Page 5

Chapter 5

THE PRINCE

WEDNESDAY, SEPTEMBER 4

The universe does me a favor by keeping my new roommate away from my PE class, but the favors run dry after that.

“Charlie von Hevringprinz!” Jasper waves from the back of my chemistry classroom. No blazer or tie on him—only a red dress shirt with three buttons undone like last night. Already breaking dress code on day one. A mural of the periodic table of elements stretches behind him. Ge for germanium, Ni for nickel, U for uranium, and S for sulfur are bolded above his head.

He chose that seat on purpose.

Two people hovering around Jasper follow his wave toward me at the door. Must be his friends. A few others by the whiteboard stare. Spotlight number three.

Jasper picks up a hardcover book—that one he kept me awake with—and slaps the chairback of the unclaimed spot beside him. “I saved you the best seat in the house. Right by me, the perfect start to getting to know each other so intimately.”

The stares turn to snickers.

My face heats to a boil. I puff out my shoulders. These stares are fine. I look fine.

What’s not fine? No seating chart. Maybe at an academy ranked fourth in the nation that costs more to attend than Mom makes in a year, they don’t need one to behave. If I reject Jasper, these lurking, judgmental eyes will witness it. My spotlight will shine brighter. So will every little bit of me.

Sitting near Jasper for a whole period, though, will spotlight me worse. I wiggle my glasses. “Bad eyesight. Need the front row.”

Jasper’s hand wilts out of the air, the book in his grasp accidentally knocking his friend in the head. I swear, the constant red tint to his cheeks fades to a dull gray.

I walk toward a vacant front desk, my worries subsiding only somewhat. That felt polite enough, yet the sensation that I’m being watched persists. As the instructor goes over roll calls, icebreakers, and a borderline-threatening syllabus, that feeling grows worse. Am I holding my pencil right, or do guys hold them like they’re stabbing someone? Are my legs splayed out enough to seem casual but not so spread out to be inconsiderate?

The bell finally rings.

Thankfully, I don’t need to hunt too hard for my English lit class since I’m already in the Storge Academic Center, but I need the third floor. After rushing up a winding staircase, I locate the room at the end of a hall.

I open the door, then freeze.

“Charlie von Hevringprinz!”

Jasper, in the front row. This time, he’s stacked the desk beside him with a tower of objects. A messenger bag with JFG embossed in silver on the leather flap, his hardcover book, and a whole-ass globe. “I saved us better seats.”

He got here before me. How?

Why is he trying this desperately to get to know me?

I rack my brain for another excuse to sit far away. I’m the Excellence Scholar; I should be able to. The longer I take, the more eyes land on me. Trapping me.

No escape.

Slowly, I walk toward the reserved desk. “You didn’t have to,” I grumble.

“This is what roomies are for.” Jasper grins brighter than the silver JFG on his bag. He transfers the objects on my desk onto the floor, starting with the book—my enemy. Last night, his quilt blocked most of the cover, but now I see the author. PIERRE-MARIE LAFRAMBOISE .

Not his own poetry. Shocking.

More students trickle into the classroom. Now that I’ve marginally calmed down after the chaos of PE, I’m able to actually observe them. Each one wears the same red-and-black uniform as me, yet they somehow look cooler. Their plaid slacks cuff at the ankles, and their blazers are rolled to the elbows. At an academy with a twenty-page guidelines package, I suppose an unspoken list of rules would form to challenge them.

Totally casually, I roll up my sleeves.

Unspoken Guideline 1: There’s the traditional uniform, and there’s the real uniform.

The classroom door whips open.

“‘I CALLED MY LOVE FALSE LOVE,’” a low, bold voice bellows from the hall. A Black man with a dark complexion who must be young on the adult scale. His locks fall to the shoulder pads of his floral-print blazer, and his navy slacks are as tight as plastic wrap.

I gawk at his outfit, expecting everyone to do the same. They watch, bored, as if he’s explaining a conditional clause.

Unspoken Guideline 2: Students are forced to blend in with the traditional uniform, but instructors certainly are not.

“‘SING WILLOW, WILLOW, WILLOW,’” he bellows on the way to his desk, then slams down the briefcase with so much force that his blazer tail flaps behind him. Even his voice sounds like he didn’t graduate from college yet. “‘IF I COURT MORE WOMEN, YOU’LL COUCH WITH MORE MEN.’”

“ Othello ,” Jasper shouts beside me. “Shakespeare.”

The instructor grins so widely that his eyes crinkle at the sides. He pushes his chunky glasses higher up his nose. “Context?”

