Title: Not So Bad
Author: BehrBeMine
Feedback: Yeah. Pretty please? behrbemine@hotmail.com
Website: http://www.behrbemine.com/solemn/
Distribution: Take it! Put it wherever you want. But let me know.
Summary: Paris enters the hell that is high school, but finds something that makes it worth it.
Rating: PG
Pairing: None. Involves Paris, Louise, Madeline, and Tristan
Improv: #14 - - illusion, cashmere, dream, scarf, revelation
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Don't sue, I'll cry. ;p
Spoilers: None that I can think of. Just that, you know, Paris exists.
Author's Note: Thanks to Jess for the quick beta!
Another Note: I listened to 'This Mess We're In' by PJ Harvey on repeat while writing this, so... hah, I blame the song. Oh, and Aurora for getting me addicted to it. ;)
- -
"How can I stand here with you, and not be moved by you?" -- Lifehouse, 'Everything'
For so many years, high school was just a far-off dream, a goal that would be reached in time. But time moves so slowly when you're looking forward to something. Paris' goal, ever since she could remember setting them, was to enter high school at age fifteen and take the world of cliques and brain-dead jocks by storm. To become a whirlwind in the eye of the storm - - to make things better, make them perfect, the way that only she can.
When the first day of tenth grade finally came, and she was free of junior high forever, Paris celebrated the occasion by waking up at dawn. It was a Monday; Paris loved Mondays. While everyone else was slacking off because they were still half asleep, she was alert and ready for anything thrown her way. She had to be better than the norm, for after all, no slacker in history ever made it into Harvard. And if they did? The intelligence around them would eat at their fragile ego until they succumbed to the pressure and dropped out. She was sure of it. She was even looking forward to applying such pressure. Out with the weak, because only the strong survive.
Thank God for that. After witnessing the poor, poor minds of her class, she couldn't stand to continue to be surrounded by such people for the whole of her life. As soon as twelfth grade was over, it was time to declare to the world, "If you're stupid, get out of my way, and while you're at it, get off of my planet."
When the clock struck four a.m. on that first day of high school, Paris was out of bed in a flash, more than ready to face the day ahead. While Madeline or Louise would be up this early to curl their hair or pick out which of the school sweaters would best match their new hair tie, Paris was awake for no such thing. Would Harvard be impressed by the perfect ponytail? She didn't think so.
Instead of staring into a mirror and applying a bunch of gook to her face, Paris headed straight for her backpack and school supplies. She stacked her binders in a neat pile - - a separate binder for each class. Then she made sure the tips of all her number two pencils were sharpened to her exact preference. They couldn't be too sharp, because they would break under the force with which she wrote; they couldn't be too dull, because her writing was rather small and no teacher would be able to decipher her homework assignments. (The best students always wrote small - - that way they could fit more information and explanation on a page.)
Her father left for work without as much as a hello, though her mother stepped into her room before she left for coffee with a group of friends. "Good luck in school today, Paris," she said, and were it not coming from her mother, Paris might have accepted it as being a kind gesture. Her doubtful thoughts were proven right when her mother stepped closer and lifted Paris' face up by her chin. Her mother frowned, examining her closely for a minute before continuing, "You really have to start cleansing your face more thoughrally. You could break out at any minute."
Paris rolled her eyes and looked to the side, preferring to stare at the wall rather than the woman who gave birth to her.
- - -
Paris arrived at Chilton a half hour early, with what she wouldn't hesitate to call the heaviest backpack in all of the school's population. Harvard girls were always prepared - - they didn't forget a thing. No matter how much her back would ache at the end of the day, at least she would know she didn't forget...
Oh, God. She forgot all her paper at home.
Paris winced visibly, and let her backpack slide off her shoulder to the cement ground. Unnerved, she glared at nothing in particular, angry as hell at herself for forgetting a supply that was so important. She had purposefully saved the job of dividing all the paper equally into each binder until homeroom, so she would have something to do while other kids talked and laughed and did other such things that took no brain power whatsoever. She wasn't about to join them - - she did not take school as a social experience. It was work for her, like a job with no pay.
And now all of her paper was left at home. She crossed her arms in front of her chest, oblivious to the glorious sun that shone brightly down on top of her, warming her to the core of her frustrated body. Paris huffed, imagining having to break down and ask someone if she could borrow a piece of paper in class. Oh, the horror. Never in her life did she imagine she would turn into such a bottom dweller...
The people who had to ask were the people who met her wrath. She told them exactly why she would not lend them any paper in this lifetime, because if they were too lazy or forgetful to bring their own, then they deserved an Incomplete. And she was not going to waste any of her paper on people she would never again talk to in her life.
