Reading Gatsby

By Jason A. Wendleton

The room assaulted his senses. It was hot, an unbearable, repressive heat. Beads of sweat dripped from his brow onto the dusty paperback that lay before him. Scott Baker was trying to read. Trying and failing. He was sitting in his baby sister’s room, the only one quiet enough in the house for him to read. A rather strange mix of company surrounded him as he struggled with his literary pursuits—he sat atop a huge mountain of stuffed animals. Overhead, a cheap plastic ceiling fan flopped noisily, creating more sound than cool air. The wall behind him vibrated, his older sister’s muffled heavy metal seeped into the far corners of the room. Refocusing his watery eyes, Scott attempted to read chapter one, page one of The Great Gatsby. He didn’t even get past the words “vulnerable years.” A loud bang reverberated just outside the plush pink room.

“God damn it Scott!” He heard his older sibling call just outside the room. “Where are my matches?”

Scott shrugged his shoulders and ignored the furious voice just outside the brown bedroom door. There was a quick click, he threw down his copy of Gatsby and turned to face the opening door.

“I don’t have your stupid matches Victoria!” he said, a drop of sweat rolling down his nose and onto his cheek.

“Oh my Gawd…” Victoria sneered. “You aren’t crying again, are you?”

Wiping away the drop of sweat, he shook his head in anger. “Leave me alone; can’t you see I’m trying to nourish my developing intellect?”

Victoria scoffed at her younger brother, but was at a loss for words. She stood in the doorframe, her vicious mind frantically churning—desperate for something that was equally witty and nasty to say.

“Well…you…ah, need to try harder,” she stammered. The moment was lost; this realization tinged her face with rosy embarrassment.

“Maybe I could try harder if you’d leave me alone!”

“What are you doin’ in here anyway?” Her insulting tone tore through the miserable air. Victoria knew what he was doing. The whole family knew about his literate temperament. Indeed, Scott always made quite a production about his retreat into Suzie’s room.

Victoria inserted two thin fingers into her lips and removed an elongated string of blue chewing gum. Twirling the slimy confection around her right index finger, she lazily harassed her brother.

“You know, reading is for fags…”

“Is not!” He leaned forward on the white and pink bedspread, clenching a sweaty fist. “You take that back!”

Laughing the dry, coarse laugh of a long time smoker, Victoria leaned against the doorframe.

“Easy there Tiger. I was just joking.” She quickly sucked the rubbery mass back into her mouth.

“Whatcha reading?”

“I’m trying to read The Great Gatsby,” he said with pride—as if merely attempting to read such a book was proof of his genius.

Victoria made a face, “Eww…that sounds like something they’d make me read in school. Why would you want to read that?”

“It’s a classic…and well I read this article about Fitzgerald…”

Victoria suddenly sprang to life and snapped her fingers.

“Oh hey, Robert Redford’s in that movie! We watched that in first period.”

Scott was not impressed. He motioned for her to close the door; she stared at him dumbly, deep in thought.

“Yeah, hey that guy Gatsby’s a real drunk…and it’s like the 1920’s…”

Scott shook his head at his sister’s ignorance.

“Will you go away now?”

She stood in the doorway, framed by dark stained wood and loud metal music.

“Do you have my matches?”

********************************************************************************

It was later that night; the stifling day had turned to sweltering night. He was in his own small room now, his cat Snuffles batting at his feet.

“Not now Snuffy…I’m trying to read.”

He was still on chapter one, page one—but he’d progressed to the words: “my father gave me some advice.” The distractions were numerous still, but something other than the roar of the television downstairs kept him from advancing further. A faint humming from the attic fan permeated through the stale air. Unable to read, his eyes drifted lazily across the room, his mind drinking in the details.

Scott’s room was neat and tidy. Everything was in its proper place and gathering dust. He never dusted. Dusting did nothing but shift the grime around. Dusting put the filth into the air. These were strange thoughts for a child to have. But that was Scott—very strange. He was acutely aware of his peculiar nature. He often pondered: was he strange for thinking so much about the dust in his room, or was he thinking about the dust because he was strange? The chicken and egg debate raged within him.

There was a knock on his door.

