A/N-hey guys! Heres the second chapter! I hope you like it! Also, thanks to my reviewers, you guys are fantastic!

Disclaimer – I own nothing . . .literally

Spoilers – umm…up until Take The Deviled Eggs, there was no kiss at Sookie's wedding and Rory and Jess never got together, leaving Rory still with Dean…but never fear, I despise Dean and am the world's hugest Literati!! Its like a sickness, there should be a medication to control my R/J obsession!

Shameless Plug ~ read my other stories (namely 'Could It Be Any Harder' and 'Without You' because the others are pretty cheesy)

Oh and by the way this is a PARIS chapter

Chapter Two: Ah, The Forklift

The first one was Hello Kitty. A sickeningly childish contraption with pink and blue bows and a hat that served as a snooze button, but unfortunately, two days after it's purchase, she slammed the hat down so hard that jammed into the cat's head and stayed there, leaving the snoozer no longer able to function. And to Rory Gilmore an alarm clock without a snoozer is like coffee without enough sugar to kill a small horse, so she threw that one out.

 There was then a line of cartoon character clocks, which all met a similar end (battery and dismemberment) before her mother decided to bestow upon Rory the furry blue clock that had been her own for the past few years and had an alarm that resembled the purr of a cat flying high on crack, extremely shrill and crazed. This clock was the longest lasting one, remaining unharmed for three weeks, but I finally got so annoyed with the constant and incessant strident purring in the morning that I dissected it with my own hands; insane objects can drive sane people to do crazy things.

So after the death of the fuzzy alarm clock we went through a phase where Rory relied wholly on me for her morning wake up call instead of just a secondary, but then I got tired of having to literally pull her out of bed. So instead of just forcing her to learn her lesson the hard way by allowing her to sleep in at the risk her academics, an action which would inevitably place me on her blacklist, probably somewhere between Darius Rucker and Ernest Hemmingway, I bought her a nice, sensible, generic digital clock which did not wake the sleeping with anything inane like animal noises or Marilyn Monroe singing Happy Birthday to JKF. But that only survived one day before it was deemed to boring and was decorated with rhinestones, feathers, glitter, and lots of sparkling stickers with the word 'Foxxxy' on them. Sadly it then met the same horrible fate as the one that is lying in pieces at my feet right now. Glass strewn all over the floor, hands and face cracked and bent, and the actual body of the thing lay under the bed, its sides full of dents conceived on impact with the wall.

I sighed deeply as I threw my pillow at her, "Get up, right now Gilmore, we have to go in thirty minutes" I then stepped carefully over the latest tragedy in the world of the clocks and walked into the kitchen. After pouring myself a cup of the fresh brewed coffee that the earliest of the early birds in the apartment, Heidi, had just finished making, I poured another mug and walked into our room.

I then proceeded to perform the only action that was an unfailing way to wake a Gilmore and hold the cup of coffee under Rory's nose until I received a little response, and then place it on the floor outside of the door (But still within smelling range), thereby ensuring that she would have to get out of bed to reach the coffee.

Before I even made it to the kitchen table to read the morning paper I heard a shuffling inside of our room and smiled to myself as I settled down in a chair and Rory mumbled something like "I despise you . . . unconstitutional by way of cruel and unusual punishment." before grabbing the coffee and her clothes and heading into the bathroom.

I was standing by the door, clothed, nourished, and ready by the time she got out of the shower and, for lack of anything more entertaining to do, I commenced the usual nagging.

I still don't understand how someone can be so lethargic, and it continues to stun me that its Rory Gilmore who is the prime specimen of this pathetic ailment. She was always a stickler for being prompt, but over the last month she had been slipping a little what with juggling all of her classes, her fiancé who frequently was mistaken for Prince William accompanied by his white horse, and her mother's wedding, it was just very unlike Rory to actually cut it close with school. But at least after this weekend the wedding would be over and I would be able to go an entire morning without straining my arm muscles from pulling her by the feet out the door.

I frowned slightly at her as she appeared by my side, hair in a dripping bun and wearing a pair of ridiculous plaid socks with toes that had little faces grinning stupidly on them with a pair of flip flops. She smiled as she stood in mock attention "Lieutenant Gilmore, reporting for duty sir." She said thickly through a wide-mouthed yawn as she saluted and I raised an eyebrow,

"Books?" I asked and she proceeded to stumble out what is the most absurd sentence spoken by a Gilmore in at least the past month,

"Right, I knew that, I was just . . . testing you. Yea, I was making sure that you would be uh, attentive enough to remember to remind me that I need to remember my homework." She said with a smile.

"You make absolutely no sense."

"Paris, its only four past seve." She said as she hiked up her sleeve and looked at her watch.

I shook my head slightly, "What's your point? Oh, and make it quick because we have to go, no rants or diatribes about my incessant harassing."

