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Chapter Ten: Paris and Rory, Leaping Out of the Gate! (part 2)

"So I'm thinking that Gregory Smith of Everwood is cute, don't you agree Madeline?" Louise says.

It's another Wednesday lunch at the table I share with Madeline, Louise and Paris, where I'm convinced day by day that the lime Jell-O is neither lime, gelatin, or flavorful. We still sit next to each other, and this is about as close to her I'll get in school publicly with everyone around. Paris picks at her meatloaf with the plastic fork, having long polished off her regular salad. I don't even bother with the meat, going ala carte with a chicken sandwich, the salad, and an oatmeal cookie in place.

Madeline seems distant lately, her eyes drifting left and right as she takes in conversation and tries to wring wittiness out of it. "Everwood? What's that?"

Now this is a shock, Madeline not watching a show filled with a new hunk. Paris even has to look up and comment. "The sugary-sweet product of a Dawson's Creek writer featuring the lead of the mediocre Substitute sequels as a father fleeing the ghost of his dead wife in Manhattan by moving himself and his rugrats to a town she probably coasted by once and thought was pretty from the interstate wayside. It follows the Christian Right rhetoric and community theater troupe of 7th Heaven. Tell me you haven't at least heard of it."

Again, Madeline isn't in denial, shaking her head. "Sorry, I've been elsewhere on the dial Monday nights."

"Where else, there's nothing else worthwhile on TV that night," Louise argued. "At least eye-candy wise. No offense to The American Experience you two, just not my bag unless there's a JFK profile."

Pigeonholing us into our PBS geekiness, Paris quickly strikes back. "None taken, Marilyn Monroe reincarnated." Louise then sticks out her tongue towards her and calls Paris a know-it-all. Both Par and Lou are so used to their mental catfighting it's almost as natural to them as breathing. They'll still be friends to the end, but one of them will probably leave a last retort in their entry on the funeral visitation log.

"Guys, focus here," I implore, trying to bring the conversation back Madeline's way. "Something wrong Mads?"

She smiled shyly, trying to draw focus away from herself. "I'm good," she smiles fine to reassure us. "After the last season of the Creek I'm not ready to take up new poster boys. I just want...plot, you know, and I'm not getting it lately. So I've taken to watching other stuff on TV. If it involves science and geeky stuff, so be it."

Louise interrupts her. "Hot and geeky science hunks?" she intones with her husky 'sex' voice.

"You forget I watched Mr. Wizard all the time when I was a kid," she said wearily. "All that stuff was cool, and you can only watch fashion shows on Style so many times before it becomes boring."

I nodded at Paris for confirmation of this fact, surprised as she confirmed Madeline's science interest. "The house staff had to keep baking powder and soda on hand on the off chance she saw something she wanted to replicate on her own."

Madeline speaks up, and our attention is drawn back towards her. "My favorite," she lifts a hand up, "was that tornado in a bottle thing, with that thing you screwed in the middle between two two-liter bottles. You'd put water in a bottle, screw in the top and then the other, and whoooosh, we're not in Kansas anymore!" She gets giddy at describing this, very animated. "All the fire stuff was cool too, but Daddy never let me do that because he didn't want me to get burned."

"Would you still be interested in science?" I queried Madeline.

"It's still my best class," she reminded me. "Not many dateworthy guys, not much stuff to do otherwise, so I listen and pay attention."

"You have to remind me of this everyday." Louise butts into the conversation unannounced. "If it was up to me the only chemistry I'd be studying is a soap hunk's perspiration and how to clone the DNA contained for my very own willing and able copy..."

I wasn't listening to Louise bitch about class, my eyes following Madeline's as she found her concentration jar towards the middle aisle of the dining hall towards a trash can. Her features stilled and became neutral as her stare went from across the table and she moved her head a couple of inches towards her left. I notice she straightened her sweater out and ran a couple fingers through her hair, and I can't figure out why for a bit. I sense some nervous energy, her eyes drifting towards a group of three boys turned around, their backs towards us.

She takes a sip from her chocolate milk and clears her throat as they turn around and head towards us and an empty table past us a ways. She gulps it down and the boys turn around.

The signals that Madeline is swooning are really starting to come on strong to me as a bystander, as Brad and two of his buddies from the Robotics and Computer Sciences class walk towards us and Madeline. Instantly there's a connection between Brad and Maddie, and I watch them make eye contact from across the room for but a moment. She pushes in her chair as a sign of courtesy, and they come closer towards us. Louise's ramble has moved onto the latest All My Children developments.

"Madeline, thank you." Brad speaks in that tremble he only has when he's in Paris' line of vision, and he acknowledges all of us. "Rory, Louise..." he trails off as I see Paris give him that focused death glare. "P-p-aris."

"Uhh, you're welcome Brad." Madeline is never shy around boys, which is another sign of what she wants. "Good meatloaf today, isn't it?" Nervous and neutral is how she was speaking to him.

Brad looks down at his tray as he tries to squeeze lengthwise since Louise won't move her chair for him. "Hopefully." Brad directs a funny smile her way, Louise rolling her eyes up at him and his two friends.

"Let's go Langford, we don't have all day," she snipes, pulling her chair in so they can get through. Madeline stills, shocked at how her friend is talking to Brad. They move through the aisle as Madeline looks on towards Brad, then relaxes as the distance between them increases and they sit at their own table. Everything goes back to normal, as Paris finds her salad more interesting than what just went on.

"Louise." Madeline asks for her attention sternly, her voice taking an uncharacteristic firmness. "Why do you have to be so mean to him, he just wanted to get through."

"There's plenty of other aisles in this room, he could've used one of those." Louise says matter-of-factly.

"This one's closer to his table."

"So, I don't want that buffalo stuffer anywhere near me. Anyone who calls playing a video game fun with chodes online isn't worth the time and effort to acknowledge."

Madeline feels hurt from Louise's words, and Paris and I watch as they start to fight. "He just said hi to us, that's no reason to tear the poor boy's head off."

"It's plenty of reason, face it, he's hopelessly uncool." Louise points and Madeline's eyebrows scrunch down in anger. "Why any girl would be interested in him..."

I notice Paris take in everything Louise is saying, and although her and Brad don't get along, she doesn't outright hate him. She's told me this before, that she needs someone to occasionally make fun of, but really she wants to encourage him to be a little less geeky and gain a little confidence. Listening to Louise, I can tell she's had enough.

She firmly interrupts Lou with that tone that still scares me, even now. "Grant, back off. He's Brad, not the token louse from an 80's fraternity movie. He has good points and bad points, and frankly if a girl likes him, more power to her."

Our blonde friend is of course thrown for a loop; she'll never win this argument. "But he's such a geek--"

"Yet you associate with both of us." she reminds, her face neutral as she points towards me. "Retract the claws and pick on some two-bit soap actress instead. That is, unless you hate Rory and I for being smart ourselves. Lest you also forget that you carry a 3.50 GPA and keep up with Rory and I somehow."

"Paris, I just hate the guy. He's so meek and annoying, and has no backbone."

"I like Brad too," I say, trying to form a majority. "So if you want to make fun of him, do it on your own time."

"But--" Louise was stumbling over her words and losing her cause to make fun of him. "He's a---" She threw her hands around trying to justify her teasing, then gave up knowing that none of us backed her up. "Fine, I won't make fun of Richie Cunningham over there anymore, you all win!"

"LOUISE!" Madeline gritted her teeth at her, annoyed at the Ron Howard comparison. "No more."

"Yeah, yeah, I'm done. God, if you weren't just like me I'd think you had a crush on the guy." Louise isn't looking at Madeline as she's saying this, and thank goodness, because her eyes just widen in surprise, she whimpers, and then blushes at the very insinuation of her infatuated with Brad.

Paris and I sneak a look towards each other, Madeline's face revealing all. She doesn't notice us, just focusing on hiding her secret longing. "Of course not, why would I ever want a boy like him. I'd rather have...a stallion in the sack, of course." Not very convincing Lynn, not at all. Louise doesn't notice her inflection fade, and within moments they go back to looking at their lunch.

Meanwhile I can go back to what my thoughts were previously. School is starting to feel a lot more different now that Paris is mine. I looked forward to going to school before we finally acknowledged there was something here that's between us. Not only for the educational aspects, but so that I could stare for hours on end at the vexing blonde that took on the role of my girlcrush for months and months. I could now look at her for free, unnoticed, without any repercussions or suspicions by her that I was noticing her in more as more than my editor and leader.

I feel my heart pound in my chest whenever I'm near her, my nerves on high alert. Then, at that lunch table, I felt my stomach twist around because she was so close to me. Above the table, we looked like we had plenty of space between us. The thing about appearances, however, was that they can be deceiving.

You've probably figured out I wasn't saying much through that discussion. I would've loved to defend Brad more than I did and irked on both Madeline and Paris some more because of what Louise was saying about him, the boy didn't deserve her grief because she wasn't able to able to attract the attention of her cornerback guy for the last couple of days.

My mind was in the conversation, sure, I heard just about everything that happened and my attention was trained on trying to figure out if Madeline and Brad were interacting more than in that awkward talk about meatloaf.

But just try to keep all of your attention on a matter when that damned girl you really like has her hand along the side of your skirt, getting her flirt on without saying one word. Then just try to think of a way to unwind your way out of something romantic beneath the table.

