And They Were Roommates(72)

I don’t have notes to take when they already exist in my notebook. Eventually, he moves to how these rules have morphed into his own unique set over time, and that craft advice flourishes when you add your subjective tastes. I barely listen, instead debating how talented this previous Excellence Scholar is compared to me—to all of Valentine—and how Jasper would truly feel about him if he were honest.

“Questions?” Mr. Stern says from the side of the room as the lesson ends.

P.M. watches the class with another smile.

Jasper raises his hand, feet still kicked up on the desk.

P.M.’s face just barely tenses into something uneasy. I would only be able to tell from my place in the front row. “Yes?”

“Have you decided to come teach us because you believe you’re better than us?”

My mouth hangs open, and I swat Jasper on the arm.

Whispers come from around the room.

“Another question, please,” Mr. Stern says, his tone firm for once.

Suddenly, I feel like I’m in calc class instead because P.M. is treating me like an X he’s trying to solve. He squints at my shoes, then my hands, and up to my face. I’m not sure why. If anything, that should be my job. He turns to Jasper. “It’s okay. Didn’t I say Valentine gave me valuable life experience?”

“And once you were done using us for that, you ditched us, right?”

“Jasper,” Mr. Stern says. Hearing him refer to a student by their first name shoots even my own spine straight. Mr. Stern only ever uses last names. “Step into the hall.”

Jasper huffs like he’s simply been told to put his feet down. He picks up his bag and disappears through the door. Mr. Stern whispers something in P.M.’s ear—watch the class, probably—and follows Jasper into the hall. The door shuts.

P.M. clears his throat. “More questions?”

When the bell rings, nearly half the class swarms P.M. instead of leaving for their next one. Even Robby, who’s as thrilled to see him as everybody else. Between Robby’s behavior and Xavier’s previous neutral intel, Jasper and P.M.’s fallout must not have affected other STRIP members. That’s hard to believe, considering Jasper’s claims—that P.M. abandoned them all.

I don’t move at first, instead trading looks between the commotion and the door, where Jasper must still be getting talked to. Or he’s been sent to the office.

Eventually, I walk up to Robby’s side amid the crowd swarming P.M. According to Jasper, P.M. should be bragging about the places he’s visited and the followers he’s gained. Instead, everyone else does the talking, spitting back and forth their hypotheses about the starring man himself as he stays quiet at the center, shoulders scrunched in a way that negates all intimidation, even at his six-foot height. Every once in a while, his attention shifts around the classroom—the old ceiling chandelier, our Edgar Allan Poe projects lining the back wall, the desks—like he’s trying to drink in Valentine before he leaves. Like he cares.

“Are you close with Jasper?” P.M.’s voice comes from nearby.

When I look at who he’s talking to, his gaze is locked on me. He’s stepped closer, farther from the other conversations.

My eyes blow out. “What?”

“You sit beside him.”

“I mean, I’m in STRIP. I write letters with him.”

His head tilts in a way that’s difficult to interpret. “Oh?”

“They’re roommates,” Robby says, joining the conversation. He’s giving me a strange look. Am I sweating as much as I feel like I am? “And Charlie’s the new Excellence Scholar.”

P.M. smiles so genuinely that it stuns me. Up close, he really does echo Jasper with the slender fingers, narrow shoulders, and straight hair that wisps around the face. Must be a requirement to be a poet. But where Jasper’s whirlwind of a personality distracts from his delicate features, P.M.’s shyness enhances it. “Has Jasper spoken of his resentment toward me?”

Are all poets also this forward?

“Um,” I say slowly. “Just that you left without any warning.”

“I see. I have faith you don’t harbor the same emotions toward me. Leaving was for the better; I promise you that with my heart.”

“What do you mean—?”

“Charlie.” Robby leans toward me. “The combo of his poetry collection and influencer stuff has made him rich.”

P.M. laughs lightly. “Not rich. But the Excellence Scholarship deserved to go to someone new who”—his stare lingers on me—“needed more help than I did.”

“That’s mad selfless,” someone mutters from across the circle.

If there are other eavesdroppers, I don’t hear them. According to this story, I do owe P.M. for that. But something still feels off. “You could’ve stayed.”

“Well, I did always plan to visit,” P.M. says. “If you’re roommates, then you must know how Jasper is. A bit dramatic.”

Dramatic.

Because P.M. left Valentine without asking how anyone would feel. Because one day, he was there, and the next, he was gone. Because this wasn’t the first time Jasper watched someone slip through his fingers when, in his eyes, I’d done the same to him.

“It wasn’t because he’s dramatic,” I say, and the rush of my own complicated guilt sharpens every word. “It’s because he cares.”