Author's Note: HELLO READERS. If there are any out there. I'm really sorry this took forever and ever to get put up, but junior year is absolute murder - so I never had the time. But here it is; it's a completely different side of my writing, (much more humorous) so for all you fans of any of the drabbles in Rush, I hope you'll still enjoy this regardless. It's slightly AU, but it definitely keeps similar plots and references to HSM. This first chapter just really sets the stage for the rest of the story - all told in Gabriella's point of view - introducing you to the characterization, style, etc; so it's short. I'm rambling now, but I wish you all a very happy new year. Stay safe. And make it rock.

Summary: Follow the ever tenacious Gabriella Montez on the road to find herself; facing kids who always seem to break out into song, SATs, and Troy Bolton: a boy who has seemed to squirm himself into her life while she wasn't even looking. TG.

Rating: T for language, humor and adult situations

No, I do not own anything, unfortunately. Inspired by Meg Cabot's writing.


THROUGH THE GRAPEVINE: Chapter one: I'm the narrator and this is just the prologue


So there I was.

I, Gabriella Montez, was frantically pacing around a mini-mall in midtown Manhattan because I couldn't find the door to get outside.

I was in New York City on winter vacation. My mother got free suites at the Waldorf-Astoria as a welcome present for her new job, so she couldn't possibly turn them down. We (heart) NY, after all. So, while she was off making business deals and probably sipping pink martinis at a bar, I was freaking out because I could not get outside.

I couldn't believe that I didn't know how to get outside. I was just there two seconds ago. THIS IS A FREAKING MINI-MALL. How lost could one possibly get?? I just had to use the bathroom; it wasn't hard to find. So I'll just retrace my steps. Again.

Although, I just don't understand how I possibly could have gotten a perfect score on my PSATS but have no sense of direction. It's like the same basic concept, right?

Right.

I can do this.

I'm not going to get locked in forever.

I will find my way out.

I will.

I won't die here. Alone. Lost. Confused. Eyeliner slowly melting off of my face.

Think positive thoughts.

Maybe I should stop walking in a circle, I'm getting absolutely now-– OH, THAT WAS A DOOR?? I thought it was window. OHHHHH. WOW.

Life makes a lot more sense when you don't mistake windows for doors.

Oh, New York City. You never cease to confuse/amaze me.


I (FINALLY!!) made my way outside to see the huge tree in Rockefeller Plaza, when I bumped into a huge line of people waiting to go ice skating. Feeling more daring than usual, I asked some people on line if there was any specific reason to why they were on an enormous line for just a skating rink. They tell me that a ton of celebrities were coming that afternoon, and they were just trying to get a glimpse.

Since I had nothing better to do, I decided to jump on line.

I was in the process of fiddling with my iPod when a reporter from the New York Times came up to me, and asked if he could interview me about being a tourist.

"Yeah, I'm here on vacation. I just wanted to get a glimpse of the Plaza and see if I could see any celebrities," I tell the reporter with a bright smile, thinking nothing of it. "I'd love to meet Matthew McConaughey. Or Chris Brown." Preferably both. He asks me what my dream encounter would be with them, taking a notepad and a voice recorder out to write down what I say. I felt super important.

"Probably to sit down with them at Taco Bell for dinner. I'd buy them both tacos and we'd talk all night," I reply, half-joking, half-serious. Taco Bell is not something to joke around with, after all.

He chuckled, and asked me for my name, hometown and phone number so that I could be published in the New York Times. I grin at the prospect of being published in a huge newspaper. "G-A-B-R-I-E-L-L-A, M-O-N-T-E-Z; my number is 212-9406. And I'm from… Albuquerque, New Mexico." Or will be. I'm moving there next semester because of my mother's new job. It's going to be the seventh high school I go to. I know, I know. Such is the glamorous life of Gabriella Montez.

"Thanks so much, I'll try to catch you later to see if you've made any progress, alright?" I consented, and watched him flit through the crowd, only to stop to chat to a group of giggly girls who appear to have come with a dance company because of their matching sparkly leotards, makeup and hair.

Alas, I turned my attention to my cup of steaming White Chocolate Mocha from Starbucks, when a lady who was behind me on line, tapped me on the shoulder and said rather haughtily, "I hope you didn't give that man any personal information unless he gave you some identification." I blinked owlishly at her and said that I would never do such a thing.

Who did she think I was?

Psh.

I got a perfect score on my PSATS, okay?

I turned around.

And then I panicked.

….

...

WHAT DID I JUST DO?

Oh my god.

HE'S PROBABLY A RAPIST.

OH. MY. GOD.

…I just gave my full name, phone number and the town I lived in to a complete stranger.

SHIT.

And what if he had one of those hidden video cameras?? Those stupid ones that are the size of your fingernail that were in hats or on a collar or something else non-descript that you would never suspect. He could track me down in a second. Double SHIT.

