A/N: I started this chapter several times, and proof of this is that when I cleaned my documents folder and deleted several drafts, I accidentally deleted this, the final one, and nearly gave myself a heart attack before I found I hadn't emptied the recycle bin and the whole thing was still there. Many, many thanks for the kind comments—I live for feedback. I hope this is up to snuff. And as always, thanks to all things holy for doing the beta thang. She and I are debuting our first joint fic on Thursday, titled "The Presence of Absence," under the name Holy Lulalicious. Please tell us what you think of it!

A/N2: Therresh is right, and I should have mentioned this before: I cribbed the title of this story from a Barenaked Ladies song that is on their most underrated (and my personal favorite) CD, Maybe You Should Drive. The lyrics don't have any bearing (though they have such gems as "all across the world, people going mad... everything old is new again, everything under the sun, now that I'm back with you again, we hug and we kiss, we sit and make lists, we drink and I bandage your wrists." I love it.) I just really liked the phrase.

Disclaimer: Amy Sherman-Palladino thought them all up, and I love her for that. They don't belong to me, I'm just playing.

October

Rory had always felt the month of October belonged to her. Her mother had the first snow of the season, Stars Hollow had every tiny occasion known to man, Paris had election days, and Rory had October. It was the month when the temperature went from simply cool to crisp and chill, a change that begged for cuter clothes and shoes, for smart-looking coats and matching scarves. The leaves turned in October, the entire state resplendent in autumnal colors—yellows and oranges, reds and purples. The air, she thought, even somehow tasted of apples.

Good things happened in October. Her birthday. Halloween. Long weekends. Even, she was enough of an academic masochist to think, mid-terms. The month was a rush of things to do, a month of perfect weather and long walks with cups of hot coffee firmly in her hands. It was the month before November, when the sky turned grey and forbidding and suddenly seemed a pressing weight more than an open expanse of blue. She always felt it was the last present of the year before being suddenly in the grip of winter, the season that seemed the most interminable in New England.

The first this month fell on a Friday. She and Marty had just left class together, as had become their custom, and were headed for the student union for a cup of coffee when Rory's cell began to vibrate in the pocket of her coat. She rolled her eyes apologetically at Marty and explained she was waiting on a call from her mother as she pulled it out and flipped it open.

"Mom?"

"Hey, babe. Listen," Lorelai began.

"You're not canceling, Mom, please," Rory said. "Dinner with the two of them and you not there? You can't do that to me."

Rory heard her mother hesitantly take a breath. "Actually, it's just dinner with the one of them."

"What?"

"Grandma's not coming, either."

"Mom!" she whined. "I love Grandpa, and I love spending time with him, but with everything going on lately, it's going to be so uncomfortable without someone else there. We'll both be sitting there thinking about why it's just the two of us, and he'll get sad, and I don't want to see that."

Lorelai sighed. "I know, babe, I know. I wish I could do something to help, but I just can't get away tonight."

"Can Luke come?" she asked suddenly.

"Luke? No, honey, I don't think so."

They had reached the student union, Marty patiently silent at her side, staring at his feet as they walked. Rory waved him inside and mouthed that she'd be right there. He nodded and jogged up the stairs and into the building. "Grandpa loves Luke."

"I know, but holy awkwardness, Batman," Lorelai said. "He hasn't been to an actual, real Friday night dinner yet, and I don't think it's exactly fair asking him to go if I won't be there. He's uncomfortable enough in parentally-based social situations."

Rory allowed herself an irritated, huffy breath and a vicious kick to the sidewalk, knowing she was being more than a little childish and ridiculous. "I know."

"Besides, he's going to be at the house, fixing the porch railing again and making me a late dinner that will probably have spinach in it, because apparently I look like I'm not getting enough iron."

"It's a nice way of telling you that you look tired," Rory said.

"I know what it is," she said darkly. "Anyway. You could bring a friend," Lorelai suggested. "Bring Paris."

She snorted. "Yes, Mom, I'll bring the girlfriend of one of my grandfather's dearest and oldest friends from college with me to dinner. That wouldn't be creepy at all."

Lorelai was quiet, thinking. "Hey, bring Marty with you."

"Marty?"

"Sure. Grandpa met him last year at the game, and he's a really good guy, just a friend, as you say," Lorelai said, in a tone that riled Rory slightly, "so it won't be weird. Tell him it'll be a favor to you. You know he'd go."

