by Julie Cross
The bus finally makes the turn into the parking lot and pulls up front. I stand on shaking legs and make my way off the bus. Parked in front of the school is a black town car. An SUV sits in front of it.
Miles exits the bus and walks up behind me while I’m still staring at the town car. “Who’s in the fancy car?”
“You should know him,” I say when I see the tall man with stylishly graying hair exit the car and glance around. “That’s Senator Gilbert.”
Bret Thomas, the guy who nearly committed a hit-and-run in the school parking lot moments ago, walks right up to Senator Gilbert, a grin on his face. They shake hands, and I’m still staring. Awkwardly. I don’t know what I’m feeling, but it’s a lot. Too much. The senator’s head turns, and his gaze freezes on me. For a moment, I’m back at Simon’s house the night of the spring formal, shaking hands with his dad, letting Simon put a flower around my wrist.
I can still smell those pink roses like they are under my nose. My breath catches in my throat. Senator Gilbert lifts his sunglasses, looks right at me, and then looks away. Dismissing me. He slings an arm around Bret’s shoulders and the two of them, followed by an unusually large security team, head inside. It takes every ounce of my energy not to scowl at Bret. Who does he think he is? He didn’t even like Simon.
Gabby walks up to my other side. She’s watching this whole ordeal as closely as I am. “I heard they’re planting a tree for Simon this morning.”
I stare at her. “A tree?”
“Yeah, I know, right?” She shrugs and then walks past me to go in the front doors.
I look to my right, expecting some comment from my new neighbor, especially considering he brought up Simon this morning. But he’s gone. I hadn’t even heard him walking away.
I guess Miles has bigger things to worry about than a guy he didn’t even know. Especially considering it’s his first day of school. I, on the other hand, will probably be distracted all day by the idea of a tree with Simon’s name on it. I stare down the front entrance of the school, and instantly I’m transported to the first time I walked through these doors, the first time I met Simon.
“So I hear you’re my tour guide?” I prompted to the red-haired, freckle-face kid standing outside the office.
“Eleanor?” he asked.
“Ellie.” I nodded down the hall. “And you are?”
“Simon.” He cleared his throat. “Simon Gilbert. Yes, that Gilbert. But we don’t have to talk about our parents’ professions. We can go look at the cafeteria and science lab, and I can give you a speech about how Holden is incorporating technology into all its courses.”
“I definitely vote for ditching parental talk.” I handed him the schedule I’d just been given. “Want to show me where these classes are?”
“We have bio together.” He shoved his glasses farther up after they’d slid down his nose a bit. Then he looked at me, serious as hell. And genuine. I could read him like a book. “Feel free to ask me any questions. I promise I’ll tell you whatever I know, no judgment; it stays between us. I can think of quite a few things I would have liked to know about this school before I started here.”
I stared at him long enough to watch his pupils for dilation. “How about we start with that? What you wished you would have known.”
If only Simon were here now, ready to answer all my questions. To tell me what really happened, because he dropped me off after the dance and was dead the next morning. He said good-bye to me, looking happy and normal and just very Simon. And then he killed himself. Before his parents even got home. Before anyone else saw him.
Maybe I can get used to hearing his name again, but how the hell am I supposed to move past those few hours that lapsed between fine and, well, not fine?
CHAPTER 4
Simon’s tree-planting was anticlimactic. Only those who had first hour free could attend and, most likely, those kids don’t even come to school until second hour. Based on two conversations I overheard between third and fourth period—one near my locker and another in the girls’ bathroom—the only people at the planting were a local news crew, several teachers who hadn’t had a class first thing this morning, and student government members who were most likely forced to attend. I’m glad I couldn’t go, because I can’t shake the feeling that Simon would have hated it.
Especially knowing that now, in fourth hour, his tree was already old news.
