Crown of Thorns

1

My first glimpse of the viciousness that is Phoenix Townsend happens three months after Ravenwood and Thornhaven a

But maybe I should start with Margaret. My missing-in-action best friend.

“Please, Joss,” she’d pleaded with me earlier, hurling herself across my bed and crumpling the neatly tucked, rose-print comforter. “And don’t even think about saying you already have plans tonight, either. Bingeing Netflix isn’t a plan, it’s a slow death that asks you if you’re still fucking dying every two episodes. Woman, this is our chance to check out the Thornhaven guys!”

Thornhaven is—was—the all-boys school that was like a sibling to Ravenwood Preparatory, where I’ve attended since the start of seventh grade. Due to “budget constraints,” Ravenwood and Thornhaven decided to consolidate, breaking the Thornwood Prep news just before summer break. Both campuses are still operating (junior high on Thornhaven’s grounds and senior high on Ravenwood’s) and all the staff and faculty seem to still be employed, so the budget excuse is a giant load of bull. Thornwood is clearly our schools’ coed siren call to all the students that chose not to return to Angelview Academy this year.

And that siren call? It definitely worked because enrollment is through the roof.

Still, while most of my classmates lost their minds at the prospect of non-teacher testosterone on campus, I’m not so much excited as dreading it. Combining our two schools only means more problems, more drama, and more filthy rich kids that give zero shits about people like Margaret and me.

That’s why I’d rolled my eyes at her spiel and reminded her that she’d had plenty of opportunities to check out some of the Thornhaven boys during cheer practice this summer. But then she gave me the look. That stupid, puppy-dog-eyed face that usually made me cave and go right along with whatever she wanted, despite all reason or logic.

After tonight, though, fuck the look. We weren’t here fifteen minutes before she pranced off with some hulking football player with the vocabulary of a twice-baked potato.

Leaving me to wander this booze-soaked orgy alone.

It’s not that I’m uncomfortable with binge-drinking or the excessively heavy petting going down around every corner or even the whirlwind of destruction. This is hell on earth for me thanks to the glares from girls I’ve gone to school with for years, girls making it clear I don’t belong at this party and certainly not in this house.

No, scratch that last part.

This castle.

It’s on an obscene amount of land in the 90077 zip code and overlooks all of Los Angeles like a fortress of decadence. There are giant windows everywhere and tons of dark gray and ivory—ivory marble floors, massive gray furniture, and ivory and gray paintings. Not that mass-produced stuff either, but the kind of art sold in the galleries downtown where people pay thousands for squiggles on ripped canvas.

Supposedly, there’s an indoor pool, an auto gallery (whatever the hell that is), and a home bowling alley somewhere around here, too. All I know for sure is that this house looks as if it ate all the homes that Nina, my grandmother, used to clean on the weekends before—

A male voice rips me from finishing that thought. “You look bored as fuck.”

I glance to my right, where a tall, ski

Gorgeous Thor lookalike told me that I was the best thing he’d met since coming to Los Angeles.

I became putty in his hands and almost lost my damn mind during my shift.

“I’m actually trying to find my friend,” I tell the ski

He slinks closer and offers me a crooked smile. “Me too—Molly. You want—”

“I have a boyfriend,” I lie. He just arches an eyebrow and gives me a so-fucking-what expression, so I add, “He goes to Angelview.”

“Oh.”

Here’s the thing about Thornhaven boys: they loathe anything Angelview Academy that doesn’t have boobs and a vagina attached to it. No doubt he’s mentally slut-shaming me for fraternizing with the sworn enemy, but he thankfully leaves me with the one disdained-soaked syllable. Fidgeting with the tiny music note charms on my bracelet, I return to sca

I stop when I fix on a trio of girls hovering by the wet bar.

Brunette, blonde, redhead, they’re girls I tend to avoid like the plague, Kallista McKay and two of her loyal foot soldiers whose names I always get wrong since I’ve only heard them referred to as Shut-Up-Bitch and Don’t-Eat-The-School-Lunch-Piglet. They typically ignore me, but now they’re glowering at me like I just told them Chanel No. 5 smells like cat piss.

“That’s the second dumb fuck that’s hit on the chubbaluffagus,” the redhead a

Chubbaluffagus.

I haven’t been called that since sophomore year, but it still has the same effect that it did back then. The word rings in my ears and leaves me clenching my hands at my sides so that I won’t tug at the hem of my dress. It makes me question myself for even looking at them, which is their intention. For everyone around them to feel inadequate.

Deep inside, I know that I never was. That dropping a few dress sizes doesn’t make me any more worthy of respect. And yet, I can’t help but feel like shit around these girls. Squaring my shoulders, I try to remove myself from the situation, but Kallista’s syrupy-sweet voice stops me in my tracks.

“Wonder if they know the bitch moonlights as a toilet cleaner?” She’s not looking at me, but at the redhead.

“Nah, they’re too busy building her self-esteem so she’ll let them blow their loads on her oversized tits. Besides, it’s her grandma who cleans the toilets. I’m guessing future janitor-in-training gets a free ride or whatever.”

“I wonder how much shit one has to scrub to cover the whole semester.” Kallista cocks her head, as if she’s truly giving it some thought, but a cruel gleam flickers behind her eyes. “Or how many blumpkins one must give Headmaster Poynter before performing said scrubbings. Kind of sad, if you ask me.”

They’re all laughing now, but rage sparks and ignites within my veins.

They can call me fat. Sure, it stings and brings back painful memories, but it’s nothing I haven’t heard before. Hell, they can even accuse me of sleeping with the entire faculty for free tuition. They will not shit-talk Nina, though.

“You don’t know a thing about her,” I say, my voice soft but dangerous.

The entire group goes bug-eyed, and honestly, I’m shocked myself.

Kallista juts her hip out and starts, “I know—”

“She almost died earlier this year; did you know that?” I stalk toward them until less than a foot of marble flooring separates us. “No, you didn’t. Because you don’t give a shit about anything or anyone that you can’t bully or buy. Kind of sad, if you ask me.”