This is a modern Great Gatbsy set in the fall of 2004 and told in a Rashomon-style; everybody’s perspective varies. I encourage readers to pick their own favorite narrator and continue the story from there!
Erin — One | Two | Three | Six | Seven | Ten | Thirteen | Fifteen | Sixteen
Annaleigh — Four | Eight | Eleven | Fourteen
I
Erin’s Night
It was the golden age of social media, or at least that’s how I’d like to think of it. We’d all just gone off to college, fresh in the country’s ideals that no child should be left behind, and eventually joined an online group that stated our selected major may leave us living in a cardboard box — a fact that fortunately did not remain true for most of us.
I met Annaleigh at a party. More specifically, her party; a somewhat weekly affair with no formal invitations, the mystique of some young Gatsby, and several incredible, and unbelievable, rumors (had The Strokes really played an unplugged set there?)
At that time, everyone seemed to know someone who knew Annaleigh. For me, it was a high school friend of my college roommate, Joan Hartley. So, when Joan asked if I wanted to join her, I couldn’t help but succumb to the intrigue.
It was an atypical night for me since I worked in a record store and, being the newest hire, was usually working Friday nights. In most cases I would have been loath to lose my free Friday night. But Friday nights were also date nights in those days — an update to the Beach Boys’ Saturday nights — and I was not only dateless at the time, but all my hookups were also busy. I’d been just about to settle into the dorm room couch for my twentieth binge-watch of Can’t Hardly Wait on videotape — commercials and all — when Joan had made her pitch.
“Erin, is this how you want to remember your college years?” she said pointedly.
I looked down at my pajama pants, stained with watercolor (because who needs a paint rag when you have pajama pants?), and considered a moment longer than Joan was comfortable with.
“It shouldn’t take you that long to consider,” she sighed with exasperation.
“I can’t help it if I’m a romantic.”
Joan had just come out of the bathroom, clad in her bathrobe, and a sweet-smelling steam was emanating from the door behind her. Her hair was still wrapped high on her head in a towel, but she had a hairbrush in her hand, and she pointed it at me for emphasis. “This is not romantic. It’s sad.”
“I didn’t mean me, in this exact moment. I meant my obsession with Can’t Hardly Wait.”
Joan huffed and disappeared back into the bathroom, her voice only slightly muffled by the steam. “You need to forget your long-lost high school crush who ate pop-tarts every morning and didn’t bother to give you his phone number at graduation.”
I knew she probably had a point. I’d secretly been trolling around Livejournal for months, clicking on random usernames of people who shared my interest in pop-tarts, hoping I’d suss out which one belonged to him. So far, my searches had been fruitless, like his favorite pop-tart (brown sugar cinnamon).
I sunk deeper into the couch, which was a bit difficult as it wasn’t a particularly fluffy couch, but I wanted to emphasize my commitment to my current state. “I’m comfy.”
“Comfort is an excuse for mediocrity and stasis.”
Joan was also incredibly smart and double majoring in business and psychology. I still wasn’t sure why the administrative powers-that-be had roomed us together. I was an art major on partial scholarship from a small Midwest town and she was an upper-middle-class local with an analytical brain; we essentially had nothing in common. Of course, whenever I mentioned this to her, she always responded, logically, that room assignments were meant to mix things up and foster social relationships.
“I like stasis,” I tried.
Evidently Joan could tell I was wavering because she re-emerged from the bathroom to make her kill.
“Tom said some kids from Boston are in town.” She could tell my ears perked up, because she began to smile wryly. “It’s statistically unlikely one of them will be your pop-tart boy. But you’re the self-stated romantic.”
She disappeared back into the bathroom, knowing I couldn’t resist.
“I fear for anyone who crosses you in business.”
“My powers of persuasion definitely have their perks,”
“These parties can’t possibly be as amazing as everyone says they are.” I pulled the hood of my jacket over my face, already dreading the fact that I would need to put on real clothes to go out.
“Tom says they’re even better than everyone says they are, and Tom’s not one to mince words.” Joan walked out of the bathroom, hair and makeup done up perfectly. I really did fear for anyone who crossed her.
“You said you haven’t seen him in 6 months. Maybe he changed.”
Joan strode toward her bedroom to undoubtedly find an amazing outfit that hit just the right blend of casual beauty — as was her way. “His posts on Livejournal would suggest otherwise.”
Of course. Of course, she was able to find a dude from her high school on Livejournal. In fact, he probably found her. If she wasn’t so nice, I’d have hated her guts.
“I don’t have anything to wear to a fancy rooftop party,” I tried meekly. “I’ll embarrass you.”
Joan scoffed from her bedroom. “Erin, please stop this pitiable act. You’re gorgeous, you just don’t make any effort.”
I grumbled unhappily. “We can’t all make things look effortless, like you. So, I don’t see the point of trying.”
“Exactly my point.” Joan emerged from her room, surprisingly still in her bathrobe, and flung her selected outfit at me instead. “Wear this, let me do your makeup and hair, and the only ones who will be embarrassed are the slimy guys who mistook you for a five.”
“I thought Annaleigh’s parties were too high-class for those guys,” I smirked at my own joke.
“Don’t be naïve. There’s slime in every class. And high-class slime is worse,” she stated matter-of-factly. “Like that awful Fred Baxter.” She disappeared back into her bedroom.
Fred Baxter was another upper-middle-class local, and his unrequited, non-pop-tart-related crush was Joan. And every other woman with a pulse. He was most certainly a high-class slime, always making gross passes at us, like that guy Upchuck in Daria.
I looked at the outfit Joan had thrown on top of me. It was a sheer long-sleeved top and some dark jeans.
I held the top up with trepidation and peered through its see-through middle. “I will definitely be embarrassed if I wear this. And overly popular with the slimes.”
“You’re supposed to wear a camisole under it,” Joan retorted, as though it were obvious.
“Oh.” I finally heaved myself off the couch and disappeared into my own bedroom to get dressed.
Apparently Joan began to worry I would back out of her manipulation, because she started yelling at me across the dorm from her bedroom, upselling Annaleigh’s party. “Tom says they never run out of champagne. And if it rains, she just pushes a button and a ceiling appears.”
Endless champagne and magical ceilings. I hadn’t heard those bits before, though someone had once mentioned a champagne fountain. Maybe that was the same thing. It all sounded fascinating, to be sure, but Joan should have realized she had me on the hook from her Boston comment.
As if Joan had read my mind, she yelled out across the apartment again. “Everybody knows somebody who knows Annaleigh. So maybe one of the Boston kids will know your guy.”
My stomach roiled. Was there really a chance I might find a connection to Aaron? After all these months? And all those nights on Livejournal….
Joan suddenly appeared at my bedroom door and looked me over. “It’s almost working,” she said, and reached a hand out to me.
I had no choice but to take it and follow her.
Continue to Chapter 2 - The Party
Move through the story:
Erin — One | Two | Three | Six | Seven | Ten | Thirteen | Fifteen | Sixteen
Can’t hardly wait, I almost forgot about that movie! Can’t hardly wait to keep reading :)
Wait this is so delicious! I'm invested and I love your writing.