She considered calling her nanny, who had just dropped her off, and asking her to bring the paper from home. Oh, but wait. Her nanny had the rest of the day off. Paris could walk back home to get it herself, but then she would be late. That was just unacceptable. No, she couldn't do that. She would just have to suffer. She would have to be normal for one day, instead of exceptional.
Boy, that thought drove her crazy.
First impressions are everything. The last thing she wanted her new teachers to think of her was that she was a slacker with no memory or no drive to succeed.
Paris sighed and stooped down to hoist her bag back onto her shoulder. The day was no longer perfect. Already there was a damper on it. Man. High school sucked. She widened her eyes as that thought entered her head. Sucked? Now she was using the same type of *language* as the slackers! Oh, God, she was becoming one of them! Paris took a deep breath and re-wrote the same thought in her head: Her high school experience was not turning out to be as perfect as she thought it would be. Hoped it would be.
For years, Paris had held onto this illusion that she had in her mind. An illusion about high school. Somehow, she had just known it was going to be perfect, known that she would come into her own. But already the illusion was breaking.
- - -
When the school's doors were opened, twenty minutes after Paris arrived, she was the first to step inside. During orientation, she had memorized as much of Chilton's hallways as she could, trying to ensure that she would never get lost.
In her hand, she held the piece of paper with her class schedule, locker number, and locker combination on it. She located her locker easily enough - - she had made a point of finding it before leaving on orientation night. She had also brought along a few supplies and stored them in her locker in order to lighten the load that she would have to bring on the first day, something she was very grateful for.
She quickly moved through the combination and swung her locker door open. Well, at least that worked as planned. She'd had thoughts of getting a stubborn locker with a stubborn door that wouldn't open unless you concocted just the right combination of punching and pulling to jar it. She'd noticed how smoothly it opened on orientation night, but then again, it could have just been a fluke. She was grateful to know now that she wouldn't have to raise hell in order to find a more suitable place to store her things.
Paris dropped her backpack to the floor, ignoring the big "thud" it made that startled the person beside her. She unzipped it and began placing her school supplies neatly in the locker. She'd designed a system in junior high - - a way of stacking things and such that ensured no late arrivals to class. She made a conscious decision not to share her system with anyone else, because after all, it was hers, and nothing annoyed her more than people trying to mooch off of her success.
As she was sticking a magnetic cup on the inside of her locker door, preparing to fill it with perfectly sharpened pencils, Madeline and Louise approached.
"Paris," greeted Louise, her voice as calm and sure of herself as ever. She hugged a leopard print binder to her chest, just like the one Madeline had used all of last year. When Paris gave her binder a look, Louise explained, "We wanted to match, so I bought a twin to her binder this year."
"Nice priorities you've got there," said Paris, her voice a bit muffled as she turned away from the two girls and stuck her head back in her locker. She continued arranging various things while both Madeline and Louise flashed brilliant smiles at a few boys that passed by. Some they knew, some they would make sure they got to know.
"How much time left before homeroom starts?" asked Paris, standing up and shutting her locker.
Louise shrugged. "I don't know - - five, ten minutes."
"Didn't one of you wear a watch?"
"Well all the watches I have clash with this blue." Madeline smoothed down her plaid skirt to indicate which blue she was talking about.
Louise nodded. "Ditto."
"It's time I started wearing a watch," Paris declared. "How can I be on time if I don't know what time it is? What if Martin Luther King, Jr. had arrived too late to do his 'I have a dream' speech? Where would we all be today?"
Paris watched Madeline shrug again. Louise turned away to wave to an ex-boyfriend, and then focused her attention back on Paris.
"Everybody at Harvard knows the time at all times, I'm sure," said Paris.
"Whoa, say that ten times fast," said Louise, sounding incredibly bored. "Why are you so uptight about Harvard? We have a couple of years ahead of us before we have to start thinking about that crap." She paused. "Then again, you always have thought of that crap. I suppose it would kill you to go a whole day without mentioning that school."
Paris frowned. Not speak of Harvard for a day? As if it was in any way unimportant? That's how people lose sight of their goals, by making them less important. She had to think of Harvard in order to stay in the right frame of mind. It was some sort of new revelation for her two "best" friends. One they couldn't understand; didn't want to understand.
"Paris, college is like a million years away," Madeline said.
Paris refrained from replying with, 'No, your brain is a million miles away', and simply snapped, "Thank you for informing me, Madeline, I had no idea."
Madeline shrugged. Paris started to wonder if she knew how to do any other body language. All of those shrugs were getting annoying. Paris tried not to ever shrug. It was like a mute's way of saying 'I don't know'. And Paris never said 'I don't know'. Or at least she tried not to.
