Author's Cranky Post-Retail Ramblings- Technically, I'm not supposed to post this here yet. But Ames and I decided to anyway. And since we're the moderaters, we can kind of bend or rewrite the rules as we see fit. Right? This was written for the brand spanking new fic challenge community started by the Ickle Gals, called Build-A-Fic. It rules, we all love it, and anyone who wants to write anything Gilmore related is more than welcome to come and join us. We already have two stories in, and they will soon be joined by more. The link can be found on my Author's Page.

Thanks go out to Ames, for the betaing and the handholding. I don't know what I'd do without you!

Title: Eyes of Envy (Don't Always Glitter Green)

Author: rosie4299

Word Count:

1.) Characters: Rory, April, mentions of Luke and others

2.) Rating: PG

3.) Time Period: Future Fic

4.) Ickle Word: Sparkleability- (adj) – The ability of bling to shine and reflect refractive light.

6.) Random Object: Rain stick

7.) Happening/Event: Baking Cookies

His eyes light up whenever he talks about her. He's so proud of her, of 'his girl.' And he never stops talking about her. Yak, yak, yak, all day long, so that sparkle never really leaves his eyes.

I wish his eyes would do that when he talked about me. But usually I'm just a footnote in a long list of her best qualities or fabulous accomplishments. 'His girl' is always first. I guess I should count myself lucky that I come in second.

It's not fair, really. Technically, I was there first. Doesn't that mean that I should be first in his eyes?

She bakes him cookies. They're those ones in the box by Betty Crocker, where all you have to do is add an egg and some water and presto! You have cookies. She doesn't know how to bake anything from scratch; she's lucky she can do the almost instant ones. Half the time she accidentally leaves an eggshell in there, but Luke just laughs it off, saying that it adds some extra protein or something stupid like that just so he can make her smile at him like he hung the moon.

It's not like we're that different, either. We both grew up the smart little girls of wildly fabulous and endlessly interesting women who still manage to overshadow their daughters, except in Luke's eyes. He always says that there's something special about us.

She's not smarter than me. We both went to great schools in our youths, and we both got into Yale. We're on an equal playing field when it comes to amazing our teachers and astounding our peers, making them believe that we'd do nothing less than something great.

And she's not prettier than me, either. Her brown hair is a little shinier, but that's about it. She's got a smattering of freckles across her nose, just like I do. Her big eyes are surrounded by long, thick lashes, not dissimilar to my own. She's only an inch or so taller than I am, and maybe she takes a few more risks with her wardrobe, but really we're not so different.

So why is it that she can make Luke's eyes light up like that? What is it that makes her that little something more than me? Why does she get to be the one that he likes best?

I can't even fault her for it either, because she's never been anything but nice to me. Ever since our families blended together, she's been just like I always thought a sister should be. We go to the movies and talk all the time on the telephone, about anything and everything under the sun. She knows all sorts of interesting things about books that only she has ever read, and she loves to talk about them as much as she loves to talk about different scientific studies that are currently being done.

She's so sugary sweet ninety-nine percent of the time, that it almost seems like I must be imagining that other one percent when she gives me this look that just screams that she knows that she's his favorite and that I'll never ever catch up, no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try. But it's in those moments that I want to whack her in the back of the head with that rain stick my mom found in some antique store years ago and assume my rightful place in my own father's life.

She has the necklace.

She, who isn't really my sister--who isn't really my father's daughter--has a piece of my family that I will never have, because my own father gave it to her, along with his heart. She wears it all the time, sliding the little pearl along the chain whenever she's deep in thought. I watch it sometimes, the unconscious movement of the pendent, back and forth and back and forth in front of her, the faint scratching of metal on metal echoing in my ears so loud sometimes that I want to rip it off her neck.

I guess I shouldn't blame her, I mean, it's not her fault that she was there and I was not. I guess I should probably blame my mother, for keeping us apart for so long, for never telling him about me. Maybe if she had, I would have had a Happy Birthday coffee cake, and he'd know exactly what my Wednesday usual was, because I'd have been there where I was supposed to belong.

Hey, maybe then he'd have carted my mattress back and forth, and back and forth again when I moved into the freshmen dorms. Unfortunately, I'll never really know the answer to that, because my stepsister, in her infinite wisdom, called to get the old University of Connecticut mattress taken away so that my brand-spanking new one could just be placed easily inside by Luke and my future brother-in-law.

Is he really my brother-in-law if he's marrying a girl who's not really my sister? Does this make him my family, or the husband of the daughter of the woman who married my dad? Tristan seems nice enough, and he's from some important family in Hartford. They went to school together, she and him, but apparently, they didn't like each other much back in those days. Not that you could possibly tell that from the way they get along now. Luke's always grumbling about the two of them, how he keeps walking in on them and their lovey-dovey displays of affection. My father is always grumbling about something under his breath whenever Tristan's around.

The way he treats the men in her life hasn't changed too much in the past ten years, if the townsfolk are to be believed. Luke has hated all the men in her life, including his own nephew. I overheard him talking to my stepmother once, about how no one would ever be good enough for her, except maybe a prince with a castle and a fleet of white horses. I guess there weren't any of those available though, because she had to settle for the future head of a Fortune 500 company.

