** I tried my best correcting this chapter. my apologies if I've missed
anything. I won't rewrite the disclaimer; it's on the first chapter but
covers everything in the story. Thank you so much to those who've reviewed
the first chapter. It really meant a lot to me. And now, here's the
second installment**
Bull. That whole thing was bull.
Matchmaker? Romance novels? Potential life partners?
Since when have you been on crack, Lauren? I mean really. It's one thing to bitch and complain about my storytelling skills, but it's quite another to go on and on about something that never really happened.
God. Next thing you'll know, she'll have you convinced I was some old lonely lady with 15 cats and a sombrero hat from the go-go days.
Because frankly, all of it is a lie. As I recall, the situation evolved into a full-fledged incident on a fateful afternoon in the Chilton cafeteria. Our conversation, went something like this:
Lauren: Tristan, sweetie-poo, I have something to ask you.
Me: Firstly, no sweetie-poo, and I don't care if that's what people call each other in Switzerland or Greece or Namibia. Secondly, no.
Lauren: Fine, whatever. Ix-nay on the poo. Got it. But this favor, you got to-
Me: No.
Lauren: But-
Me: No.
Lauren: But I-
Me: No, no, and no. I can't deal with you anymore, Laur. I mean, all your favors, they all have to do with your sister. Which is fine, and sweet, actually, in some sort of freaky parallel universe where people are actually supposed to be nice to their siblings, but whatever you plan usually backfires, which leaves me usually burned, your sister devastated, and some poor football jock humiliated, and-
Lauren, looking suspicious: You've got something against Rebecca.
Me: Well, it's a little bit awkward considering her-
Lauren: Crush on you? I told you, she's gotten over all that. Now it's all about Mark Bilstore.
Me: Mark?
Lauren: Some eight-grade charming, rebellious middle school God with enough hair gel and attitude to make me want to puke.
Me: The problem?
Lauren: The punk turned her down when she asked him to the dance. Next Friday's dance, Tristan. Next Friday at seven o'clock.
Me: No can do. I already have plans.
Lauren: Please, Tristan. She's devastated. If you go with her, she'll save face. Heck, by the end of the night, you'll probably have already gotten her off your hands and she'll be dancing the night away in Mark's arms. You know how fickle she can be.
Me: And what do I get? You know, I hate to break it to you, but appearing at a middle-school dance with your best friend's little sister as a date doesn't exactly make you gain any popularity brownie points.
It was then that she gave me the Lauren look. The I'm-hurt-and-discouraged- and-exasperated-by-your-presence-you-filthy-human-being look. I hated that look. It was the same look that my nanny used to give me when I was five and refused to watch anything playing on PBS despite her embattled pleas about educational value and wholesome programming.
Lauren, accusingly: Not that you should care about that. What happened to you? You used to be above all that.
Me: Maybe I'm not anymore.
Lauren: You are, you prick. Pick her up at 6:30. Don't be late. Oh, and I owe you one.
Me: Half our conversations end with you telling me you owe me one. Our whole relationship is based on you owing me one. What if I want to cash in one 'you owe me one'?
Lauren, with one eyebrow raised: Name it and it's yours. What can I get you: booze, cigarettes, a Rolex maybe?
Me: You seem to forget I've got just as much money as you do and just as many legal-aged friends who would be willing to buy me those.
Lauren: The Rolex?
Me: No, the booze.
Lauren: Moot point.
She looked around us, and suddenly her eyes became brighter, and she leaned into the table conspiratorially.
Lauren: What about a date for the Spring Dance?
Me: I can get my own date, thanks.
Lauren: That's retarded.
Me: But it's true. I could get any one of these girls to go out with me anytime.
Lauren smiled. It was an evil smile. Like the smile of someone who was just about to play her trump card.
Lauren: Not everyone.
Me: Everyone.
Lauren: What about Natalie Picard?
Me: Went out with her last month.
Lauren: Leslie Simpson?
Me: Went out with her last week.
Lauren: Manchester Sidney?
Me, incredulous: Can we say man-hating lesbian?
Lauren: Point taken.
She started looking around once more, her eyes shifty and mischievous. I suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling that she knew all along who her next victim would be. She finally spotted a solitary figure in the back of the room, back bent over the table, earphones covering her ears, and eyes voraciously skimming the contents of a book placed alongside her food tray.
