have to tell you." She said decisively.

T.P. peered at her hard, as if trying to see her soul. "Well." He snuffed.

"I'm sorry... It's been a long day. I'm quite tired, and worse still, I don't have my homework done..."

T.P. straightened up. "It wouldn't happen to be Algebra?"

She nodded. "Yes. How did you know?"

"I had a hunch..." T.P. giggled secretly. "Would you like some help?"

"Oh! I'd love that!" she said, "But... I don't have my books."

"I'll provide the books. I'll go fetch them."

"If you insist..." She said.

T.P. slowly crawled around in the direction of his gigantic tunnel that led to everywhere imaginable. "To the algebra room..." He thought.