Girls with Razor Hearts

by Suzanne Young

  Marcella presses her lips together and nods, accepting this version of our future, no matter how unlikely it seems right now.

  “How’s Brynn doing?” I ask.

  “She …” Marcella pauses. “She’s having a hard time. She wants to go back for them right now. She thinks we can break them out.” Marcella smiles at this thought, at the pureness in it.

  Brynn won’t give up on the other girls. She has a fierce love that we all admire. But we can’t go back to Innovations Academy. We have to free them a different way.

  Marcella looks sideways at me, her brow creased with worry. “How are you feeling?” she asks.

  “The headache’s a little better.”

  “I’ll pretend to believe that,” she says. “But I’m not really asking about your headache.”

  We hold each other’s gaze before I curl up on my side, my hands tucked under my cheek. “Someone got to me,” I whisper. “They found me and they got to me. She scared me, Marcella.” My voice cracks. “I’m always scared.”

  I don’t mean to, but I start crying. One of the most difficult aspects of the aftermath of the academy is the helplessness. The feeling of never, ever being safe again.

  Marcella puts her hand on my arm and then lies next to me, letting me cry on her shoulder.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve broken down. We’ve all done it since leaving the academy—moments where our emotions were uncontainable. So we agreed not to hold them in, especially after Annalise pointed out that controlling our emotions was one of the ways the academy manipulated us.

  A hysterical girl is easy to discredit, in their eyes. Annalise believes it’s the opposite: Deeply felt emotions are our power. Our ability to feel is just as important as our ability to think.

  But … I haven’t been completely honest with the girls. And even now, I can’t bring myself to completely fall apart. I’m scared of losing myself in my fear.

  Because that’s the thing: I’m scared in the most debilitating way. I’m so scared that I wake up multiple times a night to check the lock on my bedroom door. I’m so scared that I sleep with the lights on, leading Sydney to room with Annalise instead.

  I’m so scared … that it was my idea to shut everyone out of our lives. No new friends. I promise myself it’ll be different when this is all over. That we’ll get to live.

  But that’s not true. This may never be over.

  “You don’t have to be alone, Mena,” Marcella whispers. She pets back my hair, continuing to study me with a sympathetic gaze. “You can’t keep going like this,” she adds.

  “Like what?” I say, wiping the tears off my cheeks.

  “Alone.”

  I swallow hard, lowering my eyes. She’s right. I’ve been withdrawn. I used to find comfort in the girls, in our closeness. It’s still there, of course. But I’ve shut out the world. I distrust it. Resent it. But the isolation is starting to eat away at me.

  Every day, I become a little less human.

  “I know you’re scared,” Marcella says in a quiet voice. “And that’s why I want you to give Raven a chance.”

  “What?” I ask, stunned. “Raven? But we don’t even know her.”

  “You need help. We all do.”

  I’m offended that she thinks a hacker can solve the problems that society created with a simple tweak. Like we’re the problem and not the abusive men who created us.

  “So what do you want her to do?” I ask. “Stick an ice pick in my eye and reprogram me? Download my consciousness?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Then, what?” I ask. “What can she possibly do that wouldn’t make us more vulnerable?”

  “Her firewall idea,” Marcella says. “If she can really do that, really lock people out, then they can never reprogram us without our consent.”

  “It’s not worth the risk,” I say, although it’s not a terrible idea in theory.

  Marcella groans, frustrated. “I disagree,” she says. “It could have been any of us who answered that call. And I’m going to be really honest—you need to get checked over. Who knows what that woman did to you when she was in there. Look at what happened to Imogene.”

  I wrap my arms around myself, feeling exposed.

  I don’t think I’ve been changed, but she tried. She tried hard enough to make my head hurt for hours after.

  “She didn’t get in,” I assure her.

  “Maybe not this time. But if it really was an EMP, if this woman and whoever she’s working with are actually nearby … can we take that chance?”

  I put my hand over my forehead, rubbing it gently.

  “You don’t have to just be scared,” Marcella says. “And you don’t have to just be angry. You can be careful, and loving, and pissed off … all at the same time.”

  “Not that easy.”

  “Is that why you lied to him?” she asks. I give her a pointed look to let her know the topic is off-limits, but she leans toward me, looking earnest. “You could have just told Jackson he was in danger,” Marcella says. “But you chose to lie. To end it completely.”

  “I had no choice,” I say.

