Page 16

Chapter 16

VANITY FAIR

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 25

When I unlock Room 503, it’s empty, even though it’s twelve minutes past lights-out.

Over the last few weeks, Jasper has still come home later than guidelines dictate, giving me plenty of time to shower and change without unwanted interruptions . But after STRIP Time, I got so caught up with distracting myself from Mom and my nineteen love letters that I didn’t register the warning bell until the other library desks were vacant. I sprinted to Philautia Residence Hall faster than gravitational waves traveling at light speed and, by some cupid’s blessing, didn’t get caught.

Yet Jasper is gone. Again.

Unspoken Guideline 11: We can get detention for staying out a bit too late, but the principal’s nephew can seemingly stay out every night. Doing what? He has that many friends?

My mouth twists. All these guidelines are becoming about Jasper.

As I sigh and set down my backpack, his side of the room distracts me. His floor is a bog of crumpled paper, old Laney’s Bean Shack cups, and dirty clothes. But his bed is made, not a wrinkle in his decorative ambrosia flower quilt, and his Pierre-Marie Laframboise book is set on the eleven throw pillows. The only Excellence Scholar who pleases him.

Maybe P.M. is who I should emulate in my letters.

I walk over to inspect the flimsy cover. A Craving for Champagne: Poems is encircled by illustrated forks and knives accented by gold foil. A poetry collection. About food?

I flip to the first page.

a heady rush of champagne bubbles

as we lose our sweetened troubles

a symphony of sighs and whispers

as we find each other’s kisses

I slap the book shut and hurl it at the pillows.

Not food.

I head into the bathroom to shower and try to forget that happened. If Jasper admires this stuff, then what is his like? Not that I care what his is like.

As I rip off my sweaty uniform, I catch a glimpse of my chest in the mirror. A place I try to never look. I reach for the towel on my wall hook and wrap it beneath my arms. This way, no one will spot my scars. The only way. But I could never walk around like this during PE.

And my training with Xavier. If I kept rushing back here instead of the locker room to shower after, would he catch on? Would everyone?

The nerves are too much, and I push them away. I toss my towel over the top of the opaque shower door, start the water, take off my glasses, and slip inside.

“CHARLIE!”

Knocking comes at the bathroom door. I screech.

“Charlie von Hevringprinz?” A shadowed hand knocks on the shower door. A bracelet jangles against the wrist. Jasper.

Blood pounds in my ears as I cross my arms and legs tight. I snatch my towel and wrap it beneath my shoulders again without thinking, water still pouring on me. I need a room to myself now. Yesterday. A year ago. “Y-yes?!”

“ I—opin—boo—! ” His voice is too muffled.

“What?!” I shout back.

Jasper opens the shower. He grips my damp shoulders, and I squeeze the towel so hard that my knuckles turn white. “Good, you’re in here! I need your opinion on—”

“Sir,” a deep voice calls, “where should the bookcase go?”

Jasper whips his head around so fast that his blond ponytail smacks my cheek. “Between the two beds, please.”

I peek my head out of the shower. “Who’s in our room?”

“Mailroom concierge.” His head tilts as he processes the soaked towel wrapped around me. “Freshen up first, roommate.”

In a whirlwind of red-and-black plaid, he’s gone, back into our shared room. I rush out of the shower to lock the bathroom doorknob, blood pumping so loudly everywhere through me that I don’t even hear the click—because, apparently, I even have to lock this when he isn’t here. This is seriously how guys interact.

I can’t do this any longer.

My legs quaver. I grip the door for stability, then force myself to attempt the rest of my shower, to keep going. I’ll finish the deal with Jasper, and this will soon be a distant memory. Every bump and knock from the bedroom nearly lurches my heart out of my throat and sends it spiraling down the drain. I finish fast, then toss on my plaid pajamas and step out of the bathroom.

Whoever that concierge was, he’s gone. Now there’s a new bookcase rising between our beds. Half of Jasper’s books that once coated the floor are organized on the shelves. He stands at the center of the rug, plaid blazer slung over a shoulder and tie missing. A walking dress-code violation, yet not a violation on his record.

I pointedly focus on the bookcase. Suddenly, I’m hyperaware of my wet hair hanging in flat clumps and exposing my face more than usual, especially after everything Jasper just saw. I lift my pajama shirt collar higher. “You do own a bookcase.”

“Not me. We.”

“Huh?”

“A while ago, you said we should.”

I approach the bookcase and run my hand along the side engraved with a pansy flower pattern that matches the wallpaper. Most of the books are Jasper’s poetry and romance novels, but the middle is classics. Including Othello . My favorite. The top frame, carved into a scroll, is adorned with doves and olive branches and more pansies. Cursive lettering is etched into the wood.

Mr. Grimes & Mr. von Hevringprinz

Jasper’s lopsided dimple pops, which does look annoyingly charming. Unfortunately, I understand why he won Sexiest Poet of the Year, even though the existence of that award confounds me. “What do you think?”

It’s ridiculous. Pointless. The moment our deal is done, Jasper and I won’t be roommates, yet our names are on there like some wedding invitation.

But it also feels like an apology. I’m sort of stunned by that. “It’s… Thank you.”

His face lights up. “It’s the least I could do for my roommate.”

