Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

''-talking

'-thoughts

''From day one, musical theater was my bread and butter.'' - Ben Platt

Winter break was almost over, and Sharpay Evans stood in front of the mirror, staring at her reflection. Gone was the platinum blonde hair that had been her signature for years—now, rich chestnut waves framed her face.

"Marilyn was fun, but Jackie O. is timeless," she murmured, smoothing a hand over her sleek new style.

Louis, her colorist, had outdone himself. But this wasn’t just a hair change—it was something deeper. Sharpay had spent the last few weeks volunteering at a local animal shelter in Albuquerque, something she’d never have done before. No cameras, no audience—just her and a bunch of rescue dogs who didn’t care about her fame.

And she loved it.

But the truth was even stranger than her sudden change of heart.

Because Sharpay shouldn’t be here at all.

Nine years in the future—or what had been her future—Sharpay Evans had been standing center stage on Broadway, belting out the final number of Diamonds Are Forever, her long-awaited solo show. The spotlight had been hers, the crowd roaring—until a sharp crack echoed through the theater.

Then—pain. Darkness.

And then…

She woke up in her old bedroom in Albuquerque, seventeen again, her phone buzzing with texts about winter formal auditions.

At first, she thought it was a dream. A hallucination. A really weird near-death experience. But days passed, then weeks, and reality settled in.

She had died.

And somehow, she had been sent back.

Now, as she studied her reflection—her younger reflection—Sharpay exhaled slowly.

"Okay. New hair. New me. And apparently… a whole new life."

The question was—what was she going to do with it?

In her first life, she had clawed her way to the top, stepping on toes (and sometimes friends) to get there. She had been Sharpay Evans, the star—ruthless, fabulous, and utterly alone at the top.

But now?

Now, she had spent afternoons at the shelter laughing as a scruffy terrier licked her face. She had helped an elderly woman carry groceries without a single thought of how it might look on camera. She had listened—really listened—when Ryan vented about wanting to be a choreographer.

And for the first time in either of her lives, she felt… happy.

Sharpay smirked at her reflection, flipping her chestnut waves over one shoulder.

"Alright, universe. If this is my second act… I’m rewriting the script."

No more desperate grabs for fame. No more treating life like a competition.

She was still Sharpay Evans.

But this time?

She was going to do things differently.

The first time Sharpay woke up in her old bedroom, she thought it was a dream.

The pink walls. The vanity cluttered with glittery makeup. The Wicked poster still hanging proudly above her bed.

"What the—?"

Her head throbbed, phantom pain from the falling stage light still echoing in her skull. She sat up too fast, her hands flying to her extremely hair—long, platinum, exactly as it had been in high school.

Her glittered pink sidekick buzzed on the nightstand. 

Ryan: U up? Audition sign-ups start in an hour. Don’t be late this time.

Auditions? For what?

Then it hit her.

The Winter Musical.

2008.

Her breath caught.

She scrambled for her laptop, fingers shaking as she typed:

"Broadway Sharpay Evans Diamonds Are Forever"

Nothing.

No headlines about her tragic accident. No memorials. No articles about the rising star cut down in her prime.

Just teen Vogue magazines, editorials from her school, and wall street articles.

She checked the date.

January 12, 2008.

Nine years before her death.

"This isn’t happening."

But it was.

She screamed.

If this was real—if she had somehow gone back—then she needed to recall what had happened in her original timeline.

She spent an hour writing it all down.

Sharpay had kept tabs on her friends.

Troy, after a messy breakup with Gabriella in his final year of Juilliard, had gone into music, not just any music, but legendary levels of ballads, and even pop music. Multiple Grammy wins, sold-out world tours. But tabloids whispered about his string of failed relationships, his constant exhaustion. The boy who once loved basketball now seemed… lonely.

Gabriella had left performing behind entirely. She became a scientist—a genius scientist. By 2017, she had won a Nobel Prize for developing a cure for SIDS. But interviews revealed she rarely smiled anymore. "I just wanted to help people," she’d said once, "but sometimes I wonder if I forgot how to live while doing it."

Chad had made it to the NBA, playing for the Lakers—just like he’d always dreamed. But a knee injury cut his career short, and by the time Sharpay had died, he was coaching high school ball, still wearing his championship ring like a ghost of the past.

Zeke had opened a bakery in New York. It was successful, cozy—but Sharpay remembered running into him once, years ago. He’d looked happy… but also like he missed the thrill of playing basketball.

Martha was a preschool teacher, still teaching dance on the side. Sweet, steady—but Sharpay wondered if she ever missed the spotlight.

Kelsi had become an in-demand songwriter, but she’d burned out fast, disappearing from the industry by 2016.

And then there was Ryan.

Her brother had stuck with theater, but never quite reached the heights he deserved. He’d been in the audience the night she died.

Sharpay’s chest ached.

All of them had gotten what they wanted… but at what cost?

She stared at her reflection in the mirror—young, vibrant, alive.

She had spent her first life chasing fame, convinced that being a star was the only thing that mattered.

But now?

Now she knew the truth.

Success didn’t mean happiness.

And she had a chance to change everything.

When she walked into school that Monday, no one recognized her at first.

The platinum hair was gone, replaced by rich chestnut waves. Her usual flashy outfits had been swapped for something sleeker, more sophisticated.

But the biggest change?

The way she carried herself.

No more desperate grabs for attention. No more scheming to steal the spotlight.

Just… Sharpay.

Ryan gaped at her.

"Who are you and what have you done with my sister?"

Sharpay smirked.

"Let’s just say I’ve had a revelation."

And for the first time in either of her lives, she meant it.

Chapter Text

''-talking

'-thoughts

''Theater, especially musical theater, is a collaborative endeavor. The success of the venture is about the team.'' - Betty Buckley

Gabriella adjusted the strap of her backpack, her stomach fluttering as she stepped through the doors of East High.

A new school. Again.

Her mother’s job had relocated them to Albuquerque, and Gabriella had spent the summer dreading the inevitable—being the quiet, bookish girl who faded into the background. But then, at a ski lodge over winter break, she had met him.

Troy.

Sweet, charming, with a smile that made her forget how much she hated moving.

And now, as if the universe was playing some kind of joke on her, he went to this school.

"Of course he does," she muttered under her breath.

A girl with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense ponytail in braids approached her before she could even check her schedule.

"You’re Gabriella, right? New girl?"

Gabriella blinked.

"Uh, yeah. How did you—?"

"Taylor McKessie. Captain of Scholastic Decathlon and head of the Science Team." Taylor extended a hand. "Principal Gutierrez asked me to show you around. Word is you’re some kind of genius."

She flushed.

"I don’t know about that—"

"Modesty. Cute." Taylor smirked.

"But save it. East High runs on two things: basketball and drama. And since you don’t look like the theater type, I’m guessing you’ll be more useful to me than Sharpay Evans."

Gabriella frowned. "Who?"

Taylor rolled her eyes. "Oh, you’ll meet her. Just—don’t let the glitter blind you."

The whispers followed Sharpay like a trailing spotlight as she strolled through the halls of East High, her chestnut waves bouncing with each confident step.

"Is she sick?"
"Did she lose a bet?"
"Why does she look… happy?"

Even the teachers did double-takes. Sharpay Evans—their Sharpay, the girl who once wore a live peacock feather boa to a pep rally—was dressed in a sleek navy blazer and dark jeans, her usual glitter replaced by understated pearl earrings.

And then there was Troy Bolton.

Troy had been mid-dribble, joking with Chad about their upcoming game, when he spotted her. The ball slipped from his fingers, rolling away as he stared.

"Uh… Sharpay?"

She turned, and for the first time in their entire high school career, she didn’t bat her lashes or flip her hair at him.

She just… smiled. Warm. Real.

"Hey, Troy! Ready for the big game Friday?"

Troy’s brain short-circuited.

Since when did Sharpay Evans:

Know his basketball schedule?

Sound genuinely interested in it?

Not follow up with a backhanded compliment about how sports were "cute" but real talent belonged onstage?

Chad elbowed him hard.

"Dude. Close your mouth."

As Taylor led her through the halls, Gabriella caught glimpses of Troy laughing with a tall guy she assumed was his best friend (Chad, she remembered from their conversations). He hadn’t noticed her yet.

Her pulse jumped.

Should she wave? Wait for him to see her? What if he acted differently here, where he was clearly someone popular?

Before she could decide, a voice cut through the chatter.

"Gabriella Montez?"

Gabriella turned—and froze.

A sleekly dressed brunette stood in front of her, arms crossed, but something was… off.

No smug smirk. No dramatic hair flip.

Was this Sharpay?

Just a strange, almost knowing look in her eyes.

"You’re—" Gabriella started.

"Yeah, yeah, Sharpay Evans, future star, blah blah." Sharpay waved a hand dismissively. "Look, new girl, word of advice?"

Gabriella braced herself for something catty.

Instead, Sharpay leaned in and said, "Don’t let this place turn you into someone you’re not."

Then she walked away, leaving Gabriella staring after her in shock.

Sharpay didn’t look back as she strode down the hall.

In her first life, she had seen Gabriella as a threat—the sweet, brainy girl who stole Troy’s attention (and, eventually, the lead in the winter musical).

But now?

Now she knew the truth.

Gabriella would change everything—for Troy, for East High, for herself.

And Sharpay had a choice.

Sabotage her like before?

Or let her shine?

She smirked to herself.

"This time, I think I’ll do things differently."

Troy finally recovered enough to jog after her.

"Hey, Sharpay—wait up!"

She paused, raising an eyebrow. "What’s up, Bolton?"

"Since when do you care about basketball?" he blurted.

Sharpay tilted her head, "Let’s just say I’ve realized there’s more to life than standing in a spotlight." She nodded toward Gabriella, who was now talking to Taylor. "And hey—be nice to the new girl. She’s smarter than all of us combined."

Troy’s gaze flicked to Gabriella, then back to Sharpay. "Are you… giving me advice?"

"Stranger things have happened," she said breezily, adjusting her bag. "See you at the game, Bolton. Don’t let Danforth hog all the glory."

And with that, she disappeared into the crowd, leaving Troy staring after her like she’d grown a second head.

The day of the winter musical auditions arrived, and the auditorium buzzed with nervous energy. Kelsi sat at the piano, shuffling sheet music, while Ryan leaned against the stage, watching the door.

“She’s actually doing this,” Ryan muttered, half to himself.

Kelsi glanced up.

“You really think she’ll go through with it? The new Sharpay?”

Before Ryan could answer, the doors swung open—and Sharpay walked in.

Not in her usual sequined showstopper outfit, but in a simple black dress, her chestnut hair loose around her shoulders.

The room fell silent.

Sharpay handed Kelsi a sheet of paper. “I made a few tweaks. Hope you don’t mind.”

Kelsi’s eyes widened as she scanned the lyrics. It was her song—the one she’d poured her heart into but never thought Sharpay would even glance at. But now, scribbled in Sharpay’s looping handwriting, were adjustments—improvements—that somehow made it even more heartfelt.

“You… rewrote my song?” Kelsi whispered.

Sharpay shrugged, but there was no arrogance in it. “Collaboration is kind of the point of theater, isn’t it?”

Ryan’s jaw dropped.

As Kelsi played the opening chords, Sharpay closed her eyes—just for a second—and let the music wash over her.

Then she sang.

Not the over-the-top belting she was known for. Not the calculated, look-at-me runs. Just… the song. Kelsi’s song.

It's hard to believe that I couldn't see
You were always there beside me
Thought I was alone with no one to hold
But you were always right beside me

The room held its breath.

This wasn’t the Sharpay who demanded encores. This was someone real.

When the last note faded, even Ms. Darbus, looked impressed by Sharpay’s antics—nodded slowly. “Well. That was… unexpected.”

Kelsi was beaming.

“Sharpay, that was amazing.”

Ryan, still speechless, just mouthed, Who are you?

Sharpay grinned. “Someone who finally gets it.”

And as she walked out, the whispers started again—but this time, they weren’t about her hair or her clothes.

They were about her.

Chapter Text

''-talking

'-thoughts

''I never paint dreams or nightmares. I paint my own reality. '' - Frida Kahlo

Paws & Love Animal Shelter was the last place anyone expected to find Sharpay Evans.

Yet there she was, kneeling on the floor in old torn blue jeans and a worn-out East High hoodie (a hoodie!), gently brushing a scruffy terrier named Buttercup. Her nails, usually bedazzled to perfection, were short and unpolished.

Chad Danforth’s little sister, Maya, stood frozen in the doorway, her phone slipping from her fingers.

"You’re… brushing a dog?" Maya blurted.

Sharpay didn’t even look up. "Yep! This is Buttercup. She’s getting adopted today."

Maya’s text to Chad went viral in seconds:

"SHARPAY EVANS IS A SECRET VOLUNTEER PERSON???"

By Sunday, the shelter was packed—not with adopters, but with gawkers.

Troy and Gabriella hovered near the cat room, pretending to "just be passing by."

Ryan brought a camera, claiming he was "documenting community service for college apps," but spent most of the time scratching a one-eared tabby behind the ears.

Zeke showed up with a box of dog-friendly muffins.

"What? They deserve treats too!"

Even Kelsi wandered in, cooing over a trio of puppies.

Sharpay rolled her eyes.

"Wow. Who knew my charitable endeavors would be more interesting than my high C?"

Gabriella, ever the diplomat, crouched beside her.

"Why didn’t you tell anyone?"

Sharpay shrugged.

"Would you have believed me?"

Later, as Troy helped her refill water bowls, he finally asked the real question.

"What’s going on with you, Sharpay? The hair, the Hamilton deep-dive in history class, now this?"

She paused. How could she explain?

'Oh, I died in a freak Broadway accident and woke up nine years in the past, realizing I wasted my life on applause and AP credits?'

Instead, she handed him a blue squeaky duck toy.

"Maybe I just realized there’s more to life than being perfect."

Troy studied her—really studied her—for the first time.

"Huh. You’re kinda… cool now."

The Sunday after Troy and the rest of his basketball team volunteered at the pet shelter, surprising a lot of people, he went home and had a discussion with his parents.

''Oh, Sharpay, how is she?'' Lucille asks.

