A new day, a new story. I have never written a slash before, and with all these High School Musical 2 things going about (eep, I am sooo excited!), I felt like popping out another story. I normally hate it when people call Ryan gay; but the truth is, I just hate it when they call Lucas gay (HE IS PERFECTLY STRAIGHT, PEOPLE). Also, gay couples are the cutest - So I decided to write my first slash. R&R!!!!
It's the same every day. I get up, I get ordered around, I go to school, I get ordered around, I come home from school, I get ordered around some more, I do my homework, and then I go to bed. End of story, the end. I can't really say I'm not used to it, since it's been happening since the third grade. But then, somehow I still get bitter every single time I get brushed aside by my twin sister. I never breathe of word of my true feelings, of course; but it does get to you after awhile. If every single day every single person in your high school "accidentally" bumps you against lockers, "accidentally" knocks your books out of your hands, all the while muttering words like "queer", "gay freak", "fruitcake", and "faggot", you might understand why I can be a little depressed at times.
Day after day, week after week, month after month, you begin to feel like a robot, just going through the motions of your program. For instance, my afternoon from the moment I leave school is already planned out. Step One: run the five miles home from school while Sharpay drives. Step Two: take her backpack for her at the door while she handles the keys to the house. Step Three: pop hot pockets into the microwave and fish homework out of both backpacks. Step Four: hand Sharpay her hot pocket before proceeding to carry both backpacks up to your room. Step Five: complete both you and your twin's homework before you parents come home. Step Six: help your mother fix dinner. Step Seven: eat exactly half of your dinner, insisting that you must watch your weight. Step Eight: if you have any dance, voice, or acting lesson to go to, make post haste there. Step Nine: without having to be told by your mother, take out the garbage and recycling to the curb and wash all the dishes. Step Ten: change into jogging clothes, let yourself out of the house, and run two more miles. Step Eleven: let yourself into the house, lock up the house, and turn on the alarm. Step Twelve: take a very silent shower, being sure not to wake up your sleeping family. Final Step: get into bed and go directly to sleep; no TV or reading allowed whatsoever. And there you have it; a typical evening with Ryan Evans.
What I'm trying to say is there was absolutely nothing abnormal about the morning of May 25, the last day of school. I woke up at 6 o'clock and slipped downstairs quieter than an Indian on the hunt. I grabbed an apple from the refrigerator and my pill jar from the pantry. Filling a glass with water from the faucet, I downed four pills and placed the clear glass carefully into the dishwasher. Turning off the house alarm, I scuttled out the backdoor.
Early morning in my absolute favorite time of day for one reason; hardly any noises. No loud neighbors shouting across their lawns, no silly music stereos blasting vulgar rap songs, and most of all; no family members yelling at you to run errands for them. It's just you and nature, all by yourselves as the town of Albuquerque slowly begins to wake up. As always, I began my two mile run around the neighborhood and set my stopwatch; trying to cut back yesterday's time.
Panting a harder than a fat kid on cake, I checked my watch when my feet hit the front porch. 9:56. Swearing under my breath at my slow legs, I breathed deeply, knowing I had pressed myself extremely hard this morning. I pressed my ear against the front door before I opened it. The family was not yet awake; a very good sign. Slipping in, I whisked upstairs directly into the shower. For once I would have liked to leave my hair alone; just let the natural curls reign free. But no—that would never be allowed. It was out of the ordinary. I combed my hair and slipped into nice black pants and a pressed, baby blue t-shirt. Sharpay loved it when I wore blue shirts; she said it brought out my eyes. I tugged on a white newsboy cap with brown sides, and stared into my own eyes. My pale, crystal blue eyes were and are, I believe, my finest feature. And the only thing of mine my twin sister had ever wanted. Sharpay hated anything plain, even so far as brown eyes.
A stirring from the room down the hall awakened me to my surroundings. I hastily left the bathroom and crossed to my bedroom once again. Double-checking that all of mine and my sister's homework was completed, I packed up my messenger bag. Setting Sharpay's homework (written in her own hand) stacked neatly by her door, I descended the stairs. I checked the clock in the hallway. I had enough time to walk leisurely to school, for I hated being late. Whistling to myself at the joy of being so perfectly on time, I opened the front door and locked it behind me. I had completed my morning rituals in precisely 25 minutes and had not come face to face with a single one of my family members.
But once I reached my high school, my high spirits dampened with reality. Any named Wildcat could care less is Ryan Evans was on time for school. Not one of them would have noticed if I had suddenly dropped dead during a number in drama; I suspect the janitor would have tried sweeping me into a dust bin before realizing I was a human being. School is an extremely depressing business, and I made my usual wish I'd never been born as I pushed open the swinging doors of East High.