That's right, while Paris brought down Louise's bravado at defending her teasing of Brad, at the same time beneath the table, her right foot was bared and out of her shoe, and rubbing up against my bared ankle. Today I was wearing ped socks that end just above the ankle. I took a quick glance below the table as Madeline was talking to Brad with Louise's attention on them, noticing that there was something brushing against my left shin.

My first thought was an apple had rolled from another table and ended up at my feet. That was unlikely since the tables were pretty big and it would take a lot for one to roll off the huge surfaces. Paris hadn't tried anything funny Tuesday and was trying to maintain the 'no kissing at school' rule we agreed to, which I thought would kill any kind of sexual vibe at school that we could share. I guess when you've been on the sidelines of love for as long as Paris has, there's some built-up energy that's been in her for years yearning to get out.

Her hand wasn't actually on my thigh, rather she was brushing it above the fabric of the skirt with her pinkie finger, appearing on the outside to anyone else to be innocent. But it wasn't. I feel my breath deepen and my blood rush down with the slight caresses of her fingertip against my side. Never had I thought of Paris being the type to be a physical flirter. I had a hint of that last week with the car incident, but I'm starting to learn from her that this light touch to her is just as sensual as sharing a kiss with her. I started thinking then about how nice it was that she was left-handed and able to keep her right hand otherwise occupied with me when we sat together.

I felt a thrill at getting away with this kind of contact in school with our friends watching, both of them clueless that we're a couple. Paris' toes brushed along the ridge of the opening of my shoe, along my ankle. I hold back a shudder, looking dead-on at Madeline and Louise without any emotion except that the chicken sandwich was quite tasty. That Paris does this without a word, focusing more on her class work in her head and the meatloaf in front of her than the fact she's driving me crazy beneath the table, it's strange that it all comes back to the flirting that we did to each other over the last year. I heave a breath, wanting more contact with her, but knowing I won't get it unless there's a sudden fire drill and an opportunity to flee elsewhere in the school.

I keep denting into my salad, those damned smooth legs of hers teasing me and teasing me. It's been about ten minutes, and Louise's guy came by to whisk her away God knows where for a quickie. The wait for the lunch bell is torturous as I open up a book and Paris takes her Palm organizer out of her bag to update her assignments. Madeline rests her elbow on the table and props her chin on her hand, uninterested in anything except looking towards Brad's table. I fork a tomato and a few greens, then slather it in some dressing, starting to munch on it. My face looks more interested in looking as if its chewing food rather than having shortened breath from Paris' foot against the back of my leg.

Daydreaming, my mind was drifting off from school as Paris continued her erotic torture unabated. It thought about how wound up I was after the basket dream, how I felt unfulfilled and so turned on with Par in my room, but didn't act because of the pesky 'mom 100 feet away at Babbette and Morey's' factor. I really wanted to tell her about the dream and her role in it while she drove to school, but I'm still trying to gauge how much she wants to hear about me away from Chilton. Also after how she reacted when I kissed her Monday morning suddenly on the road, I didn't want her swerving off an overpass hearing about us defiling Sharon's breakfast nook.

The time passed slowly, but soon it was 12:45, and after finishing my chapter the bell rang and Paris' foot left my side. She slid it back into her shoe and I ate the last of my salad, filled from the meal. I got up and felt a little dizzy from my legs seeming to be jelly-like from Par's machinations through the meal.

Madeline got up from her seat and gathered her stuff, shaking her head. "See you two in seventh, I gotta go wake up Louise from her afterglow." I laughed as Paris rolled her eyes, and we both said goodbye.

We cleared our places at the table and threw our trash in the can, starting to walk out of the dining hall close together. She was giving me this funny look out of the corner of my eye for some reason, this little smile that was getting to me and making me wonder. We left the hall and went out into the courtyard, heading towards our lockers.

Suddenly she took my hand, and yanked me away from the walkway around the fountain towards a patch of bushes in a corner after she looked both ways and saw no one near us.

I asked her what was up, but she didn't answer me right away, just giving me this hovering and nervous look before we headed into the small grove and I was able to ask her what was up.

"Did I do something wrong?" I asked nervously. "You're smiling like The Joker, Jack Nicholson version here at me. What is with you today, you're all happy and caressing..."

I was about to start one of my patented unfocused rambles, when I found a finger coming towards my face. She kept quiet until her index finger was against the left side and ridge of my upper lip.

"You might want to blot more next time, that dressing's been irking me for about five minutes." She rubbed her finger slowly and seductively against my face, obviously cluing me into the fact that I had ranch dressing on my lip I forgot to wipe off when I was finished, being occupied by other things. She moved the finger against my cheek, gathering up the remainders of my meal while at the same time sensitizing my body and most likely, causing me to be antsy through the two periods until Life Sciences I wouldn't be sharing with her. Moaning, she pursed her lips out and drew the finger back towards herself.

Wide-eyed, I took in the sight of Paris Gellar, who days before I wouldn't associate with the word 'sensual', teasing me with her actions and the few words she mustered as my vision took in her fingertip with a small dollop of ranch dressing resting on the tip. What is she about to do? I could only form basic thought as what I thought she'd do with it, actually happened.

She stuck out her tongue and licked the dressing from her finger, my eyes wide and my libido doing backflips. All the while Paris was giving me that secret smile she directs only towards me, and I stilled my breathing at this erotic sight. She was tasting me, only not. She finally closed her mouth and let the taste settle on her palate, her face turning from sensual to satisfied, closing her eyes taking in the familiar tang of the ranch dressing, mixed with the saltiness of my skin.

I will not kiss her, I will not kiss her, I will not kiss her!! No kissing at Chilton!! My mind kept replaying my Ground Rule #1 for this new thing with Par as she kept looking so damned irresistible and the entire lunch spun through the filter of my brain. I felt like I'd collapse in on myself if I walked. She heaved out a breath, starting to open up her eyes and recover from the little scene she just spun. God, even though we're together now, she's still a little troublemaker who gets off on seeing me all annoyed and out of breath.

Paris smiled towards me, and as I settled my heart down, she just kept that hovering look still.

"I've always wanted to do that," she says matter-of-factly. "It's a big pet peeve of mine, how could you be so forgetful today Gilmore?"

Sure, blame the girl with a fogged-up mind caused by your one-sided footsie game! I knew she was baiting me, but all the same that soft monotone had that know-it-all spin that still sort of annoys me a little. No matter though, the way she was looking at me all flushed and unsteady, with a fast-beating heart. I never thought of her as full of surprises, but right now I'm just glad that there is no fantasy anymore. Everything is reality.

Everything, including what I said in reaction to what she just did. I brushed some stray hair back and stumbled through. "You finally got your revenge on me, some of that dressing on the lips during lunch was on purpose, you know that?" I clasped my hand in hers, enjoying the privacy we had.

Paris nodded and tittered nervously. "I know that now, but there was an inkling and a hope that you were goading on my libido." She looked down at the ground, then back towards me. "You enjoyed that lunch, right? Because I can reel back--"

"Please don't!!" I cried out, a little panicked. "Uh, what I meant is really, really liked what you did, it's nice." I shuffled my foot around a little, nervous I wouldn't get to class on time. "I never knew that you had that kind of thing in you, you know? It's secret and nice and..."

She brushed my knuckle, then let go of it as we got ready to separate until 7th period. "No need to elaborate, the point is made." She hesitated, and helped direct us out of the bushes. "I just want to be nice, you know? I have so much lost ground to make up for, and I want to be perfect, get everything right, not fail you. I don't want you to go back to hating me, you know?"

I decided to leave and separate from her, leaving her with words that were sure to kill the worries she might have had about getting everything with us right.

"Oh, trust me Par, I can't hate you anymore. But..." I lowered my voice a bit and gave her a hovering once-over. "Revenge on what you did to me at lunch today sure will be sweet." I let the sentence hang, and left her behind and still where she stood as she watched me walk towards the Ambrose building and my next class. My hope was that she would know what I was getting at, and leave her salivating for more when it comes to me. What we have, it's like a board game. I have to plot out my next move carefully around Paris' grand gestures, while at the same time trying to accommodate what she wants. I walk down the hall towards my locker with a spring in my step, and I'm looking forward to lunch for more than the salad for now on.

I'm going to keep Paris as mine, whether it takes a fight or not. Hopefully not a fight, more like a passionate argument, I'd rather have it start that way than to fight her. Just the thrill of this relationship beneath the noses of everyone we both know is quite enough for me.

I just have to start remembering to do a loose tie on my shoes from now on; you never know when an opportunity could come up again to plant my 'revenge' towards her...

* * * * *

It's my last period of class, number seven, Life Sciences. Usually a class I don't direct full attention towards because my scientific mind does very well and the external reading I do outside of science classes helps in lessening how much dependence I have on the textbooks during assignments and tests. With Paris sitting next to me, the class becomes all that more distracting. Though the stools we sit at are wobbly, I love the table in front of us and our seating in the back. The table is covered at the front, and no one unless they walk into the classroom can see what we're both doing. Dr. Eure, the teacher, is also a nice lady, far from the image I was expecting of a rough teacher like Popular's Ms. Glass character, who lives and dies on taunting her students.

Since it's our last period, we also have the easier and more relaxing class, and that shows in my fellow peers. She doesn't enforce uniform rules in this period as strictly as most of the other teachers, so the guys in front of me have unknotted ties and popped collars, while the girls untuck their shirts to prepare early for dismissal. Paris ruffles at this habit, but she accepts some things can't change, like that. I keep my uniform tucked, clean and straight just to appease her.

