c o n f i d e n t  w o r d s
CONRAD'S POV:

I let go of her wrist once we reach my car, and the sudden loss of contact makes me flex my hand a few times. Why am I doing this? Why did I feel the need to stick my foot out to trip her? Why Why Why? That's when I realize I'm thinking of Covey's paper from the other day. The reasons. The Whys. Dammit.

"Woah," she says when I open the door for her to get in. "I think I'll marry your car, okay?" It's an all-black 1978 King Cobra Mustang with rustic orange-red trim.

"In your dreams." I scoff as I walk back around to the driver's side. When I get in, I say, "Don't touch anything. And put your seatbelt on."

"Okay dad," she grumbles, rolling her eyes at me.

Dad—daddy—fuck, I need to stop.

We ride in silence for a few minutes because I don't dare to start a conversation, but she breaks it, saying, "I don't like when everything is quiet. It's too awkward, especially with you."

I snort. Wait, did I just snort?

"Oh my god, you almost laughed again!" she points out. "One day, Conrad, one day."

The campus is only three minutes away, but I pull over to the side of the road before we reach the entrance. "They can't see me with a student, can you walk?"

"Duh, I have legs," she says, crossing her eyes and blowing up her cheeks. Then she laughs. "Thank you for the ride."

"See you Monday."

"Unless you pull me to your lap again sometime before then—oh, that sounds bad," she backtracks, slapping her hands to her mouth. "Okay, see you Monday, Coco."

"Conr—"

"Coco Puff." Then she's out of the car and trotting her way down the path and onto campus.

******

On Monday I walk into the lecture hall as soon as the clock hits 10:00 a.m. It's the same run-around motion. Same boring routine. I have with me a novel in my hand, one of the classics—The Great Gatsby. An American novel of historical fiction from the Roaring Twenties, a decade of a get-rich-quick mindset and unrealistic fantasies. And optimism. I hate optimism.

I clear my throat, turning the book over in my hands. "Nick Carraway. Daisy Buchanan. Myrtle the Mistress. Jay Gatz." I hold up the piece of literature to the air so everyone can see the cover. "The Great Gatsby is one of the finest books in all of literature. I understand this is a writing course, but in order to write great work you must read great work. I will be assigning you all to have this book read with a two-page summary by the end of the week."

The class groans. So what? I scan the crowd only to see Covey smiling brightly as per usual. Someone please wipe it off her face.

"Has anyone here read The Great Gatsby and would like to share their opinion?" I ask, raising one of my eyebrows.

Margot Lee raises her hand.

"Go ahead, Miss Lee."

"In all honesty, Professor, I think it's confusing," she states, moving a hand with overexaggerated gestures. "The way Fitzgerald writes is almost too descriptive, and you can't tell what he's saying half the time."

I nod but internally I'm laughing at her shallowness. "Thank you for your observations. Anyone care to counter that statement?"

"I think the way The Great Gatsby was written reflected the era in which it was set in perfectly," blurts none other than Covey Jensen. Oh, Cove.

I let the fact that she just spoke without raising her hand blow over my head. "Interesting expression, would you care to elaborate?"

She gives me one of her toothy grins. "Sure," she says, tucking a piece of her blonde hair behind her ear. "When you look at the 1920s, it was a time of flash—of extrodinance. So I guess what I'm saying is; by the use of Fitzgerald's elevated descriptions, which are definitely and extremely confusing at times, he's really just building up the fantasy-land of the decade in which it represents. You know, what the decade was cut out to be." Then she pauses for a quick second, deep in thought. "It's quite insightful, actually."

"As is your response, Miss Jensen," I reply, agreeing with her in a nod. "Is there anything you would like to say to that, Miss Lee?"

"Well, not necessarily. It's just—the whole East Egg, West Egg, and Valley of Ashes, Dr. Whatever-His-Weird-Name-Is' eyes—it's all confusing. I mean, why is he describing eggs?"

A few students snicker, but before I can say anything in response, Covey counters, "Yeah, but it's all self-explanatory when you look at the context clues. Besides, if you were writing a novel, would you say things as they are all the time? Or would you try to show and not tell?"

Covey lets her rhetorical questions sink in for a moment.

"Fitzgerald had a descriptive writing style, though other writers like Louisa May Alcott were more up front with their writing. I think it depends on the story the author is trying to convey, therefore, I think the way Fitzgerald wrote his novel is valid. And, not to mention, this is a great assignment for those who are interested in taking a writing pathway." Then she pauses looking at me, as if realizing this is still English class. "Uhm, sorry, I tend to get carried away and ramble a lot—"

"Thank you both for your input," I interject, trying not to show too much appreciation for Covey's thoughts over Lee's. My gaze drifts over the classroom full of students. "As Miss Jensen just said, reading this work of art will most certainly benefit you in your creative writing skills." Crossing my arms over my chest, I continue, "On Friday we will discuss the use of imagery and symbols throughout the novel. Make sure to come to class prepared."

******

When class finishes, I sit down at my desk and look through files of turned in assignments from last week. When I don't hear anymore annoying chatter from everyone, I lean back against my chair and close my eyes, sighing. Is anyone else super exhausted?

Then I hear movement from the seats and quickly open my eyes. Oh, just her. "Cove," I say, drawing her attention. "What are you still doing here?"

She finishes packing, getting up from her seat. "I was just stalling 'cause I thought you'd want to tell me everything I did wrong in class today," she says, giving me a ginger smile. "Not to assume the worst or anything. And I mean, don't take it personally—"

"Enough," I interrupt her, holding up a hand in dismissal.

She clamps her mouth shut, nodding as her teeth mess with her lower lip.

"And stop that," I deadpan.

"Stop what? What am I doing this time?" she asks, balling her fists up and looking at me confused.

"With your lip," I point out, gesturing to her. "Stop, just please don't do that."

"Whatever," she says, sticking her tongue out at me. Immature and so naïve.

"I don't understand how you can easily form a normal sentence when talking in front of a class of thirty-five students, but you can't formulate a normal sentence when it comes to speaking with me." I raise an eyebrow at her, cocking my head to the side. "Care to explain?"

"Listen, Coco Puff—"

"You can't call me that here," I seethe in a low whisper.

Her face goes a bright red. "Okay then, Professor Monroe. I really shouldn't have to justify my lack of communication and social skills. It's embarrassing enough as it is. As I told you before, you get what you get and you don't throw a fit. And right now, you're throwing a fit." Covey crosses her arms over her chest, drawing attention to her—okay, stop please.

"Cove," I grumble, looking back at my computer to distract my deceitful eyes. "I thought you did excellent in class today. Your opinions were well thought out and it surprised me how confident you were in what you had to say."

"I'm always confident," she returns, giving me a glare that's more like an impersonation of Brock from Pokémon. Okay, now I'm a nerd. "Who wouldn't be confident in this body?" She does a small curtsy and then nods. "Sorry, I'm being weird again. Anyways, I'll just get going. See you around, Professor."

"Covey," I say, my voice halting her in her steps.

"Yes, Coco?" she whispers, almost as if she did it just so she could call me that.

I shake my head. "Raise your hand during my lecture next time, please."

She smacks her head with her palm and lets out a tiny laugh. "My apologies, I just got excited when I saw your eyes light up in amusement at Margot's comment. But I'll remember next time."

When she leaves, I furrow my eyebrows together. She noticed what I felt when I felt it?

Huh.

******
AUTHOR'S NOTE:

Hehe, I literally loved writing this chapter because I love love love The Great Gatsby. If y'all skipped over the explanation of the story, I recommend re-reading it because you'll need to know it for the future chapters. Anyways, toodles <3

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