Lane Kim had a routine. Her life was one big routine—and this routine split into two halves. The first half was a list of stiff, unsmiling plans laid out for her from the day she'd been born to the day she'd die. Her mother's routine.

The second branch was the routine Lane had created for herself, the plans she made on her own, to fit what she really liked or wanted or craved for lunch that day. The extra shirt in her backpack, the one with actual color in it, the one with the name of any number of bands she'd loved in secret since she was ten. The fries she stole from Lorelai's plate every evening after school. The made-up stories of where she had been and why and who she'd been with. It was an impossible dance, and she was good at it, and it was always bittersweet to know just how good.

Mrs. Kim's routine for her daughter was clipped and closed and made of straight lines. What Lane wore had to be approved of before leaving the house, down to the inclusion or exclusion of a beret clip. What Lane ate and who Lane spoke to on the phone was constantly monitored. Her posture at church, her volume during store hours, the length of her hair and the color of her glasses—all of it had to be thought of, tried out, and liked or disliked by someone who was not Lane.

Mrs. Kim wasn't aware that there were two halves. She was very firm on the idea that her routine was the only one there could be.

In regards to these two halves, in just these two ways, Lane knew everything. She had come to expect what she'd feel and why, and how things were going to go. She knew her mother would make rice cakes at 4:30 AM every morning and that she would make Lane sit and eat them plain before the sun rose. No cinnamon. No peanut butter. There could be nothing on the table that might cause Lane to develop a taste for artificial sugar. She knew she'd get an apple, later, pushed into her hands on the way to school. Lane knew every shortcut to the Gilmore household there was in Stars Hollow, plus how long it would take her to get there at a jog, or a brisk walk, or running screaming with her arms flapping around.

She knew Rory's favorite songs and favorite sweater, and why that might change depending on what Lorelai wore or listened to the following week. She knew Mrs. Kim liked it when she was home early to help with the dishes before studying, so they could stand in silence and scrub together and it almost felt like real family. Lane knew she felt loved when Mrs. Kim let her spend an extra two minutes on the phone with her best friend, and she knew she felt angry when the magazines claimed Frank Sinatra had been involved with the mob scene. She knew Lorelai made her laugh and Luke made her laugh and Kirk made her laugh. She knew Stars Hollow made her happy, and Elm Street would always be home, and that made her laugh too sometimes.

The only thing she didn't know, it seemed, was how to change it all. How to change the two halves into one whole—a whole that worked for everyone. A life that felt like the right thing. For that, she'd either need to wake up one day in someone else's body—like a loud Gary Nelson fantasy, sans the maternal aspects—or something would have to give.

It did give. Eventually, gradually. And it started the day she lost her new Strokes album.

"Lane!"

It was autumn, it was 2001, and Stars Hollow High was finally letting students out for the day. Lane was busy shoving her textbooks into her insanely-messy, insanely sticker-bombed locker. She could smell Janie Fertman's Princess perfume long before the hated pep-squad drone ever came into view.

"Earth to Lane." Faux apricot scent bounced into her personal space, heralding Janie as she bounced with it. "Lane. Hel-lo—"

"What, Janie?" Lane turned her science book on its side, pushing it until there was a crease in the hardback spine. How did she manage to forget the exact arrangement, every day, that would allow her locker door to fully close?

Janie's bottle-blonde hair was shiny and twisted into a ponytail over one shoulder. Her mouth was twisted too. Smile wasn't the right word, but she must've thought that was what it looked like, because her voice was sugary-sweet. "Did you know your hoodie's majorly clashing with that top?"

"Is that what you came over here to tell me?" Lane turned fully, squinting through her glasses at the other girl.

