well, what's the problem? you've got a lot of nerve.
- -

1de·fer: put off, delay

A dream deferred: it made a little more sense now that he had a definition. It had taken him nearly fifteen minutes to search online for Sharpay's poem, deciding after over a week he'd like an explanation of what she'd chosen to represent herself. Of course, it helped that the only part of it Troy actually remembered had been the word "defer," which brought up about 16,000,000 results when Google'd.

"What happens to a dream deferred?"

It was a strange realization, the discovery that maybe Sharpay Evans was deeper than a kiddie pool. But hell, did he blame himself for thinking it in the first place? She was the little rich girl who lived on the other side of town in a house twice as big as his own, spent summers at the country club her parents owned, and bragged of Spring Break trips to foreign locations he could only dream of visiting -- and yet, in a way, they were both in the same damn boat (quite small and dinky, he was sure, compared to her family's yacht).

And well, screw her for actually making him lay awake on a perfectly good Wednesday night, thinking of nothing but her stupid poem and why it seemed to haunt him.

"What happens to a dream deferred?"

Dammit, he didn't know. He wished he did, of course, as the thin silver hands of his bedside clock ticked closer and closer to the early morning hours, but the truth was he was as lost as the poem's writer. Well, if the author had been lost, that is. He wasn't really sure who this Langston Hughes character was, but he had a feeling something deep like that had to have come from the heart.

So, when the alarm clock blared annoyingly at six a.m., his eyes were bloodshot and wide open, his blue sheets tangled around his legs. With the kind of crystal-clear, delirious clarity that can only come from getting very little sleep, he was able to register his room was a right mess. An emerald green towel hung across the top of the leather recliner, and one a faded yellow covered the entire surface of his desk, masking notebooks and No. 2 pencils. Yesterday's Levi's jeans and Tuesday's A&F Athletics gray sweatshirt were on the outskirts of a puddle of clothing in the center of the room. When was the last time he'd cleaned?

He watched the floor with extra caution as he made his way towards the bathroom to shower, careful not to get one of his crutches stuck on a stray item. Stripping and showering at an odd angle to protect his cast, Troy let the scalding water consume him. The pounding echo of the droplets magnified by the bathroom's acoustics was a welcome distraction, halting too many rogue thoughts from running wild; the silent waves of steam swirling around the confined area, covering the mirror and glass doors in a shallow fog, was more soothing than the lull of late-night crickets. Even with his recent handicap, he still found no comfort in lying around all day, but discovered it instead in his routine showers. But running out of time -- too soon than he would have liked -- Troy made sure to actually hang his towel up to dry once he was done with it, and put his red and black checkered pajama pants into the laundry bin, because he couldn't even remember the last time those had been changed. (With the thought, he felt like taking another shower.)

Sports and dancing, though so seemingly different, had worked together for one cause it seemed: giving him coordination. But even with the skills acquired over years of practice, Troy still felt a bit odd as he bounced down the stairs on his left foot. He was getting better at handling the stairs, that was for sure, but for a born rightie, his left side had been a bit neglected in the past. As he teetered slightly upon reaching the floor, feeling the strain shooting through the back of his calf, he felt a vain worry that after all was said and done, he'd be disproportionately toned. He could just picture Sharpay laughing at him because his left calf was more muscular than his right; could there be anything odder?

"Morning, Troy," his father greeted formally. He was, as per usual, propped against the counter with a mug of coffee and the sports page open.

"Morning, Dad," he replied tiredly. The kitchen was oddly quiet, and he looked around for a sizzling pan of bacon or a griddle forming pancakes.

Noticing his son's perplexed gaze, Jack continued, "Your mom had to run out early. Jessie called about some mid-life crisis 'woman' thing, so she didn't have time to make breakfast. She did leave you something for lunch, though."

Troy nodded in understanding and caught the brown bag that his father tossed to him; when wasn't there a time when Jessie was having a mental breakdown? She and his mother had been friends since college, and ever since he was old enough to remember, she'd called up at least once a week with some horror story about bad cuticles, the suspicion her husband was cheating on her, the suspicion her son was having a fling with the Dutch maid, or the need for black pumps, like shoes would magically make everything better. He simply shook his head, wondering what the situation was this time, and grabbed a package of strawberry Pop-Tarts from the pantry.