“Scott? You in there buddy?” His father’s husky voice slid underneath the closed door, rattling the room.

“What is it Dad?”

“Just making sure you’re still alive in there…your Mom and I are going out…Victoria’s downstairs if you need her…”

Scott listened to his father’s retreating footfalls. So that’s how it was going to be. His parents were going out tonight, leaving him alone with Victoria. He carefully opened the frail paperback’s browning pages; his mind however was not on the written words. Instead, he pictured Victoria picking up the telephone receiver. He could see an evil smile creasing her lips as she called her numerous and highly criminal friends.

“Party at my house…” he could hear her saying inside his head.

Looking down at the book in his lap, he saw that he was suddenly on the second page. He quickly read as much as he could, certain that any moment his sister and her gang of friends would rush in and savage him.

His worst fears were realized when he heard a loud car horn outside his bedroom window. Marking his place in Gatsby, he crept nervously towards the windowsill. Peeking over the edge, he saw a familiar gray Ford truck parked haphazardly in the short driveway.

Marcus.

Marcus was Victoria’s sometimes boyfriend, a condition Scott likened to having benign cancer. Not fatal, but certainly not desirable. Like Victoria, Marcus was uncouth and spoke in broken vulgarities.

“Sup’ Vicky," Marcus’s nonchalant voice boomed from the living room downstairs.

Scott giggled to himself; he knew Victoria hated being called ‘Vicky.’ This fact was not lost on Marcus. A loud, dry smacking sound cracked the stuffy air and wafted up to where Scott now stood at the top of the stairs.

“What was that for?!”

Victoria’s voice grew shrill, “I told you about calling me Vicky…you stupid ass…”

Scott let his feet carry him back to his bedroom. He closed his door and picked up his book. A few moments later, he heard a loud moaning sound coming from downstairs. Clutching both hands to his ears, he paced the length of his room. This simply would not do. Lying near the foot of his bed was his time-chewed copy of The Great Gatsby.

What would Gatsby do? He thought idly.

How could he possibly know, having only read the first page and a half? What was it the narrator’s father had said to him—what had been his pearl of wisdom? Scott ran to his bed and snatched the book up off its firm mattress. The second his hand left his head the animal sounds of the fornicating downstairs flooded his ears. Gritting his teeth he flipped the book open and searched the page and a half he’d managed to read over the course of the day. He found what he was looking for on the first page:

“Whenever you feel like criticizing someone, remember that all the people in this world haven’t had all of the advantages you’ve had.”

Little Scott Baker dropped the book, its pages bending as it struck the coarse carpet. He couldn’t criticize his sister and that dope Marcus! Where the hell did that leave him? The obvious thing to do was to escape. He turned in a daze to the window. Cautiously he walked over to it. He became lightheaded staring down at the ground below. His room was on the second floor, much too far to jump—and way too far to fall.

That left him with one option; he’d have to find a way to sneak past Marcus and his sister. They mustn’t see him; God only knew what they’d do to him if he interrupted them and their teenage lust. This was not the first time he’d heard them, nor was it the first he’d had to escape his own home to find a little peace. A few months back he’d gone to the garage looking for something and had accidentally walked in on the two. Marcus was all pushed up against Victoria, her long brown hair a disheveled tangle.

Victoria had given him quite a tongue-lashing before he nervously retreated into the house. Marcus hadn’t really seemed to care. Marcus didn’t really seem to care about very much of anything. A high school dropout, he worked as a fry cook at the local Sonic. That’s where he had met Victoria (who was a roller skating waitress). Scott didn’t much care for roller-skating or any other activity that required the use of strange footwear (like bowling).

He tucked his book under his arm, and quietly walked out of his room and stood at the top of the stairs. Below him was the darkened living room. Ignoring the vast array of grunts and moans, he nimbly made his way down the plush carpeted stairs. His heart pounded in his chest like a trapped hornet. Walking down the last step he stared perfectly straight ahead, his eyes firmly planted on the front door. Crouching down he began a slow waddle towards the door. The sailing was smooth, until he reached a pile of clothes lying a few feet in front of his mother’s gray couch. He stopped and steadied himself before attempting to crawl over the mounds of cloth.