At once, trouble started. Brett Hanes had spotted me on the horizon and artistically ran into me the moment my sneakers touched the tile.
"Oh, sorry about that, fag," he laughed as I face-planted into the ground. "I didn't notice you there." He kicked my binder across the floor. "My bad." Chortling with his oh-so-clever friends, he sauntered on his way as I repacked the homework and school books I had so patiently packed earlier that morning. Not saying a single word, I picked myself up and carried on my way to Mrs. Darbus's room; my sanctuary in the midst of devils. My Hiding Place during the Holocaust. My Underground Railroad during the Civil War. My shining star in the midst of a hurricane.
"Sounds depressing," you say. You have absolutely no idea. I suppose you are thinking my now that my medication is probably for depression. Actually, it's not; but thanks for the suggestion. A reason why I get depressed so easily might be my condition, if you want to call it that. Though nobody at East High besides the teachers and Sharpay knows it, I have epilepsy. Basically, at any given time in the right circumstances, I can have a seizure. That is, unless I take my medication. My only weakness is strobe lights. I absolutely hate those things; meds or no meds, I am almost certain to have to seizure because of those wicked lights. That's while you'll never catch me at a music concert; I don't feel like risking me keeling over because of a light show or some other stupid reason. Epilepsy is so annoying sometimes.
Though I am very glad no one knows about my secret weakness, it does have it downsides. A popular example is when Troy Bolton, Chad Danforth, and such people invite me to a rock concert. I am running out of witty excuses to as why I can't come, but they are most definitely getting suspicious. I can survive more teasing as just as long as they don't ever find out. I can survive through pretty much anything by now.
The high point of my entire day was drama class. There I could be whoever I want to be without worrying about concealing too much. Of course I did not allow the comfort of the stage to put me off my guard; I've had that happen far too much as it was. Instead, I contented myself with sitting loyally behind my sister and letting her decide what we would do for that day; it made life far less complicated. But today, Mrs. Darbus's words froze my blood.
"Seeing as how today is our final day here, I thought I might make things a little fun." Scary as Darbus's version of fun was, it was the next sentence that chilled me to the bone. "We are going to step off the stage are into the shoes of a technological assistant!" Oh sweet lord. That meant... "I will be splitting the class into three groups; one for the sound booth, one for backstage control, and one for the light system." The light system. How could she even consider for one moment letting high school boys play with electricity? As if they would act mature and responsible and control the spotlight as they could. Considering Mrs. Darbus was old as dinosaurs, how had she learned nothing of the behavior of typical high school boys? Merely one look at their mischievous faces would have tipped you off. Plus this being the last day of school, the thoughts of what might happen were horrendous.
Then my mind cleared. I only had one objective; not to be on the sound or light team. Please let me work backstage, please let me work backstage…
"…and Ryan Evans will be apart of our sound system crew." Great. Just great. Thank you Mrs. Darbus! With loud whoops and hollers, 7th block Drama crossed down the hallway into the auditorium, ready to begin their demolition. I immediately established myself in the farthest place away from the noise and lights; in the far left corner of the humongous room. My only hope was not to be noticed.
"Ryan!" Of course, the Darbus menace would reign supreme. "Don't sit there and let all of your peers do the work for you! Get up and help!" Glares from my fellow students assured me that their opinion of me was exactly the same as our drama teacher's. "Mr. Evans!" Groaning, I pushed myself to my feet and walked as slowly as was humanly possible to the sound booth.
"Hey, look at this!" Brett's jeer rang loud as he flickered the lights on and off. On and off. On and off. On and off.
"Mr. Hanes, please cease flickering the lights! Mr. Hanes!" Mr. Hanes was planning to get as much pleasure as he could from playing with the lights before Darbus could land a detention on his head. On and off. On and off. On and off.
My hands began to vibrate. I clutched them in desperation, and squeezed my eyes as tight as I could. It was no good; I had known it would not be. Both my arms began to shake, I could still see the lights through my eyelids. On and off. On and off. On and off.
My willpower broke. I sprinted from the sound booth and ran pell-mell out into the hallway. I collapsed against the cool wall, and breathed deeply, trying to stop my spasms. My eyes remained firmly closed. I allowed the regularity of the white school lights to calm my contracting muscles. Curled up in a miserable little ball, I waited patiently. The first warning of a seizure had come and gone; but no full-blown seizure seemed to be coming. Still, I figured I should drop by the nurse and lie down for awhile; I didn't feel like taking chances.
Clicks of high heels against tile flooring rang in my ears. I still did not open my eyes, but I didn't need to; I already knew who was lording over me.