"Mom, I told you—"

"I know what you told me," Lorelai said in the same, obnoxiously knowing tone, "and that makes Marty great back up in a situation like this. You two can tell Dad all about your class, and the dorm, and he can tell you really boring stories about back in the day, and Marty will be polite enough to pretend to listen and not to fall asleep in the chicken and mashed potatoes, and you'll have really good cake, afterwards, so no harm, no foul."

"You really think?"

"It's up to you, babe. You coming home this weekend?"

"Would I see you if I did?"

Lorelai was silent a moment. "I'm sorry I've been busy. I can't help it, Rory."

"I didn't mean that the way it sounded," Rory replied, chagrined. "I'm sorry. I guess I just miss my mom."

"I miss you, too, babe. It's going to get better soon, I swear. Call me at the inn after dinner, okay?"

She put the phone back in her pocket after hanging up, chastising herself for snapping at her mother. She descended the stairs, looked over the events bulletin board, and checked her mailbox before heading to the basement coffee shop. Marty sat at a table in the back corner, two steaming cups on the table and what looked like a plate of brownies. He was thumbing through a magazine when she dropped into the chair across from him, a weary smile on her face.

"Family drama," she said. "Thanks for the coffee."

He pushed the plate towards her. "I got a couple of those Oreo crumble things, too."

Rory leaned over the table and peered at them. "I love those! Thanks, Marty," she said, helping herself.

"I know you do," he replied. "And you're welcome."

She snuck a look at him as she pinched off a corner of the Oreo brownie and popped it in her mouth, quickly lifting her coffee cup to her lips after so she could continue studying him without being obvious. He'd closed the magazine was attempting to stuff it into his already rather full messenger bag, grunting slightly. She smiled against the rim of her cup and tried not to laugh.

They had been spending a lot of time together since school began. She wasn't quite sure how it happened, or when Marty became such an integral part of her social circle, but the Friday cup of coffee seemed to have become a weekly ritual, as had Marty's presence in Rory's study nook at the library, folded into another chair cattycorner to hers. It had become perfectly natural to bound up the stairs when she was finished with a paper and hand it over to him, or slip it under the door if he wasn't there, and to expect the peculiar rhythm of his knock at odd times in the evening, to see him standing in the door when she opened it, the eraser end of a pencil in his mouth as he studied his own work, always reticent to let it go. They regularly had meals together and Marty had even tempted Rory out a Saturday night or two—the excursions had ended early for Rory, and, as she teasingly pointed out, fully-clothed for Marty.

Paris had been more than irritated and more than vocal at Marty's inclusion in Rory's academic and social life. He was, as far as Paris was concerned, a member of the brainless masses and conversationally bankrupt, incapable of independent thought or action, and countless other things Rory hadn't bothered to listen to. Marty was just another fly on Paris's radar, a Brad ready to be cowed and intimidated. Rory went out of her way not to let it be a bone of contention between them, and her friend seemed at times resigned to the fact that where Rory went, Marty was more than likely bound to follow.

They had their coffee, discussing class and the upcoming midterm, two weeks away. Rory knew Marty could go on at great length about Professor Flynn, he found her so fascinating, and she let him as they put their dirty cups in the bin over the trashcans and began to head back for the dorm. She listened to him prattle on, all awkward enthusiasm, not quite hearing what he said. She hated to admit it, and she knew she wouldn't, but she knew that her mother wasn't entirely wrong.

Marty liked her. She was pretty sure of this, and she didn't think it just narcissism or arrogance—though a possibility, she knew—or miscommunication. He could be earnest and eager by turns, and he could occasionally be irritating in both, but he was always attentive and respectful. She was flattered that he liked her, that he liked her enough for it to be noticeable (and highly mock-worthy for Paris), and more than that she was grateful he wasn't pushing it, that he wasn't being aggressive in any way. He was simply quietly happy to hang out with her.

Rory didn't know if she liked him in—and she could hear the italics, hear them clearly in her head, spoken by Lorelai, an amused smile in her voice—that way. She knew she'd never had a friend quite like him. She further knew that as far as boys were concerned, she'd never really been friends with the ones she'd dated and been with, and she couldn't say that those relationships were in any way successful. She found herself shaking her head when she thought like this, which was more often now than in the first four or five weeks of school, because it seemed so silly. He was Marty. Marty and dating didn't belong in the same sentence.

He left her at her door as usual, giving her the goofy, shrugging wave he always did. She again thanked him for the coffee and said she'd see him later. As she turned her key in the lock, though, she thought better of it.

