Chapter 37

THE STRANGER

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 13

The rest of finals went by in what felt like a hazy, metaphysical state of panic. The English literature final essay topic was, thankfully, oo ghost . Chemistry, world history, and first-year civics, I turned in early. Calculus, though, I finished right as time was called. Then I finally took a breath.

Now Wednesday classes are already beginning—the day instructors scramble to entertain us after the trauma we’ve faced before the mixer and winter break. Ms. Nallos lets us play any sport we want, and I spend the time anxiously walking the track, my legs dragging like they’re 100 percent uranium—the heaviest element in nature and question eleven on the chemistry final. Did I answer that right?

After this and one hour of English literature, the grade rank board will update to finish off the semester. Everyone and their parents will know where they land. Delilah will know if she’s hit high enough to run for the student council board. I’ll finally know if I stay or go.

Soon enough, I’m in English, and Mr. Stern is kicking open the door, the hem of his deeply memorable leopard-print blazer flapping behind him. “Testing’s over! How’re you feeling?”

The ceiling chandelier hums. A cough comes from the back.

Mr. Stern sets his briefcase on his desk. “I hope you can wake up for our guest speaker today. A few of you may recall him as a past student here.”

Someone who looks around my age follows Mr. Stern into the classroom.

Straight, dark hair that’s half pulled back, half left down, falling to his chin and shaping his soft cheekbones. A light brown turtleneck sweater and navy cardigan combo that complements his brown eyes and tan skin—the spitting image of a poet.

There are plenty of past students this could be. But when I glance at Jasper one seat to my left, his face is pale, like he’s seeing a ghost of his past come back that he thought was nevermore. In a way, I suppose he is.

Pierre-Marie Laframboise drifts toward the desk. He’s almost as tall as Mr. Stern—not exactly a strawberry shortcake. When he smiles, it’s calm instead of arrogant like I expected. “Hello.” His voice is so quiet, I can barely hear him.

His name comes from every corner of the classroom. Shouted. Whispered. Adored. Except for directly to my left.

I stay silent too. I’m too stunned, sitting before the previous Excellence Scholar. I reach for my pencil and notebook to take notes and gather anything I can about him. In a way, he’s my competition.

“This is P.M., if he even needs an intro,” Mr. Stern says with a laugh, and it doesn’t make me jealous. Nope. “Who already has a prosperous literary career at your age. I wish I could say his success comes from my guidance, but his fan base started right before Valentine.”

Beside me, Jasper aggressively kicks his feet up on the table, making a spectacle out of himself as he looks out the window.

P.M.’s attention briefly drifts toward Jasper in the front row. If he shows any change to his professional expression, I don’t catch it. “Mr. Stern is too kind. Valentine helped me. More importantly, it gave me life experience. If you don’t have that, then what is there to write about?” His accent is only slightly noticeable. It doesn’t sound fully French or Tagalog but a subtle blend.

“Our next unit will focus more on attempting to write the genres we’re studying,” Mr. Stern says, “so he’ll discuss his own creative work process.”

P.M. starts scribbling on the whiteboard. Cursive, of course. “I actually wish to start my lesson by showcasing something I learned from a person in this very room.”

Then he writes rules I’ve seen before. Studied before.

He only spends five minutes discussing how one should choose an environment that won’t sway your feelings. What he does spend time on, however, is how emotions do not have to make sense, so neither do your words, and then provides examples. He wraps up the lesson with how you should always craft for yourself.

I don’t have notes to take when they already exist in my notebook. Eventually, he moves to how these rules have morphed into his own unique set over time, and that craft advice flourishes when you add your subjective tastes. I barely listen, instead debating how talented this previous Excellence Scholar is compared to me—to all of Valentine—and how Jasper would truly feel about him if he were honest.

“Questions?” Mr. Stern says from the side of the room as the lesson ends.

P.M. watches the class with another smile.

Jasper raises his hand, feet still kicked up on the desk.

P.M.’s face just barely tenses into something uneasy. I would only be able to tell from my place in the front row. “Yes?”

“Have you decided to come teach us because you believe you’re better than us?”

My mouth hangs open, and I swat Jasper on the arm.

