here - Jersey Devil Press

Me and Gatsby
by Kat Lewin
In the summer, it was always Gatsby and me, tossing around a
busted badminton birdie in the backyard – topping throw, old girl, in
his fake Oxford accent – him so careful not to crease his soft soft
shirts, my elasticized flub buoying up a cushion of humidity
between my saggy clothes and the parts of my body nobody else
would touch. He was from a movie my mother loved, and all the
other actors looked at him like he was a dish of unmelted ice cream
on top of the radiator. He fell in love and had a mansion, too, but I
didn’t mind that.
Everyone would play with me and Gatsby at first. Kickball,
softball, foursquare, you name it. Gatsby was the captain of every
team. He’d strip down to his funny old shirtsleeves like
everybody’s harmless uncle. After the games, he’d hang back a few
paces while we plunged our legs in the pool, searching for the first
dark hints of hair on our splayed buglegs.
Someone would run inside for the cordless phone and dial the
German exchange student’s number from memory, then we’d drop
the receiver giggling, silently scramble for the end-call button.
Gatsby would clap all our backs in turn. “Good show,” he’d
murmur and the other girls would snort into their cherry sodas.
“You’re doing nicely,” he’d say to me, special. “You’re going to
be MVP.” My mother had started pointedly setting out Diet Coke
for me when my friends came over; it tasted like aluminum. I’d
breathe in Gatsby’s sunbaked linen as I drank so the bubbles
burned less.
In the spring, our last big dance before high school, Gatsby
hung behind me in the mirror, helped me cinch in my sash until the
welts were angry red eels ready to squirm out of my skin. The song
that spring was the one about bathing with someone in a mountain,
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