Do You See Her Face? (A Jess Mariano Fanfiction)

Catherine, Heathcliff, and Shangri-la

Tilting her head to the scene in question, Lorelai scoffed. "Guess he's got his 'What I Did This Summer' essay all planned out."

"I know," Ella groaned. "America's youth really does have such admirable modesty."

Snorting a laugh, Rory shot a knowing look at her mother. "Have they been at that a lot?"

Ella nodded, speeding up in her stride a little to get out of view of the display. "Yep. It's now part of the Early Bird Special at the diner. Dinner and a show."

Lorelai faked a gag. "I told you. The kid gives off major Sid Vicious vibes."

"Looks like he's found his Nancy," Rory added.

"And he's been so weird at work lately. He barely talks to me, just sits on his little stool. Reading, brooding, scaring off small children. Maybe I pissed him off. I don't know," Ella said. She fiddled with the chain of her necklace.

"Um....Ella?" Rory began, bringing a hand to the blonde girl's shoulder. "Do you not realize you're the Catherine to his Heathcliff?"

Ella scoffed, laughing breathily. "What?"

"He's totally into you!" Lorelai exclaimed.

Raising a brow, Ella rolled her eyes and kept walking. She crossed her arms over her chest defiantly. "Very funny."

"Every time he looks at you..." Lorelai said, feigning a swoony look. "It's sickening."

"Yeah, right. I bet it's Rory he's into," Ella argued, shrugging them off once more.

"Oh really?" Rory asked skeptically. "Then why does he make those notes in your margins? In the poetry books he said he hated when he first got here?"

"It's mutually assured destruction," Ella explained. "If he stops taking a chance on poetry, I'll stop taking a chance on the beats. The arguments would ensue, the diner would descend into chaos. In an effort to avoid certain death during our shifts together, we compromise."

"Ah, the key to a strong relationship's foundation," Lorelai retorted.

Snorting a laugh, Ella shook her head. Without the flowers and the serenity of solitude, the less desirable aspects of the festival began to wear on Ella's psyche. The barber shop quartet spun around and around in her head, making her dizzy, and the sun beat down on them. Stray strands of hair, fallen from her bun, began to stick to her damp forehead.

Suddenly, an idea occurred to Ella. "Rory, my dear?"

"Yes?" Rory answered with suspicion.

"You know how you always give me presents on my birthday even though I tell you not to?" Ella asked.

"I'm aware of the annual birthday commiseration," Rory said, nodding.

"Well, I'd like to request, as a birthday present for your favorite waitress, a moratorium on the Jess talk until I am seventeen years and one day old," Ella suggested, fluttering her eyelashes jokingly.

Sighing, Rory linked her arm with Ella's. "Alright, but only because you asked so very nicely."

"Good to have you back, Thelma," Ella smiled fondly, pulling her friend a little closer.

"Same to you, Louise."

Lorelai chuckled and shook her head, watching as the girls ascended the steps to Lane's door.

. . .

Mercifully, Ella had made it through the day with minimal birthday wishes and no attempts at gift-giving. Lorelai and Rory had teased her about a surprise party, but she knew they wouldn't truly dare. Instead of going home, where she knew she'd have to brave Fiona's pathetic attempts at celebration, she wandered around town aimlessly. It made her feel guilty to snap at the woman so much, but she just couldn't help herself. Watching Fiona, only twelve years her senior, traipsing around in her house, humming the Dixie Chicks songs she knew her mother would've hated. Before she could apply any rational thought to the decision, she found her way to the bridge. The greenish-black water sparkled in glowing moonlight. Crickets sung and cicadas buzzed, a low summer tune. She hung her booted feet over the edge, the black cotton of her dress pooling around her knees. Rifling through her shoulder bag to the side, she found a copy of The Grapes of Wrath. A perfect book to sustain her gloomy mood. She laid back against the wooden planks of the pier, holding the novel above her face, blocking out the view of the clear night. The humidity had dissipated, and a cool breeze blew past her.