Title: When Opportunity Knocks
Author: BehrBeMine
Feedback: Yes please! behrbemine@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Don't sue, I'll cry. ;p
Summary: Madeline's party (from 'The Breakup, Part 2') turns out a little different. Told from Tristan's POV.
Rating: PG-13
Distribution: To archive anywhere, just ask.
Classification: Tristan/Rory
Spoilers: 'Breakup, Part 2'
Thanks: Thanks *so* much to the all-wonderful Aurora for beta reading this for me. Big, big hugs!
Dedication: For all the Trories out there who have remained loyal despite a now impossibility.
Author's Note: Humor me here – I changed Tristan's invite (took place in 'Star-Crossed Lovers and Other Strangers') for the sake of the fiction. I think it should've happened this way instead. ;)
Another Note: I wrote this several months back and realize that had I posted it at that time, there would no doubt have been a better response than I'm anticipating. But do me a favor and back your mind up a bit to the season one Tristan and Rory butterflies and enjoy this "what if" scenario just for kicks.
Rory Gilmore. Sometimes I hate that girl. I'm infatuated with her, but I hate her. Without even trying, she's cast me in this role of the delusional villain, watching her every move almost torturously, refusing to give up hope that something might happen even after it seems all hope should have died out long ago.
It has. Died out, that is. But it always manages to get resparked. Not on purpose, of course. It just happens. She'll arrive at the doorway of English class, unaware that she's being watched. And then she'll sit down and pull out a stack of notes that have been highlighted, marked and re-marked, even sometimes rewritten. Such a nerdy thing to do, and yet it fascinates me.
She doesn't just go over notes like a normal girl, smacking a piece of gum in her mouth and subconsciously twirling a strand of hair around her finger - - no, instead she rivets all her attention on the words before her, allowing herself to become completely caught up in the meaning of all those facts and unnecessary theories. I could do anything from my desk that's a seat back and a row over - - drum out some random irritating rhythm on the surface of my desk with my fingers, flick balled-up pieces of paper toward the front of the room, send pens flying at warp speed toward the ceiling - - and she wouldn't even flinch. I know this because it happens, day after day after day.
You'd think this would annoy me. It does, somewhat. It's infuriating to me that I have to work so hard to get a girl's attention, especially when I've never had to work this hard at it before. But in a sense I like it; I enjoy the challenge. It makes it all that more rewarding when I finally am able to break through her intellectual barrier and pull her back into the here-and-now. She doesn't give me much satisfaction, merely looks to see who's thrown the eraser at her hair, frowns my way and then turns back around. I don't know why she bothers looking anymore, she must know it's always me.
I'm not sure what it is about her that makes her so appealing to me. It couldn't be just the fact that she's the only female of the tenth grade class that doesn't swoon when I take some time out of my busy schedule to stop by her in the hall. No, that can't be it. If there weren't more to it, I would have given up out of boredom months ago. There's something that exists between she and I that continues to drive me crazy.
She's not my type of girl. That's where the most humor lies in this entire scenario. Everyone knows what kinds of girls I hook up with every week. After a certain point I've come to realize they're all like clones of each other separated only by their different names. Sure, some have blonde hair, some have darker hair, some kiss open-mouthed, some don't. But the general type of girls I've made out with in numerous broom closets and empty bedrooms is the same. Not sure what that type is, but they're all a part of it.
And that's why it's so strange that I would fall so hard for Rory, this smart-as-hell, do-gooder, dangerously witty, independent, amazingly complex girl. Then again, perhaps that's just the thing. After awhile of conquering all without having to try, "all" tends to become quite boring. Chilton girls I've conquered; Rory I have not. She goes to school with these same girls every day, but she's managed to stay the way she was when she first arrived. And that's amazing to me. She's so sure of who she wants to be that she hasn't let any of the money, the social importance, the all-out different society steer her away from anything that she's always been. A breath of fresh air is what it is.
Somebody turn my mind off. This is too tiring. It's exhausting trying to sort out these unsolved mysteries in my head. I'm doomed to wander the hallways of Chilton for the next two years of highschool, continuing to search for some confirmation that my feelings aren't completely one-sided, and yet somehow in the end I realize I'll come out disappointed. But damned if I can give up. Even when it turns out badly, I keep coming back. Like last week...
- - -
It was another Friday afternoon at Chilton, and I sat miserable as always in one of the stuffiest classrooms, down one of the stuffiest hallways, with one of the stuffiest teachers. Mr. Medina's face wore a goofy grin that spread from one ear to the other as he held up a stack of paper for all to see.
"What is it I hold in my hands?" he questioned a bit too exuberantly. I rolled my eyes and slouched down in my chair, looking for something more interesting to stare at. When no one took a stab at his question, he answered it for us. "A pop quiz, ladies and gents. Clear your desks and take out a pencil. If it needs sharpening, do it now. No disturbances during the quiz."
