Disclaimer: not mine

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF PARIS GELLAR ( that was off the top of my head. gonna have to change it later. it's not really a day. Try a week. Or two.)

On with the story...

The teenager is a complicated being.

You have your Tristins, the gorgeous bastards at the top of the social ladder who play girls like little wind up toys.

You have your Summers, who are basically the female equivalent to the Tristins. Plus the boob jobs of course. And the fake bake. And the nose job. And the lipo. And another nose job because the first one didn't go with the newly injected fat lips.

There are the Doyles, whose pants always seem to have a tendency to hike up to their armpits and never reach their ankles, proudly displaying their painfully mismatching socks.

And then you have your Marys, the goody virgins with their easy 4.0 grade average and untainted reputations. Of course, we don't have a lot of those around here, but with that damn Tristin running around barely able to keep his pants zipped, who can blame us?

Speaking of Tristin…

"Come on Mary, why not?" Here he comes now. Right on time too.

"Oh Tristin, school is only so long. Not nearly enough time to list off all the reasons why I would never, I repeat, NEVER, even if the fate of the human race depended on it, go out with you."

Ouch. There's only one girl in the entire world that could blow off the almighty Tristin DuGrey off his high horse like that,

Rory Gilmore. One of Chilton's last surviving Marys. If perfection is a sin, then Rory Gilmore's going to hell. And you know what? While she's down there, she'll charm the hell out of the devil and turn the whole place, burning pits and all, into a freaking convent. With nuns. And candles. Non flammable Candles. Do those even exist? Well that's how saintly she is.

"Mary," Tristin tried again, leaning himself against the lockers and looking very much like the poster boy for prep school The guy should model for Abercrombie. He spends most his time without a shirt on anyway. Have you ever noticed the Abercrombie models never wear shirts? Could someone explain that to me please? You model clothes but you don't wear SHIRTS? Anyways, as our inconceivably dense Tristin was saying, "I don't think you know how this works, you can't turn me down."

"Bite me," she growled, obviously flexed, flinging her locker shut.

"My pleasure."

"You do and I'm sure DEAN will be more than happy to break your sorry little butt."

"Oh you couldn't do that, how will we be able to have kids together then?"

"Sorry to intrude on your plans for our future, but having kids with you would actually have to involve us touching."

"Just name the time and place Mary."

"You're hopeless!"

"Hopelessly in love, babe."

Rory looked about ready to rip his head off.

I stepped in, "Sorry to interrupt your little love fest, but Rory, will you come with me for a second? I need to review the notes for Remmey's class with you."

Wow did I just do someone a favor? Damn it Gellar, you're getting soft.

Rory looked about ready to kiss me, "Thank you! I was dying back there!"

"Don't get your hopes up, I did it because Tristin DuGrey is mine. The day you go out with him will be the day you receive your death with."

"Paris, the day I got out with Tristin DuGrey will be the day pigs fly, the acropolyse arrives, Paris Hilton wears a turtle neck, Motley Crue goes to church—

"Fine. Just make sure you know what's mine."

"Relax. I don't want Tristin. By all means, take him. Please. One more dirty pickup line involving the backseat of his Porsche and I swear, my head will chemically combust and burst into flames in the middle of the hall."

With that grotesque statement, she checked her watch and her eyes widened, "Holy crap I'm late!" And sprinted off sooner then you can say, "For what?"

So here I am. Alone in the hallways. Alooooone… in the haaaaaaaaallways.

Oh dear god I'm singing. Why am I singing? Singing in my head, but nevertheless I'm singing. I never sing. Unless it's 'Hail to the Chief', then I hum along. But even then it's reserved specially for CSpan hours. Damn I really—

"GELLAR!"

Save us all. Tell me it's not—

"Doyle," I greet, not bothering to mask my distain. But then again, when do I ever?

"About your article."

"Yes?"

"It was trash."

My jaw drops.

HOW DARE HE!

"How dare you! My article is—

"Trash. Your conclusion was completely besides the point, your topic was left completely under researched judging by the overdose of feminist opinions on your part," OH NO HE DIDN'T, "and I expect a new copy on my desk by Wednesday." Oh yes he did.

I literally felt my blood pounding in my skull.

"Listen to me you little half pint hypocritical buttface," I growl.

"I'm sorry, buttface?"

"SHUDDUP! You are not in the position to talk right now!"

"Actually, Gellar," he sniffs, gingerly removing my hands from his neck, "I am your editor, thereby giving me every right to talk. However, it's obvious you can't handle a little constructive criticism so—

"LISTEN TO ME YOU LITTLE SLIMEBALL!" I yell, jabbing a finger at his chest.

Someone taps me on the shoulder.

"Not now Rory. Now where was I?"

"Hypocritical buttface," Doyle supplied.

"Thank you. Now who the hell do you think you are insulting my article!"

"Your editor."

"DON'T SPEAK I'M TALKING! One more word from you and I'll cut out your bowels and stuff them in your mouth while mail-order Egyptian scorpians slowly eat away at your—

Another tap on my shoulder. "Damn it Rory just wait one-- you're not Rory."

