Chapter Text
Lane Kim's life was split into two halves.
The first half was a list of stiff, unsmiling plans laid out for her from the day she'd been born to the day she'd die. Her mother's routine.
The second half was the routine Lane had created for herself, to fit what she really liked or wanted or craved for lunch that day. The extra shirt in her backpack that had actual color in it. The made-up stories of where she had been and why and who she'd been with. It was an impossible dance, and she was good at it, and it was always bittersweet to know just how good.
When it came to her life's halves, Lane knew everything. She had come to expect how things were going to go. She knew her mother would make rice cakes at 4:30 AM every morning and that she would make Lane sit and eat them plain before the sun rose. There could be nothing on the table that might cause Lane to develop a taste for artificial sugar. She knew she'd get an apple, later, pushed into her hands on the way to school. Lane knew every shortcut to the Gilmore household there was in Stars Hollow, plus how long it would take her to get there at a jog, or a brisk walk, or running screaming with her arms flapping around.
She knew Rory's favorite songs and favorite sweater, and why that might change depending on what Lorelai wore or listened to the following week. She knew Mrs. Kim liked it when she was home early to help with the dishes before studying, so they could stand in silence and scrub together and it almost felt like real family. Lane knew she felt loved when Mrs. Kim let her spend an extra two minutes on the phone with her best friend, and she knew she felt angry when the magazines claimed Frank Sinatra had been involved with the mob scene. She knew Lorelai made her laugh and Luke made her laugh and Kirk made her laugh. She knew Stars Hollow made her crazy, and that Elm Street was home, and that made her laugh too sometimes.
The only thing she didn't know was how to change it all. How to change the two halves into one whole—a whole that worked for everyone. A life that felt like the right thing. For that, she'd either need to wake up one day in someone else's body, or something would have to give.
Eventually, something did give. And it started the day she lost her new Strokes album.
"Lane!"
It was autumn, it was 2001, and Stars Hollow High was finally letting students out for the day. Lane was busy shoving her textbooks into her insanely-messy, insanely sticker-bombed locker. She could smell Janie Fertman's perfume, Cucumber Melon, long before the pep-squad drone ever came into view.
"Earth to Lane." Faux fruity scent bounced into her personal space, heralding Janie as she bounced with it. "Lane. Hel-lo—"
"What, Janie?" Lane turned her science book on its side, pushing it until there was a crease in the hardback spine. How did she manage to forget the exact arrangement, every day, that would allow her locker door to fully close?
Janie's bottle-blonde hair was shiny and twisted into a ponytail over one shoulder. Her mouth was twisted too. Smile wasn't the right word, but she must've thought that was what it looked like, because her voice was sugary-sweet. "Did you know your hoodie's majorly clashing with that top?"
"Is that what you came over here to tell me?" Lane squinted through her glasses at the other girl.
Janie Fertman had once been considered something close to a friend. But at some point, between the fifth grade and now, Janie had subtly decided that both Lane and Rory were beneath her, and Chilton had been the final straw to break the camel's back. The moment Rory left for genius school, Janie turned around and started spreading rumors about both of them. She'd had half the school convinced at one point that Rory had dropped out to follow in her mother's footsteps, pregnant at sixteen. She'd told them Lane was an accomplice and primed to be shipped off to Korea for her sins.
When the rumors had died down and she had been able to trace the source, Lane had cut ties with Janie. She had a zero-tolerance policy for anyone who spoke ill of Rory. Besides, if rumors had to be created, couldn't they at least be cool rumors? Why couldn't someone have their class whispering that Lane was secretly touring with Bono, or secretly filthy rich because, as it turned out, she was vaguely Korean royalty of some kind?
It didn't seem to matter which cold shoulder was turned Janie's way. The girl could not take a hint. She'd started pretending a few months ago that none of it had ever happened.
"Cheer tryouts are next month." Janie reached back to re-tie the already-perfect ponytail. Blondes were perpetually unfair.
"So?"
"So you'll be at tryouts, right?"
"Tryouts?"
"For the cheerleading squad," said Janie. "I've been telling you forever that you're cheerleading material, Lane. Don't you remember? All those stats I showed you? The measurements, the skin tone comparisons?"
