The Show Starts Now

Chapter 1


Un-fucking-believable.

They were already starting.

Even out here, with the scuffed, scratched wooden door standing shut between them, Branch caught the strain, a dozen hyper-enthused, sugar-fueled voices mixing and merging in yet another one of their absurdly over-the-top jingles composed specifically, he was sure, to try his razor-thin patience to its absolute limits.

He really should just fucking quit. Not like Cybil couldn't go and find herself another dead-eyed, subhuman high school senior to run a paintbrush across a piece of cardboard several thousand times in an hour and call it a backdrop. Not like anyone would even notice if he was gone.

Actually, Branch had to concede that they probably would, if only to gratefully note the perfect absence of the bitter asshole skulking around in the shadows, ready to leap out and deliver a string of caustic, biting comments every time they dared let their spirits rise so much as a fraction.

He hitched his backpack higher up on his shoulder, pushed open the door, and ducked, unseen, into the room.

Just as he'd predicted, the place was in complete chaos. Either he was a motherfucking psychic, or these guys were just painfully predictable in their unpredictability.

From the looks of things, everybody was going everywhere – or at least they were trying their damndest – and singing like they thought they were in some sort of low-budget The Sound of Music spin-off.

In the center of it all, like an impassable rock amidst a rushing stream, stood Poppy, her brush dripping jade-green paint, wide, radiant smile setting the room aglow, bubblegum-pink plait bobbing behind her as she bounced on her toes, voice carrying easily to every corner of the room, high and clear and sweet. "Everybody, shake your hair, and feel united, ohhh!" She spun in a circle, arms thrown wide, and head tipped back, exposing the curve of her neck and the smooth angle of her chin.

Satin and Chenille came sprinting suddenly through the tumult in a cloud of strong-smelling makeup and a swirl of glittery fabric, followed closely by Suki, her frizzy, unnaturally orange hair spilling from its messy bun and tumbling down around her shoulders; at the far end of the room, Guy Diamond moved easily between third and fourth position, the motions merely a matter of course to one who'd spent the last twelve years studying dance; Cooper and Smidge passed a steaming Styrofoam cup back and forth between them, chatting to Biggie between sips – and somehow, not one of them missed a single word of that goddamn song.

"Everybody's singing! Sunshine day!"

They all looked like complete idiots.

"Everybody, move your hair and feel united! Ohhh!"

And they all looked so happy.

"Ohh, yeah!"

Poppy clasped her hands to her chest on the last word, eyes squeezed shut and head tossed back, goofy, exaggerated grin still stretching her lips; several flyaway strands of bubblegum-pink hair had somehow escaped that ridiculous homemade flower crown she always insisted on wearing – because you're just jealous you don't have a fabulous floral headband, Branch, oh, my god, I'll totally make one for you, Branch, oh my god, what's your opinion on daffodils – and now fluttered and flitted about her face, or clung to her forehead, round rosy cheeks flushed in excitement and exertion, and she looked so outrageous and beautiful and so utterly Poppy that Branch had to look away, the smallest of smiles tugging at his lips.

He wanted to be annoyed with her. He really, really wanted to be annoyed with her. This was just unfair.

"Branch!"

Shit.

He looked up, drawing in a breath he knew would vanish the minute he laid eyes on her again. "Unbelievable, guys." Nope, not nearly asshole enough. "Really, really great. Good job." Not that it matters. None of these guys would know sarcasm if it bit them on the ass. "I could hear you from a mile away!"

"Good!" Poppy chirped; she dropped her hands back to her sides and rushed over to him, a familiar sparkle in her eye, blinding smile still fixed on her face. "I was worried we weren't projecting enough!"

Branch scowled – stupid Poppy with her stupid pretty smile making his stupid head spin and his stupid heart jump inside him – and took a step closer, folding his arms across his chest. "Poppy, if I can hear you, so can everyone else!"

