A/N: God Bless everyone who reviewed!! May you have blue skies above you
and green lights in front of you. Your comments and encouragements have
been incredibly helpful and if I could bake cupcakes for each one of you, I
swear I would!
Special notes to:
Pretty Words Like Blades: Are you an English professor? If not you could/should be! THANK YOU for your thoughtful, insightful reviews and internal conflict writing tips. I'm humbled, honored, and a better writer because of your attention.
SomeoneNamedMe: Thank you for your kind reminder that people from all walks of life read these fics. I sincerely did not mean to offend and apologize for the slight (and promise that I would never squirt you or your dad with water or anything else if you knocked on my door!)
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"RORY!"
Jumping slightly, I snap my head up.
"What?" I breathe, eyes wide.
"The quotes," Paris intones, sounding exasperated.
"Quotes?" I question meekly.
"Have you heard a single word I've said?" she snaps, narrowing her eyes at me. "If you have more important things to do with your afternoon, please don't let us hold you up."
'Us?' I think. The Seattle-rain-haziness that has been my day lifts slowly, gradually, like curtain sheers being drawn. As I focus my vision around the table, the faces of the other Associated Student Government members come into view. Sixth period must have ended. Paris is talking to me but my main concern right now is how I got from the Physics lab on the second floor to the ASG room. I verify that I am, in fact, in the Chilton first floor ASG activity room by looking around a second time.
"Checking the room for bugs?" Paris questions sarcastically, watching me. "Good thinking. Maybe you should write the quotes for the telescope plaque on a scrap of paper that the rest of us can just pass around. That way those super secret prices won't get leaked to El Quaeda."
"Right. . . The telescope plaque quotes. Umm. . . they're here somewhere," I assure her as I begin to dig through the folders stacked in front of me.
"Never mind," Paris states flatly, her voice dripping with annoyance. "By the time you get your act together, it will be dark outside and these freshman will be in curfew violation. Since I, myself, would like to get home in time for dinner, we'll table discussion of the quotes until next week. Does anyone have any further business to bring before the council?"
Francie opens her mouth to speak but before she can utter a single word, she is silenced by Paris' gavel banging on the table.
"Good. Meeting adjourned."
I stifle a smile as Francie shoots daggers at Paris. She and the other ASG representatives slowly filter from the room into the hallway. I start to follow them out but Paris waylays me.
"Rory, I need a word with you. That is, if you can conquer your sudden attack of attention deficit disorder long enough to pay attention to me."
"What is it, Paris?" I ask.
"I'm aware that you're on ASG against your will but. . . too bad. I don't care. The bottom line is that you are on ASG and when you're in these meetings, I except your head to be here, not just to look pretty sitting on top of your body but to have actual thoughts running through it."
If she only knew. I've been struggling all day to get my mind in the present but it's been a lost cause. I haven't been able to focus on Chilton or class work for longer than a minute and a half at a time. In Comparative Literature, a discussion of the evolution of cultural storytelling and divine retribution symbolized by the myth of Prometheus led me straight into thoughts about the penance I'm sure to suffer for hurting Dean. Probably I won't be chained to a rock while my liver is eaten by a vulture, only to have it grow back during the night so the vulture can eat it again the next day, but I'm sure my punishment won't be good.
In chemistry, Mr. Van Nostrand's lecture on the principles of chemical bonding left me shivering as my thoughts turned to Jess. Apparently, when two atoms are close to each other and their electrons are of the correct type, it is more energetically favorable for them to come together and share electrons, than it is for them to exist as individual, separate atoms. 'Are Jess and I energetically favorable?' I had wondered. Mr. Van Nostrand would surely be shocked to learn that his lecture about chemical bonds and compound atoms falling naturally together the same way that a dropped rock falls straight to the ground, had me picturing the various ways Jess and I could fall, may fall.
Sighing, I wait for Paris to continue.
"I'm not going to let your little daydreams interfere with my ability to procure an exceptional and distinguished class gift. The legacy of the class of 2003 is too important to be left in the hands of people who don't care about the future of this school. If you can't handle getting the quotes, tell me now and I'll do it myself."
"I can handle it."
"Really? Because it doesn't look-"
"I can handle it, Paris," I interrupt her.
"Don't get defensive with me. I'm not the one who zoned out for almost an hour while other people were working."
"I'm not defensive. I had a stressful weekend and I'm tired. Now, if you're done berating me, I'll just be leaving."
"Stressful? What in your idyllic sheltered life could possibly cause you stress?" she asks crossing her arms in front of her and raising her eyebrows.
"Like you care."
"Don't be such a baby."
"Fine," I say completely irritated with her. "If you must know, I broke up with Dean on Saturday."
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh."
"Wait. . . You broke up with Malibu Ken or he broke up with you?"
"I broke up with him. God, why is that so hard for everyone to believe?"
"No kidding," Paris says, almost smiling at me. "That's kind of impressive. I didn't think you had it in you."
"Exactly what does that mean?"
"Face it, Rory. That guy was a pretty face on a tall hard body and that's about it."
"You don't know what you're talking about." I state, rolling my eyes. "There was a lot more to Dean than that."
"Really? Were there rivers of depth that I somehow missed?"
"He's a good guy. He was very sweet to me."
"I'm sure he was. It's a wonder you didn't die of boredom. Not that going to pig calling contests or butter churning festivals isn't thrilling entertainment."
"Goodbye, Paris," I say, grabbing my backpack and heading towards the door.
"Oh please," she laughs. "The only thing you had in common with Dean is that you're both homo-sapiens."
I stop, turn back, and glare at her. I'm about to hurl a counterargument like a spitball straight at her head when she continues.
"I'm willing to bet he can't even spell Bukowski let alone analyze Bukowski's writing style or speculate whether or not he'd be friends with Jane Austen. Next time, maybe you should try dating someone who's your intellectual equal. You know, someone who can keep you on your toes. Tell me, Gilmore," she continues as she walks past me, pausing at the door, "Do you know anyone like that?"
Paris shoots me what I'd swear is a genuine smile before turning on her heel and marching out of the room. A full minute later, I'm still standing like a deaf mute in the exact same spot where she left me, staring at the place where her back used to be, wondering at what point I lost control of my world and when Paris got so smart.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
The diner's bell rings.
