I am so so sorry that it's taken so long for me to write this chapter! Real life reared its ugly head and demanded that I take it seriously. But now I'm finished with school (I'm 1/4 of the way done to becoming a doctor? Isn't that a weird thought!), and I have a glorious summer ahead of me!
And, yes, for those who were wondering, this is the fic that was formerly known as Songbird. It's been trying on several different names, since I decided that it outgrew its first one (they grow so fast at this age, don't they?) Right now, the choice is Like Never Before, after rejecting We Are Stardust; Life is For Learning; Time After Time, etc. Picky, picky story. :)Tell me what you think of the change. Aw, heck, tell me what you think of the story too. :) :) :)
Thank you, thank you, thank you to my reviewers (and therefore muses): LitJunkie, kimlockt, Vfoxy713, LCI-02/03, Holly Gilmore, AvidTVfan, and KT. Also, a special big thank you goes to Kim, Jamie and Karin, who not only inspired me to continue, but gave me ideas when mine ran dry and suggested (very kindly) on how I could improve it. This chapter would not have happened without their input and I'm very grateful.
Disclaimer: Not mine, although Brad is turning out to be more mine than the Brad that ASP created. My Brad did not go to Broadway and sing at High School Graduation, becoming the class buffoon. (Purge that image of poor Brad out of your head. Is it gone? Good, we can continue.) ASP and Co. can claim the name, the looks, the religion and the school uniform, but the rest are mine. Lyrics: "Wade in the Water," from Eva By Heart.
Chapter 6
Who's that young girl dressed in red
Wade in the Water
Must be the Children that Moses led
God's gonna trouble the Water
"So, Louise has a Dutch boyfriend, you know. She's in France right now with her father, but since everybody has a French boyfriend, she had to have something, you know, different. She tried a German guy, but he wasn't a good kisser and she couldn't understand him, and since she didn't want to shut him up by kissing him, things got boring and she went Dutch. Or maybe it was Danish? Anyway, her dad is furious and swears that he's going to ship her back here…"
Paris listened to Madeline prattle on, interjecting comments now and then. It had been a pleasant surprise coming home and seeing a note from Rory with Madeline's number. She had called her back promptly and had been completely immersed in the gossip catch-up. Paris was in no way an emotional person—tears just wasted time and energy and all you ended up with was a headache and swollen eyes. But moisture pricked her eyes at the sound of her friend's cheerful chatter. Oh sure, she knew that the major reason that Madeline had called was because she had just broken up with the latest flavor of the month and with Louise gone she needed someone to funnel her gossip through; Paris didn't care. She just relished the feeling of hearing a friendly voice.
"So, how's DC?" Madeline finally asked, having told Paris every bit of news and rumors that she had missed in her two-week absence.
"Hot. The dorms, as one would expect, lack air conditioning." She answered shortly, wondering what Madeline would say if she told her the truth. She was homesick, she decided. It was a new feeling, one that she had searched for days to figure out why she felt so crappy and depressed. She had never particularly enjoyed summer vacations, and every year dreaded the months where she would be locked up in the house, avoiding her bickering parents, with no place, no friends to escape to. And yet, she had never felt so completely alone than she did now. She longed for home. That at least was familiar.
It had been two weeks since she arrived in D.C., two of the longest weeks of Paris's life. Oh, the first week had gone okay, once they finished with the fluffy bonding workshops and got down to business. The lectures given by various legislature members and political activists had been somewhat interesting. It had gone downhill from then. Or more precisely, Rory had gone downhill. Rory had stopped speaking to her the previous week and Paris could not think of anything to break the silence. That had lasted the weekend and while now Rory was at least politely talkative, asking how her day went, Rory also was never around. She came in to drop her books and only returned to call some guy who definitely was not her boyfriend. Not that Rory actually ever confided in her, but some things were just too obvious. In any case, it didn't appear that she and Rory would be living out the life of a teen coming-of-age flick, where they became actual friends and chummy roommates. Paris tried to ignore the hurt, but each day had gotten a little harder.