Deep breaths, Montez.

In and out.

In and out.

In and out.

(Fuck, now I just want a burger from In-and-Out.)

But, no, he definitely was a reporter from the New York Times.

Right?

Yes. Yes. Yes.

I felt the sudden urge to hunt him down and tackle him, where I would proceed to seize his little baby hidden video camera and recorder out of his hands so that I wouldn't be liable to any rape/murder/harassment of any sort. I could't find him in the crowd, unfortunately, consequently throwing said plans out of the window.

But I mean, just because he didn't show me any identification doesn't mean anything. He probably just forgot. People are human. They forget sometimes. Giving ID is such a trivial detail -- I'm sure I would have forgotten, too, had I been a reporter. Mhmm.

...

...

I AM SO GOING TO GET RAPED. AREN'T I?

Crap. And I haven't even made my will yet. Or lost my virginity. Or eaten sushi. My mother is going to kill me. She told me specifically not to talk to strangers when I told her that I wanted to explore New York for a bit before we went back home, and what did I do? I go off telling a serial rapist about how I wanted to eat freaking Taco Bell with Matthew McConaughey. The one time I let myself open up to a stranger, I stumble onto a potentially life-threatening situation. WHY ME?? Why does my mouth feel the need to open up at the most inopportune times?? Maybe I should go ask those policemen over there to arrest him now.

Possibly. Hmmarghh.

Oh wait. The New-York-Times-reporter/serial-rapist-dude is coming back.

"Making any progress?" He asks with a grin. I smiled forcefully at him, but inside I was fuming and I was trying my hardest not to slap him. Oh, I see right through your façade, Mr. Serial Rapist. I inspect him carefully this time, and I noticed that he's wearing a leather bomber jacket, for goodness sake. A LEATHER JACKET. That just screams rapist, if you ask me.

"Nope, not really. But thanks for checking back with me," I say shortly, pursing my lips. "I thought you were a rapist, or something," I add – very suavely, I might say. I crossed my fingers behind my back, hoping that he wouldn't shove me down a dark alley way, or anything.

He threw his head back and laughed, taking his card from the New York Times out of his jacket pocket to show that he was, indeed, a real reporter – and not a rapist.

Whew.

Crisis averted.

A+, Gabriella Montez, A+.


So, after that horribly draining, almost run-in with a rapist situation, I pretty much flew back to the hotel. I had to walk fourteen blocks, but it definitely was shorter walking than taking a cab, since it was New Year's Eve and all. Everywhere you looked – and I mean, everywhere - there was a lot of preparation and anticipation for all of the hoopla that surrounded Times Square and Manhattan and the dropping of the ball or whatnot.

Which I've never gotten – and still don't – by the way. Why do so many people insist on seeing a stupid silver ball drop at 11:59? It's completely overrated, in my opinion. And it's not like it's this enormous ball, like sixty feet in diameter. It's SIX. A measly six feet. Talk about anti-climactic.

(Granted, I'm sure handling a sixty-foot silver ball would be quite a feat, but come on. I cannot believe my mother dragged me across the United States to see a stupid silver ball.)

And don't forget the almost rapist incident.

I plopped down on a plush couch in the lounge area of the hotel, bringing my feet to my knees and throwing an absolutely delicious sheep-skin blanket across my lap. I swear, if heaven were a blanket, this would be it. Ahhhhh. So luxurious.

Just as I was about to finish Little Women, mother dearest came and chided me on how I should be getting dressed for the New Year's Eve "teen party" in the ballroom.

Hah. As if I'm going to be caught dead in some kind of party with horny teenagers grinding to obnoxious music.

She said that she already laid out my clothes and everything, and I inwardly rolled my eyes. What am I, four? I can pick out my own clothes, thank you very much.

She blinked, noted my distress, and snatched the book out of my hands. Ugh.

Correction: mother dearest is the one acting like she's four years old.

But, if it meant that my mother is off of my back for the night, I realized that it was a good a reason as any to go. And so I sighed, consenting to go to the stupid party if she gave me Little Women back. She hands me the book, and I drag my feet up back to my room to get dressed.

At least I'm building karma points here.


And so that is how I found myself in the midst of the New Year's Eve teen party; which I must admit, disappointed me a little. It definitely wasn't crazy and hot and strobe lights and Justin Timberlake-ified. There were no hot boys and slutty girls strutting around. I felt like I was in some kind of Disney-fied version of teen party. There was only a karaoke stage and some kids wearing big hats and blowing noise-makers. Pity.

So with a lack of eye-candy, I ended up getting to the last chapter in Little Women.

That is, until a blinding spotlight seems to have picked me out of the crowd.

