Page 3

Chapter 3

THE TIME MACHINE

TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 3

I press an ear against the door to Room 503, listening for signs of life.

A clang here. A shove there. He’s back.

Where’s that speech, Charlie?

Yes, I’m the person you met at Valentine’s Shakespeare and Classics Summer Camp two years ago. Yes, we kissed by the lake. No, I’m not that person anymore, but also, I am. What would you like in order to stay silent?

That’ll do.

As I reach for the handle, my hands lock up. Do it. Just do it!

Adrenaline surges through me, and I yank back the handle. The door whips open and slams against the wall.

“Oops,” I mumble.

At the end of the room, a slender figure in the same plaid blazer and tie as me jolts. Although my uniform loosely hangs in all the wrong places, his cinches in all the right ones. He loses his grip on a glass object—a heart-shaped paperweight—and fumbles three times before catching it.

The Sexiest Poet of the Year poster boy with glistening blue eyes and blond hair pulled into a stubby ponytail. In real life. Staring back at me.

The speech I prepared drains out of my head.

Jasper Grimes is really here.

Jasper tosses the paperweight despite saving it seconds ago. The glass cracks against the windowsill and falls to the floor in chunks. “Charlie von Hevringprinz!”

Even though he’s never spoken this full name before, everything about the way he says it sounds so familiar.

Next thing I know, he dashes across our room—or, rather, with so many books in the way, he hops—and snatches my hands. His flowery fragrance swirls around me, and his touch is as freezing as I remember it being. The cons of having a heart secretly made of ice.

He smiles so wide I worry his whole face will crack like the paperweight. “It’s an honor to meet you.”

As if he hasn’t recognized me. Yet.

I take in his fluttery pale lashes, the ever-present red tint to his cheeks, and the frayed hairs that have escaped his ponytail. It’s all the same as two years ago.

Keep your head down.

I abruptly step back. How sharp is my face in this lighting? I haven’t checked how my arms look in this blazer yet. “P-pleasure.”

“A shame that we lost our single rooms.”

“You got screwed over too?”

“Yes, but what a plus. Now I’m roommates with the second-year Excellence Scholar. The fact that you beat out thousands and stand before me now. A genius!”

“Oh, I’m not a genius.” My focus drifts toward the first three buttons of his red dress shirt left undone, showing off his collarbone and chest. He’s always been just toned enough—not too muscular or slight—to appear as if he casually plays an after-school sport. Obviously, the Sexiest Poet of the Year, whose hobbies include posing for cameras, charming every woman within a mile radius, and punching hearts to death has to look good.

I mean, he does look good. But that has nothing to do with me anymore.

“Of course you’re a genius,” Jasper says, yanking my focus up again. “Did you not start that English tutoring program in New York City? The one that gained thousands in nonprofit support in a single year?”

“I did…”

“See?”

Admittedly, the compliment touches me. After I decided to defer for a year, my Excellence Scholar spot was replaced. Only four are here at a time, chosen as a first year to represent their class until graduation. When I was later told my replacement left after his first year, I assumed I was dreaming. At least until I realized no one would leave that honor behind willingly. There were two possibilities:

One, he got kicked out for breaking guidelines. Maybe even for a reason like mine.

Two, more likely, he couldn’t handle the pressure.

I refuse to be like that replacement. I will last until graduation.

“How do you know all of this?” I ask Jasper.

“My aunt told me. Have you considered tutoring here?”

Rewind. “Your aunt?”

“I suppose you know her as Principal Grimes.”

“Your aunt is the principal?”

Jasper’s memorable laugh trickles off his lips. Soft and bubbly. “Pretending not to know. You’re funny, von Hevringprinz.”

I return a laugh, but it’s frail. Of course. The sole woman who has the power to send me home, and who will either approve or deny my single room request, is Jasper’s aunt. Of course I somehow never came across that memorable last name through my application process. Of course Jasper was supposed to have a single. As her nephew, probably the fanciest.

And he, without a doubt, doesn’t recognize me.

I should be relieved, but the tip of my tongue burns with what rages within me instead. How did it feel to kiss me while writing poetic love letters to three other people during camp? You couldn’t have cared enough to even remember my very memorable mess of a last name?

“Your aunt is letting you stay stuck in a double?” I ask, trying to stay calm.

Jasper shrugs and walks toward his desk. “I didn’t file a complaint. I’ve heard a roommate can be fun. With an Excellence Scholar like yourself, I bet our conversations will be stimulating. A blessing in disguise!”

