NEWBORN: Book One of the Newborn Trilogy (9 page)

“Good point,” I say, “I suppose you –”

“What’s this?” Kiri asks, interrupting as she
looks in my backpack.

For a moment I’m lost in confusion. I thought
I got everything out of there. No sooner do I tip the bag to me
than I see the rectangular package from my parents inside. Oh
right! I forgot about it. Gabriel has a way of being
distracting.

“From my parents,” I tell Kiri. “Dad said it
actually doesn’t suck or something.”

Kiri looks up from the bag, her eyes bright.
“A gift? Open it!”

I don’t need telling twice. I go to my desk
and find scissors. Cutting into the grooves of the box, I tear away
at the seal and open it. Inside is another box about the size of a
book, this time wrapped in decorative paper.

“A book?” Kiri narrates, her tone weighted
with disappointment. “They gave you a book as a going away gift?
You just got a shelf of books. How lame is this?”

I don’t answer her, for a delighted suspicion
is filling me. I’ve complained about wanting something for a long
time without having even the slightest thought I would get it – for
Christmas, my birthday, or both combined. Yet it may be here. My
hands shaking, I tear away at the decorative wrappings.

“Holy!” Kiri cries. “An iPad! They got you an
iPad!”

Yes. They got me an iPad.

My desired gift is at home in my hands. I
can’t read the box let alone open it because I’m so overcome.
Closing my eyes, I fight myself to hold back tears.

They’re not tears of happiness I finally got
an iPad – not even close. They’re tears of sadness and love for my
parents, for the realization I won’t see them again for so long.
They’re tears of gratitude for all my parents have done for me, for
how much they continue to love and support me despite all the
trouble in their own – now separate – lives.

A lone tear escapes down my cheek. But I wipe
it.

“What’s wrong?” Kiri asks, her voice hushed.
“What is it?”

I shake my head. “Nothing,” I say, “I’m just
glad to have my iPad at last. I’ve wanted one forever.”

“What a great gift,” Kiri says, her
bespectacled eyes still worried. “Wish
my
parents sent me
something like this. Best I can expect is some candy or something.
I keep asking them to send me booze but they resist.”

I laugh despite myself, shaking my head. “I
can’t believe this.”

“Open it,” Kiri says. “I want to see how
shiny it is!”

Taking the scissors again, I cut open the
white Apple box and pull out the iPad. Removing the safety wrap and
the screen wrapper, I turn the device this way and that admiringly,
watching the ceiling light reflect off its dark black screen.

“It’s so shiny!” Kiri says happily. “Now turn
it on!”

I find the charger. “I think I have to charge
it first. I’ll charge it and then turn it on in half an hour or
so.”

“Okey-dokey,” Kiri agrees.

“I still can’t believe this,” I continue, “I
can’t believe they bought this for me. My parents are divorced,
Kiri. Neither made much money before the split let alone after. A
lot of contracting work dried up in the recession which is bad for
Dad, and Mom could only find part time work teaching. Neither makes
much money. This,” I trace my hand down the iPad’s smooth black
screen, “means a lot.”

“You should call and thank them,” Kiri
says.

I realize she’s right. “Yes, I – I will.”
Carrying the iPad to my desk, I plug it into the wall, then find my
phone.

“Call them now,” Kiri says, her tone
heightening in amusement, “before we polish off this bottle of
champagne. They may be worried to discover it’s only the second day
of classes and you’re already drinking. On a weeknight, too.”

“Okay,” I say, grinning at her. “I’ll call
now.”

Downing the remainder in my champagne glass,
I pick up my phone and head for the door. As I turn to close the
door behind me, I see Kiri nonchalantly refilling my glass.
Something tells me it will be a late night.

* * *

Next morning I awake to bird song. The sound
doesn’t help the throbbing in my head. Geez, where did this come
from? No sooner do I realize my surroundings than I bolt upright
and stare at the alarm clock.
Oh shit!
It’s 9:43am. Class is
in seventeen minutes!

Bolting out of bed I dash to the bathroom.
There’s no time for a shower – just enough to put my contacts in
and douse myself with perfume. I straighten my hair with my hands,
trying not to wince as I look at myself in the mirror. Not a pretty
sight.