Next thing I know, I was getting pulled up on stage to sing karaoke, with another guy who seemed to be just as uncomfortable as I was.

I can't believe they actually think I'm going to sing karaoke in front of these kids. I DON'T SING. Not by myself anyways. Not after the fainting incident in church, last year.

...

Okay, so I didn't exactly faint faint, but it was all still very stressful. I was hyperventilating and bolted off the stage before they got to my solo.

Not one of my finest moments, you know.

But back to the problem at hand. I DON'T SING. And now the music is starting, and I'm not sure what to do because I DON'T SING. CRAP. (WHO DO THESE PEOPLE THINK I AM?? CHRISTINA AGUILERA?? I'M NOT PLATINUM BLONDE.) The guy next to me doesn't look like he's going to start singing, either.

Maybe they'll forget I was up here. I am wearing my black velvet BCBG slacks, so I could be easily mistaken for the stage.

Yes. I'm just going to blend in. Not make eye contact and/or any sudden movements.

...

DAMN IT. He's singing. And he's good.

I sneak a glance at him.

He's attractive, too.

Very attractive.

He has this messy brown hair and is wearing a dark brown corduroy blazer, with a light blue oxford shirt underneath – not tucked in, so he's definitely a jock. But he still cares about what he looks like because of his Diesel shoes – nice choice - and dark blue faded Levi's that hug his butt perfectly. Not that I'm looking.

I can't breathe and my palms are sweaty and I'm pretty sure my heart is going to jump out of my chest. I can't think, either, and if this isn't stage freight turned up to the highest volume, then I don't know what is.

Stupid crowds.

Or maybe it's just because this guy is so ridiculously good-looking that I can't form any coherent thoughts.

Perhaps.

"When you take a chance…"

OH SHIT. It's my start to start singing, isn't it?

DON'T OPEN YOUR MOUTH GABRIELLA. YOU'LL PROBABLY THROW UP.

DON'T OPEN YOUR MOUTH.

DON'T DO IT.

DON'T.

IT'S BLASPHEMY.

"I never believed in what I couldn't see…"

Treacherous mouth.


So I started to sing. And it actually wasn't that bad.

It was kind of-- dare I say… fun.

Very Attractive Boy has the most gorgeous blue eyes you've ever seen, and they absolutely mesmerized me once I finally got over my stage fright and looked over at him. There was something just so warm and comforting about him that made my (treacherous) mouth keep singing. Or maybe it was because of the glass of champagne I snagged from the adult party in the other room.

Whatever it was, it felt so right to be there. Cliché, I know, but true.

But very attractive boy seemed to really get into it, too, taking off his jacket and throwing it into the crowd. Quite debonair, if I do say so myself.

The performance went well, I think. No one was booing, at least. I mean, there was this one extremely minor setback where Very Attractive Boy started to come towards me – with this really hot come hither look that made me forget I was singing for a minute. So then I started to back up and up and up and would have fallen off the stage and into unconsciousness if it weren't for someone pushing me back.

I don't think anyone noticed, though. I played it off very well.

I did.

And then the song was done before I knew it.

Very Attractive Boy and I stare at each other for a second before he introduces himself as Troy Bolton, holding out his right hand.

"Gabriella Montez," I say with a smile, taking his hand but only staring at him, instead of shaking it. (Like a normal person would. Have I mentioned that I am a complete dolt??)

"Well, Gabriella Montez, I was wondering if you'd like to accompany me to dinner?" He asks, chivalrously. He has a really nice voice. Understanding and deep.

I accepted, of course. He grins and squeezes my hand before leading the way to the dining hall.

For some reason, my palms are still sweaty, my heart still feels like it's about to burst and I still can't breathe or think properly.

Hm.

The start of something new, it was.


Troy and I walked over to an empty table, where he even pulled the chair out for me to sit down. He's so charming. I thanked him, and the waiter quickly came, providing us with some water and taking our orders.

"So are you here on vacation?" Troy asks, drumming his fingers against the table.

"Yes," I roll my eyes. "I love New York, don't get me wrong, but I think the whole New Year's Eve ball bash is overdone." I waved my hands around, gesticulating to the party we were currently stuck in.

"Yeah, but we wouldn't have met if it weren't for the party," he points out.

This is true. I tell him that he has a point.

"But I still cannot believe how that guy had the audacity to push me up on the stage. Girls do not like being put in uncomfortable situations. We like to be in control all of the time." I tell Troy, before scarfing down the delicious bread the waiter has just brought. "Seriously, guys are so stupid. They don't know anything about females. Oh wait. Maybe you do. Are you gay?"

Troy looks momentarily appalled. "No. Why, do I seem gay?"

"No, not to me. I just don't have the best gaydar. See, once I set up my mother up with one of my summer camp counselors, but he ended up leaving her for another man." My bad.