Janie Fertman had once been considered something close to a friend by herself and by Rory. But at some point, between the 5th grade and now, Janie had subtly decided they were both beneath her, and Chilton had been the final straw to break the camel's back. The moment Rory left for genius school, Janie turned around and started spreading rumors about both of them. She'd had half the school convinced at one point that Rory had dropped out to follow in her mother's footsteps, pregnant at sixteen. She'd told them Lane was an accomplice, an enabler, and that Mrs. Kim had plans to deport her to Korea for her involvement. She'd also said Rory was stuck-up because she was smart, and that Lane was stuck-up because she was 'religious'. There had been something else, too, something about a hockey player prostitution ring. That one didn't hold. Even Janie Fertman couldn't make anyone in the student body believe Lane was willing to risk life and limb like that. Having a best friend allegedly pregnant would be grounds enough for the purging of an unjust daughter by Mrs. Kim.

As a result of this, once the rumors had died down and Lane had been able to trace the source, she and Janie had been on the outs for months. She'd been clear that she had a zero-tolerance policy for anyone who spoke ill of her, and an even lower tolerance for people who spoke ill of Rory. Besides, if rumors had to be created, couldn't they at least be cool rumors? Why couldn't someone have their class whispering that she was secretly touring with Bono, or secretly filthy rich because, as it turned out, she was vaguely Korean royalty of some kind?

Anyway, it didn't seem to matter which cold shoulder she turned Janie's way. The girl could not take a hint. She'd started pretending a few months ago that everything was fine, that she and Lane were still on speaking terms. Maybe she just couldn't take the fact that someone out there might not like her. She used to cry when teachers reprimanded her or a guy she liked didn't notice her ogling him. She might still be that way, for all Lane knew. Whatever the reason, Janie could slap as much sugar on the wound as she wanted—she'd shown her true colors and couldn't take them back. They reared their ugly heads with every once-over she gave Lane, every too-polite greeting. Every smirk.

"Cheer tryouts are next month," Janie said, reaching back to re-tie the already-perfect ponytail. Blondes existed in perpetual states of ethereal unfairness.

"So?"

"So you'll be at tryouts, right?"

"Tryouts?"

"For the cheerleading squad." Janie tilted her head to one side, pursing her lips to make the weird smile freeze up. "I've been telling you forever that you're cheerleading material, Lane. Don't you remember? All those stats I showed you? The measurements, the skin tone comparisons?"

Lane's eyebrows knit. She couldn't fathom what on earth could make Janie A. think that Lane ever, ever wanted to breathe the same air she did ever again or B. approach her, Lane Kim, more than the already-unacceptable number of times she had approached her about being a pom-pom wielding, stuffed bra-wearing bimbo for the duration of her high school career. Misery on top of misery. Leona Anderson opening for 98 Degrees. A definitive scheme to make her life even further from where she wanted it to be. Janie Fertman was an artist.

She did her best impression, expression-wise, of her mother every time the paper boy lingered on their front walk.

Janie's head reared. "What's that look? You have like a cold or something?"

So. She needed to observe the animal in its natural habitat a bit longer before emulating its behaviorisms.

Lane closed her locker door with a slam. "Apparently you don't remember me saying I have no desire to be a cheerleader, or that my mother would lose all function in her primary organs if I did become a cheerleader, or that I'm really, really sick of hearing about tryouts and measurements and my skin tone." She encircled her face with a finger. "See this? This is what's known as a Fitzpatrick type III, Janie. Red. That's red, Janie. And what color are the Stars Hollow High cheerleading uniforms?"

Janie's eyes flicked between hers. "Red."

"Do you really think red on red is a good combination?"

Janie barely stopped herself from rolling her eyes. "I'm just saying—"

"Because that would be clashing."

"Okay! Do whatever you want, whatever." Janie raised her palms, mouth twisting even further.

Lane felt a ridiculous little chuckle coming up and carrying her words with it. "Me? Whatever? Whatever I want? That's rich. That is King Tut levels of gold here, Janie. Really."

Janie was already turning away, hiking her backpack up on her shoulders. She must have remembered what Lane looked like right before an eruption. Lane was sure there was something semi-triumphant under those massive fake eyelashes. Janie knew the very mention of cheer squad, of things Lane would never be allowed to do, even if she wanted to—and she so didn't—would set her off.