My fast movements aren’t helping my throbbing
head. Worse still, I don’t have any Advil or Excedrin to get rid of
it. I’m glad my appetite has dried up or else I’d be starving, too.
I don’t need another problem to deal with. Dashing back to my room,
I snatch up my backpack and run for the door.

Before leaving I notice my iPad. It’s been
plugged in overnight. Perhaps that’s not good for it. Just in case,
I unplug it from the wall and leave. Practically throwing myself
down the staircase, I check my watch. It’s 9:52!

The problem is I don’t want to run. My head
is pounding and speed and exertion aren’t going to help. I’m just
going to be late – oh well. Hopefully I won’t be the only one.
Surely another student will have given in to the allure of some
partying. Those literature students seemed pretty chaste, like me.
Until last night, anyway.

I’m glad my backpack is weightless. I
wondered whether Gabriel’s magic would re-up today, or even whether
it had all been a crazy dream. My weightless bag is pretty
substantive evidence to the contrary.

* * *

I manage to get through Victorian Era
Literature class without having to suffer ignorantly through a
class discussion. Turns out Dr. Renaus wanted to discuss the finer
points of a few of the pieces rather than go into holistic
detail.

Later I am not so lucky. By the time class is
over my head and stomach are in so much pain – my head from my
unrelieved hangover and my stomach from my amped anxiety – that I
can hardly think let alone study. The pain is distracting. Passing
the dining hall, I wince at the thought of food.

A guilty voice tells me to whip out
The
Great Gatsby
and study all I can before English 103 begins. I
can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I sit on a bench and grasp my
head. The pain is terrible.

I get it now. This is why some people abstain
from drinking – not just on school and work nights, but always. I
understand. The throbbing in my brain is excruciating, the torment
complete. How can something so delicious bring something so awful?
I won’t be so rambunctious again. I’ve learned my lesson.

When it’s time, I make my way slovenly to
English 103: English Composition. The class is less animated today,
the excitement of the first day having worn off. Most students have
their copy of
Gatsby
open on their desks, a sight that
curdles my stomach even further as I make my way to my seat.

“Good afternoon,” Dr. James says as he opens
his briefcase. “Let’s see if I can remember which language to speak
today.” He looks around as though expecting appreciative laughs.
None come. Recovering, he pulls his copy of
Gatsby
from the
briefcase and lays it on the desk before sitting down.

“
The Great Gatsby
,” Dr. James says
unnecessarily, “Widely considered the greatest novel of the 20th
century. Greatest
American
novel of the twentieth century,
that is. It was published on April 10th, 1925. F. Scott was not
thrilled with the title,” Dr. James continues, “and kept changing
it. But by the time he decided on the perfect title it was too
late, and the masterpiece would be called
The Great Gatsby
for time immemorial.”

This is good
, my alter ego tells me.
The more he talks the less you have to.

Ideally
, I respond,
but I don’t
speak luck.

Shame on me, because I have read this book
before. But it was so long ago I can’t remember any details or
names – well, apart from Gatsby. I feel really stupid right
now.

You should
, my alter ego adds.
You
really should, Nora.

Leaning back in his chair and crossing his
legs, Dr. James regards the class with interest. “Is Nick Carraway
a good person?” The question is addressed to the class.

Silence.

“He thinks he is,” says a boy near the
front.

Dr. James raises his eyebrows. “Does he,
though?”

“He says he thinks he’s moral,” pipes a girl
near the door.

“Ahah!” Dr. James revels. “So Nick is telling
us he’s moral. Ask yourself this question, though – does his
telling us he’s moral make him moral? Make him a good person? Mr.
Carraway has told the reader he’s not only the narrator – of course
– but also he’s writing the book! Shouldn’t that have meaning?
Shouldn’t that be substantial in some way? What if Mr. Carraway is
only writing the book to cope with his feelings of wrongdoing? Or
to cope with his being in league with wrongdoers?”

Silence. The students are staring at Dr.
James warily, their eyes occasionally glancing down at their books.
Nobody seems to want to speak after this most recent outburst of
questions. I can hardly blame them. Perhaps most of the students –
like me – haven’t started reading the book yet.