His mother was dishing out her chicken alfredo, as his father added the garlic bread onto the plates.

Troy was confused.

''What?'' He asked.

His mom shook her head, ''You and Sharpay used to be as thick as thieves before third grade, before you went to basketball camp, and before she went to drama camp. ''

Lucille reached on top of the fridge, ruffling through a brown ornate box with chrysanthemum patterns, where he knew she kept small keepsakes, before pulling out a picture. She hands him a picture of himself and Sharpay, arms around each other.

Troy's eyes widened.

He stared at the photograph in his hands, his stomach doing a slow flip.

There they were—him and Sharpay—grinning like idiots, arms slung around each other’s shoulders. He couldn’t have been older than eight. Sharpay’s hair was in two messy braids, her knees scraped from what he vaguely remembered was a failed attempt to build a treehouse in her backyard.

"We were… friends?" Troy’s voice sounded foreign to his own ears.

Lucille sighed, wiping her hands on her apron. "Oh, honey, you were inseparable. You’d ride your bikes to that little diner near the golf course and split milkshakes. Then that summer, you both went off to your camps and… well, you came back different."

Jack nodded, passing the salad.

"You had basketball, she had her plays. You just drifted."

Troy’s mind raced.

The diner.

He did remember a place with red booths and really nice peanut butter shakes.

Sharpay’s dad had yelled at them for using his "good golf clubs" as hammers on the treehouse.

They fought.

Not a fight, really—just a quiet fade after third grade, when Troy started hanging with Chad more and Sharpay became… well, Sharpay.

But now? Now she was brushing dogs and rewriting songs and smiling at him like she knew something he didn’t.

"Why didn’t you ever mention this before?" he asked.

Lucille exchanged a glance with Jack.

"We figured you remembered. And then she became so…"

"Sparkly?" Jack offered.

"Intense," Lucille corrected.

Sharpay sat at her vanity, tapping a pen against her pink notebook. Her trust fund was substantial, but it came with strings—parental oversight until she turned 21, and Vance Evans loved micromanaging.

"Wharton or nothing, Sharpay," he’d said in her original timeline. "The arts are a hobby, not a legacy."

She’d resented it then. Now? She saw the opportunity.

Notebook Entry:

Trust fund access: Limited until 21 (4 years away).

Wharton: Useful for connections, but stifling. Unless…

Eidetic memory: Ace classes without burnout. Free up time for real plans.

Seed money needed now.

Alena, the Evans family maid, nearly dropped her dusting rag when Sharpay slid a slip of paper across the counter.

"Mega Millions numbers?" Alena squinted.

''Gambling is illegal for people under 21,'' the older woman admonished.

Sharpay flashed her most innocent smile.

"Just a hunch. Play them for me? I’ll cover the ticket—and half the winnings if they hit."

Alena laughed.

"Fine, mija. But when you lose, you’re folding the laundry for a week."

The younger brunette's smile turned razor-sharp.

Oh, I won’t lose.

(She’d memorized every major lottery result from 2008-2017 during a bored phase in her Broadway dressing room.)

While waiting for the draw the following Saturday, Sharpay mapped out her empire:

Paws & Love Partnership

• Use lottery winnings to buy the shelter’s mortgage.
• Expand it into a no-kill sanctuary with a celebrity adoption program (cough Troy Bolton endorsements cough).
• The Evans Loophole
• Enroll at UNM first—"to stay close to family."
• Transfer to Wharton after securing independent funding.
• Major in finance publicly… but quietly invest in tech startups she knew would boom (Uber, Airbnb, Spotify, Netflix).
• Her brother had wasted his theater degree on small parts. Not this time.
• Fund his indie film now—the one he’d pitched in 2015 about "alien cheerleaders." (It would flop, but the next one would catch A24’s eye.)

On Monday morning, Troy cornered Sharpay at her locker.

"We need to talk."

She turned, one eyebrow arched.

"Ominous. Do I need a lawyer?"

He held up the photo.

Sharpay’s smirk faltered—just for a second—before she schooled her face into something unreadable.

"Wow. Your mom kept that? I look like a feral raccoon."

"You remember," Troy accused.

Sharpay sighed, snapping her locker shut.

"Of course I remember, Bolton. But you didn’t. So what was the point?"

And with that, she walked away, leaving Troy with more questions than answers.

Dinner on Tuesday took a turn when Vance eyed her over his steak.

"Your mother says you’ve been… volunteering."

Darby’s smile was frosty.

"At a dog pound, darling. You’ll ruin your skin."

Sharpay sipped her sparkling water.

"It’s good PR for the club. ‘Evans Family Supports Local Charities.’

Vance’s fork paused.

"Hmph. Get a quote in the Journal."

Checkmate.

A week later, Alena burst into Sharpay’s room, waving a ticket.

"¡Dios mío! WE WON $50 MILLION!"

Sharpay didn’t even look up from her calculus homework.

"Told you. Wire your half to an offshore account—I’ll handle the rest."

Alena’s eyes narrowed.

"…How did you know?"

Sharpay just winked.

"Lucky guess."

Chapter Text

''-talking

'-thoughts

''There is nothing like a dream to create the future.'' - Victor Hugo

Later, Ryan found her sitting on the edge of their infinity pool, her feet kicking idly in the water.

"So. Troy knows."

Sharpay didn’t look up

"Knows what, exactly? That we were childhood friends? That he forgot me as soon as he had a basketball in his hands?"

Her twin sat beside her.

"You never told him you were hurt."

"Would it have mattered?" She laughed, but it was hollow. "In his world, I was just the drama kid. In mine, he was the jock who didn’t see me. Until now. I'm the Ice Princess, remember."

Ryan bumped her shoulder.

"And now?"

Sharpay watched the water ripple.

"Now I don’t need him to."

'My brain is going to explode.'

She hated high school.

She loved her first life as she was a teenager enjoying the nuances of being a teenager, but having lived through it the first time and dying as an adult with a whole career, being stuck in the same classes for nine hours --she counted her extra-curriculars, was ridiculous. 

Sharpay had already memorized everything.

'This needs to change.'

Sharpay sat across from Principal Gutierrez, her posture relaxed but her gaze sharp. The man adjusted his glasses, scanning the form she’d slid across his desk.

"You want to test out of five AP classes… now?"

"Correct," Sharpay said smoothly. "I’ve already completed the coursework independently. No point in wasting time when I could be pursuing enrichment opportunities."

Gutierrez leaned back.

"Sharpay, you’re a stellar student, but this is highly irregular. AP exams aren’t until May."

"Which is why," she countered, "I’ve prepared a portfolio for Art History, a thesis for English Lit, and I’m ready to take the Biology and Music Theory exams now. As for Spanish—hablo con fluidez."

A beat of silence.

Then—

"Let me call your teachers."

He got the feedback from them.

Mrs. Alvarez (Spanish) looked at him pointedly. "She corrected my subjunctive tense. Let her test out."

Then Mr. Darnell, who taught AP Bio, shook his head, "She dissected a frog in under three minutes. I’m scared of her."

Followed by Ms. Keating, who was the English Lit teacher,  "Her essay on Wuthering Heights cited German nihilist philosophy. Just… let her go."

Mr. Hargrove, the music theory teacher, rubbed his head as he paced the office, "She transcribed a Stravinsky piece by ear. I quit."

Dr. Lang was the last.

Sharpay's Art History teacher, who flatly told him,  "She identified a forgotten Baroque painter from a pixelated thumbnail. I’m retiring."

By lunch, Sharpay had five signed waivers and a hall pass.

She heard the comments from her fellow Wild Cats as she passed them in the hallways.

Troy looked at Chad,  "Wait, you can just do that?"

Gabriella shared a look with Martha, "That’s… actually really smart."

Chad shook his head,  "I don’t trust people who don’t suffer through Bio like the rest of us."

Even Taylor was shocked, "Fine. One point for Evans."

Sharpay just smirked and pulled out her planner—now gloriously empty of homework.

Gabriella sat in the library, staring at her own AP Chem textbook like it had betrayed her.

"I studied all summer for these classes," she muttered. "She just… waltzed out?"

Troy slid into the seat beside her. "Yeah, but you’re curing diseases. She’s just… memorizing stuff."

Gabriella side-eyed him.

"Troy, she reorganized the periodic table for fun."

"…Okay, that’s kinda hot."

She threw a pencil at him.

Vance grinned as Principal Gutierrez’s words echoed in his ear as he poured himself a bourbon.

“Mr. Evans, I thought you knew—Sharpay tested out of all five AP courses today. She’s… well, she’s unprecedentedly advanced.”

Across the room, Darby glanced up from her laptop, sensing the shift in the air. “Darling? Who was that?”

He set his glass down with a clink.

“Your daughter just completed a year's work in a week.''

Darby’s manicured brow arched.

“Excuse me?”

'That's my girl.'

That night Sharpay walked into the study to find both parents waiting like a tribunal.

“Explain, kitten,” Vance demanded, sliding the test results across his mahogany desk.

Sharpay didn’t flinch.

“I mastered the material. Why waste time?”

“Waste time?” Darby’s laugh was icy. “Sharpay, AP classes are the bare minimum for Wharton. Do you think the Rockefellers tested out of prep school?”

“No,” Sharpay said smoothly. “They hired tutors and bought buildings. Which is why I’m using my free time to invest.”

Vance’s eyes narrowed.

“Invest?”

She pulled out her sidekick, showing a portfolio even he couldn’t argue with—early stakes in a little startup called Spotify, a shelter expansion plan, and a UNM dual-enrollment schedule.

“I’m not dropping out, Daddy. I’m streamlining.”

Her father looked grudgingly impressed, “…This is reckless. But the numbers are solid.”

Darby was still suspicious, “Since when do you care about nonprofit investments?”

Ryan lurked in the doorway after overhearing their parents,  “Uh, can I test out of math?”

They turned to him in unison, “NO.”

He pouted.

Sharpay hid a smile.

Checkmate.

On Wednesday, things were weirder. 

Troy had come up to his favorite quiet spot—the secluded rooftop corner near the school’s vegetable garden and atop the science labs—to clear his head after basketball practice. He wasn’t expecting company.

Especially not Sharpay Evans, standing near the edge, phone pressed to her ear, speaking rapid-fire Italian like she’d been born in Rome.

"Sì, lo so, non preoccuparti. Ho già investito nei Bitcoin quando erano a duecento dollari—"

Troy blinked.

Since when did Sharpay speak Italian? Since when did she invest in… whatever "Bitcoin" was?

Then she hung up, tucked her phone away, and—without missing a beat—started singing.

Not just singing. Performing.

A song he’d never heard before.

Had she written that?

Sharpay tossed her chestnut waves back, hips swaying as she belted out lyrics that sounded like they were written for her.

"What's wrong with being confident?
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah!"

Her voice was powerful, raw in a way Troy had never heard from her before—not the polished, showy soprano she used in musicals, but something grittier, fiercer.

Troy’s breath caught.

Did she… write this?

A sudden gust of wind tore across the rooftop, sending Sharpay stumbling backward—right into him.

"Whoa—!"

Troy instinctively caught her, but his foot tangled in one of the garden hoses, sending them both crashing onto the sun-warmed concrete.

For a moment, they just lay there, tangled and breathless.

The basketball Captain shook his head, blinking away the dizziness, before his hands instinctively cradled her face.

"Are you okay?"

Sharpay’s eyes—golden brown, like honey in sunlight—widened as she stared down at him.

And then, somehow, they kissed.

A brief, accidental brush of lips, but it sent a jolt through both of them.

Sharpay flinched like she’d been burned, scrambling to her feet so fast she nearly tripped again.

"I—I have to go."

And just like that, she was gone, leaving Troy sitting on the rooftop, fingertips pressed to his lips in stunned silence.

Troy spent the rest of the afternoon trying and failing to forget how soft her lips were and realizing for the first time how light brown Sharpay's eyes were.

'You like Gabriella.' His mind whispered to him. 

But it seemed his heart had other plans.

For days, Sharpay had been a ghost—vanishing around corners, ducking into classrooms, always one step ahead of Troy’s questions. But now, during a rare free period, he finally found her.

Alone.

In the auditorium.

The piano keys hummed under Sharpay’s fingers, the familiar chords of Katy Perry's Hot N Cold slowed to something softer, sadder. She hadn’t meant to play it—hadn’t meant to do much of anything but hide—but the music had always been her escape.

And right now, she needed one.

The creak of the stage door made her fingers falter. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“You’re avoiding me.”

Troy’s voice was quiet, closer than she expected. She kept playing, her back to him.

“I’m busy,” she said, hitting the next chord a little too hard.

“Yeah. I noticed.” He stepped around the piano bench, leaning against the grand piano with his arms crossed.

“You’ve been different.”

Sharpay’s fingers stilled.

Troy exhaled, running a hand through his brown hair. “I mean, you tested out of five AP classes. You’re volunteering at a dog shelter. You speak Italian now. And—” He gestured vaguely to the piano. “You’re playing Katy Perry like it’s a funeral dirge.”

She arched a brow.

“Observant, aren’t you?”

“I’m serious, Sharpay.” His voice dropped, almost hesitant. “I miss the girl who used to steal extra whipped cream on our milkshakes.”

The words hit her like a physical blow.

Peanut butter shakes.

Red vinyl booths.

The way he’d laugh when she got whipped cream on her nose.

Her chest ached.

“That girl was eight, Troy,” she said, forcing a smirk. “People change.”

“Not like this.” He shook his head. “Not overnight.”

Sharpay stood abruptly, the piano bench scraping against the stage. “What do you want me to say? That I woke up one day and decided to stop caring about being perfect? That I got tired of the act?”

Troy’s eyes searched hers.

“I want you to tell me why.”

She could lie.

She should lie.

Instead, she deflected.

“Maybe I just realized there’s more to life than being Sharpay Evans, Ice Queen of East High.”

Troy studied her for a long moment before nodding slowly. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” He pushed off the piano, hands in his pockets. “But for the record? I liked you then, and I like you now. Even if you’re…” He gestured at her. “Whatever this is.”

Sharpay rolled her eyes, but something warm flickered in her chest.

