Lane was daydreaming.

She'd actually been daydreaming from the moment she'd gotten up that morning. All through breakfast, through her first round of classes, every step down the hallway or in and out of the bathroom. She daydreamed through the pop quiz in science, she daydreamed through the changing of hands at her locker, and she daydreamed through the removal of the Christmas decorations on the bulletin boards before lunch.

She could've been thinking about the new Supremes CD the Gilmores had gotten her as a late Christmas present. She could've been thinking about the way her band teacher told her she had natural rhythm the previous morning. She could even have spent this long thinking about the lyrics to February Stars.

But no. None of those. Lane was daydreaming about Henry Cho.

About his performance of Romeo and Juliet at Chilton. About his voice every other night on the phone, when her mother thought she was talking to Rory after finishing her homework. About the smell of his cologne when they'd danced together—six times—at that big fancy party Rory had insisted on going to. A perfect Korean boy with perfect eyes and perfect dance moves. Lane had never really tried making an honest-to-goodness mixtape before, but this occasion, for this guy, seemed to be the occasion that called for it. She was willing to learn. Even if a mixtape nowadays technically constituted a slightly-illegal CD full of plagiarism.

She'd find a way.

Henry was worth it.

Lane hadn't realized just how deep into daydreaming she could actually get until she had another human being to fantasize over who wasn't the edgy ghost of Kurt Cobaine. Her mother always said she was flighty. Earlier, she'd removed three cotton snowmen from a bulletin board and then promptly stapled them right back up again, thinking about the second time Henry had invited her dance and how he'd been smiling when he said it. She'd been doing stuff like that all day.

She was in the middle of humming Ms. Jackson and not seeing anything in front of her when she slammed into a warm body. Or more accurately, her entire tray of steamy food and a carton of possibly-expired orange juice slammed into a warm body.

Mushy peas and box mashed potatoes splattered all over the torso and red flannel of Chuck Presby. His lunch wound up on the ground, too. Some of it went ricocheting off of Presby to dot the shoulders and considerable hair of Rich Bloomenfeld. Lane staggered backward. It had been like hitting a telephone pole; she almost slipped on the mess she'd made, regaining balance at the last second.

Then she just stood there staring at the two boys like she was in the front row of an XTC concert. Mouth open, eyes wide.

Chuck Presby let loose with a word that would've peeled the paint off of every piece of furniture in Kim's Antiques. Then he did it again, louder, and Lane tried not to flinch. In the market at that moment, Taylor Doose was surely sensing a disturbance in the Force.

"God, walk much?" Chuck snarled, flicking his arms to rid his hands of excess gravy.

Lane's tongue would not form words. She thought she could feel Rich Bloomenfeld's eyes boring into her. She had sworn to herself she'd never be within two feet of him ever, ever again. Not since the school-steps incident. Now here he was, and here she was, brought right back into the forefront of his memory, undoubtedly, when she'd spent the last year working so hard to remain hopefully forgotten as a person, as a biped, as any kind of living breathing organism in his vicinity.

That wasn't as scary as Chuck Presby. Lane was very well aware that Chuck Presby was Stars Hollow High's biggest dumpster of a personality, maybe ever. For generations. That was the opinion she and Rory had always agreed upon, of course. He was loud and stupid and incredibly gross. One time in third grade, he'd glued the class hamster to their teacher's head. Surgery had almost happened. Both Mr. Thomas and the hamster had undergone deep emotional therapy.

"Sorry," she finally forced out. "I didn't—"

"Why don't you watch where you're going next time, you little gook?"

Lane's mouth snapped shut, hard.

"Dude," Rich said, feelingly. He was pulling potato out of his bangs. She didn't know if he was directing the single syllable at her or at Chuck. It didn't really make a difference which.

If Lorelai had been there, she would have poured blue fire out all over the school thug. If Rory had been there, she would have taken Lane by the elbow and yanked her out of the situation, with a few quick witticisms to slap at Chuck on their way to the exit. And if Mrs. Kim had been there, Lane knew objectively that there would be no Chuck Presby left on the planet by now. Wiped from memory, erased from existence.

