Hello.

This is dedicated to you.

Because I love you.

The dogwood tree stood naked and bitter in our front yard. Now that the celebration was over and the adrenaline rush that I had received from defacing a part of nature was gone, I sat at the living room window. My eyes followed the green expanse of the Bolton's front yard and the way the grass rolled right up to their front door.

The door. The door had such a significance. It reminded me of a girl and a boy, both ready to jump into second grade. The girl desperately pushing her lips forward to receive her first kiss, the boy searching for an escape...

Troy and me.

The little boy and girl were Troy and me.

I dropped my chin into my hand and sighed. The question of why these thoughts and memories of Troy were plaguing me now of all times settled on my skin. Just when things were starting to go okay- Corrine Zeller wasn't being so bossy. Jason had finally given the idea that he remotely liked me. High school was actually starting to look appealing. But Troy Bolton had to ruin it all. Destroy it all.

The furious chimes of the doorbell made me roll off of the couch, away from what I once knew. A part of me secretly wished that maybe Troy was here to give me something the way I had given him those dogwood blooms forever ago. But the sight of Jason Cross on the other side of the door made me melt and cock my head in confusion at the same time.

"What's going on?" But my words seemed to be lost on him as I examined him. A red, garish mark was smeared across his neck. Blood was smarted on his bottom lip and the corner of his right eye was kissed with a darkening bruise. He looked far from helpless. He looked overwhelmingly furious.

"Troy Bolton is what's going on," he said in a low growl. He didn't bother with manners and trudged past me into the kitchen where he angrily dropped himself into a chair. "Sharpay, I can't..." but a pained hissed stopped his words. A wince came to his face and he keeled over and gently tended to his left side.

"What happened? Let me see..." Before my mind could register what my hands were doing, I had folded the lower half of his Wildcats jersey up to his chest. He pulled it up the rest of the way and a heat found my cheeks, even though a harsh cloud of black surrounded his rib cage. "Jason, what did Troy do to you?"

"We got in a fist fight," he explained. But it was quite evident that I barely paid attention to the words that came from his swollen mouth. Six defined muscles of his abdomen barreled down to his navel which was placed just above his low-slung jeans. I suddenly felt like Troy- openly staring at body parts I wasn't supposed to be staring at...Jason cleared his throat and quickly yanked his jersey back over his shorts. "I um..." His ears flamed red and a sheepish grin came over his mouth.

I hastily jumped away from him. "Do you need some ice for that?"

"Ice would be nice, thank you," he quickly replied.

I swiftly ducked my head into the freezer, in hopes of hiding my embarrassed face and cooling my hot cheeks.

I had barely gotten a few cups of ice into a plastic bag before Jason rose from his chair. "Shar," he said to my back. "What so great about Troy Bolton anyways?"

"Nothing," I replied automatically. Nothing was great about him. He was egotistical. He was absent-minded and only listened to his dick. He was... he was a waste of six years, of time. I slammed the refrigerator door, face still hot. "Why do you ask?"

The glimmer that was usually found in Jason's brown eyes swirled away in defeat. His mouth was turned in a slight frown. "Who are we kidding, Shar?" he asked. "You and I... we can't... and Troy..."

I swallowed back a load of anxiety, attempting to piece together Jason's broken words. He winced, knowing what was coming next. "I like you a lot, Sharpay. You know that." The pain evident on his face was more than unbearable. I looked to the limp, shivering bag of ice I held in my hands. Anything to heal the pain... "You were my first friend when I moved here. And I know this is just a stupid dance and all, but..."

"Are you saying..." I managed to croak, "Are you saying that you don't-"

"It's complicated, I know. I still want to go with you, but maybe for now, we should just be together... as friends?" he gave a weak shrug, his confusing, whirling heart playing out on his sleeve.

My palms went numb and the plastic bag dripping with ice trembled. I gulped once and tears peaked in the corners of my eyes. I felt like such a fool, cheeks burning, a film of tears over my eyes. All of this over something as petty as a school dance. But somehow, through all of the unnecessary drama, it meant something to me. I had liked Jason, more than he assumed I did. He was a best friend, a Provider. He was my Troy Bolton Substitute, but more generous and kind. "Sure," my mouth answered for me without my heart's consent.

