SAINT-VÉRAN

CLINGY BOY

I begin to suspect Lucien Valmont is haunting me.

There is no other explanation.

He is everywhere.

At breakfast, he sits three seats away.

In history, he takes the chair beside me.

In mathematics, he appears across the aisle.

At lunch, I find him at the table directly behind mine.

In the library, where I specifically choose the most isolated corner because I am certain nobody will bother me, I look up from my textbook and find him sitting opposite me.

He doesn’t even pretend it’s accidental.

He simply sits down.

Opens a book.

And says nothing.

I stare at him.

He looks at me.

“Problem, Scholar?”

I hate that nickname.

Mostly because I like the way he says it.

Which is a problem I refuse to examine.

“No.”

“Good.”

He returns to his book.

I stare at him for another five seconds.

Then I look away.

This is becoming ridiculous.

It starts at breakfast.

I arrive early because I have discovered that the dining hall is almost peaceful before everyone wakes up.

I take my usual seat beside the window.

I have just spread my notes beside my plate when someone drops into the chair opposite me.

I don’t need to look up.

“Good morning, Scholar.”

I close my eyes.

“Do you have to call me that?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because you hate it.”

I look up.

He’s eating toast.

Calmly.

As though irritating me is simply another item on his morning schedule.

“I don’t hate it.”

“You do.”

“No.”

“You make that face.”

“What face?”

“That one.”

He points his knife at me.

I look offended.

Apparently, that makes him smile.

It’s barely there.

A small curve at the corner of his mouth.

I realize I’ve been staring.

I immediately look down.

“Do you always sit here?”

He asks.

“Yes.”

“So do I.”

“You’ve never sat here before.”

“I have now.”

I look at him.

He looks completely serious.

I sigh.

“Fine.”

I return to my notes.

A few minutes later, I realize I have forgotten my pencil.

I check my bag.

Nothing.

My pockets.

Nothing.

I groan quietly.

Lucien reaches across the table.

He places a pencil beside my notebook.

I look at it.

Then at him.

“Where did you get that?”

“You were looking for one.”

“I know.”

“Then why ask?”

I take it.

“Thank you.”

He nods.

“You’re welcome.”

It’s such a normal exchange that I don’t know what to do with it.

Then I notice something.

The pencil is exactly the kind I use.

Cheap.

Plain.

Blue.

Not the expensive mechanical pencils everyone else seems to carry.

I look at Lucien.

He is already eating again.

I say nothing.

By Wednesday, he has taken one of my books.

Not borrowed.

Taken.

I discover this in the middle of literature class.

I reach into my bag.

My textbook is gone.

I check again.

Nothing.

I look underneath my chair.

Nothing.

Then I hear a page turn.

I look sideways.

Lucien has my book.

It’s open on his desk.

I stare at him.

“Give it back.”

“No.”

“That’s mine.”

“I know.”

“Then give it back.”

He turns a page.

I reach for it.

He moves it away.

“Lucien.”

“Yes?”

“Give me my book.”

“Ask nicely.”

I stare at him.

“I’m asking.”

“That’s not nice.”

I lower my voice.

“Please give me my book.”

He hands it over immediately.

I blink.

“That worked?”

“You said please.”

“You could have just given it to me.”

“But then I wouldn’t know if you could say please.”

I look at him.

He looks completely satisfied.

I open the book.

A small piece of paper falls from between the pages.

I pick it up.

There’s handwriting on it.

You’re distracting me.

I look at Lucien.

His expression is unreadable.

I flip the paper over.

Nothing.

“Did you write this?”

“No.”

I look back at the handwriting.

It’s definitely his.

I hold it up.

He takes it from my fingers.

Then he folds it.

Puts it in his pocket.

“Forget it.”

I don’t.

Of course I don’t.

The strange thing is that Lucien never actually bothers me in front of other people.

If anything, he becomes quieter.

He doesn’t tease me.

He doesn’t touch my things.

He doesn’t call me Scholar.

It’s almost as though there are two versions of him.

The one everyone sees.

And the one I see when we’re alone.

I don’t know which one is real.

Maybe both.

Maybe neither.

On Thursday, it rains.

Not gently.

The kind of rain that turns the academy courtyard into a sheet of silver.

Classes finish late.

By the time I leave the library, it’s nearly eleven.

I pull my coat tighter and step outside.

I can make it back to the dorm.

It’s only a few minutes.

I walk down the covered path.

The rain blows sideways anyway.

A car speeds past the academy gates.

Its tires splash through a puddle.

I jump back.

Then I hear:

“Scholar.”

I turn.

Lucien is standing beneath the archway.

His hands are in his pockets.

His hair is damp.

“What are you doing?”

“Walking.”

“It’s raining.”

“I noticed.”

“You shouldn’t walk alone.”

“I’m not alone.”

He looks behind me.

Nobody.

Then back at me.

“You’re alone.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you here?”

He doesn’t answer.

Instead, he steps into the rain.

He walks beside me.

I stare.

“You don’t have an umbrella.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t need one.”

I look at him.

Rain is already soaking through his hair.

“This is stupid.”

“Probably.”

We continue walking.

The path is narrow.

Lucien stays on the outside.

Closest to the road.

Every time a car passes, he moves slightly between me and the traffic.