I keep my feet on the bottom rail of the chair, keeping any temptations of doing something with Paris to myself. She's concentrated hard in her notes, the pages and pages of information in her thin compressed left-hand cursive seemingly unreadable to everyone but her, though I'm making progress in decoding her language when I need to borrow them. The class info is filled out in the corner of the sheet fully, a habit she'll never break.

As Dr. Eure goes on about mitochondria, I find myself trying to find a way to talk to Paris about this morning's dream now, rather than when we're on the road or in the Franklin, since talking in the newspaper office after everyone leaves doesn't guarantee privacy. I knew what Dr. Eure was talking about already, so I didn't need to note, and I'm sure Paris didn't either. There was something inside of me that wanted to tell her about the dream, just how would I go about it?

I looked at the notebook in front of me, and towards Paris. Since I'm a righty and she's a lefty, there was open space between our sides of the table so that we could come a little closer towards the center without suspicion. I looked towards the lectern; Dr. Eure was reading from her syllabus, unnoticing our corner of the room.

Passing notes is something I do in class occasionally, but not often. I looked at my book and Par's, and had a brainstorm. If we could have a conversation through our notebooks and without words, we'd look like we'd take notes to everyone else, but between us, shared a private talk within that same class. It was a foolproof method of talking to my girlfriend, without the actual talking!

I'm going to make this work, was what I determined, try to talk to her and keep everything down-low. The worst thing that could happen is that she wouldn't budge from her notes and say no to my offer. It would be like a crude form of instant messaging was the way I thought, talking and then chatting back. It was perfect.

With one last glance, I wrote down a missive on the second top line of my paper.

Par, want to talk a little? I have to tell you something about this morning. Come a little closer if you'd like.

I pushed my pad towards her, and tapped her hand to have her read slyly. She drew her attention away from her notes, and looked at what I read. Since her note page was full, she was able to turn to a blank piece herself. She held up her hand a little, in a way that wouldn't draw attention, then wrote down her response, then directed me to look towards her notebook so I could read.

I could, just as long as I don't get caught, I know this stuff fine. Anything specific?

She was into it already, what a lucky break. I thought she might not jump on, but she's fully into my idea. Again, I write more text into my notebook.

Remember how I overslept, and you couldn't figure out why?

We start to get into a pattern. She looks, writes, then after I hear her scribbling die down, I look at her writing and prepare to respond with what I have. I read her thought.

I figured your alarm clock was set wrong, you've never been late to class except that one time during the Shakespeare exam.

Shaking my head, I write down that it wasn't wrong, and that I slept through the alarm because of a dream.

What kind? She writes. A nightmare?

Her eyes catch me smiling as I dispel her guess.

Remember the basket auction from last year where Jess paid a lot of money for my company for an afternoon? How could she not, I remember her reaction to the whole thing when she sighed and said "Your town is beyond weird, are you sure Rod Serling isn't your mayor?", then just laughed a little at the absurdist and quaint notion of the basket auction.

She thought for a moment to recall that time, then wrote back right away.

You had a dream about Jess? I thought that you liked me. The writing was a little dark, rushed and panicked, which I kind of expected. It's always a first reaction to reassert what we have already, so with the same speed, I soothed her by writing that no, it wasn't about Jess, that he was in the dream, but not the main focus.

Back to her notebook. Oh, sorry, she writes, her eyes focused on the lectern when she sees Ms. Eure angles towards our side of the room to make a point. We stop writing to take in some facts, and it takes a couple minutes to go through what she's lecturing us through.

When she finishes and directs us towards some textbook reading, both Paris and I open our books and page to the subject, while putting our notebooks on top of the unread page. The back and forth begins again as she wants details about the dream. Never had I done this, told anyone the details of a dream like this. Of course I had to lie around my mom this morning to avoid the mortification of my reason for sleeping longer than usual.

I had a dream about you. There, simply stated.

She looks at my curling script, her eyes then drifting upward to read my face. I glance down a little, feeling shy and a little self-conscious about my flirting plan. It's somehow fitting that a couple of years ago if I had tried to get her attention with my writing, she would've crumpled up the paper, like she did over the project I broke. But she's game about this note-passing session.

She writes back, smiling. What kind of dream?

You outbid Jess for the basket, got Dean mad at you, and shocked me with how much you'd pay for my company for an afternoon, I let her know.

She shook her head, blushing at the very idea that she'd buy my basket. Did I get my money's worth Gilmore? I have a discriminating taste for how I spend my wealth you know.

Wow, that took me aback, the structure of her words. I shake a little, and she gives me an look as my bottom lip lowers. I flirt back with some shaky cursive;

You almost were able to use that discriminating taste on me; however my mother shook me awake before you could...God, I think you know what happened in this dream, you're not stupid! I was starting to get in over my head, I thought I was going to be cute with this flirting via pen, but I was being outplayed by Paris' curious nature!

Her right hand brushes up against my left as her pencil asks the next question. Where did I have you? And yes, I'm not stupid, you wouldn't even be bringing this up if it was just us two skipping across Bushnell Park with psychedelic sixties music in the background.

I snorted a little laughter out at that because I actually had that dream in the last cynical days before I dumped Dean last week. Of course the climax was Paris telling him off and both of us kissing in the rain or something (I forget specifics), but however it ended it was hot.

Dr. Eure looked towards our direction to trace where the sudden noise was coming from. "Miss Gilmore, are you OK? Something funny about cell division you'd like to share with the class?"

I looked up, a little embarrassed; I have to be more careful in the future. "Um, no Doctor, ma'am. I just saw a word in a funny place as I paged through the book, gonad I think it was." I never knew how to cover my ass well when the teacher's looking at me wrong. "It won't happen again." I shied down on my stool, praying the attention would go back to the front lectern with a few of my peers in front laughing at my uttering of the juvenile word.

"Please make sure it doesn't, this is a serious class. Miss Gellar understands how important this class is, right?"

"I do ma'am," she responds off-hand, like her response is breathing.

"Alright then. So back to page 174..."

Everyone goes back to reading, except for the both of us, faking reading and continuing to write. I write down the exact details of her wooing track, from her $750 bid, the drive down, and up to the point I beg of her to take me in her mother's perfect Better Homes and Gardens-ready breakfast nook. I avoid the details of her undressing me, no need to elaborate upon that since her mind can fill in those blanks.

It's a long, meandering six paragraph entry, and when I finish, my hand has a wicked case of writer's cramp when I shove the book towards her to read. I've done journal entries on and off through the years because I'm not comfortable archiving my life in something anyone can get at. It's strange to me, confessing a dream of want to my girlfriend, when this description is as ribald as I ever have gotten on paper.

She looks it over, her face showing what I was expecting, a mix of emotions at her persona within my mind in REM state. She keeps her pinkie against the heel of my left hand, teasing me and sending a shudder up my arm, her eyes focused on the script in front of her. It seems like an eternity as she takes in all the details, her breathing the only thing I focus on. It goes from steady and staid...then shaken and huffed...two minutes later and when she finishes reading, it's shallow, slow, trying to take in all I've just written.

I look at the class, still in thought about the current subject at hand, and then towards the blonde sitting next to me, her legs crossed and making hay of my description. I know I've gotten to her when I find her adjusting the collar on her blouse, the tight collar button and tie a hindrance to cool air against her lower neck.

Still, she wrote, her left hand gripping the yellow Dixon, wearing the graphite down like she was making out her last will. I read as she writes, her words stating so much that her voice couldn't say in the space of that science classroom.

Dear God there Ror, I knew you had dreams about me that were a little involved. I didn't know that you could dream that passionately though. Wow, it's scary; you taking my intensity and channeling that from my bookish self into someone so raw and...sexual. I have to admit, I like how you dream, because that's how I want to come off one day. That is, if you'd like to. In the future of course, not right now, not that I wouldn't want to get involved with you in such an untamed way...

I grip her hand, encircling my index finger around her ring finger, to calm her down and have her focus her writing more. The move seems to kill her ramble. In a way it's one of those sly moves that we're comfortable with doing to keep ourselves hidden, but let us still have that couple connection we've had lately.

I have to be honest with you, she writes. I asked what made you oversleep this morning, and I'm glad you lied. Because if you hadn't... She pauses, her eyes burning into mine, ...I may have ended my perfect attendance streak this morning from ravishing you senseless in the back of the car. I knew there was something up from your blush and panic getting out of the shower, there was a feeling there. I just want to take things slow, but this want of you is consuming me so badly.

I let her write on, feeling myself stiffen with each of her romantic words. Walking into Luke's yesterday morning, the anticipation building when I saw you at your table with Lorelai, waiting for me with the tea, the minutes it took of conversation with you and your mom until you finally gave the signal you needed the restroom. How I found myself needing the bathroom at the same time and following you, locking the door, and then you dragging me by the hand towards the stall, where you pushed me against the partition and kissed me senseless. I'd been awaiting that since the moment I got up, like a light. The routine was automatic, the want for you driving me through the morning until that moment you took my hand into yours, whispered your hope that I was having a good morning, my ultra-bad soft-core porn-like response of 'it is now', and then you kissed me. You, kissing me in your favorite place in the whole wide world. It was that moment I realized that my dream did come true. That you like me as more than a friend.