"Hey, Marty," she called. He turned, his face set in expectation. "Are you busy tonight?"

The dinner had gone better than she expected. Her grandfather had been gracious—Rory had worried, when he opened the door to find her standing there with a boy beside her, how this was going to work. How would she reintroduce Marty? How would she tell him that her mother and grandmother were skipping out on him? How upset would he be? Would he be able to hide it?

As they settled themselves at the dinner table, she found she had underestimated them both. Richard took the news in stride, as though this was something he'd expected, something that happened often enough to be incidental, though Rory thought she detected a slight flicker in his eyes before he spoke. He remembered Marty, shook his hand, offered him a drink, and Rory had to keep from snickering as her friend politely turned it down on the premise that he wasn't yet legal, only to be reminded that Richard knew his reputation as "Naked Guy." Marty took the cocktail gratefully then, smiling in a bashfully self-deprecating way. Conversation went smoothly throughout the meal; Rory thought she hadn't seen her grandfather quite this at ease since before the fallout with Lloyd and Digger, and Marty acquitted himself rather well. Rory was surprised to find how articulate he could be when the occasion called for it. When she said goodbye to Richard at the door, he gave her the grandparental hug she loved, her cheek squashed against his shoulder.

"That's a fine fellow, there," he whispered to her.

"He's just a friend, Grandpa."

"A fine friend, then," he said, letting her go. "I will see you next week. Marty, it has been quite a pleasure."

The drive back to Yale had been slightly uncomfortable at first. Rory didn't know quite how to explain why Marty's presence had been so necessary at the dinner. She hadn't told him before, not wanting him to be self-conscious, thinking about her poor, heartbroken, and pitiful grandfather. She stuttered her way through a few sentences about her grandmother being away and her mother being busy and wanting to cheer up her grandfather and...

"Rory," Marty interjected. "It's fine. You don't have to tell me family stuff."

She nodded silently. They spent the rest of the drive joking about the guys living on Marty's floor who were pledging fraternities and were told not to shower for three weeks. Marty's next door neighbor's girlfriend dumped him at the end of week two, but Marty told Rory he was fairly sure it wasn't much longer than the pledge hadgone in the past without bathing.

Rory called home soon afterwards, splayed out on her stomach on the floor of her room. Paris was on the bed, angrily channel-surfing, viciously punching buttons and barking at the television.

"No, Mom, it was fine—it was actually sort of fun," Rory said. "Grandpa was great."

"And Marty?"

"Marty did pretty well," she said. "How was your night?"

Lorelai chattered on a moment, her mouth full. She tilted the phone away from her lips a moment and Rory heard her hollering at Luke. "This is really good, Emeril, but I think more cheese next time!" Rory giggled. "Calzone, if you can believe it," Lorelai said. "Spinach and ricotta or some such stuff." She paused to take another bite. "So, I know a Lorelai who has a birthday coming up."

Rory sat up. "Oh, Mom, you don't have to—I mean, with the inn and everything, don't make a big fuss. I've got class that day, and—"

"No big fuss," Lorelai said lightly. "If that's what you want. How about dinner at Luke's, you, me, Lane, Paris, birthday cake by Sookie?"

"I think that sounds about right," Rory said. "Night, Mom. Say hi to Luke for me."

Last year had been so full, she thought, so overwhelming, she hadn't quite had the time to enjoy herself when she studied. Every moment she spent over her books had felt frenzied and uncomfortable—she was determined not to let it happen this year and she took to her books before midterms with a joyful zeal she hadn't felt in some time. She was going to do well, and she knew she was going to do well, and knowing that made it easier to cram the corners of her brain with as much information as it could hold. The midterm for her memoir class was the only one really troubling her. For two weeks she wrote and rewrote, pestered Marty with new drafts, inserted and cut, reinserted and rearranged, read and reread to the point that she had entire passages memorized and she would hear them as she laid down each night to sleep.

The day before it was due, she went to Marty's room to give him back his own essay and get back the latest version that she'd given him the day before. She let herself in when he called for her to come in and without ceremony threw herself on the bed.

"I think I might have to just staple a bunch of blank sheets together and write 'I love puppies' on the top one in crayon and hand that in," she said flatly.

Marty swiveled in his desk chair and handed her a sheaf of papers. "You're being too hard on yourself," he said. "I think it's great."