I look up to see a heavyset Asian man entering.
Depositing my rag behind the counter, I wipe my hands on my apron and walk over to take his order. As he asks about the daily special, the cadence of his voice causes my mind to flash back to a warm night not so long ago.
There was this place in New York, a total dive, where you could get the best Vietnamese food in the world. OK, maybe not the best in the world but the best this side of Hanoi. The smell walking in the door was overpowering, incredible, it makes my mouth water just thinking about it. They had this little old cook who spoke only Vietnamese. She used to yell things at the wait staff and they'd answer her using the same choppy, high- pitched words that sounded like they contained too many vowels and not enough consonants. She was maybe 4-feet tall but she could boss those waiters around like a General. She could also cook like nobody's business.
Her specialty was black pepper sauce. God, that stuff was amazing - a mixture of soy sauce and caramel that she'd drizzle on chicken or shrimp then sprinkle with tons of black pepper and fresh cilantro to cut the sweetness. Throw in some steamed veggies, add some rice and. . . Well, it was unbelievable.
Two nights before I got sent here, AJ, Sean, Javier, and I went there. We sat at the scratched Formica table on the wobbly-legged wooden chairs, and ordered food and Sing Ha's. As it always does, the beer arrived first. AJ reached across the table to grab one and, in the process, flashed the waiter a clear view of the gun he had strapped to his shoulder. Don't get me wrong, AJ's like a brother to me but sometimes he can be a complete tool. Packing concealed is a big no-no in the city. Our observant waiter, who was obviously in training for ATF special forces, panicked and called the cops. The next thing I knew, the police crashed through the doors and swarmed all over us like we were in some damn Al Pacino movie. On impulse and adrenalin, I broke for the door but a cop who looked just like Bull from those old Night Court reruns tackled me. Damn near broke my shoulder.
Because it all happened so fast, I totally forgot about the dime bag I had hidden in my jean jacket.
So, I'm sprawled there, just making sure I can still move my arm and fingers, when Bull frisked me, found the Mary Jane, and arrested me on the spot. My ass got unceremoniously tossed in the back of a black and white waiting right outside. Just my luck to be busted for possession. Again. My reward was a free ride downtown courtesy of New York City's finest. The trip was familiar as it wasn't exactly my first time there. Let's just say, I'd been at the station house often enough for the guy at the front desk to remember my name.
The story gets worse. Liz had been threatening to leave me in jail the next time I got arrested and apparently, she picked that night to start keeping her word. I spent a very long night in the system. The cell was small and it stank. I was stuck in there with three other guys who definitely did not look like this was their first overnight stay. I don't have much to say about that night because I don't like thinking about it but I'll tell you this. . . I didn't say a goddamn word from the time they slammed my cell door until I got released. I just sat on my bunk leaning back against the wall with my arms wrapped around my knees and my very best don't-fuck-with-me look plastered to my face.
I kept my eyes open all night. I'm no fool.
The next morning, Liz shows up with bail money that she got God knows where. In the middle of her standard what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you, you're-going-to-wind-up-dead-on-the-street speech that I'd heard several hundred times, she threw me a curve ball. This time, she has a half-baked 'Save Jess' plan that involves me moving to Connecticut, the existence of which I always thought to be an exaggerated rumor. Not only that, I'm supposed to move in with her younger brother, my uncle, who she has never mentioned to me before in my entire life.
Walking home from the station house with Liz, I remember listening to her prattle on and on and fucking on, and at that moment, my biggest regret was that I got busted before I could eat my Black Pepper chicken.
As I'm giving the Asian guy's order to Luke, I flash to my arrival in Stars Hollow.
The whole way here on the bus, I was sick to my stomach, my hands, cigarette-fidgety. I tried to read a Larry McMurtry paperback but the nausea threatened to overwhelm me and I had to shut my eyes periodically and lean my head against the seat. I kept waiting for it to get better, for the sensation to pass, but it never did. The farther I got from New York, the realer this nightmare became. The scenery shooting past the bus windows, during the times I was curious enough to look out them, got increasingly greener. Fewer traffic lights, smaller buildings, strip malls, farmland. All different, all strange. The contrast between normal and this new reality was soul crushing.
It wasn't my world. It still isn't.
The don't-fuck-with-me mask I assumed during my unfortunate incarceration had never really left so I wore it off the bus to greet my uncle. It was either act like I didn't give a shit or surrender to the queasiness lurking just under my skin and spend the entire day throwing up in his bathroom. Granted, neither one makes a great first impression but of the two, the second had significantly less appeal.
I carried that seasick feeling for days.
The only thing that made it go away was her.
She was impossibly beautiful. The kind of girl you'd see in a magazine ad for Noxzema with, like, golden retriever puppies crawling all over her. I'd never met anyone like her before. Her face was open, her hair, thick and shining, her eyes, azure blue and completely without guile. She was the picture of innocence. Hell, she still is.
"Penny for your thoughts," a voice says.
I look up and there she is, smiling at me. The very same smile that, in my first few days here in purgatory, made the world stop lurching and spinning, made my legs feel solid again.
"Sorry but due to rising inflation rates my thoughts cost more than that," I inform her.
"But are they worth more than that?" Rory says, her grin widening as she plays along.
"Pay me and you'll find out."
She sits on a stool and reaches into her coat pocket. Pulling something out, she offers it to me as the backpack in her other hand drops to the floor.
"I didn't know you were such a capitalist," she comments.
I look down as she places the nickel in my hand, her fingertips lightly brush my palm. I feel their heat.
"There a lots of things you don't know about me."
"So you keep reminding me."
I smirk at her.
"Well?" she presses. "I paid you. Where's my thought?"
"I was thinking about the Larry McMurtry book I read on the bus on my way here."
It's a statement with enough truth in it that it doesn't feel false rolling off my tongue. Of all the things I was thinking, that seems the safest one to share with her.
"I love Larry McMurtry!" she enthuses. "Which one were you reading?"
"I'm sorry but now you're requesting a second piece of information, not covered by your original payment. The name of the book is going to cost you another nickel."