I added my groans to those that erupted around the classroom and lazily slid my binder to the floor. My hopes that our English teacher would come down with sudden Amnesia were dashed. He gave a "pop quiz" every Friday, seeming to think we have such short-term memories that we wouldn't see it coming, without fail, every week.
The shiny top of my desk drew in my attention as I sent my pencil whirling around in a continuous circle, looking on with forced interest. Mr. Medina made his way down the aisle, plopping a thin packet of paper on each desk. "Mr. DuGrey," he began as he stopped by mine, waiting until I lifted my eyes to continue. "I hope you've studied for this one."
Not in a million years. "Yes, Sir," I answered in a monotone. He dropped the packet to my desk top, sending the waft of new paper to me. Hate that smell.
After all the quizzes were passed out, he headed back to the front of the room and took a seat at his desk. "You may begin." I sighed and put my pencil to the line next to the "Name" prompt at the top of the page, scribbling out "Tristan" as illegibly as must be humanly possible. From there, the words might as well have been Greek for all the meaning they held for me.
Clicking my tongue obnoxiously, I glanced up to Rory Gilmore's desk to see her carefully wording an answer. She stopped to erase something, sending a flurry of eraser particles into the aisle with a sweep of her hand, before re-writing whatever it was she messed up on. Raising my eyebrows, I looked to my left to see Paris Gellar feverishly scribbling on her quiz, her pencil a yellow blur. Behind her, Madeline sat looking confused. That girl's always confused.
"Mr. DuGrey," Mr. Medina said in what I'll call a whine. "Eyes on your own paper." Annoyed, I turned my attention back to my quiz. So many words... All so boring. "Somebody shoot me now" kept spinning amidst my thoughts.
Question one: Describe in detail how the barriers that stood in the way of Romeo and Juliet's romance relate to a situation in the present.
Barriers that stood in the way of romance... This might have been easier to answer if I'd read the book. Or maybe if I'd seen the chick-flick movie. Romeo and Juliet - - what's to know? They lived, they loved, they died. The end.
I looked up at the circular wall clock that was above the doorway. The second hand seemed to be in slow motion. Clocks tick so slowly until they're nearing curfew. Below the clock stood the heavy wooden door which represented the only exit. Out there was freedom. In here was torture. Forty-eight minutes until weekend freedom, forty-eight to go...
"Psst!" I turned my head as I was poked in the shoulder. Whirling around in my seat, I was confronted by Louise. She held a folded up piece of paper out to me. "Madeline's having a party on Saturday," she said in a low voice. "Come, alright?"
"I might," I said with nonchalance, taking the flyer from her and turning back around to unfold it. I'm popular. I promise nothing. At least not directly.
But of course I was going to go.
- - -
So there I was, minding my own business, attending a party that could best be classified as an exact replica of all the ones I'd already been at this year. My mood was terrible; cute-as-a-button Summer, definitely the catch of the week, was being the ultimate bitch at a time when I really wasn't up to dealing with it. Obviously my hopes for a laid-back grope-session weren't going to pan out. I was going to be forced to actually entertain myself.
For awhile I was reduced to a wall ornament, slouching lazily with the geeks near the front door, casting disdainful glances at Summer as she flirted with everyone wearing pants. Interesting, that flirting seemed so much more appealing when it was directed at me a few days prior. Now it just looked pathetic.
But suddenly my boredom was interrupted as Rory Gilmore entered through the heavy double-doors a few feet away. She had an arm laced around that of a short Korean girl whom I'd never seen before. Figured it was somebody from that town she lives in.
"Thanks for coming with me, Lane," Rory began with a sigh.
"For the fourth time, you're welcome," her friend answered as she looked around in awe. "So this is how the high-and-mighty party, huh? Impressive." Surveying the surroundings, she gasped and pointed to a table that supported a few dozen half-empty plastic cups. "I think my mother sold that." From my spot near the wall, I raised my eyebrows.
"Not likely," reasoned Rory as she urged her friend forward. "Most people around here have never, will never, wouldn't dare stoop to visiting Stars Hollow. And they don't realize it exists."
"Poor fools."
"They keep to their own side of the tracks." So my assumptions were right. This Lane girl was from Rory's town. That town where she spends too much of her time with that lame-ass boyfriend of hers.
Honestly I was relieved to see her; maybe the night wouldn't be so terrible after all. "Mary," I cooed, tracing a finger along her shoulder as I came up from behind. "Come to party with the big guns?"
She rolled her eyes. "Oh great. You're here."
"Lucky for you," I added, which resulted in another roll of the eyes. Such beautiful blue eyes. "So what's this?" I asked, tilting my chin up toward her friend. "Moral support?"
"I'm Lane," her friend cut in, sounding a bit defensive. "Rory's best friend."
"Good for you. Punch, ladies?" Reaching for two cups full of the sparkling red liquid on the table behind me, I held them out in offering.
