Through Other People's Eyes

Part 1

By Steph

Dedicated to my buds Iris and Jamie.

There are only so many things you can say in ten minutes. Especially if you're an eighteen-year-old girl on the phone with your boyfriend. Especially when said boyfriend is on the other side of the country in Whittier, California and to you it might as well be Mars.

Lane rediscovered this every week when the excitement and anticipation of talking to Dave was tempered by her mother setting an egg timer and placing it wordlessly in front of her. Every syllable, every breath, every sigh took away precious time.

Dave and Lane, due to time constraints, stuck to the most banal of topics. Starting a deep discussion would end prematurely and only leave them frustrated. And Lane's mother tended to eavesdrop, arms folded, always setting a spare egg timer, just in case the other one malfunctioned and allowed Lane an extra few seconds of hearing Dave's voice.

No, they only discussed class schedules and roommates. The merits of a California winter versus a Connecticut winter. California drivers versus Connecticut drivers. Pizza. Music. Always music.

She talked fast, a sign that she had spent too many of her formative years around Rory and Lorelai. They had begun to speak in abbreviations and code. She hated the arrangement, but put up with it, because it was better than nothing.

Lane was crowing over a vintage album she had found purely by luck when she heard a voice in the background. A female voice.

"Dave, if we're going to go, we have to go now," the voice said.

"Lane, I have to go," he said apologetically. "Talk to you next Thursday."

"Who was that?" she asked in what she hoped was a neutral voice.

"Oh it's just Aimee," he said dismissively. "I'll talk to you next week."

Lane wanted to ask if he was being dismissive of Aimee or of herself. But she wasted too many seconds thinking what to ask next.

The timer buzzed and her mother hovered.

Lane obediently hung up.

At times like this, Lane used to talk to Rory. But Rory was different. Rory's conversations were peppered with stories about Paris and Janet and Marty and Tana and Naked Guy…or maybe Marty was the Naked Guy? Lane had no idea. Except for her all-too-brief encounter with Paris at someone's party years ago, Lane knew none of these people. And despite Rory's constant reminders ("Janet is the one who's always exercising" "Tana is the one who…well she's nice, but a little socially awkward"), they meant nothing to Lane.

Lane didn't mention Dave to Rory. She saw no point to it. She mentioned it to Lorelai on Friday after the band's rehearsal. The band had gone home and Lane had an hour before she was expected for dinner. After hearing about Mrs. Kim's planned menu of tofu and well…more tofu, Lorelai had sat Lane down with a Hot Pocket and a bowl of chocolate-covered marshmallows.

"I wonder who this Aimee is," Lane said through a mouthful of ham and cheese.

"She could just be his friend. Or a study partner," Lorelai had offered encouragingly.

"Yeah," Lane said. "Or his California girlfriend, all tanned and blonde."

"You can ask him who she is."

"I guess," Lane said. She was feeling down again. She ate another marshmallow without interest.

"I wish there was more I could do," Lorelai said.

"I wish that Rory was around," Lane admitted.

"You can call her here," Lorelai said.

"I know," Lane said, but it wasn't the same. Rory would listen halfheartedly and then be interrupted by someone knocking on the door, by someone else's crisis. It had happened before.

"Do you have any friends at your school you can talk to?" Lorelai asked. "I mean, I know I'm the coolest person around, but maybe someone your own age might be better with advice."

"Maybe," Lane said. She pulled apart a marshmallow and instantly wished she hadn't. The white, soft insides reminded her of tofu.

The funny thing was that Lane did have people at her new school. She was popular.

She hadn't been popular at Stars Hollow High School and despite a very short-lived (what had she been thinking?) stint on the cheerleading squad, went four years virtually unnoticed. She had some friends, mostly other band members, but was never a social butterfly.

And now at college, at the small, religious college, she was popular. The first few disorienting, hectic days she had gravitated toward girls like Julie and Sunny, girls who were quiet, devout and respectful. She sat with them at lunch and in class and together they reread the books of rules and tried to just get through the day.

And very, very gradually, she began to hang out with other people. Word spread that Lane played drums in a band, that she was the only girl in the band, and that made her a celebrity. She found herself sitting with and being accepted by girls like Kristen and Dora, girls who got in trouble for dress code violations and for speaking out of turn.

She didn't go as far as her new friends, hadn't been disciplined yet, but felt her attitude shifting slightly. She was an appreciative audience for their acts, but was not an active participant and she probably would never be. She still feared her mother, the teachers. She didn't have a death wish.