Lane raised her voice, not caring for the stares of their peers as they passed, determined that Janie should hear the end of her explosion. "Pink Floyd is composing their next big progressive hit about that very concept, that's how rich it is!"

Janie went through the double doors with an extra spring in her stupid step, Lane knew. Always managing to push every one of her buttons. Rory's advice was usually to ignore her—but Rory didn't have to attend high school with her anymore. Rory didn't have to see Janie Fertman every day, or her shrink wrap smile, or her stupid lime green backpack.

It was then that Lane realized she didn't have her backpack.

She turned on her heel and went barreling down the hall, heading straight for English class. That was where she'd last had it. Lane heard her sneakers squeaking on the tile floors as she moved, dodging bodies and mindless high school chatter. If she was late getting home, Mrs. Kim would demand a reason, and then extend her two hours of homework that evening, just to be safe. Just to make sure her daughter's head was firmly on her shoulders and not in the clouds. A girl who couldn't keep to a tight schedule was undisciplined, and a girl who was undisciplined made for a terrible bride, a terrible mother, a terrible human being.

Or at least that was what Lane seemed to hear, every time her mother lectured her on being punctual.

When she made it to the presumably-empty English class, the door was already open. That was weird. Ms. Hockens always closed it on her way out at the end of the day, but since she always seemed to be going back in to retrieve her car keys or her reading glasses, it was never locked the first time. Now it was standing wide open. Maybe the teacher was already in there and she and Lane could commiserate on cloudy heads and the woes of never being a good bride. A nice Take Her Out of Pity moment.

Just as she was going in, someone else was coming out. Lane smacked into five feet and maybe eight inches of hair product and ribbed blue fabric.

It was the new kid—brand new, as in, just enrolled that day. His name was Jesse. No, Jess. He was cute in a circa 1972 Keith Richards kind of way, and angry-looking, and so far pretty quiet. He spent two thirds of the class they shared reading a rolled-back book that wasn't their English textbook and smelled like something acidic. Maybe that was what cigarettes smelled like. Or drugs. Lane wouldn't know.

The word on the pristine streets of Stars Hollow since yesterday morning was that this was supposed to be Luke Danes' unruly nephew. He had to be; he was the only new kid they'd had since Dean, and attracted about half the attention. Anything associated with the diner had to be less interesting than a tall boy from the Windy City. Luke was familiar. Luke's burgers were familiar. Luke's family was from here. Jess would, everyone assumed, automatically become part of that same-old-same-old package.

But right then, in that split second after she ran into him at full Kim-march speed, Lane couldn't see much of a resemblance. Maybe he was adopted. Luke and anyone in his bloodline would never be able to grow that much eyebrow.

"Sorry." Lane stepped backward to let him by, giving him a tiny, distracted smile.

Jess did not respond. He barely looked at her, actually seeming to avoid her eyeballs. He slid right past her, one hand messing with the right pocket of his jeans.

She didn't spare him any more attention. In fact, if she spent any more time in his general vicinity, her mom would smell that acidic smell on her when she got home, just from knocking into the guy, and that would be the end of freedom for a month. She might even be shipped back to Korea and Janie Fertman could at least be semi-vindicated.

There was her backpack, right underneath her chair. Lane tugged it out and lifted it, about to put it on, when she noticed the main pocket was unzipped. The cord for Rory's spare headphones, the hot pink ones she'd let Lane borrow, was hanging out. That never happened, it never looked that way, because Lane was nothing if not a good steward of her best friend's things. Those headphones were always kept neat, the cord wrapped around the set and held there with a rubber band.

Had someone been in her backpack?

