Page 14

Chapter 14

THE GIVER

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 19

“MAINTAIN HORSE HIERARCHY,” Blaze commands, standing upon a stack of books. He shows off the ruby varsity ring on his thumb, then gesticulates something like a fluttering butterfly. “FOR THE RING OF ANCESTRAL DARKNESS COMMANDS YOU.”

Everyone in STRIP’s back room goes still and stares.

I do the same by the moving bookcase door. I’ve just entered, and I’m already confused. But there are as many red-and-black-clothed bodies as there were the first time I came here, so I can at least piece together that a weekly one-on-one must have also been taking place then.

I weave through the crowd made up of—what I’ve learned over the last week—all levels of Valentine standing. Ishaan and Frankie, Ranks Twelve and Six, who raise their hands quickest in calculus and come from enough money to sport bank-breaking Valentine-branded backpacks: high standing. Matt, Rank Forty-Three, who interrupts with roughly one joke per class period: at Twenty-Eighth Avenue Middle School, high standing, but here, low. And lots of in between.

Behind Blaze’s chants of darkness, Xavier and Robby sit on the floor, the upturned horse-riding helmet full of sparkly trading cards on display. They’re too swarmed by visitors to notice me.

One non-tutor is missing.

I detour toward the brocade curtain splitting the room in two and look inside, spotting Jasper’s mop of blond hair in a corner. Of course everyone else works during a rush except him. He sits cross-legged on his blazer to fight off the dusty floor, using another stack of books as a table to scribble in his JFG journal. What are his initials, anyway? Jasper Fucking Grimes?

I struggle not to roll my eyes. “Jasper.”

A nearby antique lamp casts shadows across his startled demeanor, which flips to a lopsided dimple. “Tutor Jasper.”

His fingers. They’re red. Covered in blood.

I run at him, kicking aside some books on the floor, and swipe up his hand. Not blood. Red ink from his leaky fountain pen.

Jasper’s grin widens. “Worried about me?”

My cheeks burn, and only then do I realize we’re still touching. I chuck his hand onto his lap. “No. Buy a new pen.”

“I will not. This is my cherished six-hundred-dollar fountain pen. Limited edition. Only ninety exist in the world. I’m eighty-nine.” Jasper points at the black resin barrel where 89 is engraved. “Any other pen would render my life a feckless charade.”

“It’s leaking.”

“All fountain pens smear .”

I inspect the barren room more. A handwritten NO LIQUIDS sign is on the wall, a bucket tucked in a corner is sparsely filled with cleaning supplies, and a single shelf is over Jasper’s head, where there’s a row of the same red-and-white-striped paperback book spines. Love Is a Broken Party Clown by Jasper Grimes. Compared with the other side’s musty, concrete scent, there’s something familiarly floral in the air, like Jasper is here all the time.

Let me guess. “This side of the room is your office or something?”

“From your tone, I take it you’re not impressed.”

“I thought the place you’d write would be”—I shrug—“a garden of roses.”

“Are you forgetting EROS Two?” Jasper is still writing, his number-one enamel pin gleaming on his collar. Is this the type of brain I’m up against for Rank One? One that can simultaneously handle full conversations and craft prizewinning prose? “I could accidentally think my writing is romantic enough due to the romantic environment.”

As if I expected to understand a poet’s mind.

Jasper points his broken pen at another makeshift book table. “Are you staying?” he asks, his tone undeniably eager and hopeful that I am. It’s the same way he sounded when he approached me the first time all those years ago, asking to work on our dramatic mode assignment together, and it makes my chest lurch in a way I can’t place. “You can use a tome table as a seat.”

“Tome table?” I ask.

“A tome is a type of book. A large, heavy, scholarly one.”

I hold myself back from throwing him into Au Sable Forks Lake. “I know what a tome is. A tome table?”

“A table made of tomes, naturally. What we call them in the STRIP Crypt.”

“Where?”

“This whole back room. On days like today, I wait on this side of the crypt or in the stacks until I’m needed to provide my gift of poetry to them all.” Over his shoulder, a cobweb slung along a corner catches my attention. An insect scurries across.

Jasper must notice because he stops writing. Hooking the clip of his pen onto his shirt pocket, he grabs a duster from the cleaning supplies bucket and knocks the web.

I grimace. Crypt, at least, is accurate.

“ Welsh pony originating from southern Wales! ” Robby announces from the main side of the room—crypt. “Number two!”