She wasn't Lorelai, or Rory, or her mother. They weren't here. One Lane, one lunch, no defenses. She had no idea what to do. She could hardly say, I apologize, I was fantasizing about my potential Korean doctor husband who I address using my best friend's name every time he calls, because our love is forbidden, and I didn't see you there. She doubted she could even get out another simple sorry, the way Chuck was looking at her.

It was horrible. He was standing there breathing like an asthmatic, so much taller than she was, with Rich pretty and potato-y behind him, and every single person in the entire building was staring at them. Lane could see Janie Fertman and some of the rest of the pep squad sitting at a table to her right, just in the corner of her eye. The blurry, partially-glasses-frame-hidden expression she made out on Janie's face was almost sympathetic. Or maybe that was the adrenaline. Either way, the registering of it, the bleak acknowledgement in the back of her mind that Janie was both watching and possibly pitying her did not make this situation easier.

"I'll go get some napkins," Lane heard herself offer, heart pounding. But her feet wouldn't move.

Then Rich said, "Hey—aren't you that chick from band?"

Actually, I can't get napkins. I have to go and hang myself from the gazebo, take care.

"No."

"Yeah you are—"

"No, I'm not."

"You're the girl who touched my hair."

"That wasn't me."

Chuck let out a hard, ugly chicken squawk of a laugh. "So you're a klutz and a perv?"

Two or three jocks nearby started laughing a little bit, too. Then others joined in, maybe to break some tension. Later that night, she would recall it had been wimpy, blustering laughter, not nearly as full and malicious as it had seemed in the moment. But right then, it was all evil. It was all very intentional. It was the soundtrack to her social and emotional demise. The climax of the end of Lane Kim's collective confidence among her peers. Hans Zimmer wearing devil horns.

Presby kicked her tray across the floor, right between her feet. It was still upright; it splashed any leftover food up the legs of her jeans. It skidded so far, it went under two separate tables and three different benches, halfway to the other side of the cafeteria. A few girlish shrieks sounded as it made its way around ankles and shoes.

"Well?" Chuck's grin was manic. There was no actual joy in it. He glanced around, then jerked his chin at her. "Go get that."

Her eyes started stinging.

"Go get it."

Lane felt her legs shaking. She couldn't look at Bloomenfeld. She also couldn't look at anything that was eye-level anymore. All she could do was glue her gaze to the tiles, turn with a squeak of her sneakers, and rush out of the cafeteria. She went straight for the empty hall, shoving and dodging past other teenagers who foolishly got in her way. There was some laughter, some gasps. Maybe snatches of conversations resuming. It was all fuzzy to her, like radio static.

Behind her, Chuck Presby added in a shout, "You're paying for my lunch tomorrow, freak!"

When she stopped running, she was in the stairwell by the vending machines. Actually, she was under the stairs. Lane was almost seventeen years old; she shouldn't be crying. There was no reason to cry over spilled mashed potatoes. Or spilled orange juice. And there was especially no reason to cry over Rich Bloomenfeld. That ship had sailed ages ago. He was old news, boring, trashy, she'd been young and inexperienced. Silly, silly girl. Now there was Henry.

Henry. The very idea of him was embarrassing, all of a sudden, as she paced there under the stairs with spiderwebs and dead bugs in the corner. Like just thinking about him would give him a Beauty and the Beast magic mirror to see her now, stained with mystery meat and crying next to dust bunnies. Thinking about Henry was what had gotten her into this little fiasco.

Not for the first time, Lane wished Rory was there. She wished Rory had never left for rich-kid genius preparatory school. She wished Rory still let her borrow her math notes and still walked with her to the bathroom between classes, even if she didn't have to go, and she wished Rory had been in that cafeteria so she hadn't been standing in front of Chuck Presby all by herself.

She wasn't crying over Rich. She was crying because she needed to cry. Adrenaline was shooting up and down her whole body, and everyone had been watching, and no one was coming to look for her, and she was hungry and her lunch was still smushed all over the cafeteria floor and in Chuck's greasy hair.

