And They Were Roommates(42)

I try to think of a kinder word than basic. “It’s … straightforward. Different than I expected. You always read P.M. Laframboise’s stuff, which is too deep to understand.”

Jasper scoffs and tosses his bag on the floor. A puff of dust rises into the air. He grabs the duster from the cleaning bucket and knocks away a nearby cobweb. “That strawberry shortcake doesn’t understand a lick about poetry.”

“Why do you keep calling him a strawberry?”

“Apologies, Laframboise is French for strawberry. I forgot you wouldn’t understand, not knowing such a romantic language.”

“Doesn’t la framboise mean raspberry?”

Jasper whips out a thin leather pamphlet from his plaid slacks’ pocket. A French-to-English dictionary. He flips through the middle section until his face twists.

I raise my brow at him.

He slaps the dictionary shut. “To me, straightforward is a compliment. I’m expressing my feelings in a way an audience can relate to. Is that not the point of art?”

“Is that not what P.M. does?”

“Well, his poetry takes more effort to understand. Yet his emotions are still so visceral on the page. That’s much more difficult to pull off. I suppose that’s why he sells more copies than me.” Jasper glances away.

Xavier mentioned their fallout was best not to be touched, but witnessing Jasper feel so strongly about someone else throws me. Apparently, he has a heart, but only toward others on his level. My time with him at camp just wasn’t deserving enough. Mr. Talented P.M. is, though.

Maybe this coffee doesn’t mean as much as I thought.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I slip the copy of Love Is a Broken Party Clown back into the other thirty-seven on the shelf. Is relatability over art what gathers a million followers? Is this relatable?

The bookcase door opens again. A short white boy slips through the crack. Our first patron from the one-on-ones.

“Welcome back, Eli!” Jasper announces. He takes off the blazer cast over his shoulder and spreads it along the floor by the tome table. Then he sits and fans out my redone letters. “Please take a seat with us.”

“What’s he doing here?” I ask, joining Jasper at the table.

“He’s grading your letter.”

My heart races. Jasper reading my writing about romance is embarrassing enough. But a stranger? “You’re my teacher.”

“And soon, Eli will be your patron. If you please me but not them, what is the point?”

Eli approaches the table, brow deeply furrowed. “Sorry, but I thought you said you’d be writing our letters, Jasper?”

“I am, I am, I am,” Jasper says. I guess lies come in threes. He makes room for Eli, who sits nearby on his knees. “But Charlie is my student. Would you mind reading the letter he wrote for your distant love?”

Jasper passes Eli the first page. Eli grins, leaning over the notebook like he expects my words to make his wildest romantic dreams come true.

I stay calm by recalling the facts. If Eli were scoring with a rubric, he’d write an A+ in every square. I used Blaze’s words as a template and Jasper’s EROS. I run through them again.

Use different handwriting for every letter. Check. I used different styles while combining my ideas with Blaze’s on a separate page.

Write in an environment that will never sway your feelings. Check. No matter where I choose to write, my feelings can’t be swayed when I don’t believe in romance.

Craft for yourself—not your audience—for true connection. Check. I crafted these letters to save my ass and remain in STRIP to keep my deal alive. Not help my audience.

Love does not have to make sense; neither do your words. Check. At least, I think. Maybe I didn’t go the simplistic route like Jasper, but P.M. is difficult to understand too.

When I look at Eli again, his smile has dropped. “This is a prank, right?”

“What do you mean?” Jasper asks.

“This sort of sucks.”

My heart snaps into two.

“I heard a rumor that Charlie is another famous poet like you, Jasper, but that’s not true, is it?” Eli goes on. “I can’t understand a word. Would she even know I’m asking her to the mixer?” He points toward the bottom of the notebook. “What does wherefore mean? Where?”

“Why,” I mutter.

Jasper gestures at the bookcase door. “Once more, you have my word that your letter will be written by me. Don’t worry. We appreciate your honesty.”

Eli’s smile barely returns, like he’s not sure if that should be believed. A percentage of his trust has been lost. He leaves the crypt.

Jasper pulls his broken fountain pen out of his chest pocket and points the nib at my face. “Do you believe Eli’s review is correct?”

“Of course not,” I say, swatting away the pen. “Read it yourself. How does Eli not know what wherefore means? He’s fourteen. Hasn’t he read Shakespeare’s collection by now?”

Jasper silences me with a dismissive wave. As he pulls my notebook closer and flips through my other letters, I regret my answer.

A sharp rip pulls me out of my thoughts.

Jasper, crossing out my first letter in red ink so aggressively that the paper tears.

It takes my body a moment longer to catch up to my brain, to realize something is very, very wrong. I rush over to his side of the table. “What are you doing?!”