"Oh, son, Dave -- Principal Matsui, I mean -- needs to see you when school starts," he threw out casually, shaking out the creases in his newspaper like being summoned to the principal's office was nothing to be worried about.

"Uh, what for?"

"He says he just wants to check in, see how you're doing and all that."

"Oh, right." He let out a breath of air as he tore the foil package open, thankful that it seemed Charlie Duncan hadn't leaked that it had been him plastering the pictures of him and Ryan everywhere.

He was being ushered out moments later, his father throwing him the keys to start the car while he quickly washed his mug and folded up the paper. But, thankfully, the ride was full of less tension than it had been in preceding days; he hadn't blown up at his father since the whole dinner incident, and things were relatively calm. Oldies came whispering through the radio, and if this had been B.I. (before-incident) they would have been blaring as his father loudly, embarrassingly, sang along with them. But this was A.I. (after-injury), and neither of them were particularly playful towards each other anymore.

Dropped off up front while his father went to park in the faculty lot, as was their new schedule, Troy wondered if he should go for that whole new 'optimism' thing he'd been planning for awhile. But really, he'd found people who actually turned out to be good friends, got some form of revenge on the asshole who took his team and his (possibly ex-) girlfriend, so why not? As they said (whoever they were, he wasn't really sure), 'there's no time like the present.'

"Hey, Charlie." Troy groaned as he moved through the main hallway, not even having been in school for ten minutes before witnessing some girl throw herself at the basketball player. And what ever happened to girls and self-respect?

"Hayley, hi," he flirted back.

As much as he hated to see the jerk's face, he was actually a little curious.

"Are you available on Saturday night?"

"Well, I just might be. Are you asking?"

"Yeah. My brother's friend, Toby, thinks you're really cute, but he's too shy to say anything."

"Woah, woah, woah... he?"

"Yeah?" she questioned, the word sounding more like a 'duh!' than anything.

"Look, I know it looks really weird, but I never--"

"Oh no!" she exclaimed, clapping a hand over her mouth. "Ryan! He just broke up with you, I forgot. I'm so insensitive! Take all the time you need to get over it. If you're ever interested in that date with Toby, let me know though."

Suddenly the day was even brighter, cartoon birds singing merry songs over his shoulders as Hayley Jiminez scurried down the halls.

"Now, now, Chuck," Troy admonished, making his way towards him, "why'd you say no? Toby seems like just your type."

Then, predictably, Duncan was standing inches away, glaring with intensity that could give Sharpay a run for her money. Even though he knew he was clearly in a vulnerable position, he couldn't help but say, "You're getting a little close there, Chuck. Sorry, but I don't swing your way."

"That's it, Bolton. You're dead!"

He kept his eyes passive, stature unmoving, even though on the inside he was nearly shaking with the anticipation of pain. Fuck, he could barely stand upright on his own, how was he supposed to defend himself now?

"Charlie?" a voice boomed, causing everyone left in the hallways to watch with interest. "What, are you stalking me again? I thought we went over this, me and you are over. Now stop harassing my friends!"

Laughter erupted like wildfire, and Troy had never thought he would be so indebted to Ryan Evans. Random comments split through the herd, "Burn!" from the freshman with the glasses and competing with the loud "Owned!" from an elated-looking junior. Nothing was quite as dramatic as Sharpay's friend -- Brittany, was it? -- trying to get people to join in on her chants of "Fight! Fight! Fight!"

"Okay, asswipe, I don't know what the hell I did to you, besides actually being nice to your gay ass, but I never went out with you. Can you please quit the shit and tell everyone around here the truth?"

"Oh yeah," Troy snorted and looked at Ryan, "with a heartfelt apology like that, how could you not?"

"You want people to know the truth?" the blond asked, quieter than he had before. Duncan nodded, and Ryan turned to face the crowd, "The truth is, in the end, I was just too much man for him. He preferred getting blow jobs in the locker room from the Wildcats and was always pissed off because I wouldn't do that."

More laughter sprang up, nearly disguising the ringing of the first period warning bell.

Trying to save face, Duncan stumbled out "Stop lying, you fucking pansy."

Ryan simply grinned a Cheshire cat smile while rolling his eyes, "How very original. It really is the same old story: boy is insecure with liking boy, so he starts throwing homophobic insults." Suddenly he was directly in front of him, "Tell me Charlie, how does it feel to know there isn't one unique bone in your body?"