“A woman is being killed. It’s one of the few moments where women speak authentically to one another despite their differences within a play centering on male manipulation and violence.”

“Mr. G did his summer reading.” The instructor tosses him a lollipop from his briefcase.

Jasper catches it as voices pop up around the classroom.

“Of course it goes to Jasper.”

“The legend.”

“Bro should go on Jeopardy! ”

My brow furrows. People here actually like this high-and-mighty know-it-all?

Jasper’s “mysterious, confident poet” vibe did wow the guest speakers at our camp workshops. He could recite every poetic device and form before day one—which I denied impressed me despite my stuttering heart rate. Other campers, however, weren’t as subtle about their attraction to that intelligence. Jasper received no shortage of romantic interest from girls. That’s why, when he walked up to me and asked to work on our first dramatic mode assignment together, I assumed it was a twisted prank.

But now Jasper is trapped at an all-boys academy. He shouldn’t have a leg up anymore. Yet even though he can’t use his romantic charms here, he’s still well-liked.

Unbelievable.

The instructor shushes away the compliments about Jasper. “Thrilled to have you for another year, Mr. G. In the front row for once.”

Jasper kicks his feet onto the desk like an animal. “I need the best seat for your education, Mr. Stern.”

I flick my gaze between the odd poet and the odder instructor. Jasper doesn’t get a where are your blazer and tie? No put your feet down. He gets a thrilled to have you. Because he’s the principal’s nephew? A famous poet? Because he’s friends with the so-called Mr. Stern? These two do give off concerningly similar energy.

Great. One Jasper was plenty.

Although, Valentine does boast about hiring the most intelligent instructors in the nation, which means Mr. Stern must be as passionate about literature as I am.

When he starts our Othello discussion, my theory is proven. As he breaks into more monologues by memory, quizzing us on which character spoke what line, a breeze blows through the open window, carrying the scent of the lavender bushes and the trickling fountain beyond, where the major academic buildings encircle the courtyard like a small town. Instead of being surrounded by silent, sleeping, potentially dead students at online school, hands fly up around the room. These students are like me.

I’m like them .

I catch myself smiling as I take notes. I really have left behind online school, where class discussions barely existed. And Twenty-Eighth Avenue Middle School before that, where I had so little confidence that I didn’t make a single friend until Delilah at camp.

“‘Doting on his own obsequious bondage,’” Mr. Stern announces, a hand raised toward the ceiling, “‘wears out his time, much like his master’s ass.’ What does Iago mean?”

Easy. Othello is one of my favorites. The perfect play about betrayal. I raise my hand.

A voice comes behind my shoulder. “If you value obeisance too much, you’ll reach the end of your life with nothing to show but service. This, of course, plays out for Rodrigo later. Though, ironically, it’s Iago who he ends up being of service to and dies.”

The explanation was so eloquent that it must’ve been read from a textbook. I glance back to see the boy who stood by Jasper at the start of class—exceptionally put together, not a wrinkle on his dress shirt. He’s Black, on the lanky side, and has a drop fade with dark curls on top. On top of his overfilled organizational binder is a copy of Othello , sparkly bookmark with a horse on it sticking out. Robby Walker is written on the corner.

“Excellent, Mr. W,” Mr. Stern says, tossing him a lollipop over my head.

This is the intelligence I’m up against.

A crackling noise comes from my left. Jasper, tearing paper out of a leather journal. He holds a note my way. In the front row. Right before Mr. Stern.

Does he have a single brain cell?

I focus on taking my notes, but Jasper coughs. Again. Again. Now that he’s set his journal on the desk, I can make out the cover clasped by an ocean-blue crystal, and a bright red strip of fabric slides down the inner spine. Like on his cross-body bag, JFG is embossed on the cover. The typeface is the same too—an elegant serif font with the three letters overlapping. His initials? Does he imprint them on everything like a designer logo?

Jasper holds the note out my way again. His lopsided dimple pops.

Maybe it’s important.

I irritably snatch the folded note and peel back the corners. The paper is freakishly white due to the likely million-dollar price, but between smeared red ink and his scribbly penmanship, it’s barely legible. Just like his writing from camp.

Mr. Stern is the most inspiring sunrise of knowledge, is he not?

All that effort. For this.

I crumple the paper and shove it into my backpack. I’m an Excellence Scholar. He dares to distract me?

Jasper frowns. At least this makes him back off. He spends the rest of class with his feet still kicked up, twirling his fountain pen—which looks even pricier than his gold-plated journal. He observes the encircling academic buildings out the window, lost in his own world.

