Chapter 23
Daisy stood in the mirror, galactically lengthy in a shimmering purple undergarment set, a Buccellati diamond bracelet, and
a Tiffany anklet.
It was the night of Jay’s fake proposal to Daisy and everything had to be just right.
Jay stood next to her and practiced lines. “I’m so excited to be marrying—” He paused to change his inflections. “I’m so excited to be marrying beautiful Daisy Whitley!”
“Ugh,” Daisy scoffed. “That sounded so fake, Jay! You can do much better.”
Jay pulled a little ring box from his pocket and got on one knee. He popped it open to reveal a diamond ring. “And to be presenting
her with a ring courtesy of Buchanan’s Jewelers! See, father, I can be friendly with our neighbors too!”
“Pretty soon we’ll be able to buy dozens of diamond rings!” I sang to the ceiling.
Daisy looked off dreamily about that. “We will, won’t we?”
I thought back to Jay’s words, in his moment of uncertainty, and then asked Daisy, “Do you ever feel a quiver of doubt about this?”
Daisy went into the closet. She was finishing her outfit, so all I could hear was her voice. “Oh, I don’t think I’ve had a
doubt in years. I’ve sat through Tom’s endless stories about his boring life, and honestly, I couldn’t tell you what half of them even meant. He’s awful, really! He’d put everyone back where they
started if he could, but somehow, he’s still got everything.”
Daisy emerged in a champagne-colored gown. She sat on the bench in front of her vanity mirror to put on two earrings, which
were shaped like tassels, effortlessly dressing as she spoke. “Buchanan doesn’t want harmony—he wants control. And so, there
will always be a difference of vision between us. Nothing could make me work in that house forever.”
“Shall we burn the mansion down when all is said and done too?” I asked gleefully.
“Oh, Nick, I’ve corrupted you!” Daisy turned to me with a mischievous expression as she took pins out of her hair, causing
it to fall around her head in shimmering finger waves. “I should’ve never let you have that first conversation with Jordan.
Now you’re wrapped up in violence.”
Daisy applied pink lipstick to her bow-shaped lips, then grabbed a white purse from her rack and posed in the mirror. “Anyone
else excited for the party?” she chirped.
“Overjoyed,” Jay said monotonously. He was sitting on the bed now, all dressed and slumped over, in a pair of gold-framed
octagonal glasses, just for show.
The rest of his outfit consisted of a white shirt and a pinstriped blue vest. He was the color of the ocean and the clouds. And I, the grass, dressed in the green Norfolk tux of my Uncle Beet.
“Can’t wait to betray the person I am for a performance of the person my father wants me to be,” Jay said.
“The American dream!” Daisy exclaimed, with a laugh. She slipped into a pair of gold Spanish heels with diamond-studded buckles
that completed the look. For the finishing touch, she sprayed perfume and spun through it, her shawl forming a parachute.
I reached like a salivating lion for a hit of the soft scent, the rosy vapor she spun in.
She pulled a bottle from under her vanity, poured a glass of gin, and handed it to Jay. “You’ll need this before the event.”
He took a sip and his face soured. “This is more potent than I’ve ever tasted.”
“Tom gets it imported! Calms me right down. Bottom line? I’ve had enough of Buchanan and his lot, and it’s time to get lost.”
Remember when I could not stand to be in the same room with them because I was so jealous? My cousin and friend were happy
together and leaving me out of it. I wanted to be in on their lightness. Joy and tragedy were a moon cycle for them, my friends—their
heartbeats were far more rapid than my quiet, dull thumping. I guess that was why I needed to love them.
They were there for me, and some of the only ones who’d never turned their back on me. They’d never let me down in this world
so full of betrayal, and that counted for everything!
Gatsby’s place was lit with an array of lights, which outlined every hedge, pillar, and fountain on his property. Upon our arrival, a carriage was waiting to bring us to the front doors.
We rode up to the entryway, and before we got out, Daisy subtly slipped me a key to Buchanan’s mansion.
I stepped out first, into the noise—a Negro quartet played a song in the driveway. Music spilled out of the windows of Gatsby’s
mansion too—jazz.
I helped Daisy down from the carriage and then looked around. Rows of polished motorcars glinted under the glow of the property’s
lamps. Chauffeurs stood in neat uniforms. There was a large turnout of people who must have taken hours to get ready. Guests
arrived in twos and threes. They were brushed with the finest skin creams and glowed like aliens dipped in otherworldly sparkle, their shimmering gowns
catching light like tiny stars.
