Believe Me, I'll Be There

Chapter 9 – The Dodger is the protagonist

Disclaimer: I'm tired of writing this, but, as I'm sure you know, I don't own: anything that has to do with Gilmore Girls, any book, author, movie, or college references.

A/N: Sorry it took so long to get this up. It was hard to decide how to write it, but I think this is my longest chapter ever, so I hope you like it! More should be up soon, because lately I've been doing my homework in school. Lol. Thanks SO much to everyone for the reviews! They're great, and I'm really glad you like this. Enjoy!  ~Arianna

This was my life, all right. I knew I couldn't just get over this. But things were still pretty terrible between me and Jess, considering. School was better, at least. I was really enjoying writing the Oliver Twist paper. It was starting to almost look like a novel. I didn't mind that, and I knew Mr. Medina wouldn't mind.

After school the next Friday, I was sitting on a bench outside Chilton, my notebook open, writing. Paris came up to me, holding several sheets of paper covered in her neat handwriting.

"Rory," she said.

"Hi, Paris," I replied, trying to sound mildly enthusiastic.

"Listen, normally I would ask Madeline or Louise for favors."

"I'm well aware of that."

"But I need someone to read my rough draft who's interested in something more than gossip and who has probably read the book several times. So—"

"Hand it over," I told her.

She held it out, and I took it.

"You're doing Oliver Twist too?"

"Yes. Now read, please." I did. "I really want your opinion, I mean your actual opinion, so tell me what I can improve, and—"

"Paris! Calm down!" I said, and continued reading.

"What do you think?" Paris prompted me. It was an accurate description of every detail of the book, an in-depth written discussion of the writing style. And yet I couldn't help thinking, as I read it—it was missing something. It wasn't quite the assignment.

"Well?" she repeated.

"Paris…"

"You hate it."

"No. It's just…remember what Mr. Medina said about making this personal? Almost anyone could write this."

"Rory, I put hours of work into this."

"I know you did. It's not that. It's good…I mean—what did you think when you were reading? What did you like? Why?"

"Can I read yours?"

"Paris…" I said for the second time.

"Please."

"Why?" I had put personal elements in mine. Stuff I didn't mind a teacher reading, not for stuff like this. But the idea of willingly showing it to Paris…

"I want to see what you think mine is missing."

"Listen, when you read Oliver Twist…who do you identify with…whose side would you be on?"

"Rory, Oliver is the protagonist."

"So?"

"So he's right. There's no choice there."

"Really? Occasionally I happen to like the Dodger." A sad look crossed my face. It keeps coming back to that.

"Let me read yours."

I closed the notebook.

"Come on, Rory. Nothing will be used against you. It will never be spoken of again. I promise."

I gave in and handed it to her. Ten minutes later, she handed it back. She had read it…I had to know her opinion.

"What do you think?" I asked.

"Well…it is good."

"Really?"

"I see your point. About characters hiding things from the protagonist. Is it almost finished?"

"Almost."

"But—"

"We can debate this later, Paris. My bus is gonna leave any minute."

"Okay."

"Hey, work on it. I'm not saying it's not good, it is."

"Thanks." She walked away. I collected my stuff and raced to the bus stop. I was just in time. Once sitting down, I pulled out my notebook and a pen again, and wrote:

You're really reading if you wonder what Oliver doesn't know. If you're curious to find out what the Dodger is doing while Oliver is talking to Rose. If you want to say something to one of the characters, want to tell them you know something they don't. And when you're reading, it doesn't matter if you don't know what to say. In a book, that's the author's job. In life, it's different…when you're reading, then you're lucky.

A personal essay. A persuasive essay. I wanted a good grade on this.

I closed my notebook again and stared out the window for the rest of the way to Stars Hollow.

I got off the bus and sat down on the bench. That would be the last bus of the day. I had gotten another idea, so I started writing.

A shadow fell over the page.

"Um, hey, Rory," a familiar voice said. It was Dean.

"Hey," I replied. I could tell he was uncomfortable. So was I. I hadn't really talked to him since…

"So…how are you?" he asked finally.

I didn't really know what to say. "I'm…I'm okay, I guess."

"And, uh, how's Jess?"

I looked away.

"I'm sorry," he said quickly.

"It's…it's okay."

"Rory…"

"Really. So how's Clara?"

"Oh, she's fine." Dean looked at me uncertainly. "Rory, I—are—are you and Jess together?"

"Now?"

"Yeah."

"No." I hated saying it. I will not cry. I will not cry.

"So…so were you? Was I wrong? I mean, did I just get mad for no reason?"

