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 couldhandle the reprint on my own anyway.
Students from Blue House often had special jobs, like delivering papers and supplies to theChronicle’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 theChronicleto 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 Sovereignmeant 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, though, to think of how much I could shake the table!
I nodded off with excitement and anxiety warring in my chest, but I was woken up soon after by my door slamming. I was ready to assume Vinny had left the room until I saw a blinding orange glow flaring near the door. My heart stalled as I took it in—a fire in the corner of my room, flickering and flying like a growing demon.
And there laid Vinny sleeping in the bed beside mine, not yet aware of the smoke that filled our room.
“Vinny!” I shouted, thrashing up in bed. “Vinny, there’s a fire!”
Vinny opened his eyes and leapt into action. He was not paralyzed by the sight of the flames like I was. He started fanning the flames with a shirt, only raising the temperature on the heat.
“Stop!”I ran over to grab his arm and pulled him back from the flames. “You’ll make it worse.”
The alarm blared as we evacuated the room and ran into a smoky hallway. The Blue boys flooded out of their rooms, coughing.
More than one fire had been started and they were eating the whole building! It was not a coincidence but an act of arson.
We ran to the staircases on either side of the building and rushed down until we were outside. Several people, including Artie—the RA on duty—raced to the telephone booth at the front of campus to alert the fire department. The rest of us were left standing outside, most of us in our pajamas. We were without our belongings except for the small things we’d each chosen to grab before we left. For me, it was my notebook.