I remember that look. The way his blue eyes would soften when he’d gaze at the lake bordering campus, silently pondering a poem by my side. Compared to the way he’d run his mouth during workshops, this look felt like a truer part of him that he showed no one else, like I was special. It forced me to stop denying my racing heart any longer.

The only problem is, he shouldn’t be lost in his own world during class .

At least I know he won’t be top five competition.

More questions come and go over the hour. Hands shoot up to answer Mr. Stern, and I’m consistently a second too late. The competition is fiercer than the Olympics.

“Yes! Mr.—” Mr. Stern bends sideways to check his class roster on the desk. “H. V? H.”

The question melts out of my brain. I gave her such a one; ’twas my first gift. “Right! Uh—Othello. The gift is a handkerchief. Desdemona’s. Othello is attached because it’s the first gift he gave her. But he later cares for its familial value.”

“Correct!” Mr. Stern hurls a lollipop at my face.

I catch it with a grin.

The bell rings, and Mr. Stern recites a farewell speech. I snatch my Othello copy off the desk and toss my backpack over my shoulder, accidentally kicking Mr. Stern’s globe—which Jasper left on the floor—but still feeling on top of the world it so humbly depicts. I head out of the classroom.

Until Jasper shouts after me like he’s drowning in the courtyard fountain.

I spin around and clench my book so hard that my nails dig into the cover. “WHAT?”

Jasper stutters to a stop, classmates dodging him in the doorway. He’s sucking on his winning lollipop now, and the stick tilts as his face crinkles with offense. Only then do I realize how sharp I was toward someone who is supposed to be a stranger.

“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Did you need something?”

He pulls the lollipop out of his mouth, casually spinning it in the air. “Shall we go spend our intimate time together?”

A startled noise chokes out of me.

More stares for the millionth time that day. Spotlight number four.

Jasper doesn’t stop rambling about us getting to know each other intimately until I smother his mouth with my hand, and so abruptly that he drops the lollipop. “You can’t keep shouting stuff like this,” I snap. I don’t even care how close our faces are as long as he shuts up.

“Why?”

“People will misunderstand.”

He plucks my hand off like a used moist towelette. “I only meant having lunch.”

The idea to shout that I can barely spend three more seconds with him compels me, but my logic remembers the stakes. Keep my roommate—the principal’s nephew—on my good side in case he realizes anything he absolutely cannot. “I’m a bit busy.” I continue down the hallway.

He follows. “Too busy for Dix?”

“What’d you just say to me?”

“Dixon. The dining hall.” Jasper makes a face like I’m weird. “It’s by the Halo.”

Right. The courtyard is the Halo. Dix is the dining hall. I filter through my memory bank, trying to recall if I’ve embarrassingly referenced either incorrectly to other students yet.

We reach the exit of the academic center, and he rushes to open the door for me. I skipped breakfast, knowing I would sit alone in the dining hall like a loser, and didn’t feel hungry all morning. Now that’s rapidly fading.

Still, better to be hungry than sit with my new roommate who ruined my life once and could do the same again. “Sorry,” I say, walking down the steps, “I need to study whenever I have free time, being the second-year Excellence Scholar.”

Jasper’s mouth twists as he reaches the base step. The sun brightens his blond hair a shade and forces his sensitive blue eyes to squint. “Shame. I’m still so excited for us to learn more about each other, roommate. Rain check?”

I try and fail to hide my wince. “Maybe.”

“Wonderful! Until then.”

With that, Jasper wanders deeper into the Halo.

I want to feel like I won, but my stress only builds. When I return to my room tonight, we’ll be forced to spend that intimate time together. He’ll keep pestering me with those icebreakers from yesterday, demanding to know my favorite color and hobbies and siblings that don’t exist. I barely kept my identity hidden last night. How can I survive that again?

Glancing back at Jasper, I see that two plaid figures have already replaced me at his side. Sleeves rolled, slacks cuffed, charming faces that read rich parents and confident auras that signal popular . Maybe Jasper falls into the same bracket.

Another comes, shyly rubbing the back of his neck. He’s only as tall as Jasper’s shoulders, and his ripped, knockoff-brand backpack matches mine. Maybe a first year. Jasper gives him attention, throwing my deductions off.

If I’d gone with Jasper, I could’ve gotten to know all these people.

Regret pulls through me, but I shake it away.

Too risky. No friends.

While I’m searching the campus for a food source on my own, Laney’s Bean Shack catches my eye first. The outdoor coffee stall advertises the infamous chocolate-caramel “Jesus” lattes for double-digit prices, as if I can afford them. Nearby is a building with a gift shop sign, where a vending machine sticks out by the entrance.

