THESE THORN KISSES, page 6
Isn’t that more important and surprising and crazily coincidental than soccer?
I smile uncertainly. “Are you… Are you asking me what position I play on the team?”
My question makes him shift on his feet. It also makes that temporary narrowing of his eyes permanent as he stares at me for a beat or two in silence.
Then, “You understand English, don’t you?”
I shake my head. “I don’t —”
“Do you understand English?” he cuts me off, his deep voice going deeper, more authoritative. “Yes or no.”
I’m so fucking confused right now but his tone can’t be denied, so I reply, “Of course I do.”
“And you understand what’s been asked of you.”
“Yes.”
He throws a short nod. “So then why don’t you answer the question and stop wasting everyone’s time?”
I study his face then.
Not that I wasn’t doing it already, but this time I see it in a different light. In a light where I don’t focus on the fact that I’ve seen that face before but on the fact that his brows are bunched and his mouth is tight. That his eyes have something in them akin to irritation.
I focus on the fact that nothing on his face or in his body language, which is still as authoritative as ever, suggests that he knows me.
There is no indication, not even a teeny tiny bit of it, that he’s seen me somewhere. Or that he even vaguely remembers me.
My eyes go wide then.
My mouth pops open as well and before I can stop myself, I breathe out, “You don’t know who I am.”
As soon as I say it, I flinch.
I know it was the wrong thing to say. Very wrong. I realize it when his arms unfold and come down to his sides. When that silver watch glares at me from where his fingers are fisted and when he dips his chin toward me as if now I have his full attention.
Now I have his full focus.
“And who are you, Bronwyn Littleton?”
My own hands fist at my sides when he says my name.
Bronwyn.
Because it sounds exactly the same as it did that night. Beautiful and delicate. Unique. Instead of how it always sounds when people from my town say it: uncouth, disappointing, a mouthful.
And yet he doesn’t remember that he’s said it before.
I need time to process that.
I need to absorb the blow, the wound that he’s dealt me just now. So the logical course of action is to get my shit together and answer his original question before falling back into line and licking the bruises he gave me.
Only I don’t.
I stand my ground, my hands still fisted as I reply, “Well if you must know, I’m an artist.”
I don’t flinch this time.
Even though his eyes have narrowed some more and my unexpected words have shocked everyone else on the field. This is the very first time that they have heard this tone from me, I think.
This sort of bored and rebellious tone.
I’m one of the good girls at St. Mary’s.
I never behave badly.
So this is new.
“You’re an artist,” he repeats in a tone that I’m sure is sending chills down everyone’s spine.
Not mine though for some reason.
For some reason, his tone is only making me bolder. Maybe because there’s still no sign of recognition in it.
“Yes. I love to draw. I live to draw, actually.” I raise my chin. “I always carry a sketchpad with me and a pen. I draw first thing in the morning, during breakfast. During lunch, during dinner. I draw up until they put the lights out at 9:30 every night. And then sometimes I draw under the moonlight.” Probably shouldn’t have said that but let’s go with it. “In fact, I’d be drawing right now if I wasn’t here.”
It’s true.
I do draw.
Mostly I draw him – yup, I’ve been drawing him for eighteen months now – like my little fingers are his slaves and my obsessed mind is his wonderland.
But even so I have absolutely no idea where I’m going with this. Why I’m saying the things I’m saying. But keeping quiet and falling back into line like everyone else isn’t an option right now for some reason.
“If you weren’t here wasting my time with your life story, you mean,” he concludes.
And I commend myself for again not flinching at his ‘life story.’
Wasn’t he the one who said he had experience with long stories? That’s why I told him mine. That and because he was the very first person to ask.
But of course he doesn’t remember that, does he?
He remembers nothing.
And God, it’s making me angry.
So irrationally angry right now.
“Actually I would be drawing right now, if I wasn’t wasting my time on soccer,” I tell him.
Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.
I’ve lost my mind.
What am I doing? What is wrong with me?
This is not how I behave.
“Is that so?” he murmurs silkily, condescendingly.
But somehow I can’t stop. His tone provokes me, dares me to keep going, to be a rebel. “Yes. I have no interest in soccer. I think soccer is boring.” I swear I hear Salem gasp beside me, also Poe. “I think it’s the most boring sport in the world. And forcing me and all of us, actually, to play just in the name of team building is completely useless and bordering on cruel.”
I can’t believe I said that.
Not that any of what I’ve said is a lie.
Soccer practice is boring. It’s not so much about the sport but about an exercise in team building, or maybe just getting some physical activity. Most of the girls here aren’t even players. Well, except for a few, like Salem and a couple others. So it’s a constant source of frustration for most of us that they make us do this.
And this isn’t the first time someone has said something about canceling soccer and the other couple of sports they make us choose from.
