Page 47 of And They Were Roommates

“Came out of the woods. I tried… fighting it, but it was too late.”

A corner of Jasper’s lip curls. His slender fingers fix the chess pieces I knocked over, one by one, his bracelet jangling against the board. “Cats don’t casually set up shop in the woods, von Hevringprinz. Au Sable Forks is known to have coyotes, though.”

Unspoken Guideline 12: Valentine has coyotes. Do not go in the woods.

“Oh,” I say.

“Doesohmean you’re locking inI was attacked by coyotesas your final answer?”

“Yes?”

Jasper points a white pawn at my very intact composition notebook.

My heart pounds harder. “I’d already ripped out the letters, so that’s why my notebook is still—”

He grabs my notebook off the desk. I attempt to snatch it, butJasper bends too far away to reach. Holding the packet over his head, he inspects my pitiful scribbles. “What’s this, then?”

“Not finished,” I rush to say. A famous poet can’t read that.

“Art is never truly finished.” Jasper clears his throat. “Roses are red. Violets are blue. You make me. Say yahoo.”

A textbook page flips at a nearby desk. A cough echoes through the library.

Jasper casts aside the packet, knocking down the chess pieces he just fixed. “Might I ask why you’re set on thisroses are redpattern?”

If Jasper thought I wasspecial, he doesn’t anymore.

I play with the lamp pull chain beside us in a catatonic state of humiliation. “I don’t know where else to start.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Of what?”

“Roses are red, violets are blueis a cliché. Writers are told to never use them. Do you know why that is, student?”

During that poetry workshop I was forced to take with Jasper, guest speakers hammered this rule into our heads. “The more we repeat certain phrases, the more they lose emotional impact over time.”

Intrigue flickers across Jasper’s gaze like he’s impressed. I can’t deny the rush of how good that feels. “Correct. Sometimes, clichés stop areaderfrom experiencing emotions. Other times, it can also be the writer.”

He wants me to write about my emotions again.

I pick at a hangnail and scowl, feigning ignorance. “I don’t understand.”

“You’re holding yourself back from expressing your true feelings about romance. You can’t write love letters if you are.”

My pencil case. Now’s a good time to clean it. I pick out a fewpencils with dud erasers. “Mytrue feelingis that I don’t believe in romance.”

“How come?”

I can feel Jasper’s blue eyes focused on me like no one else exists. The same look that drew me in years ago. I shrug.

“You’ve had romantic experiences before?”

A pencil slips out of my hands. “Uh—I—”

“Why else would you feel this strongly about your lack of belief?”

My brain screams to shield my face with a textbook, to drape more hair over my eyes, to run back to Queens. If I lie to Jasper, he’ll keep pestering me. If I tell the truth, his memory could be jogged.

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