"I'm just trying to help you lighten up," Madeline said lightly.
"Madeline, you know how Paris is. Whenever there's sunshine, she's hiding behind the sunglasses," Louise said, while Madeline gave her a knowing look.
"Yes, well, why don't you two go spread your sunshine elsewhere for a while, then," Paris recommended bitterly. Oh, what she wouldn't give for a friend who understood her. For a friend who even tried to understand her.
- - -
After a day full of putting up with the delinquents of her screwed up generation, Paris made her way to her locker to get the correct binder and book for her final class. The day had been boring, with no mental stimulation whatsoever, and she was more than ready for it to be over so she could go home and study a book for which she would need an actual brain.
Paris was dismayed to find that the book she needed was not in the spot it was supposed to be. She clearly remembered setting all of her class books in a pile at the bottom of her locker. All of the books were there, except for the one she needed. This couldn't be happening. She couldn't have *lost* a book on the first day of school. A book that she bought, no less. She couldn't wait until the teachers decided to hand them out at their convenience - - she had to be able to look ahead and study before the summer was over in order to be at the top of the class, of every class.
This was just what she needed, another thing not going as planned. Already that morning she had been humiliated when the English teacher, Mr. Medina, asked everyone to take out a blank piece of paper and a pencil. (Who knew you'd actually need paper on the first day of school?) Paris sat, tapping her pencil on the desk, wondering if he would notice that she wasn't getting any paper out of her binder.
"Miss Gellar?" he questioned, "Paper, please?"
Paris swallowed the lump in her throat that she saw as her pride. "I don't have any."
"And why is that?"
"I have no excuse," she said simply. "I just didn't bring any today."
Mr. Medina frowned. "Well. I'll lend you a piece of mine today, Miss Gellar, but from now on, have the supplies needed for class."
Paris didn't know if she blushed, but if she ever had in her life, it would have been right then. A few students stared her way, astonished that Paris Gellar had made a mistake.
She shook her head to rid herself of that memory for the time being, and focused again on the task at hand. The book was nowhere. She would have to tear this locker apart. She just knew she wasn't going to find it. That's the way things were going today. Things weren't likely to change.
Now she would have to accept a book from the school. A book with other students' names at the front, with pencil marks and doodles all over the place. With dog-eared pages and scratched up covers. Chilton bought new books every five years. Maybe she'd get lucky, and this would be one of the years they bought new ones.
Still. She wanted her own. She was taking things out of her locker in an attempt to find the mysteriously hidden book when Madeline and Louise, always a pair, came up to her locker.
"What are you doing?" Because her head was inside the locker at the time, Paris couldn't tell which girl asked, but guessed it was Madeline. Louise wasn't likely to care.
"I am looking for my book."
"You lost it?"
"No! I don't lose things. It has been misplaced."
"By you."
Paris sighed with impatience. "What do you want?"
"I'm having a party at my house," Louise informed her. "You know, a beginning of the year bash. The whole freshman class is invited. We thought we'd extend a verbal invitation to you."
Great, Paris thought. A party full of alcohol and fifteen year-olds. A swarm of five hundred dollar suits, cashmere and taffeta; a never-ending fashion show.
Rather than answering, Paris paused in her quest for the lost book and looked up at the two girls from her place on her knees near the floor. Madeline was playing with a transparent scarf she was wearing around her neck. She noticed Paris staring.
"That thing is hideous," Paris said, turning away to continue rummaging through her locker.
"Hey," Louise cut in, sounding not at all hurt but defending herself just the same, "I picked it out."
Paris was getting angry. Where was the goddamn book? "Well I wouldn't call what you have taste, let's leave it at that."
She wasn't mad at Louise and Madeline, not really. In fact, she was hardly annoyed by them, but nothing made her angrier than when she lost a book that she *knew* was right under her nose, and she had to take that anger out on someone.
Louise quirked an eyebrow, keeping her anger from bubbling to the surface. "Come on, Madeline, let's go. The bell's about to ring."
"Hope you find your book," Madeline called over her shoulder as she followed Louise to the final class, which they attended together.
Paris didn't want to be late for class, so she shoved everything back in her locker hurriedly, not caring about the organization - - she would reorganize later, when she had time, and didn't have the threat of being singled out for being late to the last class of the day hovering over her. She slammed the door shut and sprinted to her final class.
"No running in the halls!" a teacher called after her, but she didn't listen. Didn't care. For heaven sakes, she couldn't be late! Some things were more important than running in the hall. One's reputation, for instance; one's first impression that sets the grounds for their reputation.
