THESE THORN KISSES, page 4
I don’t think I can face anyone tonight. I’ll apologize to everyone tomorrow.
And because if he wants to escort me somewhere, my commanding and confusing protector, he should take me to my safe place, my house where my attic is.
Slinging my heels over my shoulders, I swat my wayward strands away. “You don’t mind if I walk barefoot, do you? I don’t think I can wear my heels again tonight.”
For a moment I think he’s frozen.
His frame, his eyes. That seem to be on my newly freed hair that flutters around my face and my shoulders. Around the small of my back too.
But then he moves and I think I was imagining it.
Nodding in response to my question, he clips, “After you.”
And I tell my heart to stop going crazy at the prospect of being escorted by him as I begin walking.
My heart doesn’t listen though.
It races and pounds with every step I take — we take. Because he’s walking beside me as he said. He’s keeping his steps small in order to match my naturally short ones.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
I don’t know what to do with him.
Who is he?
What’s his name? Where’s he from?
How does he know the Halseys? Because that’s the party we both came from. Why did he look so still back there? So frozen, so breathless.
Lifeless.
Suddenly that’s all I can think about.
Him appearing devoid of life.
And I want to ask him about it. I mean, he asked me for my story even though it ended so abruptly like that. Shouldn’t I at least ask his?
I’m all ready to do that but I realize that we’ve stopped moving.
Or rather, I have.
Because we’ve reached our destination, and I don’t even remember walking or turning the corners and crossing the streets.
“This is my house,” I tell him, looking at the huge mansion we’re standing in front of.
It has tall, thick pillars and a lavish garden along with sprawling marble stairs that lead up to the large polished brown doors. A Lamborghini — my dad’s recent purchase — is parked in the circular driveway.
And even though my safe attic is waiting for me in there, I don’t want to go in.
“Would you…Would you like to come inside?”
It’s a last-minute invitation and I know he’s going to refuse it. I already know that but still I had to issue it. Because strangely, I don’t want him to leave.
I don’t want this night to end.
When he remains silent, I abandon the sight of my house and face him.
And it’s my turn to freeze.
Blue.
His eyes are blue. Finally I can see them; the driveway is lit up and even though we’re standing at a distance from it, the glow still reaches him and lights him up.
Dark, gleaming denim blue.
With which he’s taking in the house behind me before he focuses on my face. “You’re an artist.”
My tongue is thick in my mouth because I can see his hair too, somewhat at least and I think, it’s dirty blond. And so all I can do is nod.
He bores those eyes into my light silver ones. “You’re an artist because you are one. Because you draw. You paint, you sketch. Because that’s what you do and that’s what you love. Not because some asshole teacher told you that you are. He didn’t make you an artist. You were one long before you met him and you’re going to be one long after him. You will be one even if you give it up. Because that’s who you are. It doesn’t matter what the world wants or says. What your parents think. All that matters is what you want. All that matters is what you love, what makes you feel alive. Because this is your life. You’re the one who’s going to live it. So you should be the one to make all the choices. You should be the one who should do the things you want to do and dream all the things you want to dream.”
He pauses here because I think he has to.
Because I think something passes through his eyes, making them bright and fraught with mysterious emotions.
“Because sometimes you don’t. You don’t get to do what you want. You don’t get to dream. You don’t get to choose. Sometimes you don’t get to make your life because your life’s made for you. And it’s… hard. To live like that. It’s difficult.” His gaze flicks back and forth between mine. “So if you’re an artist, you should stay one.”
“H-how do you know the Halseys?” I ask.
Even though I can’t hear my own voice over the drumbeats of my heart, I still know I’ve asked him that.
I still know that I want to ask him so many things, so I just blurt them out. “I saw you at the party. The wedding party? I was there too. Before I ran out of it. I saw you in a corner, all alone and so… still. I thought you weren’t even breathing. I don’t… I don’t understand that. Why did you look like that? Why… Are you friends with the groom? The bride? What’s… Who are you?”
My words are disjointed. I know.
I might not even be making any sense right now. At least that’s why I think he hasn’t said anything.
That’s why I think his jaw is all tight and clenched as he watches me with intense eyes.
And maybe that’s why he takes a step back from me.
From my crazily breathing and shivering body. My body that’s buzzing with curiosity. With his words that he just said. With panic that I’m never going to see him again.
That he’s going to leave any second and I know I won’t forget him.
Even though I know nothing about him.
Not one thing.
And he does do that. He does leave.
Only before turning around and leaving into the night, he says, in that same deep rough voice of his, “Good luck, Bronwyn.”
Dreams and choices.
These are the two things I never think about.
Because I don’t have them.
And so it doesn’t make sense to waste my time longing for the things that I no longer have. Things that are meaningless. Things that only drag me down and make me angry.
Make me feel hollow and heavy at the same time.
But tonight is different.
