The Gay Gatsby

Chapter 31: Whoever Said That Gay Meant Happy Lied

And, essentially, I talked about how gay Nick was for Gatsby. With use of a lot of overanalyzing and not-so-agreeable inferences. And although ridiculous, in that moment, I actually felt like I could relate to the entity that was The Great Gatsby.

And for once, I felt smart. And while feeling this newfound sensation of intelligence, I pretended that everything was fine and that all was going according as plan.

And by the end of the presentation, I began to believe it myself.

So as my stupidly in depth seven minute analysis was coming to a close, I concluded with the big finale; my art.

I slipped the canvas from where I had tucked it beneath my arm, sucking in a nervous breath as I set it upon the the ledge of the chalkboard. And with a nervous twitch of my fingers, I unsheathed the plastic from the piece, exposing it to the curious eyes of my classmates.

It was a simple painting; not really as good as what I usually painted, because, quite frankly, I didn't care as much about it. But still it was something I had spent a decent amount of time and supplies on.

The canvas depicted something simple; the firm clutch of hands clasped together in a distinct lovingness. Through the carefully intertwined fingers, a soft green radiance could be seen peeking out. The light spilled onto a backdrop of a mess of shades illustrating a dark night.

It was lame, cliché, and overall, not my best work. But I had spent a good amount of time on it, and despite it all, I was proud of it.

So I let the painting sit silently for a moment before hastily explaining the significance of the chosen depiction.

My voice carried through the class with an equal amount of confidence as previously. I peered at every single student in my class, wondering what was rushing through their heads, before concluding with the entirety of the presentation. And I waited for the class to react.

And it went . . .

Okay.

There wasn't any disgust, or insults or demeaning retorts that I had been expecting.

At first, there was silence; heads flittering to glance at others, gauging to see other people's reactions.

But then there were nods; a silent approval from the student body.

Faces of appreciation; a display of interest to my work.

Eyes wide in surprise; shock at my priorly unknown artistic skill.

And then, there was a classroom clapping.

It wasn't a soft, slow, "I'm clapping because I have to clap" kind of clapping.

It was a shrill, enthusiastic and appreciative kind of clap; a clap that demonstrated that the classroom had actually enjoyed it.

The symphony of palms slapping against each other reverberated through the room, filling up the space in my head. I couldn't help but swell with the glow of relief; taken aback by the fact that the people who were so homophobic and intolerant, were enthusiastically clapping for my presentation.

And it felt invigorating.

I could feel the waves of success washing over my face, manifesting every crevice of my skin. Somehow, all my previous worries from the morning had dissipated in my head, leaving me feeling pleasantly hollow and crisply aware of the moment I was in. I was no longer existing in the turmoil I called my life, but I was being.

And the sensation was wonderful. But like everything wonderful, it didn't last.

And in the light and glory of it all, my mind prodded me with somber worries. Like a whiny toddler, the fears clasped at my thoughts, urging me to give in and pay attention to them. And I had never been a strong individual, so I gave in; letting the fears overtake me.