Page 1

Chapter 1

THIS SIDE OF PARADISE

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3

“A roommate ?” My heart races as I glance back at the waiting line full of frowns and tapping feet. I’m taking too long. Day one, and the spotlight is already on me. The exact situation I need to avoid as long as I’m at Valentine Academy for Boys.

My accidental nervous outburst forces my fourth-year orientation leader to finally glance up from his clipboard. He rules above me from a cocktail table at the back ballroom wall. Of course this academy hosts orientation in a literal ballroom. His plastic smile and dress shirt are properly buttoned to the neck, and his name tag claims he’s called Maverick.

“Room 503,” Maverick says, leaning forward to hand me a key. I instinctively take a step back to maintain the space between us. “You’ve been assigned to a double room. You’re in Philautia Residence Hall. My floor.”

I push my glasses farther up my nose to inspect the key, which is the size of my fist and made out of brass. “Your floor?”

“Yes, I’m your residential retainer.”

“Sorry, my what?”

“Residential retainer,” Maverick repeats. No explanation. Second years should know this by now. An RA, maybe, but for fancy schools?

“I apologize for the inconvenience,” I try to say calmly, setting the key back on the table, “but I believe I paid the extra fee to reserve a single room.”

It’s a fact. On top of studying nonstop for Valentine’s entrance exams and crafting a perfect portfolio for their Excellence Scholarship application, my summer break consisted of tutoring nearly every elementary schooler in Queens to afford the extra fee for this room. Hard to forget that.

From his cocktail table throne, Maverick scans the parents and students waiting behind us. “It’d be best to discuss this with your caregivers.”

Today would be easier if Mom were here. It’s not like I chose to be alone after my four-hour train ride to middle-of-nowhere upstate New York—Au Sable Forks, population 55. But some parents can’t miss work if they want to pay rent, Maverick.

“She didn’t come with me,” I say.

“Remind me of your name again?”

“Charlie.”

“Last?”

“Von Hevringprinz.”

“Quite a long one you got.”

Never heard that one before, Maverick . “Mhm.”

“If you had paid for a single, then that would be marked here.” He holds up his clipboard and points at my name. “I, too, apologize for the inconvenience.”

Second year and double are marked on the spreadsheet.

Then there’s been a huge mistake. “Would you mind double-checking with the office?”

Maverick rapidly rips a sticky note off a nearby stack like I struck a nerve by questioning his authority as a measly underclassman. “I’ll note it. Large requests like these can only be approved by the principal. What was the reason you listed for requesting a single?”

“Um. Personal reasons.”

His impenetrable smile falls a centimeter. He’s heard that excuse a hundred times, but I’m not about to tell him or anyone else here the real reason. “Since all other rooms have been reserved, you’ll need to stay with your assigned roommate in the meantime.”

“How long will it take?”

Instead of answering, Maverick pulls a wicker basket of phones out from under the table and slaps it down in front of me. “All electronics, please.”

Delilah warned me about the phone ransack. I just didn’t realize it would be so soon. I hesitantly drop in my phone. “I don’t get this back until winter break?”

“If there’s an emergency, the office will happily accommodate you.”

“Right, but—”

“As you should know, we have a history of celebrating Saint Valentine’s lifelong passion for love through our own passion—for learning. This academy is for traditional, intensive study, and all electronic and internet access is limited as such.” After his clearly rehearsed speech, Maverick takes a long look at my basic black T-shirt and jeans that are still too long for comfort despite being cuffed. “And, once checked into your room, students must change into proper uniform.”

“I didn’t know,” I mutter, crossing my arms enough to cover my chest.

How could I? Most people don’t know what goes on behind Valentine Academy’s ivy walls. The outside world only knows that students from here end up in top-tier universities.

Even with Mom and Delilah’s combined wisdom, I feel lost.

“All campus guidelines are in your package.” He hands me a bound stack of paperwork with my full name sticky-noted on top. “Class schedules will be delivered tomorrow morning. Welcome to Valentine.”

Philautia Residence Hall is the missing piece of a castle.

Rather, a cobblestone tower with turret-like domes that screams early 1800s. Seven metal statues of Saint Valentine, the celebrated man himself, guard the front arch. Some pose with palm branches. Others outstretch their arms in cleric robes. A sign beneath is inscribed with LOVE IS PATIENT, LOVE IS KIND .

A chill rushes through me as I head into the lobby. Thankfully, there aren’t more statues of old men advertising love to the academy’s underage population. Just cedar benches that belong in a glamping cabin and tickle my nose with their faint earthy scent. Chandeliers twinkle above me as I follow a path made by a mahogany rug to a vacant winding staircase at the back.

