Page 11

Chapter 11

BORROWED DREAMS

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 11

Less than an hour after the weekly grade announcements, Maverick the Residential Retainer informs me that Mom would like to have a word.

Over the backdrop of Mozart’s “Rondo alla Turca” playing from the gramophone, Ms. Lyney hands me the phone over the counter. “Five minutes. Communication with family outside of emergencies is unfortunately supposed to be kept to a minimum, love.”

I take the phone. “Hel—”

“You’re second to last on the grade rankings?”

Arrow to the heart. “Hello, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie. How are you doing?” From her warbling voice, I can already picture her sitting behind the Bibliobibuli Bookstore register, tugging on a blouse she bought from Q Train Vintage two blocks from our apartment.

I clutch the phone harder to keep my emotions together. After coming in at forty-fifth place, I expected the sensation of failure to eat me alive during this call, but not only two seconds in. “I’m fine.”

“The top five scholarship requirement is for each term. That’s coming up soon. Are you still thinking you’ll be able to handle this? You can always come home and visit on a weekend, you know. We can even reconsider this.”

I wince. “I know. How did you hear about my grades already?”

“A notification was sent to my email.”

Unspoken Guideline 7: Technology is only used to snitch on students to their parents.

“Are you having a hard time?” Mom says when I don’t respond, only to pause when a yawn overtakes her. A con of never taking a day off from the bookstore. “Or are you just not adjusting to living alone?”

I’m not living alone.

I could never tell Mom. Her worry would soar through the roof. As long as I can avoid that, I’ll hopefully make it out of this call alive. “That’s not why. I said, I’m fine.”

“All right. Oh, that reminds me, you’ve read the guidelines package? You’re making sure to follow it? I know from personal experience that it’s a lot to memorize.”

“Yes.” The guilt for lying hits hard. I don’t even know how she’d react, knowing I’m breaking the number one guideline with STRIP. On top of what I’m hiding.

“Good. As an Excellence Scholar, I remember having to be an example for the rest of the students. And you know what I always say—breaking rules always spirals.”

“I know.”

“Did I tell you about Samantha? My friend I lost touch with because she copied an algebra problem of mine during class and was sent home?”

“I get it, Mom.”

She sighs. “I know. I know. I’m trying to be supportive like you asked. Just promise you’ll let me know the second you have doubts, okay?”

Ms. Lyney shows two fingers. Two minutes.

My conflicting feelings that have built up since stepping on campus sizzle on my tongue. That hiding who I am, let alone at an all-boys academy, is starting to feel impossible. That maybe Mom easily ranked top five because she didn’t fear her own roommate, and she could make friends because there wasn’t any risk of them looking a little too closely and figuring out a hidden truth. That maybe she was right all along, and this is too risky. But Ms. Lyney is here, listening.

“How’s the store?” I ask to change the subject.

A beat passes over the line. Then the sound of shuffling papers, as if this reminded her to keep working behind the cash register that’s always cluttered with mail and administrative files. “Sales have been slow this week. But back-to-school season should bring in our usual local teachers soon.”

It’s not like I expected much change after twelve years of her struggling to keep the lights on after my dad cheated and caused their divorce. Especially now that I’m away from Queens and can’t help. Maybe that’s also why she’s so stressed. “You think?”

“Absolutely. And the Fall Book Club for Young Readers kicked off yesterday. We have more kiddos signed up this year than ever. Sixteen!”

That pulls a small smile out of me. Mom has always focused on putting our community in Queens over profits. Maybe most Valentine alumni make change in the world as doctors and lawyers and professors, and maybe Grandma and Grandpa expected that from her, too, but she’s doing the same in her own way.

“That’s great,” I tell Mom. “I gotta go, but I’ll get my name to the top. Promise.”

“Okay, sweetie. I hope you will.”

Standing in front of Pragma Recreational Center’s workout room door feels like a crime. At least when it’s me. But PE isn’t going to pass itself.

I roll up the sleeves of my new tracksuit from the gift shop, which I could actually afford since my single room check awesomely never cleared. People like Xavier will be in here. Well-liked, high-ranked, textbook-example boys. If they don’t judge me for invading their territory, they’ll judge my lack of mass. Time to blend in.

The second my foot is through the door, my mouth hangs open at how far back the room stretches. Valentine crests border the casement and the top of the walls, watching like surveillance cameras, and everywhere magically smells of lemon disinfectant instead of sweat. The metal machines that could crush me dead are endless. More importantly, abandoned.

I make my way more confidently through the empty room. Treadmills line one wall, but weights are stacked by another. I need muscles to run better. Maybe?

A clink comes down the row, and I jump.

Xavier is bench-pressing, lifting a barbell with two plates on each side. Okay, not alone. The only signs of perspiration are on the collar of his undershirt and his prominent forehead, even though the weight is triple my head size.

If I could become 5 percent as strong, I’d get an A+ in PE.

Xavier glances to the side, sensing my lurking presence. His eyes widen. “Christ—!” The bar slips through Xavier’s grip and nearly squashes his neck.