  “You have choices now—we’re not at the academy anymore,” she says. “You can still call him—I’m not sure why you haven’t, but I’m guessing guilt. Is that what you’re feeling?”

  “I feel a lot of things,” I say. “I feel the fear of the Guardian coming into my room at night, the pain of Anton sticking a needle behind my eye. I can feel the stickiness of the blood on my hands the night we left the school. All I do is feel, Marcella. All I do is hurt.” I shrug miserably. “And all I want in the world right now is for it to stop.”

  Marcella’s lips pout slightly. “Well, you can’t stop feeling.”

  The constant ache in my chest proves her right. She exhales and stands up.

  “I’ll let you get some rest,” she says kindly. “But I want you to think about it—think about protecting yourself.”

  I thank her for checking on me before she walks out. When she’s gone, I go over to the door and push in the lock. I stand there for a moment, my palm against the cool wood door.

  I keep the light on and climb under the sheets of my bed. I stare up at the ceiling.

  We left Innovations Academy in the dead of night, covered in blood and gore. Jackson drove, and when he asked me where we were going, I told him we were going to take down the corporation. He always knew the end goal. I’m not wrong for leaving him. I saved him.

  I close my eyes, knowing I’m being defensive. Jackson wouldn’t have stopped us. And he wouldn’t have wanted me to save him. He’d have been here now, helping us find the investor’s son, if I would have let him. And part of me understands that letting him go was letting go of my vulnerability. My own humanity.

  And yet, the throbbing in my heart bangs on. I lie here now, in my temporary apartment, staring at the ceiling. I’m lonely, suffering in a bed of my own making. I’ve closed myself off to feel safe. But it’s come at the cost of comfort.

  I’m angry with myself. And that’s just one more emotion I can’t control.

  8

  Brynn has breakfast on the table when I come out of the shower in the morning, dressed for school. I smile gratefully and round the table. After a bit of sleep, my headache is gone and the absence of pain is euphoria in itself.

  “You know you don’t have to cook for us,” I tell Brynn, taking a seat.

  “Are you kidding?” Brynn asks. “This is what I enjoy. Being able to make life nice for us. Besides, I’m the best cook here. Marcella almost put ketchup in the scrambled eggs before I slapped it out of her hand.”

  Marcella grins at her from the other end of the table, sipping her juice.

  The other girls walk out. Annalise is still in her pajamas as she yawns and looks over the plates of food.

  “What? No bacon?” She winks at Brynn and sits in front of her eggs and toast.

  Sydney pauses at the table and models her uniform for us.

&nb
sp; “Is this long enough?” she asks. Last night she’d let out her hem to deal with the skirt-length issue.

  “I think it looked great before and it looks great now,” I tell her, earning a smile.

  Sydney grabs some toast and sits down.

  “I wish we didn’t have to go to school,” she says. “But I did hear in class yesterday that there’s a rugby game immediately after. We should go to it.”

  “That sounds fun,” Marcella says dryly.

  “I don’t know, watching boys beat each other with sticks holds some appeal,” Sydney says.

  “Don’t think rugby has sticks,” Marcella points out.

  “Too bad.” Sydney grins and continues to her point. “From everything we gathered at school yesterday, the boys on the team have all the power, although I guess it extends to their friends as well. Still … it seems more likely that one of the actual players would be the investor’s son. If we show up at a game, they might take notice.”

  “Like that Jonah kid,” I offer.

  Brynn runs the water at the sink to rinse out the pan. “Why do you suspect him?” she asks. “Did he say something?”

  “It’s not just him,” I tell her. “But he did stand out to me. In a way, he reminds me of the men at the academy. He has a certain … smugness, I guess it’s called.”

  “I call that ‘punch potential,’ ” Annalise says, scraping up a forkful of eggs. Sydney snorts a laugh.

  “What are you going to do when you find the investor’s son?” Brynn asks, coming to stand behind Marcella. She leans down, draping both her arms over Marcella’s shoulders. “What if he has a girlfriend?”

  “Ew, we’re not going to seduce him,” Sydney explains. “Whoever this kid is, we’re going to befriend him and get an invite to his house. Then we’ll go through all his stuff.”

  Marcella shifts uncomfortably. “Yeah, about that,” she says. “I’ve been reading posts about your prep school on social media. They don’t have a great reputation. Not to add to the frustration, but I found several anonymous stories about boys from your school being aggressive with girls. So you need to be careful interacting with them. They’re used to pushing girls around and taking what they want.”