He fought dueling urges to giggle and vomit. Victoria’s rapid breath radiated through the darkness—he must not be discovered. Gripping his book tighter, he resumed crawling to the door. He made his way easily over the mountain of laundry and continued on to the door.

‘Chink’

The sound made him freeze. There was something caught on his right leg. Scott turned back and saw that he had a chain caught around his shoe. It must have been Marcus’s. He was a strange boy too, but in a way different from Scott. His parents even noticed, and they hardly noticed things like that. His father had even gone so far as to call Marcus a “punk.” Scott wondered if being strange meant that one was also a punk. He didn’t think so; he certainly didn’t feel like one.

Victoria and Marcus continued their lustmaking, so Scott assumed he was still safe. Carefully he set his book down and quietly manipulated the chain off of his leg. Relief oozed out of his pores and anxiety left his heart as he skillfully crawled to the front door and slipped it silently open. A burst of cool night air assaulted his skin as he slid outside the house. With the care and craftsmanship of a master thief, he quietly shut the front door.

The soft moon glow provided him with enough light to see, but not nearly enough to read. Ample light, he knew, was essential when reading. His grandma was always yelling for more light whenever she was trying to read. She said not enough light made the eyes rot, like spoiled pumpkins. Scott certainly didn’t want his eyes to rot right out of his head! He took a few hesitant steps away from the house.

The front yard was especially dark, the streetlights having been broken a few weeks prior in a hail of Fourth of July bottle rockets. However, the backyard was different. He could sneak around to the back of the house and read on the back porch. Smiling, Scott ran through the tall, biting weeds to the rear of the house. He sluggishly scaled the five-foot, chain link fence surrounding the backyard. Once he was safely on the other side, he headed for the plain concrete slab laid out beneath the backdoor. Several yellow plastic chairs and a table were located under a large floodlight. Scott silently swung the backdoor open and flicked the switch inside. A thick stream of hot, piss colored light bathed the concrete porch.

“Finally!” He said under his breath as he settled into one of the chairs. The yard was silent, save for a few chirping insects. There was more than plenty of light for him to read by, saving his eyesight. Putting his feet up onto the table, he searched himself for his book.

Gone.

Not in his hands. Not in any of his pockets. Not on the ground or on the cheap, wobbly table. He’d left it somewhere! But where? Groaning, he returned to his feet and quietly slid the back door open. It wasn’t anywhere inside the back door. Where had he last held it?

As he thought, the various gases within the floodlight began to churn and percolate; a faint hissing sound flowered inside his boyish ears. Scott was always misplacing things. Last week, he’d accidentally put his toothbrush in the icebox. This was due, in part to his love of extremely cold “brushing water.” It was like a tingly Ice Age in his mouth.

He suddenly remembered, in a moment of raging clarity. He had set the book down when he had to untangle himself from Marcus’s stupid wallet chain. The Great Gatsby now lay near the front door, a few scant feet from his promiscuous sister. Shaking his head, Scott reentered the stinging weeds and climbed back over the rusty fence.

By the time he reached the front door, he was panting and sweating. As he opened the door, his wet hand slipped a bit and the doorknob jangled. Scott instantly held his breath and listened. From inside the darkness of the house, he could hear his older sibling’s nefarious noise. A strange thought entered his mind as he stood there, praying the two didn’t hear him—where in the hell was his baby sister? Then he recalled hearing something about her sleeping over at a friend’s house. Relief enveloped him instantly—not only had the intrusive door knob gone unnoticed, but his younger sister had once again been spared the horrors of Victoria’s affairs. A pang of sadness belted him across the heart as he noiselessly entered the dark house and fumbled for his book. The sadness came from the knowledge that it was only a matter of time before his baby sister would be exposed to the indecency that thrived in the Baker household. His actual thought was closer to: Only a matter of time before Suzie starts seeing and hearing this…

Scott snatched up his book and laboriously made his way to the backyard. He tossed the book clumsily over and began to scale the fence. Regret welling up inside him as he climbed. Mr. Fitzgerald deserved better treatment than that. He lovingly plucked the book up from the ground. Wiping away a portion of copper dirt, he vowed to treat his book better from now on.

