DC, Day One

 

 

“I can’t believe there’s no air conditioning,” Paris stomped around the tiny Georgetown dorm room.  “There’s no air conditioning, no t.v., no cable, which is fine, actually, because we won’t have any time to watch t.v. anyway, but the amenity would be nice, no carpeting, the beds are little better than fat, large gym mats, only one phone line, which means, I guess, that we’re left with nothing better than dial-up to do our research with, and closets so small you couldn’t stuff a dachshund into them.”  She stopped to survey Rory, who was sitting on her bed on the right side of the room.  “Aren’t you upset about this?  These accommodations are nothing short of disgusting.  Inadequate is a compliment.”

 

“Why should I be upset when you’re doing just fine for the both of us?” Rory looked up from her copy of Middlemarch.

 

“Fine.  Fine.  I guess I’ll have to go about trying to change our room assignment.  I’m sure there’s got to be better around here.  They just don’t know who they’re dealing with.”  Paris reached for the green, see-through phone Lorelai had bought them from Radio Shack when she had dropped them off yesterday.

 

Rory put down George Eliot and sighed loudly enough to catch Paris’s attention.  “Look, Paris, you can call them all you want, just like you did yesterday, but the truth is that every one of the other six hundred students in this program has a room exactly like this and that while this isn’t The Plaza, it is quite adequate for our needs.  There are beds, and desks, and dressers for our clothes and a bathroom down the hall decent enough that I’m quite sure we won’t even need to wear flip-flops while showering.  Plus, I’m sure that if there are, in fact, better rooms than this on this campus, they are being used by actual Georgetown students who are paying actual money to stay here and take classes for the summer.”

 

“Just because we’re not paying doesn’t mean we aren’t entitled to the proper service.  Is this what it’s like to be poor?” Paris asked.

 

Rory did her best not to roll her eyes.  She mostly didn’t, which she thought would make her mother proud—not because she didn’t roll her eyes, but because she did, just a little.  It took skill to roll your eyes that subtly.  “I wouldn’t have put it that way, but, if that helps you, then okay.  Relax, Paris.  My mom helped us set up the place yesterday.  It’s, well . . .” Rory was about to say ‘homey’ but she settled for “colorful” instead as she scanned the room and saw the hot pink shag throw rug, the hello kitty curtains, and what her mother had termed the ‘mandatory’ poster of Justin Timberlake.

 

 “Plus,” Rory continued, “Our classes and workshops don’t start until Tuesday, and this is only Saturday.  We have a few days to hang out in Washington, DC.  So just calm down and hang out, Paris.  This is going to be a great six weeks.”

 

Paris flopped onto her bed that was covered in 1000 thread Egyptian cotton sheets and threw the forest green throw to the side.  “Speaking of, what am I supposed to do for the next three days?  I can’t believe they had us come down yesterday when classes don’t start until Tuesday.  What a waste of time.”

 

Rory picked Eliot back up again.  “You know, Paris, I’ve always thought there were many words to describe you, but I didn’t think ‘whiner’ was one of them.”

 

“I am not whining!”

 

“What would you call it?”

 

“I am hot, sweaty, and bored.”

 

“How can you be bored?  This is DC.”

 

“So you’re admitting that the hot and sweaty parts must be true.”

 

“Well, I believe that you are hot,” Rory conceded.  “You must be, in that sweater. Though I can’t comment personally on the sweaty part.”

 

“It’s not a sweater,” Paris objected.

 

Rory snorted. 

 

“It’s a cardigan.”

 

“Paris, a cardigan is the same thing as a sweater.”

 

“No, it’s not.”

 

“Don’t make me get the dictionary out from under the bed.”

 

“The dictionary would not help you in this case.  I’m sure that cardigan is not a definition of sweater.”

 

“I bet that sweater is a definition of cardigan.”

 

“That’s totally different,” Paris tried to point out.

 

“How?” Rory asked incredulously.

 

“It just is.”

 

“Fine.  Don’t make me get out the J. Crew catalog, then.”

 

“Besides, I’m wearing it over a t-shirt,” Paris pulled the shoulder of the black cardigan back to show the gleaming white Banana Republic t-shirt she had on underneath.  Both the cardigan and the t-shirt perfectly matched Paris’s sparkling khakis and brown Oxfords.

 

Rory really did roll her eyes this time, taking in her Harvard t-shirt and jeans.  She put down her book for good and sighed.  “Get up, Paris,” she said, standing up.

 

“What?”

 

Rory made a “come on” gesture with her hands.  “Get up.”

 

“Why?” Paris sat up but didn’t leave her bed.

 

“Because we’re going to go shopping.”  Rory put on her sneakers.