"I don't drink punch," the Lane girl said. What a strange person. Though I must give her some credit, because obviously she sensed I wanted her to leave. She shifted her weight in an uncomfortable way, sharing the momentary silence that I'd rather have been between Rory and I alone.
I stared and stared at this so-called best friend, spelling her last name out in my head. L-a-n-e. Lane. It made me think of a dirt road. Inside I concocted a ridiculous scenario involving her turning into a lane and slithering off on her own. It seemed like that was the only way she was going to get lost. I adopted the six year-old mindframe as I closed my eyes, willing her to go away.
As if reading my mind, Henry, who I sit next to in Biology, made his way over to us, immediately jumping into friendly small talk. Lane was polite and talked back to him, answering his questions, but she was distracted. She wouldn't take her eyes from Rory except to occasionally glance my way and then over to Henry to smile slightly and nod.
When he [finally] asked Lane to dance, she waited for the go-ahead from Rory who nodded and said, "Have fun. Don't trip." And with that, the Korean couple headed off into the crowd of teens pretending they could dance.
Shrugging to pull off my usual nonchalance, I kept my eyes focused on Rory as I held up one of the cups. "So you want this or not?"
I was a bit surprised when she took it, wrinkling her nose after a small sip. "This tastes funny."
"It does not," I argued, gulping down some from the cup I still held in my hand. She didn't even try arguing back. Instead, she brought the cup to her lips and swallowed the rest all in one gulp. I widened my eyes as I looked on. "Uh... more?" I asked when she looked unsure of what to do next. She nodded.
Three cups later, she followed me into a less crowded section of the house. I was a bit lightheaded, but so was she. She giggled with abandon as we sat down on a couch. An expensive one at that, one of those pieces of furniture that your parents buy to look at, but never to touch. But as I plopped down on one of the cushions, my plastic cup tipped a bit and a substantial amount of red liquid overflowed to place what will probably be a permanent stain on the arm of the couch. I just stared for a few seconds, until Rory and I both broke out into laughter. The unintelligent kind that comes about when you're more than a bit tipsy.
It was interesting seeing her like this. She's never like this. "What's the matter with you?" I asked, confused, as soon as I got some control over my laughter. "Since when do you act the same as the masses?"
She waved a hand my way as if flicking my words out of sight. Her voice was slurred slightly, thick with the intoxication of the spiked punch. I should know that it was spiked, after all, I'm the one who spiked it. "For your information, I can be just like everybody else once in awhile," she informed me.
Tired of drinking, I tossed the half-filled cup over my shoulder, hearing it splash against the wall. I propped my feet on the dark-wood coffee table, shifting my weight to get more comfortable. It was then that I realized just why people never sit on such expensive couches. They don't cushion worth a damn.
"You're not like just everybody else," I said finally. "No matter how 'normal' you try to be, you'll never be lowered to the level of us. We're rich brats, baby." My voice was thick with the alcohol that flowed freely through my bloodstream.
"Rich, un-rich. Whatever." She looked around and frowned. "What did I do with my punch?"
A giggle rose up from my throat. "I dunno." I looked over to her. She sat with her legs crossed politely despite her clouded state of mind. A stray ringlet of hair had fallen over her face in a becoming way, and although my hand itched to tuck it back into place just to see if her hair really was as silky as I imagined it to be, I fought the urge. "So where's your boyfriend? Begging for loose change?"
She sighed in the way that is undoubtedly Rory. "I don't want to talk about my boyfriend."
Suddenly I felt stupid for bringing him up because her face took on such a sad, wistful look. I couldn't resist her any longer. Sitting up, I reached a hand out to cover hers that was placed lazily on the high-back of the couch. Leaning in toward her, my words came out as a whisper. "Okay, we won't talk about your boyfriend."
I half-expected her to pull back and slap my face for leaning in so close, and perhaps she would have if her system weren't laced with no doubt the only alcohol she'd ever consumed. But she didn't pull back at all, she just sat still and waited for my lips to meet hers.
Every time you kiss someone, you're supposed to see stars. I wonder if she saw them when she kissed me. I wonder if she saw them when she kissed her boyfriend. I guess it's not my place to know. But even if she didn't see those stars that all those ridiculous fairy tales drone on about, I did.
Her lips were soft, like rose petals made of satin. Alcohol always urges me to be daring, and slowly I pried her lips open with my tongue, begging for entrance. She didn't deny it. I felt my heart drumming like a continuous rhythm of gunshots as I tasted her, tasted the faintness of the fruity punch that still existed on her pink tongue.
Now I'm no virgin. I've been around the block six times. I'm a guy, I can't help it. Sex is like an addiction; once you get a taste of it, you can't think of anything else but wanting more. And you're never satisfied, because in the end, you know you'll want it again.
Sex and Rory is a complicated thing to consider. I mean of course I'd considered it. Multiple times, in fact. But she's so innocent. Thinking about anybody going so far with her is almost an automatic contradiction. But despite that, it was all that was on my mind as I skillfully angled her body down onto the couch, placing my full weight on top of her.