She realized suddenly that Madeline must have asked her something, for there was an expectant pause on the other end. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"
"I asked if you were coming home for the 4th. I'm throwing a beach party and I could set up you with someone."
Paris almost laughed. Yeah, she could see how that would be a great evening. "No. There's a celebration on the Mall that I have to attend."
"Oh wow! You can buy shoes while you party! That doesn't sound like your kind of thing, though." Paris didn't bother correcting her; it would have only confused the girl more.
"Oh no. I've got tennis practice in ten minutes. And George is so upset when I'm late. Listen, Paris, I've got to run. But, it was good talking to you and hey, have fun okay? Bye."
Paris placed the phone down in the cradle, conflicting emotions warring inside. It had been wonderful to hear from Madeline, comforting, in fact, to know that her friend at least thought about her and cared, on some level, enough to call. And yet, the conversation had starkly confirmed that nothing in her life had changed.
She exhaled deeply and leaned over to pick up her bag. They were discussing the historical roots of the checks and balances of political power the next day and she had some research to do on the subject. Besides, she had no intention of staying here and moping. At least, at the library, she could find some peace and get some work done too.
Three steps outside the dorms, she thought she heard someone call her name. She ignored it—nobody here even knew her name.
"Paris!" She finally looked up. Brad Langeford was running across the grass towards her, waving his arm. Great. She knew her day wasn't complete without the Brad-encounter quotient. So far, she had maneuvered herself into completely different groups for every small group assignment, but he still managed to come up to her every day and stutter the standard "Hi, how are you?" salutation, wearing a strained, plastered smile. His need to cause himself anguish was beyond her understanding.
She sighed, shifting her weight to her other hip as she waited for him to catch up.
"Yes?" She replied coolly, congratulating herself on keeping the apathy out of her voice.
"H-hi. How—how are you?" He panted. Amazing. The kid managed to sound nervous and like he was dying from an asthma attack at the same time.
"Me? Why, I'm just fine, thank you. And yourself?" She drawled back. Okay, so she wasn't so good at hiding sarcasm—the Southern drawl was probably too thick. But at the moment, she couldn't care if he took offense and left in a huff.
"Go-good." He didn't even seem to notice the implication of her statement. He stared down at his feet. Gray sneakers, once white, now just scuffed and faded. They looked strange under the folds of his black suit pants. The Chilton School Uniform at least meant that he was professionally dressed. So why the sneakers?
Impatiently, she dragged her eyes away from his feet. "You wanted to ask me something?" Honestly, what was she doing, standing there, wasting her time while he gathered wool where he ought to have brains?
"I-I was wo-wondering." He met her eyes, briefly, then in a rush "We have the afternoon free, you know. I'm going to the Holocaust Museum, I go every time I come to D.C. you know, and, I mean, I-well, would you like to come?"
Paris stared at him, incredulously. She couldn't have possibly heard him right. Spending the afternoon with Brad, of all people?
"No."
"Oh. Th-that's okay, th-then. M-maybe some ot-other time." His stuttering grew worse and he barely handled getting the sentence out. "S-see you a-around."
Still not looking at her, he backed away and turned to leave.
Perhaps it was her recent conversation with Madeline. Or maybe it was the thought that the only thing that she had to look forward to was a long afternoon sitting in the library, and then heading back to the dorms to endure Rory's pointed avoidance. In any case, something indefinable took hold of her and a voice rose out of her, almost beyond her control.
"Wait." Paris called and he stopped and walked back. It was her turn to stare at his shoes. "I have a paper to look up at the library, but I can meet you in an hour." Before she knew it, they had agreed to meet back at the dorms in a couple of hours. Numbly, she watched him walk away, still looking rather scared and shocked that she had taken him up on the offer. She was beyond shocked. She shook her head and shifted her bag to the other shoulder. Her steps were brisk to the library. Maybe she'd figure out some way to get it out of it.