 

Paris finally stood up.  “Shopping?”

 

“Yes, Paris.  Shopping.  I’m taking you shopping.  We’re going to get you something cooler to wear.  Like a real t-shirt.  Or maybe a tank top.”

 

“I’m not getting a tank top.”

 

“A tube top, then.”

 

Paris practically shrieked, “Rory!”.

 

“I’m just kidding,” Rory reassured, mumbling “Maybe,” underneath her breath.

 

Paris turned off the oscillating fan as Rory opened the door.

 

*****

 

The nice thing about where their dorm was located was that the cheap shops that catered to the students—cheap bars, cheap diners, some fast food, and some clothing shops--weren’t very far away.  Once they hit that strip, Rory found what she was looking for almost immediately. 

 

Of course, as soon as Rory stopped in front of the store, Paris voiced an objection.

 

“I’m not going into any place named ‘Contempo’.”  Paris crossed her arms.

 

“It’s not that bad.”

 

“If you’re a hooker, maybe.”

 

“C’mon, Paris.  It’s just a t-shirt.  This place will have t-shirts, and pretty inexpensive ones, too.”

 

“There’s got to be somewhere else.”

 

“Well, Mr. Blackwell, there probably is.  But we’d probably have to find a mall, or a bigger area of stores.  Then we might be able to find a Gap, or even better, an Old Navy, or something.  You’d like Old Navy.  All of them have that particular Old Navy smell—there’s nothing else in the world like it.  But it’s a long, hot walk from here, probably.  I sure don’t know if that’s really what we want to do.  Is heat stroke really that dangerous a condition?  I hear that it doesn’t bother some people.  They just pass out for a few minutes, maybe throw up a little bit, but then they get right back up.  It’s like water off a duck’s back.  Unless you have a heart problem or something, then . . .”

 

“Okay, Rory.  Okay.  Let’s just go in and get this over with.  No one will ever see me wear anything that passes for clothing in here in public anyway.”

 

“You plan on becoming a nudist then?” Rory grinned.  Paris yanked the door open with a scowl and stalked into the air conditioned store.

 

****

 

It took Rory forever to pick out some items for Paris to try on.  Mostly because for the first round, she had held things up for Paris to see, which of course gave Paris the opportunity to veto.  Which she did.  Incessantly.   Finally Rory resorted to the tactic of just piling things onto her arm fast enough so that Paris couldn’t really see what she was doing, or what she was picking out, while Paris stood in the corner in front of the cheap earrings with her arms crossed and a look on her face that would have made Lucifer himself take a step back.

 

“Okay,” Rory finally announced.  She walked over to where Paris was standing.

 

“Okay what?” Paris practically spit out.

 

“Okay.  I’ve got some shirts.  Now you should go try them on.”

 

“I don’t want to try them on.”

 

“Well, you could just pick one to buy, but then it might not fit or something.  It might bunch in weird places.  Trust me, you want to try this stuff on.”

 

“But other people might have tried these shirts on, too.”

 

Rory just looked at her.

 

“They might have put them on their already sweaty, dirty, non-deodorant wearing bodies, and then decided they didn’t want them and then discarded them haphazardly on the floor so other people could step on them, making them even more filthy, and the poor innocent people like me who don’t even want to be here in the first place have to unsuspectingly put them on, probably catching god-only-knows-what which makes us so sick that we have to quit our programs and go home, forfeiting probably the best opportunity we have ever had in our entire lives, thereby ruining a perfectly good summer, our chances of getting into a good college, and, quite possibly, the rest of our lives in the process.”

 

Rory held out the shirts to Paris.  Paris snatched them out of her grip quite violently.

 

“If I die, it’ll be on your head.”

 

“I’ll just have to live with the guilt, then,” Rory answered.

 

 

****

 

 

Paris came out of her appointed dressing room five minutes after she went in.

 

Rory stood up from the small hassock in front of the fitting areas group mirrors.  “So?” she asked.

 

Paris answered by handing all the shirts back to Rory.

 

“You didn’t like anything?”

 

“No.”

 

“Nothing?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Not one thing?”

 

“Not one thing,” Paris confirmed.

 

“What was wrong with them?” Rory started going through the clothes again, frowning.

 

“They didn’t fit.”

 

“Nothing fit?”

 

“No.  Nothing.”

 

Rory held up a pink, straight necked tank top.  “What about this one?”

 

Paris raised an eyebrow.  “No.”

 

“Really?  This looked just about your size.”

 

“It wasn’t.”

 

“Did you try any of these on, Paris?”

 

“Well, not exactly.”

 

“What does ‘not exactly’ mean?”

 

“In the strictest sense of the word?” Paris asked.

