Note from Dee: Here's just a disclaimer, okay? I, Deirdre Renee Andrews, do solemnly swear that this story is the unedited, unaltered truth.
For those of you who like the big picture, this recounts my experiences at the state drama competition with my new acquaintances from East High this past fall.
And for those of you who read stuff based on who's making out with who, here's the pairings to expect: Troy/Gabriella, OC → Troy, another OC → Ryan, and um...that first OC (yeah, me)/Jason. I think. I still don't know what that was all about. Anyhow, that's my disclaimer and I'm sticking to it.
--
Confessions of a West High Drama Queen
Chapter One – Levi's to Beaver
The Albuquerque school district, at least according to United States Department of Education statistics, spends the same amount of money per student in grades nine through twelve. About $6,600 for each butt in an Albuquerque school district chair. So technically, all Albuquerque high schoolers are equal. But I'd just like to point out that some are more equal than others.
Some high schools in our district are average. I'd say that mine, West High, falls into this category. We're not exactly Degrassi with all the teen pregnancies and drug experimentation and all that, but we're not a bunch of Ivy League-bound robots either. So the $6,600 a year for each of my classmates is decently spent. Nobody's died from the cafeteria food, the buses run on time, and we don't have a giant mound of dirt in the middle of our soccer field like they've got at South from some expanded wing building project gone awry.
No, West High's not so bad. It's just that it's hard to see how the district is spending $6,600 on me and $6,600 on kids at that other school. You know the one I mean. As I sit in their community college-sized gymnasium on their impeccably well-manicured grounds with its Lexus-filled parking lot, I have to wonder. What makes East High worthy of half a dozen more AP classes? Why do the halls smell of excellence and success rather than West High's usual Lysol scent?
I try to cheer on my team, but of course, my shouts are drowned out by the legion of East High faithful in the stands around me. Frankly, I'm not sure why I'm here today. I can't remember the last time I attended a West High game on our own campus, in the gym with the leaking roof. But then I see the painted face of the guy sitting next to me, and I remember.
Javier gives me a thumbs up, encouraging me to cheer louder. "Come on, Dee! They can't use your spirit if you don't let them hear it!"
I'm pretty convinced that my best friend is suffering from some sort of post-traumatic stress. Maybe it was the lack of sub sandwiches by the time our lunch period rolled around earlier that day. But where normal people under stress get sad or emo, Javier gets this urge to behave in increasingly out of character ways. Today, he decided that after school it was our "civic duty" to attend the East vs. West preseason opener.
Let me first tell you that I don't lack school spirit, per se. I'm usually quite happy to attend the occasional sporting event at West High. Did you know that the Lady Knights volleyball team went to state sectionals last year? Yeah. And my brother Luke is the captain of the track team, so just because I wasn't blessed with athletic gifts doesn't make me hate sports. But sports are just...different when West is playing East.
It's just not worth the effort. I mean, who really fixes the district schedules? I'm pretty convinced that someone at the board owes the Principal at East a huge favor, because it seems like we are always playing East in basketball. There are other directionally-named high schools in this district – why do we always have to come and lose to these guys?
Everyone at West High knows that basketball season isn't something to get hyped up about. The fact of the matter is that we will lose. Same with baseball, same with scholastic decathlon, and the same with chess club. Chess club! I don't know what's in the water or the cafeteria food here at East, but it seems to have some nutrient or steroid in it that we mere mortals at West, South, North etc don't appear to be welcome to try.
I watch Steve, our point guard, desperately trying to find someone to pass to, but the ball's stolen by East. The crowd cheers, the parents snap photos, and I sink further into my hoodie. I almost feel like a spy in a foreign land whenever I'm at East. Or better yet, a refugee from a third world country. The Wildcats have those tearaway pants, so they pop up from the bench like a pinball in a game machine. I think the Knights still wear the sweatpants from last year's pancake breakfast fundraiser.
Is it the parents? Are they just wealthier on this side of town? I guess that's probably it. There are more BMW's per capita in this part of Albuquerque than any other, and Javier's junky Toyota Tercel is parked between a pair of Range Rovers in the parking lot right now. I fully expect it to be towed away by the East High parking police before the game's up, leaving me and my friend stranded in a place we don't belong.
Javier is still trying to cheer our guys on, but I think he's just a masochist. And it doesn't hurt that he's really got the hots for Gabe, the gangly center. Javier and I are never going to see eye to eye on what is aesthetically pleasing in the male species. I cross my arms, frowning at the paint on his face.
"What's that even supposed to be?" I shout, pointing to my cheek to ask about the blob he drew on his face in the parking lot before the game started.
"It's a knight," he snits at me. "I actually take some pride in our team."