"Oh, come on," she laughs. "I hardly got my money's worth for the first nickel, I'm not giving you a second one. Besides, I'm paying you for thoughts, not information."
"Are you insinuating that Larry McMurtry isn't worth a dime?"
"He is but I'm not sure you are."
"Now you're just hurting my feelings."
"If I guess the book, will you tell me?" she asks me, her eyes sparkling.
"Sure. If you pay me first."
"Mean!" Almost as an afterthought, she adds, "and pompous. Charging people for the pleasure of your conversation is downright Clinton-esque."
"Are you saying you find pleasure in talking to me?" I ask in a low voice, watching her reaction with laser eyes.
I'm rewarded with a patented Rory Gilmore blush, soon followed by a classic stammer.
"I was making a point. . . I didn't mean to imply that talking to you is pleasurable, as in 'pleasure'. I meant that it's pleasant talking to you, but not in a pleasurable way. Not that I came in here just to talk to-"
"Rory," I interrupt, sliding closer to her, continuing in a low voice that only she can hear, "It's OK. Pleasure is one of my specialties. And I wouldn't charge you."
She looks at me, silent for a heartbeat. I've surprised her and I grin. Her blush deepens to a gorgeous shade of pink. Tearing her eyes from mine, she looks everywhere but at me. I think she's collected herself because she reaches back into her coat pocket, and produces another nickel.
"I'll make you a deal," she says. "This nickel is yours but I want the name of the McMurtry book and a cup of coffee."
"You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Gilmore."
"Take it or leave it."
I reach over and take the nickel from her and on impulse, trace my index finger down hers and across the back of her hand before pulling my hand away. I hear a sharp intake of breath that lets me know that I've surprised her again.
I shouldn't do this but I can't help it. I want to know, need to know, that she feels something similar to what I feel when I'm around her. The one kiss 100 years ago, the staring, the breakup with BagBoy, they just aren't enough. I need to know that all of this has something, anything, to do with me. I don't want to be just a spectator of her evolution, an observer of this personal journey she's started. I want to be a destination on her path, not a speed bump or roadside attraction.
So I push it, like I did just now. . . a little bit. . . and wait to see what she'll do.
I turn and grab a coffee mug and the pot. Setting the mug in front of her, I fill it and say "Lonesome Dove."
"I knew it!" she explodes, pleased with herself. "I was going to guess Lonesome Dove. I absolutely love that book!"
"You don't really look like the cowboy type."
"Well," she begins, cocking her head to one side and raising her eyebrows, "there's a lot about me you don't know."
I can't help it. She's too cute and I laugh.
"You can't impersonate me, Gilmore."
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Rory gets a mischievous gleam in her eyes and I know I'm doomed. Whatever happens next will be entirely my fault. Before I can stop her, she slides off her chair and darts behind me. Grabbing a clean apron from the stack, she ties it around her waist.
"Rory, what are you doing?" I ask.
"Call me Jess," she commands, doing her best to shake off the light dancing in her eyes and the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
"Give me that apron."
"No," she replies running a hand through her hair before tucking a pencil behind her ear.
I turn around to put the coffee pot back on the burner as I hear the door jingle. She rushes up behind me, grabs the book out of my back pocket and says "Excuse me, I have customers."
As she walks out from behind the counter, she stuffs my book in her back pocket and takes my order pad from the counter. She shoots me a look that feels more like a dare before closing her eyes and steeling her facial features into a scowl. She walks silently to the table where the man and woman have just sat down.
I watch in rapt fascination.
"What can I get for you?" she says in the most bored sounding voice I've ever heard come out of her mouth.
The couple jump, not having heard or sensed her approach.
"Well," says the woman who looks to be in her mid-forties, "what are your specials today?"
"Food," Rory replies tersely.
"Can you be a little more specific?"
"Hot food," Rory says sarcastically.
I suddenly understand why people stare at car accidents. The way she's standing, holding my pencil, the mildly annoyed look on her face, the lack of greeting, the way she looks at the customers without actually looking at the customers, the patronizing tone of her voice, it's all hitting a little too close to home. Understanding floods me. All that time she spent studying me, she really was, well. . . studying me. It's horrifying, mesmerizing, illuminating. I can't look away.
"Can we see some menus?" the man, probably her husband, asks.
"Fine," she breathes, rolling her eyes.
She walks back in my in my direction, a huge pleased grin on her face. Picking up the menus, she scowls again before turning around to silently approach the table. Without a word, she hands menus to the couple.
"Is there anything you'd recommend?" the woman asks.
"You're pretty much taking your chances with all of it," Rory intones.
"Uh. . . We'll need a minute to review the menus then," the man informs her.
"Rory!" Luke's voice calls out from behind me. "What are you doing?"
Rory walks triumphantly over to Luke and me. She slides the pencil back behind her ear and places one hand on her hip while she leans on the counter.
"Call me Jess," she tells him.
"Forget it," he says. "The last thing I need in my life is another Jess."
"Now that gives me a nice warm fuzzy feeling, Uncle Luke," I say.
"Don't even start with me," he says to me. "Whatever she was doing over there is all your fault. I can't prove it but I'm sure it is."
"I can't be held accountable for her actions anymore than you can be held accountable for Lorelai's. You do realize she's a Gilmore, don't you?"
In the time it's taken for Luke and me to exchange words, Rory has moved away from us to the end of the counter. Standing behind the counter, she is leaning on her elbows, reading my book. In an absentminded fashion that I know is anything but, she runs her fingers through her hair again. She glances up at us, her face a blanket of disdain, and resumes reading.
It's uncanny. I'm completely unnerved.
Luke, apparently, is momentarily unnerved as well. That is, until he starts laughing.
"Wow. I may have to start calling her Jess," he says. "She's got you down."
"She does not," I tell him.
"Oh please, that is exactly how you look."
"It is not."
"She's freaking brilliant!" he laughs.
"Whatever," I tell him as I wander over to take the couple's order.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
He's adorable when he's angry. Serves him right, though. He can't keep accusing me of not knowing him when he won't let me know him. I just wanted to show him that I have been paying attention at least to the public persona that he's allowed me to see lately. I only want to shake him up, get under his skin, shock him into opening up to me. It wouldn't kill him to let me in a little. I mean, I won't bite. Well, unless he wants me to.
