31 hits! This is sad. I'm going to go cry now. You know that because of this low count, everyone has to review now.

I think every chapter I have written runs out to about 1.5 pages on Microsoft Word, Times New Roman, 12 pt. Just so's you know. I'm notorious for my short chapters.

Hmm...oh, because I forgot to add something to my explaining of the New Style: Supposedly, if you read the block of words thoroughly, there's always a humorous line somewhere in there. It's a law, apparently. I've always followed the law.

Disclaimer: Not mine

Because she wasn't quite as colorful as Sharpay Evans, Gabriella Montez didn't require such a preparation for her role that day. Gabriella didn't really expect to ever go into theater again, but her few friends in New York had cajoled her into at least auditioning. Being an up-and-coming freelance writer wasn't really enough to support her life in the Lower East Side; Gabriella didn't really need much persuasion.

Phantom of the Opera didn't register anything in her mind. Even when she'd outgrown her great obsession with science, her pop culture knowledge had not expanded.

She wandered around her tiny studio apartment, trying to delay her trip down to the theater as long as possible.

Unfortunately, there was only so much you can do to a place where the kitchen was in the bathroom.

She shuffled into the theater, wearing jeans and a too-big jacket. A frantic-looking redhead introduced herself as Amanda, the make-up artist who was now doubling as the casting-director. As was required of all people looking frantic, there was a gargantuan amount of paper in front of her. Exactly how much paper was needed for the job of make-up artist was a mystery.

"You must be Gabriella," she said distractedly, pausing only for a second to take in Gabriella's attire. "I knew we shouldn't have held open auditions."

"Um, how did you know my name?"

"Well, you called in to sign up, didn't you?" Amanda shuffled through the pile of papers, though the word 'pile' could no longer apply. Perhaps 'foot deep layer' would be more appropriate.

"But I can't have been the only one..."

"No, you weren't," she snapped. "And that's why I'm about to blow right now." A hint of an English accent tiptoed meekly into her angry voice, Gabriella noticed. "Ah, here." She snatched up a miniscule cell phone and flipped it open, depressed one button, and clutched the thing between her shoulder and ear, now trying to reorder the papers.

"God, where have you been, Evey? She'll be here any minute, and you're not here with the coffee! Well, yes, so your roommate cut her palm open with a spatula, tell that to George. No, nothing violent, you'll just spend the rest of your life looking for your left eye!" She dropped the loosely definable pile hopelessly and snapped the phone shut.

"I'm sorry, who will be here any minute?" Amanda flicked an orange lock out of her eyes and regarded Gabriella carefully.

"You poor thing. You really don't know, do you?" The accent had slunk away from her speech now. Gabriella shook her head. "For your sake," she said gently, "I hope you don't get the part."

"What do you mean?"

"Oh dear god," Amanda whispered, her already pale face becoming the nothing color that was whiter than even white. "She's here."

A group of twelve entered the doors. The last three to come in could only be described as such: "They're big. They can talk!" But all the people scurrying around the set had their eyes trained anxiously on the petite blonde in the front, and some on the taller blonde beside her. Amanda cursed, and as the director came by, she plucked the coffee cup from his hand. "Tell me this is a vanilla latte with two shots espresso and no foam," she hissed. Even the director was speechless enough to only nod.

She approached the group tentatively, and offered the cup like a sacrifice. The woman dressed in white took the proffered drink and sipped. Once. Audibly. Behind her, a meek looking girl winced.

"This doesn't taste like fat-free milk," the woman said coldly. Amanda surreptitiously stabbed the director with a finger. The blonde lowered her sunglasses and scrutinized Gabriella. "And what is this?" She slipped the glasses completely off, and Gabriella gasped. And then mentally slapped herself for gasping.

"Sharpay Evans." Sharpay narrowed her eyes, almost acknowledged her former classmate, handed the shades off to who was certainly Ryan in this case, and brushed past Amanda.

"You don't happen to have my correct latte order, do you?" she shot at the speechless writer.

I'm going to bring in Troy. I am. But he'll be on the side. Maybe featured in two out of 10.

I noticed that a reviewer didn't like the large paragraphs and, while I also don't like reading large blocks of text, I am in the midst of a Terry Pratchett influence, so while this one may have shorter paragraphs, most of my non-dialogue prose will be nicely packed into a box. Sorry. And, also, because I can't resist this dig, the phrase "Makes no since," makes no sense.

No specific references on this one, but I'm pretty sure the spatula line was influenced by The Devil Wears Prada. I don't even know where I get my influences from any mroe.

Review!