Lane paused, nose scrunched in confusion, and set the bag down on her desk to root through it. Besides the slightly-askew headphones, everything was sort of where it should have been. The rice cake was still in a Ziploc bag her mom left for her, uneaten as always, sitting at the bottom. Lorelai's Classic Rock magazine from the diner meetup that morning was rolled up in the back, behind Lane's algebra textbook and a Tupperware container of celery that was definitely too warm by now. But somehow it all looked a little off.

Her album was missing.

The Strokes. It was gone. Shiny new cover, not a fingerprint to be seen, unplayed as of yet because she couldn't get to the Gilmores' until tomorrow morning, and she'd only just gotten the album smuggled to her by Rory the day before. It should have been right there, bright and beautiful in front of everything else, hidden from Mrs. Kim and sitting right where Lane could open her backpack in the middle of class, pretending to get a pencil just so she could look at it lovingly for a few precious seconds. Which was not weird at all.

How could it be gone? Lane started shoving things around, desperate for a glimpse of clear plastic. For a peek at bright blue and pastel yellow. Nothing. She was going to need a defibrillator soon. This was dire. This was majorly catastrophic. Was she still breathing? Yes, too much.

"Where is it?" She almost threw the celery container over her shoulder. Lane let her hands slap down against her sides, standing up straight to think. Get more air to her brain.

She glared at the backpack; eyebrows knit. Narrowed her eyes at the floor, turning slightly. Turned to the door, then, eyes almost completely shut now. There had only been one other person in this room since class had ended, besides Ms. Hockens. Someone who had avoided her gaze and had just the right amount of Hans Gruber in him to become suspect number one for her in seconds. It was kind of her only lead, and this was The Strokes. This was important. This was life or death.

Emotionally.

And if she was quick enough, she might have the CD back in minutes and still be home on time.

"Hey!" Lane raced out of class, shouting down the now-deserted hallway.

Jess hadn't made it to the door. He was near a locker—his locker, definitely, because he was apparently in the middle of closing the door and turning to head out. When she came hurtling down the wide, smelly passageway, he didn't look around.

"You! Guy!"

Then he stopped and twisted halfway, feet still kind of moving. He looked only vaguely interested when she reached him, even after it became clear she was talking to him. He was a few inches taller than her and way broader in the shoulders. It should have been intimidating, but The Strokes needed her. Lane didn't waste a second, neither to catch her breath nor to keep her little Nick Valensi-loving heart from exploding. Her hoodie drawstrings almost slapped her in the mouth when she halted in front of him, she was moving so fast.

"Hey," Lane gasped again, shifting her weight. "Jess. Wow, I should not be out of breath that fast. I mean, I walk everywhere I go."

She didn't mean to start that way. It was just occurring to her, as she stopped moving, that it was weird to shout you, guy to the new kid as he was leaving when she had no idea if he knew anything yet. And when they hadn't formally met yet. It wasn't the best first impression. As she was babbling, Jess was blinking over and over again, looking at her like she was coming out of an asylum instead of a classroom four doors away.

She cleared her throat. "Did you see an album lying around in there?"

"What?"

"In English." Lane pointed wildly behind her somewhere, hopefully at Ms. Hockens' classroom. "Just now. Was there an album that just happened to be lying near or in the immediate vicinity of my backpack? Back row, middle desk?" She wound her hands, eyebrows up; why wasn't he answering? "Come on, my backpack, it was the only one in there. It's blue."

"Blue."

She didn't like the way he was looking at her. It was still asylum-adjacent. And she didn't like the way he was only saying one word at a time when a brand-new album was on the line.

"It's blue, it smells like furniture polish, it was right there and it was open and I never leave it open, so—" She stopped, inhaling, to maybe let him respond or realize she wasn't wearing a straightjacket or anything. She was about to be disappointed; he seemed to be too confused to think at the correct pace for an emergency like this. "So I'm missing a very important, very coveted item and I was wondering if maybe you had any idea where it went?"

"Should I?"