Lauren: Rory Gilmore?
She pronounced it more like a statement than a question. It seemed to spell finality, my failure in that one thing that might have truly meant something somewhere down the line.
And it was pathetic. Because she knew. Somehow, Lauren knew that of all the girls at Chilton, Rory Gilmore was the only one who would not go out with me. Even worse, this wasn't even because the girl was schizophrenic, had psychopathic parents, or was afraid of men with blond hair. Oh no. Rory Gilmore wouldn't go out with me because she "wasn't interested."
Her words, not mine.
And the kiss of death? Rory wasn't popular. Heck, she basically didn't have a penny to her name. She came from this hick town where people got into hissy fits when the latest asparagus shipment was late coming into the market. She wasn't somebody with whom I should ever have even contemplated socializing.
A set down from someone like that should have been nothing. But it wasn't. It felt like my biggest crush had taken one look at me, laughed in my face, wrote an article about the experience and published it in the New York Times before giving a carbon copy of the darn thing to People Magazine.
It felt just that bad.
But Lauren didn't know when to stop.
Lauren: I can get you a date with Rory, Tristan. And I can probably get you a hell whole lot more than that, too.
Me, smirking: And all for the low, low price of one date with the ever enchanting, lovely Rebecca St. Martin.
Lauren: So, you up for it?
Me: What makes you think she'll even consider it?
Lauren: Who? Rebecca or Rory?
Me: You know who I'm talking about.
Lauren, looking down at me speculatively: Well, you're not wholly unattractive, Tristan. And when you want to be, you can be persuasively charming. Who knows? If you let that tiny spec of humanity shine through, maybe you'll suddenly seem quite decent, at least in her eyes.
Me: She has a boyfriend, Laur.
Lauren: Like that's stopped you before. Like that's stopped me before! Besides, you know how these teen romances work nowadays. One minute you're the flavor of the week, the next you're-
Me, striving for a dispassionate answer: She's not like that.
Lauren, smirking: Maybe not. But you'll never know unless you let me convince her that you're the man of her dreams...
There wasn't really anything more to add. I got up and was about to leave, strutting a few steps away from our table to demonstrate to Lauren how her words hadn't affected me in the least, when somebody ran into my side.
I immediately knew it was her from the hesitating twist of her head and the sound of her book snapping shut on impact. She paused, before raising her questioning eyes at me. "Sorry," Rory said, before moving out of the way and walking out of the cafeteria.
Her eyes were so vivid, I kept seeing them in my head like some sort of smoke screen permanently embedded in the back of my mind. I must have looked like a transfixed lunatic, because suddenly, I heard Lauren walk up behind me and breathe into my ear "Friday at 6:30."
Having had enough, I ignored her and walked out of my own volition.
*** Really, Tristan is all too easy to manipulate.
I like watching his face and knowing that Mr. Hot-and-Wonderful actually thinks that he's unreadable.
It's amusing.
Like his obsession with Rory Gilmore. I have to admit, that was a surprise to me. I hadn't seen it coming, and with Tristan, that's actually quite rare.
I mean, she's fairly attractive and all, but not overtly gorgeous or anything. She didn't have any social credibility in terms of money or popularity either.
But you've got to give her her dues. She was smart. And she made it look cute and endearing.
That was what was the problem. Words that described Tristan's past girlfriends didn't include endearing or cute.
More like haughty, snobby, and hot. Hot, being the term Tristan would use. I prefer the term abnormally attractive.
But whatever. The fact was, when she came to Chilton, and proceeded to completely ignore Tristan, it drove him crazy.
It had never happened to the fool before.
The effort he put into cornering her or teasing her had not passed me by unnoticed. So when I was sitting with him at lunch that day at Chilton, it was easy to torment him with her name, trying to coax him with something I was sure he had resigned himself into accepting as unreachable.
And even if he tries to claim otherwise, the whole situation had every thing to do with Matchmaker.
Because see, our plan was put into action way before I had ever actually sat down with Tristan for lunch that fateful afternoon.
And the whole story about Mark Bilstore and the middle-school dance?
All a hoax.
Well, not the dance part.
But Mark Bilstore?
Actually nonexistent.