I rush to spot him, only to end up tossing my hands upon realizing that I do not know what spotting is. Xavier pushes the bar back into place by himself.

He sits up from the bench, shoving his floppy dark bangs out of his eyes. “You scared the juices out of me, bro.”

“Sorry.”

“Not your fault. There’s just never anybody in here.”

“Why?”

Xavier smirks like it should be obvious. “Everyone else is always studying.”

“You’re Rank Three for third years. Shouldn’t you be?”

“Just gotta be smart about time management. Training takes an hour out of the day. Plus, I eat on the go.” He taps on his temple. “Were you watching me?”

“No,” I say. “Well, yes. Not because I’m weird. I’m here to train too.”

“You know how to?”

“You just lift stuff, right?”

“If you plan to live at Health Services. Want help?”

For a PE grade this dire, help is what I need. But to have Xavier stand too close? Look too close? I wave a dismissive hand. “That’d be a huge favor.”

Xavier digs through his gym bag on the floor. He whips out a sports drink and cracks open the lid. “Aren’t you STRIP’s face now?”

“I guess.”

“You’re technically doing us a favor, yeah?”

“Do you care that much about STRIP?”

“Hell yeah, I do.” He chugs his drink so fast that his Adam’s apple bounces like a pinball. “I was so done with the cockblockade last year. Couldn’t talk to my girlfrie—er, ex-girlfriend—at the sister academy. That’s what led me to STRIP, and then I saw how happy it makes everyone. I got why this was a tradition for a hundred years, and that’s why I’ve stuck around to continue carrying it on. It’s the right thing to do.”

I eye him curiously. “Was that Jasper’s situation too? Having a girlfriend?”

Xavier wheezes so loudly that it echoes through the workout room.

I’m not sure what’s so funny. Jasper trying to win over someone from the sister academy, let alone a hundred, seems likely.

“Not really,” Xavier says. “But Jasper always loved the tradition of it all, so he eventually became a self-appointed leader. It was all P.M. who got Jasper to join. He’s the one who came up with offering a love-letter-writing service within STRIP instead of just a delivery service.”

“P.M.?”

“Pierre-Marie. The previous Excellence Scholar for your class.”

A book cover flashes to mind. It can’t be. “The famous poet?”

“You know him? If you haven’t already noticed, I’m the oldest member since everyone else graduated. I sort of went on a spree, recruiting anyone I could. Got P.M. first with the whole spreading-love-via-the-written-word angle.”

My heart pounds as I recall what I’ve assumed about the previous Excellence Scholar. That he likely left due to the pressure.

They knew each other.

For some reason, that irritates me most. “Why didn’t Jasper bring up that I replaced him? He’s constantly reading his books.”

“Well, they spent every day writing letters at STRIP together. They got so close that P.M. even boosted Jasper’s work on his platform. Then they had a… falling out, I guess.”

“Oh. That’s not why P.M. left, right?”

Xavier awkwardly rubs the back of his neck. “Sorry. I promised P.M. that I’d keep it all to myself. Probably best not to touch it with Jasper.”

Plenty more questions pop into my head—did P.M. confide in Xavier about why he left? About Jasper?—but Xavier stands and lifts his hand for a fist bump/handshake concoction. He towers over me, and I ignore how small I feel.

“Let me show you how to use the machines at least,” Xavier says. “I’m here to train regardless. It’s not a favor. Come three days a week? After STRIP stuff?”

As I clumsily bump him back, a small smile rises to my face, even though I’m stuck on what I learned. In addition to the pressure P.M. must have faced, getting too close to someone as dangerous as Jasper seemingly pushed him out of Valentine. I’m walking in those shoes too closely for comfort. But I’m also outsourcing help. I have Xavier. If only I could tell Delilah the good news. Her whole-planet-arson status over my relentless struggles on this side of campus would turn down a few notches for sure.

“Wait,” I say, a possibility hitting me. “So you guys can deliver a letter from me to the sister academy too, right?”

Xavier shrugs. “Why not? Just bring your letter to our meeting room so Blaze can pick it up before his weekly runs. He usually goes on Friday or the weekend.”

My chest fills with hope. Maybe I can talk to Delilah despite this wall, after all. Although a piece of me wonders why she didn’t offer this as an option during orientation. Maybe, somehow, she doesn’t know about STRIP. Even though everyone seems to…

“Great. Thanks,” I say anyway, only for my smile to twist once I replay what Xavier said a moment ago. “Oh, I can’t train with you after STRIP. I have”—my mouth squirms more—“love lessons. With Jasper.”

“Repeat that?” Xavier says, brow pinching.

The fact that I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone jogs in my memory bank, and I bite my lip. “Jasper told me not to tell you guys, but I’m helping him write letters alongside being your face. Only until the mixer in November, though. Then I’m gone.”

Xavier stays silent.

“You good?” I ask unsurely.

“I’m just surprised. People have offered to help Jasper write love letters since P.M. left, but he always sent them away.”

“Really? Why?”

“Jasper claimed he never saw anything special in them.” Xavier shrugs and walks toward the nearest pull-up bar. “At least, until you.”