Chapter 7 #2
making a few drops of water splash into the space between us. “Maybe we could do it together sometime?”
“Do . . . it?” I echoed.
“Yes,” Jay said, matter-of-factly. “Swim.”
“Swim! Of course.” I laughed it off. “Together. I never learned how—not really—but I could. I could do that. Sure. I have
to go now.”
I awkwardly turned to leave, but he didn’t let me get far.
“Hey,” he called, and I was forced to turn around, as if commanded by a sire. “If you do show up at the dance, I’ll see you
there.”
This statement was delivered like an invitation. His persistence made me sure that he cared about my presence at this dance. But why? He’d be absorbing the attention of a dozen beautiful girls there. What did it matter if he saw me?
“Okay,” I said, like some sort of wet automaton. Water from his chest had splashed me in the face, and now my parts were malfunctioning.
“I’ll let you know what I decide. See you.”
I turned and left the pool room, legs a little wobbly as I caught my breath. Outside I waved the paper through the air to
dry off the droplets Jay had left on it. Would there ever come a time when being in his presence didn’t feel like swallowing
a kaleidoscope of butterflies?
Jay Gatsby Jr. was confident. He was, dare I say, sexy? His energy, whatever it was, put the power of a god in me each time
we had an exchange. And so I marched proudly into the West Egg Chronicle office the next day to deliver my article to Charlie.
“This is a fine piece,” Charlie said, apathetically, after reading it. “Very sincere, and I appreciate your challenge to Gatsby’s
reputation as an altruist.”
His reaction was a bit flat, but not unexpected.
“It was more about the entire structure of the school than Gatsby’s reputation,” I said.
“Sure, of course.” Charlie’s tone was dismissive. “You want better access for Colored boys. I appreciate the sentiment, but
we can’t change the whole structure of the academy. Obviously.”
“Who says?”
“Um, the structure?” Charlie made a silly face at me, like I was dumb. “It’s there for a reason. Anything else you could cover besides how much
you hate it here?”
I thought for a second. “Uh . . . perhaps the political movements happening in Harlem? I think it’s important for students
to stay connected to politics. I know some people here go to Garvey’s meetings.”
Charlie grimaced. “Any article about Garvey and his followers ought to mention how his rhetoric leads to violence. If you
ask me, Marcus Garvey is nothing but trouble.”
“Who says?” I shot back.
“My father,” Charlie said. “He says Garvey is a troublemaker, stoking violence. He even tells his followers we should hang
white people the way they hang Negroes.”
“He’s not saying we should be violent,” I snapped, growing frustrated. “Garvey is just about self-defense, about empowering
us, not attacking people. My father would call him a genius.”
“Your father’s gone, isn’t he?” Charlie retorted, watching me for my reaction.
I stared back blankly, though the comment sucked the oxygen right out of my chest.
“So sorry to hear that,” Charlie continued flatly and went about his business, sorting some papers in his desk.
He left me in silence, wondering if that was truly insulting or if I was just sensitive. I thought it was insulting, but I
decided to press forward. If this really was about business, my emotions wouldn’t serve me well here.
“Garvey’s growing in popularity because his theories are making a difference,” I said.
“Ah yes, harping on about how he’s going to build a big boat and take you all back to Africa is bound to be very appealing.”
Charlie waved his hand around like the theory was a nuisance. “If that’s possible, why haven’t you all gone back there? Nobody
keeps you here.”
“It takes resources to do that, you know. The Black Star Line is like a trade system with Africa,” I explained, trying to
recapture my father’s language from when he told me about it. “We don’t build a big boat. We start by sending resources from
the United States back to the motherland until we can eventually return and leave America if we choose. That’s the idea.”
“Sounds fraudulent,” Charlie said smugly. “And like it will not last.”
“Who says?”
A look of annoyance rose in Charlie’s eyes, his expression screaming, This is a waste of my time.
“Look, the revolution story lacks a striking angle, Nick. Nobody would care about that. Just focus on a lighter push for better
curriculum access and leave it there.”
“Maybe my stories belong to a separate paper,” I said, stonily.
Charlie swallowed, his face hardening. “Unfortunately, West Egg only has the Chronicle.”
“And that may be the problem,” I said. “Everyone’s interests can’t be represented by a single paper.”
“It’s not about everyone’s interests,” Charlie retorted. “It’s about a unifying front.” He flicked his hand at me in dismissal. “That’s enough.”
I left the office with my article still clenched in my hand, my face burning with anger. Charlie’s words sat wrong with me—not
just what he said about my father, but the way he looked at me, like I was already set up to fail. Like he was daring me to
prove him wrong. He didn’t expect much from Blue House boys. None of them did. Unless you were Artie—the one they let through
to say they had.
I should’ve believed the first version of Charlie I met—the one who threw golf balls at my head.
On my way back to the dorm, I passed other Blue House students, their shoulders low, their eyes avoiding mine. They moved
through the day the way we were expected to: quiet, small, like we were just lucky to be here.
Charlie’s paper wasn’t the avenue to be heard. And I didn’t need his approval to make a difference.