Lane's eyebrows knit. She did her best impression, expression-wise, of her mother every time the paper boy lingered on their front walk.
Janie's head reared. "What's that look? You have like a cold or something?"
So. She needed to observe the animal in its natural habitat a bit longer before emulating its mannerisms.
Lane closed her locker door with a slam. "Apparently you don't remember me saying I have no desire to be a cheerleader, or that my mother would lose all function in her primary organs if I did become a cheerleader, or that I'm really, really sick of hearing about tryouts and measurements and my skin tone." She encircled her face with a finger. "See this? This is what's known as a Fitzpatrick type III, Janie. Red. That's red, Janie. And what color are the Stars Hollow High cheerleading uniforms?"
Janie's eyes flicked between hers. "Red."
"Do you really think red on red is a good combination?"
"I'm just saying—"
"Because that would be clashing."
"Okay! Do whatever you want, whatever." Janie raised her palms.
Lane felt a ridiculous little chuckle coming up and carrying her words with it. "Me? Whatever? Whatever I want? That's rich. That is King Tut levels of gold here, Janie. Really."
Janie went through the double doors with an extra spring in her stupid step. Always managing to push every button. Rory's advice was usually to ignore her—but Rory didn't have to attend high school with her anymore. Rory didn't have to see Janie Fertman every day, or her shrink wrap smile, or her stupid lime green backpack.
It was then that Lane realized she didn't have her backpack.
She turned on her heel and went barreling down the hall, heading straight for English class. That was where she'd last had it. Lane heard her sneakers squeaking on the tile floors as she moved, dodging bodies and mindless high school chatter. If she was late getting home, Mrs. Kim would demand a reason.
When she made it to the presumably-empty English class, the door was already open. That was weird. Ms. Hockens always kept it closed.
Just as Lane was going in, someone else was coming out. She smacked into five feet and maybe eight inches of hair product and ribbed blue fabric.
It was the new kid—brand-new, as in, just enrolled that day. His name was Jesse. No, Jess. He was cute in a circa 1972 Keith Richards kind of way, and angry-looking, and so far pretty quiet. He spent two thirds of the class they shared reading a rolled-back book that wasn't their English textbook and smelled like something acidic. Maybe that was what cigarettes smelled like. Or drugs. Lane wouldn't know.
The word on the pristine streets of Stars Hollow since yesterday morning was that this was supposed to be Luke Danes' unruly nephew. But right then, in that split second after she ran into him at full Kim-march speed, Lane couldn't see much of a resemblance. Maybe he was adopted. Luke and anyone in his bloodline would never be able to grow that much eyebrow.
"Sorry." Lane stepped backward to let him by, giving him a tiny, distracted smile.
Jess did not respond. He barely looked at her, actually seeming to avoid her eyeballs. He slid right past her, one hand messing with the right pocket of his jeans.
She didn't spare him any more attention. There was her backpack, right underneath her chair.
Lane tugged it out and lifted it, about to put it on, when she noticed the main pocket was unzipped. The cord for Rory's spare headphones, the silver ones she'd let Lane borrow, was hanging out. That never happened. Lane was nothing if not a good steward of her best friend's things. Those headphones were always kept neat, the cord wrapped around the set and held there with a rubber band.
Had someone been in her backpack?
Lane paused, nose scrunched in confusion, and set the bag down on her desk to root through it. Besides the slightly-askew headphones, everything was sort of where it should have been. The rice cake was still in a Ziploc bag her mom left for her, uneaten as always, sitting at the bottom. Lorelai's Classic Rock magazine from the diner meetup that morning was rolled up in the back, behind Lane's algebra textbook. But somehow it all looked a little off.
Her album was missing.
The Strokes. It was gone. Shiny new cover, not a fingerprint to be seen, unplayed as of yet because she couldn't get to the Gilmores' until tomorrow morning, and she'd only just gotten the album smuggled to her by Rory the day before. It should have been right there, bright and beautiful in front of everything else, hidden from Mrs. Kim and sitting right where Lane could open her backpack in the middle of class, pretending to get a pencil just so she could look at it lovingly for a few precious seconds. Which was not weird at all.
