Page 19 of And They Were Roommates

I freeze. What is he doing here?

Murmurs come from the next aisle. The last thing I need is Jasper noticing me while I’m in the middle of a chase. Tiptoeing past him, I pass byCRUISE LINES,TRAVEL AGENTS,ECOTOURISM, andHOSPITALITY INDUSTRY, before I realize the two students have stopped. One reaches toward the right side of a shelf and tugs on a green spine.

The bookcase swings inward. The two slip through, and it shuts again.

I’m hallucinating. Clearly. Or there’s a secret door. In the library.

I inspect the green spine. A thin booklet ofCupid and Psycheby Lucius Apuleius Madaurensis. In the travel section?

I tug the spine. Slowly, the bookcase reveals a small, office-sized room split by a maroon brocade curtain. The right is too dark to make out much, but the left is lit by antique library lamps set on shelves and sandwiched between mythologies and books of fairy tales. A runner rug directs a single-file line of red-and-black bodies toward the back, where three guys stand behind books stacked like makeshift tables. A handwritten sign stretches above.

Welcome to the Student Tutoring Remediation Interdisciplinary Program!

The tutoring programisback here.

As I wiggle my way around the line, the vanilla-like tang in the air grows muskier, more like dirt and mothballs, and I scrunch my nose. Eventually, I reach the three guys seemingly in charge, who must be tutors. I recognize two of them.

Xavier Nguyen, who saved my life in PE, writing names in a notebook. Seeing his muscles stuffed into the typical plaid-on-plaid uniform instead of a tracksuit is jarring. An enamel pin of the number three is fastened above the Valentine crest on his lapel, the gold material carved with flower petals, flaunting its price tag.

Robby Walker, aka Rank Two on the second-year grades, stands on his right. Another enamel pin is on his blazer: the number two. He shuffles cards with sparkles on one side and illustrated drawings on the other, but his rapid hand movements shield details. Trading cards? On his makeshift table, a horse-riding helmet is flipped upside down, full of more cards.

Not average tutor behavior.

Still, my nerves settle. I know them. I knowsomeonehere. “Hi—”

“Cutting is for the weak,” a third tutor beside Xavier interrupts. His low voice sounds forced to the back of his throat, yet it’s still higher in pitch than all the other competing conversations. His dress shoes, marked with spikelike symbols, are kicked up on his book stack. Between his narrow shoulders and shortness—he’s no taller than five feet—he looks younger than a first year.

I tilt my head. Most of his face is shrouded by bangs that crinkle like seaweed and look too black to be natural. The guidelines don’t allow dyed hair. “Excuse me?”

“You hearkened me.” The boy looks up, his bangs splitting and revealing such a pale complexion that his hair looks even darker now. He flashes a ring on his thumb—a ruby varsity gemstone that matches Mom’s varsity ring on my finger. “Or shall I eradicate you myself?”

I glance around, expecting everyone to acknowledge the middle schooler who has broken into Valentine to threaten me.

Only Xavier stops writing in his notebook. “Oh, Charlie.”

My chest leaps. He remembered my name.

Except no one is supposed to remember who I am. No spotlights. I push down my excitement. “Yeah. Hi.”

A slamming noise strikes behind us. I startle and look over my shoulder.

Fairy-tale books tumble off a shelf where Jasper’s shoulder is pressed now, like he rammed into the thing at full force. His breathing is heavy. “Is someone named Charlie here?”

I stare at him in horror. Does he have the hearing of a hawk?

“Who’s holding up the line?” someone complains.

Bobby signals those impatiently waiting to shift farther down, moving them away from our conversation. Once the crowds split enough for Jasper to spot me, he rushes to the front on a blast of his sneeze-inducing floral fragrance, shampoo, and soap—allof it.

“I see you couldn’t resist spending intimate time with me today, roomie,” Jasper says through a grin. He wears an enamel pin too—a gold number one fastened to his red dress shirt, weighing down the neckline and exposing his collarbone more than usual.

“Why areyouhere?” I ask, keeping my eyes firmly on his face.

“STRIP.”

I clutch my blazer. “Excuse me?”

“Student Tutoring Remediation Interdisciplinary Program,” Xavier says, who’s returned to jotting names and numbers in his notebook. “STRIP for short.”

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