“Careful, Bolton. That almost sounded like a compliment.”

He grinned—that same lopsided smile from third grade.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Then he turned and walked away, leaving her standing there, heart pounding.

Sharpay sank back onto the piano bench, fingers hovering over the keys.

She could have told him the truth.

I died. I came back. I don’t want to waste it this time.

But maybe…

Maybe some secrets were better kept.

Chapter Text

''-talking

'-thoughts

''Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear.'' - Mark Twain

The fluorescent lights of the auditorium hummed as Troy stepped onto the marked X of center stage. A hush fell over the room - basketball players didn't do callbacks. Yet here was East High's star athlete clearing his throat as Kelsi adjusted the sheet music.

Sharpay's manicured nails stopped mid-applause when she noticed Ryan whispering intensely with Ms. Darbus. Her twin flashed her an innocent smile that set off every alarm bell in her head. Before she could react, Ms. Darbus announced:

"After consultation, we're moving performance night to May 12th!"

A murmur swept through the room. Sharpay's blood ran cold - the same night as both the championship game and scholastic decathlon. Her gaze snapped to Ryan, who was suddenly very interested in his cuticles.

In the gym, Chad dribbled a basketball with unnecessary force. "First singing, now musicals? Next you'll be trading your jersey for jazz shoes!" The team laughed, but there was an edge to it.

Troy shrugged, sinking a perfect three-pointer.

"It's just something different, man."

Jason tossed him a towel.

"Different like how Sharpay Evans suddenly aces AP tests? Something's off."

The basketball court was empty, the only light coming from the emergency exit signs and the pale glow of the moon through the high windows.

He had taken his dad's spare keys but realized the door to the court was already open.

Troy had come to clear his head, to shoot some hoops and try to make sense of everything—the musical, the team’s suspicion, Sharpay.

But he wasn’t alone.

At the far end of the court, a figure stood at the half-court line, basketball in hand.

No way.

Sharpay Evans—dressed in black leggings and an oversized East High hoodie, her chestnut hair pulled into a messy ponytail—took a deep breath, dribbled twice, and shot.

Swish.

Perfect.

Troy’s breath caught.

She didn’t stop there.

She took three steps back.

Then five.

Until she was standing at the full-court line.

Troy’s pulse spiked. No one made that shot. Not even him.

Sharpay exhaled, spun the ball in her hands once, and let it fly.

The ball sailed in a flawless arc—nothing but net.

Troy’s mouth fell open.

Sharpay turned, finally noticing him in the shadows.

"How long have you been standing there?" she asked, as casual as if she hadn’t just pulled off an impossible shot.

Troy stepped forward, his voice low.

"You’ve been set up."

Sharpay arched a brow. "Oh?"

He pulled out his phone, showing her the anonymous video—the "proof" that she’d hacked into school records. "Chad and Taylor think you’re manipulating me. That you’re… I don’t know, some kind of scheming mastermind."

Sharpay laughed—a real laugh, not her usual performative one.

"Oh, that’s rich." She pulled out her own phone and tapped the screen. "Take a look at this."

The footage showed Taylor planting fake files in the science lab. Chad tampering with locker room cameras. And—most damning—Ryan slipping them both notes.

Troy’s stomach dropped.

"Ryan’s in on this?"

Sharpay’s expression darkened.

"Apparently."

Troy exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

"Okay, so they’re trying to sabotage you. But that doesn’t explain—" He gestured at the court. "That. Since when do you play basketball?"

Sharpay picked up the ball, spinning it on her finger.

"Since always."

"Bull. I’ve known you since third grade. You hated sports."

She met his gaze, her brown eyes unreadable. "People change, Troy."

"Not like this." He stepped closer. "Not overnight. Not unless…"

Unless there’s something else going on.

Sharpay held his stare for a long moment before sighing.

"Fine. You want the truth?"

Troy braced himself.

Then—

The gym doors slammed open.

"There you are!"

Chad stood in the doorway, flanked by Jason and Zeke. His eyes flicked between Troy and Sharpay, suspicion hardening his features.

"We’ve been looking everywhere for you, man. Team meeting. Now."

Sharpay smirked, tossing Troy the ball. "Better go, captain."

The grand piano in the Evans' living room sat untouched, the polished surface reflecting the moonlight through the massive windows. Sharpay found her twin there, slumped on the couch, flipping through an application form for Juilliard.

He stiffened when she entered, quickly shoving it under a cushion.

"Relax," Sharpay said, leaning against the doorframe. "I already know."

Ryan’s shoulders tensed. "Know what?"

"That you applied to Juilliard. Twice."

His head snapped up.

"How—?"

"Because I pay attention," she said softly, crossing the room to sit beside him.

"And because in another life, you told me… after the deadline had passed."

Ryan stared at her, confusion flickering across his face.

"What are you talking about?"

Sharpay hesitated. She hadn’t planned to tell him—not yet, maybe not ever. But the hurt in his eyes, the way he’d been sneaking around, scheming with Chad and Taylor just to keep his dreams quiet—it broke something in her.

She reached into her pocket and slid a folded acceptance letter across the couch.

"I also know you got in."

Ryan’s breath caught.

The envelope was addressed to him, stamped with Juilliard’s seal. 

For a long moment, Ryan just stared at the letter, his fingers trembling. Then, quietly:

"You’re not just different, Shar. You’re… not you. Not the you I grew up with."

Sharpay exhaled.

"No. I’m not."

"Then who are you?"

The words hung between them, heavy with everything she hadn’t said.

So she told him.

"I died, Ryan." Her voice was steady, but her hands weren’t. "On Broadway. A stage light fell, and—poof. Then I woke up here, nine years in the past. And I promised myself I wouldn’t waste it this time."

Ryan’s face paled.

"You’re joking."

"Do I look like I’m joking?"

He studied her—the unfamiliar shadows in her eyes, the way she carried herself now, like someone who’d seen too much.

"...No," he admitted.

"You don’t."

Sharpay reached for his hand.

"I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to mess up your life. But you hiding? That’s worse."

Ryan swallowed hard. "Dad would never let me—"

"Then we won’t tell him," Sharpay said firmly. "Not until it’s too late for him to stop you. He expects an Evans to go to Wharton, but that doesn't mean it has to be you."

A slow, disbelieving smile spread across Ryan’s face.

"You’d do that? For me?"

Sharpay rolled her eyes, but her grip on his hand tightened.

"You’re my twin, idiot. Of course I would."

She thought everything was fine between them. 

The video played on a loop.

Troy’s voice, laced with forced laughter: "Come on, guys, you know how Sharpay is—always needs to be the star. Wouldn’t be surprised if she rigged the whole musical just to make sure she wins."

Chad’s triumphant grin filled the screen before the clip cut off.

Sharpay sat frozen on her bed, phone clutched in her hand.

Logically, she knew this was just high school nonsense.

Chad being petty.

Troy trying to fit in with his team.

But the tears came anyway.

Hot, humiliating, teenage tears.

She had spent years—decades—building walls. On Broadway, in business, in life. She’d learned to armor herself against critics, against rivals, against the world.

But right now?

She wasn’t adult Sharpay, hardened by fame and loss.

She was seventeen again, with a heart that hadn’t yet learned to callous over.

And it hurt.

Her fingers trembled as she typed out a text to Ryan:

"I’m skipping rehearsal."

Then she turned off her phone, curled into her pillows, and let herself shatter.

The ball clanged off the rim—again.

Troy wiped sweat from his brow, frustration simmering under his skin. He hadn’t made a clean shot all afternoon.

"You good, man?" Chad asked, passing him the ball.

"Fine," Troy muttered.

Sharpay hadn’t been at rehearsal.

Again.

He had barely seen her all week, now that she had less classes to attend, she would only come to homeroom and her chem classes before leaving for the day.

That afternoon, Troy sat on the rooftop, tossing a basketball between his hands. He barely registered the creak of the door opening.

"So," Chad said, plopping down beside him.

"We messed up."

Troy frowned. "What?"

Zeke sighed, rubbing his neck.

"The video. The whole… trying to sabotage Sharpay thing."

Jason tossed his hands up.

"We thought we were helping! You’ve been off since—"

"Since the kiss," Chad finished bluntly.

Troy’s face burned.

"It wasn’t—we aren’t—"

"Dude," Zeke cut in. "You’re miserable. And Sharpay’s avoiding you. So… we’re calling a truce."

Troy stared at them.

"Just like that?"

Chad shrugged.

"Turns out, scheming’s harder than it looks."

Sharpay’s house loomed in the twilight, its white columns and sprawling gardens as intimidating as ever.

Troy craned his neck, eyeing the ancient oak beside her balcony.

This is a terrible idea.

But he climbed anyway.

Branches scraped his arms, the bark rough under his palms. Halfway up, he paused, suddenly realizing—

Holy crap, her house is huge.

And her balcony was way higher than he remembered.

Sharpay’s curtains fluttered in the breeze. Inside, she sat at her vanity, stubbornly ignoring the buzzing of her phone—and the rustling outside.

Then—

THUD.

She spun just as Troy hauled himself over the railing, panting.

"Are you insane?" she hissed, rushing to the balcony.

"You could’ve fallen!"

Troy grinned, brushing leaves from his hair.

"Worth it."

Sharpay crossed her arms.

"What do you want, Bolton?"

"To apologize." He stepped closer.

"For the video. For my idiot friends. For… everything."

She arched a brow.

"And you couldn’t text?"

"Would you have answered?"

Silence.

Then—

"...No."

Troy exhaled. "I didn’t mean what I said. I was just—"

"Trying to fit in," Sharpay finished softly. "I know."

The tension between them shifted, softened.

Troy hesitated.

"Then why avoid me?"

Sharpay turned away, fingers tracing the edge of her vanity.

"Because I remembered."

"Remembered what?"

She met his gaze in the mirror, her reflection framed by twinkling fairy lights.

"How much it hurts to care."

Troy crossed the space between them in two strides, his calloused hands cradling Sharpay's face with unexpected tenderness. For a heartbeat, she remained frozen - until his thumb brushed away a tear she hadn't realized had fallen.

"I remember too," he whispered against her lips.

"The treehouse. The milkshakes. How you'd laugh until soda came out your nose."

 With a choked sound, Sharpay fisted his jersey and dragged him into a kiss that tasted like salted caramel and seventeen years of pent-up longing.

Her balcony doors rattled as Troy backed her against them, his body slotting against hers with terrifying rightness. When his teeth grazed her lower lip, she retaliated by biting his - hard enough to make him groan.

"Still competitive," he gasped against her mouth.

"Still talking too much," she countered, yanking him toward the bed.

They fell in a tangle of limbs and half-uttered curses, Sharpay's hair fanning across the silk duvet like spilled chocolate. Troy braced himself above her, suddenly solemn.

"Tell me to stop and I-"

Sharpay silenced him with her legs around his hips and her nails down his back. The basketball jersey hit the floor, followed by his undershirt. When her teeth found the tendon in his neck, Troy's control snapped.

The headboard met the wall in rhythm with their breathing, Sharpay's manicured fingers leaving crescent moons on his shoulders. Somewhere in the haze, Troy registered this wasn't just sex - it was a battle for dominance, an argument continued through teeth and tongue and trembling thighs.

When Sharpay arched beneath him with a sound that could melt titanium, Troy realized two things simultaneously:

He'd never be satisfied with anyone else.

She'd murder him if he dared say that out loud.

Moonlight painted stripes across their tangled bodies. Sharpay traced his collarbone. 

"You're thinking too loud," Troy murmured, lips brushing her shoulder blade.

Sharpay watched their reflections in the ceiling mirror - his golden skin against her tanned, the way his hand spanned her waist.

A perfect composition.

A terrifying reality.

"I should make you leave," she said instead of confessing.

Troy's smile was a brand against her spine.

"But you won't."

And damned if he wasn't right.

The rumble of a vintage engine cut through the chatter as Troy pulled up in his dad’s freshly restored ’67 Chevy Impala, its midnight-blue paint gleaming under the morning sun. He killed the engine, grabbed his backpack, and stepped out, absently running a hand through his wind-tousled hair.

The moment his boots hit the pavement, a familiar roar echoed across the lot.

Sharpay’s hot-pink convertible slid into the spot beside him, its custom "FABULUS" license plate glinting as she flipped her sunglasses up. The entire student body turned—partly because the car was impossible to ignore, and partly because Sharpay Evans never parked next to Troy Bolton.

Until now.

She stepped out in a cloud of vanilla perfume and effortless confidence, her chestnut waves perfectly tousled.

Troy didn’t hesitate.

He met her halfway, his fingers threading through hers like they’d done it a thousand times before.

Sharpay smirked, squeezing his hand.

"Miss me already, captain?"

Troy grinned, leaning down to murmur, "Like a three-pointer at the buzzer."

The hallway fell silent as they walked in, hand in hand.

Gabriella, leaning against her locker, couldn’t help the soft smile that tugged at her lips.

Ryan, mid-sip of his smoothie, nearly choked.

Chad dropped his basketball.

And somewhere in the distance, Ms. Darbus sighed dramatically, clutching her chest.

"Youth," she declared to no one in particular.

"So passionate."

Chapter Text

''-talking

'-thoughts

''People will read into what you say no matter what, so it doesn't matter to me. '' - Norah Jones

The rooftop air was incredible, and the chatter of the students below was dim.  Troy found Sharpay where he knew she’d be—leaning against the railing, her brunette hair tousled by the breeze.

"You’re stalking my spot now?" he teased, slipping an arm around her waist.

Sharpay turned into his embrace, her smirk softening into something warmer.

"Funny, I was just thinking you were stalking me."

He grinned, pressing a kiss to her temple. "Guilty." He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.

"Nervous about tomorrow?"

The former blonde scoffed, but her fingers tightened slightly around his.

"Please. I was born ready for opening night."

"Yeah, but I wasn’t," Troy admitted. "So… thanks. For pushing me to do this. For believing in me."

She rolled her eyes, but the effect was ruined by the way her thumb traced absent circles over his wrist. "You’re welcome, though I’m still offended it took you this long to realize you’re ridiculously talented."

Troy laughed, tugging her closer.

