And They Were Roommates(68)

Maybe this is the same reflection. Maybe I looked like this all along, but I couldn’t see it.

I walk closer to the mirror. I don’t usually look. It’s subconscious. My face, rarely. The rest, never. If Jasper wasn’t staring at my scars, then what was he looking at?

Did I yell for no reason? Was his stare all in my head?

No, he was staring. Hard.

I don’t want to go back in that room—I can’t even imagine how uncomfortable it will be—but there are study guides to complete and practice exams to take. By the time I shower and come back in my pajamas, Jasper sits, his back leaned against his headboard. His ambrosia flower quilt is back from Xavier’s, pulled to his waist, and his various fragrance bottles have returned to their perfectly lined up position on his desk. He’s working on the mixer letters, journal on his lap and number-one pin on his pajama shirt collar—because of course it is.

I wait for him to say something, but he keeps working away, silently.

Trying to ignore the embarrassment washing over me, I sit in my own bed and grab my journal to join him. Behind it is my English literature guide. Six potential essay prompts are listed for the timed final, but only one will be chosen. I haven’t done any. I pick it up, flipping through the empty pages. I promised STRIP I could manage the letters and finals.

Maybe I can’t.

“Work on it,” Jasper says from his bed.

I startle. “What?”

“Your guide. You’re smart, so you’ll finish it quickly. Then join me for letters.”

The proposition makes me feel equally relieved and like a failure.

I flip to the first question.

1. The driving rhythm of “The Raven,” created by Poe, has a signature hypnotic sound and creepy atmosphere. What literary techniques does Poe utilize to achieve this? Be sure to consider the careful use of rhyme and meter.

My chest shrivels at the poetry question right off the bat. Sucking on the end of my pencil, I pull out my printed copy of “The Raven” from my English folder and study the verses.

Jasper could help.

I glance toward him. Although I just chucked clothes at him. I doubt he’ll want to come anywhere near me. “Jasper?”

He looks up from his notebook. His gaze shifts toward the pencil tip resting against my bottom lip, then my eyes again.

“Can you help me?” I ask.

Jasper slips off the bed with his journal and approaches mine, and his unexpected willingness throws my emotions in a jumble. As he hovers at my side, he traces the prompt with a finger, moving back and forth at a leisurely pace, his pajama sleeve grazing me.

I focus hard on the page. “I’m not good with poetry.”

“You’ve gotten better.”

“Not with questions like this. How could different rhythms create different emotions?”

Jasper sits beside me on the bed. His leg brushes mine, and he jerks. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I mutter.

He must be this jumpy because I yelled. The need to apologize claws at me more, but I’m not bursting at the seams to bring up my bare chest either.

Jasper points at my copy of “The Raven” on my thigh, his flowery scents whirling around me. “What stands out to you about this ABCBBB rhythm?”

“B is repeated way more?”

Jasper’s smile brightens. He really loves this stuff. “And how are these B rhymes similar?”

“Lenore? Door? Nevermore?”

“Mhm.”

This can’t be right. “Oo sounds spooky? Like, oo, ghost?”

“Yes!”

“Seriously?”

Jasper scratches his temple. “Technically, most lines use trochaic octameter: sixteen syllables, following a pattern of stressed and unstressed. But the B schemes are catalectic and drop the last unstressed syllable.” His passion grows with his gestures. “Plus, repeating the bird’s refrain of nevermore insistently reminds the reader of the grief he’s facing. Haunting effect. Mr. Stern is an emotions guy over technical, though. Oo, ghost should suffice.”

Jasper’s poetry may cater to social media’s bias for normie content, but he might know more than even Mr. Stern. Maybe to make basic stand out among millions of other poets, he needs to. I can’t deny how impressive that is.

I jot oo, ghost so I don’t forget. “Thanks. I couldn’t have answered this without you.”

Usually, Jasper would milk this, but he simply rises off the bed. “I won’t keep bothering you. Unless you have more questions?”

He still thinks he bothers me.

My heart sinks. I suppose I am still demanding that he move out. Constantly. “You’re not bothering me,” I say, turning back to the study guide. The next question isn’t about Poe. Robert Frost. Two roads diverged in the same cursed, poetic wood. “I might still need you.”

Jasper’s forehead wrinkles in surprise. “Tap me when you want help.” He sits again, twirling his broken fountain pen between two nimble fingers, oozing red ink on his skin.

“How long have you—?” What am I doing?

Jasper’s head lifts, his blond bangs swaying over his eyes. Waiting.

“Never mind,” I say. “Well, no. I was going to ask how long you’ve had that pen since it’s broken. It must be old.”