"You were just in there." Lane tried a little disbelieving smile, but she knew it looked fake. Forced. She couldn't help it—she couldn't understand why he wasn't being more helpful. She also couldn't genuinely act like she thought he had no clue what she was talking about, somehow. And that probably showed in her face, and she let it because it made her feel better. Sort of. Actually, kicking something would make her feel better. "It's a brand-new album. A debut, actually, Is This It? The Strokes?"

She waited for him to look envious. Or at least look like he recognized the words coming out of her mouth in any way. Still nothing.

Jess' mouth pulled down at the corners. "Didn't see it." He turned to go again.

She tugged him back using sheer volume and speed of tongue. "Okay well, you were the only other person I saw in that room a second ago, so—"

"So what?" He faced her, jaw working, eyes bouncing to the walls. He seemed to dare her with his mouth alone to keep going.

Lane wasn't exactly the most confident person in town. That was Lorelai. And she was far from the most intimidating. That was Mrs. Kim herself, the original, the Grim Reaper of Stars Hollow. Everything in Lane wanted to shrink back the second the new kid turned those big, angry dark eyes on her and waited for her to call him a thief. Actually, a lot of the fire churning in her stomach did die out when he looked at her like that. It suddenly seemed ridiculous and embarrassing to be hassling a stranger over an album.

And then she thought about the time Rory had spent standing in line waiting for the store to open early yesterday morning, and the pains she herself had taken to hide the acquisition of the album from her mom, and the hours she'd spent waiting desperately, since then, to be able to play the stupid thing and analyze every last note and riff. And some of the fire started back up.

That, and the new kid was being rude.

Lane took a second to meet his gaze and said bluntly, "Did you take it?"

"'Scuse me?" Jess' eyebrows almost covered both his eyes. Like two dark, thick thunderclouds. Right at that moment, jaw working, he looked exactly like Luke. He was Luke and she was Taylor Doose in glasses and clear nail polish. She did not like being Taylor Doose.

"You heard me. I never leave my backpack open. Everything in that backpack is accosted, accounted for, and approved of by yours truly every day at exactly 3:15 PM, because it has to be exactly the way my mother last saw it when I left for school this morning. So believe me, I know when I find it wide open and an album I slaved to get missing from its contents, something is up." She raised her own eyebrows, not nearly as impressive as his, and pointed a finger half-hidden by her hoodie sleeve at him. "And you, my friend, had to have something to do with it, so talk."

"I didn't take it."

"You were there."

"So was the teacher."

"The teacher left twenty minutes ago, yet you were still in the room when I got there; this crime only has one suspect."

Jess scoffed, loud and wet. "What crime, it's a Strokes album. You want something worthy of a criminal activity, try losing something by The Clash, or better yet one of the Beatles, some of those are still kicking around. I hear they're easy to shrink wrap."

Lane's mouth fell open. She hardly knew where to begin. No, yes she did. The idea of shrink-wrapping Paul McCartney was not without its drawbacks. "First of all, a Beatle would only count if you were pulling them straight out of 1964, and second of all, there is no way The Clash is even comparable with The Strokes—"

"Oh, please—"

"They're two completely different levels of rock!"

"What?"

Of course he couldn't keep up. Typical.

Lane began counting on one hand. She pointed up, hard, every finger like a mental sword. She could do this all day. Her mouth moved without the rest of her faculties; no team huddle necessary. "A., English rock is fundamentally different than American rock, B., The Clash began that genre for generations and The Strokes have only been around for like four years, and they are already shaking the system—"

Jess' head lolled back and he almost smirked at her, talking over her. "Gimme a break, they're a glorified cover band—"

She almost choked on her own spit. "Excuse me?"

He leaned forward, having absolutely no trouble focusing on her now. "Fledglings. C'mon, everyone knows they're just rippin' off the Ramones. You can hear it in their sound."

"The Ramones aren't exactly strangers to rip-offs, either, smart guy! Hello, the pseudonyms?"

"So you're telling me The Strokes don't sound just a little bit too close?"

