Soli Deo gloria

DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own Gilmore Girls.

Next day—Monday—Rory could barely concentrate on her schoolwork. She floated to her classes and offered one raised arm before excusing herself to the luxury of staring out the window and imagining out in her mind the next chapter of her story. Her Math teacher called on her three times, making the class titter and Paris glare resentfully at her, as if to say, 'Get your head out of the clouds, Gilmore. You're being called upon; have the common decency to at least blurt out a random answer.'

As the last class let out, Rory found Paris at her side, annoyed. "Honestly, what is wrong with you? This is our senior year, our last year to make impressions on the student body around us, and you're acting like you don't even care. Well, maybe you don't care, but I don't, and I just can't stand around and let people make fools of themselves while wasting away precious opportunities. You know what, actually?" Paris straightened her short self, as if attempting to make her biting mouth and intimidating stature even more imposing, "I can stand around and I will. Go ahead—daydream in class, let your mind slip away into shallow, catty thoughts of boys and eyeshadow and parties. In the meantime, I'll keep up a high GPA and be valedictorian of 2003's graduating class!" Paris flounced away and Rory stopped short, looking after her. Since when did Paris care so much about her doing well in her last year?

Whatever. Rory quickly took the bus straight home—home being the town of Stars Hollow, not her front door. She stepped off and quickly entered Luke's diner. She almost forgot to wave "Hi" to Luke before throwing down her backpack onto the nearest empty table.

"Sure, just—just sit anywhere, no big deal," Luke said lamely, sighing as he went to consult Caesar about tonight's closing shift.

Rory made herself at home straight away. Her laptop and homework assignments and textbooks were set up in a very specific order all around the table. She put her backpack by her chair's legs. She pulled back her free hair and rolled up her sleeves. She paged her mom quickly, letting her know where she was and wishing her a good afternoon at the Inn and since she was in town, why couldn't she pick up something from Al's for supper, preferably none of his pancakes, 'cause she cared deeply about their health?

Rory sat back up just as Luke came over with a pen and pad. "Afternoon, Rory," he said. He took a minute to look at the literary academia surrounding her and said, "Settling in for the long haul?"

"Yep. I have twenty questions to answer, three chapters to read, a pop quiz to prep for, and that's just homework. I'm also going to write today's daily dose of NaNoWriMo. Thalia's heading out of her hometown, bound for Morocco with a traveling companion with an unfortunate habit of sneezing."

"Give the companion some allergy meds or this Thalia's going to get tired of him pretty quick," Luke advised. Then he realized what he just said and said, "You're talking about your novel characters, right?"

"You're in the know," Rory affirmed.

Luke nodded, a little relieved. "All right. What can I get you to power you through the afternoon?"

Rory pretended to put some real thought into the question put to her, even though her order had replayed itself through her mind the entire bus ride there. "Can I get a cheese burger, medium rare, no pickle, with extra mayo on the side, and fries?" She looked up at him with such a genuine smile.

"You want lettuce and tomato with that?" Luke muttered, writing away.

"Yes. It'll trick me into thinking I'm eating something healthy."

"You're really not, you know." Luke couldn't help but mutter in wonder to himself, "Where do you put it all away, and where do you even get the appetite to start with?"

"It's all the talking I do. Burns calories for me just as much as weight-lifting does for other people. It wears a girl out. Also, the Gilmore stomach is hereditary, though I'm not sure from which parent Mom got it from," Rory said, shrugging.

Luke shook his head to himself as he turned away, finishing his last scribbles on his pad of paper. "One medium burger and fries, coming right up."

She leaned forward on her hands and called out enthusiastically, "You're the best, Luke!"

He waved a hand dismissively at her, not liking the attention; she grinned and sat back in her chair.

She had just opened her word document when the diner's bell rang. Normally she wouldn't look up, but this time she did; she looked away quickly, but then her eyes darted back up again. Jess had entered holding a spray bottle full of cleaning solution and a dirty old rag; he seemed not to notice her, so she called out, "What's with the cleaning supplies?"