Suddenly a thought occurred to me, and I pulled away momentarily, breathing heavily. "So, you on the pill or what?"
Her breathing matched mine as she opened her eyes, her long eyelashes accentuating the beauty of her face, and sending a thrill coursing through my veins at seeing her beneath me. "What?... The pill. Oh. No."
She spoke so slowly, it was like some twisted form of torture, making me wait for what seemed forever until I could press my lips to hers again. She might have wanted to say more, but I silenced her, softly caressing her cheek as my tongue danced with hers. In short intervals, I spoke, unable to wait long before seizing her lips again. "I thought all girls were on the pill. A right-of-passage sort of thing."
"Well I'm not," she began breathlessly, punctuating the sentence with a short kiss. "I don't usually do this, you know." More kisses.
"Yeah," I said knowingly.
Just as I'd suspected, her hair was silky soft. I couldn't keep my hands away from it. She spoke again, "But you do it all the time."
"Yeah..."
"I always knew there must've been a reason... for just kissing someone," Rory's voice sounded so small, and she stopped to kiss me for the millionth time, "and losing yourself in their touch at some random party you won't even remember in the morning."
"Of course there's a reason," I confirmed. "It feels so damn good." It felt as though the entire world had disappeared from beneath my feet as I got lost in the feeling of having her in my arms. As my lips worked their magic, I couldn't help wondering if this was really happening, or if I'd shoot up in bed any minute to find my sheets soaked.
But it was just as I'd known it would be. How many girls had I kissed? And none had given me such an amazing feeling. Rory was different; Rory was... she drove me insane. The silky strands of dark hair that framed her innocent face, the bluest of blue eyes that pierced down to your very soul. Her kiss was like nothing I'd ever felt before, and all of the little quirks she had, all of those annoying slash amazing things about her flashed behind my closed eyes.
The way she can sit beneath a tree on the enormous campus, immersed in her book of the week, so taken by it that she isn't the least bit distracted by the swarms of noisy teenagers all around her. The way she buys the school lunch everyday and yet it seems the only reason is so that she can complain about how terrible it all looks. The way she chooses the strangest times to strike up a conversation with Paris, as though the two were the best of friends, rather than the sworn enemies they both know they'll always be.
The way she acts annoyed when I bug her in the hallways, in classrooms, at lunchtime. The way she raises her voice an octave to let me know I'm on her last nerve. The way she doesn't acknowledge me walking by her in the hall unless I make her. And yet the way she never does just walk away, she stays and listens to all my quips that she must know are for the sole purpose of getting under her skin. Never once has she chosen to simply ignore them, and ignore me, which is the solution to getting me to stay away from someone. She doles out those tiny increments of satisfaction that will keep me coming back for months in the future.
Sometimes I wonder if she does those things on purpose. And if she does, then she might just be a force worth fighting for after all.
I ached to feel myself inside of her, to take her to the heights I know she's never been shown before. "God, Rory... how do you do this to me? You set my body on fire."
Her teeth gently bit down on my bottom lip before she eased away and opened her eyes to stare into mine. Looking back, I almost wish she wouldn't have done that. Drunk as I was, there wasn't enough alcohol in my system to completely sway my better judgment. Better judgment is a thing I hate to have when a girl is ready and I'm ready to do the greatest thing on earth.
But her eyes were so trusting and so innocent, and when I stopped to look I could see that this was all fueled by pain. There was a reason she didn't want to talk about that dim-witted boyfriend of hers. And because she was upset about it, she drowned her sorrows in the punch, and now she was drowning them in me.
I cursed under my breath, wanting this goddamn conscience of mine to take a permanent hike. I had her, I could do whatever I wanted, she was mine... But I didn't.
Exhaling slowly, I stood up, a little too quickly, as I swayed a bit before regaining my balance. She looked confused, but I held my hand out to her body that was still laying on the couch. When her small hand grasped onto mine, I pulled her up and led her to Lane who apparently was just beginning to have fun.
I placed a hand protectively on Rory's lower back, keeping her body steady as I motioned her friend over to where the two of us were standing. "Take her home," I ordered in a strange tone of voice. She looked to Rory and appeared to be ready to say something, but I cut her off. "Just do it. She's gonna have one hell of a headache in the morning."
Her friend laced her arm through Rory's and headed out toward the front doors. Rory turned around to glance at me over her shoulder, and I'm not sure how to describe her face except that it was confused. I stood trying to decide whether or not I wanted her to remember this in the morning.
I don't know if I'll get another chance with Rory Gilmore. But annoying as it was to be the good guy and send her home before taking advantage of her, I know it was the right thing to do. I didn't get lucky that night, but as I walked unsteadily along the sidewalk and found my way home, I could still taste her on my lips. Guess when it comes to Rory, that's as lucky as a guy can get.