“We’ve talked about the nineteen-twenties and the world Fitzgerald creates around this unique time period,” Mr. Lance says, pacing the tiny stage in front of my English classroom. “I want to break down the characters now. What makes Gatsby tick? What does he want?” He scans the room, and his gaze lands on the second seat in the far right row—mine. “Ellie? What’s Gatsby’s motivation?”
I straighten in my chair and repeat the question: What is Gatsby’s motivation?
“Come on, Eleanor, what’s his motivation,” my dad said in his booming, preacher-like voice. “You can’t go into this without knowing what he wants. What does he want?”
I kicked a hunk of perfect country-club grass with the toe of my borrowed golf shoes. “Me.”
“What did you say?” Dad asked for dramatic effect.
“Me, Dad.” I glared at him. “He wants me. Probably without pants.”
He winced but only for a moment. “Good. And are you going to give him what he wants?”
My mouth fell open. “You’re kidding, right?”
“The answer is no, Eleanor,” Dad snapped. “You will lure and charm. You will not give him anything. Because then it’s over. No open door to his rich gullible father, no fifty grand donation to our very worthy cause.”
“Which cause is that again? Surely we’ve saved enough whales for a lifetime.”
“Ellie?” Mr. Lance repeats.
I shake my head, refocusing. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?” His forehead wrinkles. “Because you didn’t have a chance to read the chapters over the weekend?”
“I read them,” I say. “I just don’t know the answer.”
“She means she’s conflicted,” the guy seated beside me offers. Cody Smith gives a nod in my direction. He’s a bit of a stoner who has been in the “I didn’t do the homework and I need to BS my way out” position too many times to count.
I glance at Cody, then I turn back to Mr. Lance. “I’m not conflicted. I just don’t get it. Gatsby has money. He has power. He has the unofficial attention of Daisy. He knows she wants him. He knows her family isn’t going to change. I don’t get why he’s supposed to be this mysterious character. There’s no puzzle to solve. I know exactly who he is, and I’ve only read twenty percent of the book.”
Mr. Lance tilts his balding, middle-age head to one side and waits a second before saying, “What about Fitzgerald’s note about Gatsby in Chapter One?”
“You mean his extraordinary gift for hope?” I ask, and Mr. Lance nods. “I guess he could be a foolish dreamer who believes change is possible.”
My teacher grins. “It’s possible he is exactly that. And though I admire your cynicism and hatred of predictability, I happen to find Gatsby very interesting, and I’ve read his story too many times to count.”
“What about love,” a girl on the other side of the room says. “He wants love. He wants Daisy to belong to him like all his other possessions belong to him.”
Mr. Lance looks her way and then back to me. “Is it possible—and stop me if I’m getting too crazy—but maybe Gatsby is chasing the impossible, as Miss Ames so intelligently stated, but he’s doing it intentionally.”
“You mean like he knows he’s going to fail?” someone from the back asks.
“Like, kind of.” Mr. Lance paces a few steps and then stops to face us again. “He doesn’t know it know it, but somewhere he knows. In his subconscious.”
“Like self-sabotage?” I ask.
Mr. Lance points a finger at me. “Yes! Exactly. He’s chasing this thing called ‘happy’ an
d when he gets it, everything will be okay…”
I pick up my pen and write a couple of sentences in my notebook in case I’m forced to relate to Gatsby in a future assignment: Running after something is easier than standing still. Standing still, you become a target.
Mr. Lance spins around and draws a big smiley face on the whiteboard, writing the word “HAPPY” above it. “Not just okay, but perfect. Everything will be perfect for Gatsby if he has Daisy. Because it means change is possible. His hope has purpose. Which essentially means that he has purpose.” He turns to look at the class again. “And who doesn’t want purpose for himself, right?”
This always happens to me, despite my immunity to persuasion, when I read something at home that Mr. Lance assigns. I’m so sure of my interpretation. Then I come in here, we start discussing the story, and before I know it, I’m heading down a completely different path. Maybe I’m losing my grasp on my own convictions?