It’s just that this is the first time I’m the one doing it.
He speaks. “Well, that’s the one thing I don’t want to be.”
His tone is as soft and as silky as ever. Like melted dark chocolate, both sweet and bitter.
And addicting.
I hate that mine in turn is high and stumbling. “What?”
It feels like his lips barely move when he replies, “Cruel.”
“So then —”
He tilts his face to the side slightly, as if in thought, as he interrupts me. “How about I make an exception for you?”
“An exception?”
“Yeah.” He nods, still appearing as if in thought. “Because I’m getting the impression that you’re special.”
That gives me a pause. That gives me all the pauses actually.
Special.
“What?”
“Aren’t you? Your classmates don’t care about soccer either, but no one has had the audacity to say a word.” He jerks his chin at me. “Except you. An artist. Different from everyone else. Special.”
I’m aware that things are heading in a bad direction for me. I can feel it. Even though he hasn’t changed his soft tone or his thoughtful expression.
But it’s hard for me to care about that right now because my heart’s throbbing inside my body.
With hope.
Because every word that he’s said is the exact replica of what I said to him that night.
Because I’m special. I’m an artist. I’m different from everyone else in this town…
God.
God.
Does that mean that he remembers after all? He remembers me?
“Do you remem —”
He cuts me off again. “So it’s only fair that I return the favor by making an exception for you.”
I look into his eyes. I study them. They’re navy blue, the color of my favorite jeans. But except for a sharp shine, they hold nothing else.
They hold no remembrance.
So maybe not then.
Maybe I’m simply making connections because I want to. I so desperately want to.
“How?” I ask.
He’s quick to respond, as if he’s been waiting for me to ask the question. “By writing you a note.”
“What kind of note?”
“Actually, it’s going to be a letter. I don’t think a simple note will do you justice,” he replies, flicking his gaze up and down my body in a quick, dismissive way, but still it makes things move inside me, in my belly. “I’ll start by describing how utterly brave you are. How courageous to stand up to me like that. People usually keep their mouth shut and eyes lowered when I’m around. Then I’ll say how original it was to see someone — a slip of a girl no less — do the exact opposite of what I asked her to do. Mostly the people I come in contact with — players and the rest of the general population really — just do what I tell them to do. They walk when I tell them to walk. They run when I tell them to run, and they stop wasting my time the second I mention it. Because I don’t really care for disobedience. Or people, especially teenagers, using their little teenage brains when I’ve ordered them to do something. But not you, no. How…” Another flick of his glance. “Unique. Which makes me think that when I’m done describing all your singular qualities in detail, I’m going to put in a further request for you.”
I don’t think anyone has ever insulted me by using such glowing adjectives. And I don’t think I’ve ever been so not afraid in a situation where it feels like my doom is impending.
And near.
In fact, I feel exhilarated and thrilled and such a rebel.
“Is it going to be as special as your letter?” I ask, raising my eyebrows in defiance. “This request of yours. Because I think I want something special.”
And I think he wasn’t expecting that, me standing up to him again, because his jaw pulses. Only once, but it’s enough for me to notice it and revel in it.
That I’m getting to him.
Even if it’s just a little bit.
Because maybe this time, he’ll remember me.
Remember the girl who’s picking an argument with him on his first day.
“I understand that you’re graduating at the end of this year,” he says finally, his tone still as soft.
I frown even though I don’t want to. I don’t want to show him that he’s getting to me, but I can’t imagine why he’d ask me that. “I am.”
He hums. “I was afraid of that.” He shifts on his feet. “Since students like you are so rare and since you’ve made such an impression on me, I’m thinking that maybe you shouldn’t.”
“What?”
My voice is loud and high, the loudest and highest it’s been so far. But holy shit he didn’t say what I think he said.
He wouldn’t.
It’s crazy. It’s… cruel.
Something similar to satisfaction passes over his features then. Like he’s finally managed to scare me. Like he’s finally managed to put me in my place, which is with my mouth shut and eyes lowered, as he said.
“Students like you are so hard to come by. Especially those who make your day, your first day no less, so memorable. I mean, I don’t think I’m going to forget this day. I don’t think I’m going to forget you.” He pauses here, his eyes boring into mine, stealing and strangling my breaths. “So I’m going to put in a request, a very special one as you wanted, to make you stay. After graduation.”
Things explode in my chest then.
Just like the air explodes with murmurs. Everyone is hissing and whispering and gasping. Even Coach TJ is shocked. She has her mouth open as she moves closer to him and tries to get his attention.
He’s not giving it to her though.
Because his attention is on me.
On my frozen form.
That somehow is still throbbing. This time not from hope that he remembers me but from what he just implied.
Well, he did more than imply.
He said it.
He said The Unspeakable.
We call it that. We call it The Unspeakable.
