In the least possibly cliché way, it was as though Troy and I had met again. Today was a Friday, which meant I was allowed, after much questioning from my mother, to hang out with him. We were sitting side-by-side on his back porch, sharing a bowl of popcorn.
"What if we never had met on New Years?" I asked, popping a piece into my mouth.
Troy grabbed a large handful, "Well we still would have met because you moved here anyway," he managed to say between throwing popcorn in the air and catching it in his mouth.
"But what if I hadn't moved here?" I wondered aloud.
"Stop what ifs!" he laughed, "What's now is now and it's already happened."
"True," I decided, twirling a piece of hair around my finger.
So maybe Carlos's accident was supposed to happen so Troy and I would meet. That was somewhat a good thought. Actually, it was a very good thought.
"Troy what do you want to do with your life?" I asked suddenly.
"Hmm . . . I don't know, why do you ask?"
"Because I realized I can do anything with my life and I don't even know what I want to do."
"My dad wants me to be an NBA basketball player," he informed me, flicking the un-popped kernels around the bowl.
"My mom wants me to be doctor," I said.
"I do want to play basketball . . . but it's like it was chosen for me, like I had no say in it," he admitted.
"Carlos wanted to be a writer," I spoke out of nowhere, "he was good at it too."
Troy just nodded, "We need to lighten the mood Gabriella, I feel like we are always talking about depressing things."
"Why don't we talk about Sharpay's hair?" I suggested.
Troy laughed, "Sharpay's hair, not to be confused with the winning basketball trophy."
We both laughed.
"That's better," he said smiling, "I like when you laugh."
"Meaning you don't like me what I'm not laughing?"
"You know what I meant!" he exclaimed, poking me in the side.
"You know I hate it when people poke me," I told him.
"Ticklish much?" he asked.
"You really think I'm going to answer that?"
"I'll take that as a yes."
How could I ever possibly have been mad at this boy?
It was an all out war as he attempted to tickle me. I grabbed the popcorn bowl and managed to put it on his head.
"Gabriella!" he exclaimed, as the greasy butter remains sunk into his hair.
"That's what you get!" I laughed, standing up and running across his yard.
He chased me around until I got to a dead end by the corner of the tool shed. He was a sight to see with the popcorn bowl still on his head. And this time, without thinking or talking about it . . . we kissed.
I guess it was all it's hyped up to be . . . and more. His lips tasted like butter and salt, and he ran his hand through my hair. I don't know how long it lasted, but we pulled back mutually. I leaned forward into his arms . . . finally touching, finally together.
"We should have done that a long time ago," Troy realized, as we stood there in his backyard.
Yes!
"Sorry about that . . . bowl," I laughed, "but that's a pretty good look for you."
"I know right? Good thing I left the supermodel option open," he joked as we walked back toward his house.
My cell phone rung, it was my mom wanting me to come home. Having one child in a coma made her a just a little over-protective. But then again, I hadn't realized how late it was getting.
"I'm walking Gabriella home!" Troy yelled into the screen door.
Troy's mom appeared in the doorway with a strange face, "Is that a bowl on your head?"
He quickly took it off, and I stifled a laugh.
"Race you to the gate!" he exclaimed, winning of course, like the athlete he was.
But the short walk home wasn't so joyous. It was once again a cliché love story where the boy walks the girl home. Words weren't needed as we walked in silence. Troy looked like he was deep in thought, so I decided not to say anything. I tried to match our footsteps, but his longer strides made it impossible. Like all cliché movies, he kissed me on my front porch. I prayed my mother wasn't watching.
As I started to go inside, he grabbed my hand. I turned around and he stared at me for a minute.
"Gabriella . . . I have a secret too."
