Disclaimer: The Gilmore Girls and their world are owned by Amy Sherman Palladino and the WB.
Note: I did my research – Quinnipiac University is 15 minutes away from Yale and, from the website and Princeton Review page, doesn't look too unlikely as a school for Jess. I spent half an hour searching for a good school in the hopes of making this fic realistic and did everything short of setting up a campus visit. If anyone knows more about it and thinks I'm insane for sending Jess there, well, I'm sorry.
Everything else: See chapter one.
When I reenter your dorm room with the scrambled eggs I just cooked, the TV is on and you are watching it intently. For a minute I just stare at you, at that lock of hair that falls in front of your face, but then you notice me and wave me over.
"Look! I haven't seen Grease 2 since Mom decided the real T-Birds would be ashamed of these wimpy ones and declared ours a Grease 2-free household," you tell me happily. Another bit of Gilmore history that almost makes me wish I'd grown up in Stars Hollow, been witness to the arguments that took place in Luke's about lip-gloss and parodies of already bad movies.
"Ashamed of a motorcycle gang whose fight call is 'Let's Bowl'? I'm shocked," I say as I set my eggs down on your desk and lift my fork. Glad I make sure to keep your microfridge stocked.
You shrug. "What can I say? Mom's a funny lady." The irony of your sarcasm hits you and you laugh with me for a moment, then you hiss. "Shh, this is the good part."
This would normally be when I question the existence of a good part of Grease 2, but I don't bother. You don't watch movies enough anymore. Juniors have significantly more schoolwork at Yale than sophomores, which I consider wholly unfair. With seniority should come privilege. Unfortunately my own school seems to agree with Yale rather than me, and there is an unfinished paper on e.e. cummings stored in your computer that I ignore as I lean back and watch you watch the television.
It alarms me how often I agree with Lorelai lately – not on big things, like you and your grandparents, or you and me, but on small stuff. Like how you're too smart for your own good, and how Grease 2 is a travesty.
Some guy has just failed to trick his girlfriend out of her virginity when I finally have to speak up. "That girl is a good role model," I comment. I don't mean it.
You turn away from the TV and grump at me. "She didn't sleep with him," you say.
"But not because she saw through his idiotic plan – because she was so stupid she opened the door on miles of radiation to go enlist him."
"She's not supposed to be a role model," you finally give up, after a second of thought and the realization that the girl is a full suit short of a deck. This isn't enough for me – I'm too bored to let it end there.
"Seriously, though. 'Let's Do It For Our Country'? People that stupid shouldn't be allowed to have sex."
"Girls fall for lines just as ridiculous every day," you point out.
I raise my eyebrows at you, a skill I thank my genes for every day; better strands of DNA than those who spawned and forgot about me. "I wouldn't know," I taunt. Reminding you of who did the seducing in our relationship. To your credit, you don't blush as you did those first few weeks.
"Lucky you," you say instead, and then look at the clock. "What time do you have to be at work?" you ask.
Suspiciously, because you know I clock in at six, I answer. "Why?"
You gesture that I should join you on the bed, and I'm hoping you're about to turn the television off – but you just turn the volume up and fold yourself into my arms. "Michelle Pfeiffer should be so proud," you say. "This is a great song. I can't believe HMO decided to finally show this again."
"Lucky you," I reply.