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I do not own Gilmore Girls. I only wish I did.

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It was some strange twist of fate that resulted in me accidentally agreeing to go to this Halloween party. It hadn't been planned or anything, but it just happened.

Paris had been gone…out, actually having a life and taking a satisfying whiff of the freedom of college life. I had been writing my English paper about the fascinating world of Lewis Carroll. Slightly creepy as he may have been, he was also nothing short of a genius.

Anyways, there was a knock on the door. Interruptions don't sit well with me, but I wasn't going to yell through the door to 'Go away!'

And it was Marty. Who was stuttering, as usual. Talking doesn't sit well with him.

Something about a Halloween party on Saturday. He was asking a rush of questions after another, and I couldn't get a word in edgewise.

"Have you h-heard about it? It's in the Eli House. D-do you know where that is?" he seemed to be spitting the words out with difficulty.

"No, not really. And yea," I said, answering his questions as fast as I could. Only, when I said 'And yea,' Marty had just asked a new question.

"Would you like to go with me?" His face lit up when I said 'yea.'

"Oh, actually, wait, I…" I stumbled over my words, trying to remedy my error.

"You'd go with me? That's great!" he said. His smile was so wide that I thought his face was going to break.

"Oh…yea, I'll go," I said, giving up completely. Telling him I really didn't want to go with him was too cruel for my taste. I blame my mom, who could barely turn down Kirk. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

And that's why I'm standing at the door, dressed in a white mass of fabric. I'm supposed to be a ghost, but I look more like a rather scrawny abominable snowman.

Marty is dressed up as some Lord of the Rings character. He captured a hobbit to the T, with the weird looking feet to top it off.

"You look great," he says, grinning that helplessly pathetic smile.

"Thanks…and, um—so do you," I say, stepping out of the room.

Earlier today, I had to endure Paris' constant snickers and sniggers. Not only was I going to a Halloween party with Marty, a.k.a. Naked Guy, but I looked like a yeti.

Marty and I walk over to Eli House in awkward silence. I try to make some conversation, wanting to erase the tension.

"So…" I say, just as he begins to say something.

"You go first," he says, nodding at me.

I realize I have no idea what I was going to say. "No, you go first…" I say, pausing.

"No, I insist." Stupid chivalry.

"I was just going to comment on the weather," I say.

"Oh." And with that, we are submerged back into silence again.

The party, however, is loud and rowdy, probably laden with gallons of alcohol. There are ten-plus guys gathered around a beer fountain, yelling and cheering. I'm prepared to bet that everyone in this room has had at least enough alcohol to fuzz up their brain.

"Hey," I yell at Marty over the din of everything, "What are you doing?"

He is reaching for one of the beer fountains. He presses the nozzle and sprays some in his mouth. "Want some?" he yells.

"What? No!" I say, hitting him on the shoulder. "That's disgusting. People could have put their mouth on that thing." Truthfully, I just don't feel comfortable, especially since the drunken guys at another fountain are eying me creepily.

Suddenly, loud shouts and cheers erupt on my right. A blonde guy pushes his way out of the cheering crowd, a girl on each arm.

I roll my eyes at him and turn back to Marty, who is still hogging the beer fountain. "Let's go, Marty," I say, grabbing him by his shoulder and pulling him away from the fountain. As I drag him away, his hand slips on the nozzle, and the hose points straight to the blonde boy and his girl toys.

And the stream of beer hits them. A hushed silence falls over the people around us, staring at the spectacle.

The blonde guy is blinking drops of beer from his eyes. He tightens his mouth, opens his eyes, and glares daggers at Marty.

From somewhere in the crowd, I hear someone shouting "Fight!"

And the chant begins, with everyone yelling it: "Fight, fight, fight!" Even people who don't even know what's going on shout along, just wanting something actually interesting to happen.

Marty's eyes are wide. He looks paralyzed.

The blonde guy drops his arms from around his girls' shoulders and walks over in our direction slowly.

"I can't fight this guy, this…loser," he shouts over the chanting. Marty doesn't say anything. He doesn't defend himself. Doesn't try to stand up for himself.

The blonde guy stops right in front of Marty. "I can't fight you," he says, and grabs the beer hose and points it straight in Marty's face.

And the crowd erupts, half in jeers, half in cheers. Eyes closed, Marty backs away, trying to shield himself from the spray of beer. He trips over his feet and falls to the ground.

My hands are over my mouth. The blonde guy keeps laughing and soaking Marty to the skin.

Marty is my friend. He talks with me, jokes with me. And so I do what I'm supposed to do, as his friend.

I charge at the blonde boy, knock the beer hose from his hand, and give him a hard shove.

And the party goes silent again, as I erupt in anger.

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Until next time,

Aline