Page 34

Chapter 34

AND THEN THERE WERE NONE

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 6

No one shows up to STRIP Time.

I work on a calculus study guide at my desk, hoping someone—anyone—needs help during the last week before final exams. Even though the last thing I need is an interruption from studying. As more time passes, the reality becomes undeniable, and an overwhelming sadness weighs down my chest. Robby was right. After we screwed up the love letters, no one will risk associating with STRIP. And without any patrons to serve, this hundred-year tradition will truly cease to exist.

The first day of being STRIP’s face flutters back into my memory, when I sat here alone among packed, busy tables. That same loneliness creeps through me now.

Through the evening, I tap my graphing calculator over and over again until one question stops me in my tracks. A digital 47.22 glows back at me—not an option on the multiple choice. I try again. 47.22.

What if this were the test next Monday?

The bell tower strikes ten times.

I glance around the surrounding empty desks, then at my watch. Ten minutes to ten. One study guide is taking me four hours.

Embarrassment crashes through me as I file the STRIP Time sign into my bag, then head back to Philautia Residence Hall. Cold air bites at my face, and I wrap my coat tighter, slightly wishing Jasper hadn’t kept my scarf but mostly relieved he’ll at least stay warm tonight. After training with Xavier this morning, I never got a chance to shower before homeroom. Now the sheen of sweat I didn’t mind twelve hours ago has clogged every pore, and my shirt crinkles uncomfortably against my skin. Despite having gained the perfect PE body, maybe it’ll be my brain that fails me next week. Maybe I won’t rank.

Maybe I should get a head start on packing.

It’s an incriminating ten minutes past lights-out by the time I reach Room 503. I knock once. Grimes. Nothing. Not here. Jasper said he’d be moving back in, but maybe he decided to stay in his aunt’s instructor quarters after all.

My chest aches, even though it makes no sense. He can’t be my roommate.

Before the door even shuts behind me, I’m ripping my sweater and dress shirt over my head and tossing them at my dresser. As I go for my pants, a page flip comes from the other side of the room. Jasper, still in uniform minus his hair tied back in a scrunchie, working at his desk.

He’s in here.

He’s in here?

“You’re in here?!” flings out of my mouth.

Jasper turns around in his chair. His eyes lock on the last place I’d ever want them to.

A shirt. I need a shirt. Now.

I sprint to my dresser and snatch my sweater again to cover the scars. “You didn’t say anything!”

Too many emotions pass across Jasper’s face for me to understand them. Whatever they are, they make his eyes and mouth twitch. It takes three more seconds for him to shield his eyes with his palms. “What was I supposed to say?!”

“ Come in. Our signal!”

“Only when you knock once.”

“I did knock.”

Jasper lowers his hands. “Did you? Apologies.”

In a panic, I chuck my sweater in his direction. “Don’t look!”

The soft fabric sails over his head and knocks into the glass fragrance bottles set on his dresser instead, instigating a domino effect of clinks and clangs. Two bottles fall onto the floor.

At least Jasper isn’t looking at me anymore. Instead, he’s looking at his toppled-over bottles.

I should apologize for my not-so-ceremonious outburst, and part of me wants to, but he’s seen me. Truly seen me. Who I am is all the more real to him. This could change everything.

My irrationality seizes control of my body and convinces me to snatch a pajama set from my dresser, run for the bathroom, and slam the door shut. I stand there, back glued to the door as breaths heave out of me. Not the first time. Almost definitely not the last.

At least, until my reflection catches my eye in the mirror. My collarbone sticks out more, and my arms have a bit more mass. With the slight definition to my chest, my scars are almost hidden too. Not fully, but also not a focus. This can’t be the same reflection I had when classes started, but two months of training couldn’t have possibly done this much either.

Maybe this is the same reflection. Maybe I looked like this all along, but I couldn’t see it.

I walk closer to the mirror. I don’t usually look. It’s subconscious. My face, rarely. The rest, never. If Jasper wasn’t staring at my scars, then what was he looking at?

Did I yell for no reason? Was his stare all in my head?

No, he was staring. Hard.

