Novel & Cerita The Great Gatsby Graphic

Allie simply pulled out her pristine, gold-trimmed tablet and began texting her friends, completely ignoring my existence. ​Ten minutes into the lesson, Mr. Harrison threw a complex prompt on the board regarding the psychological subtext of The Great Gatsby and the illusion of the American dream. The classroom went dead silent. The wealthy students shifted uncomfortably, used to regurgitating SparkNotes rather than actually analyzing the text.

Me: Finn. Finn: I have a paper due Friday and Okafor is going to see right through me if I try to fake my way through the symbolism in Gatsby and I would rather eat a puck than ask Knox because he'll just tell me to ask you anyway so I'm cutting out the middleman. I stared at the screen for a moment. Then I got up, got dressed, and texted back: Frosty Mug. Four o'clock. Bring the book and whatever notes you have.

Two, on the other hand, might just work. I grinned to myself as I dug out my backpack, and I shoved my books into it in rapid succession. The clear pencil case Kath had given me was still safely cocooned in the front pouch, along with my worn copy of The Great Gatsby. I zipped up the pocket, and chucked the bag onto my bed.

10 minutes and 45 seconds later, I was standing in the living room with Bella cradled in my arms and a frown creasing my forehead. “That doesn't make any sense.” I said, stroking Bella's head absentmindedly. “I know,” Gatsby heaved a frustrated sigh. “The presentation should've brought in a better result but everything's much worse now.” “It's that asshole’s fault,” I stopped stroking Bella's head and fisted my hand. “If Gus hadn't…. How can you tell me that no celebrity agreed to endorse Eagle Eye? It doesn't make any sense.” “The company's image is getting a bigger hit, Caden,” Gatsby admitted with a sad look on her face. “I don't think we can survive one more.”

When she leaned slightly over a front-row desk to point at a student’s notes, the blouse gaped just enough at the top to reveal the soft, inviting valley between her huge breasts, the edge of a simple white bra peeking out. “Any thoughts on why Gatsby’s dream is ultimately tragic?” she asked, her hazel eyes scanning the room. A girl in the second row raised her hand and gave a solid answer. Miss Voss nodded encouragingly, smiling brightly. In the back, the whispers continued, low and awed. “Guy, she’s coming this way,” Jake hissed, nudging Tyler. “Pretend you’re taking notes. Don’t stare.” She stopped right beside their cluster, leaning down a little to glance at Jake’s blank page.

He wouldn't be able to make it to my party? It was more than a month away. Would he be gone that long? I eased the delicate chain over my head, watching the gem glint against the filtered light. "It's beautiful," I whispered. Gatsby came over and rubbed his head against my hand, purring. I scratched him behind the ears. "I'll be fine, kitty." Folding the note, I tucked it under the lampstand and turned off the light. Gatsby nudged me, a not so subtle hint that he still wanted to be petted.

"I keep expecting someone to look at me and just know." "They see what I allow them to see," he promised. We settled into a rhythm that looked domestic from the outside. I curled up in the large leather armchair by the window, my laptop balanced on my knees, attempting to analyze The Great Gatsby while my own life felt more scandalous than anything Fitzgerald could dream up. Across the room, Adrian sat at the massive mahogany desk, the blue light of his monitor reflecting in his dark, focused eyes. The scratch of his pen and the tap of my keys were the only sounds, a deceptive peace that draped over us like a shroud. But as the afternoon sun began to dip, a cold realization settled in my gut

“You’re brutal. Correct, but brutal.” By 4:00 PM, the gifts had escalated to the absurd. A first edition of The Great Gatsby—because I had once mentioned I liked the tragedy of it. A set of Japanese calligraphy pens—because I liked to doodle on my scripts. A box of pastries from a bakery in Paris—flown in fresh that morning. “Okay, the croissants stay,” Katherine declared, shielding the pastry box with her body. “I have moral boundaries, and wasting French butter crosses them.”

The city's unique charm, coupled with the warm reception at the café, had given him a glimpse of a different side of life, one that he rarely allowed himself to explore for the past few years. Nicholas returned to his large house in Vernice City, his mind still lingering on the café he had just visited. The atmosphere of the city reminded him of someone he keeps trying to forget, Rose. Memories of her kept resurfacing in the most unexpected moments, and he found himself wondering if fate had led him to Vernice City for a reason. *******

I unfolded it with the care one might give to a centuries-old relic. On the white surface, vibrant crayon strokes formed three stick figures. They were disproportionate and messy, but the intent was devastatingly clear. On the left was a tall man in a charcoal shirt—Gareth’s favorite color. On the right was a woman with long black hair and a green dress—the exact outfit I’d worn when we went to the bookstore last week. And in the middle, a small girl with pigtails held both their hands, anchoring them together. At the bottom, written in large, shaky block letters, was a single word: US.