The Gay Gatsby

Chapter 12: In Which Chance Has 83 Protons

Callaway snickered at me, "Alright, I'll consider it. Elucidate your conditions."

"First, you have to be nice to me for the whole time I'm here. We're supposed to be friends okay." Callaway groaned at my words. "And don't think I'm implying just being not mean. I want you to be nice to me; no insults and at least three compliments!"

Callaway looked at me with a subdued horror before muttering, "And the second condition?"

My eyes lit up as I explained, "I want you to answer a question."

The face in front of me just nodded. "Fine, I assent to your conditions. Now specify these 'specific reasons' of yours."

"Hey, not so fast. I'll tell you before I leave - if you're successful," I warned.

Callaway scoffed, "'If I'm successful' as if being kind is a perilous task."

As he was speaking, Callaway stood from his spot next to me. He started shuffling towards a hallway to the left (not the one leading to the washroom.) I was a breath away from asking what he was doing, but he was gone before I could open my mouth.

I stared at the - now vacant - spot on the couch, awaiting for his return. The few minutes he spent - wherever he was, allowed me to contemplate what question I was going to ask him.

I thought about risking the chance of questioning him again about depression.

I was really...concerned.

I wanted to be certain of my assumptions so I could try to help or support Callaway. I had never dealt with mental illness before, but it didn't mean I couldn't learn to. Though, I doubted Callaway would even let me; he didn't seem like one to take kindly to help.

So that idea was rapidly discarded. Which left me with no ideas.

I was still deep in thought when Callaway returned with what looked like a large tub of ice cream and two spoons.

He handed one to me, muttering, " I hope you like strawberry."

I laughed as I nodded.

"What?" Callaway scowled. "If I'm going to hold myself in a commendable manner, some type of material comfort is strictly necessary."

Callaway poked at the ice cream silently for an instant, before glancing at me expectantly.

"Oh right," I realized that I still needed to ask my question.

I racked my mind for a long moment, contemplating all the things I could ask. All my ideas were equally irrelevant, so I decided upon the most ridiculous one.

"Why do you talk like a pretentious English professor who inspires the protagonist of some crap indie movie?"

____________

Callaway

I descried Chance as I brought the frigid metal of the spoon to my lips. I ignored the flavor of strawberry on my tongue, in favor of genuinely giggling at Chance's inquiry.

My laughter dissolved as I spoke, " That is your question? And you desire an honest response?"

Chance nodded, abashed as he dug his spoon into the tub situated between us.

I sighed, " The reason for which I talk in this, what I do agree is an annoyingly pretentious manner, is to annoy my parents as well as my teachers."

Chance put pulled the spoon away from his lips, frowning, "That's it?"

I shrugged, "Yes. I spent all of freshman year developing and practicing my articulation and vocabulary. I had envisioned that it would give me a sense of predominance." I smirked, "I had been right."