And They Were Roommates(6)
My brain glitches as I hold the very real signed book. What about him could be impressive enough for him to have followers? Books? Posters?
It must be because of his looks.
“Thanks,” I mutter despite the gift being wasted on me. The only reason I met Jasper at camp was because I was forced to take that poetry workshop alongside my lectures and reading hours about the greats. What’s the point of writing poetry if you’re not one of those greats? Regurgitating your own overemotional, gushy soup?
Jasper steps deeper into the room, outstretching his arms, his bracelet jingling again like an annoying bell. “Do you appreciate what I’ve done to the place?”
I’ve been so overwhelmed by his presence that I didn’t notice. A crystal vase is on a new side table, a candle collection is set on the windowsill, and a freaking life-sized cardboard cutout of himself is propped between our beds. Mardi Gras beads hang from his cardboard neck.
I would’ve rather enjoyed a bookshelf.
Jasper clasps his hands together. “Do you?”
I don’t know. Do you remember who I am? I clench my fist to compose myself. Jasper forgetting is beneficial. As long as I can prevent him from remembering, then he can’t report who I am to his aunt.
But being able to keep my burning hatred toward him a secret?
I glare at the poster of Jasper on the ceiling, the cardboard cutout, and then back to the real Jasper. “You’ve made yourself a prominent focal point.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t—” I force a smile. “You’re welcome.”
“I’m just brimming with questions about you, roommate,” Jasper says, clasping his hands together. He inspects me with big, expectant eyes. “Do you have pets? Any hobbies? What’s your family like? Do you have siblings? Please, don’t hold back.”
My insides shrivel into a prune. “I. Well—”
Jasper waves a hand. “Apologies, I’m getting ahead of myself again. You deserve to settle in before we start learning more about one another.”
“Yeah. Yes. Thank you.”
“Of course. After you rest, that is when you will answer all my questions.”
I try to hold in a grimace.
“We must spend some intimate time together soon, then,” Jasper says, ever oblivious to my discomfort. “Tomorrow. Let’s meet for lunch between classes.”
“I’m bus—”
“Wonderful,” he says. He heads to his dresser, squatting to dig through his unfolded pajamas shoved in the bottom drawer. Conversation over, apparently. He tosses plaid pants over his shoulder.
I frown and walk to my own dresser, pulling out one of my folded Valentine-branded pajama sets, then turn back around. “Sorry, but I really can’t meet you for lunch—”
Jasper’s shirt is off. His pants, barely on.
“Jesus—!” I spin to face any other direction. My elbow knocks my dresser so hard that a textbook falls off and smashes my foot. I yelp.
“What’s wrong?” Jasper says. Totally calm. At least I assume he is from his typical singsongy voice. No way I’m looking over to verify that.
“N-nothing.”
He chuckles in the face of my breakdown. “Have you forgotten we’re both guys?”
Being told I’m a boy should feel good. Amazing.
All I feel is crushed.
“I’m gonna—” I point toward the bathroom. “Bye!”
The door shuts beside me. My legs collapse, and I land on the floor, my blood pumping through me. Jasper’s fancy glass containers of shampoo and conditioner are visible through the translucent shower door next to my two-in-one. Rose scented. Bright pink.
We’ll share a shower.
Sitting there, I take deep breaths to stop myself from having a heart attack in my teens. Then, only a few seconds later, I pick myself back up. Because Excellence Scholars don’t nearly throw up their dinner on the first day of school. They excel.
My residential retainer will talk to the office. I’ll escape soon.
Chapter 4
BRAVE NEW WORLD
WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 4
CHARLIE VON HEVRINGPRINZ | ID: V183019
Zero Hour: Homeroom
First Hour: Physical Education
Second Hour: Advanced Chemistry
Third Hour: Advanced English Literature
Lunch C
Fourth Hour: Advanced Calculus
Fifth Hour: Advanced World History
Sixth Hour: First-Year Civics
Physical education burns my eyes like acid.
I whip off the class schedule taped to my door and inspect the list closer. First-year civics should take up one of my two extracurriculars—a requirement I missed as a transfer. But when I submitted my desired course list over the summer, I nearly passed out when I saw all the literary options: Factual Journalism, the Art of Persuasive Writing, History of Chinese Literature, Intro to Poetry. Who wouldn’t kill for those? Well, minus poetry.
I had marked the first three down with enthusiastic interest, happy to get into any.
So why physical education?
Playing sports with other guys. Being compared to other guys. Showering with guys.
“No way in hell” shoots out of me so loudly that my voice echoes down the hallway, my filter annihilated after being awake until two a.m. last night.