His father arrived later but did not walk into the precinct. I only knew we were leaving when Jay came racing back with the keys calling, “Nick!”
I almost rolled my eyes as he unlocked the cell. He may as well have been running the place now.
Gatsby Sr. was waiting for us in a sleek four-passenger car, facing forward like the main subject of a stoic painting. Jay got into the front and I got into the back.
“Hello there,” Gatsby said in a low tone, but he didn’t turn around, so I could only assume he was talking to me.
“Hi,” I returned.
“Can Nick come home with us?” Jay asked his pa as the car took off.
“It’s okay,” I intercepted. “My family will be expecting me at home.”
“You need to clean up,” Jay said, turning to look at me. “Somewhere better than the cell.”
Does he think I don’t have a shower at home?I thought, in horror.How dare he?
This was what I got for messing with the rich—silent judgment.
Jay’s father was as white as white could be. He was not approachable. Status oozed off him like an overdose of maplesyrup and it showed from the jewelry he wore. One of his hands rested on the gearshift knob as he drove, as if it were waiting for something more important to do than aid in the steering of the wheel. On just that hand were three gemstones—one blue, one green, and one a combination of both colors, all with gold bands. Did he think himself a superhero?
I was quiet on the drive. So were the two Jays, save for a quick exchange about if Jay had taken care of the washing of some linens. It was as if they had nothing substantial to talk about.
Once we were back in Gatsby’s home, he told Jay to wait in his room and asked me to follow him to his study.
“Forgive the mess, if you will,” he said as we arrived, but there was no mess at all. The room was cozy and inviting, filled with bookshelves and small lamps. Maps, guns, and birds adorned the walls in a striking mosaic, complementing the chevron-patterned rug beneath our feet.
Gatsby sat in a chair and motioned for me to sit on the sofa across from him. I did so, hesitant to get too comfortable. Between us was a table, and on the table, a teapot and two mugs.
“If I had a servant, I’d ask her to warm us up some tea,” Mr. Gatsby said, gesturing to the teapot. “But I don’t believe in that.” He watched me for a response, and I didn’t give him one. “My son has told me a lot about you,” he went on.
“He has?” I asked. “What did he say?”
“That you are one of West Egg’s brightest pupils,” he replied with a smile. “That you came here from Oklahoma, as I understand it, to flee terror, and you found your way into our academy.”
I thought he’d want to talk about the protest or us getting arrested, but it was like he’d invited me over for a tea party instead. In this moment, Gatsby shifted, much like a chameleon, andalmostseemed to be a friendly man. When I looked at him head on, I saw his son’s mouth and the same inquisitive spirit emerge in his eyes.
“Somehow I did,” I said. “I’m thankful to you for the acceptance at West Egg.” I wanted to be gracious. Despite his calm, I knew there must have been anger he was holding in under the mask.
“And yet this protest,” Gatsby said, changing his tone. “It was spurred on by dissatisfaction with the school, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Someone tried to kill us in our sleep,” I said. “That’s what started it.”
“Are you sure it wasn’t an accident?” he asked.
That gave me pause. “There was more than one fire,” I reminded him. “It was arson.”
It seemed this was the first he’d heard of it. Even so, he was strangely peaceful about the burning of his very own school.
“I understand your anger about the attack at West Egg,” he said. “And what happened in Greenwood was an unconscionable attempt at mass murder—going through it twice must be highly traumatic. But you understand people are different in New York than they are there. There’s a place for your passion, and it’s in the debates over where this country is headed, rather than the streets.”
I couldn’t help but scoff. “The country ought to head in a place where students don’t have to worry about their school burning down. But we do.”
“I’m sorry we couldn’t keep things safer on campus,” Gatsby said, with no emotion.
“Speaking of campus,” I said. “I couldn’t help but notice the houses were segregated.”
Gatsby laughed with discomfort. “Well, the sorting system is based on aptitude, rather than race. We give an IQ test on par with the model set by schools across the state of New York.”
