It was one of those summers in England. The ones that are characterized mainly by wide-thrust windows; the ones in which even sensible people clothe their beds in white sheets to give the illusion of coolness. The piano, being one of the only interesting indoor activities, is frequently prodded at with languid fingers and then abandoned. But right now, none of this matters, for I am thoroughly diverted. I am staring into someone's eyes, and I desperately want to know to whom they belong. Sighing, I brandish the book at Charlotte.
"Daisy Buchanan or Dr. T.J. Eckleburg?" I ask her, awkwardly sandwiching my thumb between the pages to prevent losing my place. My best friend, thoroughly sprawled next to me, groans audibly.
"What?" She glances over. "Liz, you know I sparknoted Gatsby, right? Ask someone else," she waves her hand at me halfheartedly.
"I'll put a duvet on you," I threaten. This is a low blow, considering that the thermometer on my windowsill is now creeping into the high nineties.
"Oh, give me that," she declares, launching herself with great effort at my precious book, which I happily relinquish. Hardly sparing the haunting blue eyes a glance, she begins to fan herself. It's too hot outside to put up a fight, so I abandon Nick and Daisy for the moment and flop onto my back, turning my head to the side so that I can see the loft through the wide doorway. Every once in a while, I glance at the trees reflected in the warped watery depths of a shallow glass on my bedside table. Behind the water glass is an orange ceramic starfish, the one that my mom probably grabbed at random in a shop for tourists on one of the many vacations she takes to "settle her nerves." It is perfect: a combination of her two favorite activities. One, complaining about her anxious disposition to anyone who will listen, and two, demonstrating through the purchasing of small trinkets that she will soon be returning home to many people who admire her and her fine taste. As I am musing on this, the doorbell rings, and I hear my mother bustle to answer it.
"Lizzy! It's Caroline and William!" I hear her yell from the foyer. I groan and pretend not to hear her. True, Caroline Bingley is one of my best friends, but her overly-energetic and gossipy personality is in direct contrast to my current desire to never move again at risk of producing more heat. Charlotte, however, perks up at the sound of the second name. Traitor.
"William? As in her 'mysterious possible boyfriend' William?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at me. I roll onto my stomach and pretend not to hear her. In truth, I am curious about him too. Supposedly he comes from out of town and is a friend of her brother Charlie, but that is all that any of us know about him. I do applaud his bravery for listening to Caroline day in and day out: I can usually only handle small doses spread out over time. Succumbing to curiosity, I shout back to the general audience downstairs.
"We're in my room!" Hopefully that is all that is required of me at the moment. My wish is granted: I hear two sets of footsteps on the stairs. I briefly wonder if I should assume a more acceptable position than that of a drowning victim: facedown and motionless. It is too late, however. My only warning of the oncoming attack is Charlotte's sharp squeal as she is violently embraced. The Great Gatsby flies out of her grasp and strikes me sharply in the middle of the back. Wincing, I push myself into a sitting position, only to be pulled into an equally jarring hug by Caroline. Over her shoulder I see a boy of about our age leaning on the door frame. He certainly fits the tall, dark, and handsome description, with emphasis on the dark. Either he is just as displeased with the weather as I am, or scenes of girlish affection are deemed excellent occasions for brooding in his book. I don't have too much time to muse on this, for Caroline has snatched The Great Gatsby from my hand. This seems to be a common theme today.
"Seriously? You are reading on a day like today? It's like two hundred degrees" She laughs loudly, throwing her blonde hair. "You're such a freak, Lizzy." She opens to a random page and begins a dramatic interpretation. "In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars," she says in an exaggerated voice, flinging her arms wide every few words as if she is a bad poet reading a terrible sonnet.
"That's my favorite line," I mumble, half embarrassed, half irritated. I take the book back from her and quickly pretend to read as if I don't care. Caroline carries on her monologue about my oddities without me. I pretend not to listen to no avail, but I can feel William's eyes on me as I slowly turn pages at what I assume is an acceptable rate, not actually taking anything in. Apparently I'm not as subtle as I think I am. Much to my annoyance, I blush, a horrifying trait that I seem to have inherited from my mother.
"It's my favorite line, too," says William. It is the first time I've heard him speak. He doesn't look at me, but I am grateful for the defense of my taste in literature, even if it comes from a brooding half-stranger. Caroline, however, does not share my opinion.
"You guys are both freaks, then," she says, and delivers a diatribe on the pains of summer booklists, seeking our mutual agreement.
"The Great Gatsby is a classic, Caroline. You forget that I don't share your aversion to reading," William says . She immediately backtracks, clearly attempting to please him.
"That's obviously not what I meant. When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I don't have an excellent library." I am forcibly reminded of a golden retriever, and then I feel terrible. Caroline is one of my best friends, even if she can be irritating sometimes. She means well, which is more than can be said of many people. "If you guys want to talk about books, that's fine with me. We should talk about them, actually. That way I always have really smart things to say when we discuss them in class this September," she laughs again, and I join in this time.
"Let's not talk about books," says William in a slightly apprehensive voice, probably not wishing to hear any more dramatic readings of F. Scott Fitzgerald today. "I'm sure we never read the same ones, or at least not with the same feelings." I decide to torture him.
"I am sorry you think so; but if that is the case, there can at least be no lack of things to talk about. We can compare our different opinions." I smirk at his veiled distress.
"Great!" says Caroline, oblivious to all of this. "Hand me Gatsby, I'll read for Daisy! She's totally my favorite. She's like, so fashionable and sought after." William raises his eyes to the ceiling. This will be a long afternoon, and now I am sure to enjoy it.