“Thank you,” I said, taking the paper. I would not be filling it out, but I’d keep it as a reminder that there was support for me in unexpected places. I for sure knew I’d never be working there after his stepfather’s reaction.
The boy ran back into the restaurant, and I went about my search, finally trying this place calledKirby’s—a diner with a chrome exterior. The design inside was like a refurbished train car, stools lining a counter, and a column of little booths.
A sturdy man whose build was like my grandfather’s was sweeping behind the counter. He stopped to look at me when I walked in.
“Hi, sir,” I said, guiltily, feeling already as though I’d been rejected again. “I was wondering if there were any jobs available.”
He set the broom down and wiped his hands on his apron, and then he sized me up. “Cook. Night shift. Can you do it?”
The offer caught me off guard. I couldn’t believe it was real at first. “Sure,” I said, trying to hide my excitement and relief.
“Follow me,” said the man. “I’m Mr. Kirby. Bought this new space with my wife about a year ago.”
I trailed after him through the kitchen and into an adjacent room. It was an office, the size of a cupboard, with a ceiling barely tall enough for him to stand.
Mr. Kirby sat at a cramped desk, from which he pulled a notepad and pen. “Everything before it lasted two or three months. And now, we on month twelve. Fighting allegations we’ll runout of steam just like all the others. What skills do you have that would make you a good fit here?”
“I worked for a shoe-shiner,” I answered, as I took a chair across from him. “He taught me a lot. And my father taught me to cook. And I can clean too!”
Mr. Kirby paused for a second, then looked up at me and burst out laughing. He found that so funny, for some reason. And it made me start laughing too.
“And that’s all it is, ain’t it?” Mr. Kirby said, still laughing.
There was a connection between us suddenly. I could sense the weight of Mr. Kirby’s wisdom without even having to know anything about it, because it shined through his humor.
Once he finally stopped laughing, he wiped a tear from the corner of one eye and said, “Oh, I needed that. I can give you the opening for the night shift, son, if you want it. You’ll learn on the job.”
“I’ll take it!”
Night shift. Saturday and Sunday, two p.m. to ten p.m. The other cook, Leanna, had been carrying this place on her back and approached the work with the steel-hearted resolve of a Viking. She taught me to blanch potatoes and get the temperature in their world-famous fried chicken just right.
Mr. Kirby was from Louisiana, started his business in a truck and had just moved up to a real space recently, so I couldn’t mess this up. My eyeballs might fall out from how focused I was on learning the ropes.
And every night I returned from my night shift, I continuedto check the mail until I came across a letter from West Egg Academy.
I took a deep breath and opened the envelope. At the bottom was a signature from the founder, Jay Gatsby Sr., himself.
Dear Mr. Carrington,
Congratulations! We are pleased to inform you that after careful consideration of your personal character and potential for growth, you have been selected as a recipient of the West Egg Academy Tuition Scholarship for the upcoming academic year. This scholarship, awarded to a select few, will cover the full cost of your tuition fees should you choose to study with us.
At West Egg, we pride ourselves on preparing young men to excel in their studies and their contributions to society. We are confident that you will uphold the values of discipline, respect, and integration that form the foundation of this institution.
We ask that you confirm your acceptance of this scholarship within two weeks of receiving this letter to allow us to finalize arrangements for your arrival in the fall. Once again, congratulations, Mr. Carrington. We look forward to welcoming you to West Egg Academy.
Yours Sincerely,
Jay Gatsby, Founder
West Egg Academy for Boys
The door to the house flew open with a force that scared me, even though I was the one who’d opened it!
I burst down the hallway, screaming, “I got in!” I held the letter up in the air like a beacon of hope, joy rattling through my body. “Auntie! Uncle! Daisy!”
Auntie came out from her room and found me first, her smile even wider than mine. “They accepted you?” she asked, and then hugged me and screamed, “Nick, this is wonderful! I knew you’d get it!”
Uncle Beet came casually to the kitchen next and patted me on the back, laughing with pride and joy. “Way to go, young man. You got more than enough to keep you busy now, that’s for sure.”