"You're biased," she shot back. "Professor Flynn is predisposed to think it's hack work."

He rolled his eyes. "I still think it's great, and so will Flynn. And your last one was really good," he told her. "I liked the whole fire motif. Solid," he said. He cringed. "Pretend I didn't say solid, okay?"

Rory giggled. "Done."

They handed the paper in on Friday; the Wednesday class following, Flynn handed back the drafts, her expression grave. Rory watched her as she circled the table, slamming the essays face down on the table. She wore a bright red sweater, slightly askew, and her glasses were hanging from an ornately beaded rope around her neck. She was one of the younger professors in the department, and Rory had always marveled slightly that someone so messy and careless in her looks could still look so forbidding and, occasionally, elegant.

She regarded Rory with her lips set in a hard, grim line. "Try again, Miss Gilmore."

Flynn returned to the head of the table as Rory turned her paper over. She hardly heard the professor condemn the entire class for lazy writing and offer them a revision period of two weeks; the final grade would be an average of the two drafts. Her eyes were fixed on the C minus staring at her from the head of the first page. A C minus. The story of her life had earned her a C minus. Her throat burned and she felt a hot rush of tears that she had difficulty biting back.

Rory ducked her head and avoided Marty's gaze as she hurried out of class, mumbling something incoherent about being late for a meeting. She allowed herself a good, solid cry for a few moments when she got back to her room, curled around a pillow. The paper that she had slaved over, the one that told the story of how she came to be, how she was born, how her mother had taken her to a potting shed and turned it into a home, all that, and the work and the time, only worth a C minus. It wasn't even average—it was a degree below average. It was average with a minus after it. Which meant that she was average, worse than average—mediocre. She was mediocre. Mediocre Rory Gilmore, failed memoirist. Smell the failure, she thought.

It wasn't until after dinner—a pizza she ordered in and almost an entire two liter bottle of Diet Coke—that she could flip through the paper and read the comments scrawled in the margins and on the last page. With a sigh of trepidation, she sat at her desk and placed the paper before her to turn the page.

The marginal comments were mostly good. Strong image. Good. Is that what you want to say here? Nice rhythm. This is almost funny, here—did you want it to be? Rory snorted. There were other things, circled words and WC in certain places, sentences with squiggles underneath and question marks, but the most oft repeated comment, she found, was Is this really you?

Miss Gilmore, she read, this is an absolutely satisfactory piece. It is well-written. It is insightful. Your structure is sound and works quite well for the story you've chosen to tell. It is, altogether, a very nice essay about your mother.

However, the act of writing memoir requires a little more. Where are you in this piece, Miss Gilmore? How does this story make you feel, as you read it? How has it shaped you? Changed you? While it is evident that you respect and look up to your mother (who sounds like an interesting woman and a great subject for some other essay), there's very little emotion in this piece. Where are you? How is this story about you? Write your own story, Miss Gilmore. Revise this—take what you have and really think. Where's Rory in this? What's her part of the story? There's more to this birth than the facts, and that's what we want, Miss Gilmore.

You're capable of better than this. You need to be invested, or else you cannot expect your readers to be.

Tell the story you meant to tell, Miss Gilmore, not the one you think you should. It's in there.

--E. Flynn

She stared blankly at the space in front of her for a long time after reading this. Eventually, she took the paper and slipped it in her desk drawer and slowly closed it shut. Mechanically she began to move around the room, picking up her trash, stacking her books, clearing her bed of the pile of clothes that accumulated there earlier in the day. When she tucked herself in and turned off the light, she stayed awake, flat on her back, her hands folded on her stomach as she stared at the ceiling.

You're capable of better than this, she thought. Mediocre.

The Friday following, she drove home to Stars Hollow, the radio on a classic rock station, turned up as high as she could stand it. Her doors were shaking slightly. She didn't really want to be going home. Her mother had called her at four in the morning, as was the custom, and Rory had struggled through the phone call not to cry, not to choke out the whole story. She had listened to Lorelai talk about meeting her beautiful baby girl, a painful lump in her throat. How, she wondered, could tell her own history with so little emotion as to elicit the response you need to be invested, or else you cannot expect your readers to be. Her mother could do it far better than she, that was clear. It was the last thing she wanted to tell Lorelai, and it was the only thing she could think of. Wasn't she invested? Wasn't her whole life about being invested? Hadn't that story made her who she was?