Two hours later, the two of them were walking down to the Foggy Bottom Metro stop. He had informed her nervously of the plans to take the Blue line to the Smithsonian station where they could then walk to the museum. Paris didn't say anything in disagreement and Brad halted his attempts at conversation. She was still trying to figure out why exactly she was there, what had caused her to agree to come along with Brad. She must be possessed. She had a feeling that she had made a big mistake. Three times she almost stopped and ended it all, but something kept her feet going forward.
Soon, however, the lack of conversation began to irritate her. Why had he invited her along if he wasn't going to say anything? She had endured enough of the silent treatment from Rory; she couldn't take anymore. Halfway down the escalator, she had had enough.
"You're scared of me." She stated bluntly, glancing over to see his reaction. He blanched. She sighed. She hadn't thought it possible for him to get paler. Why couldn't he blush like everyone else? "Well? It's true isn't it?"
He still didn't respond, just shuffled his feet a little and looked back down at the Metro map, as if the routes had changed. It irritated her. No, it more than irritated her. She hated it when people wouldn't make eye contact or stand up for themselves.
"Just admit it and get it over with! You tremble in your socks every time you see me approach!" She barked, glaring at him.
He looked up and met her eyes for the first time, before quickly glancing away. "Ye-yeah, I guess I am." He smiled sheepishly. Why did he find that amusing?
"So, why'd you take it into your head to be Miss Manners and invite me along on your afternoon jaunt?" She countered.
He looked uncomfortable. Surprise, surprise. "I-I don't know."
"You must have a reason." She pressed, refusing to back down. "Look, if you felt sorry for me, don't bother. I know I have Pathetic Loser tattooed on my forehead and soon there will be flyers all over campus stating "For a boring time, call Paris Gellar," but you know what, I'm okay with that."
"That's not it!" He grabbed at her sleeve. "I…I don't really know anybody, besides you and Rory and Tad. And Tad's seeing that girl from Oregon and Rory's always busy, so I just saw you and thought, well, maybe that you were, um, as lonely as me." He released her sleeve and turned to the machine to pay for his Metro ticket.
"Oh."
"You don't have to come, you know, if you don't want to. I know, I know you don't like me." He confessed and boldly met her eyes. She was the one who flinched away.
Ouch. She hadn't expected him to confront her like that. And somehow, she couldn't confirm it, not after he had been so…nice to her. "No… I'd like to come. Thanks." and when he smiled at her, she almost smiled back.
"Good. 'Cause I called ahead to reserve us tickets and I don't think I'd be able to scalp the other one." Flustered and unbalanced, she took the proffered ticket. If anything, this was proving to be an afternoon unlike any other.
*************************************************************************************
"So, what do you think?" Brad questioned, taking a bite of his fish dish, a combination of Tuna and salsa.
It was evening, the sun having set only moments after they walked out of the museum, although the heat was still intense and muggy. Paris was stunned and double-checked her watch to confirm that so much time had passed. They had spent the entire afternoon in the Holocaust Museum, walking through the displays on the floor in semi-solitude.
She felt strangely subdued. Drained and rather exhausted, she had nodded gratefully to Brad's hesitant suggestion that they find some place to eat. So following his lead, they had walked up 14th street, each deep in thought. She blinked at the iguanas on the door handles of Red Sage and then balked at the fine interior of the restaurant. Contrasting the southwestern motif were tables with linen on them! Brad wasn't getting ideas that this was a date, was he? Suddenly worried about the implication of their afternoon together, she chided herself for not even considering that possibility. Her fears eased as he confidently led the pair up some stairs to the next floor where the atmosphere was more relaxed, although still with the vibrant southwestern décor. The walls were painted an orange-brown, blending with the horses-and-cowboy carpet and cowhide-covered stools. On each table, a candle flickered in a jar.
The place was humming with activity, a younger crowd than that downstairs: twenty-something professionals in groups of three or four, a rare tourist-looking family, a group of teenagers in jeans. Her worries dissipated entirely and after looking at the menu, eagerly ordered a dish that Brad had suggested.
