Troy and Gabriella didn't understand. No one did.
It's not that we wanted to get the lead roles--at any rate, not so badly that we would do anything to have them.
We had to get them.
No choice. No option.
But no one knew that. Ms. Darbus didn't, that was for sure. Maybe if she had, things would have been different.
Or maybe not. It might have been all the same to her if Troy and Gabriella were prancing happily around under the stage lights before hundreds of admirers while Ryan and I rotted away in protective custody.
I don't know. It didn't matter anymore. What did matter was that Troy and Gabriella had pulled ahead of us, and Ryan and I still had to go home.
Ryan's driving today; the sleeve of my silk blouse keeps riding up my arm, revealing the effect your dad grabbing you too hard the night before can produce. I don't want to see it more than I absolutely have to, and I can't risk that anyone else will, either. I can't tell who seems more inclined to throw up their insides at any moment, him or me. But if Ryan's pale face and terror filled eyes are any indication, I must look just as bad, if not worse.
Seventeen years of this.
Seventeen long years.
Seventeen dark years.
Seventeen years of not being good enough. For anything.
Our parents must have been training us since birth. At least that's how it feels.
Well, they call it training. Child services would probably call it something else entirely.
"Hey, since we're has been acting students going nowhere and complete disappointments in the eyes of our parents, let's hitch up and have a kid or two to do what we never could."
Ryan reckons that's how it all started, and I believe it. They sure didn't have us with the intention of picnics in the park or family holidays or bedtime stories.
Rather, they favored the other side of the spectrum.
The way other side of the spectrum.
The side of the spectrum that no one should ever have to encounter. Especially with the people they call their parents.
Or, in our case, The Parents. As Ryan and I refer to them.
I try not to notice the gash just under Ryan's temple, courtesy of Mother's wedding ring, a "break a leg at the auditions" present, if you will.
With this ring, I thee wed as long as you promise that you'll use it to cut up our son's face.
Someone really needs to work on changing that wedding vow.
I'd tried to cover it for him that morning, and while no one had acknowledged it during the day, we both knew it was still there.
It surprised me, really; physical blows were not really Mother's specialty, but more Daddy's.
Mother's area of expertise stems more under the category of never letting us forget what pathetic losers we are.
Whether it's by way of yanking us by our ears out of bed at three o' clock in the morning and forcing us to stand in front of her while she rants on and on about how useless we are.
Locking us in the stuffy attic for extended periods of time where the Albuquerque heat can be enough to drive a person to drink.
Almost as much as the freezing nights when we're made to sleep underneath the front porch with nothing to keep us warm.
Making us to stay up all night practicing our lines. Show the slightest sign of sleep and Daddy will be out of bed in a heartbeat.
Daddy who can do things with belts and chains and his bare hands that I never thought possible.
I think her personal favorite is enjoying extravagant dinners with Daddy in front of Ryan and me while we perform our latest song and dance routines on stomachs that have gone empty for three plus days; everyone knowing we won't be allowed a bite of anything unless we execute perfectly, and maybe not even then.
All of which, if not more, we had to face in approximately two point seven minutes.
My eyes go in the direction of the sun; I can feel its heat reflecting through the windows of the convertible. There are times where I wonder if I'll ever see it again, this being one of them.
"Shar," Ryan says quietly as we turn into the long driveway leading to the house. With a shaking hand, he presses the button that indicates for the help to punch in the code which will open the gate. My parents had flown to New York for the day to wrap up some kind of business deal, and I close my eyes, praying with all my heart that something had gone wrong and they hadn't come home yet.
Wouldn't come home.
Please, I begged silently.
Let them still be at the meeting.
Let them have joined up with a religious group that forces them to sell all their worldly possessions and move way far away so they can worship the trees and the rain in peace.
Let them find something wrong with the helicopter.
Let them have…crashed?
I knew I was entertaining an evil thought, even considering all The Parents represented to their children. But I would be lying if I said I wouldn't have been relieved if the latter was the case.
My heart sank, and all my hopes along with it, as I spotted their helicopter, which had been landed neatly on the massive lawn.
"Ryan," I choked out suddenly as he pulled the key from the ignition. "I can't."
But I could. I knew that. I just never seemed to feel that way.
"We've done this before, Sharpay," he whispered. "We'll do it again."
"For how long?" I whispered, two stray tears sneaking from my rapidly filling eyes.
"For however long it takes."
I knew we both wanted to hug then, but on the off chance The Parents could see us from the front windows, we thought better of it. Ryan and I were never allowed any kind of physical contact, barring what was necessary for performing, or very much interaction of sorts, really. It was simply another ploy on the part of The Parents to ruin their twin son and daughter.
Who knows. Maybe one day it will work.
But not now.
We emerged from the car, staying as close together as was possible without actually touching. I cast another look over my shoulder, to the impeccably groomed lawn. Two little blondes, a boy and a girl, were playing there, laughing and chasing each other without a worry in the world, not giving a second thought to getting grass stains on their clothes. A smiling couple watched them fondly from the windows.
I closed my eyes, then opened them again.
There was no carefree little boy or girl there. Nor doting parents at the window.
Only the ones I wish that were.
"We need to go in the house now, Sharpay," Ryan said gently.
"I know."
If only Ryan and I could be that little boy and girl. Light hearts, knowing dinner would be on the table, knowing Daddy would throw us up in the air and catch us while we giggled, knowing Mommy would tuck us in at night, leaving the door open just a crack so that some light would still come in.
Knowing Mommy and Daddy would always pick us up when we fell.
Just for one day.
If only.