Chapter 2
DARCY
"So you're saying Jay Gatsby is basically an Instagram influencer?" I hide my smile as murmurs of disagreement ripple through my AP English class at Mattichogue High School.
But Zoe Martin sits up straighter, warming to her theory.
"Think about it, Ms. Gable. He carefully curates this perfect image, right? Throws lavish parties to show off his lifestyle. Nobody really knows where his money comes from. He's basically running a Gatsby aesthetic Instagram account from his mansion."
"That's hilarious. But wrong," Ryan James argues from the back row. "Gatsby was trying to win back the love of his life. Influencers just want followers."
"Both can be true." I perch on the edge of my desk, enjoying how engaged they are.
This is why I love teaching the classics.
Watching students find modern parallels, making these stories their own.
"Gatsby crafted a very specific public image.
What was he trying to influence people to believe about him? "
Hands shoot up across the room. Even the kids who usually hide behind their copies of the novel are sitting forward, eager to debate.
Sometimes I can't believe this is my job, that I get paid to discuss literature with bright young minds in the same classroom where I once sat silent, afraid to draw attention to myself.
"He wanted everyone to think he came from old money," Melissa offers. "Like Tom and Daisy."
"Yeah, because he thought that's what Daisy wanted," Ryan counters.
"So he's basically photoshopping his whole life, right?" Zoe persists. "Editing out his real background to get more likes from his target audience, which is Daisy."
More hands go up. I call on Joshua, who normally needs encouraging to participate. "It's kind of sad though, right? Like, he spends all this time creating this perfect image, but it's not even really him. No wonder it all falls apart."
"Excellent observation." I stand, moving to the whiteboard. "Let's explore that. What happens when we build our lives around an artificial image? When we edit out the parts of ourselves we think people won't accept?"
The discussion flows faster now, students building on each other's ideas. I guide them through the deeper themes of identity and reinvention, genuine self versus careful curation. By the time the bell rings, they're still debating as they pack up their books.
"Don't forget," I call over the noise. "Essays are due Monday. And yes, Zoe, you can absolutely expand on your Instagram influencer theory, as long as you support it with textual evidence."
She grins, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. "Thanks, Ms. Gable. This is way better than when my sister had to memorize all those symbolic color references last year."
I watch them file out, still discussing whether Gatsby would have had a verified account. Their energy, their willingness to engage with classic literature on their own terms—this is everything I dreamed of when I decided to teach at my old high school.
Who would have thought quiet Dictionary Darcy would end up here at the front of the class? The old nickname flits through my mind before I can stop it, but I push it away. That was a long time ago. I'm not that scared, insecure girl anymore.
I'm gathering papers to grade when a familiar figure appears in my doorway.
"Please tell me you're free for lunch." Annie Felder, straight dark hair escaping her usually neat bun, practically vibrates with excitement. "Because I have the most amazing idea, and I need your help."
"Amazing ideas from you usually end in disaster," I say, but I'm already smiling at my friend's enthusiasm. "Remember the time you convinced me your drama club fundraiser needed live animals?"
"Hey, that goat had excellent comic timing." Annie drops into a student desk, bouncing a little. "And this is much better than theatrical livestock. I need your help with Friday's bachelor auction."
I stack my papers neatly, trying not to smile.
As the daughter of the town librarian, I'm well aware of the upcoming auction.
My mom has been talking non-stop about this year's fundraiser for weeks, proud of how many "eligible gentlemen" she's managed to recruit for a weekend of voluntary indentured service.
The annual Bachelor Auction for Literacy is her baby, the library's biggest fundraiser of the year.
"I already told Mom I'm sitting this one out.
Bachelor auctions aren't really my thing. "
"I know, I know. But I need your help." Annie leans forward, her dark eyes pleading. "A bunch of us are pooling our money so I can bid on Evan Bardot."
Bardot. The last name of my school years’ primary tormentor. I hear those two syllables, and my whole morning reorganizes itself around them, even after all this time. I carefully set down my stack of papers. "Annie..."
"Please?" She clasps her hands together. "With enough of us chipping in, I might actually have a shot at winning a weekend with the most eligible bachelor in Mattichogue."
"You mean the one whose family owns half the North Fork?" I try to keep my tone light as I organize my desk. "I thought you were done dating wealthy men after the last disaster."
"Evan's different. He's sweet. Nothing like his older brother..." She catches herself, but not quickly enough.
"And there it is." I shut my desk drawer with more force than necessary. "You know, for someone who claims to be my best friend, you have a suspicious habit of bringing up Finn Bardot."