Tonight is the night I can’t keep my useless thoughts at bay. Tonight I can’t help but feel angry.
Furious.
Left behind.
Like a fucking child on a playground.
I can’t help but feel that the world moves on while I stand here, unmoving.
Still.
Why were you so still?
Her voice echoes in my brain as I walk away from her after dropping her off at her mansion. And even though I’ve been trying really fucking hard tonight to shut down my foolish thoughts, I can’t help but answer her in my head.
I looked still probably because I was.
Probably because that’s what my life is: still. And because I’d just witnessed someone move on.
Her.
I was so still at that party tonight because I watched my dream walk down the aisle in a white dress with a man who wasn’t me.
Who would never be me.
There’s a girl I’m staring at.
She has messy black hair, thick bangs hanging in her eyes. And she’s glaring at me.
Possibly because I just woke her up from sleep.
By throwing a glass of water in her face.
In my defense, I tried everything before this. I tried waking her up gently, talking to her, reasoning with her. But you can’t really reason if a person is snoring in their pillow. So I had to get creative.
“Hey,” I greet her, putting the glass back down on the nightstand by her bed. “Good morning.”
“I’m going to kill you,” she seethes, pushing her wet black hair off her face. “I swear to God, Bronwyn. I will end you.”
“No, you won’t, Poe Austen Blyton. Because you love me,” I tell her, smiling because she does that when she’s trying to annoy me, use my full name. So I use her full name, complete with her middle name, back. “Now, time to get ready. We’re going to be late for class.”
She flops down on her bed again. “Ugh. Stop using my full name. And don’t try to be nice to me right now. I’m mad at you.”
“You’re not allowed to be mad at me. I’m trying to save your ass.”
Her only response is throwing both arms on her face and growling.
I sigh. “Poe, you can’t be late to any more classes, okay? School’s only been open for like a couple of months and you’ve lost almost all your privileges. You can’t afford to lose any more.”
“I don’t care. I hate this place,” she declares from behind her arms. “Let them take all my privileges away. I’ll start a revolution, you’ll see. I’ll burn down this whole school, trust me.”
I do.
I do trust her.
If anyone can start a revolution and destroy this place, it’s Poe. One of my very best friends and the resident troublemaker of this place.
By this place, I mean St. Mary’s School for Troubled Teenagers.
“Well, I have complete faith in you. You will start a revolution, Poe. One day. But before that happens, you still need to go to class. Besides, do you remember what day it is?”
That gets her attention.
She lowers her arms from her face and blinks up at me. “What?”
“It’s Monday after Thanksgiving.”
It takes her a second to make sense of what I’m telling her and when she catches on, it happens. And I realize that I should’ve probably led with that. I’m an idiot.
Poe jerks up to a sitting position, finally looking alert. “Oh my God, it is.”
“Yup.”
“So today’s the day.”
“Today’s the day, yes,” I agree.
Then she jumps off the bed and starts scrambling. “Oh my fucking God, Wyn. I need to prepare. I need to get extra ready. Why didn’t you wake me up sooner? You know I haven’t seen him in months. Months, Wyn. I need to look my best. I need…”
And I know my job is done. She’s awake and I know she’s going to get ready on time. So I leave Poe to her devices and tackle my next project: waking up my second best friend, Salem Salinger.
Who doesn’t need to be woken up at all, apparently.
Because unlike Poe, she remembers exactly what day it is. So she’s all awake and ready to go, and as excited — if her huge grin and shining eyes are any indication — as Poe.
And I have to say it’s a rare sight, seeing my friends excited about a day at school.
Because St. Mary’s is slightly different than a regular high school.
It’s definitely a lot different from the boarding school my parents wanted to send me to last year.
For one, this school is located in the middle of the woods in the town of St. Mary’s and not in Connecticut. And secondly, St. Mary’s is an all-girls school that people send their daughters to because of a very specific reason.
To be reformed.
Rehabilitated. Restored. Remade even.
Meaning, people send their delinquent, troublemaking daughters to St. Mary’s School for Troubled Teenagers — a reform school — to become good.
Like if you steal something, say money, and try to run away with it. And you think your getaway plan is foolproof but it’s not and you get caught. And the person who catches you — let’s say your guardian — wants to teach you a lesson? This is the place they’ll send you to do that.
Or instead of money, you could steal a car and drown it in a lake for revenge on your ex-boyfriend. That will land you here as well. Or maybe you’ve always been a troublemaker and people around you are tired of your wild ways. In that case too, this is where you’ll find yourself.
So it’s safe to assume that in order to rehabilitate us bad girls, this school has many rules.
Stringent and iron-clad rules.
Rules about showing up to classes on time, about turning in your homework on time. Eating on time, sleeping on time, waking up on time. Then there are rules about when to go off campus and for how long, when to use electronics and again for how long, and so on.
And when you follow these rules, you get rewarded. In privileges.
