These Thorn Kisses (St. Mary’s Rebels 3)

By my mother.

“Bronwyn.” Her angry voice behind me halts me in my tracks. “What are you doing?”

I clench my eyes shut and hang my head.

Shit.

And I was doing so well.

For someone who doesn’t get to hide much at these parties, I was doing phenomenally well. I’d managed to find this lovely spot on my second try. And I’d even managed to calm myself halfway down about the whole big night thing until I got distracted by my Mystery Man.

And now I’ve lost my chance.

Damn it. Damn it. Damn it.

“Bronwyn!”

When my mother’s voice reaches screeching level, I open my eyes, sigh and turn around, pasting a casual, cheery smile on my face. “Hey, Mom.”

While my mother’s face is serene and so beautiful, her eyes — brown and pretty — are furious. “What are you doing? Where have you been?”

“I was just, uh, trying to find water,” I fib, keeping the smile in place. “Remember?”

That’s what I said to my mother as soon as we arrived at the party. That I was going to find water. She told me to come right back and I told her that I would.

Only instead of water, I wanted to simply… breathe. So I took cover and hid.

But I was going to go back. I was.

I wouldn’t ever do that to my mom or my dad.

“For the last half hour?” she asks, raising a suspicious brow.

Yikes.

“I also went to the bathroom,” I say, lying again, trying to keep her anger at bay. “There was a long line. And then I ran into Christine from school and we got to talking. She was telling me about her trip to Europe this summer with her parents. She said that it was amazing. Rome was magical. She wants to go there again next year and…”

I trail off because Mom has stopped listening. Which is just as well because I’m not sure if Christine did find Rome magical or if she’s really planning on going back.

I asked her about it a few days ago, when I ran into her at yet another party like this, but she didn’t respond. I’m sure she heard me; we were the only two people in the bathroom at the time and she was standing two sinks down, retouching her lipstick.

But the thing is that Christine doesn’t talk to me very much; she thinks I’m weird. And strange.

She told me so. A couple of years ago.

I’ve tried to dispel that notion, hence the casual chit chat I was trying to start the other day, but so far I haven’t been very successful.

But that’s not the point here.

The point is that my mother has stopped listening and has started watching me.

In the same way that Christine and all the girls in my class do.

In the way that tells me that they’re checking to see if I’ve improved since the last time they saw me. If my ghostly pale skin has bloomed with color. Or if my brown hair, as dull as dirt, has developed an overnight sheen. Oh, and if my eyes, gray and, again, as pale as a ghost, so that they appear silver, look… less ghostly.

Which is fine.

I’m used to it.

I’m more worried about what and if my mother has found something on me. She shouldn’t. I mean, I’m impeccable right now. As impeccable as I can be with my strange looks, but still.

“Have you been chewing on your lips?”

Oh shit.

I completely forgot about that. That I’ve been doing it because I’ve been so nervous and that I wasn’t supposed to do it. Because it would ruin my lipstick.

“I’m sorry. I…”

I trail off because I realize that I’ve made the second mistake tonight: putting my hand on my lips and in turn, exposing my hands to my mother.

If I thought she was mad before, I was wrong. She is mad now. So freaking mad that she reaches out and snatches my hand in a tight grip. She stares down at them, at my fingers, dirty and smudged with ink. And before she can say anything, I burst out, “Mom, I just —”

“Why don’t you ever listen to me?” she hisses. “Why is everything so difficult with you? I told you, didn’t I? That tonight is important. You need to behave. You need to look perfect. But no, of course you didn’t listen, and now you have dirty hands because you can’t keep away from your useless habits. Martha has better hands than you.”

Martha is our housekeeper — and my friend — and she does have better hands than me. They’re always clean and her nails are somehow never broken even though she scrubs every inch of our house from top to bottom every week. And she’s always giving me tips to keep my fingers and my nails clean. But I always forget.

I struggle in her tight grip. “Mom, I’m sorry. I’m going to wash my hands now. I —”