And They Were Roommates(10)

“Othello,” Jasper shouts beside me. “Shakespeare.”

The instructor grins so widely that his eyes crinkle at the sides. He pushes his chunky glasses higher up his nose. “Context?”

“A woman is being killed. It’s one of the few moments where women speak authentically to one another despite their differences within a play centering on male manipulation and violence.”

“Mr. G did his summer reading.” The instructor tosses him a lollipop from his briefcase.

Jasper catches it as voices pop up around the classroom.

“Of course it goes to Jasper.”

“The legend.”

“Bro should go on Jeopardy!”

My brow furrows. People here actually like this high-and-mighty know-it-all?

Jasper’s “mysterious, confident poet” vibe did wow the guest speakers at our camp workshops. He could recite every poetic device and form before day one—which I denied impressed me despite my stuttering heart rate. Other campers, however, weren’t as subtle about their attraction to that intelligence. Jasper received no shortage of romantic interest from girls. That’s why, when he walked up to me and asked to work on our first dramatic mode assignment together, I assumed it was a twisted prank.

But now Jasper is trapped at an all-boys academy. He shouldn’t have a leg up anymore. Yet even though he can’t use his romantic charms here, he’s still well-liked.

Unbelievable.

The instructor shushes away the compliments about Jasper. “Thrilled to have you for another year, Mr. G. In the front row for once.”

Jasper kicks his feet onto the desk like an animal. “I need the best seat for your education, Mr. Stern.”

I flick my gaze between the odd poet and the odder instructor. Jasper doesn’t get a where are your blazer and tie? No put your feet down. He gets a thrilled to have you. Because he’s the principal’s nephew? A famous poet? Because he’s friends with the so-called Mr. Stern? These two do give off concerningly similar energy.

Great. One Jasper was plenty.

Although, Valentine does boast about hiring the most intelligent instructors in the nation, which means Mr. Stern must be as passionate about literature as I am.

When he starts our Othello discussion, my theory is proven. As he breaks into more monologues by memory, quizzing us on which character spoke what line, a breeze blows through the open window, carrying the scent of the lavender bushes and the trickling fountain beyond, where the major academic buildings encircle the courtyard like a small town. Instead of being surrounded by silent, sleeping, potentially dead students at online school, hands fly up around the room. These students are like me.

I’m like them.

I catch myself smiling as I take notes. I really have left behind online school, where class discussions barely existed. And Twenty-Eighth Avenue Middle School before that, where I had so little confidence that I didn’t make a single friend until Delilah at camp.

“‘Doting on his own obsequious bondage,’” Mr. Stern announces, a hand raised toward the ceiling, “‘wears out his time, much like his master’s ass.’ What does Iago mean?”

Easy. Othello is one of my favorites. The perfect play about betrayal. I raise my hand.

A voice comes behind my shoulder. “If you value obeisance too much, you’ll reach the end of your life with nothing to show but service. This, of course, plays out for Rodrigo later. Though, ironically, it’s Iago who he ends up being of service to and dies.”

The explanation was so eloquent that it must’ve been read from a textbook. I glance back to see the boy who stood by Jasper at the start of class—exceptionally put together, not a wrinkle on his dress shirt. He’s Black, on the lanky side, and has a drop fade with dark curls on top. On top of his overfilled organizational binder is a copy of Othello, sparkly bookmark with a horse on it sticking out. Robby Walker is written on the corner.

“Excellent, Mr. W,” Mr. Stern says, tossing him a lollipop over my head.

This is the intelligence I’m up against.

A crackling noise comes from my left. Jasper, tearing paper out of a leather journal. He holds a note my way. In the front row. Right before Mr. Stern.

Does he have a single brain cell?

I focus on taking my notes, but Jasper coughs. Again. Again. Now that he’s set his journal on the desk, I can make out the cover clasped by an ocean-blue crystal, and a bright red strip of fabric slides down the inner spine. Like on his cross-body bag, JFG is embossed on the cover. The typeface is the same too—an elegant serif font with the three letters overlapping. His initials? Does he imprint them on everything like a designer logo?

Jasper holds the note out my way again. His lopsided dimple pops.

Maybe it’s important.

I irritably snatch the folded note and peel back the corners. The paper is freakishly white due to the likely million-dollar price, but between smeared red ink and his scribbly penmanship, it’s barely legible. Just like his writing from camp.

Mr. Stern is the most inspiring sunrise of knowledge, is he not?

All that effort. For this.

I crumple the paper and shove it into my backpack. I’m an Excellence Scholar. He dares to distract me?

Jasper frowns. At least this makes him back off. He spends the rest of class with his feet still kicked up, twirling his fountain pen—which looks even pricier than his gold-plated journal. He observes the encircling academic buildings out the window, lost in his own world.