Duncan's books were on the ground, the impact sending looseleaf paper flying out of binders, and an echoing crash through the halls. His hands were clenched tightly at his sides, fury narrowing his eyes into nearly black slits. Troy really believed in that moment that Charlie Duncan was dangerous; he'd be lying if he said he wasn't scared.

"Mr. Duncan, Mr. Evans, do we have a problem here?" Both boys' heads flashed quickly towards the slow strides of their principal.

"Actually--" Duncan began, only to be cutoff by Ryan's proclamation of "Yes, sir. It's to do with what I talked to you about earlier."

"Ah, I see," Mr. Matsui said, eyes scanning the halls. "Well, everyone get to class. You've only got thirty seconds now before you're late."

Troy heaved a sigh, disappointed there was no throw-down between the jock and the show boy. Honestly, he was completely intrigued as to who would win between the two; the outcome would probably be surprising, that was for sure. He gripped his crutches, staying to the right side of the crowded passageways on his way to first period Criminal Law.

A hand clapped his shoulder then, strong and firm, and for a moment he thought it was his father. Turning his head, he realized it was actually the principal himself. He nearly groaned as he remembered the little meeting he had to partake in.

"Hello, Troy," the man greeted. "Is right now an okay time for you to meet me in my office?"

"Oh, sure," he mumbled. "Mr. Donnelly shouldn't have a problem with that."

Troy stood, hands clutching his crutches tightly as he scrutinized Principal Matsui's face. He couldn't know, there was no possible way. He, Sharpay, Noah, and Ryan had covered their tracks flawlessly. He couldn't know, he couldn't know, he couldn't know... but really, could he?

"Great, great," he said, hand still in place and a smile crossing his face. "I'm on hall duty until the start of the period, so why don't you go along and I'll meet you there. Just tell Cheryl I sent you."

Scrunching his eyebrows, Troy consented and felt vaguely relieved as the hand was lifted and the principal carried on down the hallway.

The office was exactly as he remembered it. In fact, it was almost as if it had been mere moments since the last time he sat in the same plush seat instead of years. Last time, though, had been a completely different situation. Last time he was receiving the pros and cons of joining the Varsity basketball team as a reserve in only eighth grade, and now he was probably being accused of being a felon.

He hoped his permanent record wouldn't suffer too much from the almighty red pen.

"So, how are things going?" the principal's voice shouted minutes later, making the most awkward entrance Troy had ever seen.

"Um, they're going well, sir," he stumbled nervously. The collar of his blue tee felt like it was strangling him, and he pulled at it uncomfortably as he fidgeted in his seat.

Principal Matsui smiled, shuffling papers around on his desk and looking a smidge nervous as well. "Good, good. I know this must be a tough time for you, not being able to play basketball your senior year. I'm just checking in, making sure things are moving along smoothly."

"They're going as smooth as can be, given the situation."

"I'm sure," he said distractedly, shoving some books into a desk drawer and not meeting his eyes. "I noticed you haven't been chilling much with Chad or the rest of the team lately."

Troy gritted his teeth together, trying to ignore the wannabe-hipster lingo on top of the loaded question. 'Checking in', his ass.

"We've just been taking some time apart because of our, ah, difference in interests. You know, they have the season to worry about so I'm staying out of the way."

"I see. So who are their replacements?"

"Well, I wouldn't say replacements," he answered carefully. "But I've been getting to know Sharpay Evans and Noah Davies, sir."

"Noah Davies?" he questioned spacily, "I don't think I know him. Does he go to this school?"

"Um, yeah, he's a senior too," Troy bit back; suddenly he felt a protectiveness wash over him, and he wasn't entirely sure why.

"Hmm, how interesting. Well, what do you think about Charlie Duncan joining the Wildcats? Of course, no addition could bring what you can to the table, but he seems to be fitting in well."

Smooth. "I, uh, think he's fitting in fine."

The aura of the room darkened considerably. Troy straightened in his seat, the sudden seriousness washing over him as the principal carefully leveled his gaze. "Look, Troy, I've known you since your father started working here twelve years ago. I know you're a good kid, but when something's brought to my attention it's my job to act on it. But, like I said, I've watched you grow up and I know you well enough to know you've got a good head on your shoulders so I'll only ask you once. If you tell me you had no part in it, I'll believe you."