She pulled into the drive behind the Jeep. Dusk had started to fall and the house was dark and uninviting; Rory shivered and drew her jacket closer around her as she made her way up the walk and the porch steps, both brightly littered with fallen leaves. The door was unlocked when she let herself in.

"Mom?" she called, wandering from the living room to the kitchen. She turned on the lights and helped herself to a Pop Tart before she went to her room and collapsed on the bed. There was a note on the pinned to the pillow.

Hey, my birthday girl—crazy day today at the inn, so I'll just meet you at Luke's—seven sharp! Lots of love, Mom.

Rory shoved a piece of Pop Tart in her mouth and turned her head to look at the clock. Five thirty. She wrinkled her nose. An hour and a half and she was in a mood she'd just keep stewing in—the solution, she decided, was perfectly obvious.

Five minutes later she was under a pile of blankets on the couch with a carton of ice cream and a box of cookies, What Not to Wear on the TV. She smiled to herself as she placed a small scoop of ice cream on a cookie and crammed it into her mouth with some difficulty. She wasn't Lorelai Gilmore for nothing, she thought.

Rory took her time walking to town in the rapidly falling dark, kicking at leaves and fallen acorns in her path. The evening had a biting chill to it and a wind that smelled of coming cold and vaguely of smoke. The closer she came to the center of town, the cleaner the sidewalks became, the more heavily decorated for the coming holidays were the lampposts and mailboxes and the odd stump here and there. She wondered, as she neared the diner, if she could ever do this place justice on the page, the crazy beauty of it.

She paused on the threshold. The diner was bright and noisy, overcrowded. She drew a heavy breath before pushing the door open and letting herself inside.

Lorelai stood in front of the counter, leaning back on her elbows and facing the rest of the diner. Beside her was an enormous four layer cake, Rory's name spelled out on the side, a letter on each layer. The entire room was decked out in streamers, the Yale school colors, and along the counter and a row of cheap card tables under the front window, a buffet of assorted Luke specialties and Sookie delicacies. It was, Rory knew, a Lorelai Gilmore party. The usual suspects were assembled—Miss Patty, Babette and Morey, Jackson and Sookie, Kirk and Lulu, Lane and her band mates, her mother, Luke, her grandparents, even Paris, and hiding in the back corner, Marty. Rory's breath caught in her throat and her eyes smarted.

It was deafening as they shouted it in unison: "Surprise!"

Rory heard, and promptly burst into tears.

Lorelai was quickly at her side, her arms around her daughter. "Hey, hey!" she softly, smoothing Rory's hair with one hand. "I know you said you didn't want a big fuss, but it's your twentieth birthday, I wanted to commemorate it!"

Rory took a huge gulping breath and shook her head, unable to speak. "Okay," Lorelai said, leading her through the crowd to the back stairs. "Dig in, everyone! Let's get this party started! The mommy and the birthday girl are taking a moment alone, we shall return shortly!"

Rory let Lorelai push her up the stairs and into a chair at Luke's kitchen table. She sat beside her and leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. She took Rory's hands in hers and watched her, waiting. Rory sniffled and tapped her toes against the floor, trying to collect herself, appreciating the understanding silence and the warm pressure on her hand.

"Okay," Lorelai said, after a moment. "Want to tell me what that's all about?"

Rory rolled her eyes. "Oh, nothing, I'm sorry. I didn't—I wasn't expecting the big gathering, and—"

"Hence the surprise part," Lorelai interrupted.

She bit her lip and looked her mother in the eye. "It's a school thing. I had a paper, I worked really hard, I was—it was disappointing, I guess. I let it get to me and I shouldn't have."

Lorelai studied her daughter with an expression of amused sympathy on her face. "A paper? This was about a grade on a paper? Oh, Rory," she sighed. "At least some things never change." Rory shot her a filthy look and she squeezed her daughter's hands, chastised. "I have complete and utter faith that you'll bounce back from this paper and your GPA will thrive to the point that it will take over campus and consume the entire Yale populace, growing exponentially like the Blob."

Rory snickered. "Thanks."

"You okay?"

"I'm okay."

Lorelai leaned forward and kissed her daughter's cheek. "Happy birthday, babe."

When the descended the stairs and reentered the diner, the room again erupted in a cry of "Surprise!" and Rory feigned shock, laughing. She sat at a table in the middle of the diner, wearing a plastic tiara and wielding a pink wand with a giant glow-in-the-dark star at the end. Luke kept her plate full and her coffee cup topped off. Lorelai sat beside her, filching fries off her plate and whispering to her throughout the evening. Rory was content to sit and let the party move around her, listening to the stories and the chatter and the low buzz of music in the background.