I peek through the curtain. Every visitor groans except one, who stands before Robby’s riding helmet full of trading cards, holding his own. It’s the same type that was passed out during my first-ever visit to the crypt. From a distance, I vaguely make out a picture of a brown horse with a bushy tail on one side.

“Every week, our patrons draw horse trading cards to determine the order they’ll be served by me,” Jasper whispers, standing so close that his breath tickles my ear.

I startle and take one firm step away, my face heating up all over again. His personal space issues will give me an ulcer. “By served, you mean get their love letter written by you?”

“Precisely. This is what we were busy with on the first day you came here. It’s luck of the draw.”

So I was right. “But there are no numbers on these cards.”

Jasper points beyond the curtain, toward a new patron drawing from the hat and then showing Robby the card.

“Akhal-Teke,” Robby announces. “Number nineteen.”

The so-called patron sighs and retreats.

“Robby is a”—Jasper switches to a bad French accent—“ horse aficionado . He has a breed tier list—his most favorite to least favorite. Akhal-Teke is apparently his nineteenth-favorite horse right now. It mostly stays the same week to week, but there are some wild cards. His feelings toward the Welsh Cob change almost every time.”

Just when I thought these fake tutors couldn’t get weirder.

Although STRIP’s tradition as a whole is already weird. And so are the rest of Valentine’s real academy rules. Maybe it’s a product of their environment. Or maybe it’s simply that they’re some of the smartest students in the nation. That alone means their brains aren’t exactly typical.

Still, I can’t help but ask: “Why not use something normal to draw names? Sticks?”

“Robby can run our admin how he pleases. We trust him as the second year’s Rank Two. He’s aiming for MIT’s biochemistry program.”

My brow furrows up to my hairline. “An MIT hopeful is involved with this?”

“Of course. To MIT admissions, he’s tutoring at one of the smartest academies in the nation—the top one percent of smart. From the outside, at least, this is one of the most prestigious programs our academy has to offer. Blaze is also a supergenius; he skipped several grades and still landed at Valentine. He’s twelve.”

“Twelve?”

“You couldn’t tell from the—” Jasper gestures vaguely at Blaze’s five-foot stature across the crypt, where his uniform turned cape flows behind him.

“I guess,” I say.

Unspoken Guideline 9: Everyone is aiming for the stars, and I’m just trying to pass PE.

Jasper passes through the brocade curtain on a gust of his fragrance that’s growing more familiar by the day. He waves to gather the crypt’s focus. “Attention, patrons!”

The patrons wave back. A few even cheer. He really is liked.

“Welcome, as always, to the tradition our Valentine forefathers bravely founded over a hundred years ago to deliver letters of the heart between the brother and sister campuses. These last two years, I have been honored by the positive reception shown toward my love letters—a new, secondary option we’ve added for when your own letters are feeling, well, dull. Since we’ve begun this, STRIP’s one-on-ones have been conducted privately between me, the poet, and you, the lover.” Jasper pulls me toward him, tugging on my blazer cuff. “However, now you must consent to my new student being present. Everyone, welcome Charlie!”

Confused stares are the only response.

Then whispers.

“Isn’t he that Excellence Scholar who flopped on the grade ranks?”

“No way he’s writing our letters.”

“Be for real. We came here for an actual poet.”

Spotlight number one million. My stomach twists.

Jasper holds up a defensive hand. “Since my student is in training, I promise, your letters will still be written by moi. I give my gift to you!”

Even though Jasper Grimes may be a triple threat—perfect face, grades, and poetry career—he sucks at lying. I’m not the only one who can tell. The looks around the crypt have grown more suspicious.

“It’s true,” I say. I won’t let my classmates run me out of STRIP until my own room is secured. “I’m his loyal student, here to watch.”

Jasper looks my way to send a covert thank you , then over to Robby. “Who’s the first horse?”

First, Jasper lights a taper candle in a brass fixture set on the tome table—the only light source in his office now that he’s turned off the antique lamps.

Next, he leans toward our first patron sitting across from us. Faint mumbles come from a line beyond the brocade curtain, waiting to be served. “Thank you for trusting me with your love story today. What is your name?”

I sit in silence beside him, staring nervously at the candle releasing a semisweet cherry blossom fragrance only someone like Jasper would enjoy. Our bedroom was pushing it, but flammable objects in a building full of paper? Maverick the Residential Retainer would cut him like a fish.