“We have one minute left for me to return your Color Purple papers,” Mr. Lance says. “Don’t forget I’m running college-essay writing workshops every afternoon this week. Room 105. I want to see all of you there. Tonight, let’s read the next two chapters and further your understanding of Gatsby’s chase for happiness.”
I quickly jot down another note: The green light on the dock = Gatsby’s rabbit.
This immediately reminds me of the dog tracks I’ve been to in more cities than I can count. The stuffed rabbit the greyhounds all chase. I remember my dad telling me once, when I asked if the dogs liked racing, “Are you kidding? They love it. Chasing that rabbit, the burning desire to get to it first… Who wouldn’t love that?”
But they never got it. Ever. And what if they had? Would they chew it to bits in a matter of seconds and then be disappointed with all that buildup? Maybe not, but only because they’re dogs. Animals are all instinct. Humans have desire and greed to get in the way of instinct.
I decide to write down that note, knowing we’ll eventually have to draw a central theme from the book and turn it into a three- to five-page paper. And Mr. Lance is all about original thought over textbook analysis.
Animal instinct vs. human desire and greed.
Mr. Lance’s shuffling feet come to a halt beside my desk. I’m expecting a paper to fall on top of my notebook, but when it doesn’t, I glance up. He’s reading my notes.
My face heats up. I’ve only recently stopped “playing” the good student and actually started being the good student, so I have moments of insecurity. Being myself and all. Especially considering the main reason I got into this school was because I nailed the admissions interview—by nailed, I mean created the ultimate sob story about my family and a devastating fire. You know, the kind that destroys birth certificates and social security cards. I also conversed with the dean in three non-English languages, with perfect accents, giving the impression of fluency. I’m also gifted at impressions.
He finally drops my essay onto the desk, and then he taps a finger on the notes I just jotted down. “I like where you’re going with this.”
I work hard not to grin. It’s always better to play it cool. I flip the essay over and scan it for the red grade on the front.
98%
Ellie, seriously, remind me again why you aren’t in my honors class??
Hmmm… Maybe it’s because I came here with no grades, test scores, or transcripts to speak of? Maybe it’s because I’ve never been honors material? Though I played that girl several times, and I have to say, my performance was quite believable.
The bell rings, and there’s a mad rush to exit the class. Even Mr. Lance takes off. I read my grade one more time before packing up my stuff. But I stop just outside the classroom door after hearing whispering behind me. Two of Holden Prep’s most popular juniors—Bret Thomas and Dominic DeLuca—are leaning over Cody Smith, who appears to be sound asleep. Bret already got on my bad side twice this morning in a matter of minutes, so I immediately draw the conclusion that he’s up to something. Dominic is less suspicious, but he’s got that Italian-brooding-lover thing going on—tall, dark-haired, permanent scowl that he somehow manages to make look sexy. Can’t trust either of them.
“Come on, he’s a stoner, no one will be surprised if he gets caught,” Bret says.
I strain to listen—the hallway gets so loud between classes—and catch something that sounds like, “You’re sure Benson is doing a search today?”
Benson. The principal.
Footsteps move in my direction. I quickly slide a couple of feet from the door and lean against the wall. My nose is buried in my phone when Bret and Dominic breeze past me.
I have a flashback to those two walking by me in the hall months ago. After a class we all had together, they approached Simon, inviting him to a party at Dominic’s that night. Simon’s face lit up, but when they walked past me, I heard Dominic say, “Dude, what the hell are you doing inviting that loser?”
“Do you know who his father is?”
I wait until they round the corner, and then I head back inside the classroom. Cody doesn’t even stir when I reach in his hoodie pocket. My fingers brush what feels like a plastic bag. I pull it out and look over the colorful pills—definitely not weed—trying to identify them.
Cody lifts his head, drool running across his cheek, and looks around, confused. This is what I meant about standing still and becoming a target. I hastily shove the bag into my pants pocket and put a hand on his back like I’d been shaking him awake. “Hey, time to go.”
He swipes his cheek with one sleeve and flashes me a freckle-faced grin. “Oh, shit. I wasn’t supposed to fall asleep until sixth period.”