The presents aspect of the party wasn't bad either—a cute tee shirt from Lane, books from nearly everyone, a spa weekend from Emily, a scarf and hat set from Sookie and Jackson, a check from Richard, a thin, delicate silver chain from Lorelai.

"It's an anklet," she said. "I know seasonally, an anklet isn't exactly the best gift, but you could always wear it as a bracelet—or wear it when you get all fancied up. Anklets," she said wisely, "are sexy."

Rory smiled. "I love it. Thank you."

Lorelai reached behind her and brought out a moderately big box, put on the cleared space on the tabletop. "This is from Luke," she said. "Consider them theme presents."

In the box was a small wooden chest with three drawers and a top that opened up to reveal a network of tiny boxes. The top was carved with a floral design, and the insides of the drawers were all neatly lined with felt. Rory's mouth fell open. "Oh, my God, it's beautiful," she said. She looked up and glanced around to find him. "Did he make this?" she asked her mother. Lorelai nodded. "It's great. Where is he?"

"He's probably hiding in the kitchen," Lorelai whispered. "He's embarrassed."

He came out for the cutting of the cake, just before Rory blew out her candles. She smiled at him and thanked him with a bashful shrug. He stood off in the corner by the door while her friends sang her happy birthday, Marty hanging back beside him. Rory rolled her eyes at Marty, biting her lower lip; he inclined his head slightly in response.

When people began to drift home, she found him sitting on the bottom step of the back stairs. She invited him out for fresh air and together they went outside and dropped onto the front stoop.

"Thanks for coming," she said.

"It was nice of your mom to invite me," he replied. He sighed. "Look, I'm sorry. About the paper. I feel like—"

Rory sat up straight. "Oh, Marty, that's not—you shouldn't apologize for that. I wrote it, I earned the grade. And we can rewrite it," she said hopefully. "I mean, at best, I can still get at least a B." She paused. "I really wanted to do well, you know?"

"Yeah," he said. "I still liked it."

They sat in silence together a few moments. Rory closed her eyes and listened, hearing the muffled sounds of the party behind her and the rustle of the wind pushing stray leaves on the pavement. The breeze was cold on the back of her neck, and she shivered. Marty seemed to start at this; he cleared his throat and shifted.

"Hey," he said. "I, ah—I got these for you." He handed her a small box.

Nestled inside on a bed of cotton were two tiny tear-drop earrings, winking at her as they caught the light from the streetlamp above. She inhaled sharply and lifted one out to study it. "Marty, these are—you didn't have to do this."

He shrugged. "Yeah, well."

She turned to look at him, studied his profile. "Thank you," she said, her voice level and sincere. She leaned close and gave him a dainty kiss on the cheek.

Marty turned red to his ears. He opened his mouth to speak when the door opened behind them and Lorelai popped her head out.

"Hey, birthday girl," she said. "Get your butt in here for pictures."

"Pictures?" Rory echoed.

"And, I think it's that time," Lorelai said.

Rory's face broke into a sly grin. "Dance party?"

"You know it," Lorelai cried, reaching down for both their hands. "Come on, you two."

Later that night, Rory burrowed under the blankets on her new bed, yawning sleepily as her mother wandered around the kitchen, making coffee. Her gifts were piled haphazardly on the big desk in the corner, her new anklet and earrings already inside the jewelry box Luke made for her. She hugged her pillow, thinking. She was staring so intently at the picture of her and Lorelai taken on an October day so long ago she couldn't remember, the one with the happy and serious smiles an old man had once called a blessing, that she didn't see her mother come to stand just in the doorway.

"Good birthday, babe?"

Rory nodded, yawning again. "Thanks for the party. I'm sorry about the whole crying thing."

"Hey, it was your party. You can cry if you want to," Lorelai said. "How are you doing, sweets? Everything okay?"

Rory thought about it a moment. "Everything's okay."

"Good. But you know, if everything weren't okay—"

"I would tell you," Rory said. "You don't have to worry about me."

"I will always worry about you," Lorelai said.

They both heard the distinctive sound of the front door opening, and Rory saw her mother's body language change—she stood straighter, tucked her hair behind her ears, smiled softly. Rory couldn't help but giggle, and at the same time feel a slight, warm, tugging pain in her chest. She was happy that her mother was happy, and she couldn't call what she was feeling jealousy, exactly. It was something less bitter than jealousy—envy, perhaps, or regret.