Unless Rory sprouted 3 inches, bulked up, dyed her eyeballs brown, and got a gender change through the past five minutes.

"No, I'm Jamie," he grins, extending his hand for me to shake.

"Cut the pleasantries, is there a REASON you chose to disrupt me at this crucial time?"

He looks bewildered, "Well I—

"You couldn't just wait ONE MINUTE! Most people have the decency not to interrupt a person when they're discussing an article! What makes you so special huh! Is your daddy a big corporate billionaire? Or are you just STUPID! Is it brain damage? ANSWER ME!"

Yes, I admit I was a tiny bit harsh. Just a tiny bit. But it can't be why he looks like the Grim Reaper's after him. Really, it can't.

"I just, um, was—

Before he could finish that thought, Rory and Tristin come bustling down the hall. Bickering, of course.

"NO!"

"Mary," Tristin responded, sounding slightly annoyed, "you need a ride. And I just happen to own-- what's that big hunk of shiny metal with wheels called again…oh yeah, a ride."

"Glad you know what a car is."

"Jeez just let me take you home."

Rory threw him a dirty look over her shoulder, "Let me rephrase that, NO WAY in hell would I ever get in a car with you. Even if acidic rain was falling from the sky and the only source of protection, god forbid, was the roof of your big shiny Porsche, I STILL wouldn't get in a car with you!"

"Hey I'm doing you a favor here."

"You idiot!" she stopped her powerwalking to whack him on the side of the head, "The only goddamn reason I missed my bus in the first place was because YOU decided it'd be fun to pull me into the janitor's closet pretending to be God!"

"you have to admit I had you fooled for a second. Especially the part where I removed my pants and threatened to send you to hell if you didn't—

"Goodbye Tristin!" she growled, starting off.

Tristin cursed under his breath as he trailed after her, "Mary, I'm sorry. Let me make it up to you."

"No."

"Come on."

"No."

"I've got coffee in the car."

She stopped abruptly, causing Tristin to almost crash into her, "Coffee?"

Ooo… good going boy.

"Imported straight from Europe," he replied, with self assured smirk fixed to his face.

You practically see her head working as she bit her lip, "Extra black?"

"Like the sea. Which reminds me I need a tutor in Geography…"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

So as quick as they came, they left, arguing the whole way to the parking lot.

"Talk about love hate relationship," Jamie commented.

"Yeah well, she loves to hate him, he hates to love her, it's a never-ending cycle," I reply, noticing for the first time what a nice body Jamie had. AHH! NO! Superficiality bad! Damn hormones.

He grins at me. Shoot. He noticed my staring, "Wanna talk about it while I give you a ride?"

Okay stop there. Did he just offer me a ride? Holy crap it's a red flag day.

"Yes!" If I were to look back on this moment, I would surely wince at the pathetic giddy grin on my face. But to hell with it, I'm 18, surely I'm entitled to have a few moments of teen normalcy.

He point to my convertible on the way out, "Is that your car?"

"The one with Barbara Streisand's face painted on it? Yes. But it'll still be here in the morning."

His car is black. A little feminine if you ask me, but it could be a maggot infested rat hole for all that I care, because I'm getting a ride.

I smoothed my skirt for the 50th time and cringed inwardly at his music choice. I guess it could be forgiven that he enjoys littering his brain with Cher & Sonny.

My eyes landed on a Rory and Tristin. In his Porsche. Ooo… entertainment.

"OW!" Tristin yelped, "What was that for!"

"Don't think I didn't see that! Just because I'm busy indulging my lifeblood here does not mean you can take advantage of the situation and feel me up! Sit on your hands!"

"No can do. I need them to drive. Not to mention touch—

"You finish that sentence I will pour this hot, scalding coffee all over your head!"

"—you all over - AHH! HOT!"

"I warned you!"

Jamie shook his head as he watched the two, "DuGrey," he muttered grinning, while starting the engine.

I looked at him, grining stupidly. AHH! NO! STOP GRINNING PARIS! STOP IT! STOP IT! Okay stopped. You're fine now. Fine, fine, fine—

"Are you okay? You look kind of… flustered?"

Am I okay? Well excusing the painful pounding in my skull and the horrible flopping of my stomach organs and the curious twitching of my left eyes and the spastic attack on my legs, I'm okay. Does getting in a car with the opposite sex usually this unnerving or am I just hormonally imbalanced?

"I'm fine. Haha," I giggled and mentally smacked myself. GIGGLED! Okay, that's it. First thing tomorrow I'm telling nanny to schedule an appointment with my therapist.

The silence was disturbing. Like one of those moments where you're talking really loud about your strawberry underwear and all of a sudden you realize the whole room is quiet. kind of like that.

And the entire time I was racking my brain for a conversation starter. What didn't I prepare flashcards for situations like this?

Oh duh. I never though any member of the opposite gender much less an attractive one would ever, ever even remotely consider offering me a ride home.

"So…" I began, "What's your take on abortion? Are you pro? Are you con? Are you neutral? Should the women decide? Should the choice be declared by men? Are you opposed to feminism? Do you encourage the suckage of a human being through a tube from the uterus?"

Uh oh. He looks scared again. Damn it. This is going to be one long ride…