Part Seven
Paris mentally reviewed what she would tell Tristan when she found him:
1. Hiya, Sparky. You know how you were going to ask Rory out? You might want to postpone that until after you get down on both knees and tell her yes, you knew that there had been a videotape of your only kiss but you had truly believed it was destroyed because Paris is usually thorough about these things. Tell her it's all a misunderstanding and that I'm really sorry, too.
2. Hey, did you do the History homework? Oh, yeah, it was hard. By the way, Rory thinks we set her up as the amateur G-rated 8mm Porn Queen of the Chilton Black Market. She really hates us both. Really, really.
3. We're buds and I thought I should tell you. Now don't freak out but I think you might want to ask her out soon because it looks like there might be a run, what with the soccer team and the football team and and, oh, every jockstrap in the tri-county vicinity having a newfound interest in her. Why? Oh, see, it's a funny story. Yes, I know I have a future as a comedienne.
So maybe sensitivity wasn't her first inclination but she couldn't get over the unfairness of it all. Couldn't Rory see that she was just as much a victim?
Whoa there, Paris, hop off the Me, Me, Me Train. She knew that Rory must be hurting. All the more reason to find-
"Ah, Ms. Gellar. Thinking hard? Must be. The classroom is this way." Mr. Hepworth gestured Paris into the room and just like that, her plans were derailed.
Or were they? Paris waited until after the Modern French Literature teacher had taken roll before raising her hand. In her best Perfect Student With Nothing to Hide voice, she asked to go to the bathroom.
And she meant to come back to class. She really did. After she warned Tristan.
Her Inner Perfect Student was protesting. She was on a downward spiral. She had already missed one class -the first ever. Soon she'd be smoking with the bad girls who hemmed their plaid skirts. Yes, those Bad Girls. The ones whose underwear resembled string cheese both in thickness and in convenience of removal. And all in the name of friendship!
Because she had to admit that Rory and Tristan's friendship was one of the most important things in her life. Not as important as the Franklin or being valedictorian but, still…
"Will Paris Gellar please report to the office? Paris Gellar to the office."
Oh, sweet Cheese-us.
It really was a downward spiral. A road filled with sin and vice and demerits…with a lowered head, Paris turned towards the office.
"Ah, Ms. Gellar." The head secretary's voice was business-like. "Your mother is on the phone."
Paris barely resisted saying that her mother was in Switzerland. Instead, she took the phone and held it gingerly to her ear. "Hello? Mom?"
"Paris!"
Okay, her mom had never been so enthusiastic. Or sounded so…much like a perky Korean teenager.
"La-"
"No, don't say my name. I told the secretary I was your mom because it was really important. Nod your head, okay."
"Yes, mom. I'm listening."
"Dean left about ten minutes ago, we got out of school early because Kirk was a sub today and…nevermind. He's on his way to Chilton. He got this crazy idea that Rory wants him back and they're going to have this huge movie-like Frank Capra pan to the big kiss reconciliation. You have to intercept him!"
"Intercept?"
"Yes!"
"But…"
"Go! Hang up the phone, tell the secretary you have to do something for your mom."
"How…" Paris was having a hard time processing.
"True Love, Paris. You have to do this, only you have the power. It's like The Never Ending story and you're the kid with the naming and…Paris, you have to got to intercept Dean."
And all of a sudden it was like a light had gone off in Paris' head and she was imbued with all the buoyant force of Lane and she had to listen because she had this prime directive now and she had to intercept Dean. She had to. Tristan could deal with Rory. She had supreme confidence in him. The proof was in the percentages, she'd watched him in action all these years and he had to know how to deal with a angry, betrayed-feeling girl with all that experience. And amor omnia vincit, right?
Right, because if it didn't then Virgil wouldn't have said it. Poets didn't lie.
Paris' head felt lighter. She did a quick review of her priorities and decided that, yes, her skills were best invested in interception.
She headed out to the parking lot, got into her car on automatic pilot. How was she going to stop Dean? If she'd time to prepare she could have made a detour sign. A little paint, a little sheet metal, some flashing lights for authenticity…Focus, Paris. Lane called five minutes ago. Dean left fifteen minutes ago.
If a train leaves Buffalo at five p.m. going West at sixty miles per hour and a floppy-haired ex-boyfriend who doesn't know the difference between stocking and stalking leaves his podunk, yet quaint, town at two-thirty p.m. going fifty-five miles per hour….
He'd be here now. Paris swore as she sighted the clunky green truck turn off the main road and onto Chilton's main drive. She hadn't asked what Dean drove but knew that truck couldn't belong to anyone else, not in this part of Hartford. She started the car. She couldn't let him turn into the wrought iron gates. Could not. She made her desperate decision and buckled her seatbelt. Then she pushed down hard on the gas pedal and tore wildly out of the parking lot. She took her eyes off the road and looked at Dean's face as she passed him. A second only. Then she willed herself to focus. Keep your eyes on the prize. She swerved into his Dean's lane, lined herself up with the truck and closed her eyes as she let the momentum carry her forward.
