Page 41 of And They Were Roommates

Thought I mightwhat?

I guessed that Luis clocked me assomethingwhen we first met, but this confirms it. Fear creeps in, wondering if he’s figured out what exactly that something is—and if he’s not the only one. Still, the fear is milder than expected, knowing it’s Luis. He may count as my people. Our issues are similar, at least.

“If I got a love letter,” Luis starts again through more noodles, “then I’d want it to be heartfelt and stuff. Something I could read at the wedding years later.”

Never mind.

The conversation topic is my fault, but I’m already squirming in my chair. I reach for a napkin in the dispenser instead of looking at him, only to grab a trading card with a horse on it. Furrowing my brow, I stick it back in. “You’re not joking?”

“Nah.”

“I assumed you’d want a purposely bad pickup line.”

“Okay, not too heartfelt.I’m in love, love, love; oh, please, baby, oh—is cringe.”

I grimace. “Don’t say that again.”

“Exactly. So, no cringe, but I’d make it count. Especially if it were for the mixer. It’s the one thing that keeps us alive while we pull all-nighters and fail tests through the year. The love letter’s gotta match the fanfare.”

“How did this mixer become this big of a deal, anyway?”

Luis shrugs. “Why are the Buffalo suburbs decked out in so many blow-up inflatables and flashing lights around Christmas that you total your car? Why do we watch the Superbowl’s ten minutes of gameplay when it’s three whole hours long? Stuff gets hype.”

I force myself to meet his eyes again. “You really think heartfelt is the most logical?”

He smiles like this topic isn’t uncomfortable at all. Is this how most are about the cursed L-word? “My brain says I should care more about something like this. You get a lifetime to tell jokes, but you only get one chance to confess your true feelings.”

We finish lunch and exit into a downpour, knocking the temperature down enough that goose bumps dot my arms. He leaves for the residential hall, but I head toward the weekly grade ranking board, the grip on my umbrella tightening by the second. Classmates rush past me so quickly that their raincoats flutter behind them, and their boots splash gross puddle juice on my slacks. Icy gunk seeps into my socks, but my stress won’t let me care.

“One week works, Tutor Jasper.” I punt a chunk of gravel, imagining I’m aiming for the back of Jasper’s stubby ponytail. “That’s fine, Tutor Jasper.What is wrong with you, Charlie?”

No way can I finish nineteen letters in one day—and makethem meaningful enough to have them read at a wedding—like Luis suggested. Mytrue feelings. I don’t have any when I have zero experience in the art of romance.

Well, a little.

My mind flashes with memories of the only person I’ve kissed, looking two years younger than he does now, and my heartbeat thrums quicker. Jasper doesn’t count as experience in the art of romance when he broke my heart. He’s left me withnegativeexperience.

Voices pull my attention. By Laney’s Bean Shack, raincoated bodies swarm the grade ranks beneath the awning. Two instructors use stepladders to hang listings. A third sits with a basket on her lap. The numbered enamel pins.

My name is high enough on the ranks to make out above the crowd.

28. Charlie von Hevringprinz

Relief shoots up to my head and down to my toes. Halfway to the top five.

I have to tell Mom.

I rush through the Halo, shielding myself against the wind with my umbrella until I’m slamming open the office door. Ms. Lyney startles behind the counter, but the lifelike stuffed gnomes on the shelves stay still. She gawks at the umbrella dripping by my thigh, then the sopping coattail of my basic, non-Valentine-branded raincoat.

“May I contact my mom?” I ask through a gasp for breath.

Even though communication with family is minimal, according to the guidelines package, Ms. Lyney simply searches up myname to dial Mom and holds out the phone. My flushed face and dramatic entrance must’ve screamed emergency enough.

I set my umbrella by the door and take the phone. After two rings, Mom picks up.

“Hello?” Her voice warbles more than normal on that one word alone, which means she definitely saw the Valentine caller ID. Like she’s already expecting the worst.

My chest sinks. Maybe, because of what I’m hiding, she always will be.

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