Thirteen Years Without You

A High School Musical Fanfic by Desireé Lemmon

Setting: Future, East Coast

Disclaimer: Me on fanfiction. Do the math.

A/N It's the (second) return of TYWY! I know, I am so horrible because this story, like, can't stay up for the life of it, but here's the deal: my computer or Fanfiction (not sure which one) wouldn't let me update at all, something went haywire and I just decided starting over might be better. If you're reading this, then I was right. :) So I've come up with a new habit: lyrics at the beginning of every chapter, sometimes, like in this part, at the end, too. A girl who writes mostly Hairspray fanfiction gave me the idea, instead of a few songfic chapters every once in a while, have one or two stanzas at the beginning. Enjoy, guys! Hope y'all liked Poster Child. -love- Desireé

Edit- I noticed people were confused the last time they read this, but please just be patient. Everything that should be confusing will get clarified by the beginning/middle of the third chapter, I promise.

Chapter One, Black Sheep

I want you to know, with everything I won't let this go.

These words are my heart and soul,

I hold onto this moment you know.

'Cause I'd bleed my heart out to show that I won't let go.

-'With Me,' Sum 41

The window shop was bare and shabby, a worn and tattered cloth draped across a crate that sat squarely in the middle, turned slightly to show off its none-too-impressive second side. The front door, made of glass, barely gave a glimpse of the inside to any given passerby, but that held little interest for the owner, who was much too old to care for silly fun facts anymore. She was weary and fragile and unusually anti-social, which conveniently fit the budget for a woman in her early thirties. An arguing customer would get their bidding price in a single second, although it's difficult to understand why anyone would want to buy something from the Witching Hour. The owner had been too moody to mind the odd title when she first bought the deed to the building those many years ago, although her mind had stirred with ideas for new names a few months after the shack became hers. By that time, though, the handful of regulars who visited often for coffee or simple conversation had grown used to the eerie label, as had she. Sometimes the ability to care was too much of a burden.

Upstairs was her apartment, mostly abandoned upon her arrival. Two bedrooms, one bath, and the narrow little kitchen that captured her fascination most. Albeit several things had dulled considerably in her mind, one of her personal loves remained: cooking.

What joy it was to bring taste to life, to unearth an incredible euphoria of flavor and spices and other homely ingredients. She never had anyone for whom she could cook frequently—certainly old broads similar to her were undeserving of genuine company. But she still thrived on the feeling of a whisk in her hand, or a few recipes beneath her touch. Occasionally she would stir up some lively dish and bring it down to a doting customer, lonely and cross just like she was. They would finish every last bite, eager for more. By this point, the owner would have reached her weekly limit and shake her head, patting the customer's shoulder and saying, "Maybe tomorrow."

The town was sparse, the population still for more than ten years. The children, who made up about a third of the community, spent their days at school, at the park, or at the movies. The adults kept themselves busy with their small enterprises and organizations that were necessities to the district's survival. The Witching Hour, among the bank and the market and the post office, was the birthday present store. Any birthday did not go without a gift from the tiny shop, which carried everything from wagons and telephones to bells and sneakers. The owner wasn't proud of the randomly-stocked outlet; in fact, she downright despised it sometimes. But, like all else, it was now a part of her.

…

New York was a big city, with plenty of characters and experiences to come with it. Locals and tourists alike were magnetized to the urban life, basking in its skyscrapers' shadows and the glow of city lights. A particularly well-known artist loft in the Village was buzzing with post-Thanksgiving pre-Christmas excitement at the moment, as the host was scrambling around the rooms, trying to cater to every guest's need. "Eggnog! More eggnog!" (It was only reasonable to assume the eggnog had been spiked, thus provoking the desire for more.) "Where's the bathroom?" "I'm actually allergic to shellfish and am a vegan otherwise. Do you have any tofu?"

Somewhere in the apartment, his children were hiding from the mass of visitors, all of whom were some type of famous, like their father and stepmother. The daughter, who had recently turned thirteen and never let anyone forget it, tilted her head and let it lean against the wall. "Ugh, I hate these holiday parties," she sighed, "They always end up in a bad mood in spite of the commercial cheerfulness and Dad never gets a maid service to clean it up or anything. We're always picking up after these pigs."

Beside her, the brother, two years older, chided softly, "You know he's trying to get used to the social scene, too. It's been nearly six years and he still isn't good at the picture flashing in public and the constant autograph pleads. Even when he comes to pick us up at school there's screams for him, and of course he acts like it's so weird all the girls I want to ask out like him."

"Ew, they have such bad taste," the girl replied. Truthfully, she loved her father very much. But his status on the society scale was rapidly increasing, going from low key artist just a few years ago to big time painter living between SoHo and the Village. "I just wish he'd perk up and have fun for once. It seems like he finds all this an obligation. We have enough money for an assistant and a manager and stuff like that. I think if Dad had an entourage, we'd be a much less dysfunctional family."

The door to the room in which they hid opened, and their father appeared. "We're not dysfunctional," he reminded the girl, who seemed irritated by the sudden discovery of their secret spot. "Now come help me refill the snacks table. I know Cassandra said you guys could relax tonight, but I really need back up."

The girl groaned as she stood up. Patting her father's shoulder, she said in a facetious but sober tone, "In the real world, Dad, it's called the hired help."

