And They Were Roommates(34)
Jasper huffs, his back still turned.
“And even though I haven’t read your writing,” I add, “I would guess it’s better. I’d prefer not to understand a word of that guy’s cravings for champagne or whatever.”
“Thank you,” he mumbles.
“Good night, Jasper.”
“Good night, Charlie.”
We stay awake together for hours, him reading and me eventually working on some love letters, filling my notebook with scribbles and crossed-out lines. Between us, Jasper’s lamp buzzes until it starts to feel soft, almost comforting somehow, and lulls me into a dreamless sleep.
Chapter 17
CONFESSIONS
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25
DELILAH!
I’M RANK 28! Just fifty-one days left to turn that into a five, but who’s counting?
I told Mom. And guess what? She never sent my single room fee. She encouraged me to keep my head down, yet she’s the reason why I’m stuck in a double now—the one thing that could ruin this for us both?
I hope you’re okay. And that your roommate isn’t walking in on you naked. Mine did. Today. But he bought us a bookcase? No matter what, though, he gives me hives. I’ll get away from him soon. At least, I’m trying.
Also, I’ve made some acquaintances at STRIP, I guess. Don’t tell my mom.
Are you getting these, by the way?
Charlie
Chapter 18
A RED, RED ROSE
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 26
Roses are red Violets are blue You make me
Say yahoo
I scribble out my hundredth love letter attempt, then return to fiddling with the STRIP Time sign on my library desk. Even if I had a million days to finish these nineteen prompts, I’d fail. I’m running on four hours of sleep and a two-day-old breadstick from Dix. Either way, an Excellence Scholar can’t write about something as illogical as romance.
But they’re due any moment now, once Jasper wraps up his Thursday one-on-ones with his patrons. There must be an excuse I can give so that Jasper doesn’t revoke our deal. If Luis still had his cat, it could’ve eaten my homework.
“Greetings, student!” Jasper practically sings so loudly behind me, it echoes through the dead-silent library.
I jump, my hand knocking over three pawns on the chessboard. My eyes whip to the librarian, who must be armed and ready to shush us. She keeps tapping at her computer like it’s none of her business. Yet another principal’s nephew power.
“Today marks two weeks of your love tutoring,” Jasper says, claiming a chair across from mine. He wears his love tutoring tortoiseshell glasses again, which I doubt have a real prescription. Maybe an old modeling shoot relic.
They do make him look good. The round frames are juxtaposed with the sharper angles of his face, and the color matches his eyebrows, which are several shades darker than his blond hair. Was his brow line always that pronounced?
“Charlie?”
“Hm?”
“I said, let me review your homework assignment.”
“Right—” I push my real glasses up my nose, buying myself time to concoct a lie. “I sort of lost my love letters.”
“How does one sort of lose nineteen letters?”
Yeah, how, Charlie? “A cat. Ripped them up.”
“A cat?”
“Came out of the woods. I tried … fighting it, but it was too late.”
A corner of Jasper’s lip curls. His slender fingers fix the chess pieces I knocked over, one by one, his bracelet jangling against the board. “Cats don’t casually set up shop in the woods, von Hevringprinz. Au Sable Forks is known to have coyotes, though.”
Unspoken Guideline 12: Valentine has coyotes. Do not go in the woods.
“Oh,” I say.
“Does oh mean you’re locking in I was attacked by coyotes as your final answer?”
“Yes?”
Jasper points a white pawn at my very intact composition notebook.
My heart pounds harder. “I’d already ripped out the letters, so that’s why my notebook is still—”
He grabs my notebook off the desk. I attempt to snatch it, but Jasper bends too far away to reach. Holding the packet over his head, he inspects my pitiful scribbles. “What’s this, then?”
“Not finished,” I rush to say. A famous poet can’t read that.
“Art is never truly finished.” Jasper clears his throat. “Roses are red. Violets are blue. You make me. Say yahoo.”
A textbook page flips at a nearby desk. A cough echoes through the library.
Jasper casts aside the packet, knocking down the chess pieces he just fixed. “Might I ask why you’re set on this roses are red pattern?”
If Jasper thought I was special, he doesn’t anymore.
I play with the lamp pull chain beside us in a catatonic state of humiliation. “I don’t know where else to start.”
“Are you afraid?”
“Of what?”
“Roses are red, violets are blue is a cliché. Writers are told to never use them. Do you know why that is, student?”
During that poetry workshop I was forced to take with Jasper, guest speakers hammered this rule into our heads. “The more we repeat certain phrases, the more they lose emotional impact over time.”