Maybe it's just my imagination.
It all began when he simply came and sat down next to me, acting if I was a normal, ordinary person.
It's dimwitted of me to judge him in so little time. I'm already convinced that he's just the rest of them - he's out to get me too. I do not have any real reason not to trust him but I have every reason in the world to trust him. He has never been rude to me; he's always treated me like a human being. So why do I automatically run and hide? Why do I always think of the worst possible? Why am I so pessimistic? Just because I have been let down so many times before.
I don't have to turn around to feel his presence - his shadow amplifies in the sunlight, it seems to make him larger than he truly is. I can notice the outline of his hair, and the edges of his arms. Even in the shadows, he is breathtaking. Is that even possible? I do not feel like analyzing this.
He has his hands in his pockets, his posture proving he doesn't feel like doing this, that maybe he is dreading it.
I stop my pointless pacing at the sight of him. I'm curious; there is no doubt about this. I'm curious to why such a foolproof human being would ever want to speak with me. I'm supposed to be someone he doesn't take notice of, someone irrelevant. It makes me nervous, thinking about how our worlds are so very different.
"I'm sorry about them. They were being rude."
I guess I don't know what to say in response. I mean, I could mutter a simple "it's okay", or I could go out of my way and spill my feelings about his friends to him. But neither sound appropriate. I don't want him to think I'm a lunatic, so I suppress the urge to tell him everything. He won't believe me—he thinks his friends are "so cool".
I still keep my back to him, while he fidgets, as if trying to muster the words he wants to say. I wonder why he strains so hard to impress me—I am nothing special, just a troubled girl.
"They. . . always judge people they don't know. They'll like you eventually, I'm sure." As usual, he's upbeat and positive.
I continue looking down, not wanting him to notice the girl behind the mask. I'm holding back a rough batch of tears that long to be released. Fortunately for me, he isn't close enough to see my watery eyes. I don't know why I'm so emotional. It's just hard to think about how no one likes me.
"Are you . . . crying?" He comes closer - his voice is now soft.
I stiffen, not wanting him to see the agony I hold behind my eyes.
"Please, Troy. They will be wondering about you. Go back, I will see you tomorrow. My mother would want me home right now." My tone is rigid, I keep my strength.
"Gabriella."
I turn to face him, although I'm afraid to meet those eyes. They're so powerful, burning into my own.
"I'll take you home." He's so generous, of course.
I cannot let him."No, it's okay. I have walked home from here many times."
Maybe he is more acute than he proves to be. It seems like he notices something is wrong, that something is up with me. Then again, any intelligent person could figure that out. I am paranoid about him driving a foot near my house. Then again, it isn't even a house - it is a smutty trailer. It's one of those trailers you would see only in movies, the movies where the Hillbillies live together in a disgusting trailer that has cockroaches crawling everywhere.
It is located in one of the dirtiest areas of Albuquerque, and nobody faulted to notice this. I never speak a word about where I live, or what my lifestyle is like, but others seem to find out, miraculously.
When Sharpay somehow unraveled my humble adobe, it was the first thing she taunted me on. We are poor; we live in a junkyard, practically. We hardly have any money, and when we do, it is hardly enough to give food to our family. I avoid the trailer as much as possible, not wanting to be seen near it. It is a hideous thing - grim and greasy from rust and age. We even have our monster of a vehicle sitting beside it most of the time, adding to its filthiness. Our windows are boarded, boarded with as many boards as we can muster, nailed. We don't usually have problems, most robbers and criminals let us be. Sometimes, we'll hear a few mafias outside; whispering about their next ordeal. Sometimes it is scary going to bed at night; I always hear the shotguns.
And here, golden boy, Troy Bolton, wants to take me there. He is bound to see everything—from the inside and out. He is to find out how much of a lowlife I truly am, he is about to open the door to find something he doesn't want. And then he'll leave me, all alone once again.
"You're crazy . . . at night?" His eyes glide around the neighborhoods filled with horror.
"Yes, at night."
"I'm not going to let you." Stringent blue eyes face me in the twilight.
As usual, his eyes are tearing me apart.
"Troy, please."
"No. Do you know how bad I would feel if something happened to you?"
"It shouldn't matter. Please, let me go." I whimper, trying to get passed him.
He grabs my arm, without aggression, as I begin walking passed him. I freeze at his touch.
"Fine." I muster out, losing my strength.
I don't bother questioning on his Audi R8 that he drives. I can only dream about driving a car so beautiful, something that I can never get my hands on even if I want to. It is a deep silver, and spotless. It is the second most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my life, the first being Troy Bolton.
He assures me that it is okay with his friends, him taking me home. I tell him to drop me off at a street before the trailer park. I figure that he won't notice, that he will speed away before I can make a dart for the bad area of the neighborhood—also known as the trailer park.
The ride is awkwardly silenced, as if neither of us knew what to say.
"Wow, I can't believe you walk around here alone." His eyebrows furrow as he continues eyeballing the neighborhoods around us.
"Troy, it's nothing, really."
He looks around as if he has just encountered the most horrible nightmare of his life. He looks terrified, as if he is afraid that something might jump out of the bushes and eat him.
It amuses me; I have taken the road so many times. The sky seems to be so much dimmer, a radiant black. The stars cling loosely from it, creating the most gorgeous atmosphere. Troy's hair seems to shine in the moonlight, along with his perfect features. I'm hypnotized by the perfect picture in front of me.
"Here?" He inquires, coming to a complete stop.
The neighborhoods look the same, maybe a bit messier. Some African American toddlers are outside playing basketball, yelling loudly, by their house. Another grotesque woman sits in a rocking chair outside of her house, just watching the neighborhood—a creepy look in her eyes. Troy glances towards them, and shivers with distraught.
"I don't live here." I lie, biting my bottom lip, nervously. "I called my mother on my cell phone earlier—she said she would pick me up here."
Troy's eyes catch mine through the darkness. "You worry me."
"Why?" I ask, bewildered. "I am of no great importance, I can assure you."
"You seem different." He observes an unreadable expression on his face. "Like there's some part of you I don't really know. It's kinda fascinating." He looks away, a sudden confused look on his face.
"Fascinating? Please. Troy, I do nothing that is fascinating." I chuckle.
His eyes find mine again. "You were crying." He mumbles, biting his bottom lip. "Surely they can't mean that much to you."
I become silent for a second. It isn't as if they mean a lot to me. It is more-so that after all of this time, they still continue to torment me. And they do it in front of him. It seems humiliating.
"They do not. I just take things too seriously."
"Well, I think you seem cool." He comments, a small smile on his face. He has no idea how this comment affects me. "Though I don't know you well enough to judge you. But whose fault is that?" He jokes, winking at me.
"Troy. . ." I begin, not knowing what to say.
He is suave, as I'm the opposite.
"I must go." I open the door, letting myself out.
He watches me, as I begin walking towards the darkness.
I walk back towards his car, "What are you doing?"
"I don't trust this place." He answers, stubbornly.
"I will see you at school tomorrow." I give him one more glance before stepping aside, beginning to walk into the darkness again.
"Gabriella!" He calls out, from his window. "Don't let people get the best of you. It makes things harder."
It is humorous that he would say something like that—as if he can relate, or something ridiculous like that. He cannot. Maybe I judge him too much. Though, he seems like he has everything in life, money, friends, and looks. And I have none of the following. Maybe that's why he is fascinated with me. Because I lack everything he has.