And They Were Roommates(84)

“But you’re worried, right? That the administration will find out?”

“Of course I’m going to worry.”

“Well, I talked to the principal last night, and I told her,” I say.

Silence falls on the other end.

“What did she say?” Mom’s voice is unreadable over the phone. Never have I wished to see her face more than now.

“She said the board of trustees will take a look at adjusting the guidelines for me,” I say. “She even said I can come to her anytime with issues.”

“Really?” I can practically hear Mom’s brow soaring. “That’s … I’m shocked, Charlie. I’m so thrilled to hear. You’re doing okay after that? That must’ve been scary.”

“To be honest, I haven’t had the easiest time since I got here,” I admit. I don’t know why I do, but it seems right, like Mom and I are getting somewhere—and it’s like a dam breaking, how good it feels to finally tell her the truth. “But I’m doing better now. I’ve found support.”

“Oh, good. From instructors?”

“A few. And friends.”

“Good!” Her voice is calmer now. “I understand what you mean. I didn’t have an easy time adjusting to Valentine either.”

“What?”

“Mhm. Staying top five was a nightmare for me.”

“But you took me here all the time when I was younger. You loved it.”

“Well, Valentine is still a wonderful academy. It’s such a privilege to go. But those Excellence Scholar requirements—that’s a lot of pressure to put on someone your age. Anyone. At times, it was admittedly the worst I’ve felt in my life.”

I fall quiet in my disbelief. Mom’s gone through a failing bookstore and a divorce.

“That’s why I’ve been offering for you to come visit home whenever you’d like,” she continues. “I remember wishing Grandma and Grandpa would’ve done the same for me when I desperately needed a break.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” I ask.

“Well, you wanted to go so badly. I didn’t want to worry you.”

“I mean, thanks,” I mumble on a light laugh. “But don’t you always worry about me? How is that fair?”

Mom laughs back. “I also didn’t want this to deter you with so many other things on your plate. I wanted to support you like you asked. And you’re very capable. But I should’ve. I’m glad you’re doing better.”

She’s listening. Finally.

The tension inside me dissolves. “Thank you.” I check the clock. Ten minutes till Jasper. “I have to meet up with someone now. I’m excited to see you over break.”

“Have fun,” Mom says. “Oh, and Charlie, last thing: Despite my rockier memories of Valentine, I made many more beautiful ones. Make a whole bunch this year for me.”



* * *



I check my watch as I reach the Dixon Writing Gazebo. Five minutes past twelve. He should be in there, but vine trellises block me from seeing inside.

Nerves throw a rave in my chest as I stand there, unable to move. Jasper and I are really about to spend the whole afternoon alone.

I’m really about to try to write him a love letter.

That’s what I’ve decided. It only seems fair, especially after he’s written so many about me. But I’ll need to be honest about everything I’ve shoved down for years. Even with Jasper by my side, I’m still not sure if I know how.

My heart pounds as I finally walk up. The archway comes into view. Then the benches. Then Jasper, scribbling in his journal. The heat lamps are set so high that his peacoat is balled up on the wood planks. He wears a loose dress shirt—no number-one pin on the collar—with only my scarf to keep him warm despite being surrounded by snow.

He showed up.

Relief floods me as I knock against a wood pillar. “Can I come in?”

Jasper’s head lifts, blond hair whisping across his cheeks. His gaze zaps around the bushes and lakefront like a lost first year. “What time is it?”

“Can’t you always tell from where the sun is?” I point toward the sky.

He flicks his pen in the same direction, his bracelet jingling against his wrist. “The finicky heavens decided to be overcast today. So, no, I cannot see the sun.”

“About noon.”

“Already?”

I step into the gazebo, only to then embarrassingly hover around his bench. Sitting too close is too pushy. Too far away is too awkward. I opt for about a foot’s length, set my backpack on the floor, and take out my notebook.

Jasper’s pen was moving when I got here, but now the notebook on his lap is blank. He must’ve flipped the page. He looks at me. “You said you wanted to write?”

That is what we came here for. “I suppose.”

“Okay.” He picks up his pen and dates the top left of his paper in silence. He still doesn’t pry about why I’ve requested this time together, but from the way he’s gripping his pen like a lifeline, I can only imagine the number of questions in his mind.

I stare down at my notebook. To write this love letter, I’ll need to create the words myself. There won’t be an answer I can carve out like blackout poetry.