“It’s fine. You’ve still got four minutes.” I scurry out of the room, my heart beating a little too fast. I’m out of practice.
A shoulder brushes up against mine in the hallway, and then I hear a low, deep voice in my ear. “Did you just lift something off that guy?”
My heart speeds up even more. I keep my breaths even. I glance at Miles only for a second before saying, “What guy?”
“Seriously?” he says. “I saw you lift a bag off him. You’re buying drugs.”
“Jesus, be quiet.” I place my palm on his chest and shove him until we’re out of the main hallway, hidden at the end of a row of lockers. “Are you trying to get me expelled?”
He knocks away my hand and narrows his eyes. “Either you stole drugs from a classmate or you bought them. Either way, you’re an idiot and you probably should be expelled.”
From the corner of my eye, I catch sight of the door to the girls’ bathroom. “Excellent point, Miles. Why don’t you head over to Dr. Benson’s office and let him know all about this. I’ll wait here.”
He gives me a sarcastic smile. “Right.”
Lucky for me, I’ve been caught and broken free numerous times, so before Miles even lifts a hand, I anticipate his move—the one where my hands end up behind my back, and not in a sexy way—and I sidestep out of his grip. I’m flinging open the bathroom door before he’s even pushed away from the wall.
I shove the lock on the stall door and toss the pills—bag included—into the toilet. The illegal materials are swirling down the pipes by the time Miles pulls himself to his feet after crawling under the stall. His gaze fixes on the toilet bowl. I turn to him and rest a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you so much, Miles. I’ve seen the light. I don’t want to use anymore. I want all my brain cells. I’m going to a meeting right now.”
“Y-You…” he stammers, pointing at the toilet bowl. “How could you— Why would you—”
“I’ve told you kids a thousand times, two feet per stall!”
Miles quickly slides the lock, opening the stall door. One of the P.E. teachers stands in front of us, arms folded across her chest. She glares right at Miles like it’s all his fault, since he is, in fact, the boy in the girls’ bathroom. “What is going on in here?”
Miles starts to protest, his finger waving in my direction. Thinking quickly, I
step forward and raise a hand to stop him. “It’s not his fault. I goaded him.”
“Goaded him into what?” the teacher asks, her foot tapping, arms still folded.
“Miles has concerns about the number of tampons being flushed rather than discarded into the environmentally friendly wax paper bags.” I glance at Miles for a split second, long enough to see his mouth drop open, his forehead wrinkled. “I sort of told him it was impossible to flush tampons, that they clogged the toilets here. And he said it wasn’t impossible, which means people are flushing tampons and that’s why we need to get signs on all the stall doors. So I told him the girls’ bathroom doesn’t even have stall doors, and of course he didn’t believe me, so he came in to see for himself.”
The teacher just stands there like she has no idea what to say. I’ve learned the hard way the importance of filling a silent moment.
“It was stupid of me. I mean, I care about the environment, too. I really do. And all the statistics Miles quoted about the cost of emptying the septic tank versus taking out the garbage, those are our tax dollars we’re talking about! Or maybe not, since this is a private institution, but regardless, it’s wasted money all because of a bunch of careless menstruating students.” I drop my eyes to my shoes. “It was a really scummy way to win a debate. But I guess I wanted that number-one spot a little too much, you know?”
The P.E. teacher rubs her temples and mutters, “Just get to class. Both of you.”
I grab the sleeve of the narc beside me and head for the door. But before we’re in the clear, I hear, “And you…” The teacher points at Miles. “Find a new cause. No one wants to hear you tell them how to dispose of feminine products.” She shakes her head. “I swear, every year you kids take this college application crap further and further. Someone needs to tell Harvard to shove it.”
She pushes past us and walks off, still mumbling under her breath, but she watches to make sure Miles and I both exit the bathroom before heading back to the gym. I’m already late for lunch, so I turn in the direction of the cafeteria. Miles is right on my heels.