Page 4 of So This Isn't Love
"So you're saying Jay Gatsby is basically an Instagram influencer?" I hide my smile as murmurs of disagreement ripple through my AP English class at Mattichogue High School.
But Zoe Martin sits up straighter, warming to her theory.
"Think about it, Ms. Gable. He carefully curates this perfect image, right? Throws lavish parties to show off his lifestyle. Nobody really knows where his money comes from. He's basically running a Gatsby aesthetic Instagram account from his mansion."
"That's hilarious. But wrong," Ryan James argues from the back row. "Gatsby was trying to win back the love of his life. Influencers just want followers."
"Both can be true." I perch on the edge of my desk, enjoying how engaged they are. This is why I love teaching the classics. Watching students find modern parallels, making these stories their own. "Gatsby crafted a very specific public image. What was he trying to influence people to believe about him?"
Hands shoot up across the room. Even the kids who usually hide behind their copies of the novel are sitting forward, eager to debate. Sometimes I can't believe this is my job, that I getpaid to discuss literature with bright young minds in the same classroom where I once sat silent, afraid to draw attention to myself.
"He wanted everyone to think he came from old money," Melissa offers. "Like Tom and Daisy."
"Yeah, because he thought that's what Daisy wanted," Ryan counters.
"So he's basically photoshopping his whole life, right?" Zoe persists. "Editing out his real background to get more likes from his target audience, which is Daisy."
More hands go up. I call on Joshua, who normally needs encouraging to participate. "It's kind of sad though, right? Like, he spends all this time creating this perfect image, but it's not even really him. No wonder it all falls apart."
"Excellent observation." I stand, moving to the whiteboard. "Let's explore that. What happens when we build our lives around an artificial image? When we edit out the parts of ourselves we think people won't accept?"
The discussion flows faster now, students building on each other's ideas. I guide them through the deeper themes of identity and reinvention, genuine self versus careful curation. By the time the bell rings, they're still debating as they pack up their books.
"Don't forget," I call over the noise. "Essays are due Monday. And yes, Zoe, you can absolutely expand on your Instagram influencer theory, as long as you support it with textual evidence."
She grins, slinging her backpack over her shoulder. "Thanks, Ms. Gable. This is way better than when my sister had to memorize all those symbolic color references last year."
I watch them file out, still discussing whether Gatsby would have had a verified account. Their energy, their willingness to engage with classic literature on their own terms—this iseverything I dreamed of when I decided to teach at my old high school.
Who would have thought quiet Dictionary Darcy would end up here at the front of the class? The old nickname flits through my mind before I can stop it, but I push it away. That was a long time ago. I'm not that scared, insecure girl anymore.
I'm gathering papers to grade when a familiar figure appears in my doorway.
"Please tell me you're free for lunch." Annie Felder, straight dark hair escaping her usually neat bun, practically vibrates with excitement. "Because I have the most amazing idea, and I need your help."
"Amazing ideas from you usually end in disaster," I say, but I'm already smiling at my friend's enthusiasm. "Remember the time you convinced me your drama club fundraiser needed live animals?"
"Hey, that goat had excellent comic timing." Annie drops into a student desk, bouncing a little. "And this is much better than theatrical livestock. I need your help with Friday's bachelor auction."
I stack my papers neatly, trying not to smile. As the daughter of the town librarian, I'm well aware of the upcoming auction. My mom has been talking non-stop about this year's fundraiser for weeks, proud of how many "eligible gentlemen" she's managed to recruit for a weekend of voluntary indentured service. The annual Bachelor Auction for Literacy is her baby, the library's biggest fundraiser of the year. "I already told Mom I'm sitting this one out. Bachelor auctions aren't really my thing."
"I know, I know. But I need your help." Annie leans forward, her dark eyes pleading. "A bunch of us are pooling our money so I can bid on Evan Bardot."
Bardot. The last name of my school years’ primary tormentor. I hear those two syllables, and my whole morning reorganizes itself around them, even after all this time. I carefully set down my stack of papers. "Annie..."
"Please?" She clasps her hands together. "With enough of us chipping in, I might actually have a shot at winning a weekend with the most eligible bachelor in Mattichogue."
"You mean the one whose family owns half the North Fork?" I try to keep my tone light as I organize my desk. "I thought you were done dating wealthy men after the last disaster."
"Evan's different. He's sweet. Nothing like his older brother..." She catches herself, but not quickly enough.
"And there it is." I shut my desk drawer with more force than necessary. "You know, for someone who claims to be my best friend, you have a suspicious habit of bringing up Finn Bardot."
"Only because you never talk about it. About him." Annie's expression softens. "Come on, Darce. That was years ago. We're not in high school anymore."
"Really? Because sometimes when I'm grading papers at 2 a.m., I swear I'm back in Mrs. Peters' English class all over again." I try to keep my voice light, but the old hurt creeps in anyway.
"Finn Bardot hasn't set foot in Mattichogue in ten years," Annie points out. "And Evan is nothing like him. He's sweet and charming and..."