Guy Diamond, who stood frozen in first position, relaxed his stiff stance, and rolled his eyes. "Oh, boy."

"Here we go again," Cooper said resignedly, handing the Styrofoam cup off to Smidge, and readjusting his hat.

"Oh, Branch," Biggie sighed.

"He always ruins everything," Satin murmured to her sister, tucking a loose strand of hair back behind her ear; Chenille bobbed her head in vigorous agreement.

Did they really think he couldn't fucking hear them? Branch ground his teeth together. "Look, I'm not taking any heat from Cybil when she finds out you guys haven't been doing your fucking job back here!"

"We have been doing our fucking job!" Chenille whipped round, eyes flashing. "Just because we aren't all as miserable as you, doesn't mean we aren't working!"

"Okay, fine!" Branch stormed past Poppy, pausing to snatch up his paintbrush. "You guys want to waste all your time back here singing? Be my guest!" He threw himself down in front of the half-finished backdrop – the stupid, cheery forest scene seemed to taunt him.

Why the fuck did he even do this again?

Oh, right. University. Gotta have those extracurriculars if he wanted to even get within sniffing distance of Hailville. Not like these guys planned on staying comfortably cooped up back here in Troll Town, with its five-hundred-and-fifteen population where everybody knew everybody, but at least they'd be easier to avoid up at a school as big as Hailville. Of course, this was operating under the assumption that he even got in at all—God knew the place only had a one in three hundred acceptance rate…some days, Branch couldn't believe he dared set his sights so high.

Well, at least they were being quiet now.

"Oh! Branch!"

Aaaaaand he spoke too soon. Wonderful.

"Soo," Poppy bounced over to him, and dropped to her knees beside him, "I'm havin' a party tonight, and I—

"No." Branch didn't look at her – it was always an effort to stop.

"You haven't even let me ask you yet!" Poppy protested.

"Right, because you're going to give me one of those—those monstrosities covered top to bottom in glitter," Branch put a final touch of dark green on one tree before moving onto the next, "which is going to get all over everything, by the way, you should really consider something that won't cling to wet paint, and I'm going to say no, anyway, so really, I'm just saving everyone time." He paused give his brush another meager dousing of dark green. "You should be thanking me."

"At least let me give you your invitation!" Poppy protested; the sound of rustling paper caught his attention, and when he glanced over, she smiled hopefully and held out a sunny yellow card, little pop-up rainbow springing forward on its tiny silver coil, a touch of vibrantly colored glitter shimmering brightly here and there in the corners.

Branch studied the card for several silent moments – lovingly and flawlessly crafted, just like all the ones before it; the little rainbow was a nice touch, he admitted grudgingly, and at least this one kept the glitter to a reasonable minimum. He wouldn't be plucking the glimmering flecks out of a still-drying, slightly sticky backdrop for ages to come, so the thing had that going for it, if nothing else.

"It's gonna be our biggest, loudest, craziest party ever!" Poppy enthused. "C'mon, what d'you say, Branch?"

She was so fucking adorable. It was fucking unfair. Branch scowled, more at this train of thought than at her. "Big? Loud? Crazy? Sounds like hearing damage, alcohol poisoning, and all in all, a whole lot of no thanks." He lifted his paintbrush again and turned deliberately away from her.

But Poppy didn't give in, expectant grin still perfectly in place. "I forgot to mention dancing! There'll be dancing there, too!"

"Terrific," Branch said dryly – and a bit tiredly, truth be told. When the fuck was she going to get the hint, and leave him alone? She'd known him almost eight years by this point – plenty of time for her to wise up and realize he was nothing but a jaded asshole. Jesus, he really needed to up his game. "Be sure to check for potential tripping hazards," he added, because the last thing these idiots needed was to break their stupid ankles. "Establish a perimeter, and an open path for non-dancing people to pass." Because he'd be damned if these stupid fucks wound up in the hospital just because they didn't know how to plan anything. "And make sure you have enough liquid in the area for hydration."

