And They Were Roommates, page 21
Jasper’s forehead wrinkles in surprise. “Tap me when you want help.” He sits again, twirling his broken fountain pen between two nimble fingers, oozing red ink on his skin.
“How long have you—?” What am I doing?
Jasper’s head lifts, his blond bangs swaying over his eyes. Waiting.
“Never mind,” I say. “Well, no. I was going to ask how long you’ve had that pen since it’s broken. It must be old.”
“My aunt gave it to me.” He holds out the pen, but he doesn’t lean closer to show me the details, even though I wish he would. The 89 engraving along the barrel gleams in my bedside lamp light. “It was a gift after I published my poetry collection.”
“That’s nice of her.”
“Yes, we’re not close, but she’s supportive of my work. She understands how Valentine can restrict it. Really, I’m glad she understands this place. How lonely it can be.”
Once, I accused Jasper of not knowing what that’s like. But despite how charming and talented he is, he doesn’t have many he can rely on or relate to at Valentine either. I’ve had that proven time and time again, especially as STRIP threatens to fall apart.
“Your mother went here, correct?” Jasper asks.
“Did I tell you that at camp?”
“Yes.” Jasper sets his journal to the side. “I also remember that your favorite food is breadsticks because that’s all you ever ate. And, well, it’s odd.”
My face heats. “You can’t talk. Yours is blueberries.”
“You remember mine too,” he says, his upper lip quirking, but it vanishes quickly. He even clears his throat. “Any questions yet? And don’t feel bad. You’re not a distraction. I’m ahead on my set of letters.”
Of course he is.
The shame settles deep, especially as I catch another glimpse of his glimmering number-one pin that I’ve dreamed so many times could be mine. “To be honest, I don’t know how long this guide will take me.”
“No probl—”
“Or the four others in my backpack. With the final rank announcements coming up, every grade I get needs to be perfect, so I’m a little overwhelmed—”
“Charlie, it’s—”
“—or they’ll take away my scholarship. Then it won’t matter that I hid that I’m transgender because they’ll kick me out for my bad grades, or if our entire class tells the academy about STRIP, then they’ll kick me out for that, and then Mom will be crushed. No matter what, everyone will regret putting faith in me as an Excellence Scholar. They’ll think someone like P.M. should still be here, so I probably should be packing instead of talking to you.”
Jasper stares.
Only then do I realize how much came out of me and how long it must’ve been building up. Why did it have to explode onto Jasper of all people?
I wish I could crawl under these covers and be nevermore. “Forget I said anything.”
His brows remain crossed. “Cancel STRIP Time this week.”
“What? No way.”
“Barely anyone shows up anymore, anyway.”
A pang strikes me. “We need STRIP to keep looking unsuspicious. I can do it all.”
Jasper’s hand twitches and lifts off his knee, but then it sinks back down. “Just because you can do it all doesn’t mean you should, Charlie.”
I stare at his unmoving hand, overcome with crushing disappointment that it didn’t move farther. Every day, this incurable illness gets worse.
“Charlie?”
“Y-yeah,” I say, jumping. “Hi.”
“Hi. Did you hear me? It’s all right to take a break.”
My exhaustion tempts me to, but I can’t listen to Jasper and blow everything.
“Although I don’t know why I’m wasting my breath,” Jasper adds with a sigh. “Right now, you’re thinking about how you’d never listen to a word of advice I give you.”
“How did you—?” I stop.
But it’s too late, yet another smile tugging at his lips as he returns to his journal. Like he thinks he knows me better than anyone.
Jasper is the only one I’ve ever shared a bedroom with. The only one I’ve spent a summer with outside Mom or Delilah. The only one I’ve kissed. Does he know me better than anyone?
Can I trust Jasper?
“Jasper?” I say toward my lap.
“Yes, Charlie?”
“I meant my surgery scars. Earlier, when I said not to look.”
“I know. I figured it out.”