…

He had tried to call her several times after she left. Of course, she assumed it was because he had no idea how to care for the things she had left behind, but her maternal instinct was too weak to overcome her hesitance to pick up the phone. This town, this realm, was far, far away from where they had started life together, and she admitted to liking it. Surely he couldn't come with her. Not when they had different goals to achieve. When she was packing, there was a small feeling of guilt harvesting inside her. But she ignored the regret quickly and zipped the duffle bag. Somewhere else, things would be different.

That somewhere else happened to be about a hundred and twenty-three miles south, on the border between New York and New Jersey. The community was prominently small, if that made any sense. People welcomed her with such grace, she nearly fell backward at the rush of warmth that first day. It wasn't until then that she had realized she had forgotten what nice was. Certainly there was the factor that the townspeople had not seen a single new face in over a decade, but she still appreciated the hospitality. No one had expected another citizen, so she found solace in the shop-and-board that had been up for sale for more than a year. The prior owner had no interest but to be rid of the property, so payments were made quickly and she was soon settled in the miniature metropolis of Sampson.

The area was discreet enough so she knew he could never find her, even if he wanted to. Certainly after dumping so much responsibility on him, the woman was positive he would want nothing to do with her. Sometimes she wondered what had happened to him and the world she had had given up. The city was so lively and loud; here, in Sampson, it was quiet and dull. There was a comfort in the way the locals had never seen a beach or a zoo or an airplane. She gravitated toward their lack of modern day knowledge.

True, there was little company for her in Sampson. People had offered friendship, but she denied each time. At thirty-four, she had become the old lady who owned the Witching Hour, and all its misfit toys and objects inside. In a storybook, her character would come with twenty-five cats and the skeleton of the husband she killed back in the eighties stuffed in the closet. But this wasn't Mother Goose. This was real life, something that came as a brooding inconvenience more often than not.

Four particle people knew her well, and that group never lessened or grew during her time in Sampson. The first person was Zora, a widow who didn't speak to her children nor any other family members. She was in Sampson for the same reasons; to get away. Originally, she had been a thriving singer at a club in Los Angeles, but the people on the West Coast were not compatible with her middle-aged mood. A refugee in a small town, Zora was kind and thoughtful but sharply spoken and firm. Like a mother should be.

The second person was Jude, a young man in his late twenties that she had first met the day she arrived. He had been a teenager, flamboyant and jovial and lighthearted. But after an allegation in his Florida university college sent him to jail, he had nowhere to go back home. This put a damper on his spirit; one could understand a man as outgoing as he was should not be kept in a small town filled with people that had little experience with life's best features. Therefore, he found relief with the Witching Hour and all its oddities. They gave him amusement, and for that he was grateful.

The third person was Oliver, a high school dropout who had a connection with the Witching Hour by making it his childhood playground. His mother had been highly unqualified to properly care for him and his four sisters, thus making five babysitting agencies around town. Oliver, the eldest, had grown to be a part of the shop as well, and treated it as his second home, especially since his mother had found out he had quit senior year. She wasn't happy, but Oliver didn't mind. "She rarely is," he offered dryly one afternoon.

The fourth person was Adeline, a temperamental schoolteacher who had gone through five divorces in her twenty-eight year life. She usually came by at the end of the day, to chat and to enjoy a cappuccino. Though the drink was usually bitter, the fact that someone would even make her a beverage was good enough. She explained through tears her husbands had always been awful bastards that never made it past the third month. The owner would always hug her for support and make her a big dinner that would send her home full.

The quartet of different dispositions were unaware of the other three's existence. They all were associated with the Witching Hour in their own way, but all visited, suitably, at different times. Not that the owner thought they would mind sharing her amity; there wasn't a lot to lose when it came to someone who was as enervated as often as she was. But she only needed one friend at a time, and that was what they gave her: Oliver in the morning, Zora in the afternoon, Adeline in the evening, and Jude at night. Sometimes they would skip a session, opting for another place with other people. The owner never thought anything of it. She didn't blame them; her odds and ends boutique could only be so interesting.

As for her, she rarely left the shop. Eventually, she had gotten help from her four confidantes to let her continue being a solitary Sampson resident. Oliver could deliver groceries, and Adeline would give her any old books she no longer needed for class. Zora had plenty of records and CDs that had made it to her stereo once in a blue moon, before being passed onto the Witching Hour owner's collection. As for Jude, well, he could give her a laugh.

The townsfolk, with the exception of the exclusive tetrad that personally knew her, had come to call her the Black Sheep of Sampson. She stayed away, and never bothered to make contact with anyone more than she was obligated; a patron wanted to buy that tacky lamp shade she had placed in the corner? "Four ninety-five," left her mouth, and that was all besides, "Thank you, have a nice day."

She had tried phone therapy. It was out of the question to leave for a psychiatrist's office, and absolutely no one could come into the shop to evaluate the messiness and disorderly array of things. This left long hours of over-the-phone confessions with a Miss Valerie Miller up in Long Island. The psychologist had attempted mental assessment with lots of "How do you feel about that?" questions and a few "Crying doesn't hurt, you know" reassurances, but it didn't ever help much. After a whopping bill of two hundred and seventy-one dollars, the woman deserted the idea of psychiatric help.

The thirteen years she had spent in Sampson had been good to her, the upcoming New Year's ringing in an anniversary. What she didn't know was that the thirteen years he had spent without her had been certainly not good to him.

I don't want this moment to ever end,

where everything's nothing without you.

A/N: I know some may think reviews don't mean anything, but trust me, they're so helpful, so please do review! -love- Desireé