Because I had explained to Rebecca about my intentions of finding Tristan a girlfriend after watching Matchmaker with her. She had been completely enthusiastic, and had even provided me with a couple of names of friends in her grade that might be interest in doing something like this.
"Thanks, sweetie," I had managed, not wanting to offend her by saying anything along the lines of 'Tristan would prefer being seen in the company of Anna Nicole Smith, Richard Simmons and the 200 flushes dude all together than with anybody below the age of 15'.
"But I think I've already got someone else in mind."
She was all excited. "Who? Is it somebody I know?"
"No. Just some girl. But he really likes her, though he pretends he doesn't."
"Why not?"
"Because she doesn't like him back. At least, not yet."
I could tell I had stumped her. In her world, anybody who would treat her to a double scoop of Mint Mocha Madness ice cream every time her parents would be leaving the country on a six-month sojourn to prevent her from feeling too bad was the epitome of the perfect man.
"I want to help," she said instead.
So we devised this crazy-ass plan, where fortunately, Rebecca's excellent acting skills were going to be showcased to their fullest extent.
And it was a good thing that our plan was so great, because we only had four weeks to enact it. At the end of that time period came the much feared, but much revered Spring Dance.
Four weeks to get Mr. Wonderful and Miss Reluctant together.
So it really wasn't surprising that I started getting cracking that very same afternoon. Sitting on a grassy knoll near the school entrance, I waited patiently until I saw Rory walking calmly down the pavement until she reached the bus stop. There she waited until a quaint little bus pulled up, and then she stepped onto the awaiting vehicle.
Above the windshield was written its destination.
I smiled, and flicked open my cell phone.
"Phase 1 completed."
I could feel her smile from the other end of the line, though she said nothing.
"Phase two starts tonight. Remember, be believable," I ordered sternly, before laughing at the absurdity of the situation.
"Yeah, yeah," she said. "How hard will it be to pretend I'm in love with the guy for one night?"
"Not very. But remember, you're just a poor victim here. You need guidance. You need help. You need-"
"Hey, Lauren? I get the message. I'm just a poor little girl with a downtrodden heart. Got it. And by the way, can we give our operation a code name? I'm thinking operation Condor, or operation Silver-bullet, or operation-"
"Goodbye, Rebecca," I laughed before hanging up.
Bull. That whole thing was bull.
Matchmaker? Romance novels? Potential life partners?
Since when have you been on crack, Lauren? I mean really. It's one thing to bitch and complain about my storytelling skills, but it's quite another to go on and on about something that never really happened.
God. Next thing you'll know, she'll have you convinced I was some old lonely lady with 15 cats and a sombrero hat from the go-go days.
Because frankly, all of it is a lie. As I recall, the situation evolved into a full-fledged incident on a fateful afternoon in the Chilton cafeteria. Our conversation, went something like this:
Lauren: Tristan, sweetie-poo, I have something to ask you.
Me: Firstly, no sweetie-poo, and I don't care if that's what people call each other in Switzerland or Greece or Namibia. Secondly, no.
Lauren: Fine, whatever. Ix-nay on the poo. Got it. But this favor, you got to-
Me: No.
Lauren: But-
Me: No.
Lauren: But I-
Me: No, no, and no. I can't deal with you anymore, Laur. I mean, all your favors, they all have to do with your sister. Which is fine, and sweet, actually, in some sort of freaky parallel universe where people are actually supposed to be nice to their siblings, but whatever you plan usually backfires, which leaves me usually burned, your sister devastated, and some poor football jock humiliated, and-
Lauren, looking suspicious: You've got something against Rebecca.
Me: Well, it's a little bit awkward considering her-
Lauren: Crush on you? I told you, she's gotten over all that. Now it's all about Mark Bilstore.
Me: Mark?
Lauren: Some eight-grade charming, rebellious middle school God with enough hair gel and attitude to make me want to puke.
Me: The problem?
Lauren: The punk turned her down when she asked him to the dance. Next Friday's dance, Tristan. Next Friday at seven o'clock.
Me: No can do. I already have plans.
Lauren: Please, Tristan. She's devastated. If you go with her, she'll save face. Heck, by the end of the night, you'll probably have already gotten her off your hands and she'll be dancing the night away in Mark's arms. You know how fickle she can be.
