a/n: this is a continuation of my one shot Scenestealer and although it'd be nice if you read and reviewed it, it's not necessarily imperative to read it first (but it does give a little insight to my portrayel of Sharpay). thank you to everyone who reviewed Scenestealer, this is dedicated to you, and especially to TheEquivalentOfTroysSharpay who convinced me to keep going and A Dawn Delivery, who helped make this into what it is now.

disclaimer: don't own HSM. This disclaimer applies for all future chapters. I own nothing, no characters, songs, etc. unless otherwise stated.

song & title credit: She's Gonna Break Soon - Less Than Jake

She's gonna break soon, gonna break soon, she's gonna break

"Hey!" you shout as the song is abruptly cut off. "I was listening to that!"

"Yeah well, I don't want to listen to your angsty rock crap."

"Like your bubbly pop shit is any better? My car, my music."

"Then maybe I should just ride with Gabriella. I'm sure she'd let me pick my own song."

You almost have to pinch yourself to see if you're dreaming because you know what you're seeing can't be real. That smug, self-assured smirk that always seems to find its way to your face is flawlessly reflected on your twin's. He doesn't know the gravity of what he spoke, but he knows he's won.

The Scenestealer is, not surprisingly, a sore subject for you. Unconsciously you take your right hand away from the steering wheel, bringing it to your pocket. Beneath the velvet fabric of the pocket rests that stupid photo, that stupid photograph of six people who know nothing about you.

A Britney Spears song from the 1990's plays on the radio and for a moment, just a moment, you want to speed up and not turn at the forthcoming curve in the road. You can hear the crash of metal on the cement barrier echo in the depths of your mind. Then, the moment is gone. You're unhappy, not suicidal. Or a murderer for that matter.

You cringe as the song reaches one of its high notes and think of how perplexing people would find this situation. Your favorite color is pink, you constantly wear glitter, and you're always color-coordinated with your twin. Yet, you detest the pop music your school thinks you worship. How perplexing, indeed.

Just another one of their damned pre-conceived notions, you think. When it comes to you, it seems they're always wrong. How amusing you find it to be that all of your classmates want to "break free" of stereotypes, yet they're extremely quick to label everyone around them. Fucking hypocrites.

Even more cringe-inducing than the popstar's sad attempts at range, is your brother singing right along, knowing every lyric. You wonder if he fits into the mold everyone has him in. Part of you believes it to be true, yet you know he could be hiding just the same as you are. Oh how dysfunctional the Evans family appears to be.

One day, you think wistfully, you'll all break free.

---

You tiptoe into your house quietly, careful not to wake your parents, you know they're extremely light sleepers. As Ryan behind you trips on the carpet you turn around and give him a glare that clearly translates into 'Watch where you're going, idiot.'

It's only midnight but you're exhausted and would like nothing more than to curl up under your hot pink duvet and slumber peacefully. Sleep is the only time you ever really are peaceful anymore. You think your classmates would laugh if they found out you're going to bed so early on a Saturday but honestly, all of this acting is really wearing you out. As you give a short wave goodnight to your brother (you can't risk anything else) you think it's a bit ironic that you're the one ready to doze off from all of your acting when the Scenestealer herself was the lead in the play tonight. But alas, your acting is on a completely different scale.

Sitting at your vanity you slowly begin take out the half updo your hair is done in, the half updo Gabriella loved just oh so much. You wrinkle your nose in disgust as you think about your response to her compliment. I bet it'd look great on you. What the hell were you thinking, you wonder. Why instigate, it's only encouraging a friendship you don't want (or need) from Miss Goody-Two-Shoes.

You're dragging your gold brush, a fancy 'S' inscribed on the back, through your blonde locks when you hear the door open. Ready to bite your twin's head off for making unnecessary noise, you're startled when it's your mother you see standing in front of the now closed door. As she stands there with her perfect posture and couture nightgown you're reminded of how she was your rolemodel when you were little. You were in awe of her grace and beauty, but now you know better.

"So dear," she begins, voice dramatic and pronounced in a way reminiscent of Ms. Darbus. "How did that play ever turn out?"

"It was okay, it would have been better if-"

"If you and your brother had been selected, I know, you needn't tell me. I still cannot believe you let that new girl take your place. Those productions are your domain, that school is your domain, did you tell her that?"

"Yeah mom-"

"Yes, mother," she corrects. She's always been ready and more than willing to correct any mistakes you make.

"Yes mother. I told her but-"

"However, she ran off and got the whole school on her side, Troy Bolton included," she interrupts for the third time in your minute long conversation.

"How did you-"

"Parents talk Sharpay. Honestly, how could you let her do that? You all had tryouts, so why on earth was she picked?"

