HSMC#1: Ready
A/N: ...Have we started yet? This ran a little longer than I anticipated, but I think it needed the extra length to progress logically. (There isn't a length limit, is there? I checked the rules but I didn't read anything pertaining to a minimum or maximum word count.)
Anyway, on to my submission:
***
She couldn't stand him. He was always... hovering. There was really no other way to describe it.
He would always find some way to... be around. If she was rehearsing, he found a way to work backstage. If she was in the library studying, he happened to be there, too. If she was sitting beneath her favorite tree, minding her own business, he parked himself under the tree across from her.
He's just... always there, she thought.
***
She didn't like him. He was so... arrogant. Really, there was no other word for him.
"Sharpay," he said in a sing-song voice, coming up next to her as she walked to class.
"What?" she asked, not really interested.
With a flourish, he brandished a pink, misshapen blob of papier-mâché and paint.
She blinked.
"It's a candy dish. I made it for you. In art class."
She blinked again. "Gee, Chad, that's really something," she said with a condescending sneer. Without another word, she spun around and started to head to her next class.
Before she could get very far, a firm hand caught her wrist. She came flying back around, their faces inches away.
"I made it for you," he repeated. "It's the best one I've made."
"Lovely," she said sarcastically. "I'm not taking your stupid bowl."
"Dish," he corrected. "And, yes, you are." He plopped it in her hands.
"No, thank you." She shoved it back at him.
"Why won't you just take it?" It ended up back in her arms.
"Because it's ugly."
"I don't think this is about the dish at all."
"Of course it's about your dumb bowl. It's certainly not about you, if that's what you're getting at."
"I think it is about me."
"Ha. Of course you would."
"I think you really like me. So we should date."
"Really? Maybe if you say it again, with a little more arrogance this time," she glared at him as the bowl toppled back into its creator's hands. In a flash, she was already around the corner, nearing her Spanish class.
He's just... so arrogant!, she thought.
***
She couldn't help but take notice of him. He was strangely... attractive. A strange way to describe what he was, but it seemed to fit somehow.
Maybe not in the conventional sense. He lacked a certain softness she usually preferred in guys. He was not unbelievably smart in any respect. He wasn't even that nice.
There was just something about him.
***
He caught her after school on Friday.
He asked her to go out that night.
She gave in.
***
Weeks passed.
He asked her if she liked him.
She said she did.
***
Months went by.
He told her he loved her.
She felt the same.
***
A year came and went.
He wanted things to happen very fast.
She wasn't sure if she was ready.
He was full of ideals -- he could see the future, he said. He saw them together forever, making babies, putting up a white picket fence, growing old. He said he didn't care about age, because the soul didn't age.
She wanted those things, too. Just not so soon.
She told him she wanted to wait.
He respected her decision.
For a while, anyway.
***
"It's been two-and-a-half years, Sharpay."
"What? That we've been together?"
"Yeah. Two-and-a-half years."
"I know, Chad."
"I think it's time we decided, once and for all."
She looked up from her book.
"Decided?"
"Are you going to marry me or not?"
She sighed and turned back to the paragraph on Napoleon Bonaparte. "Chad, not now. I need to pass this exam."
"I think we're ready."
"We're twenty years old. We're not ready."
"Sharpay, the soul -- "
"Yes, yes, I know, 'the soul doesn't age'. I've heard that before, somewhere." She grinned at him playfully.
"I'm serious about this." He took her face in his hands. "Sharpay Evans, will you please marry me?"
She stared at him, dumbfounded.
"I'm serious about this, too, you know."
"Then what do you say?"
She sighed heavily. He was definitely one of the stubborn ones. "Not yet."
He sighed and dug into his pocket, procuring a rusty penny.
"We'll flip for it," he shrugged.
"You can't be serious."
"The seriousest."
"You made that word up."
He ignored her. "Heads, we get married. Tails, we break up. How's that?"
