Page 2 of And They Were Roommates

“Right, but—”

“As you should know, we have a history of celebrating Saint Valentine’s lifelong passion for love through our own passion—for learning. This academy is for traditional, intensive study, and all electronic and internet access is limited as such.” After his clearly rehearsed speech, Maverick takes a long look at my basic black T-shirt and jeans that are still too long for comfort despite being cuffed. “And, once checked into your room, students must change into proper uniform.”

“I didn’t know,” I mutter, crossing my arms enough to cover my chest.

How could I? Most people don’t know what goes on behind Valentine Academy’s ivy walls. The outside world only knows that students from here end up in top-tier universities.

Even with Mom and Delilah’s combined wisdom, I feel lost.

“All campus guidelines are in your package.” He hands me a bound stack of paperwork with my full name sticky-noted on top. “Class schedules will be delivered tomorrow morning. Welcome to Valentine.”

Philautia Residence Hall is the missing piece of a castle.

Rather, a cobblestone tower with turret-like domes that screams early 1800s. Seven metal statues of Saint Valentine, the celebrated man himself, guard the front arch. Some pose with palm branches. Others outstretch their arms in cleric robes. A sign beneath is inscribed withLOVE IS PATIENT, LOVE IS KIND.

A chill rushes through me as I head into the lobby. Thankfully, there aren’t more statues of old men advertising love to the academy’s underage population. Just cedar benches that belong in a glamping cabin and tickle my nose with their faint earthy scent. Chandeliers twinkle above me as I follow a path made by a mahogany rug to a vacant winding staircase at the back.

After five flights, I stand before an absurdly long hallway punctuated with thick wooden doors. The stone-tiled floor is adorned by yet another rug, and the embossed art nouveau wallpaper effortlessly reminds me that this academy was resurrected in 1899. Once I reach the end, I spot the placard I’m looking for.

ROOM 503.

On the door is an intricate engraving of the same crest printed on half of Mom’s sweatshirts. Gold paint accents theVALENTINE ACADEMY FOR BOYSandNAM AMOR TRADITIONALIS EDUCATIONISrunning along the top and bottom, and red fills the inner heart design. An arrow brutally stabs through the center.

Beyond this hallway is my roommate. Someone who could discover the truth easier than anyone else here.

“But, man, the blockade.”

“You think G cares?”

I look toward the voices. Two classmates wearing Valentine crest sweatshirts step out of Room 506. As they pass by, one spots me staring and goes in for a handshake. A bro kind.

My panic takes over, making me nearly black out as I floppily twist my hand around his own. He stares a beat too long to be considered normal before he silently continues to the staircase with his friend.

Awesome. Great work.

Re-collecting myself with a breath, I shove my room key into the lock.

The door creaks open, revealing twin beds with the crest on the quilts, cedar wood dressers and desks, and dome windows with velvet red drapes. What’s most jarring is the wallpaper—a repeating pansy bouquet pattern, casting the room in shades of pink and puke green.

No roommate.

The knot in my stomach unravels. He isn’t here. Yet.

Although one side has already been claimed. The bigger side, flaunting a longer wall that allows the bed, dresser, and desk space to spread out, unlike the other. Of course.

Three stacked suitcases of increasing size are beside his bed. No,trunks. Old-timey and leather with brass hinges and everything. Books are scattered along his desk and the floor, flowing onto my side.

Who is this guy? Is he eighty?

Kicking his books out of the way, I toss my five-pound package detailing all the school’s guidelines on the desk that’s apparently mine, then roll my suitcase up to the accompanying bed. When I throw myself on top, my body sinks deep into the ridiculously plush, thousand-dollar mattress. I try to adjust so I don’t drown in my own bed but eventually give up.

I’m alone. In my new room. I cast an arm over my face to block out the world. The fears I’ve shoved down since orientation rush to the surface. My plan to lie low like Mom suggested was already nearly ruined by a handshake.

Ahandshake.

I feel like I’m twelve again, back when Mom first took me to Valentine’s brother campus for theirHamletproduction. The boys who sat beside us used words I’d never heard, messed with each other in ways they innately knew how to, like a magic spell. All I could think was how much I wanted to be put under it too. At first, I assumed since Mom had been an Excellence Scholar on their nearby sister campus, that unshakable feeling was because I belonged at Valentine too. I went to their Shakespeare and Classics camp two years later. Stayed in the sister campus residential hall and fell in love with how much I learned. And realized the truth. I didn’t only want to go to Valentine because of Mom or the education.

I’d been drawn to those boys because I wanted to be a boy. Because I was a boy.

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