Chapter two: Chivalry is dead, but you're still kind of cute.

January 4th, 2006, 4:00PM

somewhere over Kansas

I hate boys.

I hate cute boys. I hate boys who make you laugh. I hate boys that offer you their jackets when it's cold outside. I hate boys that say that they're going to call you, but then they don't. I hate boys who tell you about their fear of clowns, boys that pay for dinner, boys that listen to you babble on for hours and boys that watch fireworks with you. I hate boys that almost kiss you at midnight, but then leave the next day, no matter what.

And just when I was beginning to have faith in men.

Yet there I was, on the airplane to Albuquerque, sans phone call from a certain blue-eyed, brown haired boy.

Ugh.

Maybe he was gay.

Probably.

He was too good looking.

I sighed.

Double ugh.

Maybe God is telling me something.

After all of my past fiascos with boys, maybe he's telling me that boys and Gabriella Montez don't mix.

Like oil and water.

Or electricity and water.

Or Jennifer Aniston and Angelina Jolie.

Anyway, boys are always too stupid, too shy, too deceitful or too gay. (Not that being gay is bad, it's just that when boys are gay, I can't get involved, obviously.)

But they're all SO attractive.

See, if only Troy wasn't so attractive, I wouldn't be moping. I would be enjoying this absolutely relaxing flight, admiring the bouncy clouds and indulging in the free pillows and blankets the flight attendants have so graciously bestowed upon me.

But I'm not, because Troy said he'd call me and he didn't. Damn it.

I think I should join a convent.

Yeah.

Maybe somewhere in Italy.

Or Amsterdam.

Mm, that sounds like a plan.

January 6th, 2006

7:50AM; East High parking lot

Shifting my school bag nervously on my shoulder, I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as I looked upon the campus grounds. East High, my new stomping ground, was just as extravagant and gorgeous as my mother described it to me. And from first glance, it seemed as if the students were no less extravagant and gorgeous.

From Sidekicks to Chanel purses to Tory Burch flats and Miss Sixty jeans, the East High students appeared to have walked right out of Gossip Girl. There were cliques of course; the emo kids, the wanna-be emo kids, the jocks and cheerleaders, the Asians, the drama kids and the nerds.

I anxiously stepped inside the main hallway, looking for the office so I could get my schedule.

I easily locate the main office and found a secretary who appeared nice enough. She had pictures of her kid - Kirby I assume from the name on the frame - littered across her desk, and I hold back a laugh.

Who names their kid Kirby? Isn't that the pink dude who eats everything in Super Smash Brothers? Oh man.

The secretary comes back with my schedule and I pretend to be looking around the office and not at her personal pictures of Kirby. Baha.

She handed it to me with a grin and asked if I needed someone to show me around.

"No thanks, I think I'll be fine." Usually the people who show me around end up ditching me after two periods, so I've learned to fend for myself after moving quite a bit. I ambled my way out of the door, giving my thanks to the secretary while trying not to get shoved by the sea of people that seemed to just pour in. The first bell must've rung.

Looking down at my freshly printed schedule, still warm from the copier machine, I shuffled my way towards homeroom 103. I double-take as I look inside the classroom, lined with grand onyx drapery and lots of props and extra scenery from, what I'm guessing, past school shows. I must have stumbled into the homeroom the drama teacher. Yay. Me.

I entered the classroom, half-expecting for everyone to stop with their side conversations, stare me down and break out into whispers, but alas, no one seemed to have noticed my presence as I ducked my head down, taking an empty seat towards the back of the classroom. I wasn't in an Audrey Hepburn movie, after all.

I can barely take a solitary glance around the room — there's some basketball players playing with a basketball, (can someone please tell me why anyone would carry around a basketball to homeroom?) a girl with horrible bleach blond hair and other hipsterish looking people – when the homeroom teacher comes in with a flourish.

Talk about making a dramatic entrance.

Ms. Darbus had a booming voice, wacky clothes and a big personality to match.

She tells a Mr. Danforth that the classroom wasn't a hockey arena and for a Mr. Bolton to take his seat and, wait.

Mr. Bolton?

Like Troy Bolton?

No effing way.

I tried to glance at the front of the room and can only see that the boy had messy brown hair - like Troy's - but it's a common haircut and last name, right? So I can't get my hopes up.

Not that I would, because I don't believe in boys anymore.

Mhmm.

And all of a sudden, my cell phone goes off, and I lunged inside my bag, half-curious and half-embarrassed that I'd only been in school for less than ten minutes without breaking the rules.

Who could be calling me?