Me: And what do I get? You know, I hate to break it to you, but appearing at a middle-school dance with your best friend's little sister as a date doesn't exactly make you gain any popularity brownie points.
It was then that she gave me the Lauren look. The I'm-hurt-and-discouraged- and-exasperated-by-your-presence-you-filthy-human-being look. I hated that look. It was the same look that my nanny used to give me when I was five and refused to watch anything playing on PBS despite her embattled pleas about educational value and wholesome programming.
Lauren, accusingly: Not that you should care about that. What happened to you? You used to be above all that.
Me: Maybe I'm not anymore.
Lauren: You are, you prick. Pick her up at 6:30. Don't be late. Oh, and I owe you one.
Me: Half our conversations end with you telling me you owe me one. Our whole relationship is based on you owing me one. What if I want to cash in one 'you owe me one'?
Lauren, with one eyebrow raised: Name it and it's yours. What can I get you: booze, cigarettes, a Rolex maybe?
Me: You seem to forget I've got just as much money as you do and just as many legal-aged friends who would be willing to buy me those.
Lauren: The Rolex?
Me: No, the booze.
Lauren: Moot point.
She looked around us, and suddenly her eyes became brighter, and she leaned into the table conspiratorially.
Lauren: What about a date for the Spring Dance?
Me: I can get my own date, thanks.
Lauren: That's retarded.
Me: But it's true. I could get any one of these girls to go out with me anytime.
Lauren smiled. It was an evil smile. Like the smile of someone who was just about to play her trump card.
Lauren: Not everyone.
Me: Everyone.
Lauren: What about Natalie Picard?
Me: Went out with her last month.
Lauren: Leslie Simpson?
Me: Went out with her last week.
Lauren: Manchester Sidney?
Me, incredulous: Can we say man-hating lesbian?
Lauren: Point taken.
She started looking around once more, her eyes shifty and mischievous. I suddenly had the uncomfortable feeling that she knew all along who her next victim would be. She finally spotted a solitary figure in the back of the room, back bent over the table, earphones covering her ears, and eyes voraciously skimming the contents of a book placed alongside her food tray.
Lauren: Rory Gilmore?
She pronounced it more like a statement than a question. It seemed to spell finality, my failure in that one thing that might have truly meant something somewhere down the line.
And it was pathetic. Because she knew. Somehow, Lauren knew that of all the girls at Chilton, Rory Gilmore was the only one who would not go out with me. Even worse, this wasn't even because the girl was schizophrenic, had psychopathic parents, or was afraid of men with blond hair. Oh no. Rory Gilmore wouldn't go out with me because she "wasn't interested."
Her words, not mine.
And the kiss of death? Rory wasn't popular. Heck, she basically didn't have a penny to her name. She came from this hick town where people got into hissy fits when the latest asparagus shipment was late coming into the market. She wasn't somebody with whom I should ever have even contemplated socializing.
A set down from someone like that should have been nothing. But it wasn't. It felt like my biggest crush had taken one look at me, laughed in my face, wrote an article about the experience and published it in the New York Times before giving a carbon copy of the darn thing to People Magazine.
It felt just that bad.
But Lauren didn't know when to stop.
Lauren: I can get you a date with Rory, Tristan. And I can probably get you a hell whole lot more than that, too.
Me, smirking: And all for the low, low price of one date with the ever enchanting, lovely Rebecca St. Martin.
Lauren: So, you up for it?
Me: What makes you think she'll even consider it?
Lauren: Who? Rebecca or Rory?
Me: You know who I'm talking about.
Lauren, looking down at me speculatively: Well, you're not wholly unattractive, Tristan. And when you want to be, you can be persuasively charming. Who knows? If you let that tiny spec of humanity shine through, maybe you'll suddenly seem quite decent, at least in her eyes.
Me: She has a boyfriend, Laur.
Lauren: Like that's stopped you before. Like that's stopped me before! Besides, you know how these teen romances work nowadays. One minute you're the flavor of the week, the next you're-
Me, striving for a dispassionate answer: She's not like that.
Lauren, smirking: Maybe not. But you'll never know unless you let me convince her that you're the man of her dreams...
There wasn't really anything more to add. I got up and was about to leave, strutting a few steps away from our table to demonstrate to Lauren how her words hadn't affected me in the least, when somebody ran into my side.
