Chapter 7
Jay Gatsby Jr. never stayed in just one world.
Most days I spotted him alone, wandering campus like a lonely tourist. But sometimes he jumped from clique to clique with
a fluid social grace that was hard not to envy.
I didn’t see him often—once a day, usually—in conversation with faculty or someone at an activities table, putting on a personable
voice. He made the most of being handsome. He knew what he was and didn’t pretend otherwise, but he didn’t brag about it either.
I think that’s why everyone liked talking to him.
Even if Jay had somewhere to be, he’d always smile and wave when he noticed me.
We’d exchanged further letters even following Charlie’s taunting.
Jay shared his fascination with carpentry and told me about how he was working on little animal pieces for fun—birds, tigers, and owls.
How he liked working with his hands more than sitting in classrooms tossing around theories all day.
I shared my love for poetry with him. How I often scribbled lines in my notebook when I needed to get emotions out, but had trouble finishing things.
Our letters created a secret world between us, one I kept hidden in my room. There, I yearned to share the depths of myself
with a stranger, but always pulled back, unsure of how much to reveal.
I’d just left my dorm after tucking away Jay’s latest letter. I was passing through the outdoor corridor when I saw him approaching
me from the field. He raised his hand for a wave, but someone cut in front of him shouting, “Hey, Nick!”
It was Charlie. He blocked me from viewing Jay, so my first instinct was to look around him, but he was so tall and present
that I couldn’t.
He was passing me a flyer. “I’d like to invite you to a meeting in the West Egg Chronicle office. I am the new editor in chief and I’m looking to publish more interest stories about Negroes. Since you’re always
writing things down anyway, it might make a good use of your time.”
This was surely a joke. “Is that so?” I asked, taking the flyer, looking at him sideways.
“Follow me quickly, will you?”
I turned to look at Jay and found he’d paused, appearing confused as to why I was talking to Charlie. I was too—for now. I
gave him a wave, and he waved back with a slight but disappointed smile. His eyes followed me as I walked with Charlie into
a classroom building.
I was pulled by the sudden switch in Charlie’s demeanor. He was being . . . nice to me now, in a way that felt like a trap but piqued my curiosity.
We reached his office at the West Egg Chronicle by way of a room full of white writers—and Artie. Charlie’s office featured a window that looked into the writers’ room.
I reckon so he could watch his factory as it produced.
Charlie sat down in a swivel chair behind his desk. “I think we started off on the wrong foot,” he said, with a performed
smile.
“Yes,” I sat quietly in the chair across from him, ready to perform in return. “I would agree.” This felt strange, but Charlie
was a curious person in general. He had a sense of humor that threw me off the scent of his terrible spirit.
“Don’t mind the locker room humor,” he said. “It’s time to talk business. Jay mentioned you got into West Egg because you’re
gifted in writing. So, if you have something to offer to the Chronicle, you should write me something, as a trial run.”
“I don’t know what I would write,” I said.
“Whatever’s newsworthy to you,” Charlie said. “Keeping with the mission of West Egg, we want to make sure the Blue boys are
represented in the paper, and God knows good writers among you are one in a million.” He laughed at himself.
Ah, there was the race bait I’d come to expect. Charlie was hateful, but I did want to do something at West Egg other than man the
elevators. And writing was what I genuinely wanted to do before the mob came to Greenwood.
“I guess I could write something,” I said, small ideas already rattling in my brain.
“Deadline’s Friday.” Charlie leaned back. His eyes gleamed as if he was already picturing the headlines. “Give me something that’ll make people need to read it. Something that’ll get the Chronicle buzzing. If you can pull that off, we might let you publish again.”
I nodded with acceptance and then left Charlie’s office feeling excited and uneasy. He was mean, but the opportunity to write
felt like a gem under a lot of dirt. And it gave me the stirrings of purpose.
The halls were quiet as I walked back to my dorm. Students were either going back to their rooms or milling around common
areas.
When I stepped into my room, silence greeted me, as Vinny was off somewhere else. I took a seat at my desk and opened my notebook.
Here was a chance to show something real to the students who read the Chronicle.
What could capture people’s attention? Something that spoke to the Blue boys like me, who were still trying to figure out where we fit into the school.
I came up with the story in real time as I penned my thoughts straight from the heart.
