Crown of Thorns

At least now I know the rest of their names.

And the thing is, I don’t doubt the Thornhaven boys will fall all over themselves for Margaret. We’ve been friends since meeting at new student orientation in seventh grade, and I know firsthand that when she wants something, she usually gets it. I’ve always admired her for that confidence. Always wished I could cha

Maybe then the idea of singing—or hell, even speaking—in public wouldn’t terrify me.

On the way to my grandmother’s tiny three-bedroom house in South LA, our conversation shifts to the upcoming school year. It’s honestly a welcome distraction from thinking about the party we just left or talking about Margaret’s sexploits. That is, until we’re on my street and Margaret lets it slip that she’s disappointed she didn’t get to meet him tonight. Cruel, startling green eyes shove into my thoughts. My only consolation is that I’ll never have to interact with Phoenix Townsend. He’ll undoubtedly stay out of reach of us mortals, insulated by the same people that fueled his malice tonight.

Even if we do cross paths, the pitiful truth is that I won’t breathe a word to him.

“You’re not missing much,” I mutter aloud as she parks on the curb in front of my house. She twists in her seat to face me, curiosity creasing her brow. “With Phoenix, I mean. He’s a royal piece of shit from what I’ve heard.”

“Keyword there is royal.” Before I can say another word, she nods at the front of my house and says, “You should just come back to campus with me. My roomie won’t be in ‘til Sunday, so you can just take her bed. We can even do something with Gia tomorrow if she’s back from visiting her bitch mom in Tacoma.”

I actually like Gia’s mom, but I don’t tell Margaret that.

I also can’t help feeling a little envious of my friends living in the dorms. Not because boys now live in Fullerton Estate, Victoria Hall, and Claremore—the dorms that used to house Ravenwood’s seventh through ninth grade girls. Living on campus would significantly shorten my school day, is all.

In the end, it doesn’t matter because I graduate in ten months. A diploma from a school like Ravenwood—correction, Thornwood—is worth the inconvenience of riding the shuttle van every morning and afternoon.

“So?” Margaret sings as I grasp the door handle. “I heard there’s another party happening in Victoria Hall, and I have a bottle of vodka.”

I shake my head. She knows for a fact I’m the biggest lightweight that ever lived. “I’ve got work in the morning, but I’ll text you. You know how dead the store is these days.”

“How many people actually give a shit about old records and posters of Jack Morrison?”

“Um, me?” I don’t bother asking if she meant Jim Morrison because she’ll only give me a fu

“Ugh, whatever. Bye bitch,” she says, her tone playful as I climb out of the Camry. I wave her off, and then turn to open the old metal gate, green flakes of paint dusting my hands. I wipe them on the front of my dress. Shuffling to the front door, a low sigh bubbles from my lips.

I pause on the first step because this is always the most difficult part. Going the rest of the way. Coming home isn’t the easiest thing in the world for me these days without Nina around. It’s far too quiet, no matter how many TV shows and playlists I blast for background noise. Nobody knows this, not even Margaret, but some days I just stare at the front door for long stretches of time before I finally work up the courage to walk inside.

Tonight, it’s chilly enough that I don’t want to linger too long, but pressure stabs at my eyelids as I unlock the door and push my way into our living room. It’s a far cry from the opulence of the Townsend’s castle. The tile floor is chipped in several places, and our worn, faded leather couch set was purchased years ago, when my mom was my age. Regardless, I would choose this house, with Nina in it, a thousand times over the one in Bel Air.

The silence that welcomes me home, though, is as suffocating as a tomb.

Gritting my teeth, I start for the kitchen, which is just a few steps off of our living room. I baked a batch of Nina’s famous ci

I barely make it two steps before movement catches my eye. Adrenaline rockets through my system, and I don’t even realize I’m screaming until a gravelly voice churns out, “Would you shut the fuck up?”

I’m so overwhelmed by my lungs cinching tighter and tighter, it takes me a moment to place the voice. My intruder snaps at me again, this time choking out that I need to keep quiet before the neighbors call the cops. Stumbling backward, I fumble for the light switch and flick it on. The room becomes bright and visible.

I zero in on the familiar figure sitting at the kitchen table, his tattooed fingers steepled together. “J-Jasper,” I whisper, sagging against the doorframe. My breath is still uneven, blowing past my lips in shallow spurts, but at least I know I’m safe.

Well, as safe as I can be with Jasper here.

“What?” A humorless smile slashes his mouth. “No welcome home for your favorite brother?”