- -
It was one thing to be in school on a Saturday. It was another to have
unpleasant company.
Rory walked into Mr. Darid's classroom, her backpack trailing behind her,
like cans behind a car proclaiming 'Just Married', except that her happy trail
was declaring, 'Just Dumped'. It slip-slided on the polished floors, its winding
sound grinding into Rory's psyche, proclaiming that being here sucked, and the
backpack didn't see how it got roped into this. It was all Rory's fault.
"Would anyone like to help out on this project further for extra credit?" Mr.
Darid had asked, and up had shot her hand, waving excitedly in the air. She was
the willing extra helper, ever since she couldn't reach the counters to help Mom
bake cookies that once. Seriously, it was only one time. When the house almost
burned down, they vowed never to touch the oven again.
To Rory's disgruntled dismay, Tristan's hand had shot up in the air, too,
just to spite her. "I'd like to volunteer as well," he'd said, his smirk smug
and cocky as Rory turned around in her chair, not believing it.
"Shut up!" she'd said quite plainly.
"Well that's mature." He feigned hurt.
"You want to talk about mature? How about -- "
"Miss Gilmore," said her teacher. Oh, here came the lecture. "Perhaps you and
Mr. DuGrey would like to speak privately in the hall."
"Y -- " started Tristan.
"No!" said Rory, disgusted. "No."
"Okay. Then, zip it, and let's move on. Miss Gilmore and Mr. DuGrey, you will
join me here tomorrow afternoon to continue the project."
"Uh..." Tristan's hand was waving in the air again. "Tomorrow's Saturday."
"Yes," said Mr. Darid. "It is."
So here they were, trapped together in a small, cramped classroom on a sunny
Saturday, wasting their weekend looking up dates and copying them onto poster
board. For the rest of the class, who weren't there.
Tristan sat in his usual seat, at the back of the class. Rory took her usual
seat, the farthest one from him. "Humph." She slumped down in her seat, like a
child with low self esteem. Somehow her confidence wavered when around this
blonde wonder, going from way up high, 'can you give me a high five, Johnny', to
down low, 'help me, I'm dying'. When she careened into him in the hallway the
other day, she could imagine herself flailing her arms, drowning in a sea with
no lifeguards, sputtering under the water, losing her breath...
Mr. Darid walked into the classroom, taking his seat behind his enormous
desk. Rory thought of that line in 'Titanic' about Freud's 'preoccupation with
size'. She frowned, lingering on this thought a moment, letting it flow through
her brain, and letting it pass like a car on the highway. People were always
passing her on the highway. There is such a thing as being a safe driver. But
apparently not in Connecticut. People cut her off faster than Paris' jumbled
'I'm about to stamp on you, so run, like girl, run' rants that forever had to
start while Rory was in the middle of a previous sentence. Paris' philosophies
made all the sense of a two year-old, her inept social skills showing in the
blatant vibes: 'I'm bored, and you should be, too', 'I'm angry, and you should
be, too', 'I hate you, and God knows I'm right because God knows you're wrong --
you know how? Of course you don't'.
Paris, Tristan, Madeline, Louise... A school of Emily Gilmores in the making.
It was a scary thought. Not that Rory disliked her grandmother or looked down on
her, mind you. But there were times when she was just too hot to handle, and
those times appeared more frequently than not.
"Marryyy..." cooed Tristan, laughing when she didn't turn around. "Oh, are
you deaf now?"
"As far as you should be concerned."
"That's enough," snapped Mr. Darid. "Now, I am tired of this elementary
school rivalry that exists between you two. You cannot work on this project
until your thoughts are clear, and your thoughts will not be clear until you
settle this. I'm giving you thirty minutes. Deal with it, and be done with it."
With that, he took his briefcase and exited the classroom, shutting the door
behind him, no doubt headed for coffee and a donut in the teacher's lounge.
Teachers were so lucky. They weren't currently trapped in this room with...
him.
"Are you still deaf to me?" Tristan pried.
Rory threw up a hand as if to silence him, without turning around to look
upon that smug face that just begged for a punch or ten.
"Oh, what, are you a mime now?"
Rory sighed angrily, not believing this. What kinds of teachers were at this
school anyway, tossing her to the hungry hyena? Did they have no comprehension
of the animal that Tristan was, the spiteful spirit of his nature? Did they not
see his tongue wagging at her, his vibes screaming 'jump me now -- you know you
want it'?
"I hate you," Tristan threw out, mocking her.
"Lalala," said Rory, sticking her delicate fingers in her more delicate ears,
that he so loved to stare at. For some reason, he was fascinated with her left
earlobe. "I'm not listening!"
