Epilogue

On the Worthington College campus, Joey Potter rushed into Professor Hetson's class the next morning, late. Of course, Hetson did not let that pass.

But neither did she.

Well, most of the last lesson consisted of eviscerating my personal life, and every other lesson is a rant composed of your dated theories. I'm sorry I'm late, Professor Heston, but the first half of class is usually when you reveal how bitter you are, how moronic we are, and how literature is dead. Were you thinking of moving on to something slightly more stimulating today?

And Hetson actually smiled.

Well, I think we've been spending too much time together, Potter, if that's your attitude. I mean, I was thinking of teaching today, but I don't know if I've got a lot to offer, what with the tenure and the published articles and all. But if you all insist on being stimulated, why don't we discuss James Joyce's description of the girl on the beach. I mean, I'm too hackneyed to illuminate the subject, but maybe you can shed some light? With a tiny smirk indicating something very close to reluctant admiration, Hetson trained his sights onto someone else. Wilson... what do you think?

The class continued. Joey was vindicated, at the very least in her own mind. Looking over at Eddie, she saw him smile and wink his approval at her. Perhaps in someone else's mind, too. Smiling to herself, she opened up her notebook, pen poised, ready to learn.

Much earlier that morning, in the large offices of one of Boston's best rising stockbroker firms, the glow of fluorescent lights mingled with the tentative pale light of the crack of dawn, washing shimmering silver over empty desks and blank computer monitors, silent phones and neat, tall piles of folders. Its sole occupant stood up from his desk to stride over to a nearby bookshelf. Pacey Witter grabbed one of its thick books and began thumbing through it, in search of a reference he was determined to find. Rich Rinaldi strolled in, briefcase in hand, suit immaculately pressed, stopping short as soon as he entered, surprised.

Good morning, Pacey greeted, smiling.

Rich simpered at him, yet beneath, spared a glimmer of approbation. Good morning.

Later that afternoon, Dawson Leery sat in a movie production office, gazing at his laptop, trying to type an e-mail and yearning to get it perfect. He stared at the screen for a long time, anxious for proper articulation, yet finding it elusive. Beginning to type, he got as far as "Dear Joey" when Todd called to him, demanding, from another room.

Leery! Come on, break's over!

Quickly closing his laptop, Dawson jumped up to join Todd immediately, the perfect e-mail never written, thus, never sent.

When night came, a solitary Joey sat on her bed in her dorm room, staring at the collection of PEZ Simpsons in her hands. Placing them, one by one, into that small velvet sack, she put the bag into her desk drawer, always within reach. A soft smile graced her lips. Glancing at the snow-globe by her bedside, her smile grew sad. Picking up that glass orb, she gazed at it for a long second before bringing it over to her closet. She set it high above on a shelf. Out of sight. And out of mind.

On the other side of the city, Dawson strolled through the Hollywood set-piece that was actually a real house – his house -- yet here, was just a dream. Or rather, a nightmare. They were filming a horror movie, after all. Walking over to the faux front porch – devoid of any sparkly lights or flickering candles, cups of champagne or girls that got away – Dawson settled himself, alone, on its steps. His face was expressionless as he surveyed the waning activity all around him – the crew packing up equipment, the actors and actresses cleaning off their make-up, various other production assistants scurrying around, getting every bidding done. This fantasy was now his life. And this set-piece was as real as it was going to get.

Driving toward the middle of town, Pacey gunned the engine of his red vintage Mustang as he sped along a lonely stretch of road. He liked the sound of that hidden horsepower energy, usually kept in check, restrained by speed limits and traffic lights. Thinking of things left unsaid, of pachyderms and magic balls and even fake houses, Pacey quietly laughed, then flipped on the car radio, loud. That elephant which had ambled through the room crossed the street before him, ghostly and invisible. He did not see it, but instead, zoomed right through it, leaving its spectral remains scattered on the road behind him.

Behind them all.