The Great Gatsby

“Hello, Jordan,” she called unexpectedly. “Please come here.”

I was flattered that she wanted to speak to me, because of all the
older girls I admired her most. She asked me if I was going to the Red
Cross to make bandages. I was. Well, then, would I tell them that she
couldn’t come that day? The officer looked at Daisy while she was
speaking, in a way that every young girl wants to be looked at
sometime, and because it seemed romantic to me I have remembered the
incident ever since. His name was Jay Gatsby, and I didn’t lay eyes on
him again for over four years—even after I’d met him on Long Island I
didn’t realize it was the same man.

That was nineteen-seventeen. By the next year I had a few beaux
myself, and I began to play in tournaments, so I didn’t see Daisy very
often. She went with a slightly older crowd—when she went with anyone
at all. Wild rumours were circulating about her—how her mother had
found her packing her bag one winter night to go to New York and say
goodbye to a soldier who was going overseas. She was effectually
prevented, but she wasn’t on speaking terms with her family for
several weeks. After that she didn’t play around with the soldiers any