Flawed Perfection
Prologue (fiercccekitty)
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"Come in."
She took a deep breath to stifle the drowsiness flooding her, and pushed open the door as steadily as possible, slipping inside the room quietly.
"Father?"
Curious, she looked around the room, absently tugging at the ends of her hair. Her gaze settled on the small man behind a table in the corner, moved swiftly to the wooden masterpiece of a clock perched atop the table, and she did a double back. The clock read 7.00 AM and her father was in his grey business suit. He looked up from the copious paperwork scattered on his table, blinking dazedly as he glanced at the clock.
"Good morning, Gabriella," he greeted, brushing his suit distractedly and nodding absently. He tugged at his cuffs. "You must be wondering what business I had to discuss with you at this ungodly hour of the morning." Then he chuckled nervously, and coughed. The girl raised her eyebrow infinitesimally. He must be really nervous. "Well. You see – oh bother, take a seat. I feel dead."
She would've laughed at the formal tone of the conversation, but that wouldn't be like her.
"Okay..." Gabriella frowned, scrutinizing his face. His brown eyes were shifty and tired, a dead giveaway to all the pressure he was subjecting himself too. "Father?" she prompted.
"Right... you see," he made a sweeping gesture with his hand, "Business is good. The Friday Company ascertained their partnership with ours last year, as you know. Gained big profits, we did." He peered at his daughter's neutral, uninterested face cautiously, and rubbed his temples. He felt quite sheepish. "Anyways, the point is... I was thinking about moving." We are moving, he amended to himself.
Tapping the table with his fingers, he gauged his daughter's reaction. Gabriella's back was stiff and her eyes blank; she'd gripped the edges of the tables with her hands and was leaning forward.
"Moving?" she echoed. Calmly. Antonio almost sighed in weariness.
"Yes," he affirmed. "Moving, as in moving inside the city." A hopeful glimmer lit up his anxious eyes. "Not a new town. There, that ought to be better, right? A bigger, better place..."
"It's not exactly stuffy in here, either," Gabriella replied, her tone labored. "What's the point of moving inside a country anyway, Father?"
"Well – no, okay, it isn't," he conceded, looking away. "But it's not about that. And believe me I wouldn't be hassling myself if it weren't as important to me as it is. You and I both know it. "
The words latched into the air like steel hooks. Heavy.
Actually, I don't care. The girl's hands went slack and retrieved back to her sides limply, and her back slumped. Apprehension combined with weariness crawled into her expression. "You're kidding, Father. Right? We just moved here." There was a hint of accusation underlying her statement. "Surely you can do something to get around the moving?"
Gabriella knew there was no hope for it; her father had already decided what was going to happen and asking her for had been but an afterthought. But that didn't mean she couldn't press for it; press him to change his decision. Some part of her even blamed herself; she knew her father's unconfident, unsure nature, and in a way, she felt like she was exploiting it to her advantage.
Antonio smiled at her in a reassuring manner. "It's going to be better, I promise. You can still go to East High if you like," he offered, in what was supposed to be a kind, generous tone. If you like? Gabriella felt nauseated. Sick. She wanted to shout profanities at each and every thing in the room, burn her father's books and bathe in their ashes. "You can have your friends with you; have sleepovers, indulge in teenage activities and what-not." He tried to smile. "And look at the brighter side—"
Gabriella cut him off tersely. "There's no bright side." Then she wrung her hands, feeling a bit guilty. "What about Hannah?"
Across the table, the man's eyes blinked twice. "—Hannah? Well, of course, she's coming with us."
"What about... It's not going to be easy, don't you see? We have a lot of stuff, you know." Desperation seeped into her tone. Digging her nails in her palm, she looked at him beseechingly.
His eyes were elsewhere. "That's all done."
Gabriella regarded him incredulously. "Already done? Why did you bother to ask for my opinion anyway, Father?"
"I—I just wanted to see whether you're happy about it or not."
A short silence ensued.
"Right," she said. And at seven in the morning too. Way to make my day, Father. "And you knew I was going to agree, didn't you?" You have me all under control too, don't you? I'm 'all done', too, 'all under control. "Oh daddy, you know me so well. Of course I'm happy about it. This house is getting boring anyway." I'm just starting to like it here. Funny how father could run a successful, high-status firm so well, but couldn't detect the sarcasm in his daughter's voice and the bitterness in her expression. Swallowing, she tried to regain a modicum of nonchalance and tried to fend off the spear-heads of thoughts attacking her brain. Primly, she nodded. "Sorry about the hassle, Father. It's all good." It's not good at all. A plastic smile tossed his way. "I think it's a good idea. I just—never mind. Good day, Father."
And she got up, her steps robotic as she walked towards the door, and slid out, leaving an incredulous and agitated father in her wake.
Inside she was shaking.
...
We're moving.
She groaned, tugging at her hair wildly. She wanted to shout. Shout anything and everything until it left her throat sore and her body lifeless. Her insides crawled. Something gnawed. She'd feel echoes then, if she shouted, resonating off everything, a reminder of just how hollow, hollow, hollow her life was.
We're moving.
She thought of prisoners and prison cells, leashes and leaking pipes. A shudder ran down the length of her body.