- - -
When the bell signaling the end of school rang, everyone jumped out of their seats and raced like hell for the front and back doors of the school, eager to get out of this prison. Paris stayed seated and waited patiently for everyone else to leave, including the teacher, before she rose gracefully from her seat and took her time getting to her locker. She had no reason to rush home, no social gathering to get to. Truthfully, she had all the time in the world, and she might as well waste it somewhere away from the cold hallways of her very large house that never quite felt like home.
She tried not to allow the let-down of the day get to her, tried not to think about how imperfect high school would be. She chose to focus her thoughts on small tasks to keep herself from realizing just what a screwed up world she had walked into. The road to college would be littered with as many problems as the road to high school had been.
Paris deposited her binder and pencil in her locker and hung her backpack up, because there was no homework and thus she wouldn't need to take it home that night. She tossed the school's four year-old math book onto the pile at the bottom of her locker, wrinkling her nose in disgust. A monkey could have taken better care of it than the students had obviously done before her. As her mother would say (and often did), "Children just don't have any respect for anything these days. You're nothing like my generation."
Paris liked to take that last bit as a compliment. She never wanted to turn out like her mother.
She closed her locker and gave the padlock a spin before heading in the general direction of one of the side doors of the school. As she rounded the corner of a deserted hallway, she came upon a sight that made her pause and caused her breath to catch in her throat.
Tristan DuGrey leaned against a locker at the other end of the hallway, his posture nonchalant, as he read a magazine he held in his hands. Paris would bet anything it was a dirty magazine. Because for boys like Tristan, hundreds of girls around him all wearing skirts just isn't enough.
There were double doors beyond his body, the very exit Paris had been heading toward. But staying here was fine. Watching him read and stand still and breathe... was just fine.
Afternoon sunlight streamed in from the doors, which, other than the frame, were made entirely of glass. The sun highlighted his golden hair, made him appear almost unreal, intangible, and overall just too amazing.
Tristan always looked amazing to her.
It was as if everything slowed down: the day's events, her heartbeat, time. Everything just sort of melted away when she was in his presence. Unfortunately, most of the time, so did her wit, making it dangerous to talk to him, because she often made a fool of herself. Not that he paid enough attention to remember. Sometimes that fact made her relieved; sometimes it made her sad.
Paris had seen him that morning, in English class. Had seen him do the paper borrowing thing that made her so mortified. He'd had to borrow a pencil, as well. Typical Tristan. He'd always been that way.
Normally such qualities of his would annoy her, but she became soft, younger, less herself in his presence. Her emotional strength was sapped at the sight of him, always at the mere sight of him.
He must have felt her staring, because all at once he looked up from his magazine and looked to his right, and then his left, where Paris stood several feet away.
"Paris. Hi," he offered, his tone disinterested. He immediately turned his attention back to his reading material.
Paris walked toward him, noticing her slowed heartbeat quickening with every step closer to him. Her shoes made soft clicking sounds on the linoleum floor. She stopped in front of him and asked, "Why are you still here?"
"Why, am I committing a crime?" asked Tristan, not bothering to look up from his magazine.
"No." Paris looked around, self consciously. "No, I was just wondering."
"I'm waiting for a friend. He's in detention."
"Wow, detention on the first day of school," Paris marveled. "That's got to be some kind of record."
"Yeah, well, he's into that."
"Into what?"
"Setting records."
"Oh." Paris wanted to look away from him - - surely he could feel her staring, but she couldn't bring herself to look at anything else.
"Yeah, uh, he's actually trying to get into the 'Guiness Book of World Records'."
"Really?"
"No." Paris laughed, but just for a second, and then she regained her composure. Gellars don't laugh like silly little girls. Gellars are above that. Still, she couldn't regret the little outburst that much when it drew such a grin from Tristan. For that brief second when he looked right at her with that smile on his face, it took her breath away.
Part of her was grateful when he looked back down to read some more. Better to not make more of a fool out of herself. Better to remain dignified. Paris wasn't supposed to live and breathe for the sake of pleasing such boys as he. She had a greater purpose; a bigger plan in life.
"Well. I'll see you around," she said, then headed toward the door. She didn't expect a response, but she got one.
"Yeah. Later," said Tristan, in a tone that revealed he wasn't really listening.
Paris pushed open one of the glass doors, ready to put this day that had been anything but perfect behind her. She pushed her weight into the door, holding it open, and looked back into the hall one more time.
High school was going to be difficult. She was going to have to fight hard to get the recognition she wanted. It was too easy to get discouraged when it was obvious it would be a very bumpy ride.
But there was Tristan, and he was beautiful.
And everything was okay.