She just sighed as she observed me for a second and then began to speak in a soft and cooing voice that one would have expected to hear from a mother explaining to her son that the world is round and the big sticks in the yard are called trees, "Paris, Our class is not for fifty six minutes. We live seven minutes from campus, exactly seven minutes, I know this because I was the unfortunate soul trapped in the car when you decided to drive back and fourth from the apartment to campus eighteen times before first semester, forcing me to take and record the times, and then average them out to find out exactly how long it is that you will have me confined in your car each morning to lecture me on my various deficiencies. My point is that even if there is traffic it will only take a maximum of ten minutes to get to school, meaning we have a little leeway here, I could be waking up now and still make it to class early. My point is there is no proof that we will not get the same wonderful education from the middle rows as from the front ones so there is no reason to wake up thirty minutes early for the good seats. And until there is tangible evidence stating those in the back end up worse off in life due to a deficiency in education I will continue to do the complaining that, in this situation, is completely justified.  My point is that you could double for Stalin when it comes to getting to classes; accept at least he put in the effort to, at times, mask himself in a pleasant and agreeable façade. My point is you are completely insane. And I am very very tired, and my lack of sleep is the reason why there is a possibility that this entire speech made no sense at all, so for now withhold the mocking, lets go."

I sighed again and pushed her out the door, "Kindly finish this ramble in the elevator." I said as I gave her the to-go mug of coffee I had poured while she was making the tough decision between plaid or polka dot socks.

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"I must say, that was so much easier then I planned, I mean that all nighter I pulled just studying the grammatical context and word order of the sonnets and the origins of the titles of his collection of 'My Life On The Lake' poems was completely unnecessary." I said happily.

 I was in a very good mood, the test had gone well and I had finished with enough time to review twice, double check my spelling, and memorize some of the more difficult questions which would most likely be on the final. I then broke out of the usual euphoria of an academic success and looked over at Rory, who just yawned and glared at me,

"Paris, I know it was easy, I did not even study and I am beyond positive that I did well, please stop talking about the test. School is out for three whole weeks and I am going to relish the fact that I will not be fork lifted out of my warm cozy bed just so we can get front row seats to our first class. So, for now, I am placing a moratorium on the school talk. Oh, and another thing, eleven thirty is hardly an all nighter."

I frowned, "How long is this moratorium?"

She smirked at me, "Ask me again in thirty years."

I rolled my eyes and bent down to unlock my car door and slide into the driver's seat. I glanced over at Rory as I buckled my seat belt and, having no other topic to resort to since she had cut off my one best line of conversation, asked, "So, when are we leaving tomorrow?"

Rory smiled a little at the reminder of her mother's wedding, "Eight forty five."

I just snorted.

"Nine?"

This time I even put the effort into a slide-long satirical glance.

"Fine, Ten, at the latest." She said confidently.

"I thought you didn't want me to resort to the forklift."

She groaned but then relented, "Fine, if you can get everyone dressed and out the door by ten of nine then you can whip out the construction equipment, but just this once and then no more, for the entire vacation, three weeks."

I smiled, "As you wish." And then we lapsed into silence as I pulled into our parking lot and stopped in my spot.

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"Rory! How did you forget where the key is?" I yelled, "How in the world does someone forget where the key to their own apartment is hidden?  My God, you know some days I wonder how in the world you ended up being my best friend!"

She smirked mockingly, "Because I compliment you. I add spice to your life. Plus you completely alienated everyone at Chilton to the point where they were making Halloween masks of you and selling them for top dollar, so I was one of only three left."

I exhaled angrily and commenced pacing again, not even bothering to pause and scowl at her for that last comment before I continued my tirade, "You know what? I think you should meet my grandmother. Her name is Edna and she has Alzheimer's, she's had it for years. Sometimes, on good days, she wears her bra over her shirt and constantly ends up at the police station because she has forgotten her address and misplaced the little card that carries it along with her name, home phone number, and a reminder not to walk up to pedestrians and ask them if they are voting for Roosevelt's fourth term! You two would get along great, both seemingly without a mind, but there's just one difference, she is smart enough to at least remember where she puts the hide a key!!" I shrieked, I had now officially surpassed annoyed frustration and was boarder-lining on murderous.

 We had been waiting outside of our apartment for over twenty minutes, banging on the door at sporadic intervals in a desperate attempt to get the attention of Nia, who, when she has the apartment all to herself, exercises her affinity for blaring the pop music she loves but is forbidden in our company and walking around in the Carebears pajamas with matching slippers that she swears she doesn't own.

Rory glowered at me, "You forgot where it was also!" she spat in an attempt to feebly regain the dignity I had stripped her of over the elapsed time.

I stared at her for a second before proceeding in the calmest voice I could, which oddly got louder and more venomous as I went on. "Rory, you bought this hide-a-key yesterday, and painted it yellow with orange spots even though I begged you not to, then proceeded to hide it somewhere on our floor, yet in that time you refrained from telling me where exactly you hid it! I know I'm a genius Rory but even I have trouble remembering something I never knew!"

I watched in what would be a bemused expression if I hadn't been so aggravated as my best friend tried to formulate a sufficient come back under my fierce glare, and was in the middle of opening and closing her mouth for the fourth time when the elevator door opened and Claire stepped out, wielding a key and a confused look.