"I’m a slow learner." His voice dropped, playful but earnest. "But I did figure out the most important thing pretty fast."

"Oh?" Sharpay arched a brow. "And what’s that?"

"That I’m crazy about you, Evans."

Sharpay’s breath caught—just for a second—before she tilted her chin up, her lips brushing his.

"Took you long enough, Bolton."

Kelsey Nesbitt fumbled her script, nearly sending pages flying, as Sharpay—appeared beside her with a steaming cup.

"Caramel latte, extra shot," Sharpay said, pressing the coffee into her hands.

"You looked dead on your feet after that triple pirouette."

The composer blinked, warmth flooding her cheeks.

"You remember my order?"

Sharpay’s lips quirked. "Of course I do." She leaned in, voice dropping to a whisper only Kelsey could hear. "I also remember you ranting about ‘basic vanilla orders’ after every rehearsal."

As Sharpay sauntered away, Kelsey turned to Martha, who was grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

"Still think we’re in an alternate universe?" Martha teased.

Kelsey took a sip of her coffee, hiding her smile behind the cup.

"Nope. Just a good one."

The following weekend, Sharpay decided to get her life in gear.

The glass doors closed behind them as Sharpay adjusted her oversized Chanel sunglasses, her manicured fingers tapping the mahogany table. Across from her, Alena—her family's maid of seventeen years—sat stiffly in a crisp blouse Sharpay had insisted on buying her for this appointment.

"Ms. Evans," greeted Mr. Castillo, the silver-haired financial advisor, "your proposal documents are in order. But before we proceed, I must confirm—you wish to liquidate half your winnings? Twelve-point-five million dollars?"

Sharpay didn't blink.

"Half for the humanitarian securities firm, half for savings and investments. Yes."

He then turned to her, ''Mrs Gonzalez ...and you wish to invest half of your savings into a secure account for your children and grandchildren, as well as securing sponsorship for your parents?''

"You're certain about bringing your parents through the Investor Visa program? At their age—"

"My mother still tends her goats every morning," Alena said, voice cracking. "My father built their casa with his hands. They've waited thirty-two years for this." She clutched the worn photo in her lap—her parents waving from their porch in Oaxaca, the last snapshot before she crossed the border pregnant with Elena.

Sharpay slid over a tissue without looking.

The advisor adjusted his glasses. "The humanitarian firm is... unconventional. Most conflict-zone investments focus on extraction, not aid."

"That's the point," Sharpay said, leaning forward. "We buy into warzone markets—then flood them with free clinics and supply chains. Profit isn't the goal; destabilizing the disaster economy is."

Alena recognized that glint in Sharpay's eye—the same one she'd had at sixteen when she'd secretly turned her father's gala into a fundraiser for migrant shelters.

Mr. Castillo exhaled.

"There will be pushback. Arms dealers and warlords won't appreciate—"

"Let them sue," Sharpay smirked. "My lawyer's a shark who hates war profiteers."

As papers were signed, Alena suddenly grasped Sharpay's hand.

"Mija, why do this? Really?"

Sharpay hesitated—a rare break in her polish. "Remember when Ryan and I had scarlet fever? You stayed up six nights even though Mother threatened to fire you for 'overstepping'." She swallowed.

"This is me... overstepping back."

Outside, the desert sun blazed as Alena collapsed into sobs against Sharpay's shoulder.

Somewhere in Oaxaca, an old man checked his mailbox, unaware his daughter had just bought him a future.

The airport buzzed with noise, but Alena heard none of it. Her fingers clutched the railing of the arrivals gate as if it were the only solid thing in the world. Sharpay stood beside her, unusually quiet in a sleek black pantsuit, her phone tucked away for once.

Then—there they were.

Pedro and Maria Gonzalez shuffled through the sliding doors, their postures bent from years of labor but their eyes sharp, scanning the crowd. Maria’s hands gripped the straps of a worn cloth bag, the same one she’d carried to market for decades. Pedro’s boots were freshly polished—for America, Alena realized with a pang.

"Mamá! Papá!"

Alena’s voice cracked like a whip across the terminal. Maria’s head snapped up. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Maria dropped her bag with a thud and ran—ran—arms outstretched, her rebozo fluttering behind her.

The impact nearly knocked Alena over.

Maria’s hands, rough and warm, cradled her daughter’s face as if she were still nineteen.

"Mi niña, mi niña—"

Pedro reached them slower, his cane tapping, but when he wrapped his arms around both women, his embrace was iron. "Finalmente," he whispered into Alena’s hair.

Sharpay, forgotten for a glorious moment, cleared her throat.

"We should get their bags."

The older woman turned, eyes widening at the blonde heiress. "¿Ella es—?"

Alena laughed through tears.

"Sí, Mamá. La familia."

Sharpay extended a hand.

"Sharpay Evans. But you can call me mija, since Alena does when she thinks I can’t hear."

Maria stared at the manicured fingers, then pulled Sharpay into a hug.

"Gracias," she murmured. "Por traernos a nuestra hija."

Sharpay froze—then, hesitantly, hugged back.

Just before curtain call, Ryan finds her. 

He bursts into Sharpay’s dressing room, his tablet raised like a weapon.

"WHAT IS THIS?!"

On screen: a leaked security memo detailing Goliath Company—a private military firm with contracts in three conflict zones, all under the umbrella of Sharpay’s new humanitarian venture.

Sharpay didn’t look up from removing her stage makeup.

"Oh good, you found the presentation. I was going to send it to you after the after-party."

Her brother gaped.

"You hired mercenaries?!"

"Peacekeeping consultants," she corrected, swiping off mascara.

"They escort our doctors, protect supply lines, and—this is the fun part—make arms dealers very nervous."

Ryan’s voice climbed an octave. "Dad’s going to literally combust when he finds out you used family funds to—"

"He won’t." Sharpay spun her chair around, eyes glinting.

"Because you’re going to tell him it’s a PR move for Evans Resorts. ‘Philanthropic rebranding.’ He’ll eat it up."

Her twin opened his mouth—then shut it. A slow grin spread across his face.

"...You’re evil."

Sharpay beamed.

"I learned from the best."

The roar of the crowd still echoed in Sharpay’s bones as Troy pulled her into the shadowy wings, his hands warm on her waist.

"We killed it," he breathed, sweat gleaming at his temples.

Sharpay arched a brow.

"I killed it. You were... acceptable."

Troy laughed, ducking in to kiss her—deep and sure, no hesitation now. When they broke apart, Sharpay’s lipstick was smudged, her crown of roses askew.

Across the auditiorium, Chad wolf-whistled.

"Get a room, Bolton!"

Sharpay flipped him off without looking, but Troy caught her wrist, lacing their fingers together.

"You okay sharing the spotlight tonight?"

She glanced at the stage, where the cast was still bowing—Gabriella helping Kelsey with a quick costume fix, Ryan doing an impromptu tap solo, Martha snapping photos.

Then at Alena in the front row, sandwiched between her parents, all three crying as they clapped.

Sharpay squeezed Troy’s hand.

"Turns out some things are better shared."

Troy wiped sweat from his brow as the final practice before summer break wrapped up. Chad was mid-complaint about how "summer should’ve started yesterday" when the gym doors swung open with a dramatic swoosh.

Sharpay stood there, designer sunglasses perched on her head, a smirk playing on her lips.

"Pack your bags, boys," she announced. "You’ve got a date with the Lakers tomorrow night."

The team froze.

Chad blinked.

"What?"

Sharpay pulled out a stack of envelopes, each embossed with the Lakers’ logo. "First-class tickets. Hotel suites. And before you ask—yes, I already got permission from every single one of your parents." She tossed one to Troy.

"Even yours, Captain."

Coach Bolton, who had been sipping Gatorade, nearly choked. "Sharpay, this is—"

"Generous? Extravagant? Completely on-brand?" She waved a hand.

"Pick one. Meet at the airport tomorrow at noon."

As the team erupted into cheers, Troy caught Sharpay’s wrist.

"What’s the catch?"

Her smirk deepened. "Would you believe me if I said there isn’t one?"

Troy narrowed his eyes. "No."

Sharpay leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper.

"Then let’s just say... you’ll want to wear something nice."

The boys had been buzzing the entire flight—first-class snacks, celebrity sightings, Chad’s failed attempt to flirt with the flight attendant. But nothing prepared them for this.

Instead of heading to their (already incredible) floor seats, Sharpay led them down a private hallway, past security, toward a roped-off section.

"Uh, Sharpay?" Jason called.

"Our seats are that way."

She didn’t turn around.

"Correction. Your seats were supposed to be that way."

Then the double doors opened.

Courtside VIP.

Not just close to the action—in it. Leather recliners, personal waitstaff, and a view so crisp they could see the sweat on LeBron’s brow.

Chad’s jaw hit the floor.

"What the—"

Troy spun to Sharpay.

"How?"

She adjusted her diamond-studded earring.

"Turns out, when you own a private security firm that just so happens to handle high-profile clientele, you make friends in interesting places."

A beat of silence.

Troy’s brain short-circuited.

"Wait. You own a—"

"Goliath Company," Sharpay said breezily, as if discussing a new nail polish color. "Conflict-zone aid logistics. With heavily armed mercenaries. I call them conflict resolvers."

The team stared.

Chad slowly turned to Troy.

"Dude. Your girlfriend has a mercenary army*?*"

Troy opened his mouth—closed it—then looked at Sharpay.

"Is that why you’ve been texting in code all month?"

Sharpay grinned.

"Maybe."

Coach Bolton, who had been silently reevaluating his life choices, finally spoke.

"Sharpay... why?"

She shrugged. "Because Troy’s team had a killer season. And because I can." Then, softer, just for Troy: "And because you looked at me like I hung the moon when I sang my first solo. Figured I’d return the favor."

Troy’s chest tightened.

Before he could respond, the lights dimmed—game time.

As the team erupted into chaos (Chad was already trying to get Jaxson Hayes’ attention), Troy pulled Sharpay close.

"You’re insane."

She kissed his cheek.

"You love it."

And as LeBron James himself nodded at them from the court, Troy couldn’t even argue.

The Wildcats moved through the hallowed halls of the Crypto.com Arena like they were walking on sacred ground. The gleaming floors, the framed jerseys, the lingering scent of sweat and victory—it was intoxicating.

Chad nudged Troy, his voice hushed with awe.

"Dude. We just met LeBron. I’m never washing this hand."

Troy chuckled, but his gaze kept drifting to Sharpay, who lingered near the back of the group, her arms crossed, watching the team with an unreadable expression. That look—the one she got when she was ten moves ahead of everyone else.

Then, as the tour wrapped up, she stepped forward.

"Alright, boys," she announced, clapping her hands together. "Who wants a summer job?"

The team froze.

Jason blinked.

"Uh… what?"

Sharpay smirked. "Lava Springs Resort. Luxury poolside service, VIP event coordination, golf course maintenance—take your pick. Full pay, full perks."

Chad’s eyes narrowed.

"Wait. Is this a pity offer because we’re broke high schoolers?"

Sharpay rolled her eyes. "Please. If I pitied you, I’d just write you a check." She glanced at Troy, then back at the team. "This is a test run. You think Troy’s the only one with a future? Please. You’re Wildcats. Start acting like it."

A beat of silence.

Then Zeke, ever the pragmatist, raised a hand. "Do we get free food?"

Sharpay grinned. "Unlimited."

The team erupted into cheers.

She remembered that summer at Lava Springs—how Troy’s friends had looked at him like he’d betrayed them just for thinking about college. Like ambition was contagious. Like growing up was a crime.

Sharpay had seen it then—the fracture.

Troy had been forced to choose between who he was and who they thought he should be.

She wasn’t about to let that happen again.

Not when she could fix it.

Troy pulled her aside as the team debated job assignments (Chad was not working the kiddie pool).

"You didn’t have to do this," he murmured.

Sharpay arched a brow. "I know."

"Then why?"

She looked past him, at the team—at his team—laughing, shoving each other, already dreaming bigger.

"Because you shouldn’t have to choose," she said simply.

"And neither should they."

Troy stared at her—then pulled her into a kiss so sudden, so fervent, that Chad wolf-whistled loud enough to echo off the arena walls.

Sharpay barely noticed.

Sharpay strolled into the resort's newly renovated eco-lab, her heels clicking against the solar-paneled floors. Taylor stood frozen in the doorway, her analytical mind short-circuiting at the sight of the cutting-edge facility.

"Welcome to Project Evergreen," Sharpay announced, gesturing to the hydroponic gardens and AI-powered energy grids.

"Zero-emission luxury. Your brainchild, if you want it."

Taylor adjusted her glasses, suspicious.

"Why me?"

Sharpay rolled her eyes. "Please. You’ve been sneak-reading Renewable Energy Weekly in the cafeteria for two years." She tossed Taylor a keycard. "The lab’s yours. Just try not to outshine me too much."

Gabriella, who had been quietly observing, cleared her throat.

"And me?"

Sharpay didn’t hesitate.

"You’re on the pediatric wing design. Kids need science that doesn’t suck."

Gabriella’s eyes widened—then she smiled. "…Thanks."

Sharpay waved a hand.

"Don’t mention it. Literally. I have a reputation to uphold."

Martha had never set foot in a ballroom unless it was to take yearbook photos. But now, standing under the crystal chandeliers of Lava Springs’ grandest venue, she felt her pulse race.

"You’re joking," she breathed.

Sharpay smirked.

"Nope. Madame DuPont is a three-time world champion. And she owes me a favor."

The elderly Frenchwoman stepped forward, assessing Martha with a critical eye.

"Hmm. You have the legs. But can you handle the fire?"

The mathelete, who had spent years blending into the background, squared her shoulders.

"Try me."

As the opening strains of a tango filled the room, Martha’s first clumsy steps transformed into something electric.

Kelsey, leaning against the doorway with Chad, whistled.

"Damn, Cox. Save some drama for the rest of us."

The Lava Springs kitchen was a battlefield of sizzling pans and shouting chefs.

Zeke clutched his apron like a lifeline.

"Uh. Sharpay? I think I’m in over my head."

Head Chef Ramirez, a mountain of a man with a tattoo of a chili pepper on his neck, bellowed: "EVANS! THIS THE KID?"

