Page 36 of And They Were Roommates

“A table made of tomes, naturally. What we call them in the STRIP Crypt.”

“Where?”

“This whole back room. On days like today, I wait on this side of the crypt or in the stacks until I’m needed to provide my gift of poetry to them all.” Over his shoulder, a cobweb slung along a corner catches my attention. An insect scurries across.

Jasper must notice because he stops writing. Hooking the clip of his pen onto his shirt pocket, he grabs a duster from the cleaning supplies bucket and knocks the web.

I grimace. Crypt, at least, is accurate.

“Welsh pony originating from southern Wales!” Robby announces from the main side of the room—crypt. “Number two!”

I peek through the curtain. Every visitor groans except one, who stands before Robby’s riding helmet full of trading cards, holding his own. It’s the same type that was passed out during my first-ever visit to the crypt. From a distance, I vaguely make out a picture of a brown horse with a bushy tail on one side.

“Every week, our patrons draw horse trading cards to determine the order they’ll be served by me,” Jasper whispers, standing so close that his breath tickles my ear.

I startle and take one firm step away, my face heating up all over again. His personal space issues will give me an ulcer. “By served, you mean get their love letter written by you?”

“Precisely. This is what we were busy with on the first day you came here. It’s luck of the draw.”

So I was right. “But there are no numbers on these cards.”

Jasper points beyond the curtain, toward a new patron drawing from the hat and then showing Robby the card.

“Akhal-Teke,” Robby announces. “Number nineteen.”

The so-called patron sighs and retreats.

“Robby is a”—Jasper switches to a bad French accent—“horse aficionado. He has a breed tier list—his most favorite to least favorite. Akhal-Teke is apparently his nineteenth-favorite horse right now. It mostly stays the same week to week, but there are some wild cards. His feelings toward the Welsh Cob change almost every time.”

Just when I thought these fake tutors couldn’t get weirder.

Although STRIP’s tradition as a whole is already weird. And so are the rest of Valentine’s real academy rules. Maybe it’s a product of their environment. Or maybe it’s simply that they’resome of the smartest students in the nation. That alone means their brains aren’t exactly typical.

Still, I can’t help but ask: “Why not use something normal to draw names? Sticks?”

“Robby can run our admin how he pleases. We trust him as the second year’s Rank Two. He’s aiming for MIT’s biochemistry program.”

My brow furrows up to my hairline. “An MIT hopeful is involved with this?”

“Of course. To MIT admissions, he’s tutoring at one of the smartest academies in the nation—the top one percent of smart. From the outside, at least, this is one of the most prestigious programs our academy has to offer. Blaze is also a supergenius; he skipped several grades and still landed at Valentine. He’s twelve.”

“Twelve?”

“You couldn’t tell from the—” Jasper gestures vaguely at Blaze’s five-foot stature across the crypt, where his uniform turned cape flows behind him.

“I guess,” I say.

Unspoken Guideline 9: Everyone is aiming for the stars, and I’m just trying to pass PE.

Jasper passes through the brocade curtain on a gust of his fragrance that’s growing more familiar by the day. He waves to gather the crypt’s focus. “Attention, patrons!”

The patrons wave back. A few even cheer. He reallyisliked.

“Welcome, as always, to the tradition our Valentine forefathers bravely founded over a hundred years ago to deliver letters of the heart between the brother and sister campuses. These last two years, I have been honored by the positive reception shown toward my love letters—a new, secondary option we’ve addedfor when your own letters are feeling, well, dull. Since we’ve begun this, STRIP’s one-on-ones have been conducted privately between me, the poet, and you, the lover.” Jasper pulls me toward him, tugging on my blazer cuff. “However, now you must consent to my new student being present. Everyone, welcome Charlie!”

Confused stares are the only response.

Then whispers.

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