Warmth rises in my chest at how genuine he sounds. I cross my arms tightly against myself to smush the feeling out of me. “Then could you do me one last favor and learn how to knock before opening our doors?”

“Oh, is this some secret roommate code I’ve been missing out on? How fun.”

“What?”

“I have it—let’s knock based on how many syllables are in our last names. I’ll do four knocks for von Hevringprinz .” Jasper punches his hand with his other four times. “Now you’ll do my last name.”

I punch my hand once.

“Fantastic!” Jasper pulls me into a side hug, squishing our shoulders together. “I can feel our teamwork blossoming even more.”

My heart rate spikes to the stratosphere. Because I can too. Even though I shouldn’t.

I can’t.

Jasper lets go of me. He walks to his bed, tosses himself onto the eleven pillows, and picks up P.M.’s book. “How’s your homework coming? It’s due tomorrow.”

As if I could forget. “Fine,” I lie, my pulse still thrumming in my wrist. Whether that’s due to his touch or his growing familiarity, I’m not sure.

“Is that so?”

I eye the book in Jasper’s grasp. He’s tasked with writing letters for the whole student body year-round yet has time to leisure read. Or P.M. is worth shoving aside his schedule for.

This is my last chance to figure out what writing pleases Jasper by tomorrow, but I need to be careful with my questions. I’d rather read P.M.’s words for the rest of my life than for Jasper to find out I’m struggling. “Why are you obsessed with that guy’s writing?”

His face slackens. “You know Pierre-Marie Laframboise’s work?”

“No, but Xavier told me he was our year’s Excellence Scholar before me, and I’ve noticed you constantly reading—”

“Of course you know P.M.’s work!” He flings the book across his quilt, and the pages crumple when they hit the bedpost. He falls back and stares at his poster on the ceiling. “Who doesn’t know him? That repulsive strawberry shortcake. Oh, Jasper, even your student adores your rival.”

Rival. Even though Xavier barely shared what Jasper and P.M.’s dynamic was when they attended Valentine and wrote for STRIP together, I would have never guessed it’d be this. “Is he a better poet than you?”

“Worse. He gets more modeling gigs than me.”

“That’s it?”

Jasper scoffs so aggressively that spittle flies from his mouth. “ He’s known as the Prince of Passion in the poetry scene. Him! How can that be when I’m lying here? And as of this month, that strawberry shortcake has sold twenty-seven thousand three hundred sixty-two more copies of his pompous poetry collection than I have. At least, according to reporting sources.”

“If you don’t like him, why are you reading his work?”

“Because I wish to understand why people like him more!”

I blink. “Did you admit to someone being better than you?”

“I—” Jasper’s lips purse, considering the question too. “No.”

“Weren’t you the one telling me there will always be someone better than you? Such is the circle of artiste life ?”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I have to be happy about it.”

A laugh bubbles out of me.

Jasper sits up to get a better look at me, his wispy hair scattering across his constantly rosy cheeks—which apparently flash redder when he’s worked up like this. “You—” His gaze drifts to my lips. No, my laugh.

He can’t be. He didn’t.

My heart pounds through me. “What?”

“Your laugh is…” His surprise turns into a glare. “Wait, now—what’s funny about my suffering?”

He couldn’t have recognized me. That was in my head.

“Nothing,” I quickly say, shoving aside my nerves. Even Jasper Grimes, Rank One and famous social media poet, has someone he can’t beat. I still have no hints about what writing he prefers, but this discovery was worth it. “I just never expected you to be so fussy about this.”

“I’m not fussy .”

“You are.”

“I’m reading.” Snatching another book on his bedside table— Sense and Sensibility —Jasper burrows into his blankets. He flicks on his reading lamp, filling the room with its buzzing, and rolls to face the wall.

I look toward my desk, where my love letters wait for me to stay up all night and finish them. If not that, homework. Always. But my exhaustion weighs down my eyelids, and Jasper is quiet now. A rarity. Instead, I walk up to our bookcase, pick up Kafka on the Shore , and crawl into bed to do the same.

As the minutes tick by, a familiar calm settles over me. One I felt whenever I hid in the aisles of Mom’s Bibliobibuli Bookstore to read. I haven’t experienced it since coming to Valentine. It’s nice, sharing that communal silence with somebody else.

Well, almost silence.

“Can’t you turn that thing off?” I ask him, pointing at the lamp on his bedside table.

Jasper follows the direction with his eyes. “How else will I read? By candlelight? That could hurt my eyes.”

I don’t know what else I expected.

I sigh and go back to my book.

Jasper stays silent too. A little too silent. Like he still really is hurt.

“P.M. couldn’t handle Valentine like you can, right?” I say to him slowly. The reminder of someone so successful failing to achieve what I need to dampens my own mood, but I keep my voice level. “You’re always ranked top five. You both have strengths.”

Jasper huffs, his back still turned.

“And even though I haven’t read your writing,” I add, “I would guess it’s better. I’d prefer not to understand a word of that guy’s cravings for champagne or whatever.”

“Thank you,” he mumbles.

“Good night, Jasper.”

“Good night, Charlie.”

We stay awake together for hours, him reading and me eventually working on some love letters, filling my notebook with scribbles and crossed-out lines. Between us, Jasper’s lamp buzzes until it starts to feel soft, almost comforting somehow, and lulls me into a dreamless sleep.