Crown of Thorns by E.M. Snow
3
Favorite brother?
Jasper is my only brother—my only sibling, period.
I haven’t seen him since Nina was hospitalized. When he refused to take any responsibility, leaving all medical and financial decisions in the hands of a court-appointed guardian. Fortunately, the court chose my grandmother’s cousin, but Jasper’s response has kept me awake many, many nights.
Nina helped raise us. And he just doesn’t give a fuck.
Growing up, I idolized him. I’m sure just about every girl says that about her older brother, but for the longest time, he could do no wrong in my eyes. Even though he was five years older than me, he never called me a nuisance when I wanted to be included. Never made me feel like a mistake, a word our dad tossed around like confetti whenever he was drunk and wanted to make excuses for our living situation—rough neighborhood after rough neighborhood. Jasper protected me from that, too. I was soft, but I always knew that with my brother around, nobody would treat me like an open target.
Even before Mom was killed when I was ten, Jasper had started to pull away. After she died, my brother completed his 180. He stopped coming around. And when he was home, he was either in trouble or at Dad’s throat.
“I can take care of myself,” he used to remind our father whenever that word—mistake—came up. I told myself he wasn’t talking about me. That he was saying that to remind Dad that his mistake, landing us in another shit neighborhood, had cost Mom her life.
Still, Jasper’s words always left me feeling vulnerable and exposed.
When Dad finally took off for good, Jasper did, too. Nina, our mom’s mother, stepped in to take care of me and worked it out for me to attend Ravenwood, where she had worked for years. Ravenwood was nothing like my old school—there were no gangs. No drug deals in the bathrooms. No teachers quitting in the middle of class with a, “Fuck this, I’m out.”
Still, despite its elite history and impressive alumni, my new school was … ugly.
I was an open target, everything wealthy girls hated—poor, chubby, and overeager to prove that I deserved my spot. It hadn’t taken me long to realize that if I stayed quiet, they remained uninterested.
And Jasper? We only ever saw him a few times a year, whenever he needed money or a place to hide.
Since he’s been sending money for months, his reason for coming home is pretty damn clear. Not to mention the way he looks.
My brother’s half a foot taller than me and has a lean build, but it’s usually obvious that we’re brother and sister. We both have chocolate brown eyes, olive skin, and black hair. But now, Jasper looks … off.
Like the grim reaper.
There are dark smudges of exhaustion beneath his brown eyes, and he’s so pale that I swear the skeletal fingers tattooed around his throat really are choking the life out of him. His jet-black hair, that he usually wears close-cropped, is longer than I’ve ever seen it. Just like his facial hair. And then there’s the way his T-shirt and jeans fit. Loose, like he hasn’t eaten in weeks.
“The fuck you staring at like that?” he snaps, breaking the silence.
“I… you scared me is all.” I take a cautious step toward the table. “Jas, where’s your car?”
His Dodge Charger is his pride and fucking joy.
“You left the porch light off, I turned it on.” He avoids my question about the car, so I tell him that I didn’t notice the light. He just shrugs. “Pay better attention. That’s how motherfucker’s die.”
Such sage advice coming from the guy who leaves his seventeen-year-old sister to fend for herself. I won’t say that out loud because doing so will inevitably start an argument. It doesn’t take much to set Jasper off.
Like when his phone shudders on the table, and he shoots it with a look that could make the damn thing explode.
“Jas … is everything al—” I start in a voice that doesn’t sound like my own, but he immediately shuts me down, slapping his hands flat on the table.
“I’m tired.” He fakes a yawn and shoves to his feet. “Think I’ll go to bed.”
Even though I know it’s coming, the sound of his bedroom door slamming shut a moment after he brushes past me launches my heart into my throat.
Drawing in a deep breath, I close my eyes. Jasper never sticks around for long—a few days, tops—but he’ll probably take off fast this time since I’ve pissed him off. No doubt, I’ll wake up for work tomorrow, and he’ll have slipped out in the middle of the night.
* * *
Except,that doesn’t happen.
In fact, when I drag my ass in the house after a shift at the music store and visiting our grandmother the next afternoon, I find him stretched out on the couch. He’s watching a documentary on some serial killer.
“He’s in San Quentin,” I mutter as I toss my purse on the worn recliner, silently adding, I hope you never meet the evil bastard.
