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Authors Notes: My slightly crazy, slightly humorous, and somewhat
sappy romantic prelusion into the alluring world of writing. Love it. Hate
it. Review it!
(I'm looking to do a longer fiction, mayhap including more romance
and a pinch of drama. I'd like to team up with someone to write it though,
as I have bad commitment habits and a tendency to writers block. Interested?
E-mail me at
optimistic_thought@ hotmail.com.)-HTS
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Rory Gilmore: DJ Extraordinar?
Chapter 1: à l'amou (to love)
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(A/N: Enter our heroine…)
Sunlight seeped through the sheer drapes that hung lazily down the sides of the modest window. Slowly it slunk across the floor, sidling up the worn oak of the night stand. Then, as it had every day, approached the small mechanical device.
The defining buzzing noise began its customary wailing, and the Gilmore house commenced its morning rituals.
Slowing a hand emerged from the depths of the faded blankets, snaking out to silence the annoying alarm with unsuspecting force. As the appendage fell limp as the incessant noise was cut off, a no less vexatious sound drifted down the stairs.
"Rory!" Came the pathetic cry. "Help me!"
Incoherent grumbling was heard from under the multitude of blankets. With a sudden jerk, the girl wrenched herself free of the sheets and swung her pajama clad legs over the side of the bed. Raising one petite hand to cover an immense yawn, she hopped onto the frigid wooden floor. Grimacing as the cold made its way into her skin she gritted her teeth.
"Mom! Can't you scream at a decent hour?" she whined at the stair case as she threw open her door, sighing she yellled, "The pink scrunchy is by the sink, the sparkly head band is under the couch, and that utterly vile hat of yours is somewhere under your bed!"
The ensuing sounds of effort indicated that Lorelei was after the later. Grumbling words that were best left unheard, Rory made her way to the coffee pot, the one light in her life. She allowed a small smile to creep over her lips as she reached for her Mickey Mouse mug. The smile faltered as she encountered a note taped to the coffee-maker.
'Coffee-maker broken. Gods graces have abandoned us. Death is now inevitable.'
"MOM!" She screamed as she ran up the stairs, bounding up three at a time. "You said you'd fix it YESTERDAY!"
"Fix what?" came the muffled reply.
The sun shone merrily through the front window, smiling pleasantly down on the small town of Stars Hollow. 'Twas the start of another Monday in the Gilmore girls saga.
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(A/N: Enter the romantic interest…)
The steamy cup warmed her hands as she clutched it close to the front of her blazer while she shuffled unenthusiastically down the hall on her morning trip to visit her crotchety old locker. Some people didn't seem to realize that most inanimate objects; i.e. lockers, had personalities. But with a mother like hers, Rory was intimately aware of such details. This did not, however, make life any easier.
Biting her tongue against words a drunken sailor would be proud of, Rory tugged at the mischievous handle of her uncooperative locker.
"Open," she hissed through gritted teeth, all too aware of the odd looks her fellow classmates tossed her way as they passed. Realizing the futility of the exertion Rory's shoulders sagged and she pounded her forehead against the cool blue painted metal. The hatch popped out a little, allowing access to the contents within. After starring at the opening in disbelief, her mouth forming an 'o' of surprise, the sound of approaching footsteps warned her that her torment was far from over.
"Are you planing on catching a few bugs that way?" The suave voice gently purred. "Or are you finally admiting you want my tongue in it?" The suggestive comment hung in the air between them.
Inhaling deeply, counting back from ten, thinking happy thoughts, Rory turned to face the bane of her existence.
"The only thing I think I want your tongue in Tristan," she growled,
"Is an operating blender."
She bent down to retrieve her precious drink, and the less-important
book bag.
"Why Mary," The blonde headed young man continued undaunted, "If you keep saying things like that people might get the impression you might not like me." He leaned his prep-boy figure against the lockers next to her, casually inspecting his finger nails as he let a dangerous grin spread over his features.
"Oh my!" Bitter sarcasm dripping from her voice, "We wouldn't want that." She began arduously shoving books into her locker. Finished, she slammed the door closed once more, eyes burning with kindled rage turned to her tormentor. "Look, this is a sick game. You don't like me, I don't like you. You just get off on some demented thrill from this. Go back and join your fellow slime under whatever rock you slithered out of." Scowling at his irritably cheerful face, she hefted the weighty backpack over her shoulder, downed the rest of the quickly cooling elixir, spun around and headed for French class.
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Tristan DuGrey, infamous playboy prep-boy of the acclaimed halls of Chilton Preparatory Academy, watched with impish glee the retreating back of Rory Gilmore. This mornings banter seemed a bit more acidic then normal, he wondered what was bugging her as he lifted himself off the lockers and joined the milling crowds of students.
Love was a word that had been part of his vocabulary for as long as he could remember, a word he had cast upon many of his romantic conquests, but one he saw little meaning in. Remembering the blaze in her exquisite baby blue eyes as she berated him, he contemplated attaching the word to amorphous feelings he had concerning Rory. Furrowing his brow in puzzlement, he found he wasn't sure. He had none in his affluent, well-to-do life, and couldn't, therefore, use it.
Rory Gilmore was someone he admired. At first, he found this rather difficult to choke down, after all, Tristan DuGrey didn't admire anyone, especially the new Mary. But her fresh beauty had hit him like a semi, her sharp wit left his careful schemas in shreds, he had found her a passion, an incurable addiction, and could not for the life of him get her out of his head. She stimulated him in a way no girl ever had. In his cold, sterile, cookie-cutter life she made him feel. When he was with her, every second was infused with life, his dead senses blazed with new found vitality. It was too bad he acted like a third grader around her.