"Can you try to stop taking all the fun out of everything?" Poppy huffed. Just once! You might like it!"

"How about you try to take things more seriously?" Branch shot her a snarky smile, but there was a small twist in his chest as he spoke the words – one day, she really was going to get herself mixed up in something even she couldn't smile or party or hope her way out of, and when that day came, he would—he would…okay, fine, he would help her. But not until he'd gotten to say I told you so several dozen times.

"Whoa, whoa! Easy, Branch! Easy!"

Branch's smile slipped off his face like water, and he narrowed his eyes – when the hell did this fucker get here?

Creek breezed on up to them like he fucking owned the place, door still swinging slightly, fucking smug smile fixed on his fucking smug face. "Okay, first of all, mate," he went to his knees right next to Poppy – he left only an inch between them, if that, Jesus Christ, had the shitrag never heard of personal space? – and gave what, Branch supposed, could be described as a halfway pleasant smile, if the person doing the describing happened to be a huge fucking idiot. "Thanks for sharing your unique perspective on things," Creek chuckled lightly, "again."

Over at the far end of the room, Cooper and Biggie clapped their hands to their mouths, muffling their snickers a second too late, and Branch flushed to the tips of his ears. Fucking idiots acting like he couldn't fucking hear them. Fucking assholes, each and every one of them.

"But just for now," Creek continued, leaning forward a little – and whoakay, apparently the shitrag really had never heard of personal space, because this was too fucking close. "Why don't you try on some positivity, eh? A little positivity might go with that jacket!" He tugged pointedly at the ripped green jacket hanging round the other's shoulders.

Branch smacked his hand away. "Okay, fine. I'm positive I want all of you to leave me alone. I wouldn't be caught dead at your parties." He turned back to the scenery, a savage sense of triumph burning in his chest at the silence that pervaded in the wake of his words.

Finally they'd leave him the fuck alone. Just like he'd always wanted.

"Tune out his negative vibrations, Poppy," Creek murmured – like he couldn't fucking hear them. "They're toxic." Like he wasn't even fucking there. "Some folks just don't want to be happy." And some folks are smug-ass sons of bitches, but hey, we all have our vices, don't we, Creek?

"I guess." Uncertainty laced her voice, and it was enough for Branch to drag his gaze from the backdrop – not like he was getting very far on it right now, anyway – and up to her.

Creek flashed her another one of his stupid, smarmy smiles. "You guessed right." He lifted his hand and touched his finger lightly to the tip of her small nose. "Boop!"

Poppy laughed.

And that was fine, Branch told himself as he turned back to his work. That was fine. It was fine because it wasn't like he cared what Creek did with Poppy or what Poppy did with Creek or what Poppy did with anybody, it wasn't like he had any right to care because it wasn't like he was in love with Poppy or anything, it wasn't like he'd been in love with her almost eight goddamn years now, it wasn't like she did stupid cute things or smiled stupid cute smiles or made stupid cute invitations or sang stupid cute songs that made his heart forget how to beat or anything like that, it wasn't like he was fucking in love with fucking Poppy.

Except that when no one was looking, and Cooper and Smidge and Biggie had picked their conversation back up and waved Poppy and Creek over to their side of the room, and Guy Diamond had moved into second position, Branch reached out and snatched up the sunny yellow card, lying forgotten on the floor, and stuffed it down inside his jacket.

Another one to add to the pile.

If he kept this up, pretty soon it would be the last.

Finally she'd leave him the fuck alone.

His stomach dropped at the thought.

Just like he'd always wanted.


All things considered, The Troll Tree was a pretty shitty place to work.

The lousy, rundown restaurant was doing its damndest to masquerade as a diner, or at least something close to it, calling itself things like "cute" or "quaint" or "old-fashioned", so everybody could keep pretending it shouldn't have died a quiet, peaceful, dignified death back in the 1950s.