Last night, I'm sitting at the dinner table as my mom bitches out the help again over how their table-setting skills are lax, that her food is too dry; never mind the fact that her glass to the side is filled with a fifth helping of rum and Tab, the most disgusting drink I've ever had the displeasure to mix (trust me, it smells like paint thinner, never drink it). She asks me how my day was; and I tell her good. She asks why, and my mind struggles to think up something to cover up the fact that for the first time since mid-seventh grade, I have to lie to her, because the schoolwork wasn't the most exciting part of my day in school.

I make up something about the challenging curriculum of AE, how it's vexing me, yet I'm acing everything Mr. Silvestri's tossing my way. In reality, it's that moment before lunch in Russian Novels when the bell rings and I'm melting in my seat from how relaxing your hands feel against the back of my neck, those fingers of yours through my hair comparable to the hairbrush I use every morning, slowly easing your way from beneath the rope of my necklace. You pull them away to gather your books, but before you do, you get my attention by saying my full name aloud. Your sweet voice has my undivided attention, and as everyone is distracted with the business of getting to lunch, you bring your mouth close to my ear, to whisper a secret. I have no idea what's about to be said, but I figure something mundane.

"Par?" You question, as I'm focused on nothing uncouth. "Pink and pink, I match today, promise." You drift away, turn to face me, and smile. "Hungry?" you ask, reminding me of our next destination of the dining hall. Your whisper distracts me from the thought of food; instead focusing on mentally undressing you and sating that hunger in a way not appropriate for a Chilton setting. You're lucky that I have this reserved persona to me, the kind that doesn't take those words and try to act in the middle of a classroom to confirm that indeed, you did match, and that I'm starved for your touch. Still I lie to Mother, go on about economics, how much I want to ace the upcoming exam he's been hinting on giving out, while the same time getting that rush in my head that you took what seemed like an awful and hidden flirt on my end the day before, then turned the tables on me to let me know that what I'd say to you would eventually come back to haunt me.

I took that little moment of the day to bed with me last night, and thought about it as I drifted off, smiling my way to sleep. It was such a little and inconsequential moment in that entire day, along with the day before when I noted you weren't matching. But you're like me Rory, you notice the little things. You see how I am, and you've started this relationship slow and steady, like a turtle. Yet you tantalize. I'm happy I do that to you too, that this longing for me built up so much, that whatever we have now, it's strong and we can't deny it to each other anymore.

Thank you for thinking of me like that, no matter if it was unconscious in sleep or not. I might not be the most self-confident girl in the room (and you can tell), but right now I feel like the most revered and respected, by you.

It takes two pages and seven paragraphs to respond to what she thought of my dream, but whether she took an entire notebook to do that or just those first two sentences in her first paragraph, how she thinks about me, and how that moment at the end of Russian Novels, something rash and unexpected, led her day to go from draggy and regular, to something good. Honest, the matching thing just came to me out of the blue, I was just trying to keep her on her toes. It makes me smile to think that seven little words define a day like that.

I look at her; she's shaking a cramp out of her left hand, gripping the cool metal faucet next to her that pours into the basin next to her that's used for experiments to cool the pain down. Her eyes look into mine, and there's a slight smile, unnoticed by anyone else. I link my index finger with hers, a gesture hidden by the messenger bag in front of us to everyone else.

We both feel everything has been said, and that we can talk more later on. I write down one last line in my notebook to close the conversation, and state how I feel about her description simply.

Thank you for warming up to me hon. I knew one day you'd finally give up on the 'school a living hell' line of thinking; I wore you down, didn't I?

She gives me a dirty look, and ends all talk with her own comeback.

I'm still making it hell as we speak; right now you just want to flee to the bathroom, don't you?

Paris smirked, and I shook my head, knowing she was teasing, but at the same time, knew my truth. The particle board that made up the seat beneath me was magnifying the 'itch' that's now become my new constant companion. After this hot 'instant letter' session, all I did want to do was take this to the broom closet Louise-style.

I pushed the feeling down though, and both of us brought our attention back to where it should've been, the lesson being presented. I'm just happy to have a push to go to school everyday now besides the 'I want to get into Harvard' reason that brought me here in the first place. Paris is such a good girlfriend, and to get to know this hidden and secret side of her, it's something I'm starting really treasure and hold close to my heart. There's nothing better than being next to the one you like, and asserting that away from the wary eyes of the gossip circle.

What I find funny is that we did this in Life Sciences class, which can also be called biology. We certainly learned a little about each other's biology today...

And that joke thudded. Fine, done with the class subject cracks, they're not funny, you can stop with that cringing look already, I see it on your face! Geeze, you try to lighten the mood...

* * * * *

The student government meeting later in the day was pretty good. Most of the students were able to air their business, and seemed to notice that Paris lended more of an open ear than she had in the past. I like seeing her happier and less tight when it comes to government business. With my relaxing techniques and the tension between us gone, Paris and I had one of our best meetings yet, and everyone was able to accept the higher bid when she told them "They give our lives, even if we might disagree with the views the government has for military action. $500 out of the student treasury surely isn't a strain on fundraising, and keeping our dance loyalties at the Armory rather than paying so much extra for a fancy hotel name on a dance card is better in the end. Hotels can get another event in place of ours; the military deserves the extra support." The only two to nay the vote were of course Lemon and Francie, so the 10-2 vote to keep the Winter Formal at the Armory was pretty much unanimous. We also put on the docket next week the move to keep the Valentine's Day dance there, much to that evil red-head's dismay.

She made sure to let me know that when she confronted me in the bathroom after the meeting adjourned, backing me into a corner of the room. "I thought you were going to vote for the Capitol Hilton," she nagged at me in a harsh voice.

I shook my head at her. "It's tradition to have it in the Armory, and the statistics from the other schools in the area that use the Hilton for their dances show lax supervision of the kids and the hotel taking advantage of kids there by hiking up room prices if they don't feel like going home. Francie, the graphs don't lie, the Armory is a better location for the students than going through downtown Hartford traffic."

"Traditions can be changed," she spat back. "Frankly, I'd rather have prestige than another boring dance."

"Spirit Club puts a lot into the decorations at the Formal in the Armory, much more than paid union help at a hotel. There isn't a need to move the Formal, so just don't." I wasn't getting anywhere with Francie, but it was worth a shot.

"If I wanted gay decorations I'd recruit someone on Christopher Street to help me out." I stood frozen as what should've been unconnected to the club Francie was trying to eradicate was brought into this fight we were having. "I don't care if a fucking Picasso is in that Spirit Club, a few of them are Rainbow Triangles and they don't belong in that club. The last place I'd want to be is hanging a balloon line on a ladder with some lezbo looking up my skirt!"

Wow, I was speechless. Somehow, Francine Jarvis has managed to make an even more homophobic slur than the last time she met with me. Just cold shock that she'd describe someone like me in such a hateful manner. No wonder Paris warned me it was going to be tough for both of us to come out at Chilton, with girls like her on top, no boy or girl would want to suffer at the hands of the populars like Francie.

"That was uncalled for!" I said firmly. "They help the school, and they do more good than they ever will harm."

"There is nothing about them that is good. They're abominations against God, and just because they can't get their sad little selves laid from the opposite sex in this school doesn't mean they should screw each other's ugly little bodies out of desperation."

Never had I found myself more pissed off at a single individual than at that exact moment. Jarvis had her teeth bared in a wide smile, her stance defensive, words like cutting knives. I thanked God no one was around to hear these hateful words, as they stirred something inside that I couldn't help; content for this right-wing bitch coasting by on Daddy's political clout as a top man in the Legislature and bitter because even he couldn't save her precious Puffs.

"Funny how that also describes you, minus the girl interest," I responded snidely. "You're like the Ann Coulter of this school; you look cute, but no guy wants to share a bed with you because of what comes out of that hateful mouth of yours." If she was going to keep up with these barbs against the Rainbow Triangles, she was going to find herself with a black eye pretty soon.

"Like your words have any effect on me, Virgin." Scowling, she slid her bag on her shoulder and started out of the bathroom. "You will keep me happy Gilmore, count on that. If you don't change your vote in the next month when I bring up the elimination of Fag Club, count on these last five months of Chilton to be trying on your mental state thanks to my girls. Just watch, I have conduits into the gossip circle, and when December 18th rolls around, you'll see a 12-0 vote against RTS. You can't deny the will of the people, and when my girls give details of what's what with that club to the general student population, there will be no choice but to vote yes to deny funding." Then just to get in one last shot, she blew a bubble of gum and snapped it real loud towards my ear. "Hope you have a nice evening, Gilm-whore." She walked out the bathroom with stiff resounding steps, leaving me yet another tape of hateful barbs, more anger at her now that I am in an actual same-sex relationship, and a determination to figure out how to save RTS without Paris and I being exposed before we were ready.

It's the start of something I'd love to tell someone about, but I can't. I don't want Paris to look at me in a hateful way again, and being in this arrangement to give Francie an occasional yea vote was hard enough. To see her, as just a girl plotting to destroy a student group made me feel like I was in a tangled string, finding it tough to get out. I stood by the sink with two fingers to my temples, feeling stressed at this attack on my new lifestyle. I just wanted to love Paris, but I never expected Francie to make things tough on us by eliminating a social club.

"Fuck," I mumbled into the mirror. I wasn't giving up on Par, and I certainly wasn't ready to let RTS be remembered only in the Aurora on page 237, above a picture of the Arbor Club. I have to figure out a way to keep them alive, not only for this year, but for future generations, so the new leader of Francie's guild won't be able to deny funding to them, no matter what they did.

