Eve looked anxiously at the clock. She had two minutes left and she was only on page thirty. She had been writing nonstop for the 118 minutes since she started, even though she had a brilliant idea: role reversal.

It was, well, brilliant. No other word could describe it. Not only did she just have to recopy the story, granted it was from memory but she knew her stuff, but she loopholed through writing Erik in character. If Erik was the starry-eyed ingénue and Christine was the Phantom(ess) of the Opera, there weren't any set character types and Eve was in the clear! She even felt a thrill of joy when she thought of the brilliant title "Phantomess of the Opera." The only bit of trouble she had was when she realized that she had to change Raoul's gender, but there can be an unmarried vicomtesse, right?

While on page thirty one (Raoulette has just been assaulted by Christine in the Perris-Golic graveyard), a loud noise rocked the room. Leroux!Erik had slammed his hands on the pipe organ, effectively stunning the students.

"Hand in your… masterpieces," Webber!Erik said with a sick smile on his lips.

Eve ran to the front to turn into her work. Even though it was short, it was a work of art. She hurriedly walked out of the classroom only to run smack into Mlle. Mirielle.

"I'm sorry," Eve said, as she tried to inch around the not-so-mini trainer.

"One moment, Eve," Mlle. Mirielle said, stepping in Eve's way.

"Yes?"

"You know where the not-so-minis sleep, correct?"

Everyone knew where the not-so-minis rested—Apollo's Lyre, all the way on the top of the roof. Several students found it while trying to reenact All I Ask of You (Reprise) from the Webber musical.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Please escort Perris-Golic there." Mlle. Mirielle said as she gestured to the not-so-mini grasshopper beside her.

"But, why! We are in the second basement! Do you have any idea how long it takes to get Apollo's Lyre?" Eve cried. Now she would never be ready in time to for the Raouls' exam. Not that she planned on studying, but it was an excuse.

"My dear, you created poor Perris-Golic, it is only right that you introduce him to the rest of his family. By the way, I go to Apollo's Lyre every day to train the not-so-minis. Enjoy the weather, Paris is stunning in the winter."

Sometimes, Eve hated this place.


Dearest Darlingest Diary,

I hate this place. Not even the idea of seeing an Erik every day makes me happy. I want to go home! I will never write fan fiction ever again! From now on Erik shall only live on in my mind, not on paper. They can't get me in my mind! If I want to imagine Erik bathed in the blood of Raoul while sleeping with Karbella, I can! If I want to imagine Erik bathed in the blood of Raoul while with Nadir, I CAN! This will be my quiet rebellion. Our pens will cease! Our minds will take over! Let us revolt! Let u

This diary has been taken into the custody of the Official Phanphiction Academy (O.P.A.)


"Did you hear?" Beth said.

"What?" Maddy said.

"Someone's diary was taken by the administration!"

"You're kidding! They can't do that! Freedom of Speech!"

"Dude, we are in France," piped Emry.

"Still!"

"How did they know?" Erin asked.

"I heard Erik is a psychic and can tell when people write naughty things about him!"

"I heard it was the not-so-mini, Erick, that was psychic."

"You are both wrong, it is Argento!Christine who told them. She left behind her psychic gift in a box for Webber!Erik."

Everyone stared at Meimu.

"Or not."

"As amusing as this speculation is, it was the Headmaster who informed us of the student's diary," Alaina said from behind the students. "Take this as a warning. If anyone else has something that should catch the administration's attention, I suggest you get rid of it. Now."

Poor Teh Perisan was nearly squashed in the stampede to destroy evidence.


AN: Love life, love your beta, think clean thoughts. Yes, we know that possibility of an inherited title of vicomtesse is negligible, thank you. For those of you that are not up to date on your peerage laws of inheritance, the title would pass to the nearest male relative upon the vicomte's death. The daughter of a comte is 'Lady,' not vicomtesse.