- -
end
Author: BehrBeMine
Feedback: Yeah. Pretty please? behrbemine@hotmail.com
Website: http://www.behrbemine.com/solemn/
Distribution: Take it! Put it wherever you want. But let me know.
Summary: Paris enters the hell that is high school, but finds something that makes it worth it.
Rating: PG
Pairing: None. Involves Paris, Louise, Madeline, and Tristan
Improv: #14 - - illusion, cashmere, dream, scarf, revelation
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Don't sue, I'll cry. ;p
Spoilers: None that I can think of. Just that, you know, Paris exists.
Author's Note: Thanks to Jess for the quick beta!
Another Note: I listened to 'This Mess We're In' by PJ Harvey on repeat while writing this, so... hah, I blame the song. Oh, and Aurora for getting me addicted to it. ;)
- -
"How can I stand here with you, and not be moved by you?" -- Lifehouse, 'Everything'
For so many years, high school was just a far-off dream, a goal that would be reached in time. But time moves so slowly when you're looking forward to something. Paris' goal, ever since she could remember setting them, was to enter high school at age fifteen and take the world of cliques and brain-dead jocks by storm. To become a whirlwind in the eye of the storm - - to make things better, make them perfect, the way that only she can.
When the first day of tenth grade finally came, and she was free of junior high forever, Paris celebrated the occasion by waking up at dawn. It was a Monday; Paris loved Mondays. While everyone else was slacking off because they were still half asleep, she was alert and ready for anything thrown her way. She had to be better than the norm, for after all, no slacker in history ever made it into Harvard. And if they did? The intelligence around them would eat at their fragile ego until they succumbed to the pressure and dropped out. She was sure of it. She was even looking forward to applying such pressure. Out with the weak, because only the strong survive.
Thank God for that. After witnessing the poor, poor minds of her class, she couldn't stand to continue to be surrounded by such people for the whole of her life. As soon as twelfth grade was over, it was time to declare to the world, "If you're stupid, get out of my way, and while you're at it, get off of my planet."
When the clock struck four a.m. on that first day of high school, Paris was out of bed in a flash, more than ready to face the day ahead. While Madeline or Louise would be up this early to curl their hair or pick out which of the school sweaters would best match their new hair tie, Paris was awake for no such thing. Would Harvard be impressed by the perfect ponytail? She didn't think so.
Instead of staring into a mirror and applying a bunch of gook to her face, Paris headed straight for her backpack and school supplies. She stacked her binders in a neat pile - - a separate binder for each class. Then she made sure the tips of all her number two pencils were sharpened to her exact preference. They couldn't be too sharp, because they would break under the force with which she wrote; they couldn't be too dull, because her writing was rather small and no teacher would be able to decipher her homework assignments. (The best students always wrote small - - that way they could fit more information and explanation on a page.)
Her father left for work without as much as a hello, though her mother stepped into her room before she left for coffee with a group of friends. "Good luck in school today, Paris," she said, and were it not coming from her mother, Paris might have accepted it as being a kind gesture. Her doubtful thoughts were proven right when her mother stepped closer and lifted Paris' face up by her chin. Her mother frowned, examining her closely for a minute before continuing, "You really have to start cleansing your face more thoughrally. You could break out at any minute."
Paris rolled her eyes and looked to the side, preferring to stare at the wall rather than the woman who gave birth to her.
- - -
Paris arrived at Chilton a half hour early, with what she wouldn't hesitate to call the heaviest backpack in all of the school's population. Harvard girls were always prepared - - they didn't forget a thing. No matter how much her back would ache at the end of the day, at least she would know she didn't forget...
Oh, God. She forgot all her paper at home.
Paris winced visibly, and let her backpack slide off her shoulder to the cement ground. Unnerved, she glared at nothing in particular, angry as hell at herself for forgetting a supply that was so important. She had purposefully saved the job of dividing all the paper equally into each binder until homeroom, so she would have something to do while other kids talked and laughed and did other such things that took no brain power whatsoever. She wasn't about to join them - - she did not take school as a social experience. It was work for her, like a job with no pay.
And now all of her paper was left at home. She crossed her arms in front of her chest, oblivious to the glorious sun that shone brightly down on top of her, warming her to the core of her frustrated body. Paris huffed, imagining having to break down and ask someone if she could borrow a piece of paper in class. Oh, the horror. Never in her life did she imagine she would turn into such a bottom dweller...
The people who had to ask were the people who met her wrath. She told them exactly why she would not lend them any paper in this lifetime, because if they were too lazy or forgetful to bring their own, then they deserved an Incomplete. And she was not going to waste any of her paper on people she would never again talk to in her life.