But she had no trouble finding partners for class projects, fellow students to discuss obscure music with. One girl named Erin, who never talked to anyone, had shyly confessed her crush on Dave Grohl.

She would like to talk to any of these girls about Dave, about her fears that he's dating some California beach bunny who may already have implants and a nose job, but didn't. These new friends didn't know Dave, didn't know Lane's mother and how difficult she made life. Lane didn't think they'd understand.

She didn't say anything to anyone and patiently waited for the next Thursday to come around. It was the only time of the week she was allowed to call him.

"You should get a job," Dora remarked casually to Lane, one day during a religious studies class.

Lane was coveting Dora's new blouse, an off-the-shoulder shimmering purple top that Dora was wearing under her button-up regulation cardigan. Dora worked as a waitress at a nearby restaurant on weekends and after school, in hopes of saving up for an apartment. She and Kristen, who worked at an art-supply store, were going to move in together as soon as they saved up. Dora and Kristen had asked Lane if she wanted to move in as well. Lane had nixed the idea immediately.

"I can't," she said. "My mother would hate it."

"You're eighteen," they had reminded her. "You don't have to live with her. We'll get a small place and split the rent three ways. Think about it."

Dora brought up the apartment again that day. "We aren't ready to move yet. It will still be awhile before we can afford it--maybe next year. But we do have some places in mind. Maybe a one and a half bedroom. Kris and I could share the larger room and you could have the smaller one. It's still open for debate. Just think about it. Think of the freedom. You could eat what you wanted, no more tofu if you didn't want it…you could have Dave over whenever he was in town."

The thought of having her own apartment, having her own room, where Dave could stay, seemed so foreign…so decadent. She and Dave had done nothing more than kiss and even thinking of doing more made her feel both stressed and giddy at the same time.

And then she remembered the mysterious Aimee and her mood sunk.

It was almost Thursday.

A few months ago, Lane had begged her mother to allow her to find a job. After several days of creeping around the house nervously waiting for a decision, Mrs. Kim had given Lane a sheet of acceptable places of employment. Church, a religious bookstore, babysitting…

The diner.

After clarifying with her mother that she in fact meant Luke's Diner, Lane had debated asking Luke for a job. She didn't think he would hire her. She had never seen anybody her age working there. Jess didn't count, because he was related to Luke. Caesar had been there almost as long as

Luke had.

But then he hired Brennan, who didn't even wash his hands. And Brennan had been fired.

If he hired Brennan, maybe he'd hire her.

Lane knew how to wash her hands.

This could work.

The next day she put on her most professional outfit, a plain gray skirt and pressed white blouse. She had a resume (work experience tragically limited to serving tofu-related products with her mother to unsuspecting consumers--but foodservice was foodservice) as well as letters of recommendation from Lorelai and Sookie. She walked into the diner.

It was a madhouse and it took her a second to locate Luke. He was walking quickly, balancing plates full of food. She followed him around like a puppy, circling the diner twice, before he noticed her.

"Why are you following me?" he asked.

She took a breath, reminding herself that she had known Luke since she was about five, and said, "If you're still looking for someone, I want to work here. I know this place, I know everyone who comes in, I'm professional and dependable and hygienic…"

"Does your mom know you're here?" he asked.

"Yes and she approved it which may or may not be a compliment. Anyway, I have a resume here as well as letters of recommendation."

He wiped his hands quickly on his jeans and took the papers from her. He skimmed them.

She continued talking. "I only expect minimum wage and I can work every night after school except Bible Study night. I can also work weekends. I sometimes have tests or church or band practice and performances, but…"

Luke looked up at her. "Can you work eighteen hours a week? Eight hours during the week and ten during the weekend?"

"If there's a night where I can't, can I work more on the weekend?" she asked.

He nodded. "I can't pay much…minimum plus shared tips to start out. Plus food."

Food. An added bonus. No more tofu.

"Okay," she said happily. "I can start tomorrow."

"Four?" he asked. "We can work out a schedule and you can fill out the paperwork."

"Thank you," she said. "So I'm hired?"

"Sure," he said.

She grinned and walked out to leave before she heard him call her name. She turned to him.

"Don't wear that tomorrow," he said. "Jeans. Casual."

She nodded, elated. She thought of tomorrow.

It was a more pleasant thought than thinking of the day after.

Thursday.

To be continued…