She blinked at him. "I am not letting Abraham Lincoln decide our future, Chad."
"Here goes nothing," he said, tossing the coin into the air.
She snatched it before it could land.
***
She had never hurt this much before.
Everything ached. Nothing she ate had any kind of taste. Every song sounded the same, every movie had the same plot, every word she read or spoke meant nothing.
He was hurting, too.
***
Another year went by.
On her twenty-first birthday, her friends forced her to go out to dinner with them. They ended up at a karaoke bar on the outskirts of town, belting out their worst renditions of a number of classic songs.
"Come on, Sharpay," they urged, pushing the microphone into her hand.
She just stared at it. All she could think was that one person was missing. One person should be here.
"SING!" Her friends shouted as the music continued.
She sang. But there was no passion.
***
He got over her. Or, that was the pretense, anyway.
He started dating one of the cheerleaders.
She had red hair. She was perky, and pretty, and nice.
But he didn't care about her.
At night, he only saw the same blonde girl who'd turned his life upside down.
But that was a long time ago.
***
She was twenty-four.
She had dated a couple guys, never amounting to very much.
She hated herself daily. Some days, she hated herself for letting go of the best relationship of her life. Other days, she hated herself for holding onto it.
***
She was Christmas shopping that day.
Maybe she was imagining things, but she saw a burst of brown hair in a store window. She craned her neck to see above the flashy Santa Claus display. Her heart skipped.
"Chad," she said, flustered.
She hadn't said his name in four years.
Before she realized what she was doing, she was in the store, strutting resolutely down the aisle where he stood, shaking a variety of snow globes.
"Chad," she said for the second time. It felt good. Chad, Chad, Chad, echoed in her head.
He turned around to look into her eyes.
Some time passed. They weren't sure how long. It felt long. But not long enough.
"Hi," she said finally.
"Hey," he replied, smiling faintly.
Without fully realizing what she was doing, she dug her hand into her coat pocket, procuring a shiny, copper-colored penny. She held her mittened hand between them and flattened out her palm.
"Heads, we get married. Tails, we get married. How's that?"
***
Anyway, on to my submission:
***
She couldn't stand him. He was always... hovering. There was really no other way to describe it.
He would always find some way to... be around. If she was rehearsing, he found a way to work backstage. If she was in the library studying, he happened to be there, too. If she was sitting beneath her favorite tree, minding her own business, he parked himself under the tree across from her.
He's just... always there, she thought.
***
She didn't like him. He was so... arrogant. Really, there was no other word for him.
"Sharpay," he said in a sing-song voice, coming up next to her as she walked to class.
"What?" she asked, not really interested.
With a flourish, he brandished a pink, misshapen blob of papier-mâché and paint.
She blinked.
"It's a candy dish. I made it for you. In art class."
She blinked again. "Gee, Chad, that's really something," she said with a condescending sneer. Without another word, she spun around and started to head to her next class.
Before she could get very far, a firm hand caught her wrist. She came flying back around, their faces inches away.
"I made it for you," he repeated. "It's the best one I've made."
"Lovely," she said sarcastically. "I'm not taking your stupid bowl."
"Dish," he corrected. "And, yes, you are." He plopped it in her hands.
"No, thank you." She shoved it back at him.
"Why won't you just take it?" It ended up back in her arms.
"Because it's ugly."
"I don't think this is about the dish at all."
"Of course it's about your dumb bowl. It's certainly not about you, if that's what you're getting at."
"I think it is about me."
"Ha. Of course you would."
"I think you really like me. So we should date."
"Really? Maybe if you say it again, with a little more arrogance this time," she glared at him as the bowl toppled back into its creator's hands. In a flash, she was already around the corner, nearing her Spanish class.
He's just... so arrogant!, she thought.
***
She couldn't help but take notice of him. He was strangely... attractive. A strange way to describe what he was, but it seemed to fit somehow.