"That was an Oscar worthy performance," Luke laughs, walking up to me.
"Thanks," I grin, taking off the apron. "The question is, was it donut worthy?"
"Mocking Jess definitely earns you a jelly donut on the house."
"Wow, jelly filled! I must be better than I thought."
Walking back around the counter, I sit down in front of my now empty coffee cup. Luke places a strawberry jelly-filled donut in front of me and replenishes my coffee without me asking. I grin like an idiot, humming happily. I love Luke.
"You know, I missed the beginning of your performance. If you call me before you start next time, there are two jelly donuts in it for you."
"Oh, count on it!" I grin at him.
Jess walks over and hands the couple's order to Luke. Luke, enjoying Jess' obvious irritation, chuckles as he makes his way back into the kitchen. I can't help it, I'm completely proud of myself and grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
"So,' Jess begins. "A lot of people argue that Lonesome Dove is THE great American novel."
I laugh.
"Have you no comment about my incredible impersonation of you?" I question.
"I see where they're coming from. It's heroic, tragic, larger-than-life in scope and scale," he continues, ignoring me.
"Cause I thought I really captured your spirit, you know, that whole Holden Caulfield thing you've got going on."
"The old American West comes alive with characters that are so real, you feel like you actually know them."
"Your walk is hard to reproduce. I could use some pointers on it."
"Especially Gus and Call."
"You're embarrassed! Admit it! I was good!"
"Just because it's set in the old west, people often mistake if for a western but it's so much more than that."
"Nothing, huh? You don't even have a single sarcastic comment to fling my way?"
"It's got everything. . . love, heroism, honor, loyalty, betrayal, humor, simple courage. And, it's flawlessly written."
I can't help it. I smile at him, knowing that I nailed him and he knows it. He grins back and I can tell he's not really mad. His eyes warm me and I feel comfortable in his gaze. If he'd keep looking at me like that, I'd sit here all day. Happy, I bite into my donut.
"OK, I'll tell you a secret," I start, deciding to cut him a break.
He leans closer and raises his eyebrows expectantly.
"I once actually faked sick so I could stay home from school and finish Lonesome Dove."
His laugh is genuine and I drink it in, loving the sound, pitch, and volume of it. It's beautiful, like the rest of him.
"Rory Gilmore skipped school?"
"Uh huh."
"To read?"
"Uh huh."
"Classic," he grins.
"Well, I was near the end of the book and I wouldn't have been able to concentrate in class anyways."
"You know, other people skip school to hang out with their friends or to knock over liquor stores. You skip school to read."
"Yep, I'm a wild thing. Maybe you shouldn't hang out with me. I'll probably be a bad influence."
His smile broadens.
"Thanks for the warning. I think I'll take my chances."
"OK, but if you get corrupted, don't blame me."
We're silent for a minute, lost in our individual thoughts and the contentment of the moment. I take a sip of coffee.
"So Lonesome Dove pulled you in?" he asks me.
"In a big way. I couldn't even think about reading another novel for weeks after I finished it. Trust me, that is unusual. I just couldn't get out of McMurtry's world. I guess I wasn't ready to say goodbye to the characters that inhabit Lonesome Dove."
"What parts touched you most?"
"Wow," I reply, thinking. "I don't think I can pinpoint a specific chapter or moment. I reread it a couple years later and cried through the whole thing. It's just. . . Gus and Call, you know? You couldn't find two more different people yet they are so absolutely indispensable to one another. The lifelong friendship they forge and the other characters that weave themselves in and out of their lives. . . It's just incredible and it all felt so real to me. There's a quote before the book begins that says 'What they dreamed, we live, and what they lived, we dream.' That sums up how I feel about Lonesome Dove."
"Yeah, I really got caught up in it too. I couldn't believe it when Deets died. I was so stunned, I thought I'd misread it."
"Oh God, I practically needed therapy after that scene," I admit, my eyes tearing.
Jess regards me thoughtfully.
"What else by McMurtry have you read?" he asks me.
I wonder if he's noticed my watery eyes and is kindly changing the subject. I pause before I answer, looking in his now soft brown eyes.
"A lot," I answer honestly. "His other novels are all good, I especially like Some Can Whistle, but none are quite on par with Lonesome Dove."
"Buffalo Girls and The Last Picture Show are both good reads."
"Definitely. Did you know that Larry McMurtry was part of the same Stanford University writing program that produced Ken Kesey and Peter Beagle?"
"No way."
"Yeah, they were all friends with Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassidy."
"Wow. Small world."
I grin and finish my donut. I look up to find Jess smirking at me.
"You have-" he starts, motioning to my face.
"What?" I ask, eyes wide.
"Just a little-" he grins.
His hand moves slowly and the next thing I know, he's touching my face. I freeze. His fingers skim my cheek as his thumb grazes the corner of my mouth, lingering there for just a moment. He moves his thumb, scraping my lower lip, pulling it slightly downward. Involuntarily, my lips part. He inhales sharply.
My senses are screaming.
Only when he removes his hand do I notice the jelly donut filling stuck to his thumb. Making constant eye contact with me, he puts his thumb in his mouth and sucks on it. When he pulls it out, I see the tip of his tongue flit out between his lips to lick the last remaining piece of filling off.
"Strawberry," be breathes.
I can't speak. A hurricane of chills makes their way from my ankles to my knees and settles between my legs, leaving me breathless and suddenly alert.
I stand unsteadily. Picking up my book bag, I back away from him.
"My mom. . ." I fumble, still burning, confused. "I should. . . You know. . . Homework. . ."
He nods, understanding.
I back straight into the door, causing the venetian blinds to rattle and the bell to sound a muffled jingle. Of course, this makes me blush.
"Bye," I say quickly, reaching for the doorknob.
"Later," he responds.
I leave as quickly as I can without actually running, suddenly desperate for air. This time, I don't look back as I walk past the diner's front window. He's watching me though. I can tell.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
A/N: Due to popular demand, Lane will be making an appearance in the next chapter. I just wanted to try my hand at Paris first. Please let me know what you think so far. . . .and in case you haven't picked up on this, reviews make my day.
