Exclusive excerpt: Read the first chapter of feminist Great Gatsby reimagining Tell Me My Name

Read the first chapter of Tell Me My Name by Amy Reed below.

"1 Ferns are older than dinosaurs. They’ve survived by growing under things, made hearty by their place in the shadows. Sucking up mud. Fern. Barely even a plant. Ferns don’t make seeds, don’t flower. They propagate with spores knocked off their fronds by passing creatures or strong winds. They sit there, forest deep, waiting to be touched.   Papa said Daddy could have any house he wanted, so he picked an old abandoned church at the end of a gravel road in the middle of the forest on an island. Papa says it’s a money pit. Daddy says it’s a work in progress. Papa says it was Daddy’s revenge for making them move for his career. Papa says Daddy likes to make things hard for no reason. Daddy says it builds character. Papa says I probably have brain damage from all the sawdust and paint fumes I inhaled as a baby. Daddy sometimes calls the house his other child. Their bickering soothes me. That they argue about such little things reminds me we have nothing big to worry about. We’re the opposite of dysfunctional. We’re real live unicorns.   Commodore Island is nine miles long and five miles wide. In the summer, it’s overrun with tourists. Day-trippers from Seattle with their itineraries of the famous bakery and fish restaurant, the little boutiques and artisan cheese shop, all the old buildings preserved like a retro, small-town time capsule of family-owned businesses. You can barely see the tiny A-Corp logo on their signs. Sometimes the tourists rent kayaks. Sometimes they go for hikes in the nature preserve at the center of the island. They walk around the muddy lake and take home photos and mosquito bites as souvenirs. They drive Olympic Road in its lumpy oval circuit, the mansions and luxury condos rising over them from the shore and stacking up the hill, each with its own view of the Sound, before the island’s middle gives way to forest. The tourists slow at the gates of our more famous residents, stopping traffic to take pictures of the rare wild deer crossing the road. They get their little taste of quaint, of our tiny, unscathed bubble where you can almost believe the rest of the world isn’t falling apart, then they return to their gated communities in the city. There have been no deer in Seattle for a long time. People can afford beauty here. The rich always get to keep a little of what they destroy.   Papa had a dream of becoming a fashion designer a long time ago, but he somehow ended up at A-Corp like everyone else on the island. Except he’s not some big fancy executive like most of the parents here. Papa’s the artistic director of the Children’s Division of Consumer Protective Apparel. Instead of high fashion and runway shows, he’s in charge of making bulletproof vests for kids. It’s not glamorous, but somebody’s got to do it. The tourists always end up at my work at some point on their trip: Island Home & Garden. They buy our signature T-shirts with the otters holding hands. Everyone loves otters holding hands. Even though otters haven’t been spotted here in a couple decades, not since the big oil spill off the coast of Vancouver Island. My fathers are some of the few parents on the island who believe that a work ethic must be built; it is not something that can be inherited like wealth. I am the only person I know with a part-time summer job. I’m also the only person who works on this island who actually lives on this island. Everyone who lives here either works for A-Corp headquarters in Seattle, or doesn’t work. Everyone who works here lives in the giant subsidized housing complexes across the bridge to the west, on the peninsula, those miles of identical high-rise boxes strategically built on the other side of a hill so they won’t cheapen the view of anyone on the island. Buses full of workers arrive around the clock for shifts at the shops and restaurants, the grocery store, and the couple of car-charging stations, to work on gardens and remodels of houses. In and out, back and forth, like the tide. I work while everyone else my age plays. I work while they travel, or while their parents travel and they stay home to party and be tended to by housekeepers and nannies who have their own families across the country waiting for checks to arrive, in the states that have no jobs because of the floods and the fires and the poisoned earth. I work while my best friend, Lily, is in Taiwan visiting family all summer. I sell orchids and fake antique watering cans to tourists and housewives, waiting for my real life to start.   But then: There’s a rumor of a new arrival. Moving trucks at the bottom of my hill. The gate across Olympic Road opens. Not the usual executive rich. Not the CEOs and CFOs and COOs and CTOs of the various departments of A-Corp. A star. My sleepy town has woken up. • • • Rumor is she just got out of treatment. “Exhaustion,” they call it, which could mean anything. Drugs, alcohol, eating disorder, sex, gambling, self-harm, mental illness. It’s not so remarkable. Some kids on the island make these trips more often than sum- mer camp. Or she could just be tired. “I’m tired,” Papa says. “I wish I could go somewhere for exhaustion.” Daddy rolls his eyes in the way that means “I love you, but you can be so insensitive.” Then Papa rolls his eyes in the way that means “I love you, but you can be too sensitive.”   We have plums, apples, pears, blackberries, wild huckleberries. A vegetable garden that gasps for the few hours of sunlight that reach our small clearing in the forest. Overgrown gardens of rhododendron and azalea. Yellow scotch broom that burns my eyes and makes me sneeze. In the spring: cherry blossoms and dogwood. Old, forgotten bulbs of daffodils and tulips peek through the weeds, the winter-browned pine needles, the brittle cones. The first sprouts always make Daddy tender and teary-eyed. They never last long enough. Daddy goes around with a special paintbrush every afternoon pretending to be a bee, dusting each flower, and then the next, and the next, trying to spread pollen now that there are barely any bees left to do the work. He tells me that when I was very little, there were still a few real farms left. Almost every- thing you can buy at the grocery store is grown in a hothouse now, those vast acres of white buildings stretching across the countryside. But there are still people like Daddy who like to do things the old-fashioned way. They can sell one artisanal apple for twenty dollars at a farmers’ market. But it is early summer now. The spring flowers are gone. We’re entering drought again. It is the name of the season even here, which used to be famous for being one of the wettest places on earth.   “Should we bring our new neighbors a pie or something?” Daddy says. “That’s just in the movies,” Papa says. “And how would we even get through the gate to give them the pie?” I say. “You sound just like your father,” Daddy says. “Meow,” says our cat, Gotami.   One thing Papa and Daddy agree on is that Commodore Island is full of a bunch of people with money trying to look like they don’t have money. Seattle rich is a special kind of rich. It’s jeans and hiking boots and expensive high-tech moisture-wicking shirts for people who never sweat.   I can feel something different before I see them. A shift in energy. A sucking toward. They are not Seattle rich. They are big sunglasses and big purses rich. Loud, bright- printed sundresses against flawless bronze skin. Sparkling jewels and heeled sandals. Nobody here wears heels until they go off the island. They’re practically matching. I don’t know who is copying whom. Mother and daughter. From a distance, they could be twins.   A hundred years ago, this used to be a sleepy rural town that had a few small farms, a few small businesses, and a few Seattle commuters. Now the A-Corp elite who live in the massive estates lining the waterfront pay a fee that goes directly to the private security force that patrols the island. A-Corp uses the nature preserve as an example of how progressive they are and how committed to preservation. But the trees keep dying, the pine needles turn brown and brittle, and the lake is full of dead fish no matter how fast workers clean it out and fill it with new ones. We live on one of the few country roads left. Most have beenbulldozed and replaced by ultra-modern, energy-efficient, luxury housing developments. Every time something breaks in our house, Papa reminds us that we could move to one of those condos. “You could still garden!” he tells Daddy, trying to sound cheerful. “There’s a community pea-patch! There’s a gym with a pool!”   We are good at leaving rich people alone. They walk among us every day. Most are the kind of rich that is not famous, though occasionally you might hear their names in the news, with words like “fiscal quarter” and “acquisitions” and “interna- tional market.” They are not faces. They are not voices. They are not entire bodies and stories we’ve known since we were young. They are just names made out of money. But this girl is made out of a different kind of money. A boy asks for her autograph. Her smile is pure oxygen and sunlight. All the flowers in the store turn to her and open their petals. For a moment, I am seeded. I have fruit.   Our house is built of old stones, covered with ivy so thick, it looks like it’s holding everything together. Daddy assures us it’s structurally sound. When the light hits us just right, the inside glows with dusty multicolored beams from the church’s old stained-glass windows. This is the kind of thing Papa says: “Tasteful Episcopal stained glass,” with that look on his face like he’s chewing something rotten. He calls it “Art Deco Christianity.” At least there are no bloody Jesuses, he says. Before they adopted me, Daddy went to school for a million years to be an interior architect. His specialty was adaptive reuse. He knows how to take old buildings and build them new insides. He likes finding broken things and nursing them back to life   The few people in the shop steal shy glances her way. One takes a surreptitious photo with her phone. “Can I get some help or what?” says the star’s mother. I wipe my hands on my apron.   Papa is an atheist. Daddy is a Buddhist who likes Jesus. He says maybe the Three Wise Men were monks from Tibet looking for the new Dalai Lama. I say, Okay Daddy. He has all kinds of ideas he tells me when Papa’s not listening.   My job is to be handed things. I am to hold as much as I can in my arms until I have to deposit the pile on the counter by the register. I go back and forth with the mom’s ceramic cats and tiny shovels and decorative blown-glass balls. I keep my eyes on the items. I nod and say okay. I try not to look at the girl, the one made of sun.   Papa likes things clean and tidy and empty. Daddy likes everything full and found and barely unbroken. The mom goes from shelf to shelf. There is no method to her selections except for more more more. The girl mouths “I’m sorry.” I mouth “It’s okay.” Our whispers meet and tangle.   People love these fake antique watering cans. They’re Island Home & Garden’s best sellers, besides the T-shirts of the otters holding hands. Daddy says they’re an abomination. He says the rust and chipped red paint are a lie. The watering cans should have to earn their rust like the rest of us.   “What’s your name?” the sunlight says. “Fern,” I say. I am made. • • • This is my origin story. This is my creation myth.   Some kids take ferries every morning with the A-Corp commuters to go to their Seattle private schools. Others, like me, go to the employee-only A-Corp school on the island. Some go far away to boarding schools and then come back at holidays and in summer to have parties and remind the rest of us what we’re missing. I am the one who goes nowhere. This is the last summer.   “I’m Ivy,” the girl says. But of course I already know that. I tell her I think I’m her neighbor. The mother holds up a fake antique watering can and says, “Ooh, this is so vintage! I love the rust.”   They are coming back, one by one, arriving at the airport with bags full of dirty laundry for their housekeepers to clean. They’ve already started their game of playing like adults with no consequences. The local taxi service has called in reinforcements from the county across the bridge. There will soon be an island full of children getting drunk who need to get home. • • • I have to find boxes in the back to hold all the mother’s stuff. I concentrate on wrapping each thing in paper, but my hands are shaking. “You seem nice,” says Ivy, the girl made of sun. That’s me: Nice girl. Daddies’ girl. Good girl. I am a middle-class girl from a loving, intact family. I am a fantasy. I am an endangered species. We are on the verge of extinction. I may be the last one of my kind. “I’m supposed to recuperate this summer, and I need some company besides myself,” she says. “Here, write your number on this receipt. You can be like my tour guide.” And now I have a real job. There is a use for me. I am chosen. I am touched."

Tell Me My Name is available on March 9, wherever books are sold. Let us know if you plan to add this Gatsby retelling to your must-read list!