- -
end
Author: BehrBeMine
Feedback: Yes please! behrbemine@hotmail.com
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Don't sue, I'll cry. ;p
Summary: Madeline's party (from 'The Breakup, Part 2') turns out a little different. Told from Tristan's POV.
Rating: PG-13
Distribution: To archive anywhere, just ask.
Classification: Tristan/Rory
Spoilers: 'Breakup, Part 2'
Thanks: Thanks *so* much to the all-wonderful Aurora for beta reading this for me. Big, big hugs!
Dedication: For all the Trories out there who have remained loyal despite a now impossibility.
Author's Note: Humor me here – I changed Tristan's invite (took place in 'Star-Crossed Lovers and Other Strangers') for the sake of the fiction. I think it should've happened this way instead. ;)
Another Note: I wrote this several months back and realize that had I posted it at that time, there would no doubt have been a better response than I'm anticipating. But do me a favor and back your mind up a bit to the season one Tristan and Rory butterflies and enjoy this "what if" scenario just for kicks.
Rory Gilmore. Sometimes I hate that girl. I'm infatuated with her, but I hate her. Without even trying, she's cast me in this role of the delusional villain, watching her every move almost torturously, refusing to give up hope that something might happen even after it seems all hope should have died out long ago.
It has. Died out, that is. But it always manages to get resparked. Not on purpose, of course. It just happens. She'll arrive at the doorway of English class, unaware that she's being watched. And then she'll sit down and pull out a stack of notes that have been highlighted, marked and re-marked, even sometimes rewritten. Such a nerdy thing to do, and yet it fascinates me.
She doesn't just go over notes like a normal girl, smacking a piece of gum in her mouth and subconsciously twirling a strand of hair around her finger - - no, instead she rivets all her attention on the words before her, allowing herself to become completely caught up in the meaning of all those facts and unnecessary theories. I could do anything from my desk that's a seat back and a row over - - drum out some random irritating rhythm on the surface of my desk with my fingers, flick balled-up pieces of paper toward the front of the room, send pens flying at warp speed toward the ceiling - - and she wouldn't even flinch. I know this because it happens, day after day after day.
You'd think this would annoy me. It does, somewhat. It's infuriating to me that I have to work so hard to get a girl's attention, especially when I've never had to work this hard at it before. But in a sense I like it; I enjoy the challenge. It makes it all that more rewarding when I finally am able to break through her intellectual barrier and pull her back into the here-and-now. She doesn't give me much satisfaction, merely looks to see who's thrown the eraser at her hair, frowns my way and then turns back around. I don't know why she bothers looking anymore, she must know it's always me.
I'm not sure what it is about her that makes her so appealing to me. It couldn't be just the fact that she's the only female of the tenth grade class that doesn't swoon when I take some time out of my busy schedule to stop by her in the hall. No, that can't be it. If there weren't more to it, I would have given up out of boredom months ago. There's something that exists between she and I that continues to drive me crazy.
She's not my type of girl. That's where the most humor lies in this entire scenario. Everyone knows what kinds of girls I hook up with every week. After a certain point I've come to realize they're all like clones of each other separated only by their different names. Sure, some have blonde hair, some have darker hair, some kiss open-mouthed, some don't. But the general type of girls I've made out with in numerous broom closets and empty bedrooms is the same. Not sure what that type is, but they're all a part of it.
And that's why it's so strange that I would fall so hard for Rory, this smart-as-hell, do-gooder, dangerously witty, independent, amazingly complex girl. Then again, perhaps that's just the thing. After awhile of conquering all without having to try, "all" tends to become quite boring. Chilton girls I've conquered; Rory I have not. She goes to school with these same girls every day, but she's managed to stay the way she was when she first arrived. And that's amazing to me. She's so sure of who she wants to be that she hasn't let any of the money, the social importance, the all-out different society steer her away from anything that she's always been. A breath of fresh air is what it is.
Somebody turn my mind off. This is too tiring. It's exhausting trying to sort out these unsolved mysteries in my head. I'm doomed to wander the hallways of Chilton for the next two years of highschool, continuing to search for some confirmation that my feelings aren't completely one-sided, and yet somehow in the end I realize I'll come out disappointed. But damned if I can give up. Even when it turns out badly, I keep coming back. Like last week...
- - -
It was another Friday afternoon at Chilton, and I sat miserable as always in one of the stuffiest classrooms, down one of the stuffiest hallways, with one of the stuffiest teachers. Mr. Medina's face wore a goofy grin that spread from one ear to the other as he held up a stack of paper for all to see.
"What is it I hold in my hands?" he questioned a bit too exuberantly. I rolled my eyes and slouched down in my chair, looking for something more interesting to stare at. When no one took a stab at his question, he answered it for us. "A pop quiz, ladies and gents. Clear your desks and take out a pencil. If it needs sharpening, do it now. No disturbances during the quiz."
