Chapter 12
Daisy was waiting by my door barefoot and still in her dress when I arrived home. “Just wanted to make sure you’d made it
back,” she said, with concern. “I thought you might have taken off with Jay when you left, but then I realized he was still
there.”
“What is Jay’s deal, anyway?” I asked, as I walked through the door into my room. “It’s like he’s in some sort of relationship
with every person who comes up and asks him for his time.” I undid my tie and unbuttoned my sleeves.
“Jay is very popular,” Daisy said, leaning against the doorway and studying my emotions. “That’s how it goes.”
“He seems to have a crush on even you. Was there some history between you?”
“Not at all,” she said. “Did he say something?”
“Only that he wanted to pursue you back in the day to prove something to his father.”
“Well, if he was only interested in me to please his father, it’s good it never happened,” she said with a laugh. “I don’t even remember him from back then. How young do you think we were?”
I had to stop myself from taking my tension out on Daisy. I should have been upset with myself and my emotions. I felt like
I may lose Jay now that people thought we were hot for each other. It was all fun and games at one point, but what if the
whispers got too serious and Jay had to drop me completely to make a girl his permanent fixation?
With my shirt loose now, I picked up a notebook and sat on my bed. “People saw Jay and I dancing together. It stresses me
to know that people are giving us so much attention. They were already bullying me before.”
“Jay will protect you from it,” Daisy said. “He likes you.”
“Does he? It doesn’t seem that way,” I mumble. “What do you see?”
“Hmm, I see he takes every excuse to look at you, and you’re the only one who doesn’t quite notice it because you’re never
looking at him when he does—that’s the point.”
“Do you think he might be . . . you know?” I ventured, hesitating as new sentences formed in my mind.
Daisy didn’t seem to follow. “What?”
“There are people who like people of their same gender,” I said, my voice quiet.
That gave her pause. “I don’t get that impression of Jay, but who knows? I’ve almost loved girls the way I’ve loved boys.”
“You have?”
“Take Anna May,” she said, staring dreamily off into the hallway, fingers teasing her heel straps.
“We were friends as kids. She’d make me her Valentine every year.
She didn’t want to have to worry about courting someone just to eat chocolates.
We carried the tradition through junior high and it gave me something to look forward to year after year because it wasn’t this mad dash to find love. Just an excuse to love ourselves.”
I could not describe what I had with Jay so poetically. And what we had was less sweet, more rough around the edges. I didn’t
think Daisy quite understood what I was getting at.
What I had with Jay was not as easily described, but if I were to be fully honest, I didn’t know how she’d react. How would
anyone react, if they knew what I was really thinking, about him, and us, and what our friendship meant to me? It might put
me on course for a lonely little life.
“I think I may be broken,” I said. “Like a plate somebody dropped, just trying to piece myself together and failing miserably.”
“We’re all failing miserably, Nick. The key is pretending that you have it all together,” Daisy said, with a sympathetic smile
and a gentle parting squeeze on my arm. “Good night.”
She turned to leave, and I fell back on my bed, wondering if Gatsby, the father, knew about Jay’s letters being published.
Did he know about the school drama? Would he care?
Whenever Jay spoke on his father, he seemed confused, less bold, less in the moment. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Gatsby
Sr. may have been a nuisance to me, not for the reasons Jordan didn’t like him, but for new ones entirely.
Though I’d admit it to no one, I thought about Jay after the dance. Shouldn’t the night have lent itself to more?
I couldn’t sleep much or think of anything but my dissatisfaction.
By Monday morning, it had turned into a sharp need to channel the storm. I found myself skipping classes and staring at a
blank page that would become something for The Sovereign.
It would make me feel better to shatter the facade of the school. To lay waste to the image—everything West Egg pretended
to be but wasn’t! To expose the hypocrisy of this place. The lies of its appearance.
If I just kept writing, it would give me something to do other than stew in my thoughts.
Does West Egg Protect Its Students?
By Nick Carrington
Let me give it to you straight, Reader: Ever since my letters from Jay Gatsby Jr. made their way through the halls, there’s
nothing left for me to do but dive headfirst into this storm and try to capture it from where I stand.