I roll my eyes. "We're getting destroyed!" I gesture to the scoreboard – how many $6,600 per student did that sucker cost? West was currently being East High's prison girlfriend. Preseason didn't count, but being down 43-19 before halftime was unforgivable. I felt bad for Coach Hogan. The eighth coach in as many years at West, the man was already wiping the sweat from his brow with a towel. I couldn't wait to hear the announcement over the P.A. the next morning at school - "West High bends over and takes it from the Wildcats! Again!"
Javier is undeterred by my sulking. "We always lose to these guys, but they still need our support!"
"Then let's support our team when we play North High. They suck. We at least win there."
He punches my arm. "Fine." His feigned enthusiasm dies down, and he returns to the Javier I know. "Let's make some trouble."
"I'm not getting expelled."
"We won't get expelled," he complains, putting his head on my shoulder. I can only imagine there's now smeared knight on my hoodie. "People don't even notice us here. They're like zombies."
I smile. I wouldn't say zombies, but East High certainly is full of...different people. They're perpetually cheery, which comes with a multimillion dollar house and a closet the size of my house's living room. I'm sure they're not all loaded. Some of them might actually have fewer than three cars in their circle drives. But it was always kind of unsettling to see them in rally form.
Every crowd movement was a synchronized affair, often leaving people like me and Javi stunned. They'd all do the wave, or turn over their little Wildcat paw signs in harmony, and I'd just gape for lack of any other reaction. Their cheerleaders were noisier than ours, on account of winning all the time, and the East High players were like machines.
I squinted down the court. Chad Danforth, one of the star players, had just completed a lay-up without any West High defender coming close, and he was high fiving his teammates all the way down the court towards our end. These Wildcats were like God's chosen people while the rest of us just had to sit by and sulk. "We could boo them," Javier suggests, but I shake my head.
"That's against the Wildcat sportsmanship code," I remind him. "No booing, treat everyone with respect..."
"It's like communist China," Javier grumbles.
"You don't even know what that means," I tell him. By now, East High's star, Troy Bolton has sunk a three-pointer as the buzzer goes off for halftime. I frown and shake my head. "It's halftime. We can't do anything."
The crowd gets up to stretch while the players head for the locker room. Javier scratches his chin, deep in thought while I watch the Wildcats bounce enthusiastically off the court. Bolton and Danforth are still patting each other on the back for being the best thing to happen since the invention of the flush toilet. I want to throw stuff at their faces.
Don't get me wrong, I really don't have anything against East High. They're not smug jerks about winning or anything (that breaks their code too, I guess). But just seeing them win all the time, having to hear their names on the local news and reading about them in the paper...I don't know. It just gets your morale down.
I watch Bolton's back as he disappears from sight, and Javier catches me. "The love that dare not speak its name?" he teases me, and I elbow him in the side.
"I do not love Troy Bolton. He probably poops rainbows."
Javier chuckles. "When he sits on a toilet seat made of solid gold. Face it, Dee. We peons will be the one serving the Troy Boltons of the world their Big Macs and fries. We'll be the lowly office interns when the Troy Boltons are the company CEO."
I nod. "Probably." But Javier's a bit more jaded than me. His mom's law firm lost clients to some East High alum's firm all the time – for such a big city, Albuquerque was pretty small minded. But for reasons that have convinced my friend that I'm in love, I have a fascination with the Wildcats' star player. And it's not what you think.
I mean, sure, he's good looking. But there are good looking guys at West High, not that they pay attention to me because I'm "weird," but there's just something about this guy. Star basketball player, right? Shoo-in to all the big schools, pretty boy, good student, dating the smartest girl in his class. Who wouldn't want to be Troy Bolton? Or be WITH Troy Bolton? But it's not any of those things that has me, an outsider obviously, so intrigued.
It's the singing. It was the talk of the district last year. While I was studying for ACT's and SAT's and generally being a pain in the ass to my parents about getting a part-time job, this kid was starring in the East High spring musical. Here it was, senior year for him and for me, and all the buzz was on Troy. Basketball and drama? Would he try it again?
And though Javier's convinced I'm smitten, it's more genuine curiosity, I swear. I'm in the drama club at West, and although I'm sure I can't act my way out of a paper bag, I love the theater. I love plays and musicals, and I have an embarrassing amount of soundtracks on my iPod. So when someone so...unlike myself, someone who is Troy Bolton of all people gets interested in drama, it's a curious thing.
There's a finger snapping in my face, and I know I've done it again. Javier is shaking his head at me. "He has a girlfriend, Dee. And these East High guys aren't like those man whores on Gossip Girl. They're actually loyal."
"Stop causing drama," I reply through gritted teeth. "I'll prove that Troy Bolton's just another spoiled rich East High trust fund baby."
"Oh really?"
I look down at my shoes, wishing I hadn't said anything. Once a challenge is on the table, Javier Mendoza will stop at nothing to see it through to its conclusion. The buzzer goes off, and the East and West High teams come jogging back out onto the floor. "Well, I mean...I don't know how..."