It was an innocent enough question, but it made him stop, swallow, and say in a low voice, "Part of my engine still sounded funny. I went and checked it out. Turns out the source of the noise was a piece of deviled egg." He turned to her and slowly sauntered forward, his words enunciated and deliberate. "When my car got egged eight days ago, somehow, part of a deviled egg got stuck under my hood." He stopped by her table; she tried to dismiss the smile growing on her face (it was kinda funny, whether he thought so or not); he asked, "You wouldn't happen to have any idea how it got there, would you?"

"No, I don't," Rory said. She straightened, said with a straight face, "Like I said before: Mom and I were home all night that night."

He stepped back on his heel; he, of course, didn't believe her, but he'd never seen Rory Gilmore—honest, good girl, poster-child Rory Gilmore—lie before. It was kinda funny. It was something little short of a miracle. She showed him that she wasn't such a stiff neck like she was with Dean. So Jess just said, almost to himself, "Okay." He took another step back. "I believe you."

Rory could read him lying just as he could read her lying. She directed her attention back to her novel, though he proved this a harder challenge to accomplish than it was yesterday. Yesterday her novel stole every last bit of her focus; now her eyes flickered away from the computer screen, almost against her will, to steal little glances at him. That's why she doubled down and typed fiercely when she saw him bring her her ready order.

Jess stopped by the table and scoffed at all her precious schoolbooks. Those giant tomes left a dreadful lack of empty space to put a plate down on. "Where do you want this?" he said, raising his hand and gesturing to the cluttered table.

She waved a hand to a giant physics book. He balanced it precariously and she said, "Thanks."

"Whatever. So, tell me," he asked, turning the chair opposite Rory and sitting down in it, balancing his chin on its back, "what is Thalia Hilliard doing today?"

"Like I told Luke, she's going to Morocco with her sneezing traveling companion." Rory wrote one sentence, but couldn't stay silent under his scrutinizing eyes. "Why do you care what's she doing?"

"She's a character. I read books. I usually end up caring a little about the characters." He sat up straighter. "What's her motivation? Why is she traveling? Why must she travel? What's the point of this book?"

"Whoa, way to get down into it," Rory bristled. "The point of this book is . . . I want to write out this story, and I want to do NaNoWriMo. That's the . . . point of the book. You know, not all books have points. This—this isn't the Iliad or somet allegory about the human condition, you know. Sometimes . . . sometimes books are just written because their authors want to write their story out! Maybe it's because if you don't write the story out, it'll just build up inside of you until it has to burst out! Maybe—maybe it's just that!"

"Why are you so riled up?" Jess wanted to know.

"I don't know. Because you rile me up!" was all Rory could think of.

Jess pressed his lips together. She looked at him, a little out of breath, before resolutely staring at her computer.

"So, NaNoWriMo, huh?" he said, scared that the conversation could turn frigid if they remained silent too long.

Rory looked up. "You know what NaNoWriMo is?" she said, cautious, yet surprised.

"Yeah. I go online sometimes. I'm aware of novel writing contests. More so than the average person, anyway." He shrugged. "It's kinda nerdy of you, you know," he joked.

"I'm a studious bookworm. Do you expect me to be something different?" Rory said.

Jess put his hands up. "Hey, just observing. Don't get offended or something. I'm just saying, it's . . . commendable."

Rory looked up. "Wait," she said in disbelief, "what did you say?"

Jess sighed, looked away, like he didn't want to repeat himself. "All I'm saying is, to challenge your own abilities, to strive like that, and try to write fifty-thousand words, without any promise of fame or success or even of actually finishing, with nothing as a reward except your own personal sense of satisfaction, for the sake of writing," he shrugged, "that's commendable."

"You . . . like the idea?" Rory wondered.

"Sure I do."

"Then why don't you do it, too?" Rory asked.

Jess should've seen this question coming from a mile away. He stood up. "No, not me."

"Jess—" Rory said—

—the diner's bell rang as the door slammed shut.

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