How could it be gone? Lane started shoving things around, desperate for a glimpse of clear plastic. For a peek at blue and pastel yellow. Nothing.
"Where is it?" She almost threw the algebra book over her shoulder. Lane let her hands slap down against her sides, standing up straight to think. Get more air to her brain.
She glared at the backpack; eyebrows knit. Narrowed her eyes at the floor, turning slightly toward the door. There had only been one other person in this room since class had ended, besides Ms. Hockens. Someone who had avoided her gaze and had just the right amount of Hans Gruber in him to become suspect number one for her in seconds. It was kind of her only lead, and this was The Strokes.
If she was quick enough, she might have the CD back in minutes and still be home on time.
"Hey!" Lane raced out of class, shouting down the now-deserted hallway.
Jess hadn't made it to the door. He was near a locker—his locker, definitely, because he was apparently in the middle of closing the door and turning to head out. When she came hurtling down the wide, smelly passageway, he didn't look around.
"You! Guy!"
Then he stopped and twisted halfway, feet still kind of moving. He looked only vaguely interested when she reached him, even after it became clear she was talking to him. Lane didn't waste a second, neither to catch her breath nor to keep her little Nick Valensi-loving heart from exploding. Her hoodie drawstrings almost slapped her in the mouth when she halted in front of him, she was moving so fast.
"Hey," Lane gasped again, shifting her weight. "Jess. Wow, I should not be out of breath that fast. I mean, I walk everywhere I go."
It was just occurring to her, as she stopped moving, that it was weird to shout you, guy to the new kid as he was leaving. Jess was blinking over and over again, looking at her like she was coming out of an asylum instead of a classroom four doors away.
She cleared her throat. "Did you see an album lying around in there?"
"What?"
"In English." Lane pointed wildly behind her somewhere, hopefully at Ms. Hockens' classroom. "Just now. Was there an album that just happened to be lying near or in the immediate vicinity of my backpack?" She wound her hands, eyebrows up; why wasn't he answering? "Come on, my backpack, it was the only one in there. It's blue."
"Blue."
She didn't like the way he was looking at her. And she didn't like the way he was only saying one word at a time when a brand-new album was on the line.
"It was right there and it was open and I never leave it open, so—" She stopped, inhaling. "So I was wondering if maybe you had any idea where it went?"
"Should I?"
"You were just in there." Lane tried a little disbelieving smile, but she knew it looked fake. "It's a brand-new album. A debut, actually, Is This It? The Strokes?"
She waited for him to look envious. Or at least look like he recognized something she'd said.
"Didn't see it." He turned to go again.
She tugged him back using sheer volume and speed of words. "Okay well, you were the only other person I saw in that room a second ago, so—"
"So what?" He faced her.
Everything in Lane wanted to shrink back the second the new kid turned those big, angry dark eyes on her and waited for her to call him a thief. Actually, a lot of the fire churning in her stomach did die out. It suddenly seemed ridiculous and embarrassing to be hassling a stranger over an album.
And then she thought about the time Rory had spent standing in line waiting for the store to open early yesterday morning, and the pains she herself had taken to hide the acquisition of the album from her mom, and the hours she'd spent waiting desperately, since then, to be able to play the stupid thing and analyze every last note and riff. And some of the fire started back up.
That, and the new kid was being rude.
Lane took a second to meet his gaze and said bluntly, "Did you take it?"
"'Scuse me?" Jess' eyebrows almost covered both his eyes. Like two thunderclouds. Right at that moment, jaw working, he looked exactly like Luke. He was Luke and she was Taylor Doose in glasses and clear nail polish. She did not like being Taylor Doose.
"You heard me. I never leave my backpack open. Everything in that backpack is accounted for and approved of by yours truly every day, because it has to be exactly the way my mother last saw it when I left for school. So believe me, I know when I find it wide open and an album I slaved to get missing from its contents, something is up." She raised her own eyebrows, not nearly as impressive as his, and pointed. "And you, my friend, had to have something to do with it, so talk."
"I didn't take it."
"You were there."
"So was the teacher."