I added my groans to those that erupted around the classroom and lazily slid my binder to the floor. My hopes that our English teacher would come down with sudden Amnesia were dashed. He gave a "pop quiz" every Friday, seeming to think we have such short-term memories that we wouldn't see it coming, without fail, every week.
The shiny top of my desk drew in my attention as I sent my pencil whirling around in a continuous circle, looking on with forced interest. Mr. Medina made his way down the aisle, plopping a thin packet of paper on each desk. "Mr. DuGrey," he began as he stopped by mine, waiting until I lifted my eyes to continue. "I hope you've studied for this one."
Not in a million years. "Yes, Sir," I answered in a monotone. He dropped the packet to my desk top, sending the waft of new paper to me. Hate that smell.
After all the quizzes were passed out, he headed back to the front of the room and took a seat at his desk. "You may begin." I sighed and put my pencil to the line next to the "Name" prompt at the top of the page, scribbling out "Tristan" as illegibly as must be humanly possible. From there, the words might as well have been Greek for all the meaning they held for me.
Clicking my tongue obnoxiously, I glanced up to Rory Gilmore's desk to see her carefully wording an answer. She stopped to erase something, sending a flurry of eraser particles into the aisle with a sweep of her hand, before re-writing whatever it was she messed up on. Raising my eyebrows, I looked to my left to see Paris Gellar feverishly scribbling on her quiz, her pencil a yellow blur. Behind her, Madeline sat looking confused. That girl's always confused.
"Mr. DuGrey," Mr. Medina said in what I'll call a whine. "Eyes on your own paper." Annoyed, I turned my attention back to my quiz. So many words... All so boring. "Somebody shoot me now" kept spinning amidst my thoughts.
Question one: Describe in detail how the barriers that stood in the way of Romeo and Juliet's romance relate to a situation in the present.
Barriers that stood in the way of romance... This might have been easier to answer if I'd read the book. Or maybe if I'd seen the chick-flick movie. Romeo and Juliet - - what's to know? They lived, they loved, they died. The end.
I looked up at the circular wall clock that was above the doorway. The second hand seemed to be in slow motion. Clocks tick so slowly until they're nearing curfew. Below the clock stood the heavy wooden door which represented the only exit. Out there was freedom. In here was torture. Forty-eight minutes until weekend freedom, forty-eight to go...
"Psst!" I turned my head as I was poked in the shoulder. Whirling around in my seat, I was confronted by Louise. She held a folded up piece of paper out to me. "Madeline's having a party on Saturday," she said in a low voice. "Come, alright?"
"I might," I said with nonchalance, taking the flyer from her and turning back around to unfold it. I'm popular. I promise nothing. At least not directly.
But of course I was going to go.
- - -
So there I was, minding my own business, attending a party that could best be classified as an exact replica of all the ones I'd already been at this year. My mood was terrible; cute-as-a-button Summer, definitely the catch of the week, was being the ultimate bitch at a time when I really wasn't up to dealing with it. Obviously my hopes for a laid-back grope-session weren't going to pan out. I was going to be forced to actually entertain myself.
For awhile I was reduced to a wall ornament, slouching lazily with the geeks near the front door, casting disdainful glances at Summer as she flirted with everyone wearing pants. Interesting, that flirting seemed so much more appealing when it was directed at me a few days prior. Now it just looked pathetic.
But suddenly my boredom was interrupted as Rory Gilmore entered through the heavy double-doors a few feet away. She had an arm laced around that of a short Korean girl whom I'd never seen before. Figured it was somebody from that town she lives in.
"Thanks for coming with me, Lane," Rory began with a sigh.
"For the fourth time, you're welcome," her friend answered as she looked around in awe. "So this is how the high-and-mighty party, huh? Impressive." Surveying the surroundings, she gasped and pointed to a table that supported a few dozen half-empty plastic cups. "I think my mother sold that." From my spot near the wall, I raised my eyebrows.
"Not likely," reasoned Rory as she urged her friend forward. "Most people around here have never, will never, wouldn't dare stoop to visiting Stars Hollow. And they don't realize it exists."
"Poor fools."
"They keep to their own side of the tracks." So my assumptions were right. This Lane girl was from Rory's town. That town where she spends too much of her time with that lame-ass boyfriend of hers.
Honestly I was relieved to see her; maybe the night wouldn't be so terrible after all. "Mary," I cooed, tracing a finger along her shoulder as I came up from behind. "Come to party with the big guns?"
She rolled her eyes. "Oh great. You're here."
"Lucky for you," I added, which resulted in another roll of the eyes. Such beautiful blue eyes. "So what's this?" I asked, tilting my chin up toward her friend. "Moral support?"
"I'm Lane," her friend cut in, sounding a bit defensive. "Rory's best friend."
"Good for you. Punch, ladies?" Reaching for two cups full of the sparkling red liquid on the table behind me, I held them out in offering.
