Troy Bolton is the definition of a "go-getter". This is what makes him diverse from any other boy. Once he says something, he means it, and that's what goes. He never backs down on his word. I admire him for this.
"Let's go."
I don't want to leave the diner. I dislike lingering but I'm dreading the moment where golden boy, Troy Bolton, has to witness the nightmare that I call home.
The waitress is still watching him, admiring him. He seems so oblivious to the way he affects people, to the way he even affects me.
However, I am finished questioning why he stands by me. I spend too much time worrying, too much time wondering when I can be appreciating the seconds I have with him. Nothing lasts forever, anyways.
"Come again, darlin'." The woman trifles, collecting the money with a smirk.
I find myself walking outside of the café with Troy. Surely this picture is incorrect, it's not right. We truly are not the match. He's perfection at its best. When he walks into the room, he catches every girl's attention. Me, I'm the complete opposite. I am boring and trivial. When I walk into the room, nobody notices - I just blend in.
"Gabriella, did you hear me?" His voice, so angelic, it is so unbroken all the time.
He's looking back to me with concerned eyes.
I bounce back to reality, "Sorry, what did you say?"
"I think we should walk to your place." He looks to his culminating Audi, obviously worried about its condition.
I understand.
It does not belong around such a trashy area. It is far too beautiful.
"That's a good idea." His eyes flicker back to me. "You know, you don't have to. You're not required to be my personal body guard." I chuckle at the mere thought.
But at the same time, I just want him around, always. I can not admit that though. It'll only scare him away.
"I said I was going to." He seems serious. "You can't be alone." He acts like I'm a child who cannot fight her own battles. He can see right through me.
"I hate that." I mumble in a callow tone.
He gives me a forced smile, a smile that makes everything better, "Hey, it's amazing you're still sane. If I would have dealt with all of that, I would have gone crazy." He sounds impressed.
"I am crazy." I whisper, underneath my breath so he can't hear me.
I must be, tangling him up with my problems, only to choke him in the end.
I walk beside him, for what seems like hours. The atmosphere around us is simple and quiet. The only thing we can hear is the sound of our shoes crashing to the cement sidewalk. Nothing is stirring—it's peaceful, almost relieving.
We find ourselves in the same area that Troy had dropped me off at a few nights back, the area I claimed was near my neighborhood, where I'd get a ride from my mom from.
He stops, looking a bit nervous.
I copy his actions, watching his face. I can sense the fear encounter him.
"Troy?" I ask, furrowing my eyebrows.
"How far is it from here?" He sounds uneasy.
"This is nothing." I comment, taking in the small, ill-fated houses that do not have windows.
His eyes move from the houses to my face, his eyes brimming with terror. However, he continues walking. I'm behind him. I can perceive the sudden hesitation in his steps. He is more reluctant to the path in front of him—as if he's worried something may jump out in front of him.
We arrive, and Troy's expression turns to disgust. He looks sickened by the trailers, the way that the small, Latino men sit outside, heedlessly, and the way that their children run around screaming and yelping, playing games with each other. They all wear dirty clothes, as if they are nothing but pure rags, and their hair seems to be bedraggled, as if they have not washed it out in years. The quietness has vanished. You can easily hear the sounds of voices, of different languages, of children. And there's a sudden, smutty aroma that fills the air of nothing but waste and filth.
I close my eyes, embarrassed to be from such a despicable area.
"Gabriella?" A voice calls out my name, from a small distance.
I open my eyes and find an older man, with wrinkle lines all over his face, his skin a dark, tawny-color. His eyes are an exhausted creamy brown. His hair is messy and has gray patches. He wears a pair of overalls that seem way over worn. His speech reeks with a Mexican accent. He's sitting in a rocking chair, outside of his trailer. I remember him as a friend of my fathers.
"Mr. Delgado!" Recognition is found.
Troy's nausea is softened when I say this. His mesmerizing ocean-blue eyes drift over towards me, curious.
"Hola. ¿Cómo está usted?" Mr. Delgado asks, giving me a friendly, toothless grin.
Troy looks even more confused. "¡Bueno! Es tan grande verle." I respond, honest.
"Ah, you still remember your Spanish words, no?" Mr. Delgado seems impressed. "You just keep gettin' prettier and prettier, don't you?"
I roll my eyes, "Oh, por favor." I chuckle. "I'm as ugly as a rat."
"¡Tonterías!" He exclaims, shocked. "I bet the boys don't leave you alone."
Troy isn't frowning anymore, just smiling suspiciously from behind me.
"Your papa must be so proud." Mr. Delgado assumes, thoughtfully.
I look down. "Ah, cerdo. My parents are divorced."