After five flights, I stand before an absurdly long hallway punctuated with thick wooden doors. The stone-tiled floor is adorned by yet another rug, and the embossed art nouveau wallpaper effortlessly reminds me that this academy was resurrected in 1899. Once I reach the end, I spot the placard I’m looking for.

ROOM 503.

On the door is an intricate engraving of the same crest printed on half of Mom’s sweatshirts. Gold paint accents the VALENTINE ACADEMY FOR BOYS and NAM AMOR TRADITIONALIS EDUCATIONIS running along the top and bottom, and red fills the inner heart design. An arrow brutally stabs through the center.

Beyond this hallway is my roommate. Someone who could discover the truth easier than anyone else here.

“But, man, the blockade.”

“You think G cares?”

I look toward the voices. Two classmates wearing Valentine crest sweatshirts step out of Room 506. As they pass by, one spots me staring and goes in for a handshake. A bro kind.

My panic takes over, making me nearly black out as I floppily twist my hand around his own. He stares a beat too long to be considered normal before he silently continues to the staircase with his friend.

Awesome. Great work.

Re-collecting myself with a breath, I shove my room key into the lock.

The door creaks open, revealing twin beds with the crest on the quilts, cedar wood dressers and desks, and dome windows with velvet red drapes. What’s most jarring is the wallpaper—a repeating pansy bouquet pattern, casting the room in shades of pink and puke green.

No roommate.

The knot in my stomach unravels. He isn’t here. Yet.

Although one side has already been claimed. The bigger side, flaunting a longer wall that allows the bed, dresser, and desk space to spread out, unlike the other. Of course.

Three stacked suitcases of increasing size are beside his bed. No, trunks . Old-timey and leather with brass hinges and everything. Books are scattered along his desk and the floor, flowing onto my side.

Who is this guy? Is he eighty?

Kicking his books out of the way, I toss my five-pound package detailing all the school’s guidelines on the desk that’s apparently mine, then roll my suitcase up to the accompanying bed. When I throw myself on top, my body sinks deep into the ridiculously plush, thousand-dollar mattress. I try to adjust so I don’t drown in my own bed but eventually give up.

I’m alone. In my new room. I cast an arm over my face to block out the world. The fears I’ve shoved down since orientation rush to the surface. My plan to lie low like Mom suggested was already nearly ruined by a handshake.

A handshake .

I feel like I’m twelve again, back when Mom first took me to Valentine’s brother campus for their Hamlet production. The boys who sat beside us used words I’d never heard, messed with each other in ways they innately knew how to, like a magic spell. All I could think was how much I wanted to be put under it too. At first, I assumed since Mom had been an Excellence Scholar on their nearby sister campus, that unshakable feeling was because I belonged at Valentine too. I went to their Shakespeare and Classics camp two years later. Stayed in the sister campus residential hall and fell in love with how much I learned. And realized the truth. I didn’t only want to go to Valentine because of Mom or the education.

I’d been drawn to those boys because I wanted to be a boy. Because I was a boy.

A burst of orientation chatter beyond the window brings the world rushing back around me. Lifting my glasses to scrub my face, I open my eyes again.

A poster of a white teenage boy on the ceiling smiles back.

I jolt and grip the bed. He wears an aloha shirt with half the buttons undone, and a parrot perches on his shoulder. Large cursive text placed across his chest reads Sexiest Poet of the Year . That face is familiar. Too familiar.

My pulse spikes as I hop on top of the mattress to get a better look.

He looks older than when we met at fourteen. His hair is longer, flowing to his shoulders, but I could never forget those blazing blue irises and upturned nose. I check the ceiling above the other bed. Another poster of the same blond, smirking in a tuxedo.

He became a model in the last two years. Or a famous poet. Or both. He was the most talented student during that poetry workshop I was forced to take at Shakespeare and Classics camp. Subjectively, at least. To others.

I’m trapped with a roommate who’s his diehard stan? Him, of all obnoxiously vain people?

Vain. The word clicks something into place for me.

He was the vainest at camp. He would hang up posters of himself.

Maybe this isn’t a stan.

I rush over to my roommate’s desk and rummage through the stacked composition notebooks. A name, an address, something to identify the person I’ll spend every night with for who knows how long? When I open up the third notebook, I go still at the name on the corner.

The only name who would know the truth regardless of how well I hide. Who stole my first kiss and shattered my heart, and who can expose whatever he’d like as soon as he sees me.

Jasper Grimes.