"No!" I yelled. "We were together, okay? And it was really great, and now we're in a fight, and I hate it, and I don't wanna talk about it!" In a quieter voice, I added, "And I don't want anyone else to know, either."

Dean held up his hands, taken aback. "Okay. I get it. Sorry."

I hadn't meant to yell at him like that. In an attempt to show him that I wasn't really mad, I said, "So how are things at Doose's?"

He relaxed. "Same as usual. Some guy came in the other day and stole a few things, nothing much. Taylor got all upset."

I tensed. "Some guy?"

"Yeah."

"You know who it was?"

"No. Probably someone from Hartford. Forty or so. Why so interested?"

Oh my God. How could I do that? I was almost crying at this point.

"Hey, Dean?" My voice was shaking slightly and I hoped he didn't notice.

"What?"

"Was…has Jess been in the market recently?"

"Not that I know of."

"Really? Not at all?" My voice got higher and higher as I said it.

"No…And I worked every day all last week. Shorthanded," he explained.

"I have to go," I said quickly. "I guess I'll see you later."

"Yeah, see you around," he answered. I ran home as quickly as I could.

"Mom!" I shouted.

"Rory?" She wandered into the front hall and saw me crying. "What is it?" Mom put her arms around me.

"He didn't do it! He really didn't do it!" I cried.

"He didn't do it?"

"No, Dean said it was some guy!" I sobbed.

"Dean said…we're talking about Jess, right?"

"Yes!" I continued crying.

"Ohhh. Come on, Rory, let's sit down." I walked with her to the couch, trying to stop the tears. I couldn't. What I'd done to Jess…I, Rory Gilmore, had made Jess cry. I had hurt him, and I'd obviously hurt him really badly. I  deserved what he'd said, didn't I?

"Hey. Rory. Just calm down, okay?"

"I can't!" I was almost hysterical.

"Shhh. It'll be okay."

It took a long time for me to get control of myself. Mom stayed with me. When I stopped crying, she asked, "Can you talk about it?"

"I'll try."

"Okay."

I told her everything. About going in the diner and yelling and blaming Jess. About Jess yelling back, leaving. About seeing and talking to Dean, about realizing what I'd done. I didn't tell her everything Jess had said on the bridge. I didn't think he would want anyone but me to know.

"Rory…" she said at last, "I hate to put it like this."

"What?"

"You have two choices. And one of them is to apologize."

"No…there's a third alternative, isn't there?"

"In a way."

I was silent.

"Do what you want to do, okay?"

I nodded. "Okay."

I woke up at eight the next morning. Mom was still asleep. I left her a note saying I needed coffee and that I would be back eventually. Then I left.

I swallowed nervously, then went into Luke's. The tables were full, but I had been planning, in the back of my mind, to sit at the counter anyway. Luke was by the window taking an order, so I waited. A few minutes later, Jess came down the stairs. He looked up at the counter, saw me, and froze.

"Um, hey," I said.

"Hey."

I looked down at the counter. Then I looked up again. "Jess?"

"What?"

"Uh…" What was wrong with me?

"Here." He poured some coffee and set it in front of me.

"Thanks."

He didn't answer. I drank the coffee slowly, thinking. I didn't really know what to do.

After I finished, I started walking to the bookstore. I looked around for a while, but I didn't buy anything. When I came out, I saw Jess again. And I decided I had to talk to him. He had to know…

"Hey," I said again, quietly.

"Hey," he replied, not looking at me. I started walking, sort of with him, sort of not. "You get any books?" he asked.

"No…" How could I say it? "Are you reading anything good?"

"Not really," he answered.

"Listen…" I said. "Jess…"

"I know you care about people," he said softly. "I'm not that much of an idiot. Not usually…"

"I know you didn't do it," I said.

"I know that too." I wasn't surprised at his reaction. I knew Jess, knew him better that I'd acted like I did.

"I guess…I didn't mean that the way I said it."

"Yeah. I don't think I did either."

This was so weird. Everything seemed weird between us. And less than three weeks ago…I'd been crying, Jess had been kissing me, I'd been kissing him back…he was the one I talked to. This was my fault; maybe I'd ruined everything. I was pretty sure he knew I regretted what I'd said. I could tell he did want to apologize for what he'd said.

We were so much alike. And yet we were still so different. I hated fighting with anyone.

This was probably the worst fight of my life. Worse than any I could remember, worse than any fight with Lorelai. Because now…I couldn't be 100% sure that everything would be all right. And I wanted it so much.

At least now I had some hope. Jess didn't hate me. But really—hadn't I always known he didn't hate me?

I was scared that he had hated me. That was it. That was it. I was scared that he had.