“Right,” I mutter. “A blessing.”

As he rummages through books scattered across his desk, a silver bracelet jangles against his wrist, competing with the cricket chirps filtering through the cracked-open window for most obnoxious, high-pitched sound. “I assume you’d like my autograph? I’ve never offered this to anyone before, so please keep this hush-hush from my followers.”

“Wait, what?”

Jasper holds up a paperback book like a trophy. Love Is a Broken Party Clown curves around a poorly drawn crying clown printed on the cover. The title isn’t what makes my brow furrow. It’s the author’s name. His name.

“You published a book?” I ask, and I fail to hold back my sass this time.

Jasper’s head tilts like he almost recognizes it. Like this was definitely how I spoke to him when we first met at camp too.

My whole body tenses.

“Poetry collection,” he finally says, slowly and curiously. “My most popular posts online.” He signs the inside with a permanent marker and hands me the copy. “For you, roommate.”

My brain glitches as I hold the very real signed book. What about him could be impressive enough for him to have followers? Books? Posters?

It must be because of his looks.

“Thanks,” I mutter despite the gift being wasted on me. The only reason I met Jasper at camp was because I was forced to take that poetry workshop alongside my lectures and reading hours about the greats. What’s the point of writing poetry if you’re not one of those greats? Regurgitating your own overemotional, gushy soup?

Jasper steps deeper into the room, outstretching his arms, his bracelet jingling again like an annoying bell. “Do you appreciate what I’ve done to the place?”

I’ve been so overwhelmed by his presence that I didn’t notice. A crystal vase is on a new side table, a candle collection is set on the windowsill, and a freaking life-sized cardboard cutout of himself is propped between our beds. Mardi Gras beads hang from his cardboard neck.

I would’ve rather enjoyed a bookshelf.

Jasper clasps his hands together. “Do you?”

I don’t know. Do you remember who I am? I clench my fist to compose myself. Jasper forgetting is beneficial. As long as I can prevent him from remembering, then he can’t report who I am to his aunt.

But being able to keep my burning hatred toward him a secret?

I glare at the poster of Jasper on the ceiling, the cardboard cutout, and then back to the real Jasper. “You’ve made yourself a prominent focal point.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t—” I force a smile. “You’re welcome.”

“I’m just brimming with questions about you, roommate,” Jasper says, clasping his hands together. He inspects me with big, expectant eyes. “Do you have pets? Any hobbies? What’s your family like? Do you have siblings? Please, don’t hold back.”

My insides shrivel into a prune. “I. Well—”

Jasper waves a hand. “Apologies, I’m getting ahead of myself again. You deserve to settle in before we start learning more about one another.”

“Yeah. Yes. Thank you.”

“Of course. After you rest, that is when you will answer all my questions.”

I try to hold in a grimace.

“We must spend some intimate time together soon, then,” Jasper says, ever oblivious to my discomfort. “Tomorrow. Let’s meet for lunch between classes.”

“I’m bus—”

“Wonderful,” he says. He heads to his dresser, squatting to dig through his unfolded pajamas shoved in the bottom drawer. Conversation over, apparently. He tosses plaid pants over his shoulder.

I frown and walk to my own dresser, pulling out one of my folded Valentine-branded pajama sets, then turn back around. “Sorry, but I really can’t meet you for lunch—”

Jasper’s shirt is off. His pants, barely on.

“Jesus—!” I spin to face any other direction. My elbow knocks my dresser so hard that a textbook falls off and smashes my foot. I yelp.

“What’s wrong?” Jasper says. Totally calm. At least I assume he is from his typical singsongy voice. No way I’m looking over to verify that.

“N-nothing.”

He chuckles in the face of my breakdown. “Have you forgotten we’re both guys?”

Being told I’m a boy should feel good. Amazing.

All I feel is crushed.

“I’m gonna—” I point toward the bathroom. “Bye!”

The door shuts beside me. My legs collapse, and I land on the floor, my blood pumping through me. Jasper’s fancy glass containers of shampoo and conditioner are visible through the translucent shower door next to my two-in-one. Rose scented. Bright pink.

We’ll share a shower.

Sitting there, I take deep breaths to stop myself from having a heart attack in my teens. Then, only a few seconds later, I pick myself back up. Because Excellence Scholars don’t nearly throw up their dinner on the first day of school. They excel.

My residential retainer will talk to the office. I’ll escape soon.