And They Were Roommates(14)

First the familiar electric hum to her tone. Now the persistent topic changing. This must be Jasper in disguise. “Thank you.”

“Anyhoo, sorry for pulling you out of class, but this is a bit time-sensitive.”

“Okay,” I say, folding my hands so tightly that my knuckles burn.

“Have you heard of the Student Tutoring Remediation Interdisciplinary Program run by a few of your classmates?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Although other students volunteer as tutors, I’ve noticed a lack of improvement in those who use this service lately. Would you assist our members?”

She’s asking for a favor.

Relief floods through me. My secret is still a secret. Jasper didn’t sell me out. He doesn’t know who I am.

“The previous Scholar for your class used to help many of our students, but he”—Principal Grimes hesitates—“left halfway through last year. That’s what we believe changed.”

From that hesitation, he didn’t simply leave. Maybe too much pressure was the reason.

My relief twists into something less so. “Thank you, but I should focus on study—”

“This would reflect wonderfully on your college applications.” She hits me with another too-bright smile. “This program is another long-standing tradition, and that’s important to the board of trustees, you see. I’m admittedly in a tough spot the longer this continues.”

The board of trustees again. Some omnipotent power who must have puppet strings on Principal Grimes. Maybe they lay the groundwork for the guidelines. I can’t say no to them.

My heart sinks, the words dying in my throat.

“I get it,” I say slowly, twisting Mom’s varsity ring on my finger.

“Excellent! Please speak with the members after class.” Principal Grimes whips out a notepad and scribbles something down before handing me it.

Student Tutoring Remediation Interdisciplinary Program

Scholar Research Library 3 p.m.–5 p.m.





Chapter 7

PERSUASION




WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 4

When I pull back the library door, the hinges shriek louder than Delilah when she’d chuck her shoes at bugs during camp. Yet no students glance up from their textbooks. After a long day of classes, they remain absorbed at desks that stretch back to the stacks. A few play on marble chessboards at the center of each, but most have books loaded so high that they touch the green-shaded antique lamps curved over them.

My footsteps echo as I walk through the middle aisle, keeping an eye out for a sign or group marked with TUTORING. The farther I venture, the more a familiar scent of ink and paper chemical breakdowns floods my nose, transporting me back to Queens. Mom always said her used books section made her store smell sweet, like acidic vanilla.

Two students rush past and through a high arch leading into the stacks, so quickly their backpacks jostle against their backs.

“—we won’t get any help,” I barely hear one hiss to the other.

Tutoring help? Back in the stacks?

I follow them through the arch, only to go still from awe. No matter how far back I tip my head, the bookcases rise. A forest of stories lives back here.

The two students round the corner. I catch up, dodging rolling ladders and step stools until I reach a section marked TRAVEL & TOURISM.

A figure stands at the end. Blond hair pulled into a short, messy ponytail. Red-and-black-plaid blazer slung over a shoulder. Cross-body bag with a sparkling JFG emblem. Jasper, trailing a finger along a spine of books.

I freeze. What is he doing here?

Murmurs come from the next aisle. The last thing I need is Jasper noticing me while I’m in the middle of a chase. Tiptoeing past him, I pass by CRUISE LINES, TRAVEL AGENTS, ECOTOURISM, and HOSPITALITY INDUSTRY, before I realize the two students have stopped. One reaches toward the right side of a shelf and tugs on a green spine.

The bookcase swings inward. The two slip through, and it shuts again.

I’m hallucinating. Clearly. Or there’s a secret door. In the library.

I inspect the green spine. A thin booklet of Cupid and Psyche by Lucius Apuleius Madaurensis. In the travel section?

I tug the spine. Slowly, the bookcase reveals a small, office-sized room split by a maroon brocade curtain. The right is too dark to make out much, but the left is lit by antique library lamps set on shelves and sandwiched between mythologies and books of fairy tales. A runner rug directs a single-file line of red-and-black bodies toward the back, where three guys stand behind books stacked like makeshift tables. A handwritten sign stretches above.

Welcome to the Student Tutoring Remediation Interdisciplinary Program!

The tutoring program is back here.

As I wiggle my way around the line, the vanilla-like tang in the air grows muskier, more like dirt and mothballs, and I scrunch my nose. Eventually, I reach the three guys seemingly in charge, who must be tutors. I recognize two of them.

Xavier Nguyen, who saved my life in PE, writing names in a notebook. Seeing his muscles stuffed into the typical plaid-on-plaid uniform instead of a tracksuit is jarring. An enamel pin of the number three is fastened above the Valentine crest on his lapel, the gold material carved with flower petals, flaunting its price tag.

Robby Walker, aka Rank Two on the second-year grades, stands on his right. Another enamel pin is on his blazer: the number two. He shuffles cards with sparkles on one side and illustrated drawings on the other, but his rapid hand movements shield details. Trading cards? On his makeshift table, a horse-riding helmet is flipped upside down, full of more cards.