"No! Impossible. What happened?" He knits his eyebrows, disbelievingly.
"Oh, it's nothing. Papa cheated on my mama with a coworker." I act like this is no big deal, whatsoever.
I notice Troy's eyes now locked on me, also.
"Humph. And your papa was always a good man too." Mr. Delgado looks away from me, distrait. "Seems this place has gotten to him." His eyes jolt back to me. "You stay around here long enough and you're bound to go loco, no?"
I give him a light laugh. "Yes, exactly why I keep my distance."
He shows a set of his rotten teeth. "It's dangerous." His eyes blink towards Troy, who is just watching him curiously. "Hola. ¿Quiénes son usted?"
"Oh, señor, he only speaks English." I comment, smiling.
Troy's expression hasn't changed, "Troy, Troy Bolton." He introduces as the man lends him a hand.
"Jorge Delgado. I was asking who you were. You catch on well, muchacho." He smirks at Troy, amused. "Gabriella hasn't influenced you into living here too, has she?"
"Oh, no, I just. . . I was going to her house." Troy replies, casually. "How long have you lived here, sir?"
"Meh! Don't you call me sir. You call me señor or you call me Jorge." Mr. Delgado only has a fresh sense of humor.
Troy only looks more intrigued by him. "Señor Jorge," He looks diverted by the way his tongue emits Spanish words. "How long have you lived here?"
"Mucho Tiempo . . . too long." The old man chuckles. "It gets you, you know. You start having leftovers, not being able to pay for your bills, your kids start to grow hungry. This place will kill you." He looks a bit melancholy while saying this.
Troy shows sympathy. "You have kids? How old?" Why he is interested in a stranger's life still bewilders me.
Mr. Delgado seems only anxious to answer his questions though. "Ah, my muchachos, one is 18, the other 12."
"Wow, still young. That sucks." Troy looks down, heavyhearted.
"Troy, we should go." I comment to him lowly. Mr. Delgado does not hear.
Troy doesn't respond; he's too busy reaching through his pockets.
"Don't. He will only waste it on alcohol and drugs." I assure him, quietly.
Troy doesn't listen to me, as he pulls out what seems like a 100 dollar bill.
I gape at him, shocked to his gesture.
"You know, I have everything at home—I have a new plate of food waiting for me every night, my dad pays for the bills, I . . . don't really need this. Here, it's all yours for the taking, man." Troy hands Mr. Delgado the money, biting his bottom lip.
Mr. Delgado seems astonished, his eyes wide in surprise, "Hijo, usted entiende mal. . . I can't take this." He shakes his head.
"No, trust me, man; I've got enough of it. It means nothing to me, but it can mean something to you." Troy persists, nodding towards him.
Mr. Delgado's eyes never seem to decrease, yet he takes the money, still furrowing his brows at Troy.
"Muchacho loco. Me gusta usted. If more folks in this world were like you, the world would be a better place." He looks genuinely thankful, I almost believe he's grateful for Troy's endowment.
Mr. Delgado looks to me, "You take good care of Gabriella. She's a beautiful woman. She deserves respect."
"Oh, señor, usted no entiende. It's not like that." I object, in fear of Troy's response. Troy only looks to me, an unreadable expression on his face.
"Even so. You need a nice man to take care of you. I know my son didn't know how to." Mr. Delgado reminds me, frowning, disappointed.
I notice Troy's eyebrows furrow in bafflement.
"¡Adiós!" I call out, waving as I begin to walk away from him.
Troy eventually follows me, hesitantly.
"You didn't have to give him that money." I cannot help but say as we head towards the edge of the trailer park.
He seems just too perfect. Why did he do that? He didn't have to. It wasn't required. I understand that he feels empathetic towards the man; the man is living in pure poverty. I just don't understand why he made conversation with him, also. He seemed almost interested in a complete stranger's life!
"I had no use for it." Troy replies, monotonously.
"Troy. . ." I look at him, as we continue walking. His eyes do not meet mine. "You are too kind to people. You put them in front of yourself."
"Sort of." He confesses.
"Why? They haven't done anything to help you."
"So?" He stops walking, and chuckles, lightly. He gives me a weak smile; the smile makes my heart skip a beat. "Gabriella, why did you tell me not to talk to you when we first met?"
I think for a second, becoming tongue-tied. I feel so pressured underneath his beautiful stare. And my brain is a bit cloudy. I cannot think clearly, his smile has paralyzes me.
"I. . . I didn't want you to feel regret for it. I knew that Sharpay and them would judge you and think of you as . . . well, lame."
"Exactly." Troy grins. "You put me before yourself."
"Oh, so you believe that I secretly wanted you to talk to me?" I ask, jokingly.