“So?” He jabs the pause button and pins me with a long, unblinking stare. “Where the fuck were you?”
“Work and visiting Nina. Where the fuck were you all these months?”
Flashing a cold smile, he starts his show again, blasting the volume until our cheap surround sound rattles the Crucifix on the wall behind the couch.
He’s not gone on Sunday either. We share a handful of words before I sprint out the front door for my morning run. He asks if I’m still “on that exercise shit to fit in with that redhead slut,” and I snap at him for attacking Margaret. I don’t bother telling him the only reason I started running was to improve my breathing for voice lessons. He’ll only respond with something snarky, and then we’ll fight.
Of course, that’s how the day ends. With me wanting to strangle him because he answers all my questions with a sneer or a shrug or an infuriating combination of both.
“Where’ve you been the last couple months, Jas?”
Sneer. Shrug.
“Where’s your car?”
Sneer.
“How long are you staying?”
Shrug.
“Are you still working for that woman?” I don’t even know her name, just that he has an almost cult-like fascination with her and that she was rude to me the one time she answered his phone.
He sneers. This time, he even sprinkles in a few words: “Mind your own fucking business.”
The next morning, two whole days after the expiration date I gave Jasper’s latest visit, he’s at the breakfast table, a bowl of cereal in front of him. It almost seems normal. That is, if he weren’t furiously jabbing at the screen of his phone, growling that he wished he’d “never fucked with the stupid bitch.”
“You’re still here,” I blurt out.
He glances up at me with an arched brow. “Yeah, so? That a problem? Do I need your permission to stay here or something?”
Trudging into the kitchen, I toss my backpack on the counter closest to the doorway and lay my folded sweater vest on top of it. As I fasten the tiny buttons on my blouse cuffs, I say, “I’m just … surprised, I guess.”
He grunts a response and focuses on his breakfast and whoever it is that he’s texting. “That’s the same uniform from before,” he points out, his dark eyes never leaving his phone. “Thought they were doing some new shit this year.”
“They decided to stick with Ravenwood’s colors.” Which is good since I bought new uniforms last school year. The only thing that changed for the girls is the crest, an easy fix I handled with needle and thread one night while watching TV. Leaning my shoulder against the fridge, I smooth the hem of my plaid skirt and stare at him a moment longer, then grab my favorite bowl from the cupboard.
After I pour myself a generous helping of Froot Loops, I join him at the table.
The silence is suffocating, but I have no idea what to say. I have no idea what I should even be feeling. Happy that he’s still around? Angry for all the time he wasn’t? Sad because our grandmother’s not here with us?
There’s also a part of me that wants him to stay long term, even though I know it won’t happen and that it’s a terrible idea. Jasper is secretive about all the things he’s into these days, but I’ve heard rumors and vividly recall the people that used to show up at the house looking for him.
None are good, so I chew my cereal in silence, occasionally checking the time on my phone so I won’t be late for the shuttle van.
“You should go visit Nina,” I say casually once I’m done eating, though there’s nothing casual about the request. “She’s at La Costa. You know she’d love to see you.”
Jasper drops his jaw in mock surprise. “She wake up and tell you that shit herself? You should have said something, I would have rushed right over.” By the time he grinds out the last few words, he’s wearing that sneer again.
His easy dismissal of Nina infuriates me.
“And just when I think you couldn’t possibly manage to surprise me.” I leave the table and grab my backpack from the counter. Giving him my back, I add, “I’ll see you later—if you’re still here.”
His response stops me in my tracks. “Have a good day, Yossy.”
It’s that old nickname that does me in, the one he used when we were younger, and he was protecting me. I glance over my shoulder, baffled that he said something so normal in a tone that isn’t dripping with spite. He’s still not looking at me and seems very focused on his nearly empty bowl.
“Yeah, thanks,” I mumble at last.
Then, I twist away from him again and leave.
* * *
“Ugh,even you have to admit he’s gorgeous, Joss.”
“Who? That meathead from the party? What was his name again?”
“No, idiot,” Margaret laughs. “Phoenix. I only pretendedto be interested in Trevor to get the invite to the party. Weren’t you listening to anything Gia and I’ve said the last five minutes?”
No, and Gia wasn’t either since she just skulked off, claiming she has to get back to her dorm to start her homework. Guess she forgot that none of our teachers give homework on the first day. Ever.