Special notes to:
Pretty Words Like Blades: Are you an English professor? If not you could/should be! THANK YOU for your thoughtful, insightful reviews and internal conflict writing tips. I'm humbled, honored, and a better writer because of your attention.
SomeoneNamedMe: Thank you for your kind reminder that people from all walks of life read these fics. I sincerely did not mean to offend and apologize for the slight (and promise that I would never squirt you or your dad with water or anything else if you knocked on my door!)
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"RORY!"
Jumping slightly, I snap my head up.
"What?" I breathe, eyes wide.
"The quotes," Paris intones, sounding exasperated.
"Quotes?" I question meekly.
"Have you heard a single word I've said?" she snaps, narrowing her eyes at me. "If you have more important things to do with your afternoon, please don't let us hold you up."
'Us?' I think. The Seattle-rain-haziness that has been my day lifts slowly, gradually, like curtain sheers being drawn. As I focus my vision around the table, the faces of the other Associated Student Government members come into view. Sixth period must have ended. Paris is talking to me but my main concern right now is how I got from the Physics lab on the second floor to the ASG room. I verify that I am, in fact, in the Chilton first floor ASG activity room by looking around a second time.
"Checking the room for bugs?" Paris questions sarcastically, watching me. "Good thinking. Maybe you should write the quotes for the telescope plaque on a scrap of paper that the rest of us can just pass around. That way those super secret prices won't get leaked to El Quaeda."
"Right. . . The telescope plaque quotes. Umm. . . they're here somewhere," I assure her as I begin to dig through the folders stacked in front of me.
"Never mind," Paris states flatly, her voice dripping with annoyance. "By the time you get your act together, it will be dark outside and these freshman will be in curfew violation. Since I, myself, would like to get home in time for dinner, we'll table discussion of the quotes until next week. Does anyone have any further business to bring before the council?"
Francie opens her mouth to speak but before she can utter a single word, she is silenced by Paris' gavel banging on the table.
"Good. Meeting adjourned."
I stifle a smile as Francie shoots daggers at Paris. She and the other ASG representatives slowly filter from the room into the hallway. I start to follow them out but Paris waylays me.
"Rory, I need a word with you. That is, if you can conquer your sudden attack of attention deficit disorder long enough to pay attention to me."
"What is it, Paris?" I ask.
"I'm aware that you're on ASG against your will but. . . too bad. I don't care. The bottom line is that you are on ASG and when you're in these meetings, I except your head to be here, not just to look pretty sitting on top of your body but to have actual thoughts running through it."
If she only knew. I've been struggling all day to get my mind in the present but it's been a lost cause. I haven't been able to focus on Chilton or class work for longer than a minute and a half at a time. In Comparative Literature, a discussion of the evolution of cultural storytelling and divine retribution symbolized by the myth of Prometheus led me straight into thoughts about the penance I'm sure to suffer for hurting Dean. Probably I won't be chained to a rock while my liver is eaten by a vulture, only to have it grow back during the night so the vulture can eat it again the next day, but I'm sure my punishment won't be good.
In chemistry, Mr. Van Nostrand's lecture on the principles of chemical bonding left me shivering as my thoughts turned to Jess. Apparently, when two atoms are close to each other and their electrons are of the correct type, it is more energetically favorable for them to come together and share electrons, than it is for them to exist as individual, separate atoms. 'Are Jess and I energetically favorable?' I had wondered. Mr. Van Nostrand would surely be shocked to learn that his lecture about chemical bonds and compound atoms falling naturally together the same way that a dropped rock falls straight to the ground, had me picturing the various ways Jess and I could fall, may fall.
Sighing, I wait for Paris to continue.
"I'm not going to let your little daydreams interfere with my ability to procure an exceptional and distinguished class gift. The legacy of the class of 2003 is too important to be left in the hands of people who don't care about the future of this school. If you can't handle getting the quotes, tell me now and I'll do it myself."
"I can handle it."
"Really? Because it doesn't look-"
"I can handle it, Paris," I interrupt her.
"Don't get defensive with me. I'm not the one who zoned out for almost an hour while other people were working."
"I'm not defensive. I had a stressful weekend and I'm tired. Now, if you're done berating me, I'll just be leaving."
"Stressful? What in your idyllic sheltered life could possibly cause you stress?" she asks crossing her arms in front of her and raising her eyebrows.
"Like you care."
"Don't be such a baby."
"Fine," I say completely irritated with her. "If you must know, I broke up with Dean on Saturday."
"Oh."
"Yeah, oh."
"Wait. . . You broke up with Malibu Ken or he broke up with you?"
"I broke up with him. God, why is that so hard for everyone to believe?"
"No kidding," Paris says, almost smiling at me. "That's kind of impressive. I didn't think you had it in you."
"Exactly what does that mean?"
"Face it, Rory. That guy was a pretty face on a tall hard body and that's about it."
"You don't know what you're talking about." I state, rolling my eyes. "There was a lot more to Dean than that."
"Really? Were there rivers of depth that I somehow missed?"
"He's a good guy. He was very sweet to me."
"I'm sure he was. It's a wonder you didn't die of boredom. Not that going to pig calling contests or butter churning festivals isn't thrilling entertainment."
"Goodbye, Paris," I say, grabbing my backpack and heading towards the door.
"Oh please," she laughs. "The only thing you had in common with Dean is that you're both homo-sapiens."
I stop, turn back, and glare at her. I'm about to hurl a counterargument like a spitball straight at her head when she continues.
"I'm willing to bet he can't even spell Bukowski let alone analyze Bukowski's writing style or speculate whether or not he'd be friends with Jane Austen. Next time, maybe you should try dating someone who's your intellectual equal. You know, someone who can keep you on your toes. Tell me, Gilmore," she continues as she walks past me, pausing at the door, "Do you know anyone like that?"
Paris shoots me what I'd swear is a genuine smile before turning on her heel and marching out of the room. A full minute later, I'm still standing like a deaf mute in the exact same spot where she left me, staring at the place where her back used to be, wondering at what point I lost control of my world and when Paris got so smart.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
The diner's bell rings.
I look up to see a heavyset Asian man entering.