Francie didn't get Paris, nor I at that Puffs initiation; I'll be damned if she's going to take out her inconsequential feud with both of us out on 27 kids who only mean to help and raise awareness, not disgust fellow students. Hopefully by the time my class of 2003 graduates in June, the tables will turn and Francie will be the one facing the music. Because I could never forgive myself if I was able to save them but could do nothing but stand by the sidelines as cruel parliamentary action undid everything good they ever did. Paris wouldn't vote no uninfluenced, I know that. But she would change her mind if there was force or a groundswell from the students to oppose funding, that or she was afraid of controversy, so she would have to quell it with a yes vote.

Student government is exhausting and wearing at times, but I'd rather be fighting at Paris' side to further her harmless agenda than having to see Francie get her way and leave everyone who doesn't agree with her out in the shadows. And without becoming Par's vice president, the events of the summer that brought me towards realizing my feelings for her would have never happened.

I left the bathroom, putting behind the drama of politics as usual until the next week. My feeling is that Francie picked December 18th to make a statement and discredit our government before the winter recess, and with the holidays approaching the religious feelings would influence the vote towards her. Hopefully this next month would give me time to figure things out.

I'm sitting at Luke's right now across from my mother, trying to figure out where I want things to go with Paris from here. Today was a great day for me, coming up with better ways for the both of us to flirt in such a secret way. Mom keeps asking why I overslept, but there's no damned way she's ever going to learn the truth from me about that! She keeps joking about me being Sleeping Beauty, but I'm barely listening as I glide a fry across a smooth red pool of ketchup, thinking again about how much I hate the distance between North Hartford and Stars Hollow. I don't want to think about Paris right now, I just want to relax and unwind from my stressful school day. But my memory just wants to replay the events over and over again.

It was so much easier when Dean was my boyfriend, where the temptation was killed because of the separate towns we had schools in, and the fact we came together afterschool at the bus stop. My world has been turned upside down though; my lover is there all through school, but nowhere to be found after 5:30pm except under her screenname PGellar167 or at (860) 246-0808. God, I want to see her so much more, and I want us away from the eyes and ears of the region, that way I can finally show off my uninhibited feelings for her without having to peek over her shoulder every kiss to make sure a wary eye isn't in on our scene.

I want to go out on a real date with her. I don't care where, I don't care when, and I could care less if it was just to a Barnes and Noble. I just want to be out with Paris, be able to hold her hand without having to use a prop to hide it. I want her to be all chivalrous and caring, pulling out my chair and telling me 'the world is your oyster Gilmore, pick what you want from the menu'. Not that I'm discounting the dance at all, that's how we finally took the tentative steps towards this to begin with. Some way, I want Paris to take me out on a night on the town without any repercussions. Also, without boundaries or time constraints; every time I think of her now I can't help but feel a swoon in my heart at a mere mention of her name, or even one little thought. I go past Connecticut Public Television and see the familiar outline of the Eiffel Tower during a travelogue program. I numb, and I drop the remote. dazedly, I watch the show with eyes glazed over and Sunday afternoon rushing through my mind again. I can't help the dry mouth and smile I get when someone mentions her, be it Jess or Mom.

"Rory? Hon?" My mom waves her hand in front of my face to rouse me back into the real world. "You OK there? You've been dipping that fry over a minute at least."

I look down at my plate; my finger is dripping with ketchup, along with the ruined potato. Dang it, I can't eat that now. I drop the fry and get out a napkin to wipe my fingertips.

"Oh, uh, I'm sorry." I shake my head and blot the ketchup off my fingers.

"Are you alright there, you seem lost in thought. Did you get a bad grade today?" My mom's concern is definitely noted and understandable since my focus is less on school lately. I shake my head and reassure her with another white lie.

"I'm alright Mom, just a slow and wearing day that would never end." Perfect cover Ror. "Just trying to figure out in my mind what's important for midterms and what isn't." That seems to satisfy her and she goes back to her daily game of bugging and poking Luke as I keep thinking here about my dating situation.

Sure it's going to be awkward if we get to the first date, what one isn't? My lead-off line in asking Dean for a date to the Winter Formal was about chicken and Paris was toting a deck of index cards for Tristan, so we're both certifiable when it comes to this kind of thing. My dates usually consisted of movies at the bookshop, while Paris had to make do with dull parties and awful conversation. Certainly both of us have very little experience with the 'so what's this and this like' kind of small talk that you use dates for in order to make sure you're compatible and a perfect match.

I think that's OK though. Awkwardness is a good way to keep us both at ease, and since we're together the pressure is less on things like kissing or flirting through the night. I don't know if it's going to be me or Paris fielding the first ask-out, but whoever does it between the both of us, we're going to have a unique first date. There's the slight possibility that the dating world might not be for us and we'll realize that it might not work between us. If it doesn't, I'll deal with it through humility. But I see that happening only in terms of fractions of a percentage point. There's a connection here between the both of us, and we have to do our share in taking it from a tenuous bond wrapped around like a loaf of bread's twist tie, into a ship's anchor chain.

With that, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket to notify me of a text message. I take it from my watch pocket, and read the screen to see what was sent. I smile when I read who sent it to me, and what's contained.

Ror,

Good day today,
Thur should be even better.
Talked to Mother,
she'll be gone till 9 tomorrow night...meeting.
Manor study session; Y/N?

Par

I smile a little; she's inviting me to study at the Manor tomorrow so we can spend some time alone together under the cover of a study session. Knowing Paris it will be a study session, but with those open five hours and no Franklin or government meetings in sight, there's plenty of time for couple-ish things for us to do.

"Mom," I ask. "Paris says I should come over and we should study together at her house tomorrow night." I hide my excitement behind the weary 'I'd rather be watching drywall mud settle' voice that used to define how I felt about time spent with Paris outside of Chilton. "Can I go over there once we get out of Chilton?"

"Knock yourself out kiddo, I can do a girl's night with Sookie then." She smiles at me, seeming to be happy with the closeness I'm having with Par. "Just as long as you check in at seven."

"No problem," I say as I message Paris back immediately, internally giddy.
 

Par,

Y to that, Mom said it was cool.
Agreed on good day, I miss you a lot.
Hope you have a good rest of the night.

Later,
Ror

I send the reply, happy I have an excuse to have some time with her alone. I think that the conversation is over, but Paris sends one last missive before I put away my cell phone.

Ror,

Miss you too, a lot. Rt 91
feels like US1 from ME to FL without you here.

A million miles, but I feel so close to you despite.

Par

I hold back my emotions reading her truncated text, which no one else who doesn't have extensive knowledge of America's highway system would understand. Thirty minutes between us, but with everything between us, I might as well be in Key West, Florida, with her unhappy in Fort Kent, Maine.

There's no way I ever felt this way with Dean, even when he was writing to me in Washington from Winnetka. Him I could handle missing with how our relationship was, but this...so much different. I put away my phone, the internal clock in my head setting an alarm for 3:35pm and the half-hour after that when Paris and I are in the cavernous surroundings of Gellar Manor with only her nanny and a few other staff members with their eyes on us.

No one near her room, a second floor bedroom, Mrs. Gellar at a meeting...oh dear, something tells me that tomorrow is going to be very interesting. I sense that any allusions to innocent studying will be gone by the time I call Mom to check in tomorrow...

* * * * *

Paris' POV, Thursday, 8:45pm

I love the taste of forty-eight year-old wine so much. The flavors, the sugars, the way the red alcohol swirls within the glass and the way it goes from your mouth and straight to the pleasure center of your brain as the liquid slides down your throat. It's not as sweet as I expected it to be, but after two and a half glasses of this $1,725 bottle of Petrus Merlot, it's natural to feel a nice light feeling from all the fermentation it's gone through, along with the intoxicants flowing through my bloodstream. I mean to survive the Cold War, the rise and fall of the USSR, the suburbanization of American and survive several economic growth periods and not be opened, that's something.

What it's celebrating however, may have never been fathomed by the person who corked the bottle in Bordeaux all those years ago, much less accepted back then. They probably also didn't expect that the wine would be drunk by two girls mad for each other, or that it would end up in the end as my liquid courage to take the next step in this relationship.

I remember bringing the bottle out of the mini-fridge I keep drinks in, and wine glasses out of my desk after I changed out of my uniform and into a loose sweatshirt with relaxed jeans. Rory sat on the bed wondering what the significance of it was, and how it seemed to be an emblem of our love/hate relationship. I lent her the bottle to look at, and her eyes widened as she took in all that the wine represented.

"I stole that bottle from the wine cellar ten months ago, almost to this day," I told her. "After you had to get to know Sherrie I wasn't sure that I would ever be able to open it, but I didn't bring it back downstairs because I figured that there's always a flicker of hope out there in anything." I slid next to her in my bed, the large cloud of a mattress I slept on for years for the first time seeming small, intimate, and most of all, perfect.

"I'd keep looking at it each time I thought about you, and I even brought it with me to Washington, where I hid it in the space between the top of my mattress and the headboard. It's not the recommended way to store it by any means, but just having it with me gave me that slight bit of hope that someday, you would reciprocate."

"So this," she mumbled, pointing at the label, "this wine kept you from shying away from your feelings?" I nodded yes, my hand twined in hers. "And you never thought of opening it at all, you never gave up hope."