Walking through the weedy yard, he halfheartedly noticed that, though the floodlight was still on—it seemed to have gotten darker over the porch. Sitting back down in his chair, he propped his feet back up and resumed reading page two.

“…I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged excursions into the human heart,” Fitzgerald had written. As he chewed on this, Scott batted away a moth from his face. He contemplated the previous sentence. Several more large, gray and black insects danced and skirted around his head. After shooing away three more, he hurled the book onto the tabletop in anger. Getting up he swatted at another pesky moth. Looking, he saw that the floodlight now wore a halo of jittering bugs. Spitting in disgust, he quickly backed away from the offensive swarm.

There was no way in the world he was going to be able to read with all of the bugs bothering him. If Scott had one major complaint about nature, it was that it was entirely too full of creepy crawlies. He snatched up his book up and debated shutting the light off. Then he wouldn’t have enough light to see…

He surveyed his surroundings, the solution had to lie somewhere. A medium sized birch tree grew several feet from the porch. After examining the trajectory of the light beam, his child-logic concluded that he would still receive enough light if he sat on the tree’s second highest branch. Normally Scott didn’t climb trees, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
That something worse than insects could be dwelling in the birch did not enter Scott’s laser focused mind.

Putting the book between his teeth, Scott used a plastic patio chair to reach the tree’s lowest branch. His fingers sank into its soft, sap coated wood. Reaching the next branch was more difficult, as the maneuver required he maintain his balance on the lower branch while he attempted to ascend. After a few slips and near catastrophes, he reached the coveted second-highest branch. There he was able to lean his back against the trunk and still remain bathed in the ale hued light.

“I should have thought of this hours ago…” He quipped to himself with fake enthusiasm. To be truthful, the tree was ghastly uncomfortable. On top of that, he’d wrinkled and soiled his clothes. Such things seemed trivial in comparison to Gatsby, but were still, nonetheless important.

He opened the book and quietly began to read.

********************************************************************************

After only few pages (and several minutes) Scott felt his eyelids grow too heavy to hold open.
Lowering his eyes and his head, young Baker’s limbs went limp; his paperback sank like a stone in water—grass clippings splashing into the air. As his chin fell to his chest, a throaty drone rose from deep within him. Scoot’s small body slowly went slack. One arm drooped and hung limply in the floodlit night. Gradually, the boy began to lean to the right.

Somewhere in the distance a dog began barking, the sound echoed off the houses funneling the noise into Scott’s sleepy ears. Startled, the boy woke with a start—his jerky movement caused him to lose his balance, sending the boy plummeting out of the tree. Yelping loudly, he struck the ground and rolled over several feet. Eventually he wound up lying flat on his back. Staring up at the night sky, he saw stars. Some were real, others, he was sure were a byproduct of the throbbing pain in his head. He wanted to cry out, to scream as loudly as he could. He opened his mouth, but curiously, nothing came out. What a failure, he couldn’t even cry!

Staggering to his shaky feet, Scott searched the overgrown lawn for his book. As he looked, he felt an extreme pain shoot through his shoulders. Each step he took sent painful shivers down his back; his ankle was beginning to swell. He found his copy of Gatsby and collapsed onto the lawn. Panting and in pain, his eyes watered and he cursed everyone and everything.

Unable to get back up, he knew that he had but one option remaining. Swallowing hard, he clenched his fists.

“Help! Victoria!”

He sniffled a bit, then held his breath and listened. The sounds of summer warped his fragile eardrums. Crickets chirped; a dry wind rustled the treetops. Somewhere on the next street over, he heard a car engine burp and cough. Scott inhaled deeply and readied himself to yell again.

“Victoria! Heeeey! Heeeelp!”

He paused for a quick breath then resumed screaming at the top of his lungs. A bird shot out of the grass a few feet from his head, startling him. Pounding his fist on the ground in anger, he fumed in silence. How could she not hear him? He was screaming loud enough to wake the dead. The floodlight suddenly went off, plunging the backyard into darkness.

Wonderful.

Scott sat up a little in the grass; he could have sworn he heard the back door swing open.

“Victoria?” he called out meekly.

“Whattda want you little shit?” It was Marcus. Scott had never thought he’d be happy to hear that slurred voice.