Maybe not in the conventional sense. He lacked a certain softness she usually preferred in guys. He was not unbelievably smart in any respect. He wasn't even that nice.
There was just something about him.
***
He caught her after school on Friday.
He asked her to go out that night.
She gave in.
***
Weeks passed.
He asked her if she liked him.
She said she did.
***
Months went by.
He told her he loved her.
She felt the same.
***
A year came and went.
He wanted things to happen very fast.
She wasn't sure if she was ready.
He was full of ideals -- he could see the future, he said. He saw them together forever, making babies, putting up a white picket fence, growing old. He said he didn't care about age, because the soul didn't age.
She wanted those things, too. Just not so soon.
She told him she wanted to wait.
He respected her decision.
For a while, anyway.
***
"It's been two-and-a-half years, Sharpay."
"What? That we've been together?"
"Yeah. Two-and-a-half years."
"I know, Chad."
"I think it's time we decided, once and for all."
She looked up from her book.
"Decided?"
"Are you going to marry me or not?"
She sighed and turned back to the paragraph on Napoleon Bonaparte. "Chad, not now. I need to pass this exam."
"I think we're ready."
"We're twenty years old. We're not ready."
"Sharpay, the soul -- "
"Yes, yes, I know, 'the soul doesn't age'. I've heard that before, somewhere." She grinned at him playfully.
"I'm serious about this." He took her face in his hands. "Sharpay Evans, will you please marry me?"
She stared at him, dumbfounded.
"I'm serious about this, too, you know."
"Then what do you say?"
She sighed heavily. He was definitely one of the stubborn ones. "Not yet."
He sighed and dug into his pocket, procuring a rusty penny.
"We'll flip for it," he shrugged.
"You can't be serious."
"The seriousest."
"You made that word up."
He ignored her. "Heads, we get married. Tails, we break up. How's that?"
She blinked at him. "I am not letting Abraham Lincoln decide our future, Chad."
"Here goes nothing," he said, tossing the coin into the air.
She snatched it before it could land.
***
She had never hurt this much before.
Everything ached. Nothing she ate had any kind of taste. Every song sounded the same, every movie had the same plot, every word she read or spoke meant nothing.
He was hurting, too.
***
Another year went by.
On her twenty-first birthday, her friends forced her to go out to dinner with them. They ended up at a karaoke bar on the outskirts of town, belting out their worst renditions of a number of classic songs.
"Come on, Sharpay," they urged, pushing the microphone into her hand.
She just stared at it. All she could think was that one person was missing. One person should be here.
"SING!" Her friends shouted as the music continued.
She sang. But there was no passion.
***
He got over her. Or, that was the pretense, anyway.
He started dating one of the cheerleaders.
She had red hair. She was perky, and pretty, and nice.
But he didn't care about her.
At night, he only saw the same blonde girl who'd turned his life upside down.
But that was a long time ago.
***
She was twenty-four.
She had dated a couple guys, never amounting to very much.
She hated herself daily. Some days, she hated herself for letting go of the best relationship of her life. Other days, she hated herself for holding onto it.
***
She was Christmas shopping that day.
Maybe she was imagining things, but she saw a burst of brown hair in a store window. She craned her neck to see above the flashy Santa Claus display. Her heart skipped.
"Chad," she said, flustered.
She hadn't said his name in four years.
Before she realized what she was doing, she was in the store, strutting resolutely down the aisle where he stood, shaking a variety of snow globes.
"Chad," she said for the second time. It felt good. Chad, Chad, Chad, echoed in her head.
He turned around to look into her eyes.
Some time passed. They weren't sure how long. It felt long. But not long enough.
"Hi," she said finally.
"Hey," he replied, smiling faintly.
Without fully realizing what she was doing, she dug her hand into her coat pocket, procuring a shiny, copper-colored penny. She held her mittened hand between them and flattened out her palm.
"Heads, we get married. Tails, we get married. How's that?"
***