"I may have thought it was fruitless at times Ror, but I was never going to give up." I brought down my voice a little. "This bottle wouldn't be opened until the day we had each other, and now, it's finally going to be sipped from." I rose up in the bed, taking back the bottle from Rory and reaching for the corkscrew next to my alarm clock and the Supreme Court picture, which Rory was touched to see at my bedside. "Do you want any?"

She thought for a moment, afraid of the trouble she was going to get in, and the uncertain fear that she might do something she might regret. "Sharon won't miss this bottle? What about getting home?"

"Trust me when I say she couldn't tell the difference between this and Two Buck Chuck with her drunken view of the world; she probably thinks she chugged it down months and months ago." I then explained the alternative. "I can have Henrico drive you home, feign tiredness to stay off the road. Any impairment on the road is unacceptable."

"Fine with me," she mumbled. "It looks like a very nice bottle, and I wouldn't want it to go to waste after all this time you've kept it." I uncorked the bottle in front of her and had her hand me one of the glasses to pour it in. We were far from heavy drinkers, but she didn't seem to mind that I poured it up to 3/4 of the way up the glass for both of us as we sat next to each other on the bed, looking at not only each other, but the liquid.

"You want to toast?" she asked. "It's only natural in a situation like this."

"That it is." I smiled, and we brought the glasses back in order to solidify the toast with a hard clanking of the glasses together. "To us, and many, many more of these times, together. Another goodbye to the past, and hello to this future." The foreshadowing to a week ago, when Rory dropped the bracelet into the river, was obvious in what I said, as I intended.

Her eyes met mine mid-stream. "To us." Our glasses met at the middle, and then to symbolize the togetherness, I brought my glass to her mouth for her to sip, and my mouth to her glass as our arms crossed together and we sipped from the glasses slowly, our gazes locked in and unwavering. The taste was a little bitter, but that was to be expected from such an old drink. After a little bit of swilling around my mouth the full body of flavor came out, and both of us noted how wonderful it was that this moment could finally happen.

We did study, sure; that was the exact reason I needed Rory there with me to begin with. The conversation flowed as heavy as the open bottle of wine however, and within an hour, all academic allusions that we were having all but disappeared when the second glasses for each of us were gone, leaving both of us just a little soused up but not too hard. Both of us were still coherent and aware, enough that Rory remembered to call Lorelai and check in with her at seven o'clock, just like she asked.

Rory seemed to talk about everything her mind could catch, going from a Lonely Planet-like dream travelogue of the Alps region, over to her latest reads, to the latest news and her opinions on things, including her opposition of Iraqi war action without hard picture proof. Her opinion matched mine so well, and though I was ready to fight her vocally with a drunk voice, there was no need to. My mind, despite its muddled state managed to come up with many things to talk about; I even felt comfortable telling her about my family and confiding in her how much I hoped that Mohegan Man's yacht would be eaten by a shark in the waters off San Diego. Boy did that receive a loud yelp from Rory!

"I don't think sharks like chickens from the sea!" She pounded on the bed. "What does your mom see in him?"

"About nine inches, and eight numbers separated into groups of three with a dollar sign on the end," I commented, my usual reserved filter of conversation removed in the company of my girlfriend. "She has a history of bad dating choices, and this would be her fifth this year."

"He looks like a white-collar fucking Captain Ron," Rory noted. "Has he done the whole 'I want to be your friend honey' spiel on you yet?"

I laughed. "If he does I'll introduce him to my friend Mr. Taser, God bless money and power." She knew I was serious about owning a stun gun, which I don't carry unless I'm in the bad part of a city. Martial arts come in handy better in lighter situations and less crime-ridden portions of the world. "I've gotten used to the fact that I'll hate anyone my mom brings home, and if she wants to fuck up her life, go on right ahead."

"That-that is good thinking." The wine was dizzying, and her blue eyes were looking straight into mine as we lay in bed at each other's sides. "To hell with your mom, I hope she's having a blast at Lame-O Club or wherever she is."

I shook my head towards her. "OK, you're an awful drunk Gilmore." I smiled at her, feeling the dizzying spell of the wine myself.

About that moment I was cursing my choice of a tank top over the sweatshirt, for the body heat and blankets between us made me remove that first heavier layer of clothing. I only wore the article as underwear so I wasn't stuck wearing a bra, but my abundance of cleavage is crystal clear when I'm laying down on a bed and Rory's eyes are trailed down the line into my shirt.

"I'm glad I know you," she mumbled, as she brought herself closer and wrapped her arms around my waist. "I'm a little buzzed, but I think even without the alcohol talking here, you'd still look as cute as you do right now." Rory's quick change wardrobe after school consisted of track pants and one of those strange slogan shirts I don't know why are popular, but no matter since Rory looks very nice wearing the blue tee; as long as she's next to me, I could care less about dress.

"Thanks, I guess." It's still hard for me to take a compliment to heart, no matter how true it might be. The insecurities of being Paris Gellar are still here as they've always been, but the brunette across from me is doing her best to cut down all that I think about myself.

"Don't guess, know that you are Par." She rolls me onto my back and hovers above me, her legs locking with mine. "You're very pretty," she whispers softly. "Warm and soft too, like a pillow." She moves in close, brushes her hand against my forehead. "Not the wine talking either. When you wrapped around me while we slept on Sunday I felt so relaxed and calm, your arm at my side."

Hearing that the spoon wasn't in vain Sunday morning, I smiled. "I thought you were going to freak out, I didn't mean to wrap around so close." Her face moves closer to mine, and she nuzzles her nose against my cheek. Every hair on my arm is stiff and up from such sexually intimate contact, and her ankle against mine feels so good, even better then when I nudged her beneath the table yesterday.

"I didn't freak out. As a matter of fact I tried to encourage you closer."

"Like you are now?" I note, my voice going through caring timbres I never thought possible.

"Perhaps." She lines up to kiss me slowly, a couple of her right fingers twining into a belt loop on my jeans. The lilting and surprising touch so close makes me shift around a little. "What on earth would I do without that intenseness that you bring into my life, Par-Bear?" It's romantic, and somehow I'm getting used to the pet nickname she's giving for me, even though my first aural reaction is like nails on a slate to that.

"I'm just focused, not intense," I try to correct her as she brushes her lips at the corner of my mouth. The smell of light alcohol on our breath gets into my system, and the night is turning out so much better than planned.

"You do the work and have the passion that can only be done by three Chilton valedictorians, you're very intense. Not that it's a bad thing by any means..." She looked around the room and back down at me. "...especially when you look like this above me."

I felt myself stiffen, her compliment soothing me so much. "Thank you," I murmur softly. "For not only seeing me in this light, but staying a pest all these years, always wanting my friendship no matter what. God knows where I'd be right now if we didn't keep being pushed together by all these outside forces."

Her long brown hair tickles my nose, and nothing but intense crystalline blue is within my vision, Rory's cool blue eyes captivating me so much. She flushes against me, her angelic features and those freckles, now unhidden by makeup, reassuring me that going for this was the right choice. "I never wanted to lose you; what you think about me is just as high an opinion as anyone in my family's, be it Grandpa, Grandma, Lane, or my mother. What you say holds weight in my world, and I never want you to forget that."

She slides her hands up into my hair, and without any extra words having to be said, for the first time ever, I was able to kiss someone on my bed as she closed the distance and kissed me softly and long. I don't even know where the kiss started or ended, for my memory seems to disappear whenever Rory and I come together like that. Her mouth is so soft, her rhythm well-practiced from the two years she spent with Caveman. Not that there's any thought about her ex, I'm just glad to have someone with experience helping me into the everyday peculiarities of the American relationship.

I'm just lost in her for minutes and minutes, the both of us just reveling in our company. By the time we separate for modesty's sake, it's almost about 8pm, and our tops are wrinkled from all the contact and pushing we did in the bed. It's just the both of us, focusing on each other, the world a blur to the both of us besides the webstream of classical music coming from my computer so I would have another focal point for my ears besides the rustling of the blankets.

Rory looks at me a bit after I settle down, her eyes wide towards me, and the time to ask her is just moments away. I have the entire first date planned out, a basic romantic night out away from Hartford, and without any kind of elaborate plan. Plain and simple seems to be the way to win her over, and with the little alcohol we've had, I feel we're still both coherent enough to understand what we're getting into here.

"Ror?" I raise my voice and ask her to sit up. She finds herself curious, and she crossed her legs Indian-style, throwing the yarn afghan my paternal Nana made for me over her shoulders to warm up a little. "There's something I meant to ask you tonight, but I can't find the words to state them." I fumble around with the hem of my tank top.

"Shoot, and take your time, I'm not going anywhere." Her smile reassured me a little. I really didn't have a rehearsed 'I want to go out with you' speech, so I was just going to take it in my own comfortable way and see where it leads. I started, trying to keep calm.

"OK, you know I like you, right?" She nods, mentioning we wouldn't have been necking in my bed for an hour if I didn't. "Well, let's say for argument's sake that I know I want to be with you, definitely. The thing is we're still keeping everything secret, so we can't be seen anywhere in public without a wary eye catching sight of us. They're going to tell everyone and our intimacy disappears like a cloud of smoke. Same thing in Stars Hollow, that Kirk guy isn't exactly the best at keeping secrets, and he seems to be almost everywhere."

"Well his workload is usually five jobs, so I'm required to bump into him at least once a day."

