And They Were Roommates(27)

“Every week, our patrons draw horse trading cards to determine the order they’ll be served by me,” Jasper whispers, standing so close that his breath tickles my ear.

I startle and take one firm step away, my face heating up all over again. His personal space issues will give me an ulcer. “By served, you mean get their love letter written by you?”

“Precisely. This is what we were busy with on the first day you came here. It’s luck of the draw.”

So I was right. “But there are no numbers on these cards.”

Jasper points beyond the curtain, toward a new patron drawing from the hat and then showing Robby the card.

“Akhal-Teke,” Robby announces. “Number nineteen.”

The so-called patron sighs and retreats.

“Robby is a”—Jasper switches to a bad French accent—“horse aficionado. He has a breed tier list—his most favorite to least favorite. Akhal-Teke is apparently his nineteenth-favorite horse right now. It mostly stays the same week to week, but there are some wild cards. His feelings toward the Welsh Cob change almost every time.”

Just when I thought these fake tutors couldn’t get weirder.

Although STRIP’s tradition as a whole is already weird. And so are the rest of Valentine’s real academy rules. Maybe it’s a product of their environment. Or maybe it’s simply that they’re some of the smartest students in the nation. That alone means their brains aren’t exactly typical.

Still, I can’t help but ask: “Why not use something normal to draw names? Sticks?”

“Robby can run our admin how he pleases. We trust him as the second year’s Rank Two. He’s aiming for MIT’s biochemistry program.”

My brow furrows up to my hairline. “An MIT hopeful is involved with this?”

“Of course. To MIT admissions, he’s tutoring at one of the smartest academies in the nation—the top one percent of smart. From the outside, at least, this is one of the most prestigious programs our academy has to offer. Blaze is also a supergenius; he skipped several grades and still landed at Valentine. He’s twelve.”

“Twelve?”

“You couldn’t tell from the—” Jasper gestures vaguely at Blaze’s five-foot stature across the crypt, where his uniform turned cape flows behind him.

“I guess,” I say.

Unspoken Guideline 9: Everyone is aiming for the stars, and I’m just trying to pass PE.

Jasper passes through the brocade curtain on a gust of his fragrance that’s growing more familiar by the day. He waves to gather the crypt’s focus. “Attention, patrons!”

The patrons wave back. A few even cheer. He really is liked.

“Welcome, as always, to the tradition our Valentine forefathers bravely founded over a hundred years ago to deliver letters of the heart between the brother and sister campuses. These last two years, I have been honored by the positive reception shown toward my love letters—a new, secondary option we’ve added for when your own letters are feeling, well, dull. Since we’ve begun this, STRIP’s one-on-ones have been conducted privately between me, the poet, and you, the lover.” Jasper pulls me toward him, tugging on my blazer cuff. “However, now you must consent to my new student being present. Everyone, welcome Charlie!”

Confused stares are the only response.

Then whispers.

“Isn’t he that Excellence Scholar who flopped on the grade ranks?”

“No way he’s writing our letters.”

“Be for real. We came here for an actual poet.”

Spotlight number one million. My stomach twists.

Jasper holds up a defensive hand. “Since my student is in training, I promise, your letters will still be written by moi. I give my gift to you!”

Even though Jasper Grimes may be a triple threat—perfect face, grades, and poetry career—he sucks at lying. I’m not the only one who can tell. The looks around the crypt have grown more suspicious.

“It’s true,” I say. I won’t let my classmates run me out of STRIP until my own room is secured. “I’m his loyal student, here to watch.”

Jasper looks my way to send a covert thank you, then over to Robby. “Who’s the first horse?”



* * *



First, Jasper lights a taper candle in a brass fixture set on the tome table—the only light source in his office now that he’s turned off the antique lamps.

Next, he leans toward our first patron sitting across from us. Faint mumbles come from a line beyond the brocade curtain, waiting to be served. “Thank you for trusting me with your love story today. What is your name?”

I sit in silence beside him, staring nervously at the candle releasing a semisweet cherry blossom fragrance only someone like Jasper would enjoy. Our bedroom was pushing it, but flammable objects in a building full of paper? Maverick the Residential Retainer would cut him like a fish.

“My name is Eli,” the patron says shyly despite the office’s privacy, playing with his Shetland pony card on the table. His blazer sleeves hang to his fingertips. Either he’s a first year who hasn’t figured out the unspoken guidelines, or even a size S is too big on him to maintain the rolled sleeves look.

“Tell us about yourself,” Jasper says.

“I’m fourteen. On the debate team.”