Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 150968 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 503(@300wpm)
“Oh.”
“I have to go…” he trails off.
“Oh,” I say again. Speak up, Riley. You’re starting to sound stupid!
He packs up his pencils and then stands. I mutely do the same. Now that we’re both standing, I can see the actual height difference between us. He’s really tall, just like I had assumed earlier. I would have to crane up my neck and probably stand on my toes for us to be eye-level.
“Dinner is at seven,” Jay explains quietly, his voice softening with something akin to disappointment.
I want to tell him that he doesn’t need to explain himself to me…but I still can’t talk. So I stand there, dumbly. Until he pushes his hand between us, for a handshake?
“It was nice to meet you, Daisy.”
I blink, taking his hand. His much bigger, rougher hand. His touch is warm. I look down at our entwined hands — his tanned skin a deep contrast against my paleness. He squeezes my hand, and my lungs clench inside the walls of my rib cage.
“Nice to meet you too, Jay,” I finally speak, but it’s barely a whisper.
I release his hand and he takes a step back. I want to ask him for his real name — but then I stop myself. If he tells me his real name…he’ll expect me to do the same.
And I don’t want to be Riley Johnson to him — to the mystery man who drew me so flawlessly. Who stole my loneliness and my yearning to capture it on his paper.
I want to stay as Daisy Buchanan and him as Jay Gatsby.
It’s better this way. Safer.
I watch as he walks away, with my face etched on the papers of his sketchbook.
He saw me, when no one else has ever done so, or even tried. I don’t know if we will ever meet again, but I know…that my mystery man has somehow buried himself into the deep corner of my heart. Somewhere dark, a place where no one can see him. Not even himself.
He will stay there, safe. Away from the chaos that is me and my life.
I watch as he walks away, and soon enough, his tall frame disappears from my sight. “Goodbye, Jay,” I whisper and the wind carries my voice.
***
I grab my chicken mayo sandwich from my bag and make my way outside. Berkshire’s hallways are fairly empty, since mostly everyone is in the cafeteria for lunch.
I personally loathe that place.
It’s like a swamp full of snakes and alligators — a big red DANGER written above the doors.
I move toward my willow tree, where I’ve been eating my lunch for the last two weeks. It’s quiet here and there’s no one to bother me. It’s lonely, but somehow, I’ve learned to find comfort in my loneliness.
But today is different.
I come to a halt, when I see someone else already sitting under my willow tree. She has her lunch box on her lap and her math textbook next to her. What is she doing here?
I recognize Lila Garcia from my AP English class. But we’ve never spoken before. I sit in the back, and she sits in the front row, next to the window. Lila is new to Berkshire and she didn’t get in because her parents are rich.
No, she got in on a scholarship. Berkshire Academy has an entrance exam for students in the 11th grade to apply. Outsiders. But I heard the exams are almost impossible to pass, probably to discourage students from joining. Berkshire doesn’t care about these young, hopeful people who are dreaming big.
They only care about their image.
The entrance exam is to make it look like they are accepting of everyone.
The exam has only a 2 percent passing rate and only one of those students ends up with a full-year scholarship. The rest have to pay the tuition fees and most of the time — they can’t.
So while Lila Garcia got in with a scholarship, she will have to find a way to pay for her senior year. Though I have to say — I am amazed she’s made it this far. She has to be some kind of genius to be able to top the entrance exam.
She lifts her head and notices me standing there. Lila raises her eyebrows questioningly, and there’s something about her nonchalance that makes me feel both impressed and uneasy. So I blurt out the first thing in my head. “You’re in my spot.”
She crosses her legs and leans back against the tree, making herself even more comfortable. “I’m sorry, is your name written on the spot here?”
No, but she’s in my spot and she needs to leave, so I can eat in peace. Why is she disrupting my routine like this?
When I don’t speak, she squints up at me in defiance. “I’m not moving. So, you can find yourself another tree. Or you can sit here, and we can eat our lunches without petty drama.”