"Anyways, not that this night hasn't been fun, or the last four days in school, I'm treasuring each of those days." Geeze I ramble like a madwoman, why don't I ever simplify questions? "But there's just this need inside that I want to go...go out with you. Like, date you and stuff. You know, like dinner, dancing, a movie, that kind of thing?" I felt truly nervous as I tried to close the deal with her listening intently. "What I guess I'm trying to ask is...will you go out with me tomorrow night, on a real date?"

I expected her to light up and be happy, say yes without much thought. Instead, she frowned a little and tried to let me down easy. "I can't, sorry. Tomorrow night--"

Without hesitation I interrupted her answer, trying to shield my soul from being torn apart. "I understand then, I guess we're not ready quite yet, or you're not. I mean I am, but obviously you're several steps ahead of where I'd like to be."

"Par--" Rory tried to speak up, so I stopped her again.

"Look it's fine, I guess I was never datable material to begin with." The Self-Loathing Express was leaving the station at a fast clip. "I mean I wouldn't expect you after four days to drop everything and be all 'Yes, I want to go out with you', things are going too fast."

"Listen, hon--" My voice was starting to raise and the burn of being turned down was starting to amplify as Rory moved to reassure me.

"I jumped the gun with playing with your foot yesterday, didn't I?! I knew there was something up with that, and you weren't doing anything to reciprocate!" I saw Rory become frustrated with being unable to get a word out, her brows scrunched and seemingly feeling emotional at cutting myself down. "I guess it's my fault, I shouldn't have--"

"PARIS!!" Rory screamed my name real loud, causing my thoughts about the ask-out to evaporate. She was still smirking at me despite the accusations I was throwing towards myself, and before I could react, she took my hand into her.

"Yeah?" Her stern tone killed any response from me whatsoever.

"If you would stop and listen to me before you jumped to conclusions, you'd remember that Friday night is never going to be a good night for me when it comes to dating. It's always going to be Friday night dinners with Grandpa and Grandma. If I don't go they don't pay for Chilton, and I don't see you anymore." Her hand slowly moved up my arm. "Now I know we really wouldn't want that, would we?"

You really need to let people finish their sentences, I immediately thought to myself, it's not always going to be the end of the world when they say no! Absolutely mortified, I felt like a bitch for jumping on Rory like that.

"No," I answered. "Chilton without you would be...like the Red Sox moving to Minot, North Dakota out of spite, cruel and awful to deal with. I'm sorry, I should've known there was a sane reason for you to turn me down like that."

"I'm not though."

"But you said no to dating me--"

Rory cleared up what she really meant. "I want to go out with you Par, I'm glad you got the guts to go through with asking me out. Just please tell me you have Saturday penned in as a rain day, because if I could, I'd get out of my Friday night dinner, but I don't see Grandma ever letting me out of it."

"Actually, I have plans for Saturday night, so no to that day also." I said sadly. "I have to wash my hair, repaint my room, paint my toenails, launder illegal Colombian drug money, finally make peace with Mother..." It was fun watching Rory go from forlorn to annoyed as my bullshitting and baiting her went from sane to completely impossible. She pushed towards me in the bed as my serious and staid tone of voice started to crack.

"Paris," she growled.

"I'm not done, I forgot to mention my job as a bar mitzvah entertainer, my I Got You Babe absolutely slays the boy who becomes the man of the hour..." She gets daring, pushes me down, as my smile just starts to slay her.

"Are you going to stop?" Rory asked, giving me that look that told me to shut up. I saw her fingers at the ready, wiggling in the air to signal that if I didn't shut up, I'd be in for a world of pleas--...I mean hurt. She wouldn't possible try that, I thought.

"Make me," I stated firmly. Why the hell was I suddenly so playful and coy, trying to bait Rory on. Two years ago I wouldn't have dare done anything like this, hell, a smile out of me would've been a She's All That-like challenge to anyone!

"You want it?" she asks firmly.

"To finish off the night I'm going to play Monopoly with Bill Gates, using real money and real buildings!!" I knew what she was about to do, and that triggered off yet another wave of romantic horseplay. She pushes the shirt above my stomach, shaking her head.

"Such a pity you didn't listen to me Gellar, for now I'm going to have to do this." She then did something none of my friends ever dared to, much less my parents at all; she tickled me!

The silly contact was shocking, considering the last time anyone had tickled me was my old friend Clarence's little 'doctor visit' with me so long ago. With puberty and hormones now in play however, this was a lot different than I expected. She just jumped right on top of me and played around, and I couldn't refuse her because I was too damned mindspun to even try to push her away.

"Stop, please...I'm sorry I mean, oh God, will you not do that Rory?" I was trying with my words to get her to stop, but the words were buffered with laughter and coughing in-between from the wonderful contact she was forcing upon me. I never thought of myself as particularly sensitive, but apparently I have plenty of nerve endings in my stomach. She kept tickling me as I tried to grab at her in an attempt to stop. All that ended up doing was give me a fistful of t-shirt I kept tugging at.

"Someone beneath me is very ticklish, isn't she?" she theorizes, using her free hand to ball one of mine into a fist and nullifying any attempt to use my self-defense training to get out of the situation. Though really it was weak self-defense, because I was becoming complacent to that. Her hands felt so good against my belly, no matter how reeling and foreign the feeling was.

"I'll never do this again if you stop right now, I promise!!" I cried out with laughter blending into my voice, to no avail. She continued, and my hand gripped at the collar of her t-shirt in an attempt to have her level off the touching. I thought that the material was strong enough to withstand what we were doing, that my strength really wasn't that much in the middle of her having a tickle battle with me.

The sound of a loud tear after a tightened yank, then Rory's loud "WHOA!" as I started to see more white floral print bra than blue t-shirt, showed that my wanton side had more control at that exact moment than my inhibitions. I didn't mean to tear at her clothes obviously, it was totally supposed to be innocent. I shut my eyes, ashamed in front of her to have behaved in this manner, and turned away so she wouldn't see the violent hot blush I felt my face taking on.

I felt like I just ruined everything, giving into what I felt and going too far with the tickle game by shredding her t-shirt into shambles. I wasn't in control of my body, but I could've thought things out better, like blocking her tickling hand instead of trying to pull at her, resulting in what happened.

"I'm sorry," I rushed out, still facing away from her. "I didn't mean to tear off your shirt like that. If you don't want to go on that date, trust me, I'll completely understand why, because I blew it." My stomach felt like jelly from the tickling, the top still ridden up from static cling.

It had to be all over, Rory was a prude and wouldn't take kindly to what I had just done, I just knew it. Never mind if it was completely accidental, that is something you don't do for quite awhile in a relationship. Say about ten years into marriage, your significant other has a mistress and you need a last-gasp spark to keep them, so you resort to tearing off shirts and underwear to be 'the aggressive one'. No doubt about it, I fucked up everything, and Rory was going to end this silly 'being gay with me' experiment after I freaked her out with this forcefulness.

I braced for her to tell me that we were through, for the string of rebukes and accusations that I was taking advantage of her.

She wraps her arms around me, and settles down against my back to envelope me in a hug, bringing down my shirt to preserve my modesty. Just when I think things are going to go bad, I realize something.

I can feel that shirt is off and she's just in her bra, and her mouth is tickling against my left ear. Her breath is deep and shallow, and her actions suggest she's far from angry at me. She settles her chin against my shoulder, and when I expect her to rip my head off...

"Well I know we're definitely on for Saturday night now, aren't we hon?" Her voice is at that same 'warm me up' purr from last week, and I feel myself stiffen when her hand rubs against my stomach. I widen my eyes, convinced this is a figment of my imagination.

"Saturday night?" I mumble, my voice seeming to retract into a whisper. "But I tore up your shirt, you should be mad at me Gilmore, that must've cost you a lot..."

She kisses the lobe of my ear, leaning closer against me. "You worry too much about my money, trust me, it's OK. That's what fooling around does, kills your inhibitions and make you do things you never expected. Just relax Par, you did nothing wrong."

I moaned from all this sudden comfort and the effect that it had on me, and the relief I felt that this isn't the end was immense. "So you're OK with...that?"

"I'm just thinking at least you get under my shirt, Dean didn't even try! C'mon, turn around, I'm not mad and I'm not mortified here."

She releases to let me turn around to face her, and though I shrug away at first, I bite the bullet and eventually view the efforts of what wrath I had wrought with Rory. To say I was shocked at how wild I can get with a few glasses of wine in my system along with this strong yearning for Ror was an understatement. I saw the shirt, torn and hanging from the bedpost, the frayed fabric from the collar down the middle, looking worse for the wear. I couldn't believe I did that.

My vision then drifted over to Rory, sitting on the other side of the bed, her eyes trained on me, her sitting position strange. I wasn't used to seeing her except for dreams without a shirt on, so to have her on my bed with just her bra on was a sight for me to behold. All that freckling, that wide path of cleavage she had between each breast, and her thin yet healthy build defining the slim curves she has, from the blades of her shoulders to her waistline, where I could see her wide bellybutton. My mouth dried up and I had no words for how beautiful she was, with her smile and her blue eyes sparkling the glare from the nightstand lamp next to her.

I can't help but want her more after that, telling me that my aggressiveness was a turn-on rather than something to reel back from. She beckoned me closer, asking me again what my backup plans were just in case tomorrow night fell through.

"I really have nothing on Saturday, I put all of my plans into Friday night." I slid a finger through my hair, thinking for a moment. "But I'm sure with a few calls I can fix everything to go out with you on Saturday night. That is...if you do still want to date me."