I immediately knew it was her from the hesitating twist of her head and the sound of her book snapping shut on impact. She paused, before raising her questioning eyes at me. "Sorry," Rory said, before moving out of the way and walking out of the cafeteria.
Her eyes were so vivid, I kept seeing them in my head like some sort of smoke screen permanently embedded in the back of my mind. I must have looked like a transfixed lunatic, because suddenly, I heard Lauren walk up behind me and breathe into my ear "Friday at 6:30."
Having had enough, I ignored her and walked out of my own volition.
*** Really, Tristan is all too easy to manipulate.
I like watching his face and knowing that Mr. Hot-and-Wonderful actually thinks that he's unreadable.
It's amusing.
Like his obsession with Rory Gilmore. I have to admit, that was a surprise to me. I hadn't seen it coming, and with Tristan, that's actually quite rare.
I mean, she's fairly attractive and all, but not overtly gorgeous or anything. She didn't have any social credibility in terms of money or popularity either.
But you've got to give her her dues. She was smart. And she made it look cute and endearing.
That was what was the problem. Words that described Tristan's past girlfriends didn't include endearing or cute.
More like haughty, snobby, and hot. Hot, being the term Tristan would use. I prefer the term abnormally attractive.
But whatever. The fact was, when she came to Chilton, and proceeded to completely ignore Tristan, it drove him crazy.
It had never happened to the fool before.
The effort he put into cornering her or teasing her had not passed me by unnoticed. So when I was sitting with him at lunch that day at Chilton, it was easy to torment him with her name, trying to coax him with something I was sure he had resigned himself into accepting as unreachable.
And even if he tries to claim otherwise, the whole situation had every thing to do with Matchmaker.
Because see, our plan was put into action way before I had ever actually sat down with Tristan for lunch that fateful afternoon.
And the whole story about Mark Bilstore and the middle-school dance?
All a hoax.
Well, not the dance part.
But Mark Bilstore?
Actually nonexistent.
Because I had explained to Rebecca about my intentions of finding Tristan a girlfriend after watching Matchmaker with her. She had been completely enthusiastic, and had even provided me with a couple of names of friends in her grade that might be interest in doing something like this.
"Thanks, sweetie," I had managed, not wanting to offend her by saying anything along the lines of 'Tristan would prefer being seen in the company of Anna Nicole Smith, Richard Simmons and the 200 flushes dude all together than with anybody below the age of 15'.
"But I think I've already got someone else in mind."
She was all excited. "Who? Is it somebody I know?"
"No. Just some girl. But he really likes her, though he pretends he doesn't."
"Why not?"
"Because she doesn't like him back. At least, not yet."
I could tell I had stumped her. In her world, anybody who would treat her to a double scoop of Mint Mocha Madness ice cream every time her parents would be leaving the country on a six-month sojourn to prevent her from feeling too bad was the epitome of the perfect man.
"I want to help," she said instead.
So we devised this crazy-ass plan, where fortunately, Rebecca's excellent acting skills were going to be showcased to their fullest extent.
And it was a good thing that our plan was so great, because we only had four weeks to enact it. At the end of that time period came the much feared, but much revered Spring Dance.
Four weeks to get Mr. Wonderful and Miss Reluctant together.
So it really wasn't surprising that I started getting cracking that very same afternoon. Sitting on a grassy knoll near the school entrance, I waited patiently until I saw Rory walking calmly down the pavement until she reached the bus stop. There she waited until a quaint little bus pulled up, and then she stepped onto the awaiting vehicle.
Above the windshield was written its destination.
I smiled, and flicked open my cell phone.
"Phase 1 completed."
I could feel her smile from the other end of the line, though she said nothing.
"Phase two starts tonight. Remember, be believable," I ordered sternly, before laughing at the absurdity of the situation.
"Yeah, yeah," she said. "How hard will it be to pretend I'm in love with the guy for one night?"
"Not very. But remember, you're just a poor victim here. You need guidance. You need help. You need-"
"Hey, Lauren? I get the message. I'm just a poor little girl with a downtrodden heart. Got it. And by the way, can we give our operation a code name? I'm thinking operation Condor, or operation Silver-bullet, or operation-"
"Goodbye, Rebecca," I laughed before hanging up.