“My name is Eli,” the patron says shyly despite the office’s privacy, playing with his Shetland pony card on the table. His blazer sleeves hang to his fingertips. Either he’s a first year who hasn’t figured out the unspoken guidelines, or even a size S is too big on him to maintain the rolled sleeves look.

“Tell us about yourself,” Jasper says.

“I’m fourteen. On the debate team.”

From his JFG cross-body bag, Jasper reaches for his broken fountain pen and journal to jot notes. Immediately, red ink smears across his right hand and the page. He glances at my closed backpack on the floor. “Not taking records, student?”

“You’re not giving said student any guidance,” I say, frowning.

“You’re the second-year Excellence Scholar. Shouldn’t you be capable on your own?”

I stiffen, unsure if that’s an insult or a compliment, and catch myself hoping it’s the latter before shutting that feeling down. I don’t care what Jasper thinks. I reach for my mechanical pencil and composition notebook, which look mediocre next to Jasper’s bajillion-dollar pen and journal. Despite what Jasper likely believes, holding a bougie pen doesn’t dictate note quality. I’ll take great notes. The best notes.

“When did you meet her?” Jasper asks Eli, voice repulsively soothing.

Eli stares over my shoulder as if a shimmering sunset has appeared behind me, full of longing. I turn around. Only a concrete wall. He snaps back to reality. “Sorry. Fifteen days and three hours ago.”

“You met during orientation?”

“One day after. During the debate team’s first meeting of the year. We got special permission to visit the sister academy’s team and plan the flower sale fundraiser we held this week. She’s on their team.”

Jasper writes more. I don’t. Wouldn’t it be nice if my love tutor gave me directions?

Guess I’ll go with what’s always the most logical. Facts.

Patron Name: Eli

Date Met: One day after orientation.

Location: First debate meeting.

Other: Not even three weeks have passed, and he’s acting like he’s lost his princess to a witch handing out free apples.

“Her name?” Jasper asks.

“I was too nervous to ask.”

“Her appearance?”

“She wore a braid. It was super windy. She accidentally wore her blazer inside out.” The longing on Eli’s face returns. “I want to learn more about her and send her a lot of letters, and then I’ll hopefully get the courage to send one to ask her to the mixer—”

“Hold on.” I grip my forehead. “We can’t deliver letters to someone we don’t—”

“We’ll see it through,” Jasper says, pushing a finger against my lips. A chill lances up my spine, the rest of me turning to stone.

“Thank you so much,” Eli gushes before leaving through the curtain.

I rip Jasper’s finger off my face and take a deep breath, attempting to slow down my racing heart. “My shoulder exists.”

“Would that have been enough to stop you from talking? It appeared that you were instigating a duel with him.”

“Well, I’m right . How are you going to find someone you don’t know the name of? Isn’t this extra work for you?”

Jasper eyes me strangely, like his memory is once again jogged by the sass I keep trying and failing to stifle around him. My whole body tenses until the look fades. He lazily spins the base of the taper candle around the tome table, not caring about the flame nor the melting wax. “We’re not only poets, von Hevringprinz. We’re cupids.”

Grimacing, I spring up from the floor. “Well, I didn’t sign up to be a—”

“Yo,” a new patron calls, pulling back the curtain.

Jasper tugs me back down by my blazer. Our shoulders bump, and I grunt. “Come tell us about your situation, Cody.”

As the patron sits, his features jog my memory. The bedhead, the foot for a face—the one from PE who thought me not wanting to take the class was hilarious. He rests an arm along a propped knee and waves my way. “Nice to meet you.”

He can’t even remember who he insults.

My annoyance spikes, but Jasper taps my notebook. I keep writing.

Patron Name: Foot

Jasper, who’s peeking at my note taking, snorts. He covers it up with a cough.

Foot Cody pulls a sports drink out from his bag and takes a swig. Red droplets spill on the tome table. “I need to send a letter to the third-year class president over there.”

Jasper stares at the Red Dye 40 seeping into the bound book page edges, then the NO LIQUIDS sign on the wall. “Name?”

“Rachel. I think.”

“You think?”

“Rachel Wood, maybe.”

Jasper takes the note. “How did you meet? Through your student council duties?”

“Haven’t met her.”

“Then why send a romantic letter?”

“She’s going to be my date for the mixer after she gets this letter.”

Date Met: Unknown.

Reason for Letter: The mixer, like literally everyone else.

Jasper shuts the clasp of his journal, the ocean-blue gemstone reflecting the candle flame. “Thank you. Please send in the next patron on your way out.”

