Twenty Four Hours
Disclaimer: I don't own anything gilmore-girl-ish recognizable
'This conversation is a waste of time. We'll get everything we require from 'Sparkling Occasions', that includes the flowers, the candle holders, the balloons, no exceptions. We're simply here to take measurements and decide what our theme should be, not for endlessly circling chitchat. Anyone who's not committed to this is more than welcome to leave.' The last was stated by Paris with a slightly raised intonation that indicated sarcastic emphasis. Rory was well aware it was directed at her.
Rory rubbed her temples once, trying to remember again why she'd signed up for Chilton's Student Decorating Committee this year. The reason wasn't vague or hard to remember, it was one of the few non-curicular activities available that mostly took place during school hours; lunch times and free periods. She could add it to her student record and still get the bus home for Stars Hollow. But she hadn't reckoned on Paris signing up as well. And she hadn't thought about the extra planning big events like Chilton's Spring Dance required. Those two lapses had resulted in the situation at hand - a 'committee' meeting held at 4pm on a Friday afternoon and wholley dictated by Paris. 'But Paris, I still don't understand why we have to use professional decorators. All I was trying to point out is that we could make this much more cost-effective by doing a lot of it ourselves. For example, I'm sure I could get a helium tank from a friend of my family, Luke..'
'Yeah. I'd be happy to make crepe decorations or create table center pieces. Actual creative-stuff was kind of the reason I joined this committee,' a girl put in, glancing nervously at Paris.
The glare Paris returned was expressionless. She crossed her arms and looked at the rest of the small group huddled on the bleaches of the gym. 'Well fine. If you all agree with Rory, that's fine, it's the decision of the whole group to make. I'd just like to remind you all, before you rush en masse to Wallmart to buy packets of balloons and party hats, that a lot of people are counting on us to do this properly. Our headmaster, the Parents and Teachers committee, our fellow students. There's been a student-designed, *professionally* created decoration scheme for every dance at this school that I can remember, and I started coming to them with my parents when I was six. If you'd all like this to be Chilton's first ever amateurish, paper-mache-themed occassion, then go right ahead with your discussion.'
The other kids exchanged glances and squirmed uncomfortably. 'Uh .. no. Of course we don't want that. You're probably right, Paris.' The girl who'd made the center-piece creating offer admitted. Rory bit her tongue on a frustrated snark and opted out of further vocal contributions to the meeting. There was no competing with Paris when it came to intimidating-rhetorical-flourishes delivered-in-a-flat-neutral-voice and she just wanted to finish up and get out of there. They measured off spaces and made notes in their books about colour schemes and texture themes. Paris suggested that a good theme for the spring dance would be 'Floriade', with large flower arrangements in the center of the tables, and individual roses of various colours in each persons place at the table. The table cloths and wall coverings and candle holders would be in pastel themes, and they'd have a discrete floral arrangement around the swing band playing at the end of the hall. The others agreed, this was
a fantastic plan.
Rory snapped her book shut at the scheduled meeting-close time of 5pm and headed for the door of the gym without a word. But she didn't make it there. 'Oh Rory? Since your leaving anyway, would you mind taking the tape measure back to the Maitance closet next to the Mr Medina's class room?'
Rory turned slowly back and took the small steel box out of Paris' outstretched hand. 'Certainly Paris. Goodbye'
She turned and left the room without waiting for a reply.
***
Tristan snapped the Economics book he was hunched over shut with a feeling of disgust. It was disgust for the chapter on 'Emerging markets' that so cooly, unironically and insensitively described effects and 'mutal' benefits of western capitalism's forrays into the cultures of the 'third world', it was disgust for himself and the fact that he hadn't managed to get through the alloted fifty pages which he knew he must do before the in-class essay on them on Monday, and it was a kind of deeper disgust for something he couldn't put into words; a latent knowledge that inevitably he'd finish the chapters and ace the essay test and be successful. He was going to be a success, alright.
Tristan pushed roughly through both the double doors of the library feel cranky and closed in. And then he saw something that made him feel a surprisingly physical sensation, like his stomach was closing in too, on itself. Rory Gilmore. Walking down the hallway away from him, in the opposite direction to the school's entry/exit, head-phone buds in her ears, oblivious to everything. Tristan did pause for a minute. He really shouldn't follow her. He was in a terrible mood, and he knew himself well enough to realise this only made him more brittlely obnoxious and insulting. She hated him enough as it was. She turned the corner, and he didn't think about it any more, he just started down the corridoor in the direction she had taken, his steps almost unconsciously stealthy, careful.
When Tristan got to the corner he felt the invisible goblin in his stomach lurch violently again, this time towards the floor. She was nowhere in sight. Something at the edge of his consciousness, some huge banished emotion that wasn't really the result of this situation but of a hundred others like it, threated to surface for a second, but then Tristan noticed the door to the maitance closet was open.
Rory was standing on tiptoes peering up at the top shelf of the walk in closet, where various stocks of rulers and chalk and cleaning fluids were kept, clearly trying to find the right place for the tape measure to go. Meticulously organised to the point of robotosism, that's Rory, Tristian thought to himself sourly. But the lithe, slender frame stretched out there in front of him, neck arched back, long soft hair coming out of its tie, backpack askew and awkward, looked anything but machine like. There was something about her. Something about her that triggered in Tristian almost a reverence, almost a sense of awe he didn't want to admit to himself, didn't want to think about. He whistled lowly and said in a insinuating and insulting soft voice that he barely recognised as his own 'Nice legs.'
