Crown of Thorns

She sloughs off a shrug. “Every plan requires a backup. Alaric Hartley might just be mine.”

I pray she’s joking. “Every girl at this school has the same plan.”

“Fuck those bitches,” she says, but there’s no real menace in her voice. She raises her eyebrows at me. “And not every girl.”

Well, no, because Alaric is a jerk and I know exactly what Phoenix is doing in the wrestling room at this very moment. That’s why I wonder if I should say more to discourage Margaret from pursuing him. I don’t want her to get hurt, but I also know her too well—when she’s set her sights on something, nothing and no one can convince her otherwise.

“Good luck, I guess,” I say, swallowing down words of caution she won’t listen to anyway.

She winks. “Not luck, Joss. Charm, ass, and boobs.” She stares down at hers and makes a face. “You sure I don’t look bloated? I mean, I can change…”

This is the third time she’s asked since we met up, and the answer hasn’t changed. “You look perfect. As always.”

“Ugh, you’re the best!” Blowing me a kiss, she flounces off toward practice. Every male eye seems to follow after her.

Shaking my head, I turn to go store my Spanish book in my locker, but my eyes clash with the same hazel gaze that almost made me do reckless, stupid things this summer. I freeze, trapped in Alaric Hartley’s intense stare. For a split second, it feels like time has stopped, and an overwhelming sense of panic engulfs me.

What if he says something? What do I say? Do I pretend I don’t recognize him? Do I give him a piece of my mind?

But the moment passes. His brow knits as he walks right past me, his toned shoulders rigid and his tan fingers clutched around a black gym bag.

Telling myself that the harsh breath that stumbles past my lips is relief, not disappointment, I shift in the opposite direction and continue to my locker before I miss the van home. Most of the other students have their own mode of transportation, even the ones that aren’t local and rarely leave campus, or they have chauffeurs.

A car has been at the top of my priority list for over a year now, ever since the engine in my grandmother’s old Ford Taurus blew last summer. While my reason for getting the job at the music store was to pay for voice lessons, it felt selfish to continue while we were taking the shuttle van to school and public transportation to work and barely scraping by. Nina argued with my decision, so I told her I was no longer interested in singing.

Which wasn’t a total lie because I’m not interested in singing publicly. I tried that once, during a talent show in ninth grade. It was … traumatizing. That’s the only word to describe the weight that crashed into my chest when I stood in front of the entire Ravenwood student body. I was barely able to breathe, so I gasped through half the song.

I hadn’t been able to finish the rest because even from the stage, I could hear it.

Laughter, mocking and bitter.

The next day, Kristyn McKay had spoken to me directly for the first, and last, time. “C for effort and introducing the world to mumble pop, Fat Amy,” she’d called out, giving me a slow golf clap, as I passed her and Kallista in the quad.

Not that any of that matters now.

Kristyn’s gone, I don’t sing in public, and cancelling the sessions was worth it. The extra money helped when Nina and I needed it most. Still, I’m nowhere close to owning a safe vehicle that won’t leave me stranded on I-405.

“Just keep saving, saving, saving,” I sing to myself, sounding like a broke version of Dory. I sling my backpack over my shoulders and creep through the emptying halls.

There’s really no one outside as I wander to the main gates, where the shuttle van is already waiting. When I take my seat, I dig out my phone and plug my earbuds in, feeling the stress of the day melt from my shoulders as the Two Feet song about scheming and dreaming and drowning blasts my eardrums.

And yet … Phoenix and Alaric both remain.

Rich pricks.