“I understand one chapter isn’t necessarily
enough to get a holistic image of these characters,” Dr. James
states, his tone unable to hide its frustration. “I
will
be
expecting participation from each and every one of you. There
is
a participation grade in this class, ladies and
gentlemen.” Reaching into his briefcase, he takes out a sheet of
paper. “Let me see, let me see…”

Oh shitballs
! He’s going to call on
somebody. This is going to be painful. He better not call on me. I
have no idea what to say. Perhaps I could make up some bullshit
about how narrators are unreliable, but I might give away I didn’t
read. How much would that hurt my participation grade?

“Cali Straus,” Dr. James reads out. “Who is
Jordan Baker?”

Fuck!
This is turning into a witch
hunt!

“Daisy Buchanan’s friend,” Cali says
confidently. “A pro golfer and East Egg aristocrat. She enjoys the
company of scoundrels.”

“A fine answer!” Dr. James exclaims, beaming
at her. There’s one favorite. God knows I won’t be the next. “She
cheats at golf,” Dr. James explains. “She cheated to win her first
tournament. Jordan Baker is yet another passive gang member here –
not punching people in the face but not defending them either.”

What the hell is he talking about?

My head feels like its spilling brain cells
from my ears. The throbbing is intensifying, brought on by the
stress of class. My stomach gurgles painfully and my eyes are
occasionally slipping out of focus. Geez, I hope I’m not going to
faint. But at least I’d get out of answering questions that way. I
squeeze my head in my hands, hoping my agonizing hangover will go
away.

“Let me see… Nora Saynt-Rae! Where’s Nora
Saynt-Rae?” Dread filling me, I raise my hand. “Excellent,” Dr.
James resumes, “Let me see – which part of Long Island is
compromised of ‘new money’ as it’s called in the book? West Egg or
East Egg?”

Oh shitballs
. I don’t know. What the
hell am I supposed to do? I can’t make up shit or dodge this
question. It’s too direct. And it’s too late to complain of sudden
health problems. I should collapse on the floor. That will distract
him.

Oh well
, my alter ego says,
at
least you have a 50/50 chance with this one.

Fuck my life
, I respond.

I screw up my face as though trying to
remember. “East Egg.”

“That,” Dr. James says sternly, “is
incorrect. Did you read at all, Ms. Saynt-Rae?”

Should I lie? Probably not. He’ll start
asking more questions. I’m stuck in a quandary, and the only way to
escape and get attention off me is to tell the truth. Everybody is
staring at me. My face is beginning to burn with the heat of
embarrassment. I can’t be the only one who didn’t read!

“I haven’t read chapter one yet, Dr.
James.”

Dr. James raises his bushy white eyebrows. In
a scary way he almost looks delighted. “Ah, I see, Ms. Saynt-Rae.
Well, in the off chance you’re not alone,” and with this he looks
around the room menacingly, “I shall ask a question.” Standing, he
walks around his desk so he’s right in front of the class, his brow
furrowing.

“Ladies and gentleman,” Dr. James announces
to the class. “I give you Nora Saynt-Rae.” He gestures to where I’m
sitting. “She’s a student here at Evergreen State College and
currently enrolled in English 103 –
this
class.” Students
look around in surprise, unsure of what’s happening. Geez, I’m so
embarrassed. “Ms. Saynt-Rae didn’t do the assigned reading,” Dr.
James adds. “Does anybody know why?”

Silence.

“Because,” Dr. James says, answering his own
question, “she thought she could scrape by with what she remembered
from reading the book in high school like I’m sure
all
of
you did. That attitude will not be tolerated!”

I have to defend myself. “Professor, no! I
didn’t think I could –”

“Silence!” Dr. James yells. “Be quiet, Ms.
Saynt-Rae! Now, why do you think we go through these books
again
in college? To make it easy for you? No! We do them
again because they are masterpieces and you need even more
introspection and more meditation on their pages! Ms. Saynt-Rae is
being marked absent today, and the next person to cower from
reading will be marked the same. This is college – your days of
shits and giggles are over. Welcome to the world of
consequences!”

* * *

Feeling thoroughly disheartened, I make my
way back to my dorm. As though mirroring my mood, the cloudy sky
opens and a drizzle assaults my steps. This time I don’t have an
umbrella. But the rain isn’t bothering me too much, I’m almost
enjoying it.