Depositing my rag behind the counter, I wipe my hands on my apron and walk over to take his order. As he asks about the daily special, the cadence of his voice causes my mind to flash back to a warm night not so long ago.
There was this place in New York, a total dive, where you could get the best Vietnamese food in the world. OK, maybe not the best in the world but the best this side of Hanoi. The smell walking in the door was overpowering, incredible, it makes my mouth water just thinking about it. They had this little old cook who spoke only Vietnamese. She used to yell things at the wait staff and they'd answer her using the same choppy, high- pitched words that sounded like they contained too many vowels and not enough consonants. She was maybe 4-feet tall but she could boss those waiters around like a General. She could also cook like nobody's business.
Her specialty was black pepper sauce. God, that stuff was amazing - a mixture of soy sauce and caramel that she'd drizzle on chicken or shrimp then sprinkle with tons of black pepper and fresh cilantro to cut the sweetness. Throw in some steamed veggies, add some rice and. . . Well, it was unbelievable.
Two nights before I got sent here, AJ, Sean, Javier, and I went there. We sat at the scratched Formica table on the wobbly-legged wooden chairs, and ordered food and Sing Ha's. As it always does, the beer arrived first. AJ reached across the table to grab one and, in the process, flashed the waiter a clear view of the gun he had strapped to his shoulder. Don't get me wrong, AJ's like a brother to me but sometimes he can be a complete tool. Packing concealed is a big no-no in the city. Our observant waiter, who was obviously in training for ATF special forces, panicked and called the cops. The next thing I knew, the police crashed through the doors and swarmed all over us like we were in some damn Al Pacino movie. On impulse and adrenalin, I broke for the door but a cop who looked just like Bull from those old Night Court reruns tackled me. Damn near broke my shoulder.
Because it all happened so fast, I totally forgot about the dime bag I had hidden in my jean jacket.
So, I'm sprawled there, just making sure I can still move my arm and fingers, when Bull frisked me, found the Mary Jane, and arrested me on the spot. My ass got unceremoniously tossed in the back of a black and white waiting right outside. Just my luck to be busted for possession. Again. My reward was a free ride downtown courtesy of New York City's finest. The trip was familiar as it wasn't exactly my first time there. Let's just say, I'd been at the station house often enough for the guy at the front desk to remember my name.
The story gets worse. Liz had been threatening to leave me in jail the next time I got arrested and apparently, she picked that night to start keeping her word. I spent a very long night in the system. The cell was small and it stank. I was stuck in there with three other guys who definitely did not look like this was their first overnight stay. I don't have much to say about that night because I don't like thinking about it but I'll tell you this. . . I didn't say a goddamn word from the time they slammed my cell door until I got released. I just sat on my bunk leaning back against the wall with my arms wrapped around my knees and my very best don't-fuck-with-me look plastered to my face.
I kept my eyes open all night. I'm no fool.
The next morning, Liz shows up with bail money that she got God knows where. In the middle of her standard what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-you, you're-going-to-wind-up-dead-on-the-street speech that I'd heard several hundred times, she threw me a curve ball. This time, she has a half-baked 'Save Jess' plan that involves me moving to Connecticut, the existence of which I always thought to be an exaggerated rumor. Not only that, I'm supposed to move in with her younger brother, my uncle, who she has never mentioned to me before in my entire life.
Walking home from the station house with Liz, I remember listening to her prattle on and on and fucking on, and at that moment, my biggest regret was that I got busted before I could eat my Black Pepper chicken.
As I'm giving the Asian guy's order to Luke, I flash to my arrival in Stars Hollow.
The whole way here on the bus, I was sick to my stomach, my hands, cigarette-fidgety. I tried to read a Larry McMurtry paperback but the nausea threatened to overwhelm me and I had to shut my eyes periodically and lean my head against the seat. I kept waiting for it to get better, for the sensation to pass, but it never did. The farther I got from New York, the realer this nightmare became. The scenery shooting past the bus windows, during the times I was curious enough to look out them, got increasingly greener. Fewer traffic lights, smaller buildings, strip malls, farmland. All different, all strange. The contrast between normal and this new reality was soul crushing.
It wasn't my world. It still isn't.
The don't-fuck-with-me mask I assumed during my unfortunate incarceration had never really left so I wore it off the bus to greet my uncle. It was either act like I didn't give a shit or surrender to the queasiness lurking just under my skin and spend the entire day throwing up in his bathroom. Granted, neither one makes a great first impression but of the two, the second had significantly less appeal.
I carried that seasick feeling for days.
The only thing that made it go away was her.
She was impossibly beautiful. The kind of girl you'd see in a magazine ad for Noxzema with, like, golden retriever puppies crawling all over her. I'd never met anyone like her before. Her face was open, her hair, thick and shining, her eyes, azure blue and completely without guile. She was the picture of innocence. Hell, she still is.
"Penny for your thoughts," a voice says.
I look up and there she is, smiling at me. The very same smile that, in my first few days here in purgatory, made the world stop lurching and spinning, made my legs feel solid again.
"Sorry but due to rising inflation rates my thoughts cost more than that," I inform her.
"But are they worth more than that?" Rory says, her grin widening as she plays along.
"Pay me and you'll find out."
She sits on a stool and reaches into her coat pocket. Pulling something out, she offers it to me as the backpack in her other hand drops to the floor.
"I didn't know you were such a capitalist," she comments.
I look down as she places the nickel in my hand, her fingertips lightly brush my palm. I feel their heat.
"There a lots of things you don't know about me."
"So you keep reminding me."
I smirk at her.
"Well?" she presses. "I paid you. Where's my thought?"
"I was thinking about the Larry McMurtry book I read on the bus on my way here."
It's a statement with enough truth in it that it doesn't feel false rolling off my tongue. Of all the things I was thinking, that seems the safest one to share with her.
"I love Larry McMurtry!" she enthuses. "Which one were you reading?"
"I'm sorry but now you're requesting a second piece of information, not covered by your original payment. The name of the book is going to cost you another nickel."
"Oh, come on," she laughs. "I hardly got my money's worth for the first nickel, I'm not giving you a second one. Besides, I'm paying you for thoughts, not information."