After a few minutes of this, Lane was calmer. Tears were a pain, but they helped release some of that strained feeling building in her stomach and lungs. By the time her face was dry and back to its normal color, lunch had been underway for at least twenty minutes. She was starving. The apple she received every morning was never enough for her, no matter what Mrs. Kim said, and she hadn't had time to stop in at Luke's before school. Lane stopped thinking about Chuck and Rich and Janie and the student body's eyeballs and sat down, sniffling and wishing she hadn't thrown away the rice cake in her backpack. Wishing she had her backpack at all, actually. She'd left it on one of the tables.

The door to the stairwell banged open and Jess walked in, one hand in his coat pocket and the other closing a very bent paperback book. It was impossible for her to hide; she was right in his eyeline, sitting just out from under the stairs against the wall. Lane froze up when his head raised. He saw her right away.

There was no question of whether or not he had seen what had happened. She could tell when he froze up, too, and did the blink-blink-blink thing, shifting from one foot to the other. He even doubled backward a little bit. Like she was a stray dog. Obviously, he'd been intending to march upstairs, but the unexpected sight of Lane as a puffy mess on the floor surprised him into stagnation.

Lane swiped at her cheek with the back of a hand, even though she'd exhausted her tear ducts about six minutes ago. "What?"

Jess' tongue rolled around the inside of his cheek. "Nothin'."

Lane let out a little huff, hating that every time she needed a breath, she sounded like a toddler sucking in every last ounce of phlegm they possessed. "Sorry if I'm encroaching on prime brooding real estate here, I'll be gone in a minute."

"He's a jerk."

Lane sniffed again, pinching her eyebrows at him.

"Chuck Presby," Jess said unnecessarily. "He's a jerk."

"Um. Yeah," said Lane, who was realizing with every word she said aloud that she was a little dehydrated. "Totally."

Then there didn't seem to be much else to say. He'd been here a few months; Jess' monosyllabic habits were something she was getting used to with every miniscule interaction they had in town. She didn't exactly love it, but in moments like this one it made things easier. Less work. Of course, that maximized the amount of time they were just there, in the same space, looking like the two leads in a 1920s short film. In desperate need of live musical accompaniment.

The quiet only lasted a second or two, thankfully. Jess broke it by asking, "So you're not gonna eat?"

"Oh, no." Lane sat up a little straighter, trying not to think about how dirty the floor was and how stupid she looked sitting with the dead bugs. "Clearly I can't ever set foot in the cafeteria again. Or any part of my person. In fact, I might just veto the consumption of food altogether. My mom'll be happy. Less calories."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, you know, I hear it's better for your digestive system. Plus I'll finally be able to look like Karen Carpenter, so, it's a total win-win."

Her stomach decided to do its best impression of a humpback whale at that moment. Majestic.

Jess raised his eyebrows.

Lane tried to chuckle. It didn't happen, more like a scoff with a smile on the side. "But apparently even my metabolism has other plans for my life."

He nodded, like that made perfect sense, and pocketed his book. He went to the vending machine in three short strides. For a few seconds, there was nothing but tinny beeping filling the stairwell. Then Lane heard a thunk and a kind of swish-crinkle sound. A moment later, Jess had a bottle of Sunbolt Gatorade in one hand and bags of mini-Oreos and Goldfish in another. He glanced at her deliberately on his way to the steps, one side of his mouth twitching up.

"That is just cruel." Lane hiked her legs up further toward her chest, rolling her eyes at him.

"Thought you were Karen Carpenter."

"I am." She tapped a finger against her knee, watching him open the Oreos. "And hey, every great artist starves at some point. I am exercising my right to be starving and bitter against those who are not. Very rock and roll."

"Very."

Jess wasn't leaving. She'd thought he was resuming his journey upstairs. He was in the middle of opening the Gatorade by pressing its metal lid down on the stairs' rail. He paused to look over at her as the lid popped off. Then he tossed her the package of Goldfish, lazily.

Lane barely caught it. He was throwing snacks at her. Like a dolphin at Sea World. She couldn't believe he was still talking to her, actually. The girl who ran her hand through strange boys' hair and dumped gravy on gorillas like Chuck in the middle of the lunch room. The girl who cried at the thought of Henry seeing her like this.