She considered calling her nanny, who had just dropped her off, and asking her to bring the paper from home. Oh, but wait. Her nanny had the rest of the day off. Paris could walk back home to get it herself, but then she would be late. That was just unacceptable. No, she couldn't do that. She would just have to suffer. She would have to be normal for one day, instead of exceptional.
Boy, that thought drove her crazy.
First impressions are everything. The last thing she wanted her new teachers to think of her was that she was a slacker with no memory or no drive to succeed.
Paris sighed and stooped down to hoist her bag back onto her shoulder. The day was no longer perfect. Already there was a damper on it. Man. High school sucked. She widened her eyes as that thought entered her head. Sucked? Now she was using the same type of *language* as the slackers! Oh, God, she was becoming one of them! Paris took a deep breath and re-wrote the same thought in her head: Her high school experience was not turning out to be as perfect as she thought it would be. Hoped it would be.
For years, Paris had held onto this illusion that she had in her mind. An illusion about high school. Somehow, she had just known it was going to be perfect, known that she would come into her own. But already the illusion was breaking.
- - -
When the school's doors were opened, twenty minutes after Paris arrived, she was the first to step inside. During orientation, she had memorized as much of Chilton's hallways as she could, trying to ensure that she would never get lost.
In her hand, she held the piece of paper with her class schedule, locker number, and locker combination on it. She located her locker easily enough - - she had made a point of finding it before leaving on orientation night. She had also brought along a few supplies and stored them in her locker in order to lighten the load that she would have to bring on the first day, something she was very grateful for.
She quickly moved through the combination and swung her locker door open. Well, at least that worked as planned. She'd had thoughts of getting a stubborn locker with a stubborn door that wouldn't open unless you concocted just the right combination of punching and pulling to jar it. She'd noticed how smoothly it opened on orientation night, but then again, it could have just been a fluke. She was grateful to know now that she wouldn't have to raise hell in order to find a more suitable place to store her things.
Paris dropped her backpack to the floor, ignoring the big "thud" it made that startled the person beside her. She unzipped it and began placing her school supplies neatly in the locker. She'd designed a system in junior high - - a way of stacking things and such that ensured no late arrivals to class. She made a conscious decision not to share her system with anyone else, because after all, it was hers, and nothing annoyed her more than people trying to mooch off of her success.
As she was sticking a magnetic cup on the inside of her locker door, preparing to fill it with perfectly sharpened pencils, Madeline and Louise approached.
"Paris," greeted Louise, her voice as calm and sure of herself as ever. She hugged a leopard print binder to her chest, just like the one Madeline had used all of last year. When Paris gave her binder a look, Louise explained, "We wanted to match, so I bought a twin to her binder this year."
"Nice priorities you've got there," said Paris, her voice a bit muffled as she turned away from the two girls and stuck her head back in her locker. She continued arranging various things while both Madeline and Louise flashed brilliant smiles at a few boys that passed by. Some they knew, some they would make sure they got to know.
"How much time left before homeroom starts?" asked Paris, standing up and shutting her locker.
Louise shrugged. "I don't know - - five, ten minutes."
"Didn't one of you wear a watch?"
"Well all the watches I have clash with this blue." Madeline smoothed down her plaid skirt to indicate which blue she was talking about.
Louise nodded. "Ditto."
"It's time I started wearing a watch," Paris declared. "How can I be on time if I don't know what time it is? What if Martin Luther King, Jr. had arrived too late to do his 'I have a dream' speech? Where would we all be today?"
Paris watched Madeline shrug again. Louise turned away to wave to an ex-boyfriend, and then focused her attention back on Paris.
"Everybody at Harvard knows the time at all times, I'm sure," said Paris.
"Whoa, say that ten times fast," said Louise, sounding incredibly bored. "Why are you so uptight about Harvard? We have a couple of years ahead of us before we have to start thinking about that crap." She paused. "Then again, you always have thought of that crap. I suppose it would kill you to go a whole day without mentioning that school."
Paris frowned. Not speak of Harvard for a day? As if it was in any way unimportant? That's how people lose sight of their goals, by making them less important. She had to think of Harvard in order to stay in the right frame of mind. It was some sort of new revelation for her two "best" friends. One they couldn't understand; didn't want to understand.
"Paris, college is like a million years away," Madeline said.
Paris refrained from replying with, 'No, your brain is a million miles away', and simply snapped, "Thank you for informing me, Madeline, I had no idea."
Madeline shrugged. Paris started to wonder if she knew how to do any other body language. All of those shrugs were getting annoying. Paris tried not to ever shrug. It was like a mute's way of saying 'I don't know'. And Paris never said 'I don't know'. Or at least she tried not to.