Chef ruled the place with an iron fist, tall and imposing and about as old as the diner itself; her small, dark eyes darted constantly to and fro, always on alert for the next unlucky employee upon which to unleash her inexhaustible roll of vitriolic remarks, mood and manner always unfailingly foul. Hell, she'd spent ten minutes yesterday hollering at Branch because she couldn't see her reflection in the plate he was scrubbing.

The pay was absolutely rotten, customers complained constantly that he didn't "smile enough" – as if there was some sort of quota he had to fill! – and, worst of all, a jukebox blared constantly at one end of the diner, blasting everything from seventies rock to Justin Timberlake's newest single.

Branch suppressed a groan as the – now woefully familiar – bars of Can't Stop the Feeling started in again, for the third time this week.

Who the fuck kept playing this song?

Probably Bridget. She did love to fuck with him.

Or she would if she was here.

Probably for the best that she wasn't, though, Branch conceded, grabbing up another dirty plate and raking his dishcloth roughly along the pale ceramic surface. She was terrified of Chef even on a good day. And – Branch rubbed the tip of his ear where the wooden spoon had struck him – today was definitely not a good day.

Yeah. Probably for the best Bridget wasn't here yet.

Though she'd be even worse off if she didn't show up soon…her shift had begun well over an hour ago, and Branch could only cover for her so long…

The door flew open, and a screaming, spinning whirl of pastel pink came shooting through.

Speak of the devil…

"Why didn't you tell me?! Why didn't you tell me?! You are the literal worst! Branch, you are the literal worst!"

"Says the one who played Summer Love on repeat for an entire week after you found out I didn't like it," Branch mumbled.

"Fair point, but," Bridget refused to be derailed, "why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you tell me I'd gotten a callback? Branch, you are the literal worst!"

Branch stuck the plate under the spray of rushing water. "Yes, I'm sorry for neglecting to mention something even I didn't know until literally yesterday."

Bridget paused.

"Anyway," Branch stacked the plate next to its fellows on the counter, "you're gonna talk my ear off no matter what I say, so I'll go ahead and bite – how did it go?"

Bridget beamed at him. "Okay, okay, so I think Cybil actually really, really liked me? I don't know, I mean, I could have been wrong – I probably was wrong, but she seemed like she—but I don't—oh my god! Oh my god, Branch, I'm—I'm so, so sorry." Her gaze skittered guiltily over the stack of greasy dishes piled high on the counter, then to the dishrag in his hand. "Oh, my god, I'm—I'm so sorry, I'm late again, aren't I?"

"It's fine."

"It was just—I was so excited, and then Poppy was so excited—and you know how Poppy gets when she's excited—

"I know," Branch said stonily. "Bridget, it's fine."

"—but—but that's no excuse, you shouldn't have to be here, your shift's already ended, hasn't it? Oh, Branch, I'm so sorry

"Bridget!" The thin, fraying thread the last of his patience had spent the morning precariously hinged upon suddenly snapped. "It's fucking fine! I'm getting paid for overtime, I really can't complain! Not like I have anywhere else to be!" Why couldn't she just go back to talking about her fucking audition?

"But—but didn't you have plans to—?" Bridget dropped her voice and ducked her head, stealing glances at him from underneath her thick brown hair, "—to go see your grandma?"

What he wouldn't fucking give to ram the plate he held into the counter just to hear it smash…he tightened his fingers reflexively around the rim of the dish. "Fuck off, Bridget."

"I—I'm sorry," she stammered, nervously wringing her hands, "I didn't mean to—

"Chef will kill you if she knows you're not working." Yeah, okay, change the subject. Changing the subject is good. Changing the subject. Be even better if the subject had never fucking come up in the first place, but this works. Change the subject, just change the fucking subject. "You'd better get out there before she catches you."

"I…" Bridget crossed the kitchen and drew the silver tray up off its designated counter, but hesitated just before leaving, one hand pressed flat against the door. "I'm sorry, Branch."