Does West Egg Deliver on its Promise?
By Nick Carrington
West Egg. What to say about West Egg?
When I first got here, it felt like a chance—like this was a place where Colored boys like me could get the same opportunities as white boys, where we’d have a fair shot at building our futures.
But now that I’m here, I’m starting to wonder: Has West Egg kept that promise?
Are they really giving us the same space to grow and succeed?
It’s hard to buy into the “elite education” thing when, for a lot of us, the only jobs we’re being prepped for are the ones
they think are good enough for us—like manning elevators or waiting tables. What good is all this education if we’re only
ever going to be stuck doing jobs that don’t let us reach our full potential?
Look at my roommate, Vinny. The guy can play the tuba like nobody’s business, but how’s he ever going to make a career out
of it when he’s stuck pushing buttons all day? Our talents, our ambitions—they’re bigger than this!
If West Egg really cares about equality, then we should all have access to the same classes, the same opportunities. They
talk about integration, but I see segregation, just in a different way. If West Egg is serious about giving us a fair chance,
it needs to open the doors wider.
We should be able to learn more than just what’s “acceptable” for us. If West Egg wants to help us, it can’t just want us to be useful—it’s got to let us be whole.
After finishing my piece, I had to take a walk to weigh the consequences of showing it to Charlie. He wouldn’t want to publish
something that worked in opposition to his elitist attitude. And yet, I could only write what came from the heart, so I was
hopeless to change it.
Pa’s words before he died thrummed through my head like a shooting ache: Don’t ever hold your tongue, no matter how afraid you might feel.
I walked through campus until I landed inside the recreation building, where tall ceilings and tiled floors made the whole
place feel like a hospital. I spied through a window a vast room with a pool, its walls pure white, Greek-like. So I went
inside just to see it and take in some beauty.
When I opened the door, I was blasted with the faint scent of chlorine. A window on the ceiling above the water shone light
onto the pool’s glassy blue surface. One person was swimming, making ripples as they cut through the water with powerful yet
peaceful strokes.
He slowed as he reached the shallow end, where he pushed himself up out of the water. He climbed the little brass ladder,
big arms and back flexing with his motions. He wiped himself haphazardly with a towel and then turned, pausing when he noticed
me.
Jay. Again.
He waved and gave a reserved smile.
I waved back, barely breathing and hoping he couldn’t tell. The universe must have been doing this to us on purpose.
“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” he called, his voice echoing as he walked over.
Water trickled down his chest, and through the gridlocks of his stomach.
“Yeah . . . I was . . . just needed a break,” I stammered.
Jay ran the towel through his hair. “You know, I was thinking that we don’t have to keep passing notes. It was fun, but not
anymore now that people know about it.”
“I agree.” I shifted my weight some, tightening my grip on my bag, feeling self-conscious.
“We can just talk to each other,” he added.
“Sure,” I said. “Hi.”
“Hi,” he echoed, with a jovial smile. I remembered the trial piece I’d been carrying around—it would form the perfect conversation
pivot. Jay was a good writer and familiar with Charlie, so he might help me with my confidence.
I reached in my bag, pulled it out, and handed it to him. “Could I get your opinion on this? You don’t have to read the whole
thing, but since you’re friends with Charlie—well, former friends—do you think he’d ever publish this in the paper?”
Jay took the paper, scanning it in silence, which gave me some time to watch him. What had he told Charlie about me, besides that I’m a good writer? I wondered. And why did my brain abandon that thought to focus instead on the drops of water dappling his skin?
He looked up, meeting my eyes. “Are you going to the dance?” he asked, abruptly.
“What?” I blinked, taking a moment to process that this question was not related to my essay. “I . . . don’t know,” I answered
boringly.
He nodded and went back to reading. Finally, when he was finished, he said, “It’s honest.” And handed it back to me with an
encouraging smile. “This place could use a little more of that, whether Charlie wants to publish it or not.”
It gave me a sense of relief. “Thank you,” I said, trying to keep my tone even.
Jay smiled. “Anytime, Nick. We’re all in this together. I agree.”
“Yeah. You’re a good swimmer.” My eyes widened instinctively at my clumsy turn of topic, but Jay just laughed.
“I do like it,” he said. “Cools me off after exercise.” He stretched his shoulders back and tapped on his chest with moxie,