Read The Great Gatenby for Free Online Page B

white costume, water streaming off her, untangling her long hair with one hand while she smiled at them and put on her best telephone voice. God, I loved her at that moment: she seemed so perfect. I’m sure my parents remembered her from that first day of school but they were warm and friendly towards her and didn’t even say anything to me about it afterwards. They were pretty classy that way.
    As for schoolwork — back in the ‘real world’ of the classroom — well, things weren’t exactly going like the Orient Express, except maybe for the murder part. It seemed like every day there was another little assassination in there. Not necessarily of me — one time our English teacher, Mrs Murray, read an essay that Michelle O’Byrne had written, just so she could pull it to pieces and show us all its faults. Michelle sat there going red, with tears in her eyes but I don’t think Mrs Murray even noticed. James told me later that Michelle had taken endless trouble with that essay and had been really proud of it . . .
    Mrs Murray wasn’t such a bad teacher though, just boring. But I liked English, so I didn’t mind even the lessons that other kids found boring. We did some good books, like To Kill a Mockingbird . We got to write a poem or two, and she let us express our opinions more than most of the others did. But we spent a lot of time on adverbial clauses, on subjects and predicates, and stuff like that. How this was supposed to help me write or read better is beyond my simple mind to figure out.
    Probably the worst teacher was Mr Swenson, who tried to teach History. What am I talking about! He didn’t just try to teach History, he was History! The only time he came to life was when he gave me detentions, almost a daily occurrence. I figure I kept him alive by being so slack — it was my contribution to the school. The only person he hated more than me was Melanie. Even other students noticed that and commented on it — you know it has to be bad when that happens. Most of the time he wouldn’t even let us sit together; it was like we were third graders or something. Sure we provoked him, but God he asked for it. I got him good one time though: when he turned his back to the class to write something on the blackboard, I flicked my fountain pen and a beautiful trail of ink drops appeared all the way down the back of his light grey suit. Sometimes there are advantages to sitting in the front row.
    I just can’t figure out teachers like Swenson — or Swineson, as the kids called him. If he hated kids so much, why did he go into teaching in the first place?
    We had a guy called Walker for German — he was OK. And Mrs Goldman for Science, who was geriatric enough to look like she had invented the Law of Gravity. She looked like a Science experiment herself — one that had gone horribly wrong. But she told good stories about the Korean War, where she’d apparently been an ambulance driver, or something.
    For Maths we had Dr Collins, who was a real funny guy, and who you could never believe, because he’d tell you anything with the straightest face so that you’d get sucked in every time.
    â€˜What are we doing in Maths today, sir?’
    â€˜We’ve got that test, Gatenby, don’t you remember?’
    â€˜Sir, who owns that Porsche in the driveway?’
    â€˜Well, I’m not sure if I’m meant to tell you this, but I guess it’s OK — the story’s bound to come out sooner or later . . . ’
    And he’d embark on this long and amazing saga about how Mr Gilligan had once played in a rock band that had been hugely popular, and they’d had all these groupies who’d followed them everywhere, and although most of them had grown up and lost interest, there was one woman, now a big car dealer, for whom the flame still burned as bright as ever, and every year she’d have delivered to Mr