"I don't know mother, I don't know! Okay?" you say, voice rasing accompanied by a roll of your eyes. If anyone had walked into your room at that moment in time they'd find you as only a defiant child, seemingly carelessly applying make-up remover to your face as your mother stands behind you with her hands on her slim hips.

You don't think it's fair that she's gone so often, and when she returns all she ever does is bully you. She doesn't need to work, you're father makes enough money with just his job, but you know she enjoys being away so often. You don't even really know what it is that she does. Something about interior designing, or some crap. You're not quite sure why that includes travel, but apparently it does.

The play's been over for months now. As predicted, Troy Bolton and Gabriella Montez rule the school as the hottest couple since "Brangelina." It was hard enough to deal with everything as it happened, but reliving it is almost torture. It should have been you, a thought not unfamiliar to you, crosses your mind.

"Well you must have not been good enough. I will call Dracel in the morning, it's all too obvious you need more voice lessons. Being my child one might think you would have inherited some of my natural gift, the case does not seem to be so."

As you sit there in silence, for a fleeting moment you'd like to turn your head down in defeat, you know everything she's saying is true. Instead, that familiar smirk spreads on your lips. You'll never give her the satisfaction of seeing you falter. You remember the last time you did so, it was your tenth birthday.

You see the scene clearly as if it was only yesterday; as you excitedly threw your arms about in an exclamation of joy at the present you had just unwrapped, you knocked over your cup of fruit punch strait onto the expensive oriental carpet. She berated you so calmly and softly your friends never even realized you had gotten in trouble. You spent the rest of the night locked in your room.

"So where were you tonight?"

"At the movies, but you knew that."

"Don't underestimate me, Sharpay. Who do you think I am?" You stay silent, your brown eyes never faltering from the intense stare of your mother's icy jade ones. You're waiting for her to continue, you've still got a couple minutes to go before she's fully done ripping you to shreds. You know this from experience.

"Of course I knew, but I am also aware, however, the movie ended at ten o'clock. Now it being a quarter after midnight, I am all too eager to hear of your whereabouts for the last two hours."

You brace yourself as you deliver your next answer. Some may think it'd just be easier to lie in this situation, but you know better. For some reason your mother has always been the only one to see through your acting.

"I was at the diner with some friends." You almost choke at the last word.

And there it is, what you've been waiting for: the shrill, empty laugh that would make a weaker person cower. "I see. Would these friends happen to be the ones who stole the roles that rightfully belong to you and your brother?"

You nod.

"You went out with them? You consider them friends? What is wrong with you Sharpay? Do you fully appreciate the gravity of what you are getting yourself into? Jesus, encouraging a friendship with people who disrespect this family.

"I am perfectly aware of your selfishness and while it's unbelievable you would want to sabotage your own position, it is completely vulgar that you are okay with sabotaging your brothers as well. Honestly Sharpay, think of someone besides yourself for once! Now tell me everything you said to these people."

"Nothing. I said nothing," which is one hundred percent true. Your brother was comfortable surrounded by East High's Golden Group and easily made conversation as you sat there silently, calculating the calories in your food as the woman standing before you taught you to always do.

"Nothing? You did not once mention how uncalled for it was for them to take away the theatre from you and your brother? This is exactly what I mean about thinking about other people! Just once Sharpay, I would like to see you do something selfless for the good of your brother or the good of this family. I will not have you tattering the Evans name just because you are so self-absorbed."

"I'm just oh so sorry mother. I will do better," you say in such a sarcastic tone even the kids at school who call you the 'Ice Queen' would be surprised.

"Yes," she says curtly in her no-nonsense, matter-of-fact voice. "You will. Don't you ever take that tone with me again, do you understand?"

As she opens the door to leave she turns around quickly.

"And sit up straight, a hunched back could do nothing but enhance your unbecoming features."

You feel your back straighten automatically, its almost as if it's scared. "Yes ma'am."

When the door clicks shut and your mother disappears you feel a breath of air escape you and your back returns to it's normal posture. You wish you could just go to sleep but mother would never approve of you skipping your nightly pore treatment for those "atrocious blackheads" you get all too often. It's almost unthinkable for you to go straight to bed any given night. It's part of the reason you never had sleepovers as a child, the other part being you never really had any friends outside of your various drama clubs.

Nearly forty-five minutes later you lay on your shimmery silver egyptian cotton sheets, and under the warmth of your duvet you wait for the sleep you've been desperately craving to finally overtake you. The last thing you see behind your closed eyelids before you fully drift away is two warm blue eyes, so unlike your mother's and even your own, smiling at you from under a mop of slightly disheveled golden brown hair.