I don’t want to go back in that room—I can’t even imagine how uncomfortable it will be—but there are study guides to complete and practice exams to take. By the time I shower and come back in my pajamas, Jasper sits, his back leaned against his headboard. His ambrosia flower quilt is back from Xavier’s, pulled to his waist, and his various fragrance bottles have returned to their perfectly lined up position on his desk. He’s working on the mixer letters, journal on his lap and number-one pin on his pajama shirt collar—because of course it is.

I wait for him to say something, but he keeps working away, silently.

Trying to ignore the embarrassment washing over me, I sit in my own bed and grab my journal to join him. Behind it is my English literature guide. Six potential essay prompts are listed for the timed final, but only one will be chosen. I haven’t done any. I pick it up, flipping through the empty pages. I promised STRIP I could manage the letters and finals.

Maybe I can’t.

“Work on it,” Jasper says from his bed.

I startle. “What?”

“Your guide. You’re smart, so you’ll finish it quickly. Then join me for letters.”

The proposition makes me feel equally relieved and like a failure.

I flip to the first question.

1. The driving rhythm of “The Raven,” created by Poe, has a signature hypnotic sound and creepy atmosphere. What literary techniques does Poe utilize to achieve this? Be sure to consider the careful use of rhyme and meter.

My chest shrivels at the poetry question right off the bat. Sucking on the end of my pencil, I pull out my printed copy of “The Raven” from my English folder and study the verses.

Jasper could help.

I glance toward him. Although I just chucked clothes at him. I doubt he’ll want to come anywhere near me. “Jasper?”

He looks up from his notebook. His gaze shifts toward the pencil tip resting against my bottom lip, then my eyes again.

“Can you help me?” I ask.

Jasper slips off the bed with his journal and approaches mine, and his unexpected willingness throws my emotions in a jumble. As he hovers at my side, he traces the prompt with a finger, moving back and forth at a leisurely pace, his pajama sleeve grazing me.

I focus hard on the page. “I’m not good with poetry.”

“You’ve gotten better.”

“Not with questions like this. How could different rhythms create different emotions?”

Jasper sits beside me on the bed. His leg brushes mine, and he jerks. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” I mutter.

He must be this jumpy because I yelled. The need to apologize claws at me more, but I’m not bursting at the seams to bring up my bare chest either.

Jasper points at my copy of “The Raven” on my thigh, his flowery scents whirling around me. “What stands out to you about this ABCBBB rhythm?”

“B is repeated way more?”

Jasper’s smile brightens. He really loves this stuff. “And how are these B rhymes similar?”

“ Lenore ? Door ? Nevermore ?”

“Mhm.”

This can’t be right. “ Oo sounds spooky? Like, oo , ghost?”

“Yes!”

“Seriously?”

Jasper scratches his temple. “Technically, most lines use trochaic octameter: sixteen syllables, following a pattern of stressed and unstressed. But the B schemes are catalectic and drop the last unstressed syllable.” His passion grows with his gestures. “Plus, repeating the bird’s refrain of nevermore insistently reminds the reader of the grief he’s facing. Haunting effect. Mr. Stern is an emotions guy over technical, though. Oo, ghost should suffice.”

Jasper’s poetry may cater to social media’s bias for normie content, but he might know more than even Mr. Stern. Maybe to make basic stand out among millions of other poets, he needs to. I can’t deny how impressive that is.

I jot oo, ghost so I don’t forget. “Thanks. I couldn’t have answered this without you.”

Usually, Jasper would milk this, but he simply rises off the bed. “I won’t keep bothering you. Unless you have more questions?”

He still thinks he bothers me.

My heart sinks. I suppose I am still demanding that he move out. Constantly. “You’re not bothering me,” I say, turning back to the study guide. The next question isn’t about Poe. Robert Frost. Two roads diverged in the same cursed, poetic wood. “I might still need you.”

Jasper’s forehead wrinkles in surprise. “Tap me when you want help.” He sits again, twirling his broken fountain pen between two nimble fingers, oozing red ink on his skin.

“How long have you—?” What am I doing ?

Jasper’s head lifts, his blond bangs swaying over his eyes. Waiting.

“Never mind,” I say. “Well, no. I was going to ask how long you’ve had that pen since it’s broken. It must be old.”

