Class:

A brief portrait of a classy family.

Author's Notes, which seem to be traditional: I don't know why, but I've been thinking in fragments lately. So, here is a series of fragments which I absolutely adore. I know, I ought to write more often. I may write again later today. Sharpay, Ryan, Mother, and Father. In a few fragments. And nonwords. But isn't that what great writing is about? Not really, but this is fanfiction, so who cares? Reviews are appreciated. I'll write something happier later, I'm sure.

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Soft pink lipstick. Fervent glances. A pinky held out precariously over his seventh glass of wine.

Class.

Brothers, sisters. Manicured smiles, not smiles. Cold softened kisses on each cheek.

Class.

Their mother's worried glances. Their father's plastered grins. Her brother's cold disjunction. His sister's icy stares.

Class.

The Evans family quietly functions, softly sparingly smiling. Blonde hair and mixed drinks on Sunday afternoon, they laugh at their own jokes.

Seven bedrooms, six and a half baths. Liquor cabinets refilled once a week. Mountains of incomplete college applications. A pair of silver character shoes. Too many quiet moments. Twins too old to share a bed. Romeo and Juliet are calling, covered beneath a cold dark Parisian blanket.

Her hands shake when she applies her nail polish, often tempted to paint off the side of the nail. To destroy the perfection on her hands, for all the world to see. She'd hold them up in the hallway at school, in the country club, in the quiet of her brother's arms, she'd scream as loud as she could, screaming alcoholicsincestfalsehappinessandmoney she'd love to scream so loud to fall apart and have him catch her.

He never falters for a second, always giving into his temptations. Men and women alike, Ryan Evans held them all. His very own sister was his most prized possession, and he'd love to scream it loudly. He'd love to fall apart and kiss her hair, her lips, her breasts, but life stops him at her cheeks, as he holds her quietly as she sobs in his arms, in his bed, his lips on her cheeks, his hands on her back, she shakes and softly shows him her soiled nails.

Perhaps a fragment of connection.

Their father leads the country club with dignification and charismatic smiles. He leads their family with a bottle of vodka and Swiss bank accounts.

Their mother lies about the house, mostly half dressed, staring out of windows with a cigarette in her trembling hand until the time comes for her to lace a string of pearls around her neck, comb through her beautiful blonde hair, and pour her own husband and children drinks.

Class.

So much quietly depends on a shattered bottle on the floor, Sharpay sobbing into her father's mess, and her brother's hand on her back.

So much depends on being something they are not.

Silently, Sharpay disconnects with even her own brother, whose eyes wantonly fall on her figure as she sings in her perfect voice, the one thing she was given perfection in, you were always right beside me.