"Mr. Evans, this is inexcusable." Seizures were inexcusable? But then, she hadn't known that I was having spasms. Such is the cost of secrecy. "First you try to skip work by hiding in a corner of the auditorium, and now you try to escape into the hallway." Escape was certainly a good word for the situation. "If you keep this up, I may have to give you detention. Now mind you, I don't want to-" sometimes being a teacher's pet did come in handy "-but I will. Understood?"
"Mrs. Darbus, may I please go to the nurse? I am really feeling quite ill." Only by my truly green face was I able to escape another lecture about trying to cut class. She wrote me a pass to the nurse before storming back inside the room to try and control her class. Good luck with that.
I pushed myself up with the help of the wall. My head whirled, and I leaned against it again for support, closing my eyes. Inside the sound booth had been too close a call…far too close. Sighing again, I opened my eyes and walked slowly over to the nurse's office.
Mrs. Garza and I had become good friends over the years. She was one of the few staff members that knew about my epilepsy, and she let my lie down on a cot in the back of her office until school ended. I made my way back to my locker and packed up backpack. For the first time in at least a month, I stuffed my sneakers in there as well; I was not allowed to run the five miles home after I had had a seizure. Or, in this case, the first stage of a seizure.
To cut my time in half, I took a shortcut through the locker room hallway to get outside.
"Hey Evans!" Occupied with my thoughts about the almost-seizure, I had completely forgotten about Brett and Craig. Terrific.
"Hey Evans!" I barely ducked in time to miss the kick aimed at my head. "I called your name; and I'm expecting you to answer!" Five others knuckle-cracking, bulky, muscular football players hulked over their shoulders. Holy lord; he had brought out the entire gang for the occasion.
Walking backward, they had succeeded in cornering me at the far back of the school. I really wasn't in the mood for this; especially after having spasms earlier. And it was the last day of school, for Pete's sake. Did they ever give it a rest? I answered my own question as Craig lunged at me. Evidently not.
I swung my backpack at his head, managing to alter his directions. My messenger bag was my only shield when it came to beat-up-the-gay-guy time. I wielded it left and right, creating a small ring around myself. But I knew it wouldn't hold them off for long. The dunderheads finally figured that if all seven of them jumped me at once that I couldn't smack them all with my weenie backpack. Brett motioned his buddies with a nod, and they attacked. I punched, I swore, and I kicked them all in the face at least once with my blessedly flexibly legs. But I was in pretty poor shape when Chad and Troy arrived on the scene.
Now, you have to understand something about Chad Danforth and Troy Bolton. They are very nice guys, and try to give everyone a chance. But they are also very uptight about things like, for instance, gay people. They turn into complete homophobes if my arm brushes against there's; as if my own desires might rub off on them. Who knows what they think. It was highly out of their comfort zone when they came to my—I guess you could use the word "rescue"—on the last day of the school year. Troy and Chad slugged their way through the mob, and somehow managed to break of the fist fight. I sat on the ground at their feet, feeling like a helpless baby on the steps of an orphanage. What a ridiculous wimp I must look like, I thought to myself.
When I risked glancing up at their faces, I could in that instance that they had not known it was me they were saving. They had just seen seven guys ganging up on one smaller guy, and decided to be local heroes and save the victim from his suffering. If they had known it was me…well, I don't know what they would have done. After a long, long silence, Troy spoke.
"I'd never thought you'd sink this low, Brett. Seven of y'all against one kid! What kinds of odds are those?" The rest of the conversation I did not listen to, as it did not involve me at all. Chad and Troy kept on scolding the boys on teaming up against on person while I, the ignored, queer victim, swung my backpack over my should and continued on my way to Sharpay's car. She would absolutely furious at me for being late; plus the fact that blood from my cut arm and eyebrow might stain the leather seats.
I dumped my backpack into the backseat of her convertible, and looked around for my sister. Contrary to tradition, she was running around school, hugging all of her best friends "goodbye". All across the courtyard couples and friends and buddies were hugging and passing around phone numbers and email addresses. I sat in the car and waited.
"What's the matter, Ryan? No one you want to say goodbye to? Not even your precious boyfriend?" I blinked up at Brett; the sun was in my eyes.
"Yes, as I a matter of fact." With speed surprising to Brett, I climbed halfway out of the car just far enough to kiss him directly on the cheek. He drew back with a loud sound of disgust, and wiped his cheek.
"See you later, sunshine." Faking to vomit, the football captain's face twitched with revulsion as he stalked away towards his people.
I laughed to myself. Revenge was sweet and rare, but I took it whenever I got the chance. I had a talent for making the best out of bad situations, and reveled in my small victories; it is small victories than will win you a war.
So, what'd you think??