***
TBC…
Paris mentally reviewed what she would tell Tristan when she found him:
1. Hiya, Sparky. You know how you were going to ask Rory out? You might want to postpone that until after you get down on both knees and tell her yes, you knew that there had been a videotape of your only kiss but you had truly believed it was destroyed because Paris is usually thorough about these things. Tell her it's all a misunderstanding and that I'm really sorry, too.
2. Hey, did you do the History homework? Oh, yeah, it was hard. By the way, Rory thinks we set her up as the amateur G-rated 8mm Porn Queen of the Chilton Black Market. She really hates us both. Really, really.
3. We're buds and I thought I should tell you. Now don't freak out but I think you might want to ask her out soon because it looks like there might be a run, what with the soccer team and the football team and and, oh, every jockstrap in the tri-county vicinity having a newfound interest in her. Why? Oh, see, it's a funny story. Yes, I know I have a future as a comedienne.
So maybe sensitivity wasn't her first inclination but she couldn't get over the unfairness of it all. Couldn't Rory see that she was just as much a victim?
Whoa there, Paris, hop off the Me, Me, Me Train. She knew that Rory must be hurting. All the more reason to find-
"Ah, Ms. Gellar. Thinking hard? Must be. The classroom is this way." Mr. Hepworth gestured Paris into the room and just like that, her plans were derailed.
Or were they? Paris waited until after the Modern French Literature teacher had taken roll before raising her hand. In her best Perfect Student With Nothing to Hide voice, she asked to go to the bathroom.
And she meant to come back to class. She really did. After she warned Tristan.
Her Inner Perfect Student was protesting. She was on a downward spiral. She had already missed one class -the first ever. Soon she'd be smoking with the bad girls who hemmed their plaid skirts. Yes, those Bad Girls. The ones whose underwear resembled string cheese both in thickness and in convenience of removal. And all in the name of friendship!
Because she had to admit that Rory and Tristan's friendship was one of the most important things in her life. Not as important as the Franklin or being valedictorian but, still…
"Will Paris Gellar please report to the office? Paris Gellar to the office."
Oh, sweet Cheese-us.
It really was a downward spiral. A road filled with sin and vice and demerits…with a lowered head, Paris turned towards the office.
"Ah, Ms. Gellar." The head secretary's voice was business-like. "Your mother is on the phone."
Paris barely resisted saying that her mother was in Switzerland. Instead, she took the phone and held it gingerly to her ear. "Hello? Mom?"
"Paris!"
Okay, her mom had never been so enthusiastic. Or sounded so…much like a perky Korean teenager.
"La-"
"No, don't say my name. I told the secretary I was your mom because it was really important. Nod your head, okay."
"Yes, mom. I'm listening."
"Dean left about ten minutes ago, we got out of school early because Kirk was a sub today and…nevermind. He's on his way to Chilton. He got this crazy idea that Rory wants him back and they're going to have this huge movie-like Frank Capra pan to the big kiss reconciliation. You have to intercept him!"
"Intercept?"
"Yes!"
"But…"
"Go! Hang up the phone, tell the secretary you have to do something for your mom."
"How…" Paris was having a hard time processing.
"True Love, Paris. You have to do this, only you have the power. It's like The Never Ending story and you're the kid with the naming and…Paris, you have to got to intercept Dean."
And all of a sudden it was like a light had gone off in Paris' head and she was imbued with all the buoyant force of Lane and she had to listen because she had this prime directive now and she had to intercept Dean. She had to. Tristan could deal with Rory. She had supreme confidence in him. The proof was in the percentages, she'd watched him in action all these years and he had to know how to deal with a angry, betrayed-feeling girl with all that experience. And amor omnia vincit, right?
Right, because if it didn't then Virgil wouldn't have said it. Poets didn't lie.
Paris' head felt lighter. She did a quick review of her priorities and decided that, yes, her skills were best invested in interception.
She headed out to the parking lot, got into her car on automatic pilot. How was she going to stop Dean? If she'd time to prepare she could have made a detour sign. A little paint, a little sheet metal, some flashing lights for authenticity…Focus, Paris. Lane called five minutes ago. Dean left fifteen minutes ago.
If a train leaves Buffalo at five p.m. going West at sixty miles per hour and a floppy-haired ex-boyfriend who doesn't know the difference between stocking and stalking leaves his podunk, yet quaint, town at two-thirty p.m. going fifty-five miles per hour….
He'd be here now. Paris swore as she sighted the clunky green truck turn off the main road and onto Chilton's main drive. She hadn't asked what Dean drove but knew that truck couldn't belong to anyone else, not in this part of Hartford. She started the car. She couldn't let him turn into the wrought iron gates. Could not. She made her desperate decision and buckled her seatbelt. Then she pushed down hard on the gas pedal and tore wildly out of the parking lot. She took her eyes off the road and looked at Dean's face as she passed him. A second only. Then she willed herself to focus. Keep your eyes on the prize. She swerved into his Dean's lane, lined herself up with the truck and closed her eyes as she let the momentum carry her forward.
***
TBC…