Troy's (wonderful…ly ugly) face pops up on my screen, and I'm taken aback, quite frankly.

I thought I never would have heard from him again.

But why would he call at this time?

Doesn't he live… oh wait, where does he live?

Maybe he lives in London and it was really 5 in the afternoon, so it would have been a perfectly normal time to call someone.

Perhaps.

...

I make a mental note that I should call him back when I get the chance, but then I remember that I was going to join a convent and dismiss the idea.

Darbus was evidently on a reign of terror as she stops in front of my desk, welcoming me to East High and then proceeding to give me a detention. I hesitantly dropped my cell phone in her paint can of doom and vaguely wondered when I would be able to get it back so that I could call Troy.

NO.

I'm joining a convent.

Stupid short-term memory.

I fight the urge to slap my forehead.

And so, Darbus continued on with the normal spiel – I have detention painting props after school today – and I jiggled my foot nervously, waiting for the day to continue on. The bell rings obnoxiously and I jumped out of my seat, ecstatic to get out of Darbus's claws.

And I barely made it out of the room before being stopped by a very familiar blue-eyed boy.

It WAS Troy Bolton.

I do a double-take, and I don't believe it. He can't either.

I pinch myself just to make sure that I wasn't dreaming.

And it hurt, so I am alive.

What was this, Grease?

There was a one in seven hundred million chance that I would end up at his high school. But there we were.

He smiles, a bit apologetically, and whispers, "I tried calling you on New Year's Day, but we had to leave first thing."

I nodded meekly, accepting his answer half-heartedly, but he could have called me afterwards, no? I was prepared to sidestep him, but he smelled so good. It was kind of intoxicating.

In a good way, I mean.

But why was he whispering?

I ask him and he didn't realize he was doing it, but he mumbles something about snowboarding and singing. Then he pauses to say hello to half of the school, so I turn into another hallway, looking for my Physics class.

He pops up again, (I can't get rid of him, can I?) motions grandly to the main hallway around us and says, "Well, welcome to East High," with the cheesiest smile on his face.

I raise an eyebrow at all the bright posters, the bronze wildcat statue and superfluous decorations that littered the walls.

"Looks like a lot going on," I state dryly.

He laughs, and hearing it again brings a smile on my face because he has the most delicious laugh ever, and I was suddenly overcome with the sudden urge to hug him. "We're very involved, here. Sports, academics, arts and musicals," he stops to point at the musical sign-up sheet, "East High does it all."

"And are you going to be trying out for the musical?" I ask shyly, playing with the buttons of my jacket.

His eyes become large for a moment, but the expression disappears as quickly as it came as he shakes his head. "No, are you thinking of trying out?"

"No, definitely not," I answer, almost getting nauseous at the suggestion of singing on stage in front of people, again. "Although, if you were in it, I'd consider coming to the show."

Oops, was that a flirty comment? I didn't mean to say that. Stupid mouth.

He laughs again and opens his mouth to respond when the girl with the very fake blond hair (from homeroom, I mean) sashays over to the sign-up sheet, taking up most of the paper with her ridiculous left-handed signature.

I peer over her shoulder to read her name: Sharpay Evans.

Like the dog? I snort inwardly. She must have gone through a horrible childhood with that name.

She turns around and sees Troy and me staring blankly at her. "Oh, were you going to sign up, too?" She asks with a certain fakeness that I immediately pick up on. So it wasn't just the hair. She has a very irritating voice, and I can't quite look at her in the eyes because her sparkles were blinding me.

"Er, no, I was just looking around," I reply shortly, and Troy nods in agreement.

"Oh, well, my brother and I star in all the school's productions. We really welcome newcomers. There are a lot of supporting roles, so I'm sure we could find something for you." She answers with a smirk, and her mannerisms remind me of a pet Chihuahua. I don't think I'm going to like this girl.

But I smile politely and start moving towards the staircase. "I guess I better get going," I say slowly, glancing at Troy's amused face and sparkly-Sharpay girl's un-amused one.

I feel her eyes glare at my back as I walk away, but she was probably just jealous that I was blessed with a normal name and she was named after a dog, so hah.

East High Auditorium

3:00PM

I've never received a detention in my whole entire life, you know.

Probably because I'm too boring and ordinary and good for my own sake.

Or it's because I'm short.

All short people are either, (a) famous or (b) nice. And I just happen to fall into the second category.

Regardless, I've never had detention before, but at least we were just painting props and we weren't being held in captivity for four hours and forced to write lines that simultaneously sear into cuts on the back of your hand. Oh wait, was that Harry Potter? Probably.

