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I quickly got Gatsby his kibble and some water. When the cat was happily eating, I turned my attention to Gabe. "What ya got there?" I sat on a barstool and swiveled closer to him. He glanced around sheepishly before heaving the book on the counter. Moments before I saw the cover up close, I'd imagined it to be a book from Professor Pops' Museum of the Supernatural, and worried Gabe stole it. No one was to touch those pages. Turned out the book was nothing mystical, just page after page of whimsical dresses by the designer Vera Wang.

My mother passed it on to me once realized that I love reading. To be fair I did watch the movie once I was a bit older. They included most of the famous line from the book, but there were a few things that I didn't like about the movie. I mean The great gatsby was written in a different time. but they included modern music in the movie. I wished that they would have used music from the time the book was written in. Everything else in the movie was just over the top for me.

“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 next morning I walked into AP English Lit early for the first time, which was partly because I wanted to avoid hallway commentary and partly because I'd left my annotated copy of *The Great Gatsby* in the classroom the day before and needed it back before the quiz. The room was empty except for the teacher. Ms. Okafor was maybe thirty-five, with natural hair pinned up on one side and reading glasses pushed to the top of her head that she'd clearly forgotten were there. She was at her desk with a red pen moving fast across what looked like a stack of essays, and she didn't look up when I came in. "Kane. Third desk from the left, second row. Your Gatsby is under the chair." I blinked. "How

To him, I would be nothing more than a stranger in a well-tailored dress. ​“One million dollars, going once,” the Mayor’s voice crackled through the monitors, sounding small compared to the gravity of Silas’s presence. I stared through the glass at the leather-bound book on the pedestal: The Great Gatsby. A first edition. It was my favorite book—the one I had read to Silas by the fireplace when the world was still quiet, the one whose ending we had debated until the sun came up. He wasn’t just bidding on a luxury item; he was bidding on a memory he thought was buried in ash. My heart didn’t break for him; it hardened. He was throwing money at a ghost, trying to buy back a piece of the soul h

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