Cody gulps down the rest of his sports drink instead of moving. Another red droplet slithers down his chin and onto his dress shirt, which is as wrinkly as a brain. “Not to doubt your poet-ing skills, but can you write with that little info?”

“I’m not writing your letter.”

My head flicks up at Jasper’s sudden change in tone. The sweetness usually coating it has vanished, leaving behind something colder.

“You’re denying me?” Cody asks. “You can’t just do that.”

“We’re an unofficial, free program. So, yes, we can just do that.”

“Better watch your mouth, Grimes.”

Jasper calmly taps the corner of his own lips. “You should wipe yours.”

Cody slams a palm against the table and lunges forward like he might punch Jasper in the jaw—but he falters and wipes the drink residue with his other hand. Maybe he recalled who Principal Grimes’s nephew is. “You want the academy to discover what you do back here? How you really use your equestrian center privileges? Only takes one student to tell your aunt.”

“Go ahead.” Jasper doesn’t flinch.

My mouth hangs open. What is Jasper doing ?

Cody sneers, tosses on his bag, and passes us on his way to the curtain.

“Although,” Jasper calls, still motionless, “what a shame this will be for our classmates. Their love letters will never be delivered again. Established couples who rely on us throughout the year? Future couples who haven’t even had the chance?”

Cody turns around. “So?”

Jasper smiles, but it’s off. His lopsided dimple is missing, and his blue eyes are glazed—I’ve only seen this look once before, when he was kept waiting by me and Luis in the library. He stands, readjusting the number-one enamel pin on his dress shirt, and takes calm but intentional steps toward Cody. “I hope they won’t be mad at whoever tells my aunt. Maybe they’ll sabotage his status as the student council president?”

“Are you threatening me?”

“You threatened me first.” Jasper shrugs, still exuding a collected aura that proves he isn’t scared, yet one that has me on the edge of my seat. “It’s an equivalent exchange.”

“If you—”

Jasper points over Cody’s shoulder, toward five other patrons peeking through the curtain to check on the raised voices. “Go on.”

Cody’s foot face nearly flashes red with anger. Without another word, he storms past the captive audience and out the crypt.

Sighing lightly, Jasper reclaims his spot beside me on the floor. He picks up his fountain pen and twirls the base with his pointer finger and thumb. “Who’s next?”

Unspoken Guideline 10: Principal’s nephew’s powers include threats and blackmail.

Sweat beads on my hairline as I mentally play back Jasper’s silky-smooth, authoritative tone and how strangely captivating it was. Well, not to me. To the crowd it gathered. Yeah. I’m an empath. “You threatened someone.”

“I suggested he should leave.”

“By threatening him.”

“STRIP isn’t here to harass women.” His voice is soft now.

I study him in surprise and, I’ll admit, begrudging respect. “You’re not worried he’ll tell your aunt?”

“It’s his word against mine and the student body’s,” Jasper says. “I wish him luck.”

The one-on-ones go faster than I expect after that, taking only another hour. Jasper smiles through every discussion—a real one, dimple included—and I lower my defenses. Once patron number nineteen walks out, Jasper blows out the taper candle, the runaway blond locks of his ponytail fluttering around his cheeks.

“Good work today, student,” he says beside me. “Now, please write letters for all nineteen of our patrons today.”

“What?” I say, pushing my glasses up my nose to reread the scribbles in my notebook. Out of the nineteen letters, five are common correspondence to their girlfriends, but the other fourteen have Mixer written down as the reason. Delilah was right. Students do care about this event. Maybe even more than grades. “You’re starting to deliver my letters already?”

Jasper laughs so hard that he grips his stomach, his half-buttoned shirt drooping and revealing even more chest that I pointedly avoid looking at for the hundredth time. “No, this is your first homework assignment. Solely practice.”

He thinks the notion of my letters being sent is a bit too funny.

I try my best to glower but fail. Despite Jasper’s billions of flaws, that bubbly laugh of his is, unfortunately, not one of them. “Due date?”

“One week from today.”

Nineteen love letters in seven days. The next public grade rank announcement is one day before. In addition, I’ll need to ace my chemistry and world history unit exams. I’m supposed to handle all of this. That’s my job.

But what if I can’t?

“That’s seven days away,” I say, hoping he’ll budge.

Jasper hums. “You want less time? Apologies, I didn’t want to expect too much from you.”

My desire for more time poofs into smoke.

I force a smile. “One week works… Tutor Jasper.”