I notice.

After the third time, I finally ask:

“Why do you keep doing that?”

“Doing what?”

“Walking there.”

He glances toward the road.

“Instinct.”

I don’t believe him.

But I don’t ask again.

When we reach the dormitory entrance, he stops.

“You first.”

“What?”

“Go inside.”

“I know where my room is.”

“I know.”

I stare at him.

“You really are strange.”

“So I’ve been told.”

I walk inside.

At the doorway, I turn around.

He’s still standing outside.

“You’re coming?”

“In a minute.”

“Why?”

He shrugs.

“Making sure you get inside.”

I don’t know what to say.

So I nod.

Then I go upstairs.

Friday afternoon, I discover something else.

People talk about scholarships differently here.

At my old school, a scholarship meant you were doing well.

At Saint-Véran, it seems to mean you’re an exception.

Something temporary.

Something that can be taken away.

I’m at my locker when two boys stop nearby.

I recognize one of them from mathematics.

His name is Adrian.

He looks at my uniform.

Then at me.

“So you’re the scholarship student.”

I nod.

“Yes.”

“Must be nice.”

I don’t understand.

“What?”

“Getting everything for free.”

My fingers tighten around my books.

“I still have to meet the academic requirements.”

He laughs.

“Sure.”

His friend joins in.

“Do they give you spending money too?”

“No.”

“Shame.”

I try to close my locker.

Adrian puts his hand against it.

“Relax. We’re just asking.”

“I have class.”

“What’s the rush?”

I look down.

“I need to go.”

“You’re always studying.”

He laughs.

“That’s probably why they let you in.”

I say nothing.

I’ve learned that silence makes things end faster.

Usually.

“What’s it like?”

I look up.

“What?”

“Being surrounded by people you’ll never be able to keep up with?”

His friend laughs.

Something hot burns behind my eyes.

I hate that.

I hate feeling embarrassed.

I hate that I can’t think of anything clever to say.

I hate that my hands are shaking.

Then someone speaks behind them.

“Move.”

The laughter stops.

Adrian turns.

Lucien stands at the end of the corridor.

I don’t know how long he’s been there.

His expression is completely blank.

That’s worse than anger.

Much worse.

Adrian straightens.

“We were joking.”

Lucien walks closer.

“I didn’t ask.”

Nobody speaks.

Lucien looks at Adrian.

Then his eyes drop to the hand still resting on my locker.

“Take your hand off.”

Adrian does.

Immediately.

Lucien doesn’t raise his voice.

He doesn’t threaten him.

He doesn’t need to.

Adrian mutters something under his breath.

Lucien takes one step forward.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Adrian leaves.

His friend follows.

The corridor becomes quiet.

I stare at Lucien.

“Thank you.”

He looks at me.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Thank me.”

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t do it for you.”

I frown.

“Then why did you?”

He doesn’t answer.

He takes my books from my arms.

I immediately reach for them.

“I can carry those.”

“I know.”

“Then give them back.”

“No.”

“Lucien.”

“You’re going to class.”

“I know.”

“I’ll carry them.”

I stare at him.

He starts walking.

I follow.

“You’re impossible.”

“I’ve heard.”

“You’re annoying.”

“I know.”

“You’re arrogant.”

“I’ve been told.”

“You’re- ”

“Careful, Scholar.”

I stop.

He turns.

There’s the smallest smile on his face.

“You’re starting to sound fond of me.”

My face becomes hot.

“I’m not.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Good.”

Then he continues walking.

I follow him.

Because apparently I have no dignity left.

That evening, I find another note on my desk.

I pick it up.

Four words.

Don’t let them change you.

I stare at it for a long time.

I don’t know why those words hurt.

Maybe because nobody has ever said them to me before.

I fold the note carefully.

I put it inside my textbook.

Again.

I tell myself I’m keeping it because throwing away someone else’s handwriting feels rude.

That is another lie.

At midnight, I wake up.

I don’t know why.

The room is dark.

Moonlight spills through the curtains.

For a moment, I hear nothing.

Then I notice Lucien standing beside the window.

He’s looking outside.

His back is toward me.

I sit up.

“Lucien?”

He turns.

“Go back to sleep.”

“What are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

I look at the window.

The lake is barely visible beyond the darkness.

“You don’t sleep much.”

“Neither do you.”

“I was sleeping.”

“You were dreaming.”

I frown.

“What?”

He looks at me for a moment.

Then says:

“You said something.”

“What did I say?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Lucien?”

He looks away.

“Nothing important.”

I lie back down.

But before I close my eyes, I hear him say quietly:

“Goodnight, Elias.”

Not Scholar.

Not Morel.

Elias.

Something about hearing my name in his voice makes my chest tighten.

I pull the blanket higher.

“Goodnight.”

I close my eyes.

I tell myself Lucien Valmont is only my roommate.

Nothing more.

The boy who keeps appearing beside me.

The boy who steals my books.

The boy who walks closest to traffic.

The boy who remembers which pencil I use.

The boy who notices when I’m uncomfortable before I say anything.

The boy who becomes frighteningly quiet when someone hurts me.

Just my roommate.

Just the golden boy.

Just someone I should stay away from.

So why, when I finally fall asleep, is the last thing I think about the sound of him saying my name?