Still not an apology. I need to. I lift my head. Look at him. “I’m sorry I yelled. And threw clothes at you. And I’m sorry I knocked over your bottles. I know you like them a certain way.”
“It’s all right.” Jasper smiles at his journal.
My heart pounds at how kind it looks. Understanding, even. I still waver before speaking again. “I told Xavier.”
His pen stops moving. “Xavier won’t tell anyone. But I know you’re even unsure about me, so I don’t expect you to believe me—”
“I want to believe you.” The words come out before I fully comprehend I’m saying them, and for a second, I regret it for how open and raw I feel in the aftermath. But that’s also how I know what I said is the truth.
Jasper blinks back at me. “I hope you can someday.”
Chapter 35
THE SUN ALSO RISES
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 7
When the bell tower curses campus with seven bongs, my face is planted in a book of blackout poetry. I grunt as I sit up in my desk chair, trying to piece together my memory from the night before. After Jasper helped me with my literature guide, I moved over here to work on mixer letters. I finished four.
Only thirty more.
I glance around the room. No Jasper. But there’s proof of his morning routine in the way pieces of his uniform are newly strewn around his desk and bed.
Something slips off my shoulder. I look down.
A patchwork quilt, dotted with ambrosia flowers.
Chapter 36
BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 11
“DON’T DIE ON ME, V.H.!”
I jolt upright and grip my surroundings. My face is wet. Beneath me is my bowl of Cheerios on the table.
A paper napkin thrusts into my view.
Luis, his mouth wriggling like a worm in disgust at my milk face. “Bro, did you zonk out in your cereal?”
I take the napkin and rub my nose, then the rest of my drenched face. It’s more of a challenge than I expect. My limbs are limp noodles, and my brain is on fire from this headache. “What were you saying? Your cat?”
Instead of answering, Luis plucks a soggy Cheerio off my cheek and flicks it on the Dix floor. “How much did you zonk last night?”
This last week has been a blur of training and studying and letter writing with Jasper, and now it’s already finals for Hours 1 through 3 on my schedule. Has my head hit the pillow once?
“I don’t”—I yawn—“remember.”
“So you didn’t zonk.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Have you taken a break lately? At all?”
“A lot’s on the line,” I say, thinking about the impending last grade rank until the end of classes.
And right after is the mixer. With the intensity of exams, STRIP hasn’t even started discussing the delivery plan for the letters.
“We need to be perfect this week,” I go on.
Luis picks up his fork and stress-twirls his curls like spaghetti. Fear clouds his gaze. “Yeah, my massive calc exam is today.”
I stare at the fork. “You ready?”
“Dunno. Crossing my fingers that your tutoring saved me. At least I closed my eyes last night.” Luis’s gaze refocuses on my face. “Unlike you. Your dark circles have dark circles. I’m worried.”
I attempt to eat some Cheerios, but my stomach curdles. “I’m fine.”
Luis is spinning the fork through his hair faster now. “Don’t you have PE for first hour? Your fitness exam is in, like, a half hour.”
“Don’t worry, I can handle it.”
* * *
My arms won’t move.
I tug myself up on the pull-up bar again. Again. Nothing.
“Forty-five seconds,” Ms. Nallos calls, her gaze flipping between me and the stopwatch set on her clipboard. I can feel the line of students in the Pragma Recreational Center trailing behind her, watching.
Panic courses through me. I got three pull-ups easily last week while with Xavier.
“Fifteen seconds!”
No way am I failing this fitness exam. I can’t. I flex my arms so hard that they burn, and I bite back a wince. I fight through the pain until my chin taps the bar.
My arms give out.
“Time!”
My sneakers hit the floor. Every bit of me throbs. One pull-up. After all that training.
For nothing.
“Next,” Ms. Nallos calls, signaling the next student in line to take my spot, her cheery polka dot braids bopping along her shoulders in the face of my defeat.