"Only because you never talk about it. About him." Annie's expression softens. "Come on, Darce. That was years ago. We're not in high school anymore."
"Really? Because sometimes when I'm grading papers at 2 a.m., I swear I'm back in Mrs. Peters' English class all over again." I try to keep my voice light, but the old hurt creeps in anyway.
"Finn Bardot hasn't set foot in Mattichogue in ten years," Annie points out. "And Evan is nothing like him. He's sweet and charming and..."
"And you're clearly smitten." I manage a small smile. "Which is why you should find someone else to help fund your bachelor auction adventure. I've had enough Bardot-related humiliation to last a lifetime."
"You know, most girls would have been flattered by all that attention from the lacrosse captain."
"Attention?" I arch an eyebrow at her. "Is that what we're calling it when someone turns your name into a punchline? 'Dictionary Darcy' wasn't exactly a term of endearment."
Annie winces. "Okay, fair point. But come on. Help me win his much nicer brother? Please?" She bats her eyes dramatically. "Think of it as karmic revenge. At least one Bardot brother will have to take orders from a Mattichogue girl."
Despite myself, I laugh. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm determined." She stands, smoothing her skirt. "Jules and Cathy are already in. Just think about it? The bidding starts at five hundred, so if we all pitch in..."
"I'll think about it," I say, mostly to get her to drop it. "But no promises."
"That's all I ask." She heads for the door, then pauses. "Drama club meeting at three?"
"Wouldn't miss it." I wave her off, watching as she floats down the hallway, no doubt already planning her perfect weekend with the youngest Bardot brother.
When she's gone, I sink into my chair, and the old memories come anyway, in order, the way they always do.
He coined it in seventh grade, the same season I won the regional spelling bee.
Dictionary Darcy. My actual name plus an entire personality, assigned to me by a boy with a lacrosse stick and a following.
The nickname walked into every classroom ahead of me for years.
It survived the move to high school. It sat two rows behind me in Mrs. Peters' English class, where I'd been bumped up a grade and Finn slouched in the back, finding my raised hand hilarious.
And that wasn't even the worst of it. The worst was eighth grade, when Dad left with the woman from the title company and the whole town developed an opinion.
Kids can smell blood in the water. The jokes about my father cut deeper than anything anyone ever said about my vocabulary, and they went on for a year, hallway to cafeteria to bus loop.
Then one October, freshman year, they simply stopped.
All at once, like somebody flipped a breaker.
I never found out why. I was too grateful to ask.
What I did instead was learn the lesson that painful year taught me.
That people who know the most hurtful thing about you will use it, and the safest version of yourself is the edited one.
I got very good at editing. Quiet in the hallways, invisible at dances, fluent only on paper.
It took college, a teaching degree, and this classroom to unlearn most of it, and I am proud, genuinely, of the woman who stands at that whiteboard now.
Which is precisely why one surname should not be able to walk into my Thursday and rearrange the furniture.
The man Finn's become since, billionaire adventurer, extreme sports mogul, seems worlds away from the arrogant boy who used to mock my love of reading.
But sometimes, hearing about his latest business success or seeing his face in magazines, I still feel like that insecure teenager, trying so hard to make herself invisible.
The worn copy of Gatsby on my desk catches my eye. My students' voices echo in my head, all their observations about reinvention, about crafting the perfect image. About hiding the parts of ourselves we think others won't accept.
I've built a good life here. Found my voice in this classroom, helping students find their way through literature the way books once helped me.
Made a home in the town I once couldn't wait to escape.
The fact that Finn Bardot's opinion of me still has the power to sting after a decade is, to use the technical term, irritating.
A burst of laughter from the hallway draws my attention.
My next class will be filing in soon—twenty-eight freshmen tackling Romeo and Juliet, most of them convinced Shakespeare is a special form of torture designed by English teachers.
Not one of them knows their teacher once memorized comebacks in advance the way other kids memorized locker combinations.
Ancient history. I’ve moved on from Finn Bardot.
I’ve told myself that lie so often I almost believe it.
I gather my teaching materials, pushing thoughts of the Bardots aside.
I have classes to teach, drama club to sit in on later, essays to grade.
My life is full and meaningful, showing students how beautiful words can be, how powerful—everything I used to keep hidden when being smart made me a target.
But as I write "Themes of Love vs. Hate" on the whiteboard, the lingering unease from Annie's visit refuses to be filed.
Some things are better left in the past. And Finn Bardot is definitely one of them.