Gatsby and I

A trade, more or less

And in that tomorrow, I woke up feeling the plain worst. I had a headache, dry throat and no idea what century I was in. I guessed the twentieth and I was right. One thing I knew for sure: I was going to meet him - it's his name that I woke up whispering:

"Gatsby..."

This was all that I was able to say - it was all arranged. But I agreed with it all. Even with the fact that I had toi go back to bed.

And I did fall asleep again. But this time, I wasn't up near seven in the usual way. I woke near the afternoon, rested and really hungry. As I descend into the kitchen, Celestine greets me with this:

"Hey, sleepyhead! You missed breakfast and lunch. What's the matter?"

"Nothing. I just slept a little more than usual because I first woke near five and then I was tired above all reason. And I'm starving."

"Oatmeal?"

"Oatmeal. Pretty sure I ain't had any in a long time. "

"That it is, then! This is what they call a brunch. Something between breakfast and lunch."

"I knew that already. But thanks for reminding me."

I just ate right up and literally ran out of the house after changing to the emerald green dress, and never telling Celestine where I was going. This is the time when I started hiding.

Out at the pier, I waited just like the day before and it wasn't too long before he came to me.

"Hey there, Clara! So I was thinking maybe you could come inside, take a look around the house and there we can discuss some things."

"Why inside?"

"Remember how you said you're the apprentice of miss Celestine Warwick? I know how hard it is for her to have a bad reputation just because of her brother. Well, if anyone saw us, there'd be a bit of a press scandal just because of that. So could you please come inside?"

"Yes, of course!"

We walked hand in hand along the dirt path that led to the house and now the gate is wide open. Maybe that night, a party would be thrown again. Because, my friends, I had seen most every night in prior that the house was all lit up and that people crowded in from everywhere. And if this would happen again, I would most certainly want to come.

But the front yard really shone. It had a sort of maze made out of well trimmed laurel bush hedges and through the middle of the maze, there ran a straight cobblestone path, which didn't really make it a maze. This path went straight to the door of the house.

And that house was immense! It must have had three floors and an attic - that's how tall it seemed. And the windows were big, adorned with curtains made out of white lace. It had the look of the great mansion that it certainly was.

But when I entered the house, that's when I couldn't believe my eyes and stood in awe. It looked just like in the movie, more or less. From the ceiling, there hung a big crystal chandelier and wide, no, colossal doorways with no doors led to a library and a living room. Well that living room did have a table in it from what I saw, so it's technically a dining room. My bad! In front, there was a massive spiral staircase made of marble. Okay, it was a little bit different from the actual movie, but it still looked like it a little bit.

So he went into the library where I saw that it had two levels, each filled to the brim with all sorts of titles. On the bottom one, there were two armchairs at a table - one lined with red leather and one, with black velvet. There he sat me down and started talking:

"Do you like it?"

"Why I love it! So many books are here..."

"Many? This is just a small collection. Every title I could get a hold of is here."

"This is small to you?! To me, it's colossal! I suppose there's Edgar Allan Poe in here, too."

"Yes. Edgar Allan Poe, Charles Dickens, someone you may not have heard of called Currer Bell, the rather famous Wilkie Collins... I've got a lot of them! Chaucer and Shakespeare, works of the days of yore like the "Iliad" and "Odyssey", most anything at all!"

"Hold on! You said Currer Bell."

"I did."

"It's the pen name of a woman named Charlotte Bronte."

"A woman... How unusual! Not a lot of women write, I suppose."

"Not too many. I write a little myself."

"A little? What do you write?"

"Poems, I tried to write a play, and most often I write novels and short stories."

"What sort of novels do you write?"

"Suspense, fantasy, adventure stories and the kind of things Jules Verne wrote."

"So you write about machines and life in outer space at times, don't you?"

"I really do. And frankly, I like to write this kind of things. Now what do you paint?"

"Generally, portraits and landscapes. I tried my hand at painting the Last Supper, but failed terribly. "

"I suppose you called me inside because you needed to tell me something."

"I did. I'd like to ask you to make a deal."

"I love making deals. So what deal are we talking about?"

"How about I start painting your portrait tomorrow?"

"It would be mighty fine."

"But on one condition - that you write me a poem. Any kind. With rhyme or no, one of those strange 'cinquain' things I really like, a 'haiku' like they write in Japan, a sonnet, anything at all and about anything you wish. I'm sure there's nothing ungraceful that you would pen. And, pardon the question, how old are you?"

"Fifteen. And yes, I do take the deal."

"Now remember: until I have the poem, there will be no portrait. Got it?"

"Got it."

And I left, knowing that I had made a deal with the devil. Or, according to Fitzgerald and some rumors, with his second cousin.