"Are you insinuating that Larry McMurtry isn't worth a dime?"
"He is but I'm not sure you are."
"Now you're just hurting my feelings."
"If I guess the book, will you tell me?" she asks me, her eyes sparkling.
"Sure. If you pay me first."
"Mean!" Almost as an afterthought, she adds, "and pompous. Charging people for the pleasure of your conversation is downright Clinton-esque."
"Are you saying you find pleasure in talking to me?" I ask in a low voice, watching her reaction with laser eyes.
I'm rewarded with a patented Rory Gilmore blush, soon followed by a classic stammer.
"I was making a point. . . I didn't mean to imply that talking to you is pleasurable, as in 'pleasure'. I meant that it's pleasant talking to you, but not in a pleasurable way. Not that I came in here just to talk to-"
"Rory," I interrupt, sliding closer to her, continuing in a low voice that only she can hear, "It's OK. Pleasure is one of my specialties. And I wouldn't charge you."
She looks at me, silent for a heartbeat. I've surprised her and I grin. Her blush deepens to a gorgeous shade of pink. Tearing her eyes from mine, she looks everywhere but at me. I think she's collected herself because she reaches back into her coat pocket, and produces another nickel.
"I'll make you a deal," she says. "This nickel is yours but I want the name of the McMurtry book and a cup of coffee."
"You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Gilmore."
"Take it or leave it."
I reach over and take the nickel from her and on impulse, trace my index finger down hers and across the back of her hand before pulling my hand away. I hear a sharp intake of breath that lets me know that I've surprised her again.
I shouldn't do this but I can't help it. I want to know, need to know, that she feels something similar to what I feel when I'm around her. The one kiss 100 years ago, the staring, the breakup with BagBoy, they just aren't enough. I need to know that all of this has something, anything, to do with me. I don't want to be just a spectator of her evolution, an observer of this personal journey she's started. I want to be a destination on her path, not a speed bump or roadside attraction.
So I push it, like I did just now. . . a little bit. . . and wait to see what she'll do.
I turn and grab a coffee mug and the pot. Setting the mug in front of her, I fill it and say "Lonesome Dove."
"I knew it!" she explodes, pleased with herself. "I was going to guess Lonesome Dove. I absolutely love that book!"
"You don't really look like the cowboy type."
"Well," she begins, cocking her head to one side and raising her eyebrows, "there's a lot about me you don't know."
I can't help it. She's too cute and I laugh.
"You can't impersonate me, Gilmore."
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. Rory gets a mischievous gleam in her eyes and I know I'm doomed. Whatever happens next will be entirely my fault. Before I can stop her, she slides off her chair and darts behind me. Grabbing a clean apron from the stack, she ties it around her waist.
"Rory, what are you doing?" I ask.
"Call me Jess," she commands, doing her best to shake off the light dancing in her eyes and the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.
"Give me that apron."
"No," she replies running a hand through her hair before tucking a pencil behind her ear.
I turn around to put the coffee pot back on the burner as I hear the door jingle. She rushes up behind me, grabs the book out of my back pocket and says "Excuse me, I have customers."
As she walks out from behind the counter, she stuffs my book in her back pocket and takes my order pad from the counter. She shoots me a look that feels more like a dare before closing her eyes and steeling her facial features into a scowl. She walks silently to the table where the man and woman have just sat down.
I watch in rapt fascination.
"What can I get for you?" she says in the most bored sounding voice I've ever heard come out of her mouth.
The couple jump, not having heard or sensed her approach.
"Well," says the woman who looks to be in her mid-forties, "what are your specials today?"
"Food," Rory replies tersely.
"Can you be a little more specific?"
"Hot food," Rory says sarcastically.
I suddenly understand why people stare at car accidents. The way she's standing, holding my pencil, the mildly annoyed look on her face, the lack of greeting, the way she looks at the customers without actually looking at the customers, the patronizing tone of her voice, it's all hitting a little too close to home. Understanding floods me. All that time she spent studying me, she really was, well. . . studying me. It's horrifying, mesmerizing, illuminating. I can't look away.
"Can we see some menus?" the man, probably her husband, asks.
"Fine," she breathes, rolling her eyes.
She walks back in my in my direction, a huge pleased grin on her face. Picking up the menus, she scowls again before turning around to silently approach the table. Without a word, she hands menus to the couple.
"Is there anything you'd recommend?" the woman asks.
"You're pretty much taking your chances with all of it," Rory intones.
"Uh. . . We'll need a minute to review the menus then," the man informs her.
"Rory!" Luke's voice calls out from behind me. "What are you doing?"
Rory walks triumphantly over to Luke and me. She slides the pencil back behind her ear and places one hand on her hip while she leans on the counter.
"Call me Jess," she tells him.
"Forget it," he says. "The last thing I need in my life is another Jess."
"Now that gives me a nice warm fuzzy feeling, Uncle Luke," I say.
"Don't even start with me," he says to me. "Whatever she was doing over there is all your fault. I can't prove it but I'm sure it is."
"I can't be held accountable for her actions anymore than you can be held accountable for Lorelai's. You do realize she's a Gilmore, don't you?"
In the time it's taken for Luke and me to exchange words, Rory has moved away from us to the end of the counter. Standing behind the counter, she is leaning on her elbows, reading my book. In an absentminded fashion that I know is anything but, she runs her fingers through her hair again. She glances up at us, her face a blanket of disdain, and resumes reading.
It's uncanny. I'm completely unnerved.
Luke, apparently, is momentarily unnerved as well. That is, until he starts laughing.
"Wow. I may have to start calling her Jess," he says. "She's got you down."
"She does not," I tell him.
"Oh please, that is exactly how you look."
"It is not."
"She's freaking brilliant!" he laughs.
"Whatever," I tell him as I wander over to take the couple's order.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
He's adorable when he's angry. Serves him right, though. He can't keep accusing me of not knowing him when he won't let me know him. I just wanted to show him that I have been paying attention at least to the public persona that he's allowed me to see lately. I only want to shake him up, get under his skin, shock him into opening up to me. It wouldn't kill him to let me in a little. I mean, I won't bite. Well, unless he wants me to.