"Everybody likes some company, sometime." Troy responds, ingeniously.
"True . . . but what if this wasn't a sometime?" I inquire.
"It's the point, Gabriella. You were thinking about what would happen to me. You weren't thinking about the possibility of you making a good friend, you know? You were just looking out for me, and you didn't even know me. I never did anything to deserve you looking out for me." Troy answers.
"Wow. . ." I breathe, looking at this magical boy standing in front of me. "You're right. I would have never thought of that."
"We all do things we're unaware of sometimes." Troy admits, beginning to walk again.
Is he aware that he's making me fall more and more for him with each and every word that comes out of his beautiful mouth?
Absolutely not.
"This is it." I look towards the trailer that I call home.
I can't help but glare at the hideous thing, for it is nothing but bad memories to me. There are memories of my parents…screaming at each other over pointless things such as money and bills. And it continues with memories of sadness; crying me to sleep at night, hatred towards East High School's 'it' group. I sigh at the horrifying thoughts.
"It's not that bad, Gabriella." Troy comments, positively.
"Please." I groan, wanting to throw rocks at it. "It's unbearable even stepping inside of this shack." I head towards the door, Troy trailing behind me.
"It's kind of homey." Troy suggests as I unlock the door.
I throw my house keys on the kitchen's counter. Once you get into my house, you are officially in our living-room, which is far too small. You cannot move, hardly. The carpet is a grungy brown color that makes me ill. The ceilings have stains on them, from God knows what. Everything is aged. The television is small, and delicate, in the entertainment center, at the far right of the room. The couch is lengthy and blocks the front door, practically. It's a matching brown color to the carpet, and stands foully on the far left side of the room, opposite to the television. The kitchen is connected to the living-room, at the north-side of the house. You keep walking and you'll run into it. It's decent with its white tiled floor and it's nicely designed counters. The fridge looks rusted and turbulent, along with the stove. There's a small bar with a few bar stools, it's in the kitchen, opposite to the kitchen's appliances. There's a hallway nearby the couch, on the right side of it. It goes directly to a small intersection. If you go left, you run into my parents' room. If you turn right and keep following the hallway, you'll run directly into the bathroom. And then, if you turn left before the bathroom, there's my box-sized room. The whole trailer seems far too small to function in.
Troy makes himself at home, easily. He takes a seat on the sofa, propping his legs up on the coffee table.
"Well, I'm glad someone feels at ease here." I kid, approaching him, taking a seat next to him. "Would you like a tour?"
"What kind of tour?" He asks, his gorgeous eyes breaking me.
"Well, would you like to see my room?" I suggest, unable to think up anything else.
"Your bedroom, hmm?" Troy chuckles, naughtily. "Well, lead the way." I don't realize how wrong I might sound when I say it. But I ignore it anyways.
He follows me into a small room that I like to call my bedroom. Well, I don't really like to call it that. But, it does define me. My room is like my palace. It has everything. It has all I need. My bed is settled by a window, a window that is boarded up, of course, on the far right side of the room. There is a closet in the corner, and posters of Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, and Leonardo DiCaprio hang over my walls. I have a bulletin board and a dresser by my bed.
"What do you think?" I ask looking towards Troy's ogling eyes.
"Very. . . Gabriella-like." He responds, chuckling.
"Really?" I inquire, raising an eyebrow.
His eyes fall to me, making me weak, "You seem like a Brad Pitt type of girl."
"Oh come on. Who isn't a Brad Pitt type of girl?" I giggle softly.
Troy doesn't answer, only walks deeper into my room, observing its surroundings. I've never known a boy that is more absorbed by my room. Then again, I have not known too many boys, either.
"I didn't know your parents got divorced." He admits, looking at the pictures on my bulletin board—a few are of my parents, Stella, and I.
"It just adds to the list of burdens I lay on you." I mutter, taking a seat on my bed, watching him, taking in his beauty.
"Not burdens. Every time you tell me something, I feel closer to you." He states, looking back at me, a solemn, meaningful look on his face. It catches my breath.
"Really?" I ask, airlessly.
He just laughs, a melodic, wonderful laugh, "Don't act so clueless, Gabriella. If I feel like I have to talk to you all the time, its obvious there's something going on." He looks back to the bulletin board. "I'm not sure if you even trust me though. You're still so hesitant. Though I can totally understand why."
"I don't know." I whisper. "They're going to tell you something—turn you against me." I look down, my heart pretty much breaking at the thought.
"That's ridiculous. I won't listen." His eyes are back on the bulletin board. "Who's this? Ex-boyfriend?"