Sharpay, unfazed, nodded.

"He makes a mean triple-chocolate soufflé."

Ramirez’s glare could’ve melted steel.

"Soufflé? This is my kitchen. We cook with passion! Pain! Fire!" He slammed a knife into a cutting board.

"PROVE YOURSELF, BAYLOR."

Zeke gulped—then grabbed a skillet. "…Can I at least add cinnamon?"

The kitchen erupted into chaos. Sharpay, watching from the sidelines, texted Troy:

» Your friend might burn down my resort. Thought you should know.

Troy’s reply was instant: » Worth it.

Chapter Text

''-talking

'-thoughts

''Wild globalisation has benefited some, but it's been a catastrophe for most.'' - Marine Le Pen

The desert sun painted the adobe walls of the spacious eight-bedroom home in golden hues as Alena Gonzalez stepped through the arched doorway, her parents Pedro and Maria trailing behind her in quiet awe. The tile floors gleamed under their feet, the high ceilings echoing with the laughter of Alena’s grandchildren, who had already claimed their rooms upstairs.

"Mija… esto es demasiado," Maria whispered, her calloused fingers brushing the smooth countertops of the sprawling kitchen.

This is too much.

Alena swallowed the lump in her throat.

"No, Mamá. It’s what you deserve."

Ryan, leaning against the doorway with his usual dramatic flair, grinned.

"And let’s be real—it was way too fun house-hunting for a family of twelve. Do you know how hard it is to find a place with three ovens? Zeke nearly cried when he saw them."

Pedro, ever the quiet patriarch, walked to the back patio and stared at the shaded courtyard, where a gnarled olive tree—just like the one in Oaxaca—stood planted in the center. He turned to Ryan, eyes glistening. "¿El árbol…?"

The blonde's smirk softened.

"Sharpay may or may not have paid a botanical garden an obscene amount of money to transplant it. Don’t ask how we got the permits."

Ryan had not expected to spend his summer playing real estate agent, but when Sharpay texted him **» Alena’s parents need a fortress. Find one. **, he’d risen to the challenge.

It needed to be secure.

So he found a gated community and the house had a panic room and a backyard big enough for Maria’s goats.

"No, Ryan, figurative goats—Mamá misses hers!"

Alena had groaned.

Eight bedrooms, a pool,"For the grandkids!", and that damn olive tree. Sharpay had insisted.

Close enough to Lava Springs for Alena to work, but tucked away on peaceful Cactus Lane.

When Ryan proudly presented the keys to Alena, she’d hugged him so tight he wheezed.

"Gracias, mijo."

The teenager had muttered, "Yeah, well, don’t tell Sharpay I hugged back."

That evening, the home burst to life—Alena’s daughters Elena and Marisol cooked tamales in those three ovens, the grandkids splashed in the pool, and Pedro sat under his olive tree, a contented smile on his weathered face.

Sharpay arrived fashionably late, arms laden with embroidered Oaxacan blankets—"For authenticity," she’d claimed—but froze in the doorway when Maria pulled her into a kiss on the cheek.

"Nuestra casa es tu casa, mija," Maria declared.

Sharpay, for once, was speechless.

Troy, watching from the sidelines, nudged Ryan.

"Did Sharpay Evans just get adopted?"

Ryan sipped his horchata.

"Oh, she’s so their granddaughter now. Prepare for weekly tamales."

The resort’s "executive conference room" had seen many things—shareholder tantrums, Ryan’s failed margarita mixer invention—but never a classified military briefing.

Sharpay sat at the head of the glass table, her manicured fingers steepled, as Major James Reacher 6’5", scar over his left eyebrow, looks like he chews nails for breakfast,  slapped a grainy surveillance photo onto the surface.

"Sierra Leone. 48 hours from now," Reacher growled. "Human traffickers moving 30 kids through Freetown docks. Local cops are compromised. UN’s hands are tied."

Ryan, who had barged in holding a smoothie, choked. "Wait, what? Sharpay, why is Captain America in our—"

"Quiet, Ryan," Sharpay snapped, eyes locked on the map Reacher had unfolded.

"You’re saying Goliath Company intercepts?"

The Major nodded.

"Your men are the only ones with plausible deniability. We need clean extraction—no flags, no fallout."

Sharpay didn’t hesitate.

"Done."

Three months earlier, Sharpay had sat across from Reacher in a D.C. steakhouse, her $400 pen hovering over a contract.

"Let me get this straight," she’d said. "You want my mercenaries—who, FYI, are technically ‘logistics consultants’—to play superhero?"

Reacher sipped his bourbon. "Your ‘consultants’ are ex-SAS, ex-Navy SEALs, and one guy who may be Jason Bourne. And you, Evans, have something the Pentagon lacks."

"Better taste in decor?"

"Zero bureaucracy."

Sharpay signed the contract in glitter gel ink.

Back in the present, Reacher outlined the mission:

Team Insertion: Goliath’s operatives would pose as aid workers.

Extraction Point: A private airstrip owned by (surprise) Evans Resorts International.

Sharpay’s Role: Keep the media distracted with a fake charity gala in Lagos.

Ryan’s smoothie hit the floor.

"YOU OWN AN AIRSTRIP IN SIERRA LEONE?!"

Sharpay checked her diamond-encrusted watch. "Ryan, focus. I need you to plan the gala. Lots of cameras, zero actual philanthropy."

Reacher smirked. "Evans, you’re terrifying."

"Thank you," she said sweetly.

Fulton, the perpetually harried manager of Lava Springs, adjusted his tie as he faced the East High Wildcats in the resort’s employee lounge. The group—now dressed in crisp resort uniforms—looked equal parts excited and bewildered.

"Alright, listen up," Fulton began, flipping through a clipboard. "Sharpay may have given you these jobs, but I’m the one who has to make sure you don’t burn the place down."

Chad pipped up, "Dude, I’ve seen Baywatch. How hard can it be?"

Zeke, as the Kitchen Intern, muttered, "Chef Ramirez already threatened to ‘skin me like a tomato’ if I mess up. So. Great start."

Martha looked at Fulton, "Madame DuPont told me my hips lie worse than Shakira’s. I don’t know if that’s a compliment."

Taylor & Gabriella were already elbow-deep in blueprints, ignoring everyone.

Fulton sighed.

"Just… don’t drown anyone, don’t poison anyone, and please don’t turn the ballroom into a mosh pit."

Then the door burst open.

"CHANGE OF PLANS!" Sharpay announced, striding in with Major Reacher looming behind her.

The room fell silent.

"Some of you are about to learn exactly what Goliath Company does," she said, grinning like a cat with a canary.

Troy was not supposed to be here.

Sharpay had explicitly banned him from the mission.

"You have a basketball scholarship, Bolton. Not happening."

So naturally, he’d hidden in the cargo plane.

"You’ve got to be kidding me," Sharpay hissed as he rolled out from behind a crate of tactical gear mid-flight.

Troy grinned, dusting himself off.

"Surprise?"

The major, strapped into his seat didn’t even blink.

"Evans, your boyfriend’s an idiot."

"I know," Sharpay groaned.

Troy plopped down next to her.

"You’re not leaving me behind. Besides, I speak some French. That’s useful, right?"

Sharpay stared at him. "They speak Krio in Sierra Leone."

"…Close enough?"

Reacher muttered something about "amateur hour."

Back at the Cactus Lane house, Alena Gonzalez was not having a good day.

She’d just seen the news—a very familiar private jet on the tarmac in Freetown—and now she was pacing her kitchen, phone pressed to her ear.

"MIJA, ¿ESTÁS LOCA?!" she shrieked into the phone.

"I TAUGHT YOU TO FOLD TOWELS, NOT FIGHT WARLORDS!"

On the other end, Sharpay winced.

"Alena, respira—it’s under control!"

"¡NO ME DIGAS QUE RESPIRA!" Alena snapped.

"PEDRO! ¡LLAMA AL EJÉRCITO!"

In the background, Pedro sighed and picked up his cane.

"Maria, ¿dónde guardamos el rifle?"

Maria, calmly shelling peas, "En el armario, cariño. Donde siempre."

Ryan, who had been eavesdropping from the hallway, slowly backed away.

"Note to self: Never make Alena mad."

The humid air of Sierra Leone’s mangrove swamp clung to Chad’s skin as he waded through waist-deep water, dragging an unconscious Goliath operative over his shoulders.

"Note to self," he grunted, "Baywatch never showed this part."

Behind him, Martha—who’d traded her dance shoes for combat boots—covered their retreat with a stolen pistol.

"Less talking, more moving! Those traffickers have night vision!"

A bullet splashed near Chad’s head.

"COOL. GREAT. LOVE THIS TRIP," he screamed, flipping onto his back to use the soldier as a human floatation device while kicking furiously toward the extraction point.

Sharpay’s voice crackled over the radio, "Danforth, if you get shot, I’m not explaining it to your mom."

Chad would’ve flipped her off if he wasn’t busy not dying.

In the makeshift safehouse, Zeke stirred a pot of rice with one hand and applied pressure to a gunshot wound with the other.

"Ramirez was right," he muttered to the wounded operative. "You do cook better when you’re scared for your life."

The soldier groaned.

"Kid, if I live… I’ll eat your damn soufflé."

Troy, crouched by the window with a rifle, blinked.

"Since when do you know how to use that?"

Zeke shrugged. "Grandpa was a Marine. Also, YouTube."

A grenade exploded outside.

The teenager didn’t even flinch—just added more paprika.

In the command tent, Sharpay stared at the live drone feed showing Troy’s team pinned down at the docks. Her nails dug into her palms hard enough to draw blood.

Reacher noticed.

"Evans. Breathe."

"I am breathing," she snapped—then froze as the feed cut out.

For the first time in her life, Sharpay Evans felt true terror.

Not for herself. For him.

Troy knew it was stupid. But when he saw the traffickers loading kids onto a truck, he didn’t think—he moved.

"BOLTON, NO!" Sharpay’s voice shrieked in his earpiece as he tackled the nearest guard.

The kids screamed.

The Wildcats sprang into action:

Martha used her paso doble footwork to dodge bullets.

Chad threw a flotation device like a frisbee, knocking out a gunman.

Zeke hurled a Molotov cocktail made from cooking oil.

"IT’S FLAVORED!" he yelled.

Then—miracle of miracles—Goliath’s reinforcements arrived.

Three days later, Alena Gonzalez stood on her porch, arms crossed, as Sharpay’s limo pulled up.

Troy—bruised but alive—stepped out first. Alena grabbed his face, inspecting him like a prized melon. "Idiota. But gracias a Dios."

Then she turned to Sharpay.

For a long moment, no one breathed.

Then Alena yanked her into a hug so tight, Sharpay’s ribs creaked. "Nunca otra vez. Never again, mija."

Over Alena’s shoulder, Sharpay locked eyes with Troy—and finally let herself cry.

Chapter Text

''-talking

'-thoughts

''For me, money is not my definition of success. Inspiring people is a definition of success.'' - Kanye West

The video hit every major news outlet by sunrise:

» Grainy cell footage of Chad Danforth—shirtless, covered in swamp mud, and screaming "WILDCATS DON’T DIE!" as he hurled a life preserver like a weapon.
» Zeke’s Molotov cocktail ,"It’s cayenne-infused for extra oomph!" lighting up the night.
» Troy Bolton, in slow motion, tackling an armed trafficker mid-sentence: "Sharpay’s gonna kill m—" THUD.

The internet exploded.

#WildcatWarlords trended worldwide.

Vance Evans steepled his fingers, staring at the flat-screen displaying CNN’s "Teen Mercenaries: East High’s Secret Soldiers."

"Well," he said, eerily calm.

"This is… novel."

Across the table, Darby's hand was white-knuckled around her champagne flute.

"Sharpay Alexandra Evans. Explain. Now."

Sharpay didn’t flinch.

"I used my own money. Not the trust fund. Not company assets. Mine." She slid a folder across the table—bank records, shell corporations, all meticulously legal. "Goliath Company is separate."

Her father's eyebrow twitched—the closest he got to impressed.

"You built a private military with your lotto winnings?"

"And a few smart investments," Sharpay sniffed.

Darby looked ready to faint.

"You could’ve been killed!"

"But I wasn’t."

Silence.

Then Vance did the unthinkable—he laughed.

"Darling, she outmaneuvered us."

Her mother's glare could’ve melted steel.

Alone on the gym rooftop, Sharpay scrolled through Wall Street Journal headlines:

» "Evans Heiress Disrupts Military-Industrial Complex."
» "Goliath Stock Soars After Sierra Leone Op."

Troy found her there.

"Regrets?"

Sharpay watched the sunset paint the desert gold.

"Just one." She turned to him.

"I should’ve brought you in sooner."

He grinned. "Does this mean I get a call sign?"

"How about ‘Liability’?"

He kissed her anyway.

Vance summoned Sharpay to his office the next day—the sleek, glass-walled room overlooking the resort's golf course. The Wall Street Journal lay open on his desk, the headline "Goliath Company: The New Face of Humanitarian Mercenaries?" circled in red.

"You’ve made quite the mess, kitten," Her father mused, pouring two fingers of bourbon.

"But messes can be… reframed."

He slid a contract across the desk:

Evans Enterprises would absorb Goliath as a "Strategic Global Initiatives" division.

Sharpay kept operational control—but reported to a board.

The Wildcats would be given "consultant" titles (and NDAs thicker than Chad’s skull).

"Oh, and one more thing," Vance added, smiling. "No more stunts without my PR team vetting them first."

Sharpay’s nails tapped the glass.

"And if I say no?"

Her father sipped his drink.

"Then INTERPOL arrests your boyfriend for that unlicensed airstrip in Sierra Leone."

The Lava Springs Staff cafeteria had never seen anything like it.

Agent Kowalski from the CIA leaned over Chad’s lunch tray, "Son, the way you used that life preserver as a weapon? Artistry. We want you for Extraction Tactics."

Director Hale's assistant from the FBI had cornered Martha before her second dance class,"Your ability to improvise under fire? Exceptional. Ever consider hostage negotiation?"