Despite the new additions, our official return to school wasn’t all that hectic. Now that grades seven through nine are on the former Thornhaven grounds, we basically have the same number of students. Still, today was … different. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many fake eyelashes and modified uniform skirts on our campus.
Kallista’s was so short, I half-expected to see her underwear when she approached our table at lunch. For a split second, she’d glared directly at me. Like I was a smudge of shit on the bottoms of her Jimmy Choo Mary Janes, and she was fully prepared to remind me of that. I’d held my breath, worried that she’d bring up what I said at Phoenix’s party. Instead, she picked a piece of lint off her skirt, flicked it so that it landed on my tray, and zeroed in on Margaret.
“Cheer practice is in the fitness center this afternoon,” she sneered. “If you’re late, you’ll run laps until you puke. You could use both.”
Kallista had sauntered off without another word or another glance in my direction. I was fine with that because that’s what I’m used to—being invisible.
What I’m not used to is my best friend fawning over an asshole.
The name on everyone’s lips today was Phoenix Townsend, and he ate that shit up, peacocking in the halls like he owns the place and rapidly amassing a cult of loyal followers. Other than the fact he’s mind-numbingly hot and makes a blazer and khakis look like sin, I have no clue as to why anyone wants to be around him.
Every time I’ve seen him, he’s either staring down his nose at everyone around him, or he’s wearing this awful scowl as if he’d like nothing more than to bash some skulls in. Arrogant and temperamental. That appears to be his two-speeds, and I know better than most how that can be a volatile combination.
Phoenix is truly terrible.
Before the first bell rang, he turned a pretty blonde junior into Thornwood’s Cersei Lannister. He publicly returned her underwear and casually informed her his cleaning staff located them by his pool, where she left them the night of his party. Then he’d dropped his gaze to her boyfriend’s hand.
“You can stop pretending with that fucking promise ring, Nash. Her promise was broken many, many times before me,” he’d drawled.
He left them arguing in the middle of the hall, and I’d shuddered at the grin on his face as he pushed his way through the crowd to head to class.
I came dangerously close to leaving the only class I share with him—AP Spanish during fourth block. He passed on introducing himself to the class in Spanish. His excuse was that “English is the language of business,” his business paid the teachers’ salaries, and he didn’t need an introduction.
Ninety percent of our class cheered him on.
Mrs. De León didn’t make him leave for his pompous-ass remark.
And he had walked out of class trailed by Harmony Dorsey, my chemistry partner from last year, who said she had something to show him in the new wrestling room. Because no first day of school is complete without giving the disrespectful asshole who’d publicly humiliated a girl a BJ and getting ringworms on both knees in the process.
Narrowing my eyes, I lean back against the row of gray lockers next to Margaret’s. She’s too busy rummaging around for a hair tie to see the look I’m giving her. “You realize he’s a total dick, right? Plus, he dated Kallista’s sister.”
I’m good at remaining blissfully unaware of who’s dating who, but Kristyn McKay is A) hateful and B) braggy enough to let everyone know she was fucking the heir to Townsend Investments every five seconds.
“That’s, like, the Citadel of California,”she used to say.
Gag.
Margaret emerges from her locker clutching a blue scrunchie. She pulls her long, reddish-brown hair away from her face and into a low ponytail, snorting when a group of boys walking by ogles her ass. She’s in workout clothes—tight pants and a sports bra that’s navy and white, the school colors. “Better a total dick than one of those pubes. Besides, who gives a shit what Kristyn thinks? Do you see her around?”
“She graduated.” Thank God.
Margaret slams the locker door shut and spins the lock a few times. “Exactly. She’s at Stanford, probably getting triple-stuffed while Kallista tries to fuck her ex-boyfriend.”
“Seriously?” I mutter, and she gives a slow nod, her ponytail sweeping her bare shoulders. “Okay, then you definitely don’t want to get involved with that dick if—”
“Ahh, and speaking of dicks…” she cuts in, her blue eyes widening a little as they lock on something over my shoulder.
I instantly regret turning around. My whole body locks up with tension because Alaric Hartley is sauntering down the hallway, looking like he doesn’t have any fucks to give about anything. I suppose he doesn’t. He was worshiped just as much as Phoenix today.
Margaret whistles. “He really is pretty.”
I mean, she’s not wrong, but I tear my gaze from him and blink at her. “What happened to Phoenix?”
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.