“I’m hurt Marcus. I can’t get up…”

Somewhere in the darkness, Scott heard Marcus loudly clear his throat and hack up a lung cookie. Moments later there was the unmistakable sound of a cigarette lighter being flicked to life. Scott twisted his head around just in time to see Marcus standing on the back porch lighting a smoke. He wasn’t wearing a shirt, only a filthy bandana and a pair of ripped jean shorts.

“Aren’t you gonna help me?” Scott cried out.

Marcus took a deep drag from his cigarette, “Yeah, I guess so…just let me finish this…”
Scott’s mouth fell open in disbelief. Was Marcus for real? He wasn’t going to give an injured person aide because of a nicotine craving?

“Where’s Victoria?” Scott asked, his voice beginning to tremble. He heard Marcus give a little snort, then he took another puff of his cigarette.

“She’s a little…interposed at the moment,” the greasy brute laughed. Scott groaned and lay back in the grass.

It's ‘indisposed’ you twit.

Scott blindly groped the grass for his book, finding it a few inches from his left hand. He ran his fingers over its pages quietly. Suddenly, a bright meteor sailed over his head. Scott saw the cigarette butt descend in slow motion, landing dangerously close to his face.

“Okay, old sport, here I come,” Marcus said without much enthusiasm.

Scott fought the urge to scream obscenities; he’d wait until Marcus had gotten him safely in the house before he did that.

“Oww…be careful!”

Marcus grabbed him under his armpits and yanked him to his feet. Scott screamed, in both shock and pain. The child’s rubbery legs bent and flexed weirdly in the moonlight. Marcus tried to let go, but Scott grabbed the older boy in a death grip.

“What in the hell happened to you, anyway?” Marcus asked turning his head and spitting.

“I fell out of a tree…” Scott said between gritted teeth.

Marcus half led, half dragged Scott back to the concrete porch and into the house. Once they were inside, Scott released his grip on Marcus and collapsed to the floor. He started crying and clutched his right ankle. It felt three times bigger than normal. Hot, wet tears streamed down Scott’s face and collected in a pool on his mother’s gaudy linoleum floor.

“What the fuck is going on here?” Victoria growled entering the kitchen where Scott lay on the floor. She was wearing nothing but a towel; her long hair looked like a wet mop.

“Your little bro here fell outta tree or something,” Marcus said casually. “He’s like…really hurt.”

Victoria’s nostrils flared wildly, a trait she inherited from her mother. Her eyes widened with anger and she bent down over her sobbing brother.

“Are you faking?” she asked plainly.

Scott instantly quit crying, he was shocked by her allegation. What was she thinking? Why in the hell would he fake something like falling out of a tree?

“No! Of course not…” He could think of nothing better to say.

“What were you doing in a tree this late at night?”

He closed his eyes and debated whether telling the truth would add or subtract to his credibility. He opted to lie.

“I was looking at the stars.”

Victoria didn’t buy it, “In a tree?”

“Uh, yeah,” Scott said. “I wanted to get a better look, so I climbed the birch out back…you know…to…uh, get closer.”

Victoria glared at him angrily.

“Makes sense to me,” Marcus said sincerely.

Victoria shot him a killer glance, but said nothing. She folded her arms and leaned closer to inspect him.

“What hurts?” she said with a deep sigh.

“Everything,” Scott said—it wasn’t an exaggeration.

“Well get up off the floor…”

“I can’t,” he said truthfully. “It hurts too much to move.”

Marcus began hacking up another lung cookie as quietly as possible. Victoria stood up and smacked him upside his greasy head.

“What have I told you about that Marcus?”

Marcus grinned and gulped loudly, “All gone.”

Had it not been for the pain, Scott would have smiled at their stupid (and gross) little exchange. Just by looking at her face, Scott could tell his sister wanted to smack Marcus again. Instead, however, she turned her attention back to him on the floor.

“Hmm…you’re keeping your foot twisted all funny…”

He could tell she was starting to believe him that he was in fact, really hurt.

“My ankle feels like its on fire, I can’t move it. And my shoulder is real sore.”

