NEWBORN: Book One of the Newborn Trilogy Page 7

  As though reinforcing the point, I stand up and, stacking my books in my arms, go to my desk and line them up on the shelf overhead. They look great all together like this. Like my own miniature library.

  Don’t worry about the reading, my alter ego says, y ou’ll get to it.

  I better, I answer.

  Sitting back down on my bed next to Kiri, I reach for my champagne flute. Grasping its chilled body, I lift it to my lips and take another long, slow sip. “Do you have your books yet?” I ask Kiri.

  She shakes her head. “Not yet. But my professor distributed music composition handouts we’re supposed to study and practice. I’ll probably go get some textbooks tomorrow or the next day. I’m not in a hurry,” she adds, straightening her glasses. “I like to know if a professor really plans on using a textbook before I buy it. With the bookstore on campus I can buy them whenever I need to.”

  “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 o
n 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.

  I’m also enjoying the fact my head has cleared up, my headache dissipated even as my stomach twists painfully. The one good thing about hangovers is they eventually wear off. I’m also pleased how light my backpack is. Seems every time I put it down I forget and I’m delighted when I pick it up again.

  The real treat today is lying on my desk unplugged. My iPad will be ready to play with. I don’t know what I’ll do first – download apps, buy songs, watch a movie, read a book, buy shit on eBay – there are so many possibilities. It’s this generation’s airplane.

  I’m glad I have my iPad to look forward to given the thrashing I got in English 103. True, I was the scapegoat and Dr. James wanted to make a point, but he didn’t have to do that absurd introduction. With my hangover, anxiety, and procrastinated homework, I didn’t need more problems today.

  Geez, I didn’t even shower today.

  Oh well, my alter ego says. Hey, you have a shiny gadget waiting for you!

  True, I respond, I do.

  Soon I’m back in my dorm and doing what I can to shake off the water. I don’t get far before I’m distracted by it – the gadget of all gadgets lying new and fully charged on my desk. Oh my – it’s so pretty! Dropping my weightless backpack, I sit down at my desk and reach for the iPad hungrily.

  Switching it on, I wait as the logo flashes and the registration page comes up. I put in my information impatiently, desperate to get to the main page. This is so exciting! Now I really have an excuse not to study. Drinking was just a p
lace holder until this baby got unwrapped. I’m there – at the main page. It’s so pretty and shiny. What should I do first? I have so many options!

  I decide to read a book. Being an English major, this seems a logical first choice. Going to the iTunes library, I browse for popular titles. Same old stuff here for the most part. I switch to the classics section: All Quiet on the Western Front, Huckleberry Finn, For Whom the Bell Tolls, Jane Eyre, Black Beauty, The Invisible Man, The Adventures of Augie March, Moby Dick, My Antonia, Gone With the Wind, Lolita, The Great Gatsby… hang on, The Great Gatsby! Gatsby is here!

  I don’t understand why this makes me so excited but it does. The Great Gatsby. Here! In the iTunes library. I realize I must download it. Now. No more deliberation, no more hesitation. I must have it. Pressing the screen, I click ‘buy’ and wait for it to download. It enters the purchases section under books and the iPad lets me know its download status with a progress bar.

  It finishes.

  I press to open the book. Part of me is thinking I should put the iPad down for awhile, but I know I can’t. It’s too cool – too addicting. I just can’t get enough. Flipping to the first page of Gatsby, I begin to read.

  I’m wrapped in the story. It’s been so long since I read it I forgot how good it is. This is so much better than I remember!

  I find myself reveling in descriptions of the characters, of Gatsby – the wanna-be aristocrat, Nick – the conflicted moral narrator, and Tom – having reached perfection so early in life, nothing else measures up and everything is dull in comparison. Before I know it I’ve finished chapters one and two and I’m rolling through three. Just chapter two is assigned for next class, but I don’t care. I’m enjoying myself too much to quit.

  Reading on the iPad is so much better than reading an actual book. How have I never done this before? I must have been crazy. I keep reading until I hear a key in the lock and Kiri lets herself into the room.

  “Hi roomie,” she says, trailing her cello. “What’s down?”

  My eyes are having difficulty leaving the shiny screen. “Not much.”

  “It’s on!” Kiri exclaims as she gazes at the iPad. “We must surrender to the superiority of this modern, alien technology!”