And They Were Roommates(71)
Xavier picks me up off the floor and squeezes me so hard that I almost snap. “Hallelujah!”
By the time my feet hit the floor again, my equilibrium is dead. I stumble to the left. “But I only got one pull-up. Ms. Nallos gave me the credit anyway because you and I have been training so hard together. So, thank you.”
“Really? Dang. You’re welcome. But.” Xavier’s forehead crinkles as he leans into my face. I don’t move back. “No offense, but you look like shit.”
“I’m fine. I just pulled an all-nighter.”
“Before this test?”
“I have to study for all our other tests.”
The excitement Xavier showed before has been completely erased by worry now. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a protein bar. “I brought this for you just in case.” He throws it my way.
My brain doesn’t process in time, and it slaps my temple. I jerk.
Xavier winces at the protein bar now on the floor. “Really thought you’d catch that. You look like you haven’t been eating. Stuff that in your mouth.”
I pick up the bar and follow orders, wondering if that means I’ve lost weight. It’s not like I’ve had time to look in a mirror.
Xavier slaps my back encouragingly. “C’mon, you’ll make the ranks on Wednesday. You’ve worked too hard not to.”
I smile back, trying to believe this for once too. But I have no clue if I should.
Chapter 37
THE STRANGER
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 13
The rest of finals went by in what felt like a hazy, metaphysical state of panic. The English literature final essay topic was, thankfully, oo ghost. Chemistry, world history, and first-year civics, I turned in early. Calculus, though, I finished right as time was called. Then I finally took a breath.
Now Wednesday classes are already beginning—the day instructors scramble to entertain us after the trauma we’ve faced before the mixer and winter break. Ms. Nallos lets us play any sport we want, and I spend the time anxiously walking the track, my legs dragging like they’re 100 percent uranium—the heaviest element in nature and question eleven on the chemistry final. Did I answer that right?
After this and one hour of English literature, the grade rank board will update to finish off the semester. Everyone and their parents will know where they land. Delilah will know if she’s hit high enough to run for the student council board. I’ll finally know if I stay or go.
Soon enough, I’m in English, and Mr. Stern is kicking open the door, the hem of his deeply memorable leopard-print blazer flapping behind him. “Testing’s over! How’re you feeling?”
The ceiling chandelier hums. A cough comes from the back.
Mr. Stern sets his briefcase on his desk. “I hope you can wake up for our guest speaker today. A few of you may recall him as a past student here.”
Someone who looks around my age follows Mr. Stern into the classroom.
Straight, dark hair that’s half pulled back, half left down, falling to his chin and shaping his soft cheekbones. A light brown turtleneck sweater and navy cardigan combo that complements his brown eyes and tan skin—the spitting image of a poet.
There are plenty of past students this could be. But when I glance at Jasper one seat to my left, his face is pale, like he’s seeing a ghost of his past come back that he thought was nevermore. In a way, I suppose he is.
Pierre-Marie Laframboise drifts toward the desk. He’s almost as tall as Mr. Stern—not exactly a strawberry shortcake. When he smiles, it’s calm instead of arrogant like I expected. “Hello.” His voice is so quiet, I can barely hear him.
His name comes from every corner of the classroom. Shouted. Whispered. Adored. Except for directly to my left.
I stay silent too. I’m too stunned, sitting before the previous Excellence Scholar. I reach for my pencil and notebook to take notes and gather anything I can about him. In a way, he’s my competition.
“This is P.M., if he even needs an intro,” Mr. Stern says with a laugh, and it doesn’t make me jealous. Nope. “Who already has a prosperous literary career at your age. I wish I could say his success comes from my guidance, but his fan base started right before Valentine.”
Beside me, Jasper aggressively kicks his feet up on the table, making a spectacle out of himself as he looks out the window.
P.M.’s attention briefly drifts toward Jasper in the front row. If he shows any change to his professional expression, I don’t catch it. “Mr. Stern is too kind. Valentine helped me. More importantly, it gave me life experience. If you don’t have that, then what is there to write about?” His accent is only slightly noticeable. It doesn’t sound fully French or Tagalog but a subtle blend.
“Our next unit will focus more on attempting to write the genres we’re studying,” Mr. Stern says, “so he’ll discuss his own creative work process.”
P.M. starts scribbling on the whiteboard. Cursive, of course. “I actually wish to start my lesson by showcasing something I learned from a person in this very room.”
Then he writes rules I’ve seen before. Studied before.
He only spends five minutes discussing how one should choose an environment that won’t sway your feelings. What he does spend time on, however, is how emotions do not have to make sense, so neither do your words, and then provides examples. He wraps up the lesson with how you should always craft for yourself.