"I'm just trying to help you lighten up," Madeline said lightly.
"Madeline, you know how Paris is. Whenever there's sunshine, she's hiding behind the sunglasses," Louise said, while Madeline gave her a knowing look.
"Yes, well, why don't you two go spread your sunshine elsewhere for a while, then," Paris recommended bitterly. Oh, what she wouldn't give for a friend who understood her. For a friend who even tried to understand her.
- - -
After a day full of putting up with the delinquents of her screwed up generation, Paris made her way to her locker to get the correct binder and book for her final class. The day had been boring, with no mental stimulation whatsoever, and she was more than ready for it to be over so she could go home and study a book for which she would need an actual brain.
Paris was dismayed to find that the book she needed was not in the spot it was supposed to be. She clearly remembered setting all of her class books in a pile at the bottom of her locker. All of the books were there, except for the one she needed. This couldn't be happening. She couldn't have *lost* a book on the first day of school. A book that she bought, no less. She couldn't wait until the teachers decided to hand them out at their convenience - - she had to be able to look ahead and study before the summer was over in order to be at the top of the class, of every class.
This was just what she needed, another thing not going as planned. Already that morning she had been humiliated when the English teacher, Mr. Medina, asked everyone to take out a blank piece of paper and a pencil. (Who knew you'd actually need paper on the first day of school?) Paris sat, tapping her pencil on the desk, wondering if he would notice that she wasn't getting any paper out of her binder.
"Miss Gellar?" he questioned, "Paper, please?"
Paris swallowed the lump in her throat that she saw as her pride. "I don't have any."
"And why is that?"
"I have no excuse," she said simply. "I just didn't bring any today."
Mr. Medina frowned. "Well. I'll lend you a piece of mine today, Miss Gellar, but from now on, have the supplies needed for class."
Paris didn't know if she blushed, but if she ever had in her life, it would have been right then. A few students stared her way, astonished that Paris Gellar had made a mistake.
She shook her head to rid herself of that memory for the time being, and focused again on the task at hand. The book was nowhere. She would have to tear this locker apart. She just knew she wasn't going to find it. That's the way things were going today. Things weren't likely to change.
Now she would have to accept a book from the school. A book with other students' names at the front, with pencil marks and doodles all over the place. With dog-eared pages and scratched up covers. Chilton bought new books every five years. Maybe she'd get lucky, and this would be one of the years they bought new ones.
Still. She wanted her own. She was taking things out of her locker in an attempt to find the mysteriously hidden book when Madeline and Louise, always a pair, came up to her locker.
"What are you doing?" Because her head was inside the locker at the time, Paris couldn't tell which girl asked, but guessed it was Madeline. Louise wasn't likely to care.
"I am looking for my book."
"You lost it?"
"No! I don't lose things. It has been misplaced."
"By you."
Paris sighed with impatience. "What do you want?"
"I'm having a party at my house," Louise informed her. "You know, a beginning of the year bash. The whole freshman class is invited. We thought we'd extend a verbal invitation to you."
Great, Paris thought. A party full of alcohol and fifteen year-olds. A swarm of five hundred dollar suits, cashmere and taffeta; a never-ending fashion show.
Rather than answering, Paris paused in her quest for the lost book and looked up at the two girls from her place on her knees near the floor. Madeline was playing with a transparent scarf she was wearing around her neck. She noticed Paris staring.
"That thing is hideous," Paris said, turning away to continue rummaging through her locker.
"Hey," Louise cut in, sounding not at all hurt but defending herself just the same, "I picked it out."
Paris was getting angry. Where was the goddamn book? "Well I wouldn't call what you have taste, let's leave it at that."
She wasn't mad at Louise and Madeline, not really. In fact, she was hardly annoyed by them, but nothing made her angrier than when she lost a book that she *knew* was right under her nose, and she had to take that anger out on someone.
Louise quirked an eyebrow, keeping her anger from bubbling to the surface. "Come on, Madeline, let's go. The bell's about to ring."
"Hope you find your book," Madeline called over her shoulder as she followed Louise to the final class, which they attended together.
Paris didn't want to be late for class, so she shoved everything back in her locker hurriedly, not caring about the organization - - she would reorganize later, when she had time, and didn't have the threat of being singled out for being late to the last class of the day hovering over her. She slammed the door shut and sprinted to her final class.
"No running in the halls!" a teacher called after her, but she didn't listen. Didn't care. For heaven sakes, she couldn't be late! Some things were more important than running in the hall. One's reputation, for instance; one's first impression that sets the grounds for their reputation.
