Page 12 of And They Were Roommates

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 withJFGembossed 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 tryingthisdesperately 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 ruleswouldform 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 theway 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.”

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