Disclaimer: I don't own anything gilmore-girl-ish recognizable
'This conversation is a waste of time. We'll get everything we require from 'Sparkling Occasions', that includes the flowers, the candle holders, the balloons, no exceptions. We're simply here to take measurements and decide what our theme should be, not for endlessly circling chitchat. Anyone who's not committed to this is more than welcome to leave.' The last was stated by Paris with a slightly raised intonation that indicated sarcastic emphasis. Rory was well aware it was directed at her.
Rory rubbed her temples once, trying to remember again why she'd signed up for Chilton's Student Decorating Committee this year. The reason wasn't vague or hard to remember, it was one of the few non-curicular activities available that mostly took place during school hours; lunch times and free periods. She could add it to her student record and still get the bus home for Stars Hollow. But she hadn't reckoned on Paris signing up as well. And she hadn't thought about the extra planning big events like Chilton's Spring Dance required. Those two lapses had resulted in the situation at hand - a 'committee' meeting held at 4pm on a Friday afternoon and wholley dictated by Paris. 'But Paris, I still don't understand why we have to use professional decorators. All I was trying to point out is that we could make this much more cost-effective by doing a lot of it ourselves. For example, I'm sure I could get a helium tank from a friend of my family, Luke..'
'Yeah. I'd be happy to make crepe decorations or create table center pieces. Actual creative-stuff was kind of the reason I joined this committee,' a girl put in, glancing nervously at Paris.
The glare Paris returned was expressionless. She crossed her arms and looked at the rest of the small group huddled on the bleaches of the gym. 'Well fine. If you all agree with Rory, that's fine, it's the decision of the whole group to make. I'd just like to remind you all, before you rush en masse to Wallmart to buy packets of balloons and party hats, that a lot of people are counting on us to do this properly. Our headmaster, the Parents and Teachers committee, our fellow students. There's been a student-designed, *professionally* created decoration scheme for every dance at this school that I can remember, and I started coming to them with my parents when I was six. If you'd all like this to be Chilton's first ever amateurish, paper-mache-themed occassion, then go right ahead with your discussion.'
The other kids exchanged glances and squirmed uncomfortably. 'Uh .. no. Of course we don't want that. You're probably right, Paris.' The girl who'd made the center-piece creating offer admitted. Rory bit her tongue on a frustrated snark and opted out of further vocal contributions to the meeting. There was no competing with Paris when it came to intimidating-rhetorical-flourishes delivered-in-a-flat-neutral-voice and she just wanted to finish up and get out of there. They measured off spaces and made notes in their books about colour schemes and texture themes. Paris suggested that a good theme for the spring dance would be 'Floriade', with large flower arrangements in the center of the tables, and individual roses of various colours in each persons place at the table. The table cloths and wall coverings and candle holders would be in pastel themes, and they'd have a discrete floral arrangement around the swing band playing at the end of the hall. The others agreed, this was
a fantastic plan.
Rory snapped her book shut at the scheduled meeting-close time of 5pm and headed for the door of the gym without a word. But she didn't make it there. 'Oh Rory? Since your leaving anyway, would you mind taking the tape measure back to the Maitance closet next to the Mr Medina's class room?'
Rory turned slowly back and took the small steel box out of Paris' outstretched hand. 'Certainly Paris. Goodbye'
She turned and left the room without waiting for a reply.
***
Tristan snapped the Economics book he was hunched over shut with a feeling of disgust. It was disgust for the chapter on 'Emerging markets' that so cooly, unironically and insensitively described effects and 'mutal' benefits of western capitalism's forrays into the cultures of the 'third world', it was disgust for himself and the fact that he hadn't managed to get through the alloted fifty pages which he knew he must do before the in-class essay on them on Monday, and it was a kind of deeper disgust for something he couldn't put into words; a latent knowledge that inevitably he'd finish the chapters and ace the essay test and be successful. He was going to be a success, alright.
Tristan pushed roughly through both the double doors of the library feel cranky and closed in. And then he saw something that made him feel a surprisingly physical sensation, like his stomach was closing in too, on itself. Rory Gilmore. Walking down the hallway away from him, in the opposite direction to the school's entry/exit, head-phone buds in her ears, oblivious to everything. Tristan did pause for a minute. He really shouldn't follow her. He was in a terrible mood, and he knew himself well enough to realise this only made him more brittlely obnoxious and insulting. She hated him enough as it was. She turned the corner, and he didn't think about it any more, he just started down the corridoor in the direction she had taken, his steps almost unconsciously stealthy, careful.
When Tristan got to the corner he felt the invisible goblin in his stomach lurch violently again, this time towards the floor. She was nowhere in sight. Something at the edge of his consciousness, some huge banished emotion that wasn't really the result of this situation but of a hundred others like it, threated to surface for a second, but then Tristan noticed the door to the maitance closet was open.
Rory was standing on tiptoes peering up at the top shelf of the walk in closet, where various stocks of rulers and chalk and cleaning fluids were kept, clearly trying to find the right place for the tape measure to go. Meticulously organised to the point of robotosism, that's Rory, Tristian thought to himself sourly. But the lithe, slender frame stretched out there in front of him, neck arched back, long soft hair coming out of its tie, backpack askew and awkward, looked anything but machine like. There was something about her. Something about her that triggered in Tristian almost a reverence, almost a sense of awe he didn't want to admit to himself, didn't want to think about. He whistled lowly and said in a insinuating and insulting soft voice that he barely recognised as his own 'Nice legs.'