All right homies!
This is my first fan-fiction for HSM, and it is a Christmas present for my friend Ann who turned me onto the world of Tryan.
Merry X-Mas Ann!
Love ya' lots homie
Disclaimer: I do not own High School Musical, or anything really in this fic. I own the plot line.
Notes: hum… merry Christmas, and thank you Dita for letting me type and talk to you on the phone at the same time. Woot woot to multitasking!
Toilet Paper Chronicles
Chapter 1
Stupid Fedora
Day 17 in HellAll right, here is my story. I figure that someone has to know it. At first, I thought that all my life had to offer was playing basketball, getting girls (primarily Gabriella Martinez) and hanging out with my best friend Chad.
Then he came in.
He came in with those stupid baby blue eyes that haunt my every fantasy and that soft blonde hair that could both burn my skin and make me wish I could just run my fingers through it one more time.
Now I'm sitting in a high security prison cell, writing my life story on the main form of currency here. You can stop gagging now, not dildos or even cigarettes… but toilet paper. This story has to be told though. Even if it is on a roll of Charmin with a fine point Sharpie. Apparently, they don't trust us with anything sharper. In case, we try to kill each other or the guards. As if. But, this is the truth. Not the story my "state appointed" lawyer came up with. Not the story that Chad's father sold to the "jury of my peers". No one could understand. It all started in my senior year. Back when that blue-eyed he-devil was nothing more then just Sharpay Evans' lap dog in a stylish fedora. That's when I was the star of the basketball team, with my ever so lovely father as the coach. If anyone reading, this has a parent as a teacher. I pity you. But try having a parent as a sport coach. Hell, he even put a half court in our backyard. As if he didn't pollute my head enough. He brought the brain washing home. I would write more about that son of a bitch (no offense Gran'ma), but this story isn't about another semi-gay-semi-confused boy with a fucked up parent. No, Coach Bolton is in this, but this is a story about Ryan Evans.
Shit.
Give me some time first to get some dinner. The joy of getting a cavity check from some latent homo guard that grab my ass and call me a faerie, asking if I like being touched and if I miss Chad. They love to remind me every minute of every day that I'm stuck in this hell about what I did. Last night before bed, one of them walked past my small cell (ten steps by twenty steps) while whispering that I was a homo and a fag. They all believe that crock story that the jury lapped up like kittens to a saucer. That I killed Chad because I was jealous. Because I found out that Gabi and Chad were now… and I hate to write this… expecting. Apparently a night of madness and really cheep beer led to Gabriella being knocked up. The only thing I regret about all of this is that she's in this alone. I offered to help, but apparently, the judge saw me as a flight risk. Something about a primitive "he-man" instinct about protecting "my woman" and yadda, yadda. I was in too much shock that I was going away for twenty years, chance of parole after fifteen. To really pay attention to what he was saying.
But right now, I have to go, a guard with biceps the size of watermelons is knocking at my door. Be back after I get molested by some meathead who will ask if I miss Chad, and if I know what Gabi is going to name the baby. Why can't anyone just let me serve my time in peace? I'll hopefully get out of here when I'm thirty-three. Ryan will have moved on. Gabi would have a teenage kid. Why would either of them look at me then? But no… this state has to worse guards ever, serving as constant reminders that I, Troy Bolton… got into my first fist fight with anyone. And killed my best friend. All for that blue-eyed he-devil.