"I don't drink punch," the Lane girl said. What a strange person. Though I must give her some credit, because obviously she sensed I wanted her to leave. She shifted her weight in an uncomfortable way, sharing the momentary silence that I'd rather have been between Rory and I alone.
I stared and stared at this so-called best friend, spelling her last name out in my head. L-a-n-e. Lane. It made me think of a dirt road. Inside I concocted a ridiculous scenario involving her turning into a lane and slithering off on her own. It seemed like that was the only way she was going to get lost. I adopted the six year-old mindframe as I closed my eyes, willing her to go away.
As if reading my mind, Henry, who I sit next to in Biology, made his way over to us, immediately jumping into friendly small talk. Lane was polite and talked back to him, answering his questions, but she was distracted. She wouldn't take her eyes from Rory except to occasionally glance my way and then over to Henry to smile slightly and nod.
When he [finally] asked Lane to dance, she waited for the go-ahead from Rory who nodded and said, "Have fun. Don't trip." And with that, the Korean couple headed off into the crowd of teens pretending they could dance.
Shrugging to pull off my usual nonchalance, I kept my eyes focused on Rory as I held up one of the cups. "So you want this or not?"
I was a bit surprised when she took it, wrinkling her nose after a small sip. "This tastes funny."
"It does not," I argued, gulping down some from the cup I still held in my hand. She didn't even try arguing back. Instead, she brought the cup to her lips and swallowed the rest all in one gulp. I widened my eyes as I looked on. "Uh... more?" I asked when she looked unsure of what to do next. She nodded.
Three cups later, she followed me into a less crowded section of the house. I was a bit lightheaded, but so was she. She giggled with abandon as we sat down on a couch. An expensive one at that, one of those pieces of furniture that your parents buy to look at, but never to touch. But as I plopped down on one of the cushions, my plastic cup tipped a bit and a substantial amount of red liquid overflowed to place what will probably be a permanent stain on the arm of the couch. I just stared for a few seconds, until Rory and I both broke out into laughter. The unintelligent kind that comes about when you're more than a bit tipsy.
It was interesting seeing her like this. She's never like this. "What's the matter with you?" I asked, confused, as soon as I got some control over my laughter. "Since when do you act the same as the masses?"
She waved a hand my way as if flicking my words out of sight. Her voice was slurred slightly, thick with the intoxication of the spiked punch. I should know that it was spiked, after all, I'm the one who spiked it. "For your information, I can be just like everybody else once in awhile," she informed me.
Tired of drinking, I tossed the half-filled cup over my shoulder, hearing it splash against the wall. I propped my feet on the dark-wood coffee table, shifting my weight to get more comfortable. It was then that I realized just why people never sit on such expensive couches. They don't cushion worth a damn.
"You're not like just everybody else," I said finally. "No matter how 'normal' you try to be, you'll never be lowered to the level of us. We're rich brats, baby." My voice was thick with the alcohol that flowed freely through my bloodstream.
"Rich, un-rich. Whatever." She looked around and frowned. "What did I do with my punch?"
A giggle rose up from my throat. "I dunno." I looked over to her. She sat with her legs crossed politely despite her clouded state of mind. A stray ringlet of hair had fallen over her face in a becoming way, and although my hand itched to tuck it back into place just to see if her hair really was as silky as I imagined it to be, I fought the urge. "So where's your boyfriend? Begging for loose change?"
She sighed in the way that is undoubtedly Rory. "I don't want to talk about my boyfriend."
Suddenly I felt stupid for bringing him up because her face took on such a sad, wistful look. I couldn't resist her any longer. Sitting up, I reached a hand out to cover hers that was placed lazily on the high-back of the couch. Leaning in toward her, my words came out as a whisper. "Okay, we won't talk about your boyfriend."
I half-expected her to pull back and slap my face for leaning in so close, and perhaps she would have if her system weren't laced with no doubt the only alcohol she'd ever consumed. But she didn't pull back at all, she just sat still and waited for my lips to meet hers.
Every time you kiss someone, you're supposed to see stars. I wonder if she saw them when she kissed me. I wonder if she saw them when she kissed her boyfriend. I guess it's not my place to know. But even if she didn't see those stars that all those ridiculous fairy tales drone on about, I did.
Her lips were soft, like rose petals made of satin. Alcohol always urges me to be daring, and slowly I pried her lips open with my tongue, begging for entrance. She didn't deny it. I felt my heart drumming like a continuous rhythm of gunshots as I tasted her, tasted the faintness of the fruity punch that still existed on her pink tongue.
Now I'm no virgin. I've been around the block six times. I'm a guy, I can't help it. Sex is like an addiction; once you get a taste of it, you can't think of anything else but wanting more. And you're never satisfied, because in the end, you know you'll want it again.
Sex and Rory is a complicated thing to consider. I mean of course I'd considered it. Multiple times, in fact. But she's so innocent. Thinking about anybody going so far with her is almost an automatic contradiction. But despite that, it was all that was on my mind as I skillfully angled her body down onto the couch, placing my full weight on top of her.