"That was an Oscar worthy performance," Luke laughs, walking up to me.
"Thanks," I grin, taking off the apron. "The question is, was it donut worthy?"
"Mocking Jess definitely earns you a jelly donut on the house."
"Wow, jelly filled! I must be better than I thought."
Walking back around the counter, I sit down in front of my now empty coffee cup. Luke places a strawberry jelly-filled donut in front of me and replenishes my coffee without me asking. I grin like an idiot, humming happily. I love Luke.
"You know, I missed the beginning of your performance. If you call me before you start next time, there are two jelly donuts in it for you."
"Oh, count on it!" I grin at him.
Jess walks over and hands the couple's order to Luke. Luke, enjoying Jess' obvious irritation, chuckles as he makes his way back into the kitchen. I can't help it, I'm completely proud of myself and grinning like the Cheshire Cat.
"So,' Jess begins. "A lot of people argue that Lonesome Dove is THE great American novel."
I laugh.
"Have you no comment about my incredible impersonation of you?" I question.
"I see where they're coming from. It's heroic, tragic, larger-than-life in scope and scale," he continues, ignoring me.
"Cause I thought I really captured your spirit, you know, that whole Holden Caulfield thing you've got going on."
"The old American West comes alive with characters that are so real, you feel like you actually know them."
"Your walk is hard to reproduce. I could use some pointers on it."
"Especially Gus and Call."
"You're embarrassed! Admit it! I was good!"
"Just because it's set in the old west, people often mistake if for a western but it's so much more than that."
"Nothing, huh? You don't even have a single sarcastic comment to fling my way?"
"It's got everything. . . love, heroism, honor, loyalty, betrayal, humor, simple courage. And, it's flawlessly written."
I can't help it. I smile at him, knowing that I nailed him and he knows it. He grins back and I can tell he's not really mad. His eyes warm me and I feel comfortable in his gaze. If he'd keep looking at me like that, I'd sit here all day. Happy, I bite into my donut.
"OK, I'll tell you a secret," I start, deciding to cut him a break.
He leans closer and raises his eyebrows expectantly.
"I once actually faked sick so I could stay home from school and finish Lonesome Dove."
His laugh is genuine and I drink it in, loving the sound, pitch, and volume of it. It's beautiful, like the rest of him.
"Rory Gilmore skipped school?"
"Uh huh."
"To read?"
"Uh huh."
"Classic," he grins.
"Well, I was near the end of the book and I wouldn't have been able to concentrate in class anyways."
"You know, other people skip school to hang out with their friends or to knock over liquor stores. You skip school to read."
"Yep, I'm a wild thing. Maybe you shouldn't hang out with me. I'll probably be a bad influence."
His smile broadens.
"Thanks for the warning. I think I'll take my chances."
"OK, but if you get corrupted, don't blame me."
We're silent for a minute, lost in our individual thoughts and the contentment of the moment. I take a sip of coffee.
"So Lonesome Dove pulled you in?" he asks me.
"In a big way. I couldn't even think about reading another novel for weeks after I finished it. Trust me, that is unusual. I just couldn't get out of McMurtry's world. I guess I wasn't ready to say goodbye to the characters that inhabit Lonesome Dove."
"What parts touched you most?"
"Wow," I reply, thinking. "I don't think I can pinpoint a specific chapter or moment. I reread it a couple years later and cried through the whole thing. It's just. . . Gus and Call, you know? You couldn't find two more different people yet they are so absolutely indispensable to one another. The lifelong friendship they forge and the other characters that weave themselves in and out of their lives. . . It's just incredible and it all felt so real to me. There's a quote before the book begins that says 'What they dreamed, we live, and what they lived, we dream.' That sums up how I feel about Lonesome Dove."
"Yeah, I really got caught up in it too. I couldn't believe it when Deets died. I was so stunned, I thought I'd misread it."
"Oh God, I practically needed therapy after that scene," I admit, my eyes tearing.
Jess regards me thoughtfully.
"What else by McMurtry have you read?" he asks me.
I wonder if he's noticed my watery eyes and is kindly changing the subject. I pause before I answer, looking in his now soft brown eyes.
"A lot," I answer honestly. "His other novels are all good, I especially like Some Can Whistle, but none are quite on par with Lonesome Dove."
"Buffalo Girls and The Last Picture Show are both good reads."
"Definitely. Did you know that Larry McMurtry was part of the same Stanford University writing program that produced Ken Kesey and Peter Beagle?"
"No way."
"Yeah, they were all friends with Jack Kerouac and Neal Cassidy."
"Wow. Small world."
I grin and finish my donut. I look up to find Jess smirking at me.
"You have-" he starts, motioning to my face.
"What?" I ask, eyes wide.
"Just a little-" he grins.
His hand moves slowly and the next thing I know, he's touching my face. I freeze. His fingers skim my cheek as his thumb grazes the corner of my mouth, lingering there for just a moment. He moves his thumb, scraping my lower lip, pulling it slightly downward. Involuntarily, my lips part. He inhales sharply.
My senses are screaming.
Only when he removes his hand do I notice the jelly donut filling stuck to his thumb. Making constant eye contact with me, he puts his thumb in his mouth and sucks on it. When he pulls it out, I see the tip of his tongue flit out between his lips to lick the last remaining piece of filling off.
"Strawberry," be breathes.
I can't speak. A hurricane of chills makes their way from my ankles to my knees and settles between my legs, leaving me breathless and suddenly alert.
I stand unsteadily. Picking up my book bag, I back away from him.
"My mom. . ." I fumble, still burning, confused. "I should. . . You know. . . Homework. . ."
He nods, understanding.
I back straight into the door, causing the venetian blinds to rattle and the bell to sound a muffled jingle. Of course, this makes me blush.
"Bye," I say quickly, reaching for the doorknob.
"Later," he responds.
I leave as quickly as I can without actually running, suddenly desperate for air. This time, I don't look back as I walk past the diner's front window. He's watching me though. I can tell.
. ~ . ~ . ~ .
A/N: Due to popular demand, Lane will be making an appearance in the next chapter. I just wanted to try my hand at Paris first. Please let me know what you think so far. . . .and in case you haven't picked up on this, reviews make my day.