The thing no one ever talks about. Not at St. Mary’s. Not at a reform school where everyone is sent to be punished. Where rules are ironclad and prison-like.
No one, not even a teacher, ever jokes about it or mentions it in passing. About stopping someone’s graduation.
Because it’s like extending someone’s prison sentence.
In fact there have only been eight cases ever since the school was established in 1939 of girls having to repeat their senior year. The teachers, no matter how stern they are or how unpopular with the students because of their strictness, always work with you to get your grades and your performance and your behavior up to scratch so you can graduate.
So for him to say that, to mention The Unspeakable is… unprecedented.
It, as I said, is crazy and cruel.
And flabbergasting.
“Are you…” I begin and this time the field goes silent because of me. “Are you saying you’ll stop my graduation?”
His satisfied glint only increases at my question. “Just so I could keep you here.” Then, “With me.”
“Are you…” I begin with the same words because I don’t know what to say. “Are you insane? You’re insane. You are, aren’t you? You’re talking about stopping my graduation because I talked back a little. That’s insane. You’re fucking insane. You’re —”
“Language.”
His growl — a break from his so far soft and silky voice — cuts me off. It also punches me in the gut. Just as big and drastic of a punch as I felt at the sight of him.
Maybe even more.
Because he looks exactly the same as he looked that night when he asked me to watch my language. The only difference is that I can see the tightness of his features clearly now.
So clearly that I know, I know, I’m going to draw them.
I’m going to draw him exactly as he is, bunched up brows and tight lines, later. When I get out of here.
If I get out of here.
“What about it?” I ask, dooming myself further.
“Watch it.”
I swallow. “Why?”
A muscle starts up on his cheek. “Because I said so.”
“And because…” I open my fists, letting go of the last bits of my self-preservation as I look into his furious eyes and figuratively jump off the cliff. “Because you’re older than me. And because you’ve got a sister my age and so you think you can tell me what to do. Don’t you? You think I’ll bow down at your feet.”
What. Have. I. Done?
Seriously?
That muscle on his cheek stops at my words. That last throbbing piece freezes over as if to prepare for his anger, hot and explosive, to go off.
And it does.
“No,” he says. “You will bow down at my feet because I’m your new soccer coach. And because if you don’t, I’ll teach you such a lesson in obedience that my threat of stopping your graduation will feel like a Christmas gift. It will feel like the best thing anyone’s ever done to you and you’ll thank me for it.” While keeping his eyes on me, he raises his voice slightly and addresses the rest of the girls. “Is that clear to all of you as well or do I need to repeat myself?”
Initially no one says a word.
Not until he swivels his gaze away from me and onto them.
Then a burst of nos sounds all around me.
And he speaks again. “I’m not sure how things were done before I got here and I don’t really care. What I care about is how things will be done from now on. I’ve got one rule and one rule only: obedience. This isn’t a democracy. What you want doesn’t matter. I’m not here to listen to your opinions or your life story. From now on, you will do as I say. If I ask a question, you will answer it. If I want you to form a line, you will form a line. If I want you to run a lap around the field, you will run a lap around the field. And if I want you to be here on time, you will be here five minutes early. Is that understood? This might only be a team building exercise for you. But if you want to pass this class, you’re going to have to put in the work. You’re going to have to play soccer.”
He grinds his jaw once before continuing, “And you,” he says, his eyes traveling back to me, “I’ll see you in my office. Tomorrow after school.”
***
Conrad.
His name is Conrad.
I finally know.
It’s been elusive to me for the past year, his name. Even though I heard it a million times from Callie’s mouth.
But I know now.
And so when my roommate goes to sleep, I crawl over to the barred window and under the moonlight, I draw his name.
Up on my thighs.
Really high up, with thorns and roses snaking through it.
It seems both silly and appropriate at the same time.
Because his name sounds like thorn.
Sharp and protective.
Conrad Thorne.
People think I’m predictable.
They think that I have a routine. A schedule that I follow strictly. A schedule I don’t like to deviate from.
They are not wrong.
I am predictable. I do have a schedule that I follow stringently.
For example, for at least the last decade, I’ve gone for a six-mile run at the same time every morning. For years I’ve shopped at the same grocery store, eaten at the same pizza place, worked out at the same gym. I’ve bought the same brand of milk, the same brand of detergent and the same brand of cereal. I’ve driven the same kind of truck, gotten gas from the same gas station and slowed down at every yellow light on the way back home instead of flooring it through them.
I also never text and drive.
And everyone who knows me knows that.
So when I took this job at St. Mary’s, people were surprised.
They weren’t expecting me to quit my old job — coaching soccer at my town’s high school, Bardstown High — and take a job at a different high school, in another town. Without any prior indication.
First because I’d had my old job for at least the last decade. And second, along with my predictability, people who know me also know about my hatred for this place.