"What is it, sir?" he asked nervously. He begged that it wasn't about what he thought it was.

"Did you have anything to do with the posters and video about Charlie Duncan and Ryan Evans?" As Troy opened his mouth to speak, the principal continued, "Just think before you answer. This is a serious offense, but if you did partake, your punishment would not be very severe, as you are a first time offender. All I want is your honest answer."

"Honestly, Mr. Matsui," he paused a beat, gulping in a way that he hoped was inconspicuous, "I have no idea what happened with that whole thing. Me and Charlie have never really seen eye-to-eye, sure, but I just try to stay away from him. I've got too much to lose by letting emotions get in my way."

The principal sat very still, peering at Troy for only a moment more, before smiling. "Good, I had a feeling I was wasting my time asking, but I had to put this nasty rumor to rest. All right, Troy, have a good rest of the day. Cheryl will give you a pass on your way out."

"Bye, sir," he formally parted, allowing a deep breath to escape as he turned for the door.

"Oh wait, Troy, there's actually one more thing."

His hand froze in midair as he reached for the door, taking a breath before turning around. "Sure."

"What do you know about them?" he asked.

"Ryan and D- Charlie?"

"Yes."

Remembering Ryan's strange words earlier, he attempted a cover-up. "I know things are strained between them." Then he got a stroke of brilliance, and his lies were tumbling out easier, "Honestly, I wouldn't be surprised if Charlie was behind all of this as a way to get back at Ryan. There's a lot of weird stuff going on inside that guy's head."

"Hmm, interesting point. Thank you, Troy."

"No problem," he replied, this time quickly opening the door and walking through before he could be stopped again. He could barely believe he'd gotten off scot-free, and a smirk was crossing his lips as the feeling of floating on air returned to him.

The halls didn't seem quite as oppressive anymore, as he slowly moved through them. First period only had a few minutes left, so there wouldn't be any sense in showing up so late. Besides, it wasn't as if the elective gave much work; half the time they sat around talking about completely obscure things that had nothing to do with the curriculum, like how bad the artificial sweeteners in Laffy Taffy were.

Every other moment, it seemed, his feet were hovering just above the floor and he was flying. The janitorial staff had done a fair job of taking most of the florescent flyers off the walls, but there were still a good amount peeking up from glass-encased bulletin boards. They brought a fresh wave of hilarity over him each and every time he looked.

This had been the best revenge plan ever.

xxx

"Troy," Sharpay said, fighting a grin, "Is that a sacked lunch in your bag?"

He cringed slightly, pulling the brown paper from his Jansport. "Yeah, my mom packs me lunch once a month, right after we get the Martha Stewart magazine in the mail."

"Um, okay," she said leaning her elbows on the table, eyebrows scrunched deeply, "I'll just pretend like that makes sense."

"It always manages to convince her she's being a failure because she has a job and gives me money to buy lunch," he explained while beginning to rummage through the bag.

"Mmm," Sharpay said, pulling apart the plastic wrap and putting a piece of his peanut butter sandwich into her mouth. "Your mom should make you lunch more often. You got any pudding cups in there?"

Troy checked, "No, but there is a package of pretzels, some mini carrots and... gummy worms?"

"Ooh, I'll take those," Sharpay shouted, her arm darting into his bag fast as lightning.

"You want anything?" he asked Noah, who was looking a little whiter than usual.

"He definitely wants the rest of your sandwhich," Sharpay said with a malicious grin.

"Oh, do you?" Troy asked, offering it up.

"No, no," Noah said quickly, waving his hands in front of his face, "that's alright."

"No, really, it's okay. I'll just eat the pretzels."

"No!" the boy shouted uncharacteristically.

Sharpay's loud laughter cut him off.

It was Troy's turn to be confused as he asked an offended, "What?"

"Noah's a major arachibutyrophobiac."

"Arachaphooba-huh?" Troy questioned stupidly, mouth gaping and all.

"Arachibutyrophobia," Sharpay pronounced the insanely complicated word easily, "the fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of the mouth."

"Oh," he replied simply. For some reason, that phobia seemed exactly like something Noah would have. "Alright then."

They ate in relative silence for awhile. It was a bit funny to him, that there were times the three of them didn't need to say anything to each other but things were rarely ever awkward. Back in the B.I. days, his friends were constantly talking, as if silence scared them. And just like that, the hair at the back of his neck stood on edge and he shivered. He could feel eyes on him, and with the slight tilt of his head and a sweep through his peripherals he noticed said "friends" gazing at him from a few tables over.