(Perfect, gorgeous Henry. Henry, who might sense, now, after this cosmic day of screw-ups, what she was truly like. That she was, in fact, a daydream junkie who couldn't walk a straight line when a nice boy smiled at her, and who couldn't even work up the nerve to tell her mother she liked Bowie or dreamt of going blonde. And as soon as he got a whiff of that, well, Say Goodbye To Hollywood.)

When Lane met Jess' gaze, surprised, he shrugged and said, "I don't eat snacks that smile back."

"Well, when you put it in that light."

Lane split open the bag, popping two or three crackers into her mouth at a time. Trying not to look like a total pig. Jess, for his part, wasn't even eating the Oreos. He was just standing there rooting through the bag, head down. Maybe he was looking for one that hadn't been broken in half. Or he was one of those sickos who ate each ingredient separately.

"Thanks," she said, watching him search.

Jess' fingers stopped in the bag, she noticed, but he didn't look up. He also didn't say anything that would be considered an appropriate response to gratitude. He didn't even nod again.

"I can pay you back," she added. Why was he still standing here? And did anybody else at school know James Dean was capable of artificial cheddar charity?

He snorted. "Good, because I really needed that extra fifty cents. Feeds my DubbleBubble addiction."

"So can I ask you a question?"

"If I said no, would that stop you?"

"It might." Lane swallowed another Goldfish. "Trust me, I'm very good with no. It's a staple in our house."

"What is it?"

"Do you even know my name?"

"Yes." It came out on a sigh.

"Really?"

Jess did look up then. "It's Lane."

She grinned. "Yes, it is. Very good."

"I'd bark and roll over but the floors in here are kind of a health hazard."

He went back to rifling through the Oreos and Lane leaned back against the wall, munching Goldfish. Math class didn't start for another twenty minutes. If she left in ten, she could retrieve her backpack at around 3:54, giving her running time in that precious window that put the rest of the student body either in their classrooms or en route and left the cafeteria blessedly empty. Then she'd reach math at precisely 4 PM and be safely behind her desk without any further human interaction. Counting the seconds until school was out and she could hide in her closet.

Not unlike what she was doing now. But with better lighting and less cockroaches.

"Why'd you think I didn't know your name?"

Jess kept his eyes on the cookie bag, and Lane paused to wait for him to look at her before answering. He didn't. She'd have to settle for talking to a wall, just like at home. Except this wall occasionally folded in and only spoke out of one side of its mouth.

"I guess it's that whole Cry-Baby Walker thing you've got going on," she admitted. "Plus—Lane—it's a weird name, not exactly memorable."

"Weirder than Cry-Baby?"

"That's different. That's Johnny Depp. No one forgets a name with his face behind it."

"Not since Krueger."

"Ah, another installment in the Mrs. Kim Library of Forbidden Experiences."

Jess strolled over, slid down the wall, and sat beside her. Lane watched him do it and realized the strained feeling in her chest was gone. She hadn't noticed it go. He was no Rory, but he made an okay sub. She had no current plans to aim a paper airplane at his head, anyway.

"Hey, I thought the floor was a health hazard."

"I've got a killer immune system."

"Must be the hair gel."

"It's an insulator."

His eyes were on the door, watching the heads of two girls filter past the vertical window outside. Lane fiddled with the corners of the Goldfish bag, almost out of crackers. Jess didn't seem to be in any kind of hurry anymore—or worried that his book might get crushed where he sat. She wondered how he did anything with a paperback stuffed into his jeans. His head tilted sideways toward her when he spoke, still facing forward.

"Did you really touch some guy's hair?"

She turned her head to look at him through hooded lids. He mirrored the movement, mirrored the expression. Waiting for an answer.

"Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes! Yes. Yes, I touched his hair." Lane heaved a huge breath. "I touched his hair, and everyone saw me do it, and I have been trying to wipe it from the universe's collective consciousness for an entire year now and one stupid slip-up at lunch—" She stopped, inhaled again through her nose, and shook her head. "And I am not a klutz, okay?"

