Page 101 of And They Were Roommates

Mr. Stern sets his briefcase on his desk. “I hope you can wakeup 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. Ifhe 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.

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