Ten Index Cards

By Bethany Inc.

Summary: Set in the Chilton era; A class assignment proves to be the only way she'll ever admit that there might be something there, hidden deep beneath the surface.— Trory

Author Note: Yes, I am well aware that my reader's would rather have me update one of my non-one-shot stories, and yes, I am aware that I have quite a few going, but when I get the inspiration for something new, I grab it before I can forget it—or write something before someone else gets the same inspiration. I'm a sucker for all things different.

I'm an avid Trory reader, and I can honestly tell you I have read every Trory ( that's written well, because some of the grammar just bites and turns me off from reading it ) with a rating T and M. It's sad, but there's nothing new for me out there to read anymore.

So, here we go:

---the Inc.---

You got my number, but I always knew the score

Who did you think I was?

Here is a line that you won't understand

I'm half of the boy but twice the man

Carry the weight of the world in the palm of my hand

Who did you think I was?

---John Mayer, Who Did You Think I was

---the Inc.---

Chapter One: Sweet Talking and Aftershave

"I want you all to take ten index cards as they're passed along, and no—I'm not telling you what they are for until everyone has ten index cards sitting on their desk." Charles Ferris, Head of the English department at Chilton Preparatory, and the AP, senior English class professor, told his students as he walked along the isles of desk, "Great. Does everyone have their cards?"

Murmurs of yes echoed in the classroom. With a nod of his head, he walked back to the front of the classroom, and stood in the direct center, seeming to make eye contact with each and every one of his students. "Write your names in the top left corner of the margin," a pause, "And take the rubber band on your desk and tie your cards together. Pass them up please, and yes, Mr. Pravia, there is a very good reason why we're doing this," he cut off the impending question with a smile, and collected the piles of cards from each person in the front row.

"As I come around, I'm going to place someone else's cards on your desk, and over the next ten school days you'll be observing them from a distance, writing ten solitary facts, intimate, or painfully obvious, on the index cards. I want one fact on each card—Yes, Louise?"

"Can they be simple, like, 'He has blue eyes'? Or, 'he's a great kisser'?"

"They can be anything you want, as long as they're facts you learn from observing—if you say, go up to Mr. Pravia here, and kiss him to learn whether or not he's a great kisser directly after class, it won't count."

"Like I'd kiss him anyway," Louise grimaced, turning away from Mr. Ferris, and glancing around the males in the classroom.

"Anyway," he continued, "Ten school days, and ten facts."

The classroom was silent as he continued to walk up and down the isles, shifting through the stack of index cards in his hands before he placed one on each of the student's desks, "You are not allowed to tell anyone, especially the person of whom you are observing, whose cards you have. It's a lesson in secrecy—"

"And stalking," Tristan piped up, a smirk growing on his face as Mr. Ferris shot him a warning look.

"If you put it so crudely, Mr. DuGrey, then yes. You will be 'stalking' one of your classmates." Mr. Ferris glanced at the clock above the dork, and smirked, "I advise you not to look at your cards until you are safely away from everyone in this classroom. Good luck—" the bell rang, "And I will see you all on Monday."

Tristan DuGrey picked up the rubber-band bound index cards on his desk, and shoved them into his blazer pocket. He grabbed his books off his desk, and followed the throng of his classmates out of the door, throwing a smirk to his teacher.

Tristan DuGrey had given everyone in the tri-county area eighteen years to get used to his sarcastic remarks, unrelenting teasing and torture, and impossibly good looks. And when people told him he was impossibly good-looking, he took it with a smirk, a raised eyebrow, and the possibility of a romp in his king-sized bed.

He was impossible, and not just in the looks department, but within the attitude sector as well. While his remarks, teasing and his looks matured, his attitude had not. Tristan DuGrey was famous for getting everything he wanted, girls included. If he was feeling bored, a new car would find its way into his father's garage or driveway. Or a new Rolex watched would find it's way onto his right wrist.

He got his way, and everything he'd ever wanted; unless, of course, you were Rory Gilmore. Seemingly unimpressed by his money and status. Definitely unimpressed by his looks, and unremitting mockery and teasing.

The one thing he had never gotten when he had asked for it, and she was still as tough to crack as the first day he made his first bawdy insinuation towards her.

Stopping in front of his locker, he spun in the combination, 44-30-16, and opened the cool, blue metal door. Shoving his English things onto the top of the pile on the top shelf of the locker, he pulled out the index cards from his blazer, and felt his smirk crawl over his face.

Written in spiraling, neat hand-writing was 'Rory Gilmore'. Oh, how life had a way of mocking him.

With a glance across the hallway, and down twenty feet to his left, he spotted her at her locker; her head resting against the metal, and her hands on either side of her pretty face. Shaking his head, he pulled a ball-point pen out of his pocket, clicked it open and wrote with his left hand, on the very first card:

Day One's Fact:

· She sweet talks her locker into opening after it doesn't open on the first try.

Placing the cards on the top of his growing pile of books, he slammed his locker closed. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, and made his way over to Rory Gilmore, a cocky smirk on his lips that seemed to never leave. He slammed his fist half-a-foot above her head on her locker, and watched as she looked up, her eyes catching his own in a staring contest.

"You could have hit my head."

"I have good aim."

Scoffing, she pushed away from her locker, and broke her gaze away from him, spinning her own combination into the lock. Pausing for a second, she murmured her love for the metal door before pulling up on the latch. It opened, just as it always did after Tristan connected his fist to it, "Thanks," she mumbled, not meeting his gaze as she placed her things away in the metal alcove.

"See you Monday, Mary," Tristan breathed into her ear as he breezed past her.

Rory rubbed her temples, and let out a whimper of frustration as she piled all of the books she'd need to complete her homework over the weekend. Zipping the large pocket on her yellow backpack, she stood, swinging it over her shoulder. She slammed her locker closed, and placed her hand inside of her blazer pocket, fingering the index cards that lay next to her car keys.

Curiosity getting the best of her, she pulled the cards out of her pocket, her eyes meeting the blank white side of the pile. Bracing herself for the worst, she flipped the cards over and felt a groan escape her lips.

"Great," she muttered after reading the name. "DuGrey."

Dropping her bag onto the floor, she opened one of the smaller pockets and began fishing for a pen. After successfully finding one, she pulled the rubber band off of the index cards, and wrote her first fact:

Day One:

--He smells like soap and aftershave

She stared at her handwriting for a second before binding the index cards together again with the rubber band. Placing them back into her blazer pocket, along with her pen, she sighed. Picking her backpack up, yet again, she swung it over her shoulder and retrieved her car keys out of her pocket, making her way towards the front doors of Chilton Preparatory.