So, here’s my question for you: What changed when you found out that a boy from the White House and a boy from the Blue House
were talking to each other? And why, if the West Egg Chronicle can print stories that expose the private lives of its students, can’t we get published when we write about real issues?
Why was the editor in chief of the Chronicle so quick to publish something that could embarrass its students, but so hesitant to put out work that could make change?
I’ll tell you, Reader: West Egg wants you to believe it’s progressive, but in reality, it’s doing everything in its power
to prove otherwise. Negroes are treated like window dressing—just there to make the place look diverse while we’re kept on
the sidelines.
The papers will tell you this experiment is doing us a favor, but if you look closely, Negroes aren’t even allowed to tell
our own stories. If you’re only inviting us to sit at your table so you can treat us like servants or a punchline, what’s
the point of this so-called experiment?
I’ve got one last question, and it’s for Mr. Tom Buchanan and Mr. Jay Gatsby Sr.: If no one’s willing to protect us here,
then what good is an integrated school? If no one will publish us or listen to us, then I’m afraid this experiment isn’t working.
That final line would hit like a hammer! This was the new front-page story.
I didn’t need Jay for what came next—no telling how he’d react to his father getting dragged through the mud, and I could handle the reprint on my own anyway.
Students from Blue House often had special jobs, like delivering papers and supplies to the Chronicle’s office at the end of the day. I waited by the utility closet until the janitor left, then grabbed a trolley and loaded
boxes onto it.
Once Charlie stepped away from his desk, I pushed the trolley through the writers’ room, pretending to drop off supplies.
Most of the writers were too absorbed in their work to notice, except for Artie, who watched me as I walked into Charlie’s
office.
I slipped my paper into the mimeograph behind the desk and began making copies.
Artie appeared in the doorway. “Excuse me? You aren’t supposed to be in here.”
“Tell on me, why don’t you?” I replied as I rotated the knob to make the papers print. “It wouldn’t be the worst you’ve done.”
Artie pushed his permed hair from out of his face and squinted at me, pursing his lips and folding his arms. “What are you
doing, anyway?”
“What everybody else is afraid to do,” I said. “Telling the truth.”
“You know whatever you’re printing is going to be pulled instantly if it’s not approved by Charlie.”
“So be it. I don’t need Charlie’s approval or the Chronicle to print my papers. I just need his mimeograph. And that should do it.”
I picked up the stack of papers, pushed past Artie, and left the writers’ room just in time to see Charlie returning. “What
you got there?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I answered, without turning around.
But when I was out of sight, I spread my papers around the hallways with the reckless abandon of a dog marking its territory.
I pinned them near lockers and water fountains, slid them under doors. I felt defiance and a thrill of freedom! Each paper
I placed felt like a tiny trinket of rebellion against a system that wanted me to stay in my place.
By the time I ran out of papers, I was breathless and my hands were stained black with ink.
I’d called out Buchanan and Gatsby Sr.—those untouchable men whose names were etched into the Academy pamphlet like founding
fathers. Their presence was a looming force, silently guarding outdated traditions and doing nothing to stop bullying in the
walls of their school. I dared to criticize their legacy and call their inclusion performative. And it was liberating!
I lingered in the shadows of the stairwell, watching as students picked up the papers, reading with expressions that ranged
from shocked to intrigued. Some White House boys looked around after tearing the papers from the walls as if afraid to be
caught with them, but the Blue House students glanced at each other knowingly. The Sovereign meant something to them—it validated what they already knew but hadn’t dared to say aloud, and that was all that mattered.
I noticed in the next few days that I got more attention. The paper was the talk of the Blue House, with many of my housemates
coming up to joke that I should “be careful being so bold,” but I was not worried! Or at least I didn’t let on that I was.
My worry only set in when I was on my way to and from field training and I caught cold stares from the White House boys who once ignored me. It was typical intimidation.
Tension lingered all over campus like a storm gathering on the horizon because I’d decided to say the quiet part out loud.
It was empowering! But I also felt dread, like something was coming for me. Couldn’t shake it.
A week after my papers swept the school, I tucked into bed late and tried to fall asleep, my mind busy with thoughts of what
my family would think if my papers got me kicked out of West Egg. I had to admit I’d grown slightly worried. It was thrilling,