A/N : I found this story in a book my grandmother has, and it's authored by Sharon and Tom Curtis. It was published in 1983, and I wanted to turn it into a Troyella story! Since they're so passionate it's kind of easy for me to write. I have no clue how long this is going to be, chapter-wise. It's too long to be a one shot. I'll stop typing now, but I need to add one last tidbit:
I don't own High School Musical, Kenny Ortega does, I think. I don't own this story either.
Gabriella Montez, the young woman who had faked the flu in her high school days for the entire four weeks when her class was studying reproductive biology, the young woman who had almost expired with embarrassment at a university Art History class when asked to speak on the merits of Michaelangelo's David -- Gabriella Montez, who'd spend a lifetime of twenty-four years misplaced in an era of sexual liberation, of which she had expressed no interest in, was about to attend a club with flashing neon bright lights and where men took of their clothes to the music.
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From the outside, the Coup de Grace had somewhat of a deceptive coziness, like a family restaurant serving catfish fries on Friday nights. Inside was another story. The stage act was more sizzling then the fish fries being cooked behind the scenes. In fact Gabriella didn't realize until she was actually within the clapboard white walls that the place was more than the popular nightclub which her four best friends, in a spirit of joyous mischeif, made it out to be. Light had begun to dawn on her when her eyes caught the prestigious gift shop which merchandised the club's nightshirts, bumper stickers, posters with a suggestive picture of a male silhouette dancing, and calenders featuring the incredibly toned bodies of dancers in a throat tightening stages of undress, and a questioning piece called a "go-naked pen."
Turning to her four companions, trying to look like a woman who thought of this as if it was all in good fun instead of one who was likely required to be removed from the club on a stretcher. She muttered words of disapproval under her breath. Her words brought laughter to the group because none of the four women with her had known long enough to realize that after one glance at the club's provocative logo, Gabriella's stomach had started to solidify. And because she didn't want to seem like a party pooper, it was the last thing she wanted her friends to suspect. She had been in Albuquerque only three weeks working at a little vintage thrift store. Gabriella had come at her friend Sharpay's invitation tonight. Sharpay, a tall friendly and feisty woman, worked in retail. Somehow she accomplished a remarkable amount despite the impression she gave of always being on the way to the back room for some drinks and a cigarette. Sharpay's younger sister, Jennifer had come also, and her friend Kelsi. They were leaning over the merchandise counter attired with straight leg jeans, white blouses and 3 1/2 in. heeled suede strap stilettos; looking like models from a page of the Speigel catalog.
As they walked into the packed cavern of the nightclub, Gabriella and her friends looked through the candles flickering on many tables to the ominous, empty stage that seemed to occupy most of the room. She turned to her second friend, Taylor.
"I see a free table in the back corner --" Gabriella said, trying to be as far way as possibly
"Oh no," Taylor said with a wolfish smile. "I definitely think we should sit closer."
"Very close," added Sharpay.
They ended up directly in front of the grand stage, which was raised just enough to put anyone on it a thigh level with Gabriella's nose. When she protested in a suffocated voice that could kill her, they thought she was just using her wit. Admission was for women only. It was an attractive crowd that ran the gamut of ages, though the concentration seemed to be of women in their twenties and thirties. And not one of them would have looked out of place in a meeting of the local PTA or at church choir practice. They were letting down their hair with the weekend-away-from-home exuberance of farm implement salesmen at a convention. The young male waiters, draped in next to nothing, were receiving rather risque answers when they came to tables asking for orders with a simple "What would you like?"
Mounting the stage wearing a clinging knit dress, the Mistress of Ceremonies had geranium-red lips and looked like she'd have become someone's mistress, with the lack of ceremony.
"Ladies who come here are usually celebrating something," she observed, and looked around the capacious room, randomly choosing tables, asking for the occasion sweetly. There was a party for a young girl soon to get married, and a group of student nurses who'd gotten their caps, a woman departing for the Air Force, and a divorce. There was a busload of bank employees from Chicago. They were toasting the night with margaritas and cosmos, in a way that would most likely have started a stampede of investors withdrawing money.