"Okay."

"I am coordinated, and I am careful, and I have natural rhythm, ask my band teacher."

"I'll take it on hearsay."

Another few minutes of Lane catching up with her temper.

Then Jess asked, "So what happened?"

"What happened?" Lane threw a hand up. "What happened, let's see, what happened—I lost my sanity. And my dignity. I was just standing there, and it was freezing, and he was in fro—it doesn't matter. Believe me, any attraction I ever had to Rich Bloomenfeld evaporated the minute I learned he likes 12 Stones, so it wasn't even worth it—"

"I meant in there." Jess nodded to the door impatiently, signifying the cafeteria. "Today."

"Oh."

Lane would have rather eaten her left sock on camera than tell Luke's semi-mute nephew about Henry Cho. But between the Goldfish and the floor-sharing and the whole him not laughing at her situation—she kind of felt she couldn't refuse. She was nothing if not a major doormat. Weak.

"It was basically the same story. I mean, one minute I'm dreaming about possibly ending up with someone who checks absolutely none of my parents' tiny, innumerable little practically-celibate boxes and somehow still gaining that whole Andy Hardy sunset ending," she sucked in again through her nose, really hating the smell in the stairwell now, "and the next, I'm…" She flapped a hand again. It made the Goldfish slip off her lap onto the floor. "Dumping food all over Chuck Presby. Wishing I was anywhere but here."

He didn't say anything. He had resumed watching out the window.

"And…you don't care. Big surprise." Lane's eyes rolled halfway. "That's okay. You've probably never liked somebody so much you totally lost all rational thought and wound up doing something so embarrassing even talking about it gives you dry heaves."

Nothing.

Lane glanced at him. He glanced back, with zero emotion. She was getting a little tired of carrying the conversation. "Have you?" she finished, meaning it to be rhetorical but actually a little curious now.

Jess deflected without missing a bead, spreading a free palm. "So, what. You gonna stay in here for the rest of the day?"

"It's a free country. I mean here, not in Kim's Antiques."

"Okay." He was nodding slightly again, like a very subtle bobblehead toy. Then he pushed himself to his feet.

Lane went on, smiling wanly, more at herself than anything else. "Of course, I say that, but in reality I have no spine, so. I'll see you in class." She glanced down and picked up his Gatorade just as he began climbing the stairs, rushing to a standing position to stretch it out to him over the rail. "Hey—"

Jess paused on the middlemost step. His eyes flicked to the drink. "Yours if you don't mind backwash."

Bless him. She was dying of thirst and she'd been sharing drinks with the Gilmores since she was six. Lane's other hand clapped onto the bottle, lips pressed together in a much stronger smile. "Did you know you're secretly a nice guy?"

"Wow." Jess' expression fought itself right in front of her eyes. His eyebrows were in a slap fight. "Didn't think anyone could get so excited over artificial cheese."

"I can pay you for this too, you know."

"Gee, a whole buck fifty. Tempting."

"It is enough for multiple packages of really disgusting bubblegum. Although I guess that would make me an enabler."

"No thanks. Trying to get clean."

"Are you sure, because I could—"

"Look Monty, I'm not looking for a trade here." Jess paused on the landing, head swinging down impatiently. "Just take the stupid bottle."

Lane took the stupid bottle, and Jess took the stairs two at a time, resurrecting his book and getting lost in it the moment it was open. He didn't say goodbye, but she didn't need that.

Actually, she found she had gotten whatever it was she needed already. She could breathe, she wasn't thirsty. She wasn't crying anymore. The tight sensation the lunch altercation had given her was long gone. And there wasn't a Gilmore or a Mama Kim in sight. Miracles did happen.

School let out just as the temperature started to really drop outside. January in Connecticut was murder on the eyes, nose, skin, everything. Especially when you'd gotten used to a toasty, smelly high school and you went outside altogether too quickly. The icy air slammed into Lane like a wall. Her fingers and toes hurt. Her backpack swung and let a cold draft in to hit her back, even under three layers.