- - -
When the bell signaling the end of school rang, everyone jumped out of their seats and raced like hell for the front and back doors of the school, eager to get out of this prison. Paris stayed seated and waited patiently for everyone else to leave, including the teacher, before she rose gracefully from her seat and took her time getting to her locker. She had no reason to rush home, no social gathering to get to. Truthfully, she had all the time in the world, and she might as well waste it somewhere away from the cold hallways of her very large house that never quite felt like home.
She tried not to allow the let-down of the day get to her, tried not to think about how imperfect high school would be. She chose to focus her thoughts on small tasks to keep herself from realizing just what a screwed up world she had walked into. The road to college would be littered with as many problems as the road to high school had been.
Paris deposited her binder and pencil in her locker and hung her backpack up, because there was no homework and thus she wouldn't need to take it home that night. She tossed the school's four year-old math book onto the pile at the bottom of her locker, wrinkling her nose in disgust. A monkey could have taken better care of it than the students had obviously done before her. As her mother would say (and often did), "Children just don't have any respect for anything these days. You're nothing like my generation."
Paris liked to take that last bit as a compliment. She never wanted to turn out like her mother.
She closed her locker and gave the padlock a spin before heading in the general direction of one of the side doors of the school. As she rounded the corner of a deserted hallway, she came upon a sight that made her pause and caused her breath to catch in her throat.
Tristan DuGrey leaned against a locker at the other end of the hallway, his posture nonchalant, as he read a magazine he held in his hands. Paris would bet anything it was a dirty magazine. Because for boys like Tristan, hundreds of girls around him all wearing skirts just isn't enough.
There were double doors beyond his body, the very exit Paris had been heading toward. But staying here was fine. Watching him read and stand still and breathe... was just fine.
Afternoon sunlight streamed in from the doors, which, other than the frame, were made entirely of glass. The sun highlighted his golden hair, made him appear almost unreal, intangible, and overall just too amazing.
Tristan always looked amazing to her.
It was as if everything slowed down: the day's events, her heartbeat, time. Everything just sort of melted away when she was in his presence. Unfortunately, most of the time, so did her wit, making it dangerous to talk to him, because she often made a fool of herself. Not that he paid enough attention to remember. Sometimes that fact made her relieved; sometimes it made her sad.
Paris had seen him that morning, in English class. Had seen him do the paper borrowing thing that made her so mortified. He'd had to borrow a pencil, as well. Typical Tristan. He'd always been that way.
Normally such qualities of his would annoy her, but she became soft, younger, less herself in his presence. Her emotional strength was sapped at the sight of him, always at the mere sight of him.
He must have felt her staring, because all at once he looked up from his magazine and looked to his right, and then his left, where Paris stood several feet away.
"Paris. Hi," he offered, his tone disinterested. He immediately turned his attention back to his reading material.
Paris walked toward him, noticing her slowed heartbeat quickening with every step closer to him. Her shoes made soft clicking sounds on the linoleum floor. She stopped in front of him and asked, "Why are you still here?"
"Why, am I committing a crime?" asked Tristan, not bothering to look up from his magazine.
"No." Paris looked around, self consciously. "No, I was just wondering."
"I'm waiting for a friend. He's in detention."
"Wow, detention on the first day of school," Paris marveled. "That's got to be some kind of record."
"Yeah, well, he's into that."
"Into what?"
"Setting records."
"Oh." Paris wanted to look away from him - - surely he could feel her staring, but she couldn't bring herself to look at anything else.
"Yeah, uh, he's actually trying to get into the 'Guiness Book of World Records'."
"Really?"
"No." Paris laughed, but just for a second, and then she regained her composure. Gellars don't laugh like silly little girls. Gellars are above that. Still, she couldn't regret the little outburst that much when it drew such a grin from Tristan. For that brief second when he looked right at her with that smile on his face, it took her breath away.
Part of her was grateful when he looked back down to read some more. Better to not make more of a fool out of herself. Better to remain dignified. Paris wasn't supposed to live and breathe for the sake of pleasing such boys as he. She had a greater purpose; a bigger plan in life.
"Well. I'll see you around," she said, then headed toward the door. She didn't expect a response, but she got one.
"Yeah. Later," said Tristan, in a tone that revealed he wasn't really listening.
Paris pushed open one of the glass doors, ready to put this day that had been anything but perfect behind her. She pushed her weight into the door, holding it open, and looked back into the hall one more time.
High school was going to be difficult. She was going to have to fight hard to get the recognition she wanted. It was too easy to get discouraged when it was obvious it would be a very bumpy ride.
But there was Tristan, and he was beautiful.
And everything was okay.
- -
end