Before she can reset her stopwatch, my desperation makes me approach her. There must be something I can do. Anything.
Think. “Ms. Nallos, can I have a redo after class? Please?”
“No need,” Ms. Nallos says, dismissing me.
“I swear, I can get to three. I’ve trained—”
“You passed.”
“I can prove—I’m sorry?”
“I’ve seen you and Xavier train through these windows for weeks.” She points toward the doors, where the workout room resides deeper in the center. “In my opinion, that deserves a grade change.”
Hope flutters inside me, but I can’t possibly be understanding correctly. “To what?”
“You’ll see in the next progress report handouts.”
“But can I know now?”
She glances around the track. “Let’s go with an A. Please keep this to yourself, Charlie.”
I do mental math in my head. “We’ve been scored ten times so far, and I averaged at a C-minus in October, so I should only be at a B at most. And the rules about PE—”
“You’ve worked hard. Turn off that brain of yours and walk some laps.” Ms. Nallos focuses back on the next tester.
As I head for the indoor track, I can barely think straight, too many emotions shooting through me. An A. Others are already done testing and walking, too, including Xavier and his buzz-cut crew. At least his friends have stuck by his side during STRIP’s downfall.
I join them. “Hey.”
“What’d you get, man?!” Xavier shouts in my face.
Buzz-Cut One glances my way. Xuan. Then the other. Zach, I think. He goes in for a bro handshake—a basic slide into the standard grip that I’ve started to learn means I have no clue who you are, but you seem chill.
I don’t have to think too hard about how my hand moves as I return it. “I passed.” My voice comes out distant. I’m too in shock.
Xavier picks me up off the floor and squeezes me so hard that I almost snap. “Hallelujah!”
By the time my feet hit the floor again, my equilibrium is dead. I stumble to the left. “But I only got one pull-up. Ms. Nallos gave me the credit anyway because you and I have been training so hard together. So, thank you.”
“Really? Dang. You’re welcome. But.” Xavier’s forehead crinkles as he leans into my face. I don’t move back. “No offense, but you look like shit.”
“I’m fine. I just pulled an all-nighter.”
“Before this test?”
“I have to study for all our other tests.”
The excitement Xavier showed before has been completely erased by worry now. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a protein bar. “I brought this for you just in case.” He throws it my way.
My brain doesn’t process in time, and it slaps my temple. I jerk.
Xavier winces at the protein bar now on the floor. “Really thought you’d catch that. You look like you haven’t been eating. Stuff that in your mouth.”
I pick up the bar and follow orders, wondering if that means I’ve lost weight. It’s not like I’ve had time to look in a mirror.
Xavier slaps my back encouragingly. “C’mon, you’ll make the ranks on Wednesday. You’ve worked too hard not to.”
I smile back, trying to believe this for once too. But I have no clue if I should.
Chapter 37
THE STRANGER
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 13
The rest of finals went by in what felt like a hazy, metaphysical state of panic. The English literature final essay topic was, thankfully, oo ghost. Chemistry, world history, and first-year civics, I turned in early. Calculus, though, I finished right as time was called. Then I finally took a breath.
Now Wednesday classes are already beginning—the day instructors scramble to entertain us after the trauma we’ve faced before the mixer and winter break. Ms. Nallos lets us play any sport we want, and I spend the time anxiously walking the track, my legs dragging like they’re 100 percent uranium—the heaviest element in nature and question eleven on the chemistry final. Did I answer that right?
After this and one hour of English literature, the grade rank board will update to finish off the semester. Everyone and their parents will know where they land. Delilah will know if she’s hit high enough to run for the student council board. I’ll finally know if I stay or go.
Soon enough, I’m in English, and Mr. Stern is kicking open the door, the hem of his deeply memorable leopard-print blazer flapping behind him. “Testing’s over! How’re you feeling?”
The ceiling chandelier hums. A cough comes from the back.