"Albuquerque girls know how to party hard!" The emcee grinned. "And that's good. Let's take a poll, ladies, How many of you have never seen any man besides your husband or boyfriend in the altogether? Let's see hands!"
Many hands rose. But not Gabriella's. Her hands welded themselves to the sides of the chair.
"Enlightenment awaits!" promised the M.C. in high good humor. "Tonight you're going to see everything, and I mean, everything of three gorgeous guys and find out how the men in your lives" --she winked-- "measure up!"
Amid the howling approval around her, Gabriella tried to sink as low as possible into her chair without disappearing under the table; she spared a thought for her poor mother, receiving the news that her only daughter had suffered a fatal heart attack in a nightclub with male strippers.
She made it halfway through the first act, but when the macho hunk onstage five feet from her dropped his hands to the waistband of his skin-tight glitzy slacks, and made teasing motions with his hips that indicated he was going to divest himself of them, she vanished into the restroom.
Feeling like an idiot, a coward, and a mouse creeping out of a knothole, she emerged when the music and explosion of whistling and foot-stomping applause had faded into the lower roar of excited conversation that signaled then end of the first act. A waiter taking drink reorders from the table of grad nurses blocked the narrow path to her table. Standing patiently, listening with a reddening ear to the emcee's bawdy routine, she heard a woman seating nearby exclaiming of how cute some man to change the tape was. As she turned her head to the array of sound equipment edging the stage, Gabriella was wondering mildly how women could subject themselves to go into ecstasies over another of these vacuous, beef on the hoof jocks. Then her gaze lit upon a tall man, with sandy brown colored hair in jeans and a white sweatshirt.
Never had she seen a face like this one. Carved in simple planes, it contained a strict beauty that carried no trace of prettiness. His hair had the diffuse brightness of sunlight pouring through spring water. Under sable eyebrows, a dark fringe of straight lashes defined eyes of haunting crystalline blue. Small smile lines framed a narrow mouth. The pure facial structure gave the indelible impression of strength, intelligence, and a certain refined tenderness--it was a face built for sweetness. But his brooding eyes were a cynic's. He was here, yet remote from all this; detached. That, and the straight classical proportions below made him look like a statue of the young Alexander.
She was threading the cleared path to her table when one of the nurses interrupted the M.C by calling out playfully, "Hey! Is that guy gonna take off his clothes?"
Gabriella watched him pretend to ignore the remark as he wound the tape, his narrow mouth turned into a small smirk that suggested that he'd be laughing inside.
Mock-indignant, the M.C made a "naughty-naughty" sign with her pointer finger. "Have you no shame? The kid is barely seventeen years old--" Laughing protests and a suggestive comment or two around the room greeted the obvious fiction. Gabriella would have estimated his age to be a few years older than her own. Grinning, the emcee continued, "I'm ashamed of you ladies and your carnal intentions! And in front of a minor, on top of that! He's the sound man, so behave! Because I've got something for all of you who luh-hu-uvv"--she gave the word three syllables--"law and order: a tribute to our gentlemen in blue! Here's a man you'd love to go undercover with! For your entertainment pleasure, please allow me to announce Peter the Policeman!"
Gabriella landed in her seat just as a magnificent body in a motorcycle cop's outfit complete with silver helmet, shiny black knee-length leather boots, reflecting aviator sunglasses--landed onstage inside a swell of acclaim. Moving at a full throttle and with dynamic professionalism to theme to Peter Gunn, he was a riveting figure. If she hadn't known he was about to take his clothes off, she might have enjoyed it a tad.
The light changed again and she tore her gaze away to the side--and discovered that the brown haired man at the sound table was watching her. Yes, her. The alluring blue eyes were holding her in a level study. As she sat very still, staring numbly back, she began to read in the perceptive depths of his eyes a heart catching mixture of amusement, sympathy, and interest. For a suspended moment her heart beat oddly as their gazes touched, and then she dragged her eyes away.
That was the longest thing I've ever written! I honestly think it wasn't that good. You can agree or disagree! Just read and review! XOXO, VG 3