Chapter 1: Part 1

Troy Bolton stifled a yawn, pushed his legs forward and stretched his arms. He could feel the heat of the sun at the back of his neck; a pleasant fuzzy feeling that reminded him a great deal of his childhood memories beside a green lake under cerulean sky. With a sigh he stood up, slung his bag over his shoulder, and pondered about the many great ways to kill time during the long blissful summer.

"Going somewhere?" Gabriella purred from the side, fingers combing her midnight blue tresses.

He smiled, not entirely sure what to say. Would it be ok to say that he wanted to get away from her? Not because he no longer loved her. He just could not stand her toxic perfume – a deadly combination of dark cherries, cloves and vanilla. It would have smelled ok, if she had not poured the entire bottle…which he believed, she did.

Now, he did come to East High to die of respiratory failure. Nope. Honestly, who wanted to be smothered to death by their girlfriend's perfume? He came here to kick his heels whenever possible, play basketball, and acquire whatever necessary knowledge parted from dry lips of cranky adults. To live life like an ordinary teenager – Bolton's greatest aim ever! From the back, of course.

"Err…I need to see coach," he replied, eyes shifty. Placing a kiss on her forehead, he promised to call her later in the evening (which he highly doubt he would) before he jogged out of the library.

Right. Coach.

Now, Troy would never call Coach Bolton dad within the school grounds. Or he would be smacked upside the head. And Troy was pretty cool with that – not calling dad dad…not getting smack. Because like every other teen on earth, there were times where he felt his parents were a great flaw that threatened to tarnish his beautiful reputation.

Yes, reputation.

A reputation that smelled as sweet as a garden of roses.

And apparently, he had an ego comparable to the size of Jupiter.

"Ryan!" someone called from the back.

…Ryan…

Troy arched a brow, halting in midstride. Ok, who called that smug bastard? And wait, (he glanced at his watch) was he not stuck in the school theater, showering those half-witted humanoids with his pomposity and bogus smiles? Peering over his shoulders, brows knotted, he noted with displeasure, the blond chattering merrily with Kelsi and Taylor.

Arms crossed, he leaned nonchalantly against the flaking wall, observing the Actor. Fingers scratching his cheek, he frowned. Ryan was so fake. How come no one noticed that? Or were they completely blinded by the shine of his pearly, white teeth to notice how artificial his facial expression was? Someone must have noticed the dark flashes in those cornflower-blue eyes whenever Evans was forced to smile.

Feeling a pair of inquisitive eyes upon him, Ryan turned on his heels, ending the conversation with the girls abruptly. Ryan scowled – eyes narrowed dangerously in their slits and lips pressed into a thin, grim line –when he spotted Bolton a few feet away from them. Distaste lined the corner of Evans' eyes and lips.

Ryan never smiled to Troy.

Never. Not even at their first encounter. Those luscious red lips did not greet him with a warm smile. It was a hard, bleak line that spoke of the blond's chagrin. Ryan would only smirk. And that was the closest thing to a smile Bolton ever got out of the drama king.

Heck, why was he segregated from the rest? Did Evans hate him that much?

The brunet's eyes widened when Ryan waved a shallow goodbye before he strutted towards him. Troy straightened himself, and gulped. Now, he was not afraid of Ryan Evans. He would never fear a man who took ballet at the age of four and managed a perfect split at seven. Honestly, who would?

Heat rose to his cheeks when his eyes met those warm, blue orbs. Troy cursed; his heart beating twice its speed, and thundering loudly in his ears. Any harder the hammering of his heart against his chest, he would be in the emergency ward – tended by doctors and nurses.

"Hello, Bolton," Ryan sneered.

"Hi…" Troy grunted, eyes resting on Ryan's lips.

"You were observing me," Evans stated imperiously, glaring balefully at the brunet.

Troy raised his brows, acting dumb. "Was I?" His eyes still riveted on those delicious lips. They were perfect – the colour, size and texture. They were made to smile. And…to ravish.

Ryan glowered, and replied tersely, "I'm not blind."