I look up, his eyes are directed at an old picture of Eric, my first love, and I, that I never took down. In the picture, we're both smiling. His arm is around me, tightly, and his straight, perfect grin is evident. His golden-blonde hair glistens from the sun behind us, and I can see the fake infatuation in his eyes. My hair is long, passed my shoulders, and my eyes are sparkling, electrified by his presence. You can easily notice I'm into him, a lot. And Troy read it, very well.
"We didn't get that far." I profess, lowly.
"You look pretty happy." He mentions, his eyes darting back to me, indifferently.
"I was; I was really into him." I admit, sheepishly. "He broke my heart."
Troy's expression changes—he suddenly looks concerned. "How do you feel now?"
"Now?" I laugh, hollowly. "It's why it was so hard to open up to you."
He sighs, taking a seat at the edge of my bed, his eyes never leaving my face. "Yeah, but I mean, do you still care about him?"
"Well, there's a part of me that will always love him."
I don't know why I am testing Troy, as if I'm searching for emotion, but I am. I'm desperate to see his response, hoping that he does care for me the way I care for him. I don't still love Eric, of course. That's ridiculous.
". . . Oh." Troy responds, looking away from me, a sudden look of exasperation on his face. "You know, if you really don't want me here, I can leave." He sounds so stern and serious, but the look on his face is nothing but pain.
And I don't know why, but my emotions are flooding with happiness. I feel good. I feel secure, secure that he cares. Why? Because, for a split second, I can tell that he cares. A smile cannot be suppressed from my face.
"I wasn't serious." I look to him, chuckling lightly. "You seem upset."
Troy looks back to me, his eyes widening slightly. "Well…" He fumbles with his words. "I just. . . I. . ." He chuckles. "You . . . got me."
I giggle, amused by his stammering, "It was two years ago."
"That's not fair." He sighs. "I just . . . like you, but I've said that." He searches my eyes for a response. "And I like only you." He sounds so dead-serious, I can't not believe him. "I know that's hard to take in, you have enough to deal with. . . I'm not here to make things complicated though; I just wanna be here, I wanna help you."
"I know." I whisper, intoxicated by his beautiful confessions. "You're not making anything complicated—just easier. I like only you, also. I feel better when you're around. It's . . . some kind of security." I admit, timidly.
He doesn't say anything; he just looks me in the eyes, those oceans never breaking from my own. I feel so constrained by them, but at the same time, I cannot look away. I become lost in them, and I find myself continuously staring at them, as if searching for something. The smile I have on my face, it never leaves, and it never vanishes. I can feel it, very vividly. And he, he just looks to me, also, as if trying to figure something out, as if he's trying to read my mind, read me, see right through my expressions. I feel as if an eruption of blood has just flooded my entire body; there's so much anxiety and happiness it seems impossible to breathe. My nerves always act like this around him, and I'm always fidgeting and shaking somewhere. My heart's just jolting, thumping, as if it's loud enough for him to hear.
And then I close my eyes, suddenly feeling fatigued, as if I have not slept in the longest time. I yawn, precariously.
"It's late. . ." Troy notices, watching me. "You can sleep if you want. I'm not going anywhere." He promises, sincerely.
I just smile at him, "You know, when Mr. Delgado said the world would be a better place if there were more people like you. . . he was right."
"I guess." He smiles, he's so cute. "I'm just looking out for a fellow mucho."
I chuckle. "Troy . . . you and Spanish really don't mix."
"Seriously?" He looks hurt. "Dang it and I liked it for a second." He pouts for a second, and then looks back to me.
"I think you'd be more of a French guy, or maybe German." I suggest.
"All right, well, you sound hot when you speak Spanish." He compliments, winking.
I blush, madly, giggling, "You . . . loco."
"Oh come on. You felt cool, don't lie, you felt like a real genius because you knew another language."
"It does come in handy sometimes." I admit, slowly falling onto my bed, unraveling the covers.
Troy doesn't move from the foot of my bed, but his eyes stay on me. "How long do you intend on sitting there and watching me sleep? That won't be interesting."
He moves towards the other side of my bed, now right next to me. "It will be interesting—and I don't know, before your mom comes home, obviously. Hopefully your neighbors won't murder me before I get home."
I suppose that is a joke, but I actually find it possible.
"Wasn't there a video game. . . about zombies and neighbors?" He sounds so dorky, it just makes me laugh. "Oh, yeah, it was like, Zombies ate my neighbors, or something." As if zombies have anything to do with my neighbors.
I put a finger to his lips, my eyes closed, "Sh."
"Sorry." I can feel his eyes on me, still. They are so intense.
I can easily feel myself drifting off into sleep, but before I go into a hazy sleep, I feel him comfortingly kiss my forehead, "Goodnight Gabriella."