Even he could admit that it was probably a strange sight for them to see. This was the first time he'd been in the cafeteria since his return to school and, aside from the basketball game, the first time he was really being seen with the Drama Queen and her lesser-known, sports announcing, weird-phobia-having friend. He plastered a grin on his face and laughed extraordinarily loud at a witty retort Noah was throwing out to Sharpay. If they wanted to stare he'd let them stare, and give them a good fucking show at that.

"So, what are your plans after school?"

"Troy?"

"TROY!"

He broke out of his trance of thoughts as fingers snapped in front of his eyes, and blinked slowly. "Oh, sorry. What was that?"

Sharpay sighed frustratedly, "I asked you what you're doing after school."

"Oh!" he replied, throwing some pretzels in his mouth and munching thoughtfully. "I don't think anything. I'm stuck here until basketball practice ends, unless one of you wants to give me a ride."

"I envy the both of you," Noah mumbled sourly. With one cheek resting heavily in the palm of his hand and spacey eyes, it was the most somber Troy had ever seen him.

"Get over it. She'll be gone before you know it," Sharpay consoled in her own strange way, patting her friend on the shoulder.

Troy just scrunched his eyebrows. Really, every conversation with them he felt like he had walked away and come back. It was like they spoke without talking most of the time. "Who?" he asked.

"The Nana," Sharpay answered knowingly, focusing on stretching a red and clear gummy worm until it snapped in half.

"Whose nana?"

Noah raised his unoccupied hand, "Mine. She's got everyone in my house freaking out."

"So then you're busy after school?" Troy questioned with a squint.

"Unfortunately, yes," he responded as Sharpay smirked, "Don't sound so disappointed to be alone with me."

Well, she wasn't quite so far off, Troy thought to himself. It wasn't really as if she was high on his 'People Who DON'T Scare Me Enough To Be Alone With Them' list. The strange glint in her eyes did nothing to suppress his not wholly unwarranted fears, instead escalating them to a place where he could think of nothing but dark forests and no one to hear his screams.

The bell rang soon after, and she grinned wickedly as she stuck him with the empty packaging of the devoured gummy worms and leftover scraps of the peanut butter sandwhich, sauntering past him with "Meet me in the parking lot after school. And don't be late!"

He wasn't entirely sure where she was off to in such a hurry, being that they had the dragon lady together, but he ignored it for the moment and instead managed to crutch his way towards the garbage and not be stampeded. The cafeteria doors were just as crowded as the ones to the gym had been over the weekend, dozens of students packed tightly together and moving just a millimeter a second. None of them seemed in such a rush as it neared closer to the warning bell, and he wasn't worried, the pink pass was still in his pocket for such situations as this.

Of course, Mrs. Congeniality gave him trouble about it when he showed up an entire minute after the bell rang -- it wasn't his fault the cafeteria and her room were on opposite sides of the school. Eventually, she seemed to grow tired of his slouched stance and blank eyes because she cut her ineffective tormenting short. Then again, that also could have been attributed to the rather large spitball that came flying from somewhere among the tidy rows of desks to stick to her forehead comically.

Settling into his chair at last with a slight grin, he noticed Sharpay's seat was empty. The rolling of eyes followed as he realized she had probably been in such a rush before so she could cut. He didn't doubt for a second that she blew off the period to get her nails done, or something equally as superficial and trivial.

However, come three o'clock the illusive (and drool-worthy, he had to admit) silver Boxster S was stationed at the top of the parking lot. Not noticing him, or anyone within a twenty mile radius, she was belting loudly along to a song that sounded suspiciously like the ear-curling sounds of Paris Hilton as she fluffed her bangs in the rearview mirror.

"TROY! TROY!"

He stopped his movements, right hand on the door handle, and looked up to see his father running down the path from the front of the school.

"Troy," he breathed deeply, clutching inconspicuously at his sides with labored breaths. "I completely forgot. Your checkup is today... in half an hour, actually. Is there anyway your friend," he stressed the word, looking baffled as Sharpay waved to him genially, "can drive you? I would have postponed practice, but without your mother home to remind me it slipped my mind."