"Let's bust into the locker room," Javier suggests, and I want to disappear. We'll be expelled for sure.
"No, absolutely not. I am not sneaking..."
"We can...steal something from his locker in there! We could steal his pants!" Javier suggests, and I'm wondering which of us is actually the most intrigued by the Wildcats' captain.
"I'm not stealing..." One of the students beside me is already looking at the pair of us suspiciously, and I tug Javier closer to me so I don't have to shout. "I'm not stealing Troy Bolton's pants."
"You said you'd prove he wasn't some snob. So a missing pair of pants should be no big deal. And if he goes crying to that genius girlfriend of his after the game, we'll know he's a big baby."
"But then he'd have no pants to wear home."
"Boohoo, I feel so bad for the Coach's kid. Yeah right."
I consider this plan. I haven't done anything that risky in my high school career, and it's already fall semester senior year. I can't really go off to college without some minor act of rebellion. I'd chickened out with the belly button piercing over the summer, so I had to do something, right?
"Fine."
Javier is more excited than the Wildcats' cheerleading squad, and he pulls me up out of my seat. We navigate our way out of the bleachers, past a dozen grumbling East High parents and students. If our West High hoodies aren't dead giveaways, our game interrupting is enough. We don't belong here. We make it out the gym doors and that's when the confusion sets in.
"Um...do you know how to get to the locker room from here?"
We're greeted with East High's squeaky clean halls, which seem to sprawl off into the distance like all the new subdivisions sprouting up in the suburbs around Albuquerque. Javi is already in stealth mode. This really means that he walks on his tiptoes and pretends he's playing Call of Duty or something, but he insists I refer to it as stealth mode.
Javi stealths his way past a bank of lockers, each adorned with an adorable "Go Wildcats!" paw print. The halls are devoid of litter, and there are flyers for bake sales and pep rallies that look like they were printed professionally. Again, can I stress that it's $6,600 per student, at least on the books? Right. So luckily enough for Javier and me, nobody else is in the hallway. Wildcat basketball is serious enough that nobody but two West High rejects would leave the gym at the start of the second half of play.
We bypass the pool and manage to find an alternate entrance for the boys' locker room through there. The silence is all too creepy – is everyone really in the gym? West High always has people milling about, occasionally smoking in the bathrooms before heading home. Javier's face is almost shell-shocked.
"What? What's wrong?" I ask him as we creep through the locker room, each little bank of lockers housed in a cage-like grouping. Which one is the basketball team's?
He's almost tearing up. "It doesn't smell in here. I mean, it smells...but it smells like feet."
"Can we just find..."
He hushes me with a finger to my lips. "Deirdre. It's just feet!The boys' locker room at West smells like someone took a dump, made it into paint and coated the walls with it. This is...this is immaculate."
I roll my eyes and push him away from me. "Hurry up, I don't want to get caught."
Javi continues making sounds of awe, and I have to admit – it doesn't smell awful in here. Perhaps East High's air circulation was just another place where it trumped our school. We sneak past the coach's office, and I wrinkle my nose at the incredible amount of trophies Coach Bolton has decorating the room.
Finally, we see a few athletic bags piled up on one of the little caged-off areas and some spare basketballs. Jackpot. Javier starts reading the little engraved nameplates on the lockers while I hang back and grip the cage.
"Are you going to help? He's YOUR boyfriend."
"He is not," I protest, joining him in the room to avoid more teasing. My eyes skim a few of the lockers. Baylor, Cross, Zara...
"Found it!" I turn around to see Javi rubbing his hands together like some criminal mastermind. The forbidden "Bolton" locker. I look in vain for a combination lock, but the extent of the goody two-shoes East High behavior stuns me. Javier is gleeful, though. "They don't even lock it!"
He pulls the locker door open, and a piece of paper falls to the floor. Javier picks it up and before he can unfold it, I snatch it away. "You are not reading this!"
"What? Oh come on, that has to be from that Gabriella!"
I roll my eyes at the sheer number of tiny hearts drawn on the paper in bright pink pen. Nope, not from Gabriella. I unfold one tiny corner, seeing a glittery "Love, Sharpay" written at the end. Sharpay Evans? Gross. Anyone who's anyone at the West High Drama Club knows about East's prima donna. "He has a lot of fans," I mumble, feeling suddenly embarrassed for Troy.
He holds his hand out impatiently. "So we send this little love note to his girlfriend, they cat fight, knock East High down a few pegs."
"Why are you looking to start a fight?" I shove past him, sticking the note in the back of Troy's locker behind a pair of Reeboks. "Let's just take the stupid pants and go."
But before that, we hear the locker room door leading out to the gym open. I know that because the quiet locker room is suddenly overwhelmed with cheers, only to be muted seconds later. East High sound proofing: better than you since 1960-whenever they built the damn campus.
Javier and I freeze, each of us with a hand on a leg of Troy Bolton's Levis.