Most everyone else was outside, walking to Luke's or the gazebo, walking home, walking to Weston's. Standing in the yard with their hands in their pockets or under their arms. Some of the guys were throwing snowballs on their way out into the square, and the girls all stayed in huddled groups. If perfume could freeze, they'd all be stuck together at the hips and shoulders.

Lane waved to Kirk, who was passing by in his video store uniform. There was a massive band-aid plastered to his wrist as he lifted a hand to wave back at her. So did not want to know why.

She felt safe and concealed beneath her purple knit hat and heavy black denim jacket. People had stared as she entered every class after lunch. At least two of them had snickered in the hallway on separate occasions when she walked past. Other than that, on the surface, everything had been relatively livable in the hours following the cafeteria incident.

She hadn't seen Chuck Presby anywhere, and the one time she almost passed Rich Bloomenfeld on her way to biology, Lane had turned on her heel and saved herself by taking the long way, cutting through the gym and dodging P.E.-goers. Yes, she'd been three minutes late to class, and yes, Janie Fertman and two other girls had given her significant stares as she ducked past their desks, but that was small potatoes. She could handle those kinds of spuds. A run-in with Rich, no, and even a glance from Chuck would take her down in seconds.

But big-eyed looks from other girls with better hair? That was a daily cross to bear.

Now, here in the fresh, frigid breeze, Lane felt she could go home and really unwind. Like she was a sparkly violet paperclip somebody had decided to straighten out in sheer boredom. She was God's paperclip, and home and hot tea and the structure of her mother's rigid after-school schedule was just part of the straightening experience. Even comforting. Almost.

She had only made it two steps onto the sidewalk when she heard yelling.

Lane saw other kids scrambling around the brick corner of the high school's front. They were all following the noise. Confused, she joined the throng, hitching her backpack up even higher on her shoulders. She had to see the commotion. This was Stars Hollow; a rat in the market was the most common form of excitement to be had on a weekday. You took your kicks where you could.

When she got to the back of the crowd, of course she was too short to see anything good—clearly there was a fight going on—so she went around the edges until she could worm her way in through a few freshmen.

Lane's mouth fell open. Chuck Presby's red flannel shirt from earlier was the most she could make out. He was rolling in the snow with someone else, someone much shorter and much faster, someone wearing a gray shirt and a khaki coat that was almost all the way off by now. Lane recognized the color.

Jess surfaced for a second, swinging an actual fist right at Presby's actual nose. Lane had never seen an honest-to-goodness fight like this before. Guys roughhoused all the time, even in their little Hamlet here. But angry Stars Hollow jocks were a far cry from the kind of brawling you might see on an episode of The Sopranos. Nobody went for an animalistic rumble on the ground. Nobody usually drew blood, and Chuck Presby was definitely bleeding. Lane didn't know red could be that red before today.

It was only glimpses, snatches, little tiny pieces of the fight for the next few seconds. There was too much moving to really catch anything of it with her eyes. But it was definitely getting more heated, more determined, before Principal Merten himself materialized to stop it. Lane thought she heard Jess curse just as vehemently as Chuck Presby usually did, even on days when he wasn't being mauled by a big-city racoon in a Distillers T-shirt.

Merten grabbed Jess by the back of that shirt and hauled him away from Chuck, who had just gotten to his feet and had been trying to throw Jess down again.

"That is enough," he said, and he didn't need to say it any louder to get everything to freeze up like Taylor's apple crates. He let go of Jess, still holding his own briefcase in the other hand. Lane had no idea their school's head was that fit. Stars Hollow didn't even have a Life Time. "This is twice now, gentlemen. Twice."

Jess spat on the ground, right in front of the principal and the Lord and Chuck Presby's right shoe. He was breathing like a bear. Beyond that, there didn't seem to be any kind of physical damage. His jacket was half a foot or so away, partially soaked with clumps of snow all over one arm of it. Chuck was breathing hard, too, and all that red was still streaming from one nostril. There was a scrape or something above his eyebrow. He was not having a good day.

Chuck opened his mouth, probably to swear himself, but the principal didn't let him get far enough.

