“Good evening, Mr. Buchanan,” Jay cut in, arriving at my side.
Buchanan did not respond and instead made it a point to ignore Jay in favor of focusing on me. “Expect me to be in touch then. Jay will let me know how to reach you.” He gave Jay a quick look, which felt like a warning, and then waltzed off, his son and wife behind him.
Jay turned to me, his eyes suspicious. “What was that?”
“He just started talking to me and then invited me to lunch,” I said with a shrug.
“There you go! Now you can break bread with them. You’ll either learn that the Buchanans are the worst monsters aliveor decide your plan is actually ridiculous.”
So, the plan had not left his mind. That meant he’d been kicking it around, giving it power. And I’d secured another invitation to Buchanan’s house? How easy was that? It was my turn to play nice.
“Look at all these cops in here,” Jay whispered, surveying the crowd as they shared gossip and discussed their successes. No one was truly focused on themselves—they wanted to know what everyone else was doing. “Wouldn’t it be great to see you hit a black bottom? Bring some fun into their serious lives.”
“Not a chance I would do that here,” I said. “And this is the wrong song for that dance, anyway.”
“You should get on the dance floor, anyway. Shake it! Show ’em what you got!”
“Jay—do you, by chance, want me to getkilled? The lower I lie in here, the better.”
A clinking noise cut through his response. Someone was tapping a glass with a fork. I turned to find a man in uniform weaving through the crowd and getting everyone’s attention. “Good evening, everyone—we’re ready to get started out back.”
He took us to rows of white chairs in the backyard and stood in front of the crowd as he handed out awards for entrepreneurs and officers-in-training. Cannon was offered a spot as an officer at an Upper East Side precinct prior to completion of his training at West Egg, just because he showed promise in the program. He accepted the offer with a show of fake tears as the sergeant draped a ribbon over his shoulder.
Oh, brother.I was ready to go already—everything else be damned.
As the awards dragged on, I almost fell asleep. But then applause broke out, the crowd rose from their chairs, and the party filed back into the mansion.
I spotted Mr. Gatsby making his way through the crowd on our way back inside. I could’ve sworn Gatsby took special care not to look at me. He still wasn’t over our disagreement, but thankfully, he had made sure our night in jail was kept out of public attention. I’d never be able to walk around here if he hadn’t.
Back inside, a piano player tinkered through the notes to make everyone lively. Myrtle Buchanan did a little dance with her fists. This was the first time I’d seen the ginger-haired woman break a smile all night. Even the servers got their feet stomping.
Jay drifted to the dance floor and started doing his own dance in the middle of two couples. Flutes flustered the wind like locomotive air whistles, like a train was about to come through this place. Everybody let loose, and the only ones who had the time to judge were the ones who should’ve never come in the first place.
Jay’s gaze beckoned me to the floor. I shook my head and mouthed the words, “I can’t.”
He mouthed the words, “You can.”
Dancing in front of old white strangers? The stakes were higher here.
Still, the bass plucked some tension free from my shoulders. The cello thrummed a rickety jig through my pelvis, moving it against my will.
The singer’s eyes shone on Jay.“Do me a favor when the beat falls, young man.”He tapped his fingers away on the mic stand, voice carrying through the room.“Show the pretty people of this lovely gala how Colored folks get down.”
Jay danced like this house ought to be The Green Light. The music set free all his worries and doubts he had of being judged, and in turn, mine.
I laughed as Jay dropped the suspenders, so they formed an upside-downMaround his waist. A saxophone squawked like a toucan, and like a toucan, Jay did a jump and flew what seemed like nine feet off the ground. When he came down, he realized the energy in the room had shifted. People slowed their dances and muttered to themselves about him. It was awkward. Jay watched them, lips opened in concern as he pulled back. He’d gone too far and shown too much.
He ran off the dance floor, weaving through the people, and when he reached me, he only said, “I need some air,” and went past me.
I followed him, but getting around people became difficult, and he was moving so fast. When I got outside, Jay was storming down the steps and off into the driveway as though he meant to disappear entirely.
I was not the only one following him out of the mansion.
Bursting through the doors came Artie Botts, the gossip queen, who had somehow found his way to the gala.
“Out of the way!” he screamed.
His entourage had grown since I last saw him. A new personcarried his camera, and a zealous fan carried his notepad.