Suddenly a thought occurred to me, and I pulled away momentarily, breathing heavily. "So, you on the pill or what?"
Her breathing matched mine as she opened her eyes, her long eyelashes accentuating the beauty of her face, and sending a thrill coursing through my veins at seeing her beneath me. "What?... The pill. Oh. No."
She spoke so slowly, it was like some twisted form of torture, making me wait for what seemed forever until I could press my lips to hers again. She might have wanted to say more, but I silenced her, softly caressing her cheek as my tongue danced with hers. In short intervals, I spoke, unable to wait long before seizing her lips again. "I thought all girls were on the pill. A right-of-passage sort of thing."
"Well I'm not," she began breathlessly, punctuating the sentence with a short kiss. "I don't usually do this, you know." More kisses.
"Yeah," I said knowingly.
Just as I'd suspected, her hair was silky soft. I couldn't keep my hands away from it. She spoke again, "But you do it all the time."
"Yeah..."
"I always knew there must've been a reason... for just kissing someone," Rory's voice sounded so small, and she stopped to kiss me for the millionth time, "and losing yourself in their touch at some random party you won't even remember in the morning."
"Of course there's a reason," I confirmed. "It feels so damn good." It felt as though the entire world had disappeared from beneath my feet as I got lost in the feeling of having her in my arms. As my lips worked their magic, I couldn't help wondering if this was really happening, or if I'd shoot up in bed any minute to find my sheets soaked.
But it was just as I'd known it would be. How many girls had I kissed? And none had given me such an amazing feeling. Rory was different; Rory was... she drove me insane. The silky strands of dark hair that framed her innocent face, the bluest of blue eyes that pierced down to your very soul. Her kiss was like nothing I'd ever felt before, and all of the little quirks she had, all of those annoying slash amazing things about her flashed behind my closed eyes.
The way she can sit beneath a tree on the enormous campus, immersed in her book of the week, so taken by it that she isn't the least bit distracted by the swarms of noisy teenagers all around her. The way she buys the school lunch everyday and yet it seems the only reason is so that she can complain about how terrible it all looks. The way she chooses the strangest times to strike up a conversation with Paris, as though the two were the best of friends, rather than the sworn enemies they both know they'll always be.
The way she acts annoyed when I bug her in the hallways, in classrooms, at lunchtime. The way she raises her voice an octave to let me know I'm on her last nerve. The way she doesn't acknowledge me walking by her in the hall unless I make her. And yet the way she never does just walk away, she stays and listens to all my quips that she must know are for the sole purpose of getting under her skin. Never once has she chosen to simply ignore them, and ignore me, which is the solution to getting me to stay away from someone. She doles out those tiny increments of satisfaction that will keep me coming back for months in the future.
Sometimes I wonder if she does those things on purpose. And if she does, then she might just be a force worth fighting for after all.
I ached to feel myself inside of her, to take her to the heights I know she's never been shown before. "God, Rory... how do you do this to me? You set my body on fire."
Her teeth gently bit down on my bottom lip before she eased away and opened her eyes to stare into mine. Looking back, I almost wish she wouldn't have done that. Drunk as I was, there wasn't enough alcohol in my system to completely sway my better judgment. Better judgment is a thing I hate to have when a girl is ready and I'm ready to do the greatest thing on earth.
But her eyes were so trusting and so innocent, and when I stopped to look I could see that this was all fueled by pain. There was a reason she didn't want to talk about that dim-witted boyfriend of hers. And because she was upset about it, she drowned her sorrows in the punch, and now she was drowning them in me.
I cursed under my breath, wanting this goddamn conscience of mine to take a permanent hike. I had her, I could do whatever I wanted, she was mine... But I didn't.
Exhaling slowly, I stood up, a little too quickly, as I swayed a bit before regaining my balance. She looked confused, but I held my hand out to her body that was still laying on the couch. When her small hand grasped onto mine, I pulled her up and led her to Lane who apparently was just beginning to have fun.
I placed a hand protectively on Rory's lower back, keeping her body steady as I motioned her friend over to where the two of us were standing. "Take her home," I ordered in a strange tone of voice. She looked to Rory and appeared to be ready to say something, but I cut her off. "Just do it. She's gonna have one hell of a headache in the morning."
Her friend laced her arm through Rory's and headed out toward the front doors. Rory turned around to glance at me over her shoulder, and I'm not sure how to describe her face except that it was confused. I stood trying to decide whether or not I wanted her to remember this in the morning.
I don't know if I'll get another chance with Rory Gilmore. But annoying as it was to be the good guy and send her home before taking advantage of her, I know it was the right thing to do. I didn't get lucky that night, but as I walked unsteadily along the sidewalk and found my way home, I could still taste her on my lips. Guess when it comes to Rory, that's as lucky as a guy can get.
- -
end