Pulling my embarrassingly thin wallet out of my pocket, I survey the options behind the glass. Dining hall food is covered by the Excellence Scholarship, so this move is impressively devoid of intellect. But how can I go in when Jasper is there too?

Gradually, my attention is pulled toward the gift shop door, left open, and the burst of bright red beyond. Valentine-crested backpacks priced in the hundreds. VALENTINE DAD mugs. Academy slogan sweatshirts bragging about how old the campus is with EST. 1899 written in bold lettering. Behind the cash register, the classmate who sits in front of me during calculus wears an anthropomorphic, heart-shaped sandwich board sign. A costume.

So, some students do sacrifice their self-worth to afford lattes. Even during lunch hours.

I focus back on the vending machine, where chip bags are so faded from the sun that they look older than Mom. My void of a stomach forces me to select one.

“Are you serious?!”

Four guys surround a nearby sign under an awning. One is groaning, and he’s wearing his blazer sleeves rolled to his elbows, reminding me to fix my drooped one. “Why do ranks carry over from last year?”

“The rankings barely changed,” another responds.

“I wish it was the mixer already. I need a dopamine hit.”

As they drift away, I take their place at the sign titled WEEKLY GRADE RANKS . It’s divided into four columns, one for each class year. Under SECOND YEAR , full names are paired with numerical grade averages ranked from one to forty-six.

All our grades. Publicly shown.

Unspoken Guideline 3: Students perform the best in the nation because they fear humiliation in a public forum.

My insides twist. I must be ranked first. Second. My gaze zaps to the top of the second-year list. The first five names are marked with heart stickers.

Jasper Grimes (100/100)

That’s not my name.

I slap my palm against the sign and lean closer, squinting hard. Jasper is first. Yet he didn’t pay attention during classes. To receive a perfect hundred, he could never get a point off. Not even on a subjective essay. Clearly, I underestimated him.

Deep breaths. My name must be close.

Robert Walker (99.89/100)

Bingo A. Dixon (99.13/100)

Frankie Schultz (99.05/100)

Andrew Parker (98.98/100)

“WHERE AM I?” I shriek at the sign.

A few heads turn my way.

Straightening and stepping away, I clear my throat. In my online classes, grades were weighted out of 4.0. Advanced classes could bump us higher. But at Valentine, where everyone gets all As, they must have to readjust us out of a hundred for there to even be a competition. Here, it comes down to the tenths. I look closer at the board. No, the hundredths.

If they didn’t readjust the ranking system I bet I’d be flying past a hundred. Past Jasper .

I scan the list until I hit the bottom.

No Charlie von Hevringprinz. There’s only one explanation. My name isn’t here yet because my online grades never carried over. Relief crashes through me like a tidal wave, nearly making my legs collapse beneath my weight.

Next week, I’ll make the top five. I have to, or else I’ll say goodbye to my scholarship next term. Even though I could barely raise my hand in class today before someone else was already answering. Even though the competition is fiercer than I ever expected.

The relief twists into nausea. I grip my stomach to try to make it go away, to pretend like everything isn’t going wrong for one second.

“Mr. V! Mr. V!”

I spin around, clutching my copy of Othello to my chest.

A mash of floral prints and tight pants that could only belong to Mr. Stern rushes toward me, his briefcase jostling against his leg. “You exited my classroom in a dash.”

I swallow away the burning in my throat. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s fine. Just didn’t expect you of all people to want to leave my lesson so fast.”

“No, I was fascinated. Especially when you went deeper into iambic, trochaic, spondaic, anapestic, dactylic, and all the stress patterns in comparison to Shakespeare’s meter and length. Anapestic tetrameter has my whole heart—” I’m talking too fast. Embarrassment hits me so hard that I cover my face with Othello . “Sorry.”

Mr. Stern lowers the book. “I was a faculty member who reviewed your Excellence Scholar application. Your personal statement was the best one I’ve read since I was hired.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I’m eager to read your Othello essay due next week.”

I smile back. Maybe I can reach close to Jasper’s Rank One. His perfect hundred may be impossible, but Rank Two must be on the table.

Mr. Stern holds out a red note stamped with the Valentine crest. “Anyway, I chased after you because Principal Grimes called to ask you to her office. Here’s an excused pass for your next afternoon class.”

My blood runs cold. “Did she say why?”

“Just that it’s confidential. And time-sensitive.”

Confidential. Time-sensitive.

That’s it, then. Jasper realized who I am. He told his aunt the truth.

I’m already being kicked out.