She smiled at me, and moved closer to me again. "What time should I be ready?" she asked, and I felt my heart grow a little bigger when I heard that. Also that I was there to either accept or ask for a date, I wasn't going to have an incident like that with Jamie happen to me ever again, this definitely has my full attention!

I feel peaceful again, the tight unease gone from Rory's acceptance. I look towards her and smile. "You told me once that a Gilmore dating rule is to always be a little late, right?" She nodded as both of us came closer again for another cuddling session. "Since we're going up to Springfield for this date, (God I love saying that word!) I'd say 5:45 theoretically, but in reality you'll be out at 6 o'clock."

"Um, in this case we better both be ready at six. We don't anyone to think this is a date, right?" Rory's worries were well-founded, I had to make this out to be more of a friendly outing between us than a date for appearance's sake.

"Think up an excuse by tomorrow afternoon then, we'll need it for Sharon and then for your mom so our stories don't conflict." I was going to use school to my romantic advantage for once. "Say, we make up something about a Franklin article on something we already know in Springfield and can do research online, and then say we decided not to do the story once we realized it wasn't compelling."

"The last thing I want to do is violate any journalistic standards, so that works," Rory agreed. "I'll try to build it up then. I'll mention it to Mom before dinner tomorrow night, and she'll have to let me go. You're vicious when irked after all." She looks towards the ripped shirt, then winks back at me, causing me to gasp.

"Rory..." I whined. "Just borrow a damn sweatshirt from my closet, I didn't mean to do that! I swear you're going to hold this over my head---"

"And you're right about that." She sided up against me, and I moved my hands towards her lower back, reveling in the feel of her smooth bared skin. "Delicious wine, good company, a passionate dalliance, and probably a guaranteed 98% grade, what more can a girl ask for in her partner?" She smiles and gives me a light kiss as I stare at her, feeling for once that my middle name of Eusatchia has brought me good fortune, as it's defined.

"Just a few more minutes with you?" I asked hopefully, the clock at 8:10 and Rory having to leave in twenty minutes so Sharon wouldn't catch her here.

"That can definitely can be arranged." She nuzzled her nose against mine, and drew closer, as we spent the rest of the time we had with no words between us. I'm such a damned sap for acting and feeling this way around Rory, but I can't help it, she brings out my lighter side the way she does and I don't have a problem with how I'm coming off now. I just think about her now, and my heart races as the truth races through my head.

You're dating Rory Gilmore, Paris. Dating her. You never thought it would happen, but she likes you in this same way. Enjoy this and don't let go, because she really is your other half. Without her, you're just half the woman, with the passion for school, but no passion for life. I'm pragmatic about how this is all going to go, but I can't deny it anymore; I can't go without Ror. She keeps me sane, and I keep her from losing her mind in turn.

I'm dating Rory Gilmore, I think again. I'm going to get this date right without Madeline or Louise's help, even if it kills me. Looks like Fran is giving more help when it comes to choosing an outfit to wear. Then again, this is one problem I don't mind having...

* * * * *

Rory's POV, Thursday. 11:00pm

I'm going out with Paris Gellar. That's still going through my mind as I get ready for bed in a daze, after spending a night at the Manor with her that definitely outpaces any time I ever had to spend at the Forresters. Unless I brought earplugs to tune out Clara and her friend's orgasm-like screams in their room over whatever was playing on Radio Disney ("Oh my God, Aaron Carter is soooooooooooo hawt!!" she'd scream, and I can feel Lane shed a tear for the slow death of rock!), Dean and I would never make out at his house. Not that I'd want to, considering his idea of romantic atmosphere was swiping a candle from his mom's sewing room and putting it on top of his TV which was so old it couldn't even have a Pong video game system plugged or modern cable TV.

Paris has a much different room however, it's more tuned to be a comfortable place to be in love, despite how obsessive with academics it's dweller is. It's Spartan and plain, the antithesis of how you expect a wealthy heiress to be. Her only comfort is her bed, but that's good enough for the both of us. Just laying there in that room, sharing a bottle of wine, good conversation, and rolling around in it with her, that's all I needed. I had a fun night, and the wine she had, showing she's been hoping for this moment since February, was one of the sweetest gestures I've ever experienced, making the tiramisu of the three-month anniversary seem quaint by comparison.

I liked that she also took the lead in asking me out, and calmed down once I reminded her that she couldn't take me out on a Friday. Watching her push my buttons irked me as intended, and when I decided to get some revenge by engaging her in a tickle fight, she started grabbing at my t-shirt. The aggressiveness didn't surprise me; this was a battle of our wits gone physical for the first time ever, but since it was meant to be playful in nature, I was happy to go along with it all.

When she tore off my shirt as I tickled her though...something just went through me that never had before, pure desire for her. She was so apologetic about everything being the girl she is, but in truth, I didn't mind it at all, which is why I tried to flirt and keep her at ease through everything that happened after that. I could've taken offense to everything, but I thought her mannerisms and her thoughts that she had destroyed any chance at me for Saturday, it's something that keeps me aware that I'm the teacher, with her the student. I have the two years of dating experience, along with knowing what to expect. Her dates have been pretty much dull society affairs, so I have to keep that in mind, no matter how much she keeps driving me crazy in and out of school.

She gave one of her Harvard sweatshirts to wear home so I wouldn't have to explain my shredded shirt at all, and as her driver Henrico drove me home in the Gellar town car, I kept thinking about how the date with her on Saturday night will be. Obviously she's not going grand with her plans happening in up north in Massachusetts, which I certainly don't mind at all. I thought there was a small chance she might take me to New York, but the distance and our general unease about heading back down there alone pretty much stops that idea dead. The bus trip back up north after I visited Jess and the boys that Madeline and Louise ran away with at the Bangles concert are incidents I don't care to repeat, and two girls, during nighttime in New York? We both might as well wear 'Human ATM Machine, Please Rob Me!' t-shirts. I haven't been to Springfield all that much except for some runs to the outlet malls there with Mom, but it seems like a nice no-pressure place to have a date.

The guilt of lying through my teeth to Mom also is starting to heavily take root inside. When she saw that I came home with Paris' driver, she wondered what was up, so I went with what Paris said for me to tell her, that she was too tired to drive.

"I thought she didn't sleep," she joked, making me roll my eyes. Then she saw the sweatshirt I was wearing. "And that's definitely her sweatshirt, what happened?"

"I left the spare one I was going to bring over at school," I said, knowing well that it wasn't in the condition to be worn anymore. After some talking and catching up, I was finally able to get in my room, study, and get ready for bed.

So far, everything is a mixed bag when it comes to falling for a girl like Paris. Everything between us is passionate, but you keep looking over your shoulder to make sure that no one is watching you interact with her too closely. The hiding is awful, and both of us are ashamed that we have to hide something so right, because everyone else regards it as wrong in their eyes. I can see the pastor and the rabbi when they find out ready to condemn me for thinking this way, and all the townspeople wondering where their innocent little girl went.

As far as I know, I never left. The only thing happening is that I'm maturing and taking better control of things. I refuse to be complacent in my life and end up in trouble somewhere down the road because I didn't do anything with an opportunity presented to me, and took the easy way out. Some people don't see me as strong, instead their view of me is that I'm going through the motions and living out a wish fulfillment so my mother would end up with a proud life because of me, nary having to lift a finger.

I refuse to let them get their way. I can only think for myself in the end, no matter what is thrown my way, so I have to fight my own battles. I know going in that being Paris' girlfriend is going to be something unique. I'm inheriting into a relationship with a girl who second-guesses herself all the time if something isn't on the Harvard track, and who in the past regarded love as something she'll never have, or want. A girl who over the years has been taught to panic over an A- grade, yet has to take a verbal beating each day from her mother, who wants her to go beyond Einstein, long past Edison, no matter that the girl would probably burn out way before the point of those two geniuses.

Paris needs to be a normal girl, with normal worries. Without me there she goes into a tailspin and feels lost anywhere but in the glare of her LCD monitor or a good book. I need to provide her a steady peg to lean on, be the sympathetic ear to her, and let her know that no matter what, I'll always be there for her.

That is my determination. Saturday must go well for the both of us, it just has to. I lie in bed wearing Paris' sweatshirt, which buries me in crimson fleece, and think about her at home, hurriedly on the phone to whomever she's calling to make this date perfect, demanding the best damned customer service money can buy. She's such a perfectionist, so I hope that the waiters of South Central Massachusetts are ready for their most demanding customer ever. Just thinking about that here makes me laugh.

The most important thing about all of is though, is that for the first time in at least a year, I'm looking forward to going out on a date. It's not out of obligation, but the fact that we both want to do this. We have fun together, and this closeness we're starting to share is starting to manifest itself in more than a romantic way. Tonight we made out, sure, but most of the evening, we just talked about nothing in particular. Always a good sign if the person you like is also becoming your best friend.

Another thing I'll have to address one of these days, trying to balance out how much time I spend with Lane with that of Paris. She's been too busy with Dave and the band to really touch base with me lately, which is a relief and makes me relax a little. But once things start to settle, I have to start balancing that out, especially considering that I have no idea how Lane would feel about my being a lesbian.

It's a worry, I won't lie. For now though, things between Paris and I are still secret, and we're unafraid of anything that might get in our way. I hope things go well on Saturday night with her, and that maybe we can make some more progress with each other. The pace is a little faster than expected, but at least I'm finally getting somewhere with someone that I like...

To be continued...