Troy had gotten a detention, too — he told me earlier that he called me because he thought he saw me in homeroom, but wasn't sure. And I was all, you could have just talked to me, you know. Like a normal person. But Troy acts before he thinks, so he called my cell, instead, and consequently landed us both in detention. Which is alright because he's ridiculously good looking, and that makes up for all of his faults.

Wait, I didn't mean to think that.

I was minding my own business, painting a moon a dusty grey when a pretty, yet slightly frazzled African-American girl comes up to me and bursts, "We'd love to have you on our team."

"Huh?" I answer stupidly, extremely confused.

"Academic Decathlon? Didn't you put these papers in my locker?" She holds up a very embarrassing article about me winning the ACADECA competition in Maine.

"I would never. Where did you get those?" I'm both very intrigued and appalled by the conversation.

"In my locker. But if you didn't put them there, who did?" She knits her eyebrows together.

"Beats me." If I just snatch the papers out of her hand and rip them up into pieces, would she think that I'm insane? Not that I'm NOT insane, but I don't need a bad reputation at this school. Mother said that we wouldn't move until I graduated, so I'm going to be here for quite awhile.

Before I'm able to devise a plan to take the papers away from the girl, some dude barges into the auditorium, yells for a bit and asks for Troy and Chad (Troy's afro-haired partner in crime) because they have basketball practice.

I look over at Troy and he looks sheepish as he drags Chad out of the tree, his eyes shifting towards me as he walks out.

Troy Bolton, a basketball player?

Why didn't he tell me that before?

Was the kid good at everything?

Hm.

I wonder if he was captain of the varsity basketball team and class President and editor of the school newspaper and a member of the National Honors Society. One of those kids.

Maybe.

The girl turns to me, apologizes for her mistake and I tell her not to worry about it. "My name is Taylor McKessie, by the way. How do you like East High so far?"

"It's… nice." I say, for lack of a better word. What was I supposed to say? I feel uncomfortable with all the flashiness and fakeness, I got my first detention and I re-met the loveliest boy I had ever known?

We share a look as she smiles understandingly, and for the first time, I actually felt welcomed. And it was nice.

January 7, 2006

8:30AM: Pre-calc

"So, it looks like you knew Troy Bolton," a voice drawls from somewhere in front of me.

I jumped up at the sudden sound, looked across the desk and lo and behold, there's Miss Sharpay (the person, not the dog) Evans tapping her perfectly manicured hands lackadaisically on the table.

She's giving me an icy stare and I wonder if Troy forgot to mention something terribly important about himself. Who did this chick think she was? The Queen of England?

OR WAIT.

Worse.

What if she was Troy's girlfriend?

No.

Maybe.

We never really talked about it, but he would have told me, right?

Nevermind that, I've got her figured out anyways.

Upon closer inspection of her pristine pink tweed blazer, I get a nagging feeling that she's just simply like the rest of these country club, upper society girls.

Rich, skinny and bitchy.

I frown down at my worksheet. "Um, not really," I retort carefully, just in case she was Troy's girlfriend. I didn't want to give her any wrong ideas. "He was just showing me around." Which was true.

She perks up a little bit and gives me a small smile. "Yeah, well, Troy usually doesn't interact with new students." She looks at me, almost apologetically.

Oh really?

"Why's that?" I feigned disinterest, pretending to pay attention to my calc work, but maintaining a level of sangfroid, if I do say so myself.

"Well, it's usually basketball 24/7 with him," she prattles on disinterestedly, inspecting her nails.

Hm, I wonder why he never told me about his basketball obsession.

He couldn't be embarrassed by it. Unless they have a really terrible basketball team.

Oh, that's probably it. Aww, poor thing. At least he's good at singing. And attractive. And could possibly be class president/editor of the newspaper/member of the National Honors Society.

Unlike me, who's much too ordinary and boring and can only figure out logarithms and pi and that answer to number four should be 16π.

January 8, 2006

7:45AM: East High north courtyard

"What do you know about Troy Bolton?" I subtly ask Taylor as we walk across the front lawn.

She gives me a knowing look that I pointedly ignore, but continues to answer, regardless. "Troy Bolton? Well, I'm not completely familiar with that particular sub-species, but he is arguably the coolest guy in school. Everyone adores him. Guys want to be him, girls want to be with him; he's your typical jock. He doesn't really associate with anyone other than his barbarian teammates and the popular kids, but he seems charming enough, to me." She shrugs.

Ah. I had to stumble across Mr. Popularity.

"Why are you so interested?" She turns and faces me.

