Disclaimer: I own about 50 goats and 10 sheep … but not Gilmore Girls.
Author's notes: Okay, so I'm not gonna hold you to ransom and tell you I need x number of reviews to post the next chapter. I'll probably post it anyway, if I feel like writing it. But the thing is, your reviews will make me more enthusiastic to get it written and done quicker. Let me know what you think, anyway. Press the big green button and give me your two cents.
Chapter One: The Lorelai's Last First Day
"Hello – oh – oh, sweet child of mine," Lorelai Gilmore sang as she answered her cell phone through a mouthful of coffee. Luke promptly held the door open and waited for her to leave his diner, while pointing to the 'no cell phones' sign. Lorelai scowled at him, vowing to steal and destroy that sign one day.
"Where are you kid, and why are you abandoning me to the angry wrath of the coffee God?"
Rory's brow furrowed in confusion as she paced out the front of Chilton. "Huh?"
"Luke, Rory," her mother clarified. "Luke's grumpy because I used the cell phone in the diner – you'd better get here and get some coffee into you so you understand my jokes. Better yet, hurry up and get your size six butt here and save me from Mr Grinch Danes."
"Well, actually mom that's why I called you. Paris called a meeting of the Franklin; I'm kind of stuck here at school for the next few hours," Rory trailed off, knowing her mother would be disappointed.
"Not on the first day back; you're kidding. We were gonna celebrate your last ever first day at Chilton."
"Well, we still can," Rory said. "Just over dinner and movie night instead of coffee at Lukes. Hey, do you think Luke would make us chocolate chip pancakes for dinner?"
Lorelai laughed, thinking of the many shades of purple Luke's face would exhibit at the mention of chocolate chip pancakes for dinner. With whipped cream. And ice-cream. "I'll put your order in."
Silence ensued between mother and daughter as each individually mused over their last ever first day back at Chilton; and what it would mean for the future.
"This sucks," Lorelai said.
"I know. Kaiser Geller strikes again. I gotta go mom, she's making awfully scary faces out the window at me, I'll see you tonight."
Rory hung up the phone with a sigh and made her way to the classroom which served as the office for The Franklin newspaper. Settling herself into her usual seat near Paris, she glanced around, mentally performing roll call.
"Um, Paris? Everyone's here … shouldn't we, maybe, get started?" she said lowly, so only Paris could hear.
The blonde girl turned her head slowly, reminding Rory of victims of natural disasters. Shell-shocked. Angry. She was silent for a moment, before Hurricane Gellar arrived.
"No, you know what? Not everyone is here. Apparently we are waiting on someone very important. Someone who we are privileged to be working with. We should be thankful that he is giving up his time, and apparently he doesn't feel the same way about us giving up our time. But don't worry that he's late – he will help us be all that we can be." she said that last bit whilst wildly doing finger quotes in the air.
Yes, Paris Gellar doing finger quotes. Rory knew this had to be something major. Paris had the entire staff of the Franklin hanging on her every word, and she knew it. She was just getting warmed up.
"It seems that our esteemed Headmaster Charleston has decided that this publication, this group of people who have created the finest work Chilton has ever seen, with yours truly at the helm; apparently, we need a mentor."
If Paris was hoping for uproar and outrage at the conclusion of this speech, she was disappointed. The students looked at each other, and at their raging leader. Rory spoke the words which were on the minds of all of them. Against her better judgement, and knowing that speaking when Paris was like this was not a good idea, she slowly said "Um, Paris? Well, the thing is, its probably not such a bad thing. I mean think about it – we are writing a high school newsletter – what on earth can that teach us about the trials and tribulations of writing an actual paper. So who is our new mentor?"
"Mitchum Huntzberger's son … apparently," Paris said, defeated.
Rory's heart leapt. "Are you sure, Paris, Mitchum Hunztberger is amazing! I Googled him once – twelve thousand fifty three items came up but I could only pull up a couple thousand. He was born in 1953, Episcopalian, second of four children, oldest boy, Yale undergrad, star of the track team. No grad school – interesting. Then he had a couple of lost years. Kind of a blank period, a little Jesus thing going on there. Worked as a reporter and editor for two of the Huntzberger papers before taking over as CEO of the company!"
"He's written about everything, from foreign affairs to domestic policies. He had a wine column, for God's sake. I should learn more about wine."
Paris snorted. "We are four years away from legally being allowed to drink, Rory."
"Did you know he was short-listed for the Pulitzer for covering the Iranian hostage crisis when he was twenty-five!"
"Even more impressive when you consider his lost years," Paris said. She smiled; a rare occasion to be sure. "Yes, you are right, the man is amazing. Oh, to be Mrs Mitchum Huntzberger …"
"Oh Paris! Ew!"
"What?" Paris challenged. "Are you afraid to be with a man instead of a boy?"
"No!" Rory bristled and blushed at the same time. She knew Paris was weird, but this was pushing the limits. She watched as the blonde settled herself back down into her chair, and into her grumps.
"I don't care if the junior Huntzberger is as amazing as his father; he's going to change The Franklin. I warn you now, its not going to be pretty. He'll be telling us what to do, what to say and what to write. He's going to stifle our creativity, head hunt our reporters, probably steal our stories for his own newspapers …"
There was a snort from the far end of the table at this. "Paris, I've seen Logan around a few times before, trust me, he's a cool guy. Enjoys the finer things in life, parties, alcohol and women. Bit like myself, really." Tristan said.
"How very reassuring," Paris said dryly. "He's going to take over … oh my god, he's going to take my gavel!" She clutched it to her chest, her eyes widening frantically.
"Paris just breathe, okay?" Madeline said.
"No, its not okay. He's going to take my gavel and he cant even show up on time? I gave him the time, date and location, what more do I have to do? Send a personal tour guide, send out smoke signals?"
"Paris – I think he's here. And I for one am not complaining," Louise said.
All heads in the room turned towards the doorway as the young man entered, not looking remotely like the pictures Rory had seen of Mitchum Huntzberger. She barely had time to take in the messy blonde hair, the chocolate eyes which seemed to smirk along with his lips. Then he crossed the room and began to speak, and she heard the smirk in his voice as well.
"I am Logan Huntzberger. Yes, Huntzberger, as in Huntzberger Publishing Group which owns all the newspapers in this country worth reading, and plenty overseas as well. My father is Mitchum Huntzberger – most of you probably think he is a great man – I don't, so don't expect me to talk about his greatest achievement, or what the man is like at home. I will not be setting up any interviews with him, so cross that off your Christmas wishlist. I don't want to be here any more than your esteemed editor wants me to be here," at this comment he nodded at Paris, and continued "But I am here on Daddy's orders and so you will see me every week, once a week or more often if Paris deems it necessary. I have no intention of reading or editing your work or being in any way involved in this paper, in fact I plan on catching forty winks, so goodnight and have fun."
With that, he propped his feet on the table, leaned back and closed his eyes.
Paris beamed. Madeline and Louise drooled.
Rory Gilmore was shellshocked.