A/N: This is my first Gilmore Girls fic, so please leave a review telling me what you think! I intend for this to be a oneshot, but if you wish for me to continue with this story and/or have any more ideas, feel free to PM me or leave them in a review. Any and all comments or criticism is welcome and wanted.

This story was inspired by Melethril's "Thank you for being here", specifically the lines: "'The spoken word never brought me anywhere. The written one saved my sanity.'" Please go over and send her some love, all her stories are absolutely amazing!

I tried to make this pretty nondescript; I picture Jess as being about 7 to 8 years old and in elementary school, but I wanted to leave it open to interpretation and different imaginations. Thanks for reading!

Margins

He sat, imperceptibly trembling, listening to his teacher yell at him.

"Why did you do this, Jess?"

He could not muster a response. He was too scared, knowing that she would never hurt him, remembering all the others who asked the same question and did.

Yes, he was scared. He was hurt too, for he thought this teacher had liked him, or at least tolerated him more than others had in the past.

But moreover, he was confused.

She continued after a minute, seeing that there would not be a reply from the young boy: "These aren't your books, Jess."

He almost snorted. Of course they were not his books; buying books was a waste of money and paper, or so he had been told. No, he resorted to getting books from his school library, not that borrowed books were inherently bad, but his school had a variety of books for very young children just learning to read and very few that he deemed to be at his reading level, having learned to read so long ago. Of course, his teachers had never liked that he was reading books that were 'too old' or 'too mature for him'. They would have much preferred him reading Dr. Seuss, not Mr. Dickens. Not to mention he was only allowed to check out three books a week, when there were times he could read as many in a day. Unsurprisingly, they did not like that much either. They would have much preferred, he believed, just another average student.

In all truthfulness, he would have much preferred to be just another average child; the impossible dream.

"And writing in books that don't belong to you, that belong to the school, just isn't allowed. In fact, many people believe you shouldn't write in books at all, but-"

At this he looked up, his confusion finally great enough that he just had to ask: "I thought you said expressing yourself through words was a good thing, was the right thing to do?"

He was referring to a conversation he'd had with her some days prior, when he had used his fists instead of his words. Some kid in his class had made several mean-spirited, disparaging remarks about the state of Jess' clothing and implied it was because his mother was far too lazy to get a job. At the slight of his mother, Jess had gone from indifferent to indignant, insisting that she worked very hard at both of her jobs, but the other kid had realized how to get anger, how to get general emotions, from an otherwise impassive child. His comments continued until Jess put an end to them by punching him in the nose.

His teacher had then explained to him that in any situation, it is better to show emotion through words, not violence. Jess, hoping desperately for her approval, for any approval, absorbed her every word with solemnity, promising her that he would try to do as she requested.

And Jess never went back on his promises.

And now here she was, admonishing him for following through on the very thing she asked him to do.

A spark of realization flashed in her eyes at his comment. "Well, yes, I did say that. But I meant spoken words, Jess, not written words. You should express yourself through what you say."

"Why?" The response was timid. Adults normally did not like when he asked them too many questions, least of all this one.

"Why what?" Her kind tone and expression lessened his fears, encouraging him to continue.

"Why is expression through the written word so bad?"

"It's not that it's bad, Jess; you just shouldn't do it in things that aren't yours, okay?" She had realized the trepidation present in the boy's voice, and knew to proceed more gently.

He allowed himself to show her a tiny smile of appreciation and understanding. "Okay."

It was at this point that she opened the book in question and truly looked at what the young boy had written. A look of astonishment came across her face as she realized that rather than random doodles, the margins of the book were filled with thoughtful comments and questions about the actual content of the book and motivations of the characters.

"Is that what you were writing in the book, Jess? An expression of your emotions and thoughts while reading it?" She continued to flip through the pages, looking up slightly to see his response.

He nodded.

She smiled, setting the book aside. "Okay, tell you what. Next time you have thoughts about a book, you save them and come to me and we'll talk about them. It's been a long time since I've had a good discussion about Oliver Twist, and this way you can practice expressing yourself through speech. In fact, I'm making that your homework, okay Jess? Just do some practice, with a friend or parent. And we can talk about the book tomorrow. Does that sound good to you?"

He grinned and nodded his head vigorously. He knew there was a reason why she was his favorite teacher.

He barely listened to the rest of their conversation, thinking about the possibilities for their book discussions, although he did manage to catch that he had to bring a letter home to his mom explaining that she owed the school money for the book he wrote in, with pen nonetheless.

He found himself in the same sitting and listening position that night, although his trembling had become only slightly more perceptible.

The same "Why did you do this, Jess?" was uttered, but his mother sounded more distressed and angry than his teacher had. However, she did not wait for a response; Jess never spoke during her lectures/yells/monologues/rants, merely choosing to bow his head in shame and stare at his battered shoes.

"You know we have to save our money; I don't get paid for another two weeks, and I need to put food on this table every day." Jess neglected to comment that she did not always put food on the table every day, knowing she tried her best and sometimes just forgot because of how tired she was.

His fear did not come from her words or her tone; it came from the presence of a half-empty vodka bottle on the coffee table. He knew she liked to relax after a long day, but he did not like how hurtful she became while under the influence.

As she continued her rant, he began to see the effect of the vodka on her demeanor; her hand gestures became more animated and her words became harsher, with her tone shifting from upset to angry. At this point, he usually tried to make himself as small as possible while making as little noise as possible for fear of provoking her further.

Tonight, the words of his teacher rang in his brain: "Practice expressing yourself with spoken words, Jess."

He realized the primary emotion he was feeling was not fear, but anger; anger at the fact that she was blaming her inability to pay the twenty-five dollar fee on him. He decided to follow his favorite teacher's advice to use his words.

"You wouldn't have to pay the money if you just bought me books of my own instead of spending all our money on more vodka!"

As soon as the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

He saw the anger burst through her eyes. He felt the impact of her open hand across his face. He heard a resounding thud and his mother's sobs as she collapsed at his feet, immediately apologizing for hitting him, and promising never to do it again, promising that she would stop drinking and get her act together.

He allowed her to hold him as a way of forgiveness. He knew he should not have provoked her as he did.

As he lay in his bed that night, listening to his mother still crying and apologizing in the living room, he determined there would not be a book discussion with his teacher the next day, nor ever. No, he decided. Spoken words are not better than written ones.