 

“The narrowest sense you can imagine,” Rory replied.

 

“Well then, no, I didn’t try them on.”

 

“Paris!”

 

“I didn’t like any of them.”

 

“All of them are perfectly fine.”  Rory held the tank top out to Paris.  “Try this one on, at least.”

 

“No!”

 

“Why not?”

 

“It’s pink!”

 

“Paris, it’s a pretty pink.  I mean, it’s cotton candy pink, not, you know, puce.”

 

“I thought puce was a shade of purple.”

 

“I don’t really care what color shade puce is at the moment,” Rory replied.  “Try on the shirt.  Just try this one on, and if you don’t like it, we can go.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Really.”

 

Paris took the shirt from Rory.  “Okay.”

 

“And come out here so I can see it.” 

 

Paris started to open her mouth to protest.

 

“Don’t argue,” Rory said.

 

Paris turned and went back into her dressing room.

 

“I swear, she’s worse than a two year old,” Rory said as she sat back down on the hassock.

 

****

 

It didn’t take Paris too long to come out..  She was, true to her word, wearing the pink tank top with her khakis. 

 

“I don’t like it, let’s go,” she said as soon as Rory spotted her.

 

“Paris.  Just come here and let me see it,” Rory replied.  Paris walked over, her frustration clearly written on her face.

 

Rory positioned Paris in front of the mirror, and stood just behind her, evaluating.  She pulled the hem of the tank down a little, and fixed the straps so they fit more snugly on Paris’s shoulders.  She didn’t say anything until she felt Paris start twitching in front of her.  She grinned a little victory grin.

 

“I like it,” she finally pronounced.

 

“Really?” Paris asked.  Rory could swear she thought she saw Paris blush, just slightly.

 

“Really.  It’s a good color for you, and the neckline is flattering.”

 

“Um, thanks,” Paris stammered.

 

“You’re welcome.  It looks good on you.  I think you should get it.”

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?” Rory asked.

 

“It’s a tank top.”

 

“So?”

 

“So,” Paris paused.  “It’s, well . . . revealing.”

 

If Paris didn’t look so serious, Rory might have laughed.  “Paris.  You’re seventeen years old.  It’s okay to wear stuff like this.  Plus, it isn’t revealing in the slightest.  The neckline is up to you collarbone, the hem is down to your hips.  This tank would only be revealing if we sent it back to 1850.”

 

“I suppose.  Maybe.”

 

“And isn’t it cooler than what you were wearing?”

 

“Well, yes.”

 

“So get it then.  Live a little!  You’re young, you’re free, you’re in Washington, DC.  One tank top isn’t going start a slide into a lifestyle of wild nights, heroin parties, strange men, and community college.”

 

Paris smiled a little.  “Okay, I will.  I’ll buy it.”

 

“Great!  I’m proud of you, Paris!”

 

“Thanks.”  Paris stepped out of the fitting area slightly, and gestured at the teenager behind the counter.  The girl glanced at Paris, and continued to file her nails.  “Hey, miss!  Can we get a little help over here?” Paris bellowed.  “I’d like to make a purchase, and you need to take these other clothes away.”

 

Rory grabbed Paris by the arm as the few other customers in the store turned to stare.  “Paris, that’s not how it works.”

 

“It isn’t?”

 

“Not exactly.  C’mon, let’s go up to the counter, and you can watch the girl take the shop lifting tag off.”

 

“What if I want to wear this out?”

 

“I’m sure she’ll take it off anyway.”

 

****

 

An hour and a half and one doomed trip to Payless later, Rory and Paris were back in their dorm room, waiting for dinner in the dining hall to start in fifteen minutes.

 

Rory was sprawled on her bed, eyes closed, basking in the early evening breeze that was making the hello kitty curtains billow slightly.

 

“I’m going to go brush my teeth and get ready for dinner,” Paris announced.  This was no surprise to Rory—even after only a day of living with Paris, Rory knew that Paris brushed her teeth about fifteen times a day.

 

“Okay,” she said, keeping her eyes closed.

 

“Hey, Rory,” Paris’s voice sounded quieter than usual.  Rory opened her eyes to find Paris hovering near her bed.

 

“Yes, Paris?”

 

“Thanks for today.  It was fun.”  Paris leaned down and gave Rory an impulsive kiss on the cheek.

 

“Sure, Paris.  Anytime,” Rory replied, a little surprised by Paris’s enthusiasm as Paris took her toothbrush and toothpaste and left the room.   She probably would have dismissed the kiss on the cheek as one more of Paris’s strange rituals, but her skin continued to tingle long after Paris had gone to the bathroom.

 

Rory wondered briefly what that was about, but soon forgot about it after dinner.