Now, at his questioning look, she took a bit of her chicken. The sweetness of the honey and pecan glaze mixed with the searing spiciness of red chili was overwhelming on the first bit—she gulped down most of her water in a vain attempt to cool her mouth down—, but before long, she had devoured most of her plate.
"How'd you hear about this place?" she questioned. It did not look like the kind of place Brad would know anything about. Of course, he hadn't been anything like her expectations all afternoon, so it really shouldn't have surprised her.
"Used to come here all the time, with my dad's interns." He clarified, "My dad's a politician. Or was. Senator for Maine. We spent half the year here in DC for twelve years, 'cause my mom didn't like being so far from Dad."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. It was hard, living in two places. I was home-schooled in elementary, Mom taught us during the year, Dad whenever the Congress was on break. I learned more about electoral colleges and judicial review than any eleven year old should. What they're teaching us here is so basic, it would make Dad cringe."
"So, you like politics?"
"No, not really. I could possibly see myself as a lobbyist, but I'm, I'm more interested in doing some acting or maybe te-teaching." He flushed around his stutters and took a sudden interest in his food again. Normally, Paris might have said something critical of his choice in careers, how he'd never make it if he didn't learn how to not stammer, but she just nodded.
He seemed anxious to change the subject. "So that was the first time you've been to the museum?"
"Yes." She said shortly. It had been a much more emotional experience than she had anticipated and she didn't want to relive it.
He seemed to understand how she felt. "We used to go every single year. I hated it when I was a kid. It was so long and depressing, just another museum really. But then, as I got older and learned about my family… My grandfather was a rabbi in Denmark before the war. He had to quit teaching and there was a time when he thought that he'd be deported or his family killed, but he was lucky." He mused, his face thoughtful.
"I hated Anne Frank." Paris opened up in a rush. "I had to read it in the sixth grade and Mr. Jacobson love it and just praised it up and down. I was so sick of reading about Anne and her little crushes. If she had been smarter, she'd never have been caught and then they wouldn't be making us read her la dee da diary. I told Mother that I was glad she wasn't Jewish anymore. She slapped me and told me that she would always be Jewish and sent me to live with my Bubba for the summer. So I had my bat mitzvah that summer and Mother has "celebrated" Chanukah ever since then, I think to spite my father and I."
"I had my bar mitzvah in Israel." He smiled at the memory. "Mom was freaked out because of all the suicide bombings, but it was an amazing experience. Of course, my younger sister was jealous because she didn't get to have hers there, but Mom swore she'd never go back."
Paris felt a twinge of jealousy at the easy way he talked about his family. She couldn't recall ever calling her mother Mom. There were no "mom" qualities about the woman who birthed her.
He continued, not noticing her envious look. "It made the Holocaust more real, being in Israel and seeing all of these people who are my people, you know."
"It hasn't been real to me. Another event in world history, marked down to men's stupidity, facts drilled in, so that I could relay information back on a test. Until today. They gave us that passport, you know, with the name of somebody who had been in a concentration camp. Eva Beem. That was mine. 11 years old, died at Auschwitz. At first, I thought it was ridiculous, especially since you could only turn the page at certain times. What would this teach us? And then I saw the pictures. And the shoes. And realized that one of those pairs could be hers." Her voice was stoic, hard, hiding the tears that should not have been there in the first place. She was not going to cry. Paris Gellar did not cry.
" We are the shoes, we are the last witnesses. / We are shoes from grandchildren and grandfathers, / From Prague, Paris and Amsterdam, / And because we are only made of fabric and leather / And not of blood and flesh, each one of us avoided the hellfire." Brad quoted softly. "Moishe Shulstein. I memorized it a couple of years ago. Someday I'm going to learn it in Hebrew."