Luke gets along really well with my boyfriend Mitch. They're both baseball fans and know all the Red Sox stats. All they do is sit there and compare fantasy lineups that will never ever happen, considering Ted Williams is long since dead, his head cryogenically frozen in some laboratory, and the rest have gone on to more successful franchises, like the Yankees.

Tristan is a baseball fan too. He's a Yankee fan. Yet another reason in a long line of reasons for my father to grumble and grouse about the poor guy.

He's walking her down the aisle, you know. I don't know why her real father isn't doing it, but there were some hushed conversations between her and my stepmom a few weeks ago, right after a particularly loud phone call with Christopher. That's her dad, not that he ever seems to be around. I guess he used to be, a few years ago when her parents reconciled for a little while, but when that crumbled he faded away into the background once again.

All anyone ever seems to want to talk about anymore is the upcoming nuptials. Seriously, how can a wedding seem to overtake an entire town? Ms. Patty's always floating into the diner, chiding Rory about her dance lessons. Apparently there is something that my stepsister can't do. Not that I'm much better at it than she is, but at least I don't have to utter the steps under my breath as I turn around the floor.

The dress she picked out for me isn't that bad, either. She made me a bridesmaid. I'm not a fan of dresses, but there aren't bows or lace or anything all over the front, so I guess that's something. And it is her wedding, after all, so I don't really feel like I have a right to complain about the wardrobe.

Her mom's best friend, Sookie, keeps popping over with different samples for her to try out for the reception. They've been having a devil of a time trying to pick out a cake. Tristan doesn't want anything but chocolate, and Rory thinks that they should do vanilla to appease everyone. Tristan thinks that it's their wedding and that it's about them and what they want. With the way he says it, I almost think that he doesn't get too much say in a lot of other things in his life and is trying to make up for whatever past decisions were made for him with the wedding cake.

Dad does nothing but grumble about the whole process from behind the counter at the diner. That's where the bulk of the planning takes place. Lorelai and Rory and Sookie, and sometimes Rory's best friend Lane, commandeer two of the tables and spread all the matrimonial paraphernalia across the tops, discussing the merits of sugared almonds and which shade of white will look best against Rory's porcelain skin.

They're doing it right now, in fact. Except it's seating chart time, and they have three tables held hostage. They've been there for two hours so far, and Tristan looks like he wants to shove the butter knife he's been playing with through his temple. Every once in awhile, Rory drags him along to these planning sessions, and every time he looks as though he'd rather have a root canal.

Dad started mumbling something about Aunt Joonie and Uncle Momo when Tristan's mother turned around and asked how he knew the family. I've never seen anyone shut him up like that before. He looked at her like she'd just splashed the iced tea he'd just served her in his face, but then Rory flashed him a smile and asked him if Uncle Momo was off his meds again, and all was right with the world once more.

I don't know how she does it. She's not any better than me, she's not smarter or prettier or anything. And it's not like my Dad doesn't love me. I know he does. I can see it when he swells with pride whenever I tell him about my latest test score or that I finally mastered the art of parallel parking. He lets me work on my homework at the counter, even when it's busy and there isn't a seat to be had.

So why do I feel like this, when I see him staring down at this girl who may not really be his daughter, but is in all the ways that count? Why do I feel like I get second place in my own father's heart when I know that I'm the only one keeping score? Why should I care that she can get him to say all those make believe words she and her mother come up with, like the time they included him in the discussion of the sparkleability factor of Rory's engagement ring? He stayed, even though he looked like he'd rather be anywhere else but where he was.

I can't help but wonder if he'd do that for me. Would he stay there and chat with my mom and my best friend about what the inscription on the inside of the band said about his future son-in-law? I feel like I should know the answer, but I don't.

Maybe I'm not the only one that feels like this. Maybe all younger sisters feel this way about their slightly better, slightly more perfect older counterparts. Perhaps I'm not as alone as I feel. I may not be on the outside looking in. Maybe I'm on the inside with the rest of the Jan Bradys of the world. Maybe they're on the outside, Luke and Rory, and they don't even know it, because they're too distracted by each other and their wonderful not-quite father/daughter relationship.

Would I feel better if I stood up on top of her seating charts and screamed 'Rory! Rory! Rory!' at the top of my lungs, sending a shower of little multi-colored pins to the floor? Would it really help me to stamp my feet, or to shout out to the world that it's not fair that she gets my dad and I get screwed? To slap my thighs and throw a tantrum, letting everyone in the universe know that there is something wrong with this picture?

Somehow, I think not.

So instead of becoming that bratty two-year-old that I fantasize about turning into, I sit here, at the counter, ignoring my Bioethics paper to stare at Rory and Luke, as they laugh together over some lame joke that Lorelai cracked.

Maybe I'll always feel like this. I hope not. I hope that one day I'll wake up and realize that the grass isn't greener on Rory's side of life. I don't know. I guess maybe the eyes of envy don't always glitter green, like the emeralds on the bracelet of my grandmother's that Luke gave to Rory for her graduation. I guess sometimes, when they're second best, they have to glean black, like the onyx in the ring my father gave me for my sweet sixteen.