"I'm not interested, interested," I raise my hands defensively. "I was just curious. He just… showed me around." And we had a New Year's Eve rendezvous at a hotel in New York City, but that's all.

"He showed you around?" She looks appalled.

"Why is that such a bad thing around here?" Man, I know I'm ordinary and boring and not that exciting, but you'd think people would give me a little bit of credit.

"Oh, it's just that East High is your typical American high school with a social pyramid, so no one really, well, mingles," she says slowly.

"Mingles?"

"We all stick to our groups of friends. It's not bad, it's just the way things always go." Taylor looks sideways at the cheerleaders practicing their routine by the front entrance. "It's the status quo. And you can't change that."

So after my talk with Taylor and a few of my own investigations, I've learned that Troy Bolton is class president, he is not the editor of the school newspaper nor is he a member of the NHS, but he is the captain of East High's boys varsity basketball team. Go figure.

And the basketball team?

They've won over 16 national championships.

Troy Bolton is kind of a big deal around here.

Not that I'm surprised.

After seeing the way that people greet him once he's stepped off the school bus in the morning, it's quite evident he's like royalty around here. You'd think he was the Pope or something. Especially because he's always got an entourage with him. Which is mostly made up of Chad and his other basketball friends, but they're always around him regardless.

Which is why I haven't been able to talk to him for three days now.

Not that I care.

Much.

January 11, 2006

7:00AM: My room

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep.

I faintly heard my alarm clock going off, and with my eyes still shut, I smacked my arm around, hoping it'll find its way to the snooze button.

It finally shuts off, and I groaned loudly because I have a Physics test first period and-- OH. MY. GOD.

I sit straight up in my bed, glancing frantically from the clock to my forgotten Physics textbook lying on the opposite side of my comforter.

A PHYSICS TEST FIRST PERIOD.

AND I FELL ASLEEP.

I DIDN'T STUDY.

OH SHIT.

Okay, calm down, Gabriella. It's not the end of the world. It's only one test.

(THAT COUNTS FOR A THIRD OF YOUR GRADE.)

I jump out of bed and start to pace back and forth.

It's one test.

I can do this.

Physics is easy and it's all multiple choice so I have a chance.

I do.

I do believe in fairies, I do, I do.

….

Oh, God.

Maybe I should just stay home and fake sick. YES, at least I'm thinking rational thoughts now— "Gabriella, are you awake, sweetie?" My mother pokes her head in my door as I'm caught wide awake, out of my bed. "Oh good, I thought I was going to have to pour water on you again." I glare at her as I recall the tragic memory. I'm a heavy sleeper, sue me.

"Um, mom?" I begin hesitantly as she starts to go downstairs.

"Yes?"

"I think I'm sick."

She comes back into my room and frowns, feeling my forehead as I feel my heartbeat getting faster in anxiety. "You don't have a temperature, but you do look a little pale. What's the matter?"

"My heart is palpitating."

Now she looks amused. "Your heart is palpitating?" She asks skeptically.

"Yes. That's what it's called, palpitating, right? When your heart is beating irregularly. And it hurts. Nay, it THROBS." I emphasize, clutching my heart and pouting.

"I think you just had one too many cups of coffee this morning. Better lay off for awhile, alright, honey?" She winks and pads across the room, leaving me to wallow alone in my misery.

I whimper and throw myself to my closet, feeling especially melodramatic.

After shuffling around for a bit because I couldn't find anything to wear - don't you hate those days? - I declared that today is going to suck because I'm not going to have time for breakfast and I can't take a shower because I ran out of my Frederick Fekkai shampoo and don't forget that physics test I didn't study for.

Actually, I think 'suck' is the understatement of the century.

Damn karma.

still January 11, 2006

8:41AM: Physics

I look down at my answer paper and realize that I have four A's in a row. And that can't be right, so I change two of them into B's and one into a D.

Fighting the urge to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation, (I mean, how could anyone think that I'm actually smart? I'm such a slacker.) I place my pencil down on the desk.

I glanced helplessly at the actual test and decided that there was no use in checking over my answers because I had no clue what half of the questions were talking about anyway, so semi-satisfied, I stood up, grabbing my bag and handing my test over to the teacher, offering a small smile on my way out.

In the hallway, I closed my eyes and take a deep breath.

At least that's over with.

Or so I thought, because I walked into Pre-calc and who would have guessed, but we had a pop quiz! Whoopdee-do.

And I promise that my day only got better from there, because during lunch I spilled my soda all over me, so I had to call my mother to bring me a new shirt. Why am I such a klutz? It was my favorite American Apparel shirt, too. I hope Fanta doesn't stain.