"What are you two doing?" She asked through perfectly glossed lips.

Claire was one of those girls who, upon first glance, may be mistaken for, as Rory fondly puts it, Trixie McBimbo. She actually really reminds me of Louise in ways, her hair is styled in a curly blonde bob cut which was previously a deep, chocolate brown before it was subjected to a ruthless massacre by way of a very large dosage of hydrogen peroxide, her brown eyes sparkle kindly under long black eyelashes, her voice is always warm and somewhat breathy, and for some reason has a problem with keeping the same guy. Not that she's slutty, just easily bored. There, however, is one major difference between her and the girl who was one of my closest friends in high school before she went to Sarah Lawrence and I came here, which is that Claire is extremely serious about her work. She is smart, assiduous, and dedicated and can often be found hold up in her room trying to study while the other girls in the apartment go out to party on a Saturday night. I really admire her for that, and it's nice to finally have a study partner on those nights when I used to feel so alone.

"Muhammad Ronald Regan Ali over here lost the hide-a-hey." I said bitterly with a jab of my thumb, an action only good for receiving another spiteful glance from Rory.

"Yes and for the past twenty minutes I've had the will to live beaten out of me by my dear friend Uday Hussein. And by the way Uday, there's a difference between losing something and temporarily forgetting where it is, its not lost its just misplaced." She said sourly as Claire unlocked the door and we walked into the apartment.

I just snickered as I dropped my bag and bent down to pull the plug for the stereo out of the wall and cut off a ballad from imbecilic singer about her diary, receiving an annoyed whine from Nia as I countered, "Right, Ok sure Edna, the artist formerly known as Rory."

"Ha ha very funny, Prince references, you couldn't at least find a more tasteful insult?"

"And upon that suggestion I would like to call your attention to the definition of an insult; they are not supposed to be classy."

Just as the verbal sparring was reaching a boiling point Heidi stuck her head out of the kitchen and yelled, "Hey, no insults before dinner, or before I've had enough caffeine to keep up and put in my two cents where its worth it." She said with a distracted wave of a slotted spoon.

I smiled a little at her before turning to the mail that was lying on the table by the door, "Hey, why didn't you let us in if you were here?" I shouted through the kitchen door.

"Paris, did you not hear the volume of the music?"

"Right, so what are we having for dinner?"

"Pasta with vodka sauce and mozzarella cheese."

I could almost hear her smiling through her words; Heidi is a cook at heart. When I first met her the only thing I appreciated about her was the fact that she was smart, yet after living with her for nine months she has grown on me. Heidi couldn't be more different from me in the sense that she is more of an earthy person, completely indifferent to politics and world events, she is never even remotely eclectic or trend oriented, always listening to music from the sixties, and usually adorned in simple jeans and a tee shirt with a picture of monkeys or the ocean on it. She, like everyone in this apartment, is beautiful. But the thing that differentiated her from someone like Claire is that she has never really invested herself in her looks. Her long black hair is nearly always found pulled up in some sort of messy bun or hidden beneath a bandana while there was never a smidgen of makeup on her face, not that she really needed it. Her Catherine Zeta Jones looks never really required much highlighting. But what I love most about Heidi is she makes the best vegetarian dinners I have ever tasted. Her passion is food and she always took great pride in her meals, and seeing as nobody else in the apartment should be allowed near pots and pans with seasoning in hand without around the clock supervision, an extensive manual, and one finger on the speed dial for the fire department, nobody objected to her self proclaimed role as the in house lead chef.

Before I could voice my approval of tonight's menu I was cut off by Rory's voice, "Hey guys, have you started packing yet?" She called out as she walked into our room to change out of school clothes. Once she was greeted with a unanimous "No" (accept for me, I have my bag sitting by the door already, I packed it two days ago, as for Rory's she had clothes at her mother's house so all that she needed was the small duffle of toiletries, underwear, and shoes that was right next to my bag.) she began her lecture. "Fine, but just do it tonight. We have to be ready to leave by ten of nine tomorrow (lots of complaining groans and a few flying carrots of protestation flew at her through the window into the kitchen space) and there is no way that we will have time to pack tomorrow morning. Mom is expecting Paris and I at ten for a final dress fitting and she wants you all there to give your opinions, then her bachelorette party at seven, so we need to be on time for once in our lives. Just promise you will all have your bags packed and by the door by the time you go to bed or I'll sic Paris on you tomorrow morning."

At this point I interjected, "Hey, I am not yours to just sic on people. I may be the only on who has the sense to prepare but that does not make me Peaches the camp counselor. It is not my job to make sure you are all bright eyed and bushy tailed by the time we have to go." I said sarcastically.

Rory just scowled at me for the umpteenth time today, "Remember the forklift." She said simply.

"Ah, the forklift, I forgot."

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A/N please, as always, review. Oh, and for those who do not know, Darius Rucker is the lead singer of Hootie and the Blowfish.