Oh, great. Now you've got her apologizing to you. You happy with yourself, you fucking asshole?

A soft sigh, and then the quiet creak of old wood as she slipped out the door, and into the diner.

Apparently you are.

He should—he should probably say he was sorry. That would be the decent thing to do. Not that he knew fuck-all about the decent thing to do, considering he'd never done a single decent thing in his life, or anything like that…

So, yeah, he should probably say he was sorry.

Or you could just keep on being a heartless dick until she gets tired of you, and devote the rest of your natural life to scaring away everyone who so much as looks at you, and wallowing in self-pity. Wouldn't be that different from what you're doing already.

Okay, Option B definitely had its merits—

"Br-Branch?"

Fuck.

"I'll handle it." He added the plate in his hands to the top of the stack on the counter, and yanked up the nearest dishtowel to wipe his hands dry before he approached her. "What table?"

"Th-the one in the corner," Bridget kept her eyes on the ground even as she surrendered the tray to him, voice low and tremulous. "By the window."

"All right. I'll take care of it." Branch plucked the slip of faded yellow notepaper from her fingers before pointing her in the direction of the sink. "Just take over for me back here, yeah?" He ran his eyes down the slightly crinkled paper, reaching automatically for a few mugs to fill. "How many were there?"

"Three."

Branch's fingers tightened around the mug. Fucking lowlifes. "Okay." It was a struggle to keep his voice even. "Chef shouldn't come in here – she's been out there dealing with that customer for about twenty minutes now, and I don't think she's getting away anytime soon. Just keep your head down if she does." He topped up the last mug, and stole a quick glance at Bridget, every reassuring and comforting and nice thing he could think to say hovering on the tip of his tongue. He closed his mouth and turned away.

She was fine. She'd be fine.

He pushed open the door, and stepped out into the diner.

Branch spotted them almost immediately – they were in the corner, as Bridget had said, by the window, three rowdy, broad-shouldered men in their mid-twenties, all dressed in slightly varying shades of dark green plaid.

Anger flared, fiery hot and fierce in the pit of his stomach. Fucking assholes. He'd tell them to leave if Chef wouldn't kill him and serve his decaying corpse as tomorrow's special for losing her business.

So he firmed his mouth and made his way over to them, setting the mugs down, hard, on the table by way of greeting – not hard enough to send them whining to Chef about bad service, because he much preferred his head on his shoulders, thank you very much.

"Where'd the other one go?" The shortest and stockiest of the three was the one to ask, craning his thick neck slightly to glare up at Branch. "That pretty little thing that was just out here?"

"Doesn't matter." Branch smoothed the crumpled notepaper flat atop the tray. "I'm your server now. What do you want?" Okay, so pretty little thing definitely wasn't the worst thing Bridget had been called, but if these guys thought they deserved courtesy for not being as perverted as they could have been…

"The better-looking one back," one of the other men mumbled, as though half-hoping he wouldn't be heard.

Make another wish, asshole.

"I'm pretty sure I said I'm your server now," Branch said coldly, fingers tightening marginally around the tray. "And if you don't place an order, I'll have to go to another table."

The men started opening their menus.

Branch hadn't really expected anything different – vulgar and leering as some of the guys who came through here could be, most of them weren't looking for anything beyond a quick and subtle grope, and very few seemed willing to actually fight for it – but even so, a bit of the tension left his body, trickling away like water.

When he slipped back into the kitchen with the men's orders scrawled untidily upon the notepaper, Bridget shot him a small, nervous smile. "Thanks, Branch."

Christ, now she's thanking you for showing the tiniest shred of decency.

"Don't mention it."


A/N: I don't even know what the fuck this is anymore. I just thought "theater!kid Branch" & my entire life spiraled out of control from there. Title is based off a song by Cloud Cult of the same name.

PS for those who are unaware - though I'm sure most of you are - Cybil was a character who eventually got cut from the final draft of Trolls, and they replaced her with Creek.