For example, you get to watch TV for more than an hour every night, which is the allotted time. Or you could use the school computer for an extra hour. Or you could go off campus more than once in a week, things like that.
That’s basically the gist of how things work around here.
So as I said, it’s a very rare thing that my friends are happy to begin the day.
The only person who’s not happy about what day it is today is my third best friend, Calliope Thorne, or Callie.
Actually she was my very first friend in this place.
I got here a year ago, for my junior year, and Callie was the one who befriended me. In fact, she was the one who befriended all of us when we first got here: Poe in her sophomore year, and Salem, just a couple of months ago for our senior year.
Basically, Callie is the glue of our group. She’s the reason all four of us had a chance to meet each other and become very best friends.
We see her as soon as we enter the cafeteria for breakfast and rush over to give her a big hug. She already has trays loaded with bagels and yogurt and cut-up fruits for us. And she’s brought us cupcakes; Callie loves baking. But none of us really care about the food right now.
We’re more concerned about our friend, who these days looks perpetually tired and pale.
“Hey, how are you doing today?” I ask, taking a seat beside her.
She grimaces, doing the same. “Bad. I threw up twice before getting here.”
“Yikes.” Poe echoes the grimace, taking the seat on the opposite side of the table. “But maybe this will cheer you up.” She roots around her bag and produces a jar of peanut butter. “Ta-da.”
Callie’s eyes grow wide and in a display of strength — a rare one these days — she lunges for it. “Oh my God. Where’d you get this?”
Poe shrugs and answers proudly, “I stole it from the kitchen.”
“What?” That’s Salem, who’s sitting beside Poe. “And you never told me?! I could’ve gone with you. I’m the thief here.”
She totally is.
A very good one at that. Only the one time that really counted, she got caught.
She’s the girl who stole money from her guardian and was running away with it but got caught. And the rest is history.
But Poe’s no slouch either. Along with potentially starting a revolution and destroying this place, she can steal things too. She’s the girl who’s always been a troublemaker and the bane of her guardian’s existence. So he sent her here not only to punish her but also — we all think — to get away from her.
While Callie gets busy with the peanut butter and soothing Salem, offering to let her steal a book from the library, I root around in my bag because I have something for her as well.
A sketch.
All my girls gather around and take turns admiring the image I’ve created.
It’s a testament to how deep my friendship is with them that I’m able to show off my work without a hitch in my breath or my palms getting sweaty. Before St. Mary’s, I’d hidden my passion and my work for so long — only showing it to my art teachers — that putting my sketches on the table like this for someone else to admire would’ve been unthinkable for me.
Not anymore though.
Especially when Callie looks up at me, tears shining in her eyes. “This is beautiful. She is beautiful.”
I smile too. “Well, duh. She’s yours. Of course she’s beautiful.”
A happy tear streams down her cheek and she swats it off, giving me a hug. “Thank you. Ugh. I’m so emotional all the time. Being pregnant is freaking draining.”
It is.
We can all see it on her exhausted but beautiful face.
So we only just found out that our best friend is pregnant. And as she said, being pregnant is freaking draining. But when you’re pregnant while you’re a senior in high school, it’s more than that.
It’s scary and complicated.
Especially when the high school you go to is a reform school known to rehabilitate girls and getting pregnant is a sure-shot way to get expelled.
Which up until a few days ago we all thought was going to happen.
Only it didn’t. Because someone came to her rescue: the guy whose baby she’s pregnant with.
Her ex-boyfriend.
So remember the girl who stole her ex-boyfriend’s car and drowned it in the lake for revenge? That’s Callie. She did it because Reed Jackson, her sort of ex-boyfriend — long story there — broke her heart two years ago and she wanted to hurt him back. But now she’s pregnant with his baby — another long story about how it all came about and how it doesn’t mean that they’re back together.
But anyway, because of him — and his influential last name — Callie not only gets to stay here, she’s also the very first girl in the entire history of St. Mary’s who gets to live off campus. Reed pulled all the strings and managed to get her that exception as well.
“And today’s the worst,” Callie continues, sticking her finger in the peanut butter and licking it off. “I’m so nervous.”
Ah, yes.
Today.
Monday after Thanksgiving.
I knew today would be amazing for some of my friends — Poe and Salem — and not so amazing for others — Callie.
Salem’s the first one to console Callie, squeezing her hand on the table. “It’s going to be fine. You’re worrying for no reason. Trust me. In fact, I think it’s going to be epic. We’re getting a new soccer coach. I honestly can’t wait. I’m so excited to see him.”
Callie bites her lip. “Yeah, but you don’t know how girls are here. You only got here this year. Girls here always, always give new teachers a hard time.” She waves a hand at her stomach even though she’s not showing yet. “Plus I’m pregnant. I’m a laughingstock. Girls are bound to give him a hard time because of this. Because of me.”
Okay so, Callie is right about one thing: girls here do give new teachers a hard time.