She spent more time at home in the next two weeks than she had since leaving for school, rushing back to Stars Hollow after her classes were over and leaving early in the morning, working at the large desk Luke set up for her over the summer. She spent her evenings before a confusion of papers and pens, writing by hand and piecing bits of story together with scissors and tape, her face set in an expression of supreme concentration. She emerged occasionally for food—one of the more pleasant side effects of having Luke practically living there was the constant source of things to eat.

She didn't bother knocking, the day before the paper was due. She simply slid a copy of the essay under Marty's door with a purple Post-It on the front that said, "come find me." Three hours later, he tapped softly on her door. She couldn't quite read his face, which was unusual, as she opened the door and let him in. He was quiet a few moments, rolling and unrolling the essay in his hands.

"Marty, if it's bad, just tell me," she said, exasperated.

He looked at her solemnly. "It's fantastic."

"Be serious," she said.

"I am. Rory, this is—this is—" He sighed. "It's really great."

"Yeah?" she asked, pleased.

"Yeah. It's—it's different, for you," he said. "A departure. I like it."

Rory threw herself on the bed and stared at the ceiling. "You know, I almost don't care if Flynn likes it."

"Really?"

She turned her head and looked at him. "Almost."

They didn't get the paper back until the last class of the month. Rory had tried not to dwell on it after she handed it in, but the words stuck with her. She heard them as she walked around campus, when she sat down to study, when she looked at her mother across the table at Friday night dinner. That last, she thought, might be the hardest.

Flynn again walked around the room, slamming the papers down on the tabletop. She paused at Rory and tapped her finger on the last page. "Better," she said.

Rory let Marty walk her back to the dorm, bypassing the Friday coffee break. She wouldn't look at the paper until she was safely in her room, wrapped in a blanket at the edge of her bed. She made Marty read the comments to her.

"Miss Gilmore," he read. "The pieces of the story that you retained from the earlier draft serve you well here. This is a tightly constructed, well-written piece. Better than that, it's your story now. Well done." He looked up. "You got an A."

Her eyes widened. "Shut up."

"You did!" He turned the paper around so she could see. "She liked it."

Rory fell back on the bed, howling with delight. "Oh, Marty, I could—I could kiss you right now!"

He laughed, embarrassed. "Well, that would be okay with me."

She sat upright, her face flushed, her eyes shining. "Tomorrow night, I'm taking you out to celebrate. We'll go to dinner, my treat. I know it's sort of silly to be so excited about this, but—I just—I worked so hard on that, and I'm so proud of it, and I just—"

"I know," he said simply. "I get it."

Rory smiled at him, warmly. "You do, don't you?"

Lorelai Gilmore

Writing 220

Suppositions

I've heard the story every year since I can remember, at the same time every year, in the exact same words. I have heard about my mother's big fat stomach and her swollen ankles, throwing the ice chips, swearing, and more than anything else the incredible pain of labor.

She talks about the pain, the horrible, wrenching pain, and all the people she thought were supposed to help her carrying on as though there was nothing out of the ordinary about a girl being in that much pain. As though there was nothing out of the ordinary about a girl being in that much pain from labor, a sixteen year old girl who had plans for her life. As though there was nothing out of the ordinary about a girl being in that much pain, alone.

I think she must have been scared. That's a part of the story that never gets told. There are other parts, too, left out year after year, but they're there beneath the silliness and the happiness that things turned out the way they did. Those are the parts that existed on the periphery of my life, growing up, parts of who I am and where I come from that I've never looked at too closely.

I was not supposed to happen. My mother, Lorelai Victoria Gilmore, was supposed to go to Yale and fulfill her potential and be brilliant at whatever she did. She would have been, too, I've no doubt. Wherever she went, whatever she did, she would have brought color and words and life with her. But I happened, and plans changed, and people were hurt.

My first memory is of sitting on the lawn behind the inn where my mother and I grew up. I may have been two or three, she eighteen or nineteen. A wedding had taken place just at sundown and the bride and groom were posing for pictures in the rose garden. The photographer was rushing to catch the last of the light, arranging the couple more haphazardly than he would have had it been afternoon and time enough to think about the fact that these pictures would live on a mantel until death did they part. The yard was lit with white lights. We sat back in a lawn chair in front of the shed that we lived in, Lorelai holding me on her lap, her chin on my head. I remember that she sighed—she had been telling me a story, and she stopped, suddenly, and sighed, watching the bride and groom together, laughing with each other as the flashes popped. Soon after that the music began and Lorelai danced me around the yard, hugging me to her hip, and she was laughing, too.