INTERPOL’s Agent Laurent practically begged Taylor to join their cyber unit after she hacked the traffickers’ encrypted comms in seven minutes.

Zeke, meanwhile, got a handwritten note from Chef Ramirez:
» Kid. DEA needs cooks who can handle "pressure." Meet me at the taco truck. Bring your knives. 

Only Troy remained untouched—until a Navy SEAL recruiter slid into his DMs:
» Bolton. That takedown was clean. Let’s talk.

Troy knew Sharpay loved golf.

That was the point.

He’d bribed the Lava Springs grounds crew to turn the 9th hole into a private oasis.

Fairway lined with flickering tiki torches.

A simple picnic spread with all of her favourite foods.

Nearby, a golf cart was stocked with her favorite pink champagne.

When Sharpay arrived—in actual golf attire, just to mock him—Troy was waiting, guitar in hand.

"You hack," she accused, hiding a smile as he played an acoustic version of ''You are the music in me.''

Troy grinned.

"Admit it. You love my lack of corporate polish."

Sharpay kissed him—then deliberately shanked his favorite golf club into the water hazard.

"Now we’re even."

Sharpay didn’t just leak Vance’s secrets—she weaponized them.

An encrypted file arrived on Darby’s tablet during her morning spa session, revealing:

Vance’s offshore accounts ”For tax efficiency, darling!”

His “negotiations” with warlords to secure Evans Resort land,”It’s just coffee!”

The real reason he wanted Goliath under his thumb,” Asset laundering via ‘security contracts’”.

Darby’s Botox nearly cracked from fury.

“VANCE EVANS,” she bellowed through the penthouse, “YOU WILL DIE BEFORE YOU DRAG OUR DAUGHTER INTO YOUR FILTH.”

By lunchtime, Vance was sleeping in his office.

Sharpay’s text to Troy:
» Daddy’s in timeout. The board is mine.

The Navy SEAL recruiter stared at Troy like he’d grown a second head.

“Let me get this straight,” Lt. Cruz said.

“You want to play professional basketball… and train with us in the offseason?”

Troy shrugged. “I multi-task.”

Cruz snorted.

“Kid, this isn’t study hall.”

“But it is leverage,” the teenager countered. “How many SEALs can dunk on international TV? Think of the recruitment ads.”

A long silence. Then—Cruz grinned.

“Fine. But if you miss one drill, you’re cleaning latrines with a toothbrush.”

Troy’s text to Sharpay:
» Guess who’s gonna need a very flexible date-night schedule?

Gabriella Montez’s first impression of Sharpay Evans was frostbite in designer heels.

Then the shift was subtle.

Sharpay had begrudgingly sat in when Troy needed calculus help, "Ugh, fine. But if I have to hear about derivatives one more time, I’m combusting."

That One Humid Day when they were inside the auditorium, where the air conditioning was high, because outside was too hot, they had bonded over mocking Ryan’s failed Vine dance.

The Sierra Leone mission had changed everything.

When Gabby panicked over a wounded agent, the former blonde gripped her shoulders.

"Breathe, genius. Think."

They shared a silent limo ride to the airport. Sharpay slid over a dossier—Gabriella’s name on a Stanford research grant.

"Don’t swoon. It’s just good PR."

She knew better.

Zeke Baylor thought he knew pressure.

He’d survived Chef Ramirez’s kitchen. He’d cooked under gunfire in Sierra Leone. But nothing could have prepared him for the moment Ramirez dragged him into a private dining room at Lava Springs—where Gordon Ramsay sat waiting, arms crossed, beside a pristine set of induction burners.

“Chef,” Ramirez announced, “this is the pendejo I told you about.”

Ramsay’s icy blue eyes locked onto Zeke. “So. You’re the child soldier who thinks he can cook.”

Zeke’s spatula nearly clattered to the floor.

Ramsay pointed to a basket of ingredients:

Overripe tomatoes

A single scallop

A bag of generic tortilla chips

“Fifteen minutes,” Ramsay snapped.

“Impress me.”

The teenager's hands shook—until he remembered swamp rations and bullets flying. He grabbed a knife.

“Clock’s ticking!”

Zeke worked like a man possessed:

Blistered the tomatoes with a blowtorch (”¡DIOS MÍO!” Ramirez wheezed*)

Seared the scallop in brown butter he whipped up from pantry scraps.

Crushed the chips into dust for a textural bomb.

He plated with 10 seconds left, drizzling a chipotle-lime crema in a reckless spiral.

“Done.”

Ramsay stared.

Tasted.

Silence.

Then—

“Finally someone in this godforsaken desert with BALLS!”

Sharpay, watching from the security feed, texted Troy:

» Remind me to triple Zeke’s salary.

Troy’s reply:
» Too late. Ramsay just did.

The five Star Dazzle Awards glinted in the afternoon sunlight of the Evans’ country club living room, each trophy a relic of Sharpay’s past glory. She traced a finger along the engraved nameplate of the most recent one—Best Performance by a Leading Lady (Again)—and smirked.

Her phone buzzed.

Sharpay: » Hey. Why don’t you choreograph the Wildcats for the show?

Ryan’s reply was instantaneous: » Who are you and what have you done with my sister?

Sharpay: » Shut up. Just make them look good. And NO jazz hands.

She set the phone down.

This time, she wouldn’t micromanage. She wouldn’t steal the spotlight.

…Well, not until the finale, anyway.

The Lava Springs pool was a mirror of turquoise under the desert sky. Sharpay sliced through the water in perfect laps, her mind already scripting the night’s performance. Then—she spotted Troy lounging on a deck chair, scrolling through his phone, his NCAA training schedule no doubt glaring back at him.

Time for fun.

She gasped dramatically, clutching her calf.

“Ah—cramp!”

Troy was in the water before she even finished the word, his arms hooking under hers as he pulled her toward the edge.

 “Shar?! Are you o—”

SPLASH.

A perfectly aimed spray of pool water hit him square in the face.

Sharpay’s laugh was pure, unrepentant glee as Troy blinked, dripping.

“You’re evil,” he muttered.

“You love it,” she countered—then kissed him, salt and chlorine and all.

The Star Dazzle Awards stage was electric.

Martha commanded the spotlight in a fiery paso doble.

Chad, against all odds, didn’t trip during his hip-hop solo.

Zeke even managed a sous-chef tap routine with a frying pan.

Troy sang ''You are the music in me'' as Kelsi played the piano.

And then—Sharpay’s moment.

The crowd hushed as she stepped forward, alone, the spotlight narrowing. No props. No backup dancers. Just her voice, raw and unfiltered, singing a stripped-down rendition of “Darkside.”

There's a place that I know
It's not pretty there and few have ever gone
If I show it to you now
Will it make you run away.

It wasn’t the brassy, over-the-top anthem of her youth.

It was better.

When the last note faded, the standing ovation shook the room. Troy’s whistle cut through the noise.

Sharpay grinned. 

Chapter Text

''-talking

'-thoughts

''Every day brings new choices.'' - Martha Beck

Kelsi Nielsen had always lived in a world of sheet music and piano keys—until she wandered into the Lava Springs kitchen, lured by the scent of melting chocolate.

Zeke stood at the counter, meticulously layering ganache onto a towering cake. He didn’t look up as she entered. “If you’re here to ask for a sugar-free, gluten-free, joy-free dessert, walk away now.”

The composer giggled.

“Just… watching.”

He slid her a slice of dark chocolate torte—so rich it made her vision blur.

“Try this.”

One bite.

Silence.

Then—

“Oh my god.” Kelsi’s fingers flew to her mouth.

“This is… I can taste the B-flat.”

The young chef blinked.

“The what?”

“The cocoa’s bitterness—it’s a minor chord. The raspberry swirl is a staccato countermelody!”

She grabbed a spoon, eyes alight.

“Can I… help?”

Zeke grinned.

“Welcome to the madness, Mozart.”

By midnight, they’d composed a symphony in sugar—Kelsi’s first edible masterpiece.

Gabriella Montez had always thought Ryan Evans was annoying.

His hair flips during jazz squares.

His dramatic sighs when Sharpay stole his latte.

That infuriating smirk when he nailed a punchline.

But then, disaster struck.

She caught him teaching a toddler ballet in the resort lobby, patient as saints, lifting the giggling kid onto his shoulders for a pirouette.

Her stomach did a triple axel.

Taylor’s text: » You’re staring.
Gabriella’s reply: » SHUT UP.

Ryan turned, caught her gaze—and winked.

Gabriella’s notebook caught fire.

Ryan was used to an audience.

His jazz hands had their fan club. His improvised tap solos had brought audiences to tears of pain, but still. But Gabriella, sitting in the front row of every rehearsal? That was new.

At first, he thought she was lost.

"Uh… STEM club’s across the hall, Brainiac," he called during Monday’s rehearsal, flipping his hair for emphasis.

Gabriella didn’t budge.

"I know."

On Tuesday, she took notes.

On Wednesday, she clapped at his jokes.

By Friday, Ryan was fully paranoid.

"She’s either plotting my murder or writing a thesis on The Audacity of Ryan Evans," he muttered to Sharpay, who nearly choked on her sparkling water.

Sharpay noticed immediately.

Gabriella’s sudden "interest" in musical theater? The way her eyes lingered when Ryan did that stupid spin move? Pathetic. Adorable. Exploitable.

Her teasing was swift and brutal.

She placed Gabriella front and center for Ryan’s shirtless salsa number.

"What? Hydration is important!"

 The former blonde "accidentally" changed her brother's solo to include the word dork 17 times.

The future scientist still smiled.

However, the grand finale was when Sharpay leaned in during Friday’s rehearsal, whispering, "He sleeps with 20 stuffed animals. Named them all."

Gabriella’s face turned cherry-red.

"I hate you," she hissed.

Sharpay’s grin was satanic.

"No, you don’t."

Ryan cornered her backstage, his sparkly headband askew.

"Okay, what is your deal?"

Gabriella froze, clutching her notebook like a shield.

"I—I just like… the choreography?"

The younger Evans twin crossed his arms.

"You hate choreography. You called my Triple Threat Revue ‘a war crime against art.’"

A beat of silence. Then—

"…Fine." She exhaled.

"Your stupid hair is stupidly… nice. And you’re weirdly good with kids. And—"

His eyes widened.

"Oh. OH."

Sharpay’s cackle echoed from the lighting booth.

After the curtain call on the Star Dazzle show, he corners her.

"You know," he mused, tilting his head, "for someone who hates musical theater, you sure stick around a lot."

Gabriella’s retort died on her lips when his fingers brushed hers, the touch feather-light.

"Maybe I just like the view," she whispered.

And then—

Ryan kissed her.

Not a stage kiss. Not a joke. But something soft, something real, his lips lingering just long enough to steal her breath. When he pulled back, his sigh was pure contentment, his forehead resting against hers.

"Finally," he murmured.

A beat of silence. Then—

"EW. EW!"

Sharpay’s shriek shattered the moment as she stormed into the changing rooms, clutching her pearls.

"I wanted drama, not diabetes!"

Ryan flipped her off without breaking gaze with Gabriella.

"Go away, sis."

"The audac—"

Gabriella kissed him again, just to watch Sharpay gag.

They walked on the green lawn hand in hand.

Sharpay took a delicate bite of Zeke’s "Love is Gross" cupcake—a decadent chocolate monstrosity with raspberry filling—and smirked as she watched the scene unfold.

Troy blinked in utter bewilderment as Ryan and Gabriella pulled apart from their kiss, both slightly breathless and grinning like fools.

"I did not see that coming," Troy admitted, scratching his head.

She licked frosting off her thumb, eyes gleaming.

"That’s because you’re adorably oblivious, Bolton."

Her boyfriend frowned. "Wait—were you planning this?"

"Please," Sharpay scoffed.

"I just set the stage. They did the rest."

Kelsi hovered near the snack table, her fingers nervously tapping against her notebook as she watched Zeke decorate a fresh batch of cupcakes with intricate chocolate swirls.

"You know," she said, voice barely above a whisper, "your ganache technique is... kind of mesmerizing."

He glanced up, flour dusting his cheek. "Yeah? Wait 'til you try the salted caramel ones." He held out a spoon, grinning. "Tell me what note it tastes like."

Her cheeks flushed as she took the bite.

"D major," she murmured. "Warm. Happy."

The chef's smile softened.

"Exactly what I was going for."

Chad was in full panic mode, arms flailing as Taylor adjusted the dials on her latest invention—a solar-powered, algae-based "zero-waste smoothie dispenser."

"Babe, I swear if this thing explodes again—"

Taylor didn’t even look up.

"Relax. The combustion risk is only 37% this time."

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

"That’s not reassuring!"

Martha, passing by with a cart of props, snorted.

"Just stand back and let science happen, Danforth."

The Wildcats stood in the grand foyer of the Evans estate, their eyes wide as they took in the chandeliers, the marble floors, and the life-sized portrait of Sharpay in a ball gown that hadn’t been there last time.

Chad, arms crossed, raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, let me get this straight—you want to pull a senior prank? The same Sharpay Evans who once had a kid expelled for putting glitter in her locker?"

Sharpay smirked, swirling a glass of sparkling cider like a villain in a Bond movie.

"That wasn’t a prank, Danforth. That was justice." She set the glass down with a click. "But this? This is legendary."

She tapped a button on her phone, and a holographic blueprint of East High appeared above the coffee table.

"Behold," she declared. "Operation: Wildcat Takeover."

Chad stared at Sharpay like she’d grown a second head.

"Who are you?!"

Sharpay sighed, as if explaining to a toddler.

"Chad, darling, pranks aren’t for simpletons. They’re for artists. And I?" She adjusted her diamond-studded headband.

"Am a masterpiece."

Ryan fake-swooned. "She’s evolved."

Troy just grinned.

Chapter Text

''-talking

'-thoughts

''My dear friend, clear your mind of cant.'' - Samuel Johnson

That first moment he’d stowed away on Sharpay’s plane, terrified and exhilarated, only to realize he loved the adrenaline.

Troy was confused.

For so long, it had been basketball, he was just the basketball guy, he was simply Troy Bolton, finding out what else he was good at.