His older sister nodded gravely, then smiled. Scott’s heart sank a little every time he saw that smile. It could only mean one thing—she’d just gotten an idea.

“Okay,” she said with a tone of mock sympathy. “You’re hurt…I guess the only thing we can do is take you to the emergency room.”

Marcus furrowed his brow but didn’t say anything; instead he groaned and instinctively patted the pocket where he kept his car keys.

“I guess…if you think that’s best,” Scott said weakly. He would have much rather waited for his parents to get home, but at the moment he didn’t feel like arguing with his sister. Or, for that matter, provide her with any doubt of the seriousness of his injuries.

Victoria narrowed her eyes, “Okay. If you’re really in that much pain…and you’re really that hurt…” She turned to Marcus, “We’re taking your truck!”

Marcus groaned but said nothing. Instead, he got up and slithered out of the room. The two siblings stared each other down. Victoria thought they were playing a sick game of chicken—each waiting for the other to blink.

Of course, this whole thing had to be a ruse. Designed, no doubt by her younger brother to get her into trouble. Her parents would be furious, once they sobered up in the morning. How had she let her little brother come to harm? She’d probably be grounded, or forbidden to use the phone for a week. Or maybe…if things got out of hand, and they really did go to the hospital—maybe they’d never leave her home alone again!

As these thoughts entered her head, she realized that taking Scott to the hospital was really her only way out. It would look responsible, like she could take care of herself and her brother. Her parents might actually end up rewarding her! Better yet, a doctor would be able to tell if her turd of brother was faking it. She’d have scientific evidence of his deceit, what could be better than that?

“Mom…Dad…I feel terrible! Scott said he was hurt, so I took him to the hospital…but the doctor said he was just faking it!”

Marcus’s rusted Ford sputtered to life in the driveway, moments later the goon returned to the kitchen.

“Alright, the truck’s ready…” He saw the grin on Victoria’s lips and out of reflex took several steps back. Something bad happened every time that smile appeared on her face.

“Good. Thank you Marcus. Please help me get poor Scotty up off the floor…”She took one of her brother’s arms and motioned for Marcus to do likewise.

Both boys remained on guard; neither liked the seemingly gentle concern that had entered her voice. They both knew better than to trust it.
Scott moaned and winced as the two stood him up. Victoria gave him a sly look of suspicion, but said nothing.

“Alright, let’s get you to the truck.”

They gently led him through the kitchen and into the darkened living room. They sat him down on the gray couch while they quickly got dressed; the whole time Victoria’s eyes were glued to Scott. The whole time they seemed to search him for some sign, some crack in the façade of pain. Once they were ready, both Marcus and Victoria helped him back up and led him out the front door. He wondered what time it was.

“I wonder when Mom and Dad are coming home?” Scott asked aloud to no one in particular. Victoria glanced at her watch but didn’t say what time it was. Judging from the look on her face, Scott could tell it was really late.

“Ready?” Marcus asked after they’d all piled into his decrepit pickup.

Victoria sneered, “Drive Marcus!” She turned and stared deeply into her brother’s eyes.

“Wait!” Scott cried out so suddenly Marcus jumped.

Victoria smiled, “Yes Scotty? Whatever is wrong?”

“I need my book! Someone please go back inside and get it!”

Victoria’s heart sank a little, for a moment she thought she’d won their little game of chicken. But her brother wasn’t blinking, he was being weird.

Marcus looked at Victoria in despair. She nodded her head and he shifted the truck back into park. He angrily got out and stomped back inside the house.

“Where is it?” he called back to them.

“On the kitchen floor!” Scott yelled back, sending waves of pain shooting through his body.

Marcus vanished into the house, and moments later appeared with Scott’s copy of The Great Gatsby. And for the first time ever, Scott thought he looked kinda smart.

**********************************************************************************

“Well lucky for you, nothing is broken,” the ER doctor’s gaunt face proclaimed with the utmost seriousness. “However, it seems you’ve managed to sprain your ankle. I’m afraid you’re looking at a few weeks of moderate discomfort.”

Victoria and Marcus were huddled around the table Scott was lying on. A beige curtain was drawn around them, providing the little group minimal privacy. Scott had an IV in his left arm; a thin, clear liquid was oozing into his veins making him lightheaded.