Unbidden, she slid off her bed and moved towards her dressing table. Taped to the mirror was a picture of her and Sharpay, grinning. Staring into the mirror in a calculating silence, she saw two faces. Both hers – the age difference hideously blatant in her eyes and smile. The difference, somehow, wasn't that staggering, albeit there. The same hair – a touch darker and less messier, perhaps –, the eyes brown and the same small nose. Hamster cheeks still standing out, weird in themselves, but not when you looked at the whole picture. She looked at the picture on the corner. Same hair, same nose, same cheeks, the girl in the picture had. Eyes enthusiastic, smile radiant. Olive skin, eyelashes thick and curled. That was her, the real her, who smiled and laughed and didn't care what the world thought.
But she'd been lost and never found.
Breakaway.
Back then, she'd been free and energetic. She used to laugh openly, loudly and boisterously, and run and jump like monkeys. But then adolescence ventured upon her so stealthily, with her mother's death and his father's twitchy eyes and high expectations, taming her into a shell of a girl. She was perfect. She had money, life and looks.
She should be thankful.
Glancing at the clock, she sighed. 7.20 AM. Time to get ready for school.
...
"So I did the chapter seven exercise too, for shits and giggles," Taylor said, laughing.
Gabriella nodded absently, smiling. Blegh, gag me. "Sounds cool."
"I wish I had your brains," the African-American girl sighed. "That'd have made it a whole lot easier."
I wish that too. It's such a burden, to be honest. Making a show of ducking her head modestly, her friend said, "Please."
The scent of a familiar strong cologne wafted to her senses as the air shifted. "Hello," a husky voice whispered beside her ear. She heard Taylor's giggle trilling away as she turned around and smiled at the brown-haired guy.
"Hi Derek," she said.
Her boyfriend wrapped his arms around her and planted a chaste kiss on her lips.
He pulled away, grinning. "Okay, how are your legs so shiny?"
Gabriella blinked at the question. "Huh?" she said before she could stop herself.
Derek guffawed loudly and put his arm around her shoulders. "Well," he maneuvered her deftly through the bustle of students, "you are." Gabriella gave him a look and a thump on the backside of his head. "Wha—? Ow!" He gave her a dirty look and rubbed his head with an exaggerated wince.
She smiled at him innocently. "I'll see you in Chemistry, 'kay? Bye."
Her bag swung as she turned around, not waiting for his reply and barely suppressing an eye-roll. Thick. To her annoyance, his head reappeared in the periphery of her vision.
"But babe! There's still some time left. How about we make out some more, eh?"
As if on cue, the bell rung. Gabriella muffled her smile with her hand and moved away.
Thank you.
...
"Some people are just so extra," Sharpay said, eyeing Melissa Harland's outfit. "I mean, that scarf? Fashion slavery, I tell you."
"I know," Gabriella replied, busy doodling in her notebook. "Desperate."
"Plus, she needs to learn how to accessorize."
The raven-haired girl hummed.
The blonde snapped her chewing gum and rolled her eyes at the unconvincing display of interest. Ms. Darbus droned on about Drama classes and Musicales, the usual, while students chatted amongst themselves. "You're such a hypocritical bitch. If you want me to shut up, just say so."
Gabriella's eyes snapped up immediately, surprised. "I never said—"
"Oh, boohoo, you might as well have—" She raised her eyebrows. "Stalker alert."
Rolling her eyes, Gabriella glanced over her shoulder to see Jimmy "Rocket" Zara staring at the back of her head. She withdrew her gaze before he could catch her eyes.
"Urgh, honestly," she groaned.
"Can't you just feel the love radiating off him?"
"Funny, all I can feel right now is freaked out of my minds."
Sharpay gave a snort. "He's a creep."
"...and dear students say hello to Troy Bolton!"
Troy—wait, what? New student?!
Gabriella's surprised eyes jumped from the dull brown of her desk – where she'd been staring bleakly – to the dirty-blonde guy standing in the doorway.
The first thing she noticed was that he was tall and lean, with scruffy floppy dirty-blonde hair – the little she could make out from under the cap he had on – that fell into his eyes, giving him a boyish appearance. He was dressed in a sleeveless black shirt and navy blue cargos, and from what she could make out, he had a pretty good muscle definition. One hand clenched tight and the other hanging limply by his side, he was nothing short of an Adonis with a reckless touch. Gabriella's head tilted as she caught a glimpse of his expression that was carefully veiled by the baseball hat he wore.
At the mention of his name, he looked up.
Nausea washed upon her anew as his gaze shifted around the class and fell onto her. His lips twisted infinitesimally.
All she saw was blue. Deep, deadly blue.
Lots of it.
...
A/N: Hello! Howahowa! Howdy! It's us again, yupperdoops. :D
So here's to hoping that our second story would work out. Considering my (read: Momo) tendency to slack and procrastinate everything until the very last itty bitty second, that would be something in and of itself. ANYWAYS. Did you like this tiny piece of prologue, dearies? Yeah, sugarplums? Well, what are you waiting for; the review button is just down there, lol. That's right, go on. ;)
Thanks. :)
Momo & Joyce