"Well—yeah, everyone sounds a little too close; The Ramones literally invented punk rock in the US, it's hard for pizza not to remind people of pie!"

Jess snorted. "I didn't take it."

"Clearly!" Lane threw an arm up. "Anyone who reduces an up-and-comer like The Strokes to a 'glorified cover band' doesn't even deserve to smell their debut album, let alone steal it!"

"Smell it?"

"Whatever, you know what I mean."

For a moment, they were done. Each one stopping for breath. And in that intermission, Lane realized her whole brain had been on autopilot for the last five minutes and it had been great. Instead of throwing opinions and facts at the incredibly-un-sticky wall that was the collective bland hive mind of her peers, which was the norm, Lane felt she hadn't had to throw very hard at all this time. She hadn't even had to think about throwing. She had the feeling she got when Rory passed her a chicken nugget on their walk home, before a gruesome tofu dinner. The refreshing, elated sensation foreigners often got when they met someone else who spoke their language. A finally type of thing.

Jess looked her up and down, just her face really, in a totally different way than Janie Fertman kept doing. Janie's was an obvious, tacky attempt to make her squirm. Jess simply seemed to be shaking off the asylum assumptions.

"This town's weird."

She didn't deny it. She wanted some kind of bristly, defend-Stars-Hollow maternal instinct to come lashing out at him, but it wouldn't. The Kims didn't even attend town meetings.

"But hey, at least somebody here knows how to listen to music."

He was smiling. A very off-putting, kind of irritating half-smile. There was a little Janie Fertman in it, like he enjoyed picking at her. Jerk.

Lane tried not to show him how much fun she'd had. She was good at hiding things. "You haven't seen it?"

"I haven't seen it." Jess crossed his arms. "Anything else you wanna accuse me of out of the clear blue? Maybe I stole the teacher's keys, too."

"No, she loses those daily."

"Good to know." Jess raised his brows, at last liberating his poor eyeballs. "Can I go now?"

"Fine." Lane actually took a step backward, just to further clear the air between them. Symbolically. And literally. "But I'm watching you."

He was already on his way out the door. He turned one last time to roll his eyes at her, halfheartedly, and then he was gone.

Lane went back to the classroom to retrieve her backpack. She could only bring herself to spent at least five more minutes scouring the place for her album before bolting for the exit. She was already going to be late.

That night, after Mrs. Kim read her the riot act, made her polish two extra chairs in punishment, and watched her down three cups of tea, Lane retreated to her closet to sulk. Her room was as strait-laced and perfect as ever. The closet, with its flashing lights and flashier colors, was her only solace in the entire house.

She was staring at her algebra homework without seeing it. She'd already run the risk of Mrs. Kim finding the album by dumping the whole backpack out onto her bed the moment she'd gotten upstairs. Still missing. Because of course it was. The thought of anyone else in the next few states listening to it right now, while she sat there with Rory's headphones on and nothing coming out of them, made her want to sink into the fuzz of her cushions and drown. A restless feeling in her legs and chest.

That new kid—Jess. He was not going to make a comfy addition to the Stars Hollow society set. For one thing, way too mouthy. For another, the resemblance to Luke began and apparently ended with the jaw-thing. Even his posture had been angry. Like the restless feeling she had now was covering his whole body, 24/7. Someone like that couldn't fit in a town like this, where Taylor wrote you up for dropping gum wrappers and Lorelai made up songs to convince you to give her your food. Everybody here was soft and Jess seemed made of all sharp edges.

And she'd wasted valuable Strokes-recovery time getting into a heated debate with Mr. Sharp Edges. Because she could never do just the right thing in just the right way to get anything she ever hoped for. Not even a stupid debut album the day she'd been planning to listen to it. The restlessness climbed to her shoulders.

Lane lurched forward and opened her CD player, reaching for the nearest stack of discs. She was four songs in before she realized the first band she'd chosen was The Ramones.

(Author's Note: I love reviews, if you feel like writing one. They motivate me to keep going. -Doverstar)