Now, he was walking into the lion’s den—the Evans’ mansion—for a family dinner.

Sharpay leaned against the foyer wall in a black cocktail dress that could double as tactical gear.

"Took you long enough," she teased, straightening his tie.

"Daddy’s already three drinks in. Perfect negotiating conditions."

Troy swallowed.

"You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?"

Her grin was all teeth.

"Watching Vance Evans try to intimidate you while subtly offering you a job? Obviously."

Inside, the table was set for war:

Vance nursed a top-shelf bourbon, his gaze sharp.

Darby smiled politely, but her eyes calculated Troy’s worth.

Ryan was already drunk on sparkling cider, grinning like a fool.

Gabriella, seated beside him, gave Troy a sympathetic thumbs-up.

The older man raised his glass.

"So, Bolton. Basketball and black ops. Tell me—how exactly do you plan to keep my daughter alive?"

The room froze.

Troy didn’t blink.

"Sir, with all due respect—she’s the one keeping me alive."

Sharpay kicked him under the table.

Approvingly.

"You’ve got talent, Bolton," Vance said, his voice smooth as the whiskey in his glass. "Basketball, tactical ops, leadership. Evans Enterprises could use someone like you." He leaned forward, the weight of his empire behind his words.

"Internship. Full-time after graduation. Name your salary."

Troy’s grip tightened on his water glass. This was the offer of a lifetime—the kind that set people up for life. But before he could respond—

"No."

All eyes snapped to Sharpay, who hadn’t even looked up from delicately slicing her filet mignon.

Her father's eyebrow arched.

"Excuse me?"

She set down her knife with a click, then fixed her father with a stare so icy, even Darby straightened in her seat.

"Troy’s not signing a contract with you, Daddy," Sharpay said, her voice sweet but dangerous. "He’s got a senior year to enjoy. Basketball. Prom. Not getting sucked into boardroom politics before he’s even allowed to vote."

Vance’s jaw twitched.

"This is a real opportunity, Kitten."

"And real people get to choose," she shot back. Then, in a move so rare it silenced the room, she turned to her mother—eyes wide, lips slightly parted, the ghost of a plea in her expression.

"Mommy," she said softly.

"He just turned 18."

Darby Evans—queen of poise, master of the artful pause—studied her daughter, then Troy, then Vance.

A beat.

Then—

"Vance, darling," she sighed, dabbing her lips with a napkin.

"Let the boy graduate before you turn him into a suit."

Vance opened his mouth—then snapped it shut.

Checkmate.

The table fell silent.

Troy exhaled, then met Vance’s gaze.

"Sir, I’m honored. Really," he said, choosing his words carefully.

"But Shar's right. I do want to enjoy this year. After that?" He glanced at Sharpay, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Well, I’m sure Goliath Inc. has a spot for me."

Sharpay’s grin was pure triumph.

Vance leaned back in his chair, swirling his drink.

"You’re both insufferable." Then, after a beat—"Fine. But the offer stands. After graduation."

Ryan, who had been watching the exchange like a soap opera, raised his glass.

"To not being owned by capitalism! ...Yet."

Gabriella kicked him under the table.

The screens in Sharpay’s private office flickered with real-time updates from Goliath Inc.’s global operations—satellite feeds, mission logs, and a very enthusiastic email from the UN Secretary-General’s assistant.

A team in Mozambique had just shut down an illegal exotic pet ring, rescuing leopards, pangolins, and a very disgruntled parrot which, according to the report, bit an agent's finger when he tried to pet it.

Goliath’s mobile medical units—manned by doctors Sharpay had personally recruited—were treating civilians in conflict zones, their armored ambulances painted hot pink "So warlords know not to mess with us," she’d declared when they had arrived in Iran.

Forbes had just listed Goliath Inc. as "The Most Unlikely and Effective Humanitarian-Mercenary Hybrid on Earth."

Ryan, lounging on her couch with a blueberry smoothie, scrolled through the internship applications flooding their HR portal. "Yale, Harvard, West Point… Sis, you’ve got Ivy League nerds begging to get shot at for college credit."

Sharpay smirked, tapping a manicured nail against her tablet.

"We do offer dental."

Troy stood in the doorway, NCAA paperwork in one hand, a Goliath-issued tactical vest in the other.

"So," he said slowly.

"If I sign with the Lakers… I can still do offseason extractions, right?"

She didn’t look up from her emails.

"Obviously. We’ll schedule your firefights around playoffs."

Ryan fake-swooned.

"Love wins."

A mob of recruiters descended on East High’s gymnasium, their branded polo shirts, sleek suits and desperate smiles clashing violently with the Goliath Inc. recruitment booth manned by Chad, who was misrepresenting the company’s dental plan.

Harvard’s Rep looked at Gabriella, "Ms. Montez, our quantum physics lab needs you—"

West Point’s Colonel Stevens stopped in front of Chad, "Danforth, son, you threw a life preserver like a grenade. We want that energy."

MIT’s Dean Carrie cornered Taylor, "Ms. McKessie, name your price. Just stop hacking our servers."

Sharpay, lounging in the VIP section, a gold-sequined lawn chair, smirked as bidding wars erupted over her friends.

Ryan, live-tweeting the chaos:
» Yale just offered Martha a dance professorship. She’s 17. #WildcatFever

Sharpay stood in front of a giant whiteboard covered in color-coded plans, diagrams, and a countdown timer (because of course, she had one). The Wildcats—along with the cheerleaders, school band, science team, and drama club—leaned in, their faces lit by the glow of her tablet.

"Listen up," the former blonde commanded as she was dressed in all black tactical gear and a pink wool beret, and paced the basketball court.

"By sunrise, East High will never forget the Class of 2008. Here’s the breakdown."

Troy, Chad, Jason, and the team were handed 50 vintage wind-up alarm clocks (all set to go off at random intervals).

"Hide them everywhere," Sharpay instructed. "Lockers, ceiling tiles, the trophy case. I want teachers losing their minds by third period."

Chad grinned.

"This is the most evil thing we’ve ever done. I love it."

The cheer squad, led by Taylor, who reluctantly agreed to participate, was armed with industrial-sized rolls of aluminum foil.

"Wrap everything in the library," Sharpay ordered.

"Books, chairs, the librarian’s coffee mug. If it’s not moving, foil it."

One nervous cheerleader raised her hand.

"What if Ms. Hendrix cries?"

Sharpay’s smile was terrifyingly serene.

"Then we’ll call it art."

Martha and the band kids had spent weeks secretly collecting blankets, fairy lights, and inflatable furniture.

"Build a fortress so majestic, they’ll cancel class just to admire it," Sharpay declared.

Zeke, holding a tub of emergency snacks, nodded.

"I’ll provide siege rations."

Ryan, Kelsi, and the drama crew were tasked with planting a 10-foot "FOR SALE" sign in front of the school.

"Bonus points if you fake a Zillow listing," the former brunette added.

Her brother gasped.

"I can photoshop Principal Gutierrez’s face onto a used car salesman!"

Gabriella, despite herself, laughed.

The final touch?

A massive, all-night campout on Principal Gutierrez’s front lawn, complete with tents, a popcorn machine, and a karaoke battle.

"He loves his lawn. This will destroy him," Sharpay said with dark satisfaction.

Troy raised an eyebrow.

"You’re kinda scary when you’re happy."

She kissed his cheek.

"You’re welcome."

The Wildcats moved like a well-oiled prank machine:

Alarm clocks were hidden in the most diabolical places (inside the PA system, taped under desks, even in the teachers’ lounge Keurig).

The library was transformed into a glittering tinfoil wasteland.

The cafeteria became a bohemian blanket paradise, complete with a "No Homework Allowed" sign.

The "FOR SALE" sign was so convincing, a realtor showed up at 7 AM.

And Principal Gutierrez? He stepped outside in his robe to find 200 seniors singing "We Are the Champions."

The next morning, East High was in shambles (the good kind). Teachers groaned, underclassmen cheered, and Sharpay Evans sat atop a cafeteria table, sipping iced coffee like a queen.

Principal Gutierrez’s Announcement:
"WHOEVER DID THIS IS EXPEL—" (10 seconds of 'Mamma Mia' plays over the PA.)

The entire school erupted in laughter.

Sharpay’s Final Text to the Group Chat:
» Wildcats 1, Adulthood 0. Enjoy the chaos, losers. 🎭💥

Chapter Text

''-talking

'-thoughts

''The art of teaching is the art of assisting discovery.'' - Mark Van Doren

The music room at Lava Springs was bathed in the golden hues of sunset, the grand piano gleaming under the soft light. Kelsi Nielsen’s fingers danced effortlessly over the keys, a rich, flowing melody filling the air—a warm-up piece, something delicate but demanding.

And then, Sharpay Evans began.

Standing tall, one hand resting lightly on the piano, she inhaled sharply, her posture impeccable, her focus absolute.

"Listen to me articulate every single word I say," she commanded, her voice crisp, each syllable a dagger of precision.

Kelsi’s playing shifted, matching Sharpay’s rhythm as she began her vocal drill—

"Articulating."

Her tongue flicked against her teeth, the "t" sharp as a whip.

"Celebrating."

The "br" rolled like honey, rich and smooth.

"Escalating."

The "sc" hissed, a serpentine edge to the word.

She repeated them, faster, sharper, layering intensity with each pass, her voice climbing in power without ever losing clarity.

Ryan, who had been lounging on a sofa with a smoothie, sat up so fast he spilled it.

"Since when do you do vocal drills?!" he blurted, staring at her like she’d just grown a third arm.

Sharpay didn’t pause.

"Since forever, Ryan. Professionalism."

Kelsi, grinning, transposed the melody into a minor key, and Sharpay instantly adjusted, her tone darkening, the words now dripping with theatrical menace.

"Devastating."

A growl under the "v".

"Dominating."

The "n" vibrated, a queen’s decree.

"Annihilating."

The "h" was barely a breath, the rest a knife.

Ryan’s jaw actually dropped.

Sharpay never showed her process. The world only ever saw the final, flawless product—the dazzling performances, the effortless high notes.

But this?

This was the grind.

The work behind the magic.

The raw, unfiltered discipline that made her Sharpay Evans.

And the fact that she was doing it in front of them?

That was trust.

He set his smoothie down, uncharacteristically quiet.

"You’re… scary good," he admitted.

Sharpay finally paused, arching a brow.

"I know."

Then, just to ruin the moment, Ryan added—"But I could’ve hit that G# cleaner."

Kelsi played a dissonant chord in protest.

The East High courtyard was suspiciously quiet for a Friday afternoon.

No basketballs bouncing, no drama club shrieks—just an eerie stillness.

Sharpay strode through the halls, her designer heels clicking like a countdown.

"Where is everyone?" she muttered, flipping her hair over one shoulder.

Then—music.

A slow, soulful guitar riff echoed from the courtyard. A voice, rich and warm, sang the opening lines of "Can I Have This Dance"—but rewritten.

"Sharpay Evans, queen of the stage,
Will you let me steal the spotlight for just one night?
Or at least, y’know… be my prom date?"

Troy Bolton stood in the center of a rose-petal heart, his basketball team and the Wildcats grinning behind him, holding up pink glitter-covered signs that read.

"SAY YES OR WE RIOT." 
"I ALREADY BOUGHT THE CORSAGE." 
"PLEASE MY MOM TOOK A VIDEO." 

Sharpay’s lips parted. For the first time in recorded history, she was speechless.

Troy, still singing and shockingly in tune, stepped forward, his smile all boyish charm and nervous hope.

"I know you’re used to center stage,
But tonight, let’s share the show.
No schemes, no sabotage—
Just you and me, slowww—"

He extended his hand.

A beat.

Then—

"FINALLY."

Sharpay’s voice cracked the silence like a whip. She snatched the mic from his hand, eyes blazing.

"Troy Bolton, about time,
Did you really think I’d say no?
But if you ever sing this badly in public again,
I’m revoking your privilege to hold my hand—"

The crowd erupted. Chad howled. Ryan fake-sobbed into Gabriella’s shoulder.

Troy, grinning, pulled her into a dip.

"So that’s a yes?"

Sharpay’s kiss was answer enough.

The auditorium buzzed with nervous energy as incoming freshmen shuffled in, wide-eyed and whispering. They’d heard the rumors—Sharpay Evans, the untouchable queen of drama club, was holding auditions.

They expected ice.

They expected perfection.

They did not expect a Jackson 5 banger.

Sharpay sat at the piano, fingers hovering over the keys, when Ryan—leaning against the stage with a smirk—tossed her a wink.

"You sure you can keep up, Ry?" she called, loud enough for the freshmen to hear.

Ryan gasped, clutching his chest. "You wound me."

Then—

Sharpay’s hands slammed down on the piano, the opening riff of "Rockin’ Robin" bursting to life. Ryan snatched the mic and sprinted down the aisle, his voice smooth as honey as he hit the first verse.

"Tweedily deedily dee—"

The former brunette spun on the piano bench, standing just in time to catch the mic Ryan tossed back—her voice, sharp and bright, sliced through the room like a firework.

"All the little birds on Jaybird Street, love to hear the robin go—"

And then—the move.

The Evans Sibling Handshake-Dance Combo™, a legendary routine they’d perfected at age 10:

High-five → Spin → Jazz hands

Hip-bump → Finger guns → Fake mic toss

Final pose: Ryan kneeling, Sharpay’s foot on his knee, arms raised like Korean pop stars.

The freshmen lost. Their. Minds.

One tiny brunette in the front row dropped her audition sheet.

Sharpay smirked, locking eyes with the most terrified-looking kid in the crowd.

"Welcome to East High," she purred. "Auditions start now."

The drama room was packed to the fire-code-breaking limit, with freshmen perched on tables, squeezed into costume racks, and even hanging out the windows to catch Ryan Evans’ infamous "How to Be an Icon 101" seminar.

Ryan, draped in a bedazzled blue cape because obviously, stood atop a desk, holding a mic like a preacher holding a sermon.

"Lesson One!" he declared. "If you’re not sparkling, you’re failing." He tossed a handful of gold glitter into the air for emphasis. "Your existence should give people contact dermatitis from sheer fabulousness."

A freshman in the front row squealed and fainted.