“My aunt gave it to me.” He holds out the pen, but he doesn’t lean closer to show me the details, even though I wish he would. The 89 engraving along the barrel gleams in my bedside lamp light. “It was a gift after I published my poetry collection.”

“That’s nice of her.”

“Yes, we’re not close, but she’s supportive of my work. She understands how Valentine can restrict it. Really, I’m glad she understands this place. How lonely it can be.”

Once, I accused Jasper of not knowing what that’s like. But despite how charming and talented he is, he doesn’t have many he can rely on or relate to at Valentine either. I’ve had that proven time and time again, especially as STRIP threatens to fall apart.

“Your mother went here, correct?” Jasper asks.

“Did I tell you that at camp?”

“Yes.” Jasper sets his journal to the side. “I also remember that your favorite food is breadsticks because that’s all you ever ate. And, well, it’s odd.”

My face heats. “You can’t talk. Yours is blueberries.”

“You remember mine too,” he says, his upper lip quirking, but it vanishes quickly. He even clears his throat. “Any questions yet? And don’t feel bad. You’re not a distraction. I’m ahead on my set of letters.”

Of course he is.

The shame settles deep, especially as I catch another glimpse of his glimmering number-one pin that I’ve dreamed so many times could be mine. “To be honest, I don’t know how long this guide will take me.”

“No probl—”

“Or the four others in my backpack. With the final rank announcements coming up, every grade I get needs to be perfect, so I’m a little overwhelmed—”

“Charlie, it’s—”

“—or they’ll take away my scholarship. Then it won’t matter that I hid that I’m transgender because they’ll kick me out for my bad grades, or if our entire class tells the academy about STRIP, then they’ll kick me out for that, and then Mom will be crushed. No matter what, everyone will regret putting faith in me as an Excellence Scholar. They’ll think someone like P.M. should still be here, so I probably should be packing instead of talking to you.”

Jasper stares.

Only then do I realize how much came out of me and how long it must’ve been building up. Why did it have to explode onto Jasper of all people?

I wish I could crawl under these covers and be nevermore . “Forget I said anything.”

His brows remain crossed. “Cancel STRIP Time this week.”

“What? No way.”

“Barely anyone shows up anymore, anyway.”

A pang strikes me. “We need STRIP to keep looking unsuspicious. I can do it all.”

Jasper’s hand twitches and lifts off his knee, but then it sinks back down. “Just because you can do it all doesn’t mean you should , Charlie.”

I stare at his unmoving hand, overcome with crushing disappointment that it didn’t move farther. Every day, this incurable illness gets worse.

“Charlie?”

“Y-yeah,” I say, jumping. “Hi.”

“Hi. Did you hear me? It’s all right to take a break.”

My exhaustion tempts me to, but I can’t listen to Jasper and blow everything.

“Although I don’t know why I’m wasting my breath,” Jasper adds with a sigh. “Right now, you’re thinking about how you’d never listen to a word of advice I give you.”

“How did you—?” I stop.

But it’s too late, yet another smile tugging at his lips as he returns to his journal. Like he thinks he knows me better than anyone.

Jasper is the only one I’ve ever shared a bedroom with. The only one I’ve spent a summer with outside Mom or Delilah. The only one I’ve kissed. Does he know me better than anyone?

Can I trust Jasper?

“Jasper?” I say toward my lap.

“Yes, Charlie?”

“I meant my surgery scars. Earlier, when I said not to look.”

“I know. I figured it out.”

Still not an apology. I need to. I lift my head. Look at him. “I’m sorry I yelled. And threw clothes at you. And I’m sorry I knocked over your bottles. I know you like them a certain way.”

“It’s all right.” Jasper smiles at his journal.

My heart pounds at how kind it looks. Understanding, even. I still waver before speaking again. “I told Xavier.”

His pen stops moving. “Xavier won’t tell anyone. But I know you’re even unsure about me, so I don’t expect you to believe me—”

“I want to believe you.” The words come out before I fully comprehend I’m saying them, and for a second, I regret it for how open and raw I feel in the aftermath. But that’s also how I know what I said is the truth.

Jasper blinks back at me. “I hope you can someday.”