“Stay off your feet and avoid falling out of birch trees in the near future,” the doctor said, then he disappeared. A brown skinned nurse soon came and removed Scott’s IV. She then showed him how to dress his swollen, tomato ankle.

“Alright, Doctor Stephenson’s prescription is right here,” the nurse said handing Victoria a slip of scribbled paper. “He can take one pill every six hours for the pain.”

Victoria thanked her as Scott slipped his street clothes over his battered body. Somewhere down the hall, a disembodied voice called out over the public address system. Hearing the strange, sexless voice reminded Scott of the waiting room. They’d had to wait for over two hours before they saw a doctor. During that time, Scott had tried to read, but found the noisy waiting room too distracting. Despite the pain and suffering over the past few hours, his only regret was that he was still only on chapter two of The Great Gatsby.

“Hey alright, painkillers! Hope you’re gonna share,” Marcus said jokingly. The nurse shot him a strange look, causing him to grin sheepishly. “Ha-ha-ha just joking…” He mumbled something about getting a cup of coffee and vanished into the vast hospital.

Now alone, Scott and his sister sized each other up. Scott wondered if Victoria had been concerned about him all along. Victoria wondered how much trouble, if any, she’d be in when her parents found out.

“I’m sorry all of this happened, Scott,” she said, mostly sincere.

“Yeah, me too…”

She leaned over and bopped him on the top of his head, “Don’t you ever do anything like that again! You’re lucky you didn’t break your fool neck!”

Scott’s eyes widened, “Well maybe if you and your boyfriend hadn’t been making so much noise being disgusting, I wouldn’t have had to climb that tree!”

Despite his injury, the two tensed and prepared to go to blows. Victoria balled up her fist; Scott gritted his teeth.

“So are we ready to go home yet?”

Both turned and saw the poor, pitiful Marcus standing at the edge of the curtain ring surrounding the table. He wore a wary, puzzled look on his face. It was too much for them; both brother and sister erupted into a violent fit of laughter. Confused, Marcus shrugged his shoulders, then decided to join the fun and started laughing too.

“Do you even know why you’re laughing?” Victoria asked, barely able to breathe.

Marcus grinned and shook his head ‘no.’ This caused all three to laugh even harder. A few moments later, the nurse returned and asked them to leave.

"Your mother's going to hear about this," she called to them as they left.

************************************************************************************

The next day Mr. and Mrs. Baker awoke after a night of heavy drinking and dancing to discover their son had a sprained ankle. At first, it had appeared that Victoria was going to be grounded—but upon further consideration was let off the hook. Taking Scott to the hospital made her seem both responsible and compassionate (for once). In truth, she was glad the little shit had a sprained ankle. Maybe that would teach him to leave his room when she had guests over when Mom and Dad were gone.

Scott, too, was glad he was injured. His mother cared for him, smothering him and tending to his every need. Scott’s father seemed almost happy his boy had gotten hurt “messing around.” Both of his parents seemed pleased that Scott had done anything other than just “sitting in his room.” Unable to do anything but lay about the house, he planned to finish reading The Great Gatsby.

“Here’s your medicine Scotty…” his mother said, handing him a pill and glass of water.

“Thank you,” he said popping the vanilla colored tablet into his mouth. He was lounging on the living room couch, his injured leg propped up on one of the couch’s tattered arms.

“I’m going to the grocery store with your sisters. Do you need anything else before we leave?”

“No mother,” he said with a yawn.

A few minutes later, his mother and sisters nosily exited the house, leaving him all alone.

“Finally,” Scott said to himself.

The word came out in a strange slur. He picked up his copy of The Great Gatsby, they were alone at last. Scott smiled, he was finally able to read his book in peace.

It’s too bad I had to fall out of a tree to arrive at this point, but nonetheless…

Something was wrong.

Horribly wrong. All the words were in a indecipherable jumble, the pages seemed ten times thicker than normal. The world around him spun with the slightest movement of his head. The dull ache in his leg was quickly replaced by a tingly numbness, followed by a deep slumber.
Several hours later, his family returned and found him sleeping. His paperback copy of The Great Gatsby resting on his chest, he was still on chapter two.