He glanced at her, reading something in her face. "Of course, I'd have to learn more Hebrew than just the swear words my cousin taught me. Hey have you heard this one: a rabbi, a priest and a duck walk into a bar. The bartender looks up and says, 'What's this, a joke?'
She snorted in mock disgust, but a smile played at the corner of her lips. He grinned wider.
"Or how about the time a mushroom walked into a bar. The bartender said 'Get out, we don't serve your kind here.' 'Oh, come on,' said the mushroom, 'I'm a fungi!'"
She laughed loudly, the unexpected sound breaking through unused vocal chords. It had been so long since she laughed, she had almost forgotten how. But she seemed to be doing right.
"A man walks into a bar…"
It was late when they arrived back at Lafayette Hall, almost in hysterical laughter. Over coffee, Brad had challenged her to invent the best punned bar jokes and she, with an air of mischievous abandonment, took him up on the offer, the years of intense study of the English language paying off. He had admitted defeat after her brilliant "gaffing ladder" joke, although he claimed his duck joke earned a special award for the worst of the bunch. She promptly agreed.
The dorms were quiet and she instantly sobered, reality striking home and worries resurfacing. She just spent all day with this guy. Did he think it was a date? Did it make it a date? And if it was a date, was she expected to kiss him? She had only starting thinking nice things about him just a couple hours before. Kissing him was out of the question; she shuddered at the thought. A handshake? And risk getting one of those dead fish hands? Who invented handshakes in the first place? Why couldn't people just say goodbye and walk away? She yearned briefly for advice from Rory—Rory would know exactly what to do in this situation, but she squelched the thought.
Lamely, she settled on the generic, but gold "I had a good time." Ugh, she sounded like an afternoon special. Now for the sappy "me too" reply and they could make it on the Hallmark Hall of Fame.
"I'm glad. Listen, Paris." He was sounding nervous again. Her stomach dropped in dread. "L-look, I know, that is, I think we started on the wr-wrong foot, but…I was, you know, hoping that maybe, we could start over, and…I'd like to be your friend."
She blinked. He wanted to be her friend? Nobody wanted to be her friend. And after admitting that he knew that she detested him, he still wanted to be her friend.
A part of her begged to just run away—give a non-committal response, open the door and find her world where she was very content and happy. Or at least, satisfied and... Sure, he might say that now, but soon he'd wake up and realize that hanging out with Paris Gellar was one step away from a lifetime prison conviction. It happened with Rory… Yes, just walking away was the way to go.
But she didn't. Somehow, during that day, Brad had changed positions from aggravation-inducer to…something else. He wasn't what she thought, what she had expected and maybe, just maybe, he really did mean this.
Hesitantly, she responded, "Okay, I guess, if you want."
"Okay, then, well, see you tomorrow. Shalom!" and with that, he disappeared down his corridor.
Weird. She now had a friend. Or at least, a pseudo-maybe-one-day-if-she-didn't-scare-him friend. She wondered idly what Madeline would think.
She opened the door to her room. Rory sat on the bed animatedly talking on the phone as usual, not bothering to even look up. For once, it didn't quite bother Paris.
She dreamed that night of shoes.
Final A/N: Red Sage and Border Café are real places—thanks to Kim for suggesting it, it was perfect. For those who are truly curious, Brad had the Tuna al Carbon and Paris ate their specialty Pan Seared Pecan Crusted Chicken Breast. If any one is interested in experiencing it, visit their web page at redsage.com. References to why I have made both Brad and Paris Jewish came from the episodes "Back in the Saddle Again " and "That'll Do, Pig " (there may be others). I am not Jewish, so I hope that I haven't offended anyone with my depictions and feelings of what I experienced at the Holocaust Museum. While Brad's grandfather is an imaginary person, the name on Paris's passport is real. While I thought about inventing a name to go on the passport, I eventually decided that that would fictionalize the events and be exactly opposite of what I was trying to do. Information about Eva Beem and her family can be found at museumoftolerance.com/mot/children/beva.cfm This story is dedicated to her and to the other children of the Holocaust.