Chapter Two
Jess
Walking around Yale, rubbing my nose, forehead, cheeks and chin, was surprisingly, not that bad. The campus was ridiculously clean. Although my praise had may very well be a result of me living in complete and utter crap for the last eighteen years, so I toned my approval down a notch or two. Students were littered everywhere, most of them reading or studying (God, is this New Haven, or Nerd Haven? Ha-ha, I crack myself up. Too bad it's just me who'd laugh, though. Sigh.), some yakking on about politics and Chinese space development's effects on the economy.
I shuddered at the picture of myself laughing like a high-class socialite, drinking champagne, wearing a Mr. Roger's (poor man) cardigan, scoffing at the futile attempts of a third-world country to be like America. Cue haughty laugh. And proceed with a lawnmower coming down from above, shaving my head into a Mohawk.
I set Bertha down with a thud on the ground, smirking as she made that lovely clacking sound as wood touched cement. At least I could do something to barricade myself from going down that path. Even if I have to break my eighty-dollar Premium deck in two to do it.
Smooth cement, I noticed, as I tested the waters (/ground) with my foot, rolling Bertha back and forth slowly. If Yale wasn't so full of people, I'd be so bold as to say, it'd make a good skate park. Some graffiti and coarse language, and Bob Burnquist would feel so at home…
Just as I was about to heave off, I saw her. She was sitting on a bench, next to a James Dean dud ('cause we all know I'm the only one who can get that down pat), frowning.
First thing to come to mind: Jesus Christ, what happened to her hair?
It was short and girly and… not Rory. She looked like a freaking Sandy!
Hang on. What the hell was I saying, again? It seems as though—I'm not entirely sure—that I just called Rory Gilmore, one of the coolest girls I know, a freaking Sandy.
But she looked like she was twelve!
Well, she kind of acted twelve, when she was feeling obnoxious… (You could just see me scratching my hair in reminiscence, couldn't you?)
But still!
God, I couldn't believe this. I just had an inner monologue about Rory Gilmore's hairstyle. I really was going insane. But I still maintained that it was because of that particular girl, dammit! I pointed an imaginary finger at Rory, like a little kid screaming, "He started it!"
She turned her head slightly and without thinking, I pushed with my foot quickly and skated towards the other direction, like a bunny on speed.
I didn't think she'd appreciate me just showing up here with no game plan. (And no place to stay, for that matter.) Rory Gilmore was a woman of planning. Believe me; I lived through the worst of it. You should have seen her during final exams week. She had a chart and everything.
But I guess that's what made me like her so much.
So, anyhow, back to the topic before I went all mascot-for-raging-hormones. Rory Gilmore was a woman of planning. I needed to think about my approach and the possible scenarios of her taking the fact that I lived no more than a few feet away. That is, if I got a decent apartment a few feet away from Yale.
Also, with me living no more than a few feet away, hypothetically, with no high school diploma, yet still hanging out in a Goddamn university… well, you could kind of see the problem, right?
I needed to bullshit (pardon my Spanish) my way around a few things for a while, and I'll tell you, Rory Gilmore could be quite an adversary when it came to manufacturing cow poo. She'd be all, "Yeah, okay," but when you looked at her face, she knew you'd just lied to her. And then she'd tell her mom, and Lorelai, with her brute strength (really, that lad could be quite manly, when it came to her kid), would just barge into your uncle's apartment with a baseball bat, ready to play ball with your head. Or other parts more precious to a fine young man like myself.
I know, I know, "God Jess, stop lying to Rory and be a maaaan!" Whatever. I'll ask you; what would you say, when you're in my place, when Rory goes, "Why are you here?" without sounding like a total spaz?
Saw my point? Well, I'd hoped you had. Because I hated explaining myself as much as having inner dialogues about someone's hair change.
I rolled my eyes. And just as I was about to cross my arms in front of me, I hit a post. I didn't smack into anything, thank God, or my handsome face would have been ruined twice already. I reached out to steady myself, hoping not a lot of people saw that. (Again, I blame Rory Gilmore.) As I made contact with the post, my fingers closed around a piece of paper.
Wanted: Male Roommate. Eighteen or above. Can stand smoking and late nights with the TV on. Look for Ma-Huen. (phone number)
Perfect. No matter if I couldn't even pronounce his name. He had a place for me, and that had gotta count for something.
Rory
"So—," I screwed my mouth as I tried to go about saying this without sounding presumptuous.
Joe didn't move a muscle from his comfortable, slouched-I'm-cool-look-at-me-smoke position, save for his eyes, which shifted slowly towards me.
"Um, what are you doing here?"
"Studying, in general. Fine Arts," he twisted his mouth (just like Jess), "Psychology. Economics. Journalism. I can go on, if you want."
"So I'm sitting beside a guy who hasn't made up his mind about his life?"
Joe nodded smugly, "Five years and counting."
I shook my head in disbelief. Five years and still nothing? Good thing I got my future all planned out. Well, I took a sideways glance at him; I didn't really plan on going to Yale, though…
"But that's not what I meant. I mean, what are you doing here? Like, taking up space beside me, talking to me right now, in the present tense?" My book was long forgotten.
Screw phonics—I made a friend—woo!
"Someone sent me."
Oooh, interesting. I felt so Sean Connery. I shifted my eyes from left to right, just like a spy would when meeting his informant. (I'm turning into Paris and my mother. Great.)
I leaned closer and whispered conspiringly, "Who?"
Joe, unfortunately, didn't get the skit and pulled away from me, his eyebrow raised, his face doubtful of my sanity. He clamped the cigarette between his lips and just looked at me like that for a full thirty seconds.
So much for New Friend. I picked up my book again and flipped towards my page.
"Okay, sorry, forget it," I mumbled. Stupid Yale. Stupid Joe.
"Well, to answer that, I'd say a lot of people. Your grandparents, your mother, your dad, Sherry—,"
I made a weird face at the mention of her name, remembering the horrid times spent together, from baby shower to baby having.
"—and this friend of mine. I think you knew—sorry, know—him. Tristan DuGrey?"
Oh, Jesus Mary and Joseph. I felt like I was on a psychotic Yale-Upper Crust-themed Friendster network.
Note-a-doodle-doo:
Wow, it's been a while since I've done one of these. Lordy. -- got that from Britney Spears; hihi! Anyhoo, a very big thank you for all you all who were gracious enough to review and tell me how you feel about me starting a new project—hopefully, it doesn't turn out as horrible and long and dragging and tedious as Nobody Said, or I'll scream. To Edward's Muse, thank you very much for your advice, and I did try to stay in character. I want you to know that I tried, man! Hahah. Anyhow, since I'm a shameless old cow:
PLUGS!
If you want feedback, desperate for long, detailed (to some extent) reviews on your fan fiction piece. It's the first of it's kind, I tell ya! Well, as far as I know…
Just 'cause.