It's always been a happy memory, a pretty snapshot of the time we spent at the inn. The fairy twinkle lights and the warm night and the music and me and Lorelai together the way we always were. But I wonder, too—was she lonely, then? Holed up in a potting shed with a toddler and no friends to speak of, broke and working long hours cleaning toilets and changing sheets—sometimes I think the idyllic memories I have are the ones she wanted me to have, more than anything.

I think about her now, as I'm older at this moment than she was back then, and I wonder what I would have done. I would have been frightened, having another person growing inside me who would depend on me and expect things of me, facing the fact that nothing would ever be the same again, knowing that I wouldn't get to be the kid I was trying so hard not to be. I would have been angry and hurt, with the names being called and the insults handed out like pennies in a tip jar, no thought in it, just dropped with a thud alongside all the others, with the disappointment in the air so heavy it condensed on the wall like humidity. More than anything, I wouldn't know who to blame, and it would eat at me.

When something goes wrong, it's a natural instinct to attach blame, to assign the fault. Christopher slept with Lorelai and got Lorelai pregnant and ruined her life and it's his fault she won't be the person she's supposed to be. Lorelai slept with Christopher and got herself pregnant and ruined his life and it's her fault he won't be the person he's supposed to be. Lorelai and Christopher slept together, and the baby happened. Because of the baby, Lorelai won't graduate high school and Christopher won't go to Princeton. The baby is the reason. The baby is to blame.

I wasn't supposed to happen, I know that. My existence is owing to carelessness and bad judgment. The life I have is rooted in pain and anger, disappointment and resentment, confusion and self-righteousness. My mother suffered, in those early years, though her stories are full of garden parties and the fun of making do, long summer nights outside and winter evenings by the big fire in the parlor of the inn with hot chocolate and fat melting marshmallows. She was only as old as I am now—at twenty, I don't always know who I am or what I want or where I should be; I want to be ten years old again and I want to be thirty and get it over with all at the same time; I want to do the things I want to do and not the things I need to do; I want to live full-stop. I can't quite imagine being Lorelai Gilmore back then, being this maelstrom of contradicting notions and half-thought out ideas, having a little person with big, serious eyes, waiting for me to decide what would happen next, knowing that from here on out, it wouldn't really matter what I want or who I feel like I am today, because from here on out, I am not the most important person in my life anymore.

I wasn't supposed to happen. Lorelai Gilmore was supposed to graduate at the top of her class and go to Yale and be brilliant at whatever she did. She would live up to her potential, and it would all be worth it, whatever that "it" really is.

But Lorelai Gilmore did graduate at the top of her class, and she's at Yale and she's trying to be just a little bit brilliant for a moment at a time, every now and again. She gets to do the things the other Lorelai didn't, to be the irresponsible, angsty, immature girl the other Lorelai never did. I can't make up for the life that my mother didn't get to live, though I think sometimes I've tried. I carry her name with me everywhere I go and I live a life that she made for me. I am the expectations. I am the punctuation at the end of the sentence.

What about the life that's mine? Is this it? Do I remember what I remember? Is this moment my decision or someone else's? I close my eyes and think and this is what I know, the things that make me me: I like my coffee dark with a touch of sugar and I like books with thick pages; I like the smell of number two pencils; I don't wear thongs and I probably never will; I am scared of rodents and horses; I am my mother's daughter and I've always been proud to be that way. This last, this is the thing, the question mark at the middle of who I am. Am I only my mother's daughter? Am I more? Am I less?

I wasn't supposed to happen, but I did. I am a thing that went wrong. I'm looking now, for the right way to be, for the right path to take towards a future of my own making. I want to look back and see the twinkle fairy lights, remember the smell of roses on the wind and the taste of sugar as we danced, and know that those things are true and right and we were happy and always had been and always would be. I want to think my mother never cried, thinking of me. That I'm not to blame. That could she have seen both lives at once, the one she was meant for and the one she got, that she would have chosen this one without so much as a blink of hesitation.

Every year, I hear the story of how I came to be—I hear the good parts, though they start in blinding pain and frustration. I want the end to be something different.

The end, I hope, won't be anyone's "supposed to" but my own.