Oh, and then I forgot to print out my English homework, so I got a homework zero, and now I have to wait an hour for my mother to pick me up because she's running late at a meeting.

Welcome to the fabulous life of Gabriella Montez.

I slinked down into a bench, thankful that at least the weather was beautiful today.

But before I can place my iPod earphones into my ears, a shadow falls across my body, and I have to squint to see who's standing in front of me.

And just like a cheesy novel, it had to be the one and only Troy Bolton. He's grinning goofily at me, a basketball spinning deftly on one finger.

"Hey, what's up?" He asks, just as if we'd been friends forever. Which I wasn't even sure that we were. Friends, I mean. He hadn't spoken to me for what, six days? Not that I was counting.

But I decided to humor him and replied cheekily, "The sky."

"Lame answer."

"Lame question. What are you supposed to answer with?" Dork.

"Oh, you know, 'nothing much, you?' The normal response, and all." He drops the ball, taking a seat next to me on the bench. "But, really, how have you been? I feel like I haven't talked to you since you've gotten here."

Duh, because you haven't.

I smile sweetly, looking out at the parking lot full of Mercedes-Benz's and BMW's before confessing, "Well, I'm okay. But I don't think East High likes me very much."

He chuckles and drapes his arm across the back of the bench. "That's ridiculous, how could anyone not like you?" Aw, that was sweet.

"I don't know, but I feel like I'm having the worst time here. I got my first detention, I'm pretty sure I failed my Physics test today, I forgot my English homework and now I have to stay here forever until my mom picks me up because I missed the bus." I'm whining, but I can't help it because it's been such a long day, and I'm hungry.

"Hey, stop that, you're overreacting." He picks up my chin so that I'm looking into his eyes. "First of all, that detention was my fault and you know it; your Physics and English grades aren't going to matter in the long run because from what I hear, you're a genius," at that I blush horribly, but Troy doesn't seem to notice or care as he continues, "and as for you waiting for your mom, I can drive you home right now, if you want."

"Oh, no, I don't want to be more of a hassle. You already had to listen to me complain and moan about my horrible day. I'll be fine, Troy."

"No you won't. And I like hearing you moan." Is it me, or did his eyes turn darker? Wait, was he being suggestive? Is he kidding? His normal, but still beautiful eye color returns before I can contemplate it any further, as he says, "But really, I'm not going to take no for an answer. If I have to, I'm going to throw you over my shoulder, strap you down into my car and drive you home." Oh, please do.

"No, don't you have basketball practice or something?" My mouth just can't seem to say yes, for some reason.

"I don't, which is why I'm offering you a ride home." He starts to pick up my things and offers a hand to help me up. "Come on, I'm trying to be chivalrous." He grins and I never noticed it before, but he has the most glorious dimple on his left cheek when he smiles widely.

"Chivalry is dead, didn't you get the memo?" I tease, shaking my head.

"Ah, chivalry is not dead, 'tis only sleeping, my sweet." He winks. "So, may I hold your hand and escort you to my car, beautiful Gabriella Montez?"

He looks so earnest and puppy-dog adorable that I couldn't possibly say no. So I took his hand in mine and reveled at how lovely they felt.

Before we crossed the parking lot, my Physics teacher, who was going to his own car, stops me and says congratulations.

Troy smirks and gives me a pointed look as I ask, "For what?"

"Your Physics test." Mr. Simmons exclaims as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Are you serious?" I ask, dumbfounded.

"Of course I am, Miss Montez, you scored a 100 percentile. The only one in the class. Keep up the great work; I'll see you in class tomorrow. You too, Mr. Bolton." He grins at us both, glancing down at our still clasped hands, before getting into his car.

Troy looks over at my shocked face and laughs loudly. "Oh, Montez, I told you that you were overreacting. You're amazing. Simmons' class is seriously hardcore." He squeezes my hand.

"But I really guessed on everything, I didn't study at all--" I start, but Troy wouldn't hear it, as he lifts his free hand to stop me.

"Enough of your babbling, let's go. Do you want to get some dinner with me? Or do you have to do something else important? Because if you do, that's okay, it is a school night, we can just--"

"Troy, shut up. I'd love to go to dinner. As long as you're paying, Mr. Chivalrous." I reply, jokingly.

He laughs again, and my stomach starts to ache once more, but I don't think it's because I'm starving. "Of course, dinner is on me tonight." He grins, and he holds open the car door for me, before getting into the driver's seat himself.

"Then let's kick it."

Ah, I love karma.