He chuckled. "Nope, I'm definitely not gay," he says, giving me a pointed look.

"Well, in that case, why are boys so stupid? I don't understand," I pause to thank the waiter as he brings Troy his chicken parmesan and my shrimp scampi. The food looks amazing, and I don't hesitate to dig in. "Like, I was at this restaurant and this boy comes over with a note written on a napkin asking me out because he thought I was beautiful and looked like his ex-girlfriend. Talk about lack of tactic. Who does that? It was rather unfortunate because he was very attractive." I sigh, disappointed. "Boys have no clue."

He smirked at my story. "Well, I can't really speak on behalf of the rest of the male population, but I tend to do and say things without thinking. Especially when there are gorgeous women in front of us." He winks at me. Was he flirting with me?

"It's hard to believe that you of all people would lose composure around females. You're too perfect." Wait. Did I just flirt back?

"Trust me, I have my moments of weakness," he says softly with a glassy look in his eyes. "Like right before basketball games, I'm always a mess." And his charisma returns.

I roll my eyes. "I swear, all boys think about are the three S's: sports, sex and anything stupid." He throws his head back and laughs. He has a really sexy neck, I notice.

"But I'm serious, Troy. You're only laughing because you know it's true," I tell him pointedly. "See, there was this other time at school, where I was sitting patiently in English class, when this guy next to me announced to me he was really horny. And I was like, okay? I'm not going to do anything about it. I felt like he wanted me to give him, you know," I lower my voice and look around to see if any younger children were near, "A BLOWJOB."

He raises his eyebrows. "Oh."

"I know, right? And it's not like I'm the type of person who gives people blowjobs all the time, so I had no idea why he had the nerve to say something to me. I've never given anyone a blowjob, actually." I felt like I had diarrhea of the mouth, and I just couldn't stop talking for some reason. I had no idea why I was telling this guy all this, probably because I would never see him after tonight, so it didn't matter. I never actually had someone to really talk to with, so it felt good to talk about boy problems. And Troy was such a good listener.

I look at him closely, then. He really is such an attractive person. Great lips and a killer smile. And just so nice. There really are totally great-looking, funny, lovely guys out there. It's a shame that I've found one on vacation, though, so I can't really pursue anything. (Plus, I've seem to have mentioned to him all of my boy vices, so he probably would never want to date me. WHY DID I TELL HIM ALL OF THAT? STUPID GABRIELLA.) And I wouldn't have the guts to ask him out, anyway.

"You're really nice," I blurt out to Troy. There goes that mouth again. "Thanks for listening to me. You probably think I'm delusional."

He grins – he really has an awesome smile, have I mentioned that? – and replies cryptically, "No, you're anything but delusional, actually."


We found ourselves meandering outside to catch the inevitable midnight fireworks. I nearly forgot it was New Year's Eve, the way the night has been turning out. I learn that contrary to my personal thoughts, Troy isn't a professional singer, and I tell him about my ALMOST fainting church choir incident.

And then it was 11:59. People started to count down, and Troy and I were at a loss for conversation.

3 2… 1… HAPPY NEW YEAR'S!

I found myself in a staring contest with Troy.

And I was losing.

Is it just me, or is he looking at my mouth? Did I have something stuck in my teeth? God — I knew I shouldn't have eaten the spinach dip. Or maybe I have something on my lip gloss? Eww. I licked my lips.

I felt as if all my senses were heightened, and I suddenly became aware of everything going around me.

Okay, his head is definitely leaning in towards me.

What does that mean?

Does he want to kiss me?

Oh crap, he does want to kiss me. It's midnight and everything. Idiot.

But I couldn't tear my eyes away from his lips that were coming closer and closer.

I can't let him kiss me, though, right? That would be stupid because I'm never going to see him again and that would make everything that much more complicated.

But his lips look so soft and kissable.

Maybe I'll let him kiss me.

Just once.

Oh yes.

Oh no.

"I better go find my mom."

My eyes – which had involuntarily shut on its own accord – snapped open.

Who said that? I glanced furiously around us.

Damn, it was me, wasn't it?

STUPID FREAKING MOUTH. HE WAS ABOUT TO KISS ME. WHY DID I JUST SAY THAT?? WHY??

Troy looks startled for a moment, and then regains his composure. "Yeah, me too." He looks away. "I mean not your mom, my mom. And dad." He adds nervously.

I nodded and stared at my feet, not knowing how to say good-bye to him exactly.

A beat.

"I'll call you tomorrow?" He half asks, half states. Good idea. At least one of us could form complete thoughts. We both shuffled around getting each other's phone numbers before I smiled and walked away from him.

Oops.

I left without even saying good-bye to him or giving him hug or anything.

Ugh.

I really need to get a new, properly functioning mouth.