This isn't the first time some imaginary ailment has brought me to the nurse's office to obtain a much coveted sick pass. Quite the contrary. I have enough of those little yellow things to paper my bedroom walls by now, and then some. The nurse barely even looks at me anymore, but hands me my prize with the air of someone loaning someone else a measly number two pencil. No one wants to haggle with the parents of Ryan and Sharpay Evans if they can help it. And considering those parents fund the mainstream of the arts and music programs at East High, they can help it. Bottom line? If I say I'm sick, I'm sick.

I have to get home and cover these bruises before Sharpay has a chance to get her eyes on me. The queen bee of East High is liable to go spastic if she finds out the same people who practically worship the ground she walks on are the very same that find roughing her twin brother around an amusing extracurricular activity. Whether she believed they had done it or not, somehow or another there would be you know what to pay. And even I don't want to deal with that. My pink berets don't seem to matter in the least when I'm in her company, but out of it? Well, suddenly there's jocks coming from all four corners, each lining up to take a shot at smearing the queer. Which they have all long since deduced that I am. It's all rather interesting, really, especially since I can't possibly be with her twenty four seven. Not that I'd want to be. I mean, she is my sister and I do have to admit we've got that twin thing going on pretty well, but still--even prisoners are let out for a breath of fresh air once in awhile.

Now, the escape. Getting from the office to the front doors is easier said than done in my case. There are an overwhelming number of obstacles I have a chance of encountering at any moment, ranging from someone who might pass the word to Sharpay that someone's been using her brother as a punching bag, one posse or more who have in fact been using her brother as a punching bag, overly curious faculty, even Sharpay herself. The possibilities are endless. Makes me feel like I'm living in some weird video game half the time, where I gain or lose points for about a billion different things. Too bad I'm always having to go back to start.

Beret over my eyes, backpack in place, and I'm off. For me to get from the office to the front doors requires exactly thirty six and a half steps on my part; I've had plenty of opportunities to count. It really isn't so far, as long as I'm quick, easy, and smart.

Thirty six, thirty five, thirty four…

I score a solid bump on the shoulder. Whether it's accidental or on purpose, I don't know. Or care. I keep walking.

Twenty one, twenty, nineteen…

Oops. Lose about ten points there just for tripping over my own two feet, but luckily I regain my balance quickly. So it's okay. I'm almost there.

Eight, seven…

Come on…

Two, one, and half a step, and…

Freedom.

"Ryan."

Snap.

My eyes flick involuntarily upward.

"Oh…hey, Kelsi."

"Hi." The girl they call Playmaker gives me a tentative smile, shifting her empty lunch sack from one hand to the other. "What are you up to?"

"Uh…" I scratch my head, or rather, my beret. Neon orange today, with the neon orange button up shirt to go with it. In addition to my black chinos, I guess I look like the national poster boy for Halloween. Funny I didn't think of that before. "Nothing much. I lost track of Sharpay."

Kelsi pointed. "She's over by the fountain."

Good to know. I'd have to make my getaway from the opposite direction.

"Oh, I see her. Thanks, Kelsi. I'll see you around." Keep walking, Kelsi. Please don't try to strike up a conversation today. Don't get me wrong, Kelsi's great--she's really come out of her shell since things between her and Jason have been going so well, and it's been good for her. Still, she hasn't forgotten what things were like before that. She watches me get hassled constantly, but like an unspoken oath between us, she never mentions it. I can tell she feels for me, even relates at times. She's cool that way.

Lucky for me, she gets the vibe today. I get another smile and nothing more before she continues into school. Sweet victory. I dash around the back, down to the parking lot and zero in on the identical pink convertibles parked side by side. I wouldn't have been against a different color, but Sharpay insisted when our parents took us to pick them out on our sixteenth birthday that the likeness would be good for our reputation. Hers, maybe. I doubt I would score any points at all even if I showed up driving a silver BMW. Anyway, I didn't argue with her. Sharpay may be the most popular girl at school, but nobody besides me has to live with her--particularly when she doesn't get her way. So, pink it is.

I climb into my respective convertible after a quick glance at hood to ensure it's really mine--our hoods being the only distinguishing feature of our cars. A silver RE painted on mine, a gold SE painted on Sharpay's.

"Hey, choir boy--how about an early dinner?" a jeering voice called from a passing car. I don't know what else to do other than freeze.

"I've got a better idea--breakfast at dinner!" a second voice hooted, and suddenly something wet and slimy, multiple somethings, were running down my beret and back as the car roared away, my tormentors yelling in the distance. I'm almost afraid to reach behind me and discover what's been lobbed at me, but I know it's pretty much inevitable, so I ended up bringing a handful of shattered eggs to my eyes. Raw, of course. Boiled would have been much too kind. This was going to be murder to get out of the seats.

I dare to steal a glance over my shoulder, but my adversaries are long gone. No one is around except for a few stragglers attempting to make it back into school before the end of lunch bell and trying unsuccessfully to act as if they haven't witnessed the latest rag on Ryan Evans incident, Troy Bolton and Gabriella Montez among them. I don't mind Troy and Gabriella too much. Even if Sharpay has always resented them for beating us out of the leads for the winter, musical, I always knew they deserved it. Since then we've been on again off again friends, but I know I can't really count on them. Troy always looks so helpless when his fellow jocks are letting me have it, same for Chad and Zeke and Jason, but they all know as well as I do that for all the interfering they might feel inclined to do, they may as well stamp the word TRASHED in big black letters on their Awesome Reputation cards. And Troy in particular, as captain of the basketball team, is for sure not going to risk it. I don't know if I can blame them--there's no guarantee I wouldn't do the same thing in their position.

I pull out of the lot, trying not to notice them, and the drive home is a vague memory after that. I soon reach the private garage Sharpay and I share at the one point two million dollar mansion we call home and hope that none of the help is close enough to witness my climb up the lattice that leads to the deck just outside my bedroom. Trying to go through the front door is an idea only a man with no brains would attempt, and I know I have one, or at least half of one. I never know who will be in the general vicinity, so it's just better this way.

I wonder if Sharpay ever notices that like a fourth of her makeup goes to covering up the damage her admirers have done. If it's anything akin to Bill Gates misplacing a million or so bucks, I'm guessing she probably doesn't. I wince as I dab on the all too familiar pale blush that I'm assuming is closest to my skin tone, since nobody ever mentions seeing anything out of place when I'm wearing it, which seems to equal out to about three fourths of my life. I feel as if I should know better. This is an incredibly old song by now after all, and I'm tired of listening to the melody over and over again. Once my careful application is complete, I head to the football field otherwise known as our backyard to dangle my feet in the pool for awhile, my journal and lucky pen--which is in the shape of a flashlight and really does light up if I press a tiny button near the tip--in hand. I found it abandoned backstage on the day Sharpay and I scored the leads in our first play ever at East High and held on to it since then. Since there's no magic solution to my life right now, I might as well pretend there is by writing it down. For awhile I concentrate on the sensation of the clear blue water surging between my toes. The sun is bright but not scorching, the breeze gently massages the back of my neck. The scent of freshly cut grass is pleasant for my nostrils, and all is calm.

I wish I was anywhere but here.