"If either of you says a word right now, to me or to each other, you are gonna be expelled from this school on the spot. I don't wanna see this again. Nod if you understand."

Chuck nodded, wiping at his nose. If looks could kill, half the student body in his eyeline would be pushing up daisies. That included Lane.

"Jess?"

It looked like every single heartbeat that passed between the up and the down of Jess' nod was burning him. He did finally do it, though. Once.

Principal Merten's wide eyes flashed from boy to boy behind his glasses. But when he spoke again, it was to everyone in the audience. "Now all of you—go home."

It was like blowing on a handful of sand. The students around the scene scattered, bunch by bunch, as Merten turned his gaze in a circle. If he said something else, Lane didn't hear it or pay attention to it. She let the crowd edge her a forgettable distance away, absently watching Jess pick up his jacket. She couldn't believe he had hit Chuck Presby. Chuck Presby was a titan. Chuck Presby was a big blonde orangutan. His wingspan was twice that of Jess', and his attitude on a daily basis rivaled that of Lenny Kravitz.

Scratch that, Lane couldn't believe Jess was walking away with barely a bruise. You wouldn't have known he'd been fighting someone if he wasn't carrying a worse-for-wear coat and covered in melting snow.

Chuck was storming away from the scene out of the corner of her eye, and Lane saw one or two guys following him down the sidewalk. No one was following Jess.

Lane started walking before she even finished the thought.

"Hey!" She dodged a slippery patch or two, coming up behind his shoulder. Her voice sounded shrill and lacked echo in the chilly winter evening. "What was that?"

"Nothin'."

Jess didn't turn around or slow down. Big puffs of cloudy air came wafting up as he spoke. She could swear steam was actually coming off him; he was still moving like a tank, full of adrenaline. Did he even have a destination? This was not the way to Luke's.

"Nothing?" Lane tried not to laugh at him. "Nothing! You just reenacted Rumble In The Bronx with a guy who is possibly Stars Hollow High's only star wrestling protégé, and you're walking away with nary a limp, nary a scratch, and you call that nothing?"

"He started it."

"He started it?"

"You ever get tired of the whole parroting thing, Polly?" Jess skirted around a small tree near the gazebo, still no destination apparent.

"Sorry." Lane readjusted her backpack strap as she walked. "The principal said twice, why did he say twice? You've done this more than once?"

"That is what twice means."

"I mean—more than once, more than once with Chuck Presby? You've been on the ground slugging away at Chuck Presby more than once?"

"Yes."

"How? Why? Are you fine, you seem fine—"

"Hey!" Jess halted so suddenly; Lane crashed into his back. "It's not my first rodeo, okay, so you can end the M.A.S.H. routine. I don't need a checkup."

Lane's hand flew to steady her hat. Her knees bent to steady the rest of her. "Well, clearly. I mean, you're not the one headed to the pharmacy for bandages right now."

"Well, might still be his lucky day, maybe they'll have the Hello Kitty Band-Aids left in stock."

"That would be lucky; those are Kirk's favorite." Lane waited for him to crack any kind of smile and was, of course, disappointed. Went for serious. "So why did you do it?"

Jess' mouth curved in a nasty kind of laugh that didn't wind up coming out, turning to walk again. "Go home."

She did not go home. She kept walking behind him.

"Why'd you fight him?"

"Why'd you follow me?"

"Why won't you answer me?"

"Why won't you take a hint?"

"I'm dying for details here. That was too West Side Story to be left without an origin. Okay, yes, I could be construed as sheltered kid but I can take it, I promise, I mean—if you've survived Thanksgiving in the Kim household with a limited supply of tofurkey, your violence tolerance gets pretty high, trust me. Just tell me!"

"Thought you were good with no?"

"Well, you haven't said no yet technically."

"No."

"Jess, come on."

He whipped all the way around, now, and Lane was quicker to avoid hitting him this time. "Hey, I didn't ask for anyone to come running after me, all right? Why are you here?"

Lane looked him up and down, confused. "Because if I wasn't here I'd have to be home?"