Troy inhaled deeply, drawing in the sweet scent of lavenders, morning dews and pines. He was inhaling Ryan Evans, and that thought stirred a wave of unnamed feelings within his chest – pleasant feelings.

"Hmm…Did I say that?" the brunet grinned.

"Yes. You were suggesting that," the blond chided.

"Oh! And I believe that offended you a great deal, huh. Strange, I never knew you have emotions."

"I don't get offended that easily. I am not the one with the inflated ego here."

"Sure."

"So you agree, Mr. Stroke-My-Ego? At least, I don't have a frigging altar to worship my greatness," Ryan suggested.

"So, is that person you? The last time I check, I don't have one."

"I see. So you have a shrine dedicated to your awesomeness? Oh, wait! Are you the founder of 'I love Troy Bolton' fan club as well?"

"You…" Troy spat.

"I did love to stay and chat, but this conversation is really sapping my energy. Guess that happens when one have to converse with a being of lower intelligence." Ryan smirked, tilting his head slightly.

"I did love the same. But like you have said, it's very taxing to converse with a creature of lower intelligence," Troy retorted.

The two glared disdainfully at each other, huffed and turned on their heels.

"I must be on my way. I am late for an appointment," Ryan said tartly, moving away from the brunet.

"Thanks to you, I am late for mine," Troy complained, but remained rooted there.

And slowly, he exhaled. Running a hand through his deep auburn hair, he dipped his head and smiled.

"What was I thinking?"

"You are pretty fortunate that I and your mother are still working," Mr. Bolton stated, sipping his glass of water.

Troy brought his brows together as he continued to chew the rubbery meatloaf. Oh no, he thought. He knew damn well where this conversation was heading to and he did not like it. He had the similar conversation with his father last year – a week before the summer vacation.

He took his glass and downed the bolus with iced water. Yuck. He never liked meatloaf.

"You know Freddy right?" his father asked, prodding his meal with a fork.

Troy nodded, and glanced at his quiet mother.

Freddy was the neighbour who lived three blocks down the road. He was a nice man. But he got a nasty wife. A rude bitch who enjoyed hurling things at their children. No one reported her anyway.

"Jobless now," Mr. Bolton informed. "Five kids to raise. And his wife is not helping him to economize."

Troy nodded again.

He was aware of the economy crisis. The country was experiencing a recession. Companies were retrenching their workers, and some were even forced to close. Many people were found jobless, flocking the pavements with tears stricken faces. Faces of various ages and colours were contorted in grief, weeping and trembling at the unknown future.

"Dad, I know," Troy replied. "So can you just get to the point?"

Coach Bolton sighed and exchanged glances with his wife. Mrs. Bolton smiled weakly. She had not taken her dinner.

"Look, son…your mother got a pay cut. About twenty percent. I know it does not sound large, but it is. Before the recession, we managed…fairly well. We still have enough cash at the end of the month for little stuff, like a family vacation or something of that sort. But most of the time, the money is kept in a fixed deposit account. Now…with your mom's salary being reduced…"

"You need me to get a job during spring break right?" Troy interjected.

"Precisely."

"Ok..." Troy nodded. "But uh…will anyone hire me?"

"Don't worry about that. We got that settled," Mrs. Bolton spoke for the first time in the evening.

"Settled?" Troy parroted, worry colouring his voice.

"Yes," his mother said with a smile. "Someone is willing to hire you."

"The pay is good." Mr. Bolton supplied.

"What job is that?" Troy asked a little hoarsely, quelling his fear and excitement with a few gulps of water.

"No worries dear. It's an easy job," Mrs. Bolton answered.

"I want to know…"

"A butler," the husband and wife said simultaneously.

Troy's eyes widened. Did he hear them right? A butler? Did they mean those sorts of guys with tailcoats and posh accents? Not to mention their ability to appear and vanish easily in thin air whenever summoned or dismissed by their masters?

"What?!" Troy gawped.

"You heard me. You will be working as a butler, for the Evans."

Author: This was considerably fun to write...not exactly. My antidepressants...