Whispers come from around the room.

“Another question, please,” Mr. Stern says, his tone firm for once.

Suddenly, I feel like I’m in calc class instead because P.M. is treating me like an X he’s trying to solve. He squints at my shoes, then my hands, and up to my face. I’m not sure why. If anything, that should be my job. He turns to Jasper. “It’s okay. Didn’t I say Valentine gave me valuable life experience?”

“And once you were done using us for that, you ditched us, right?”

“Jasper,” Mr. Stern says. Hearing him refer to a student by their first name shoots even my own spine straight. Mr. Stern only ever uses last names. “Step into the hall.”

Jasper huffs like he’s simply been told to put his feet down. He picks up his bag and disappears through the door. Mr. Stern whispers something in P.M.’s ear— watch the class , probably—and follows Jasper into the hall. The door shuts.

P.M. clears his throat. “More questions?”

When the bell rings, nearly half the class swarms P.M. instead of leaving for their next one. Even Robby, who’s as thrilled to see him as everybody else. Between Robby’s behavior and Xavier’s previous neutral intel, Jasper and P.M.’s fallout must not have affected other STRIP members. That’s hard to believe, considering Jasper’s claims—that P.M. abandoned them all.

I don’t move at first, instead trading looks between the commotion and the door, where Jasper must still be getting talked to. Or he’s been sent to the office.

Eventually, I walk up to Robby’s side amid the crowd swarming P.M. According to Jasper, P.M. should be bragging about the places he’s visited and the followers he’s gained. Instead, everyone else does the talking, spitting back and forth their hypotheses about the starring man himself as he stays quiet at the center, shoulders scrunched in a way that negates all intimidation, even at his six-foot height. Every once in a while, his attention shifts around the classroom—the old ceiling chandelier, our Edgar Allan Poe projects lining the back wall, the desks—like he’s trying to drink in Valentine before he leaves. Like he cares.

“Are you close with Jasper?” P.M.’s voice comes from nearby.

When I look at who he’s talking to, his gaze is locked on me. He’s stepped closer, farther from the other conversations.

My eyes blow out. “What?”

“You sit beside him.”

“I mean, I’m in STRIP. I write letters with him.”

His head tilts in a way that’s difficult to interpret. “Oh?”

“They’re roommates,” Robby says, joining the conversation. He’s giving me a strange look. Am I sweating as much as I feel like I am? “And Charlie’s the new Excellence Scholar.”

P.M. smiles so genuinely that it stuns me. Up close, he really does echo Jasper with the slender fingers, narrow shoulders, and straight hair that wisps around the face. Must be a requirement to be a poet. But where Jasper’s whirlwind of a personality distracts from his delicate features, P.M.’s shyness enhances it. “Has Jasper spoken of his resentment toward me?”

Are all poets also this forward?

“Um,” I say slowly. “Just that you left without any warning.”

“I see. I have faith you don’t harbor the same emotions toward me. Leaving was for the better; I promise you that with my heart.”

“What do you mean—?”

“Charlie.” Robby leans toward me. “The combo of his poetry collection and influencer stuff has made him rich.”

P.M. laughs lightly. “Not rich. But the Excellence Scholarship deserved to go to someone new who”—his stare lingers on me—“needed more help than I did.”

“That’s mad selfless,” someone mutters from across the circle.

If there are other eavesdroppers, I don’t hear them. According to this story, I do owe P.M. for that. But something still feels off. “You could’ve stayed.”

“Well, I did always plan to visit,” P.M. says. “If you’re roommates, then you must know how Jasper is. A bit dramatic.”

Dramatic.

Because P.M. left Valentine without asking how anyone would feel. Because one day, he was there, and the next, he was gone. Because this wasn’t the first time Jasper watched someone slip through his fingers when, in his eyes, I’d done the same to him.

“It wasn’t because he’s dramatic,” I say, and the rush of my own complicated guilt sharpens every word. “It’s because he cares.”

P.M.’s and Robby’s brows lift in unison.

Voices surge through the closed window so loudly that it interrupts our conversations. Red-and-black-clothed bodies, swarming the ranking board.

Robby taps my shoulder. “Ready to go look?”