Jess rolled his eyes, shaking his head. She probably shouldn't be standing this near him when his chest was still heaving with whatever filled guys up when they engaged in fisticuffs together. He might get a second wind. The guy in the stairwell sharing his Goldfish seemed very far away, suddenly, but she still didn't think he'd hit a girl. Even if his eyebrows were practically dwarfing his gaze as he looked down at her.

"Okay, maybe I wanted to make sure you weren't suffering some kind of subliminal injury. Have you ever had a concussion?"

"Stop."

"You're not feeling sleepy, are you? I can't see your pupils when your eyebrows are like that."

"Sounds to me like your relationship with no needs a little work."

"I wanted to make sure you were okay." Lane folded her arms.

The blinking began. "Why?"

"Because."

"Because why?"

"Why did you fight Chuck Presby?"

"Why do you care so much?" Jess shook his jacket a little in his fist, gesturing at the ground with angry little jabs as he spoke. "I mean what, you think he doesn't deserve it?"

Lane didn't have to think about that one at all. "Oh, no, he definitely deserves it—"

"Then get off the case, Nancy Drew, he's not dyin' or anything, he just got his."

"Hey, I have a vested interest in this. I was his first victim of the day, as far as I know, so if anyone has a right to inquire into the particulars of Chuck Presby's just desserts, it's me, mister."

"So you think I was doing it for you, is that it?"

Lane's spine went extra-straight. She looked between his eyes, suddenly realizing that she didn't know why she cared so much, beyond her usual desperation to have something to focus on besides the doldrum of Mrs. Kim's routine. Maybe this was the reason. Then she stopped looking between his eyes and took in his whole expression, and what little she actually knew about him as a person, aside from Goldfish and Luke and reading in the middle of class.

"No," she said, shifting her weight to her other foot. All that marching had warmed her up a little, thankfully.

"Good, cuz I didn't."

"Good."

"He doesn't know when to shut up, that's all."

"Understood."

"This whole town's got a problem with running their mouths, Chuck Presby's just got the closest mouth within swinging distance."

"Okay."

"Okay." Jess' jaw worked and for a moment he seemed to have slowed down. His intake and outtake of air was definitely calmer. "He's a jerk. And he deserved to get punched."

"We've established that."

"That's why I did it."

"Fine." Lane nodded, firm, trying to put as much assurance and agreement into it as she could. Hopefully that would take away some of the brown fire still kind of flickering under his eyebrows. "So what'd he say to cause the whole Ring of Honor audition?"

"Is the cable out at your place or something?"

"Okay, okay," Lane raised both hands. "You win. I'll go home, I'll stop prying. Far be it from me to join the mouth-running masses."

"Great." He let out a huge breath, unbunching his jacket bit by bit, pulling one of the sleeves outside-out again. He didn't seem sorry to see her go, still winded, but he also didn't look annoyed with her anymore.

Lane started walking backward down the sidewalk as Jess set about putting his coat back on. It was a testament to how well she knew these particular streets that she could move like this even when there were icy patches to contend with.

"But seriously, you should have Luke monitor your sensitivity to light when you get home."

"Tofurkey's calling."

"Do not even joke about tofurkey."

The crowd on the high school's turf had almost totally cleared up. The sun was peeking out through the clouds and making the snow all shiny. Taylor was emerging from the market to take down the big plastic Santa outside, and Lane could smell meatloaf as a patron opened the door to Luke's. Jess remained standing in the same spot near the gazebo, buttoning up his jacket. Evidently he'd cooled down enough to need it again.

Lane lifted a hand as she called out to him. "Thanks for the vicarious bloody nosing."

"Thanks for the incessant nagging." He glanced up in between buttons.

"Any time."

He didn't wave back or smile at all, but his mouth wasn't in such a hard line now. He lingered on her for just a second longer before she turned fully away, headed for Kim's Antiques. She could taste the green tea already. Funnily enough, though, she wasn't cold anymore. That may have had less to do with the post-argument adrenaline and more to do with the idea that she might actually still have a friend at school. A mouthy, John Bender type friend.

Miracles upon miracles.