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

I don’t think anyone has ever insulted me by using such glowing adjectives. And I don’t think I’ve ever been so not afraid in a situation where it feels like my doom is impending.

And near.

In fact, I feel exhilarated and thrilled and such a rebel.

“Is it going to be as special as your letter?” I ask, raising my eyebrows in defiance. “This request of yours. Because I think I want something special.”

And I think he wasn’t expecting that, me standing up to him again, because his jaw pulses. Only once, but it’s enough for me to notice it and revel in it.

That I’m getting to him.

Even if it’s just a little bit.

Because maybe this time, he’ll remember me.

Remember the girl who’s picking an argument with him on his first day.

“I understand that you’re graduating at the end of this year,” he says finally, his tone still as soft.

I frown even though I don’t want to. I don’t want to show him that he’s getting to me, but I can’t imagine why he’d ask me that. “I am.”

He hums. “I was afraid of that.” He shifts on his feet. “Since students like you are so rare and since you’ve made such an impression on me, I’m thinking that maybe you shouldn’t.”

“What?”

My voice is loud and high, the loudest and highest it’s been so far. But holy shit he didn’t say what I think he said.

He wouldn’t.

It’s crazy. It’s… cruel.

Something similar to satisfaction passes over his features then. Like he’s finally managed to scare me. Like he’s finally managed to put me in my place, which is with my mouth shut and eyes lowered, as he said.

“Students like you are so hard to come by. Especially those who make your day, your first day no less, so memorable. I mean, I don’t think I’m going to forget this day. I don’t think I’m going to forget you.” He pauses here, his eyes boring into mine, stealing and strangling my breaths. “So I’m going to put in a request, a very special one as you wanted, to make you stay. After graduation.”

Things explode in my chest then.

Just like the air explodes with murmurs. Everyone is hissing and whispering and gasping. Even Coach TJ is shocked. She has her mouth open as she moves closer to him and tries to get his attention.

He’s not giving it to her though.

Because his attention is on me.

On my frozen form.

That somehow is still throbbing. This time not from hope that he remembers me but from what he just implied.

Well, he did more than imply.

He said it.

He said The Unspeakable.

We call it that. We call it The Unspeakable.

The thing no one ever talks about. Not at St. Mary’s. Not at a reform school where everyone is sent to be punished. Where rules are ironclad and prison-like.

No one, not even a teacher, ever jokes about it or mentions it in passing. About stopping someone’s graduation.

Because it’s like extending someone’s prison sentence.

In fact there have only been eight cases ever since the school was established in 1939 of girls having to repeat their senior year. The teachers, no matter how stern they are or how unpopular with the students because of their strictness, always work with you to get your grades and your performance and your behavior up to scratch so you can graduate.

So for him to say that, to mention The Unspeakable is… unprecedented.

It, as I said, is crazy and cruel.

And flabbergasting.

“Are you…” I begin and this time the field goes silent because of me. “Are you saying you’ll stop my graduation?”

His satisfied glint only increases at my question. “Just so I could keep you here.” Then, “With me.”

“Are you…” I begin with the same words because I don’t know what to say. “Are you insane? You’re insane. You are, aren’t you? You’re talking about stopping my graduation because I talked back a little. That’s insane. You’re fucking insane. You’re —”

“Language.”

His growl — a break from his so far soft and silky voice — cuts me off. It also punches me in the gut. Just as big and drastic of a punch as I felt at the sight of him.

Maybe even more.

Because he looks exactly the same as he looked that night when he asked me to watch my language. The only difference is that I can see the tightness of his features clearly now.

So clearly that I know, I know, I’m going to draw them.

I’m going to draw him exactly as he is, bunched up brows and tight lines, later. When I get out of here.

If I get out of here.

“What about it?” I ask, dooming myself further.

“Watch it.”

I swallow. “Why?”

A muscle starts up on his cheek. “Because I said so.”

“And because…” I open my fists, letting go of the last bits of my self-preservation as I look into his furious eyes and figuratively jump off the cliff. “Because you’re older than me. And because you’ve got a sister my age and so you think you can tell me what to do. Don’t you? You think I’ll bow down at your feet.”