Page 80 of What We Bury

The thread stops. They’re waiting on me. They always wait on me. Somehow I landed the position of leader, of tiebreaker. The man who has to weigh in before the chaos can crystallize into a decision.

I stare at the screen.

At Micah’s last message.

Fine, I’m in.

I look at his name, at the letters of it. Hear his soft voice in my ears.

You sorry sap of a human being . . .

I type.

Absolutely not.

I delete it.

Sure.

I delete that as well.

Me:

Fine. June 14th. 2pm. I’ll be there.

I send it before I can delete it.

Milo

ELI HAS SPOKEN! LOCKING IT IN!!!!! WOOHOO!!

Holden

God help us.

I shove the phone in my pocket and gulp down the last of the coffee, dumping the cup in the trash on my way back to the classroom.

Bowling?

Fuck.

What have I done?

The bell rings as I make it back, and the last of my class files in, a motley crew of teens and adults anywhere from sixteen to fifty-six years old.

GED classes are different beasts from normal schooling. Students show up because a court order said they had to, or because they want their kid to see them finish something. No parents calling to complain. No PTA. Just a pass or fail.

We’re doingThe Great Gatsbybecause every lit class in America doesGatsby, but this year I’m having trouble with it for reasons I haven’t fully articulated to myself.

The trouble is Nick.

I’ve taught Nick Carraway two ways. The first three years I taught him as the reasonable narrator. The voice you trust because he tells you, on page one, that he reserves judgment. Then I started teaching him as the honest coward—a man who sees clearly and won’t act, narrating the destruction of everyone around him. That was last year’s read. I was proud of it. I thought I’d cracked the book open. I thought coward was the hardest thing you could call him.

Tonight I’m standing at the front of the class, flipping through my notes and I can feel the argument coming apart in my hands.

A coward is afraid. A coward feels the cost. A coward stays awake at night.

Nick doesn’t.