So busy singing 'lalala' to her own inner tune, Rory didn't notice Tristan
get up out of his seat and make his way towards her down the aisle. He dipped
down to her and placed a chaste smacking kiss upon her head.
Rory looked up at him, her hands dropping with a 'clunk' to her thighs. Her
mouth hung open. What was...
"What was that?"
Tristan nodded, tapping his head with his finger. "I hate you," he informed
her, again.
"Idiot says what?"
"I do, you know."
"Moron says what?"
"Well, okay, not actually, but I could, if I really wanted to."
"Bible Boy says what?"
"Rory. Stop it. Hating the pet names."
Rory guffawed, despite herself. "Pet names? No, no, no, no. See, I actually
hate you. I don't know if I've ever hated anyone before, besides the boy who
stepped on my third goldfish. I'm not kidding. He stepped right into the bowl!"
Tristan leaned forward, shoving his hands in his pocket. His face took on a
pained expression. "I'm not sure what to do with that."
"Good. Go away."
"It's dark over there."
"You're afraid of the dark?"
"Want to protect me?"
Rory's lip curled in distaste. "Not really."
"It's cold over there." Tristan dared to reach a finger out and trail it up
the blouse on Rory's arm. "Want to... help warm me up?"
Rory rolled her eyes, dramatically. The mascara helped. "Not even. Now go sit
in your small, dark, cold corner, little boy, or you won't get a treat."
"Ooh, you're handing out treats now? How do I... get me one of those?"
Rory looked and looked at him, stared at the perfect smiling teeth; the even,
unblemished skin; the hair that waved just so, and was the color of the first
morning light rays of the sun. God, she hated him.
"Would it offend you if I told you to shut up? If it would, I plan to shut.
you. up. anyway."
Tristan raised his eyebrows twice quickly. "Woot-woot!"
That was it. Rory lunged at him, knocking her desk over while throwing
Tristan's body, along with hers which was adjoined, over onto another desk. She
sealed that cocky grin with her lips, frowning against him and grinding her
tongue into his teeth. If this didn't shut him up, nothing would. She was so.
damn. tired. of his personality, his bravado. She was tired of the way he walked
around, strutting like sex on legs, God's gift to Marys everywhere. How many
Marys did he have? She didn't care. The sexual tension that crackled between
them like fireworks on the Fourth of July sizzled on her body that was pressed
right up against his. He was so warm, radiating heat past the confines of his
dress shirt. (They still had to wear the Chilton uniforms. Even on sucky
Saturdays.)
Tristan wrenched his mouth away for just a second, to squint at her and ask,
"Are you for real?"
"Shut up! Shut up, shut up, shut up!" Rory ordered, covering his body again,
daring him to stop her. This flirtation of his, it was coming to a head. She was
tired of turning him away, only to be slightly swayed the moment he pretended to
care. She hated the way he acted as if they were friends, as if he had any right
to talk to her, taunt her, tease her, rub his groin up against her skirt right
now. Oh! That was uncalled for!
She smacked him on the shoulder. "Cut it out! This is my seduction!"
"Sorry," Tristan mumbled in between quick kisses that quickly melted into
something more. She tore at his shirt, wanting to expose his skin, leave it bare
for Mr. Darid to see and frown at. She wanted him to be caught red-handed,
trying to seduce her, she'd say, and he'd be reprimanded -- no, she'd get him
expelled! Get him completely out of her hair.
Speaking of, he couldn't resist the temptation, and began threading his
fingers through her locks. She caressed the roof of his mouth with her tongue.
He moaned, and she startled, pulling back and blinking at him innocently. When
did their make-out session get bumped up to NC-17? Probably the moment she
admitted that the sexual tension had gotten to her, as well.
What had she done, what had she done? She'd gotten his engine started,
and he had lit a flame that was quickly spreading into a forest fire. Suddenly
it smelled like burnt cookies.
She pulled away, and gave him a very 'deer in the headlights, struck by
lightning' wide-eyed stare. He was overwhelmed, lost in her sudden passion and
the confusion of what finally brought it on. He opened his mouth to speak, and
she bolted.
Rory went running at top speed, grabbing her backpack and throwing it over
her shoulder on the way out of the classroom.
"Rory? I..." Tristan ran to catch up with her, out in the hall. "I don't
understand. What happened?"
"I hate you!" she called back, running away, away, away from that smirk, that
stride, that cocky, 'sex me up' grin. It haunted her as she ran from his
insults, his banter, his nipples that had hardened beneath the cloth below her
roaming hands. She ran, not able to confront this, now or never. She ran... oh,
she ran... away.
- -
to be continued...? That's up to you. Please let me know the consensus.