Mr. Stern sets his briefcase on his desk. “I hope you can wake up for our guest speaker today. A few of you may recall him as a past student here.”
Someone who looks around my age follows Mr. Stern into the classroom.
Straight, dark hair that’s half pulled back, half left down, falling to his chin and shaping his soft cheekbones. A light brown turtleneck sweater and navy cardigan combo that complements his brown eyes and tan skin—the spitting image of a poet.
There are plenty of past students this could be. But when I glance at Jasper one seat to my left, his face is pale, like he’s seeing a ghost of his past come back that he thought was nevermore. In a way, I suppose he is.
Pierre-Marie Laframboise drifts toward the desk. He’s almost as tall as Mr. Stern—not exactly a strawberry shortcake. When he smiles, it’s calm instead of arrogant like I expected. “Hello.” His voice is so quiet, I can barely hear him.
His name comes from every corner of the classroom. Shouted. Whispered. Adored. Except for directly to my left.
I stay silent too. I’m too stunned, sitting before the previous Excellence Scholar. I reach for my pencil and notebook to take notes and gather anything I can about him. In a way, he’s my competition.
“This is P.M., if he even needs an intro,” Mr. Stern says with a laugh, and it doesn’t make me jealous. Nope. “Who already has a prosperous literary career at your age. I wish I could say his success comes from my guidance, but his fan base started right before Valentine.”
Beside me, Jasper aggressively kicks his feet up on the table, making a spectacle out of himself as he looks out the window.
P.M.’s attention briefly drifts toward Jasper in the front row. If he shows any change to his professional expression, I don’t catch it. “Mr. Stern is too kind. Valentine helped me. More importantly, it gave me life experience. If you don’t have that, then what is there to write about?” His accent is only slightly noticeable. It doesn’t sound fully French or Tagalog but a subtle blend.
“Our next unit will focus more on attempting to write the genres we’re studying,” Mr. Stern says, “so he’ll discuss his own creative work process.”
P.M. starts scribbling on the whiteboard. Cursive, of course. “I actually wish to start my lesson by showcasing something I learned from a person in this very room.”
Then he writes rules I’ve seen before. Studied before.
He only spends five minutes discussing how one should choose an environment that won’t sway your feelings. What he does spend time on, however, is how emotions do not have to make sense, so neither do your words, and then provides examples. He wraps up the lesson with how you should always craft for yourself.
I don’t have notes to take when they already exist in my notebook. Eventually, he moves to how these rules have morphed into his own unique set over time, and that craft advice flourishes when you add your subjective tastes. I barely listen, instead debating how talented this previous Excellence Scholar is compared to me—to all of Valentine—and how Jasper would truly feel about him if he were honest.
“Questions?” Mr. Stern says from the side of the room as the lesson ends.
P.M. watches the class with another smile.
Jasper raises his hand, feet still kicked up on the desk.
P.M.’s face just barely tenses into something uneasy. I would only be able to tell from my place in the front row. “Yes?”
“Have you decided to come teach us because you believe you’re better than us?”
My mouth hangs open, and I swat Jasper on the arm.
Whispers come from around the room.
“Another question, please,” Mr. Stern says, his tone firm for once.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m in calc class instead because P.M. is treating me like an X he’s trying to solve. He squints at my shoes, then my hands, and up to my face. I’m not sure why. If anything, that should be my job. He turns to Jasper. “It’s okay. Didn’t I say Valentine gave me valuable life experience?”
“And once you were done using us for that, you ditched us, right?”
“Jasper,” Mr. Stern says. Hearing him refer to a student by their first name shoots even my own spine straight. Mr. Stern only ever uses last names. “Step into the hall.”
Jasper huffs like he’s simply been told to put his feet down. He picks up his bag and disappears through the door. Mr. Stern whispers something in P.M.’s ear—watch the class, probably—and follows Jasper into the hall. The door shuts.