The inside was packed with servants who collected coats from the professionals, who were decades older than me. I had no idea
who they were, but Gatsby’s connections had come out in droves to witness the arrangement between Daisy and Jay and likely
to see what Gatsby’s mansion looked like on the inside.
People of all ages and races were brought here by the openness of this man.
Some artists in colorful clothes with untamed hair studied the art on Gatsby’s walls.
Poor folks made reasonable efforts to blend in among the elites and had pulled out their best suits for the night.
Gatsby had even employed some of the boys of Blue House to work the event.
I spotted Zihan pouring champagne in a guest’s glass alongside a servant.
I wandered around and landed at one of the refreshment tables. I admired the tiered trays of cakes and inhaled the freshly
shaved cheese for the crackers. Rich ladies stood fanning themselves and looking around like they had somewhere better to
be.
There was an undercurrent of quiet competition, as they peeped around at the other ladies’ outfits, eyes murky with barely
concealed judgments. They watched a white man take a Colored woman upstairs where there was privacy and whispered about it
to each other.
I realized a moment too late that Jay had appeared at my side, checking his watch for the time. “Almost there,” he whispered
to me.
“Almost where?”
“Confetti explosion, of course.”
Seemingly at his command, a big explosion of confetti burst from blasters around the ceiling. Jay laughed and the people looked
up at it, surprised by the twisting pieces of color that filled the air. Some covered their glasses with their hands; others
raised them.
Daisy scurried out of a side room, laughing at the confetti as if the biggest robbery in the history of this peninsula was
not going to happen tonight.
Once the confetti settled, Jay whispered, “Incoming,” and faded into the crowd of people.
I saw what he meant a moment later. Straight ahead, Charlie Buchanan was stuffing his face with a pastry and walking in my direction. “I’m sorry about what you saw at lunch,” Charlie said, his mouth full. “My father is not usually like that. I believe it’s because he was stressed on that day.”
“He lost his temper,” I said. “Let’s let it blow over.”
“Thank you, Nick,” Charlie said, looking a little surprised. “My father only wants to make this city better. I hope you’ll
accept that.”
“Of course.” It was so easy to be nice when you had tricks up your sleeve.
“And I’m sorry about the fire too.” At first, I didn’t know if I heard what I knew I heard. And before I could even process it, Charlie kept going. “I thought it was a dramatic step. Others did not.”
“Others? What others?”
“A lot of people didn’t like the idea of a fully integrated New York. I say this because . . . if it was you who sent us that
threatening letter, know that my father will stop at nothing to kill his enemies. You might think he has more empathy than
he does! I don’t want that to happen to you. Don’t try anything. If you must think of exposing my father, talk to me instead.”
“I have no idea what letter you’re talking about,” I lied. I couldn’t help adding, “But you know who did it? The fire?” None
of this made any sense. Everything I knew pointed to the Buchanans ordering the fire, but here Charlie was, ready to admit
his father was not above murder to keep his reputation yet shoving the blame for the arson aside.
“Of course, everyone in the White House dorm knew it would happen, including someone very close to you.” Charlie raised his eyebrows like he knew something I didn’t.
“How is this possible? Who else from White House would have reason to do so?”
“Shmoozing gives you privileges you couldn’t even imagine.”
Shmoozing? Who was shmoozing?
Mr. Gatsby’s amplified voice reverbed through the house, announcing, “I would like to propose a toast. To my son and his new
fiancée, Daisy Whitley . . . soon to be Daisy Gatsby!”
I walked out to the living room and found him standing on the makeshift stage installed for the party.
Charlie followed me and whispered, “I hope you’ll understand it’s for the best that whites and Coloreds stay separate.” He
pulled away from me and smiled, patting me on the back in a fake show of support. “Be well, Nick!”
I was so horribly nauseous from the stress. All this running around looking for the arsonist, thinking I had pieced together
the story of this crime, and Charlie claimed he had information on the culprit the whole time that he was willing to give.
Were the Buchanans even involved?
I walked around the party, mind filling with doubt, zeroing in on every white person under the age of twenty, examining their
face for some sort of guilt.
I found Artie Botts with Stu Miller—an engineer from the White House who graduated to be a fitness model. Artie was twirling
a lock of hair around his finger as he talked to the boy.
“Artie! How are you?” I shouted.