As he sat, scribbling down the names of dead guys, who were way too quill-happy, he cringed as he thought of the way he acted around her. It was her fault, he tried to rationalize. She was just too real for him to act the way he normally did, she didn't fall at his feet, however good-looking they may be. And so his inner child, something he though lost long ago, re-awoke and whispered naughty suggestions in his mind. Pull up her dress! Bury her dolls in the sand! Call her names like 'bogger-brain'! Yet he did posses some level of maturity, so instead of 'booger-brain' her called her 'Mary', instead of burying her dolls in the sand he stole her books, and instead of pulling up her skirt…wait…he rubbed his shoulder at the memory, it still felt sore.
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The blackboard slipped in and out of focus as Rory sat, occasionally listing to Madame Hibba expound on the wonders of conjugating verbs. She was obviously riveted in her seat.
And some people say that these are the best years of their lives. Well, Excusez-moi? Rory thought it should be noted that the people who said such things were the prom queens and the sports kings, the crème de la collecte. People like her Grandmother, though the mental image she got picturing Emily Gilmore in a skimpy cheerleading uniform, or an 'indecent' prom dress, was enough to start her off in gales of laughter. In any event, she was not one of the crème de la collecte (cream of the crop), the dessus du segment de mémoire (top of the heap). 'Bah! Enough French idioms!' she scolded herself inwardly.
But imagining her Grandmother as a cheerleader was easier then letting her mind wander to other things. 'à l'amour' Madame Hibba chirped, as she demonstrated the conjugation. 'To love'.
Somedays, the world just had it in for her.
The word echoed through her brain. 'To love'. She wanted to beat it out. Or rather, throttle the one person who made the thoughts of it so unbearable. There was only one person so infuriating, so insufferable, that stirred such impassioned, albeit negative, emotions in her that she could not forget the image of said person.
Tristan DuGrey. Menace to woman-kind everywhere. The scourge of her life at Chilton.
And yet, oh yes, she could never quite get rid of that 'yet', she felt…Why was it so hard to admit…an attraction. A weak, pathetic attraction! She reasoned out. But truth be told, she, on some totally whacked out level, enjoyed their morning bickering, the horrible puns and sexually suggestive comments he threw at her. He made her stay on her toes, to match him, insult for insult. She knew it sounded crazy, but even crazy was something after all.
"Mlle Gilmore, puisqu'I.m sûrs vous avaient prêté une attention particulière, veuillez venir démontrent la conjugaison de ce verbe. Mlle Gilmore?"
("Miss Gilmore, since I'm sure you have been paying close attention, please come demonstrate the conjugation of this verb. Miss Gilmore?")
"Ce qui!?" she squeaked. ("What!?")
Walking to the board, the not-so-silent snickering of her peers making her ears burn, Rory came to the conclusion that many a student before her found. French teachers are evil, conniving demon-type minions from Hades.
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Thoughts of French and Tristan, and not so un-coincidentally, French-kissing Tristan were shoved far back in her mind as she stood of her tip-toes, searching the extra curricular bulletin board for an exhilarative, or at least not incredibly boring class, she stumbled across a neon yellow flyer/form. The snazzy cover art drew her attention to the title, a public telecommunications course? She smiled, but didn't think it too likely, it had the word 'public' in it, something her slightly antisocial, or rather, Chilton antisocial tendencies would not allow her to go. She instead grabbed a form for a beginners microbiology class, and unable to fit the first sheet back on the board, shoved both into her folder and hurried off to Pre-Calculus.
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(A/N: Enter the antagonist, dun dun duuun. . .)
Paris Gellar was ambitious to say the least. She was headed for the top, and nothing, not failed crushes, unsuccessful sororities, or even Rory Gilmore, were going to keep her from her goals. As her latest road block to success entered the front office, she immediately set herself to high alert, slinking cautiously over to the aged and foreboding mahogany desk, she threw a surreptitious glance at the forms Rory handed to the secretary. Had she been a loony -toons character, her ears would have been spouting smoke and comical sound effects as she caught sight of the form she saw the brunette had over.
Rory could not take microbiology, she was taking that!? It was her class, her dream, and Rory did not figure into it. She was positively seething as she watched the other girl leave, but not so caught up in her own anger to miss the paper that fell from her binder. In a flash she snatched the loose paper, carefully scanning it. A humanities course, harmless, why couldn't Rory have taken that one instead?
'Wait a minute…' A slow grin, not unlike the skin-crawling smirk of the Grinch, slowly seeped across the face of one Paris Gellar. The well oiled wheels of her brain speeding away as a perfect plot formed in her mind. With her 'connections' in the secretaries office, it would hardly be a bother to see that Rory got a quick, unanticipated detour in her scheduling.
With the form was tightly secured in her own folder Paris set off to set her brilliant, if slightly evil plot in motion.
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To be continued…when author gets around to it…
***More Authors Notes: I shall now commence with the shameless groveling for feedback. Ahem. Please?! Pretty please? With sugar and ice cream -soy for all you lactose intolerant guys- and a cherry on top? I need input! INPUT! *Cheesy 'Short Circuit' imitation* Oh come on! Who doesn't like #5?***
-HTS