"Lesson Two!" Ryan continued, flipping his hair dramatically. "Your entrances should be earthquakes. Your exits should be funerals—for everyone else’s ego."

Sharpay pretended not to notice the wide-eyed freshmen who gasped when she walked by.

In the hallway, a group of them scrambled to pick up the sheet music she ‘accidentally’ dropped.

At lunch, they stared in horror as she ate a salad with lots of salad dressing, a performance in itself.

In the auditorium, they mimicked her vocal warm-ups poorly.

Gabriella, leaning against Sharpay’s double pink locker, smirked.

"You love this."

Sharpay scoffed.

"Please. Their pitiful attempts at mimicry are embarrassing."

Then—a tiny freshman with braces approached, trembling, holding out a handmade Sharpay Evans fan poster.

"C-Can you sign this?"

Sharpay stared.

Silence.

Then, with the grace of a queen bestowing knighthood, she took the pink pen and signed, adding a glitter-ink star.

Gabriella’s eyebrows vanished into her hairline.

The basketball court echoed with the squeak of sneakers and the thud-thud-thud of basketballs as Troy Bolton, captain of the East High Wildcats, oversaw freshman tryouts.

"Alright, hustle! Show me what you’ve got!" Troy called, arms crossed as he watched the new recruits scramble through drills.

A scrawny kid with glasses , who’d tripped over his own feet twice,  shot a desperate, wobbly jumper—and missed the backboard entirely.

Troy winced.

"Okay, we’ll… work on that."

He meant to go straight to the locker room after practice.

But then he heard singing.

Curiosity, and the fact that it was Sharpay’s voice, dragged him to the empty choir room, where he peeked through the door’s tiny window.

Inside, his girlfriend sat at the piano, the tiny freshman, now wearing a "Future Diva" shirt Sharpay had 100% forced on her, standing beside her, clutching sheet music.

"No, listen—" Sharpay played a chord.

"The note isn’t in your throat. It’s here." She tapped the girl’s diaphragm.

"Now belt it, or I’m revoking your Spot In My Presence."

The kid inhaled—and sang a flawless high C.

Sharpay’s smirk was proud.

"Finally."

Troy, leaning too hard, bumped the door.

Her head whipped around.

Silence.

Then—

"Bolton," Sharpay sighed.

"If you breathe a word of this, I’ll end you."

The tiny freshman gasped.

"You know Troy Bolton?!"

Sharpay rolled her eyes.

"Unfortunately."

For their prom night, the gym had been transformed into a tropical fever dream—palm trees, disco balls, and a suspiciously well-stocked taco bar, possibly Zeke’s doing.

Ryan, clad in a sequined bolero jacket, grabbed the mic.

"WILDCATS! IT’S TIME TO CONGA OUT OF HIGH SCHOOL!"

The seniors groaned but obeyed, forming a chaotic conga line as Gloria Estefan’s Conga blasted through the speakers.

Troy and Chad attempted salsa spins.

Gabriella and Taylor nailed the rhythm.

Sharpay claimed she’d "rather die" than participate—until Ryan dragged her in, and she accidentally had fun.

Then—the Lambada.

"SCANDALIZING THE TEACHERS IS MANDATORY!" her brother yelled, as the seniors grinded in semi-appropriate fashion.

Principal Gutierrez fainted into the punch bowl.

The East High stadium was a sea of white and red caps and gowns, the afternoon sun glinting off polyester gowns as "Pomp and Circumstance" played.

And then, Sharpay Evans stepped onto the stage, having been voted as the class Valedictorian.

Her sash was bright, unapologetic pink.

Principal Gutierrez, standing stiffly beside the podium, looked like he’d swallowed a lemon as she adjusted the mic.

"For the record," Sharpay said, smooth as silk, "gold is not my color."

The crowd roared.

Sharpay didn’t use notes.

She didn’t need them.

"They told me I was just a drama queen. Just a rich girl. Just a singer." Her gaze swept the crowd, landing on the tiny freshman (now Lil’ Diva) in the front row, then flicking to Troy, grinning like an idiot in the basketball team’s section.

"But just is the most dangerous word in the world."

A pause. The wind ruffled her pink sash.

"You can be the girl who wins Star Dazzle Awards and takes down warlords. You can be the boy who shoots three-pointers and sings on rooftops. You can—" She shot a look at Ryan, "—somehow be both a genius and the reason we’ve lost three cafeteria privileges."

Laughter rippled.

"So pick your dreams. All of them. And if anyone tells you you’re just one thing?"

Sharpay’s smile was razor-sharp.

"Prove. Them. Wrong."

The standing ovation shook the stadium.

Troy’s hand clenched around the little velvet box in his jeans.

It wasn’t an engagement ring.

Not yet. They were 18, for God’s sake.

But it was a promise.

A "Wherever you go, I’m with you" ring. A "Goliath missions and NBA games and whatever comes next" ring.

Sharpay descended the stage, her pink sash a flag of victory, and Troy’s chest ached.

She was it.

And she’d kill him if he got sentimental now.

So he just winked as she passed, and Sharpay’s smirk said everything.

Chapter Text

''-talking

'-thoughts

''As cynical as I can be, there's always a part of me that believes in love and the fairy tale.'' - Lily James

Switzerland – 2:14 PM (Local Time)

Dr. Taylor McKessie’s fingers flew across the quantum stabilizer’s controls, her brow furrowed in concentration. The Large Hadron Collider hummed to life, its energy output spiking as her time-placement machine synced with its pulse.

“Come on, come on…” Taylor muttered, adjusting the final calibration.

Then—the alarms shrieked.

The machine overloaded, a shockwave of temporal energy ripping through the lab. Taylor was thrown back, her glasses cracked, as the fabric of time tore open.

At the same time

New York – 8:17 PM

Sharpay Evans stood center stage, the final bow of Diamonds Are Forever, her pink sequined gown catching the spotlight.

The applause was thunderous.

Then—a snap.

The stage light above her broke loose.

Sharpay had half a second to look up before—

CRASH.

Darkness.

Sharpay gasped awake in her 17-year-old body, her hands flying to her head—no blood, no pain, no death.

Her side vibrated on her nightstand.

She opened it, feeling weird since it's been nine years since she had this bedazzled phone. 

Her hands were shaky as she checked her inbox.

Ryan’s text. 

''U up? Audition sign-ups start in an hour. Don’t be late this time.''

She remembered dying.

One minute she had gone to sleep the night of her high school graduation....for the second time. 

Then her eyes fluttered open to the sterile white ceiling of a hospital room, the rhythmic beep of a heart monitor the only sound. Her body ached, her throat was dry, and for a moment, she was disoriented—hadn’t she just been at home?

Then, the memories flooded back.

Dying under a stage light in 2017.

Waking up as her 17-year-old self in 2008.

Changing everything.

And now—she was here.

The door burst open.

Troy Bolton, older, broader, and terrified, rushed in first, his face a mix of relief and exhaustion.

"Shar—" His voice cracked.

Behind him, Ryan, Gabriella, and—

Sharpay’s breath caught.

Two small, blue-eyed, brunette children, clutching Ryan’s hands, stared at her with wide, curious eyes.

The little girl, no older than five, whispered, "Mommy’s awake?"

Sharpay’s heart stopped.

Mommy?

Troy was at her side in an instant, his hand gripping hers. "You scared the hell out of us," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "The doctors said the light just missed you. A miracle."

Sharpay’s gaze flicked between him and the children.

"Who… are they?"

Ryan, uncharacteristically quiet, swallowed hard.

"Uh. Your kids?"

Gabriella stepped forward, her voice gentle.

"Elliot and Sophia. You really don’t remember?"

Sharpay’s mind reeled.

She had never been pregnant. Never had children. Not in the original timeline. Not in the past. But now—

Now, they were hers.

Troy’s thumb brushed her cheek.

"Hey. Look at me." His voice was soft, steady. "You hit your head. The doctor said memory loss was possible, but—" He hesitated.

"Do you remember me?"

The blonde stared at him—her husband—and the ring on her finger, the promise band still tucked beneath a diamond wedding ring.

"I remember everything," she whispered.

Just not this version of it.

The little girl—Sophia—tugged at Ryan’s sleeve.

"Is Mommy broken, Uncle Ry?"

Ryan, for once, had no joke.

Sharpay held out a hand, her fingers trembling.

"Come here."

Sophia and Elliot ran to the bed, scrambling up as Troy lifted them, their tiny hands gripping Sharpay’s hospital gown.

"You promised pancakes," Elliot said, pouting. "Before the light bonked you."

Sharpay’s throat tightened.

She had died.

And then she had lived. And now, she had this—a life she had never gotten to see.

She looked at Troy, at the love and fear in his eyes, and made a decision.

"I always keep my promises," she said, pulling her children closer.

Dr. Taylor McKessie-Danforth sat in her Swiss lab, the glow of multiple holographic screens casting blue shadows across her face. The time-placement machine sat in the corner, now finally stabilized, its quantum stabilizers humming at a safe 0.3% variance.

She rubbed her temples, her mind flooded with new memories—ones that hadn’t existed a week ago.

Marrying Chad Danforth in a small, nerdy ceremony (he’d worn basketball-themed cufflinks).

Moving to Switzerland for her quantum research—but commuting back to LA for Chad’s NBA games.

Texting Sharpay weekly, bickering about Goliath Inc.’s budget reports (since when was Sharpay a humanitarian CEO?!)

Taylor’s fingers flew across her tablet, pulling up social media.

#BroadwayCloseCall trended—photos of Sharpay, alive, being carried out of the theater on a stretcher, Troy Bolton’s face streaked with tears of relief.

"Sharpay Evans-Bolton recovers after near-fatal stage accident. Doctors call it a miracle."

Taylor’s breath hitched.

"What else changed?"

She typed frantically:

Ryan Evans – Now married to Gabriella Evans nee Montez (since when?!) and directing Broadway musicals (with their son, Anthony in tow).

Kelsi Nielsen-Baylor – Sous chef and composer in Paris, splitting her time between Zeke’s restaurant and symphony halls.

Martha Cox – Running a dance school for underprivileged kids in Harlem.

And then—the kicker.

A notification popped up:

@SharpayEvansBolton posted a photo.

Taylor tapped it.

The image loaded: Sharpay, in a hospital bed, laughing as two brunette, blue-eyed kids clambered onto her lap. Troy, grinning, pressed a kiss to her temple. The caption: "Turns out, I’m really hard to kill. #MomWin #GoliathIncSurvivor"

The scientist's hands shook.

She had saved Sharpay. And in doing so, had rewritten everything.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Chad:

» BABE. DID U SEE THE GAME? I DUNKED AND DID THE WILDCAT HOWL. COACH HATED IT. #WorthIt

Taylor stared. Then, slowly, she smiled.

"Yeah," she muttered.

"Worth it."

Taylor’s email was still open on her laptop—sent three days ago, marked URGENT:

"Shar, the quantum array in Switzerland malfunctioned at 8:17 PM on the night of the accident. The energy spike precisely matches the moment the stage light fell. I think—I think it overwrote the timeline. The you that died is gone. This you, the one that lived, is the only one left."

Her vision blurred.

She remembered both timelines, and so had Taylor. 

Sharpay sat cross-legged in the king-sized bed, her future-self’s iPhone clutched in one hand, her laptop open in front of her. The glow of the screen illuminated her face as she devoured every detail of this impossible life.

The Google Search had provided some insight, "Goliath Inc. humanitarian missions 2017."

Along with, "Global Crisis Response Unit Saves 10,000 in Mozambique."

"Sharpay Evans-Bolton Named 'Most Disruptive CEO Under 30' by Forbes – Again."

Sharpay looked at her wedding photos next on her cloud drives.

Her wedding to Troy, because she was now Sharpay Evans-Bolton.

Alena, now silver-haired and beaming, adjusting Sharpay’s veil like a proud second mother.

Gabriella’s wedding.

Ryan, grinning like an idiot in a lavender tux, as Gabriella—Gabriella!—rolled her eyes but smiled.

Kelsi, dusted in flour in a Parisian kitchen, a symphony score propped beside a soufflé.

Martha, surrounded by kids in a Harlem studio, teaching Lambada to a bunch of starry-eyed 10-year-olds.

On Instagram, she looked at her twin's latest posts.

A video of Anthony, their four-year-old, conducting a pot and pan ‘orchestra’ with Gabriella’s actual medical awards as cymbals.

"What the hell," Sharpay breathed.

The New York skyline glittered below, a sea of diamonds against the inky night. Sharpay stood on the balcony of the Upper East Side penthouse, the cold air biting at her skin, her fingers tracing the edge of her custom Vivienne Westwood nightgown—black silk, embroidered with gold thread, because even loungewear was a statement.

She inhaled, the scent of the city mixing with the faintest hint of Troy’s cologne as he stepped behind her, draping her pink Fenty fur-trimmed robe over her shoulders.

"Are you happy, Shar?" His voice was soft, rough with sleep, his arms wrapping around her waist.

Sharpay leaned back into him, her gaze still fixed on the moon.

"I'm alive," she said, the words tasting foreign.

"We’re together."

Troy’s breath warmed her neck.

"Yeah. We are."

Sharpay turned in his arms, her hands sliding up his chest—solid, real, here—before crushing her lips to his.

The kiss was fierce, desperate, a reckoning.

When they broke apart, Troy’s forehead rested against hers.

"You’ve been weird since the accident."

His wife smirked.

"Weirder than usual?"

Troy grinned.

"Yeah. You smiled at Ryan twice this week."

Sharpay rolled her eyes, but her fingers tightened in his shirt.

"I remembered something. That’s all."

That I died. That we weren't even friends before. That none of this was supposed to happen.

Her husband studied her, his blue eyes too knowing.

"Good memory or bad?"

Sharpay glanced back at the penthouse—the walk-in closet bigger than her old dorm room, the Oscar Wilde first edition on the shelf-- Ryan’s absurd wedding gift, the Fendi heels kicked off by the door.

Then, the photo on the side table: Elliot and Sophia, grinning with missing teeth, their children, their legacy.

"The best," she whispered.

Troy kissed her again, slow this time, promising.