Jason's shoulders fell a little. From relief? From sorrow? I couldn't tell. His eyes swam in a mysterious emotion. He searched my face. "I'm sorry," he said. He sounded regretful and troubled. I felt useless and unworthy.

"I'll walk you to the door," I said, each word tangled with a mess of tears in my throat. We sullenly walked together, back to the place where things seemed like they had been well. He stood in the door frame. His neck still had a burning redness to it. His lip was still bloody and his eye was still a nauseating purple. Yet he looked so different.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" he asked pathetically.

"Tomorrow. Right." I blinked. Was this truly happening? Was I just going to let the life be drained out of me because of something as minuscule as this? Maybe I was more like Bridgett Oliver than I ever thought...

But suddenly, Jason drew closer and pressed his lips gingerly against my cheek in a pity kiss. "I'm sorry," he tried again. My chin quivered terribly and I closed the door without another word. The house seemed to have darkened a little and my wimpy sniffles reverberated off of the empty walls.

Why was I crying? I whipped tears off of my face. The only person I could remember that had brought me to tears was...

Troy Bolton, I told myself. It all somehow tied back to Troy Bolton. Was he never content with my happiness? Did he lose sleep at night knowing that I had moved on? How come all of the friends in the world and the most desired girl ever were never good enough for him?

The window. The same wretched window that we both found ourselves at beckoned for me again. Across the street, Troy Bolton's face was planted to the pavement of his driveway. His father stood over him, lecturing him as his son did push-ups. There was small satisfaction in seeing Troy like this.

I wanted to see him go through what I had experienced. I wanted him to live the days of secrets and exclusion. I wanted him, if only for a moment, to be me.

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I could see East High School from where I sat in the detention room. It was odd, knowing that I would be walking those hallways in a matter of months. But it was funny, knowing that we would all still be living under the same kind of government that we did in middle school- the Troyarchy.

Suddenly, the empty room was stormed with Bridgett Oliver's presence. The detention room door flew open, and in a mess of brown hair, green eyes, and perfection, Bridgett Oliver glided in. "Sharpay Evans," she said. "You. Are a virus."

"Excuse me?" I suddenly rose from my low-budget desk. "Are you just trying to provoke me?" I took note of the giant binder she held in her arms, confetti, loose papers, and hot pink fliers stuffed in its opening. "What is that anyway?"

But she didn't answer me, merely slammed her binder down on a desk and flipped her hair away from her shoulder. I wasn't sure if it was my imagination, but the midnight circles of mascara that usually framed her eyes seemed a little smudged. "Let's just get this over with, alright? I don't want to have this dance any more than you want to have it."

My stomach shuttled downward at Bridgett Oliver's brief but very revealing words. Troy. Something must have happened with Troy. "Trouble on the boyfriend front?" I asked cynically.

"Nothing I would like to share with you, thank you," she snarled and opened her binder, filled to the brim with party ideas, color schemes, and caterers. Only the day before, Bridgett Oliver had been ecstatic. Then again, only the day before, I had had my heart remotely broken. I was in no place to mess with another person's emotions, even if they were as bitchy as Bridgett Oliver.

"Theme: A Midnight in Paris. Attire: Semi-Formal. Catering..." Bridgett Oliver immediately began pitching ideas in a desperate attempt to take both of our minds off of her lingering drama. "Are you writing this all down?" she snapped, ideas bright in her seemingly evil eyes. "There's a lot to be done, Evans. We only have a week and a half, and I don't need... viruses slowing me down."

The hurt, vulnerable Bridgett Oliver disappeared, and the dominating spoiled brat returned. I sighed, taking notes on my palm: Theme: don't care. Attire: don't care...

None of it seemed worth it anymore. I had been the one to ignite all of this mess, but I didn't care to put forth the effort anymore. Was it because of Jason? Or indirectly Troy Bolton and his destruction?

Catering: don't care.

A week and a half to correct my terrible mistakes.

Only a week and a half to try to piece myself back together before any of this ever happened.

That's it.

Review.

It's much appreciated.

Oh, and a stupid question for anyone from the UK or, I guess anyone in general: Have you heard of the singer Ross Copperman?