"Breathe, dad," Troy bit out. "I'm sure it's fine, we didn't have any concrete plans or anything anyways."

"Oh, good," he looked relieved. "Thank her for me, will you? I'll see you at home."

Troy saluted sarcastically to his father's back and slid into the front seat, moving a bit awkwardly as he tried to fit the crutches comfortably in the two-seater.

"So, detour to the hospital?" Sharpay asked as she, thankfully, turned the music down to a low hum.

"Yeah, sorry about that."

"No biggie," she shrugged. "Like you said, nothing was written in stone. It actually works out for you, seeing as I was going to drag you to the mall with me."

And on that final note he let out a small shriek as she floored it out of the parking lot. With fumbling hands he clicked the seatbelt into place and chanted in his head that he would make it there alive, if not in one piece.

xxx

Hospital visits made him feel like he was some kind of science experiment. All of the poking and probing and "hmm"-ing was grating on his nerves; and if that fucking nurse tried to test his reflexes one more time he would kick her and make it look like an accident. He envied Sharpay, sitting back in the waiting room reading an issue of O Magazine that promised delicious dieting recipes.

"Dr. Roberts will be with you in a moment," the nurse promised, scribbling something onto her clipboard.

Troy merely harrumphed in response, laying back on the bed exhaustedly. The overwhelming white reminded him of his first thoughts waking up after his injury, thinking he had died and been in heaven. Of course, he hadn't died, and he was sure the pearly white gates wouldn't be quite as blinding.

"Troy, it's good to see you again," Dr. Roberts greeted woodenly from the doorway.

He sighed, sitting back up a mumbled "Likewise," ever the picture of the respectful little boy.

The doctor shuffled into the room, flipping through pages of what he assumed was the nurse's clipboard. "Well, we've just gotten your most recent x-ray. Would you like to see it?"

"Only if it comes with good news." Hope bubbled deep within him at the prospect of playing basketball again soon, or at least getting the damned cast taken off.

His request was brushed off, and a bluish picture was being held toward a light. Dr. Roberts pointed out various tendons in his leg with a regal-looking ball point pen, using scientific jargon he couldn't nearly understand, even though he'd already suffered through his year of Biology as a freshman.

"Do you know what that means?" the doctor questioned at last; Troy shook his head.

"Do you want to know?"

He took in a breath as he looked straight at the doctor, optimism coursing through his veins, inclining his head to show he was ready.

The doctor cleared his throat, "I'm sorry, son, but you won't be able to play basketball again."

And suddenly, his world was falling again. There was darkness, so much darkness, shadows all around him -- but where did it end? The room was spinning, he was weightless.

He tried spluttering, attempting unnecessary questions, and eventually gave up. A brief look of sympathy crossed the aged doctor's eyes, but it only lasted for only a moment before he was back to business.

"I think in about a week, if everything's healing properly, we'll be able to replace the hard cast with a smaller soft cast, more specifically fit for your knee and much less bulky."

That should have appeased him, if only a little, but it didn't. He felt nothing; numb, empty, drained, his eyes stared unwaveringly ahead. He wasn't even sure how he was hearing the doctor, and chalked it up to soaking it in through osmosis, even though the Biology-versed part of him knew it was impossible.

The perky nurse was back, babbling in his ear and leading him out of the room. Soundlessly he followed, taking the papers she gave him and promising to give them to his parents. Sharpay looked up as they entered the waiting room, closing a different magazine and checking the time on her phone. The nurse ushered him forwards as his movement had stopped, chirped her farewell and disappeared.

"How's my favorite invalid?"

Troy said nothing, instead moving around her and heading straight to the elevators.

"Okay, not in the mood to talk, I get it. So," she prattled along, completely oblivious to his beaten demeanor, "today was very fruitful. I got a great workout plan from Oprah's trainer, and tore out a recipe for low-fat Pappardelle."

"How absolutely fantastic for you," he said sourly. He really couldn't give a fuck about Oprah or low-fat recipes of Pappardelle, whatever the fuck that was.

"Down boy," she laughed. "What's wrong with you? I thought we'd gotten past that whole 'biting people's heads off' thing?"

"I'm really not in the mood, Sharpay," he said as the elevator doors opened with a ding and made his way out. "So if you don't mind I'd really appreciate it if you'd shut the hell up for once."