"The teacher left twenty minutes ago, yet you were still in the room when I got there; this crime only has one suspect."
Jess scoffed, loud and wet. "What crime, it's a Strokes album. You want something worthy of a criminal activity, try losing something by The Clash."
Lane's mouth fell open. "There is no way The Clash is even comparable with The Strokes—"
"Oh, please—"
"They're two completely different levels of rock!"
"What?"
Of course he couldn't keep up. Typical.
Lane began counting on one hand. She pointed up, hard, every finger like a mental sword. She could do this all day. "A., English rock is fundamentally different than American rock, B., The Clash began that genre for generations and The Strokes have only been around for like four years, and they are already shaking the system—"
Jess' head lolled back. "Gimme a break, they're a glorified cover band—"
She almost choked on her own spit. "Excuse me?"
He leaned forward. "Fledglings. C'mon, everyone knows they're just rippin' off the Ramones. You can hear it in their sound."
"The Ramones aren't exactly strangers to rip-offs, either, smart guy! Hello, the pseudonyms?"
"So you're telling me The Strokes don't sound just a little bit too close?"
"Well—yeah, everyone sounds a little too close; The Ramones literally invented punk rock in the U.S., it's hard for pizza not to remind people of pie!"
Jess snorted. "I didn't take it."
"Clearly!" Lane threw an arm up. "Anyone who reduces an up-and-comer like The Strokes to a 'glorified cover band' doesn't even deserve to smell their debut album, let alone steal it!"
"Smell it?"
"Whatever, you know what I mean."
For a moment, they were done. Each one stopping for breath. And in that intermission, Lane realized her whole brain had been on autopilot for the last five minutes and it had been great. She hadn't had to slow down after all.
Jess looked at her differently now, as if shaking off the asylum assumptions.
"This town's weird."
She didn't deny it. She wanted some kind of defend-Stars-Hollow maternal instinct to come lashing out at him, but it wouldn't. The Kims didn't even attend town meetings.
"But at least somebody here knows how to listen to music."
He was smiling. A very off-putting, kind of irritating half-smile. There was a little Janie Fertman in it, like he enjoyed picking at her. Jerk.
Lane tried not to show him how much fun she'd had. She was good at hiding things. "You haven't seen it?"
"I haven't seen it." Jess crossed his arms. "Anything else you wanna accuse me of out of the clear blue? Maybe I stole the teacher's keys, too."
"No, she loses those daily."
"Good to know." Jess raised his brows, at last liberating his poor eyeballs. "Can I go now?"
"Fine." Lane actually took a step backward. "But I'm watching you."
He was already on his way out the door. He turned one last time to roll his eyes at her, and then he was gone.
Lane went back to the classroom to retrieve her backpack. She spent just two more minutes scouring the place for her album before bolting for the exit, already late.
That night, after Mrs. Kim read her the riot act, made her polish two extra chairs in punishment, and watched her down three cups of tea, Lane retreated to her closet to sulk. Her room was as strait-laced and perfect as ever. The closet, with its flashing lights and flashier colors, was her only solace in the entire house.
She was staring at her algebra homework without seeing it. She'd already run the risk of Mrs. Kim finding the album by dumping the whole backpack out onto her bed the moment she'd gotten upstairs. Still missing. Because of course it was. The thought of anyone else in the next few states listening to it right now, while she sat there with Rory's headphones on and nothing coming out of them, made her want to sink into the fuzz of her cushions and drown. A restless feeling in her legs and chest.
That new kid—Jess. He was not going to make a comfy addition to the Stars Hollow society set. For one thing, way too mouthy. For another, the resemblance to Luke began and apparently ended with the jaw-thing. Even his posture had been angry. Like the restless feeling she had now was covering his whole body, 24/7. Someone like that couldn't fit in a town like this, where Taylor wrote you up for dropping gum wrappers and Lorelai made up songs to convince you to give her your food. Everybody here was soft and Jess seemed made of all sharp edges.
And she'd wasted valuable Strokes-recovery time getting into a heated debate with Mr. Sharp Edges.
Lane lurched forward and opened her CD player, reaching for the nearest stack of discs. She was four songs in before she realized the first band she'd chosen was The Ramones.