Page 62 of And They Were Roommates

“Me?”

“Whatever you’d like, write it now. No lesson. No rules. Five minutes.”

“I don’t know if this is better or worse.”

Jasper leans his weight on a palm, his drink hovering by his lips. Waiting.

I aimlessly look around the room until I land on our bookcase.Othellocatches my eye, then some classics, and then a box set of Sherlock Holmes. Getting back up and digging through my backpack by the door, I pull out my blackout poetry assignment.

“Care to share with the class?” Jasper says from the circle. The candlelight has his uniform glowing a brighter red than usual, and his lips even more.

I return beside him. “I was just—”

Jasper takes the packet out of my hand. “Let me see.”

Nerves lurch up my throat as he reads. I pick at my nails as the minutes pass. Either he has the reading level of a first-grader as Rank One or he’s analyzing the page multiple times.

Finally, Jasper lifts his head. He smiles as charmingly as theposters and cutouts on his walls, no matter how much I deny it. “May I ask you to be date?”

“Couldn’t find amy,” I mumble.

“I see that.”

“And the letters won’t be personalized anymore if it’s blackout poetry. But.”

“I disagree.” He twirls a finger toward our bookcase. “Inside any story over there, you’ll find words that relate to our patrons’ qualms. It’s a compelling idea.”

I squirm along the rug. “You can tell me if it’s bad.”

“Charlie. Blackout poems are some of the most difficult to craft. The fact that you got this close on your first try is”—he chuckles—“impressive. You’re special, I hope you know.”

Special.

Finally. The word comes from his lips.

People have told me that I’m special before.A special student. A special candidate for our scholarship.Yet my stomach won’t stop flipping.

Why? Because an empty bedroom is closer in reach, knowing I might stand a chance at writing these letters?

But I wasn’t even thinking about my room. This illness again?

No. This is something I’ve felt before.

Jasper clasps my forearm only briefly. I jolt. “Are you all right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” Except a phantom burn remains where he touched. This is a disease. The flu. I’m dying. I have to be.

This isn’t anything else.

Jasper keeps studying my blackout poetry. “I once knew someone who had the same hesitations toward writing as you. Hated poetry, even.”

The words suck out all the air from my lungs. I stare at him—at the way his voice is so distant and soft. Almost like he’s remembering.

I force out a warbly laugh. “Really?”

“Really. You two had so little confidence, yet you eventually touched the stars.”

I swipe the page out of his grasp and press it to my chest. “Well, thank you for being an incredible love tutor!”

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