The clicking of her heels stopped immediately, but he turned seconds later when he realized she wasn't walking besides him. Ten feet behind him, her mouth was dropped in an 'o', eyes bulged and yet still managing to look furious.

Suddenly she was striding quickly towards him, murder gleaming in her eyes.

"Okay, listen here, buddy," she spat angrily. Her index finger shot out and was poking him in the chest, "I don't know who the fuck you think you are, but say something like that again and I'll leave your ass here in the parking lot to walk home. If you're mad, then all the power to you, but do not take it out on me, okay? Sitting in a plastic chair for two hours isn't exactly my ideal way to pass the time, so don't even think about giving me an attitude."

He mumbled an apology, not really meaning it, but not wanting her to be pissed at him all the same. She seemed to see through his efforts and stomped ahead of him to her car, revving the engine loudly and blasting the radio.

The Porsche purred at sixty miles per hour the entire way home, even though the limit was somewhere between fifteen and thirty at various points of traffic. It seemed to alleviate her anger though, so he wasn't complaining, even if it meant his life was in danger. Besides, at this point he was much more scared of dying by Sharpay's hands than what would happen if they wrapped around a telephone pole.

An up-tempo alternative pop song began playing, and Sharpay released her tight grip on the wheel to turn it near blasting. She really did seem fond of loud music, no matter the genre. Stance completely changed, she bopped along and sang to the lyrics so played-out even Troy knew them. But still, he wasn't complaining. He rather valued his life, and didn't want her to sneak in through his bedroom window (as she was apparently quite good at) and choke him with gummy worms in the middle of the night.

The finals chords of the song played as she made an incredibly sharp turn onto the town's main street. Completely taking her eyes off the road, she turned to him with a different sort of light in her eyes.

"Have you ever been to L.A., Troy?"

She removed a wad of magazine paper out of her large designer purse, and Troy wondered if he should tell her that hospitals didn't usually appreciate people tearing so many pages out of their magazines, but he didn't dare. Towards the end she found what she was looking for, and let the rest of the print fall carelessly to the floor.

"Ever heard of Dr. William Anderson?"

"Is he on Grey's Anatomy?"

Sharpay let out a loud snort at that, shaking her head in disbelief. "No, he's not. He's a surgeon in California. An orthopedic surgeon, to be exact."

"What's an orthopedic surgeon?" he asked timidly.

"Didn't you pay attention in Bio at all in ninth grade?" She pointed to a picture in the center of the type, where a young looking man smiled charmingly at the camera. "That's him."

"He looks a little young to be a surgeon, doesn't he?"

"Well, that's what the article's about. He's one of those genius types -- completed ten years of study in six after graduating from high school at sixteen and, get this, started up his own hospital in Los Angeles. He's supposed to be one of the best in the country."

"That's fine and dandy and all, but what does that have to do with me?"

"Say the word and you have a first-class ticket to LAX and a meeting with him."

His eyes widened, and he ogled her in curiosity, wondering if she was bluffing or not.

Suddenly he remembered her words: "...let's make a pact--from one kid with a dream deferred to another--we'll look out for each other." Then, he realized she was completely serious.

a/n: Poor Troy. Every time he tries to be optimistic, he's met with a reason why he shouldn't. Anyways, I apologize for the long wait for this. I don't know what's gotten into me lately, but I'm just losing all inspiration. As it is, I don't think this chapter was quite as good as I'd hoped, its structure and tone are a bit different than I'd intended, but it was being an awful pain to write. Feedback is simply spiffing, really.

And, who agrees that Noah's the type of kid in school who has absolutely every phobia/allergy you can think of? I was looking through a list of phobias, and that one made me crack up and I was like "NOAH!" Oh, and who knows who The Nana is? lmao, with all of my previous O.C. allusions, I just had to include her too : )

Before I close up this obnoxiously long author's note, I just wanted to let all you lovelies know what the movie from the last chapter was. Drumroll, please? It was... Cruel Intentions ! Come on, with a name like that, you know it just screams "compromising positions abound!" Haha, what can I say, I'm a total sucker for Ryan Phillipe in his pre-cheating days. And the blond Joshua Jackson was posititvely scene-stealing. I recommend it to anyone who hasn't seen it, though you're warned it's not exactly a fluffy movie, or appropriate for all ages.

Well, adios kids.

chapter title/lyrics credit: for a pessimist, i'm pretty optimistic - paramore