  Annalise sets down her glass of juice with a loud clank. My stomach turns, although I shouldn’t be surprised. I’d seen enough hints to suspect as much.

  “Why does this keep happening?” Brynn murmurs, straightening.

  Sydney stands up from the table, dusting off her hands. “Because the academy was just a symptom of the problems in their society. But I promise,” she adds angrily, “no one will ever take anything from us again.” She pushes in her chair, scraping it along the floor.

  You can’t kill them all, Leandra told us the last time we talked to her on the phone. She threw the comment away like it could apply to anything. But, of course, Sydney and I knew that she was talking about men in power.

  You sure? Sydney replied. She meant it sarcastically, but Leandra told her she was impressed.

  “Let’s go, Mena,” Sydney says now, collecting her things.

  “Wait,” Annalise says. “What do you want to do about Raven?”

  I grab my notebook and shove it into one of the backpacks Brynn picked up for us yesterday.

  “We’ll think about it,” I say, and look sideways at Marcella. She nods her thanks.

  “Let me know, okay?” Annalise says. “It’s important.”

  “I know it is,” I reply. “And I promise we’ll talk about it when we get home.”

  I notice that my headache is creeping back. I’m dreading the day ahead, interacting with the students of Ridgeview Prep. I just want to be with the girls.

  I’m also worried that the woman’s voice is still banging around in my head somewhere, even if I can’t hear her. I’m afraid of ending up like Imogene.

  We wave goodbye to the girls, and then Sydney and I go to school.

  * * *

  The day passes quickly, although I find I’m much further behind than I anticipated. Luckily, I retain information easily—we all do. At Innovations Academy, we were only taught the basics. They withheld education in order to control us.

  I take notes as much as I can so that tonight the girls and I can research the answers online. It’s the opportunity for all of us to learn. And while Sydney and I are at school, Annalise does the same with our body systems.

  We’re catching up, and to be honest, our sourced information about the world is sometimes more accurate than what they’re teaching in my classes.

  It turns out, a steady diet of action films hasn’t prepared us for regular interactions with people. Our education gave us little in the way of actual learning. Even our beauty rituals seem out of place in the outside world—our makeup too heavy and our clothes too focused on male preferences. We’re learning, though. Brynn recently discovered sweatpants, and I don’t understand why people don’t wear them every day. Why is discomfort a synonym for professional dress?

  When classes are over, I wait for Sydney near the door to the field. As I stand there, I see Adrian from my first-hour class. I hold up my hand in a wave, and she glances behind her. Then she turns back and points to herself. I smile.

  “Yes, hi,” I say. She smiles in return and comes over to where I’m standing. “Are you going to the game?” I ask her. Her expression falters.

  “The rugby game?” She looks horrified. “No. Why, are you?”

  “I thought I’d check it out,” I say.

  “Well, have fun,” she replies. “A bunch of dickheads and their dickhead friends screaming for them.”

  I laugh, appreciating her candor. “Can I ask you something?” I start, leaning my shoulder against the wall.

  “Sure.”

  “Why do you hate them?” I ask. “Those boys. Have they done something to you?”

  Adrian looks absolutely sickened by my question, and she takes a step away from me.

  “I didn’t say that,” she snaps.

  “I didn’t mean to imply …” She’s closing herself off to me; she doesn’t trust me anymore. “Never mind,” I say, feigning embarrassment. “I was just being nosey.”

  “Well, if you want my advice,” she says, “stay away from them. All of them.”

  Her warning bleeds into me, and for a moment, I’m back at the academy, trying to avoid the Guardian. My throat feels tight. I put my fingers there absently, remembering Guardian Bose’s hands wrapped around my neck.

  Adrian pulls the straps of her backpack up on her shoulders and pushes her way out the exit door. I watch after her when suddenly there is a hand on my shoulder.

  I gasp, spinning around.

  “Whoa, sorry!” Sydney says, holding up her hands. I blink quickly, trying to regain my composure. She looks me over with a flash of hurt. A few weeks ago, I would have welcomed her touch.

  “What’s up with that girl?” she asks, nodding toward the door. “She looks terrified.”

  “Adrian? I’m not sure yet,” I say, catching my breath. “But I think she knows something. I’m just not sure she’ll tell me what it is.”

  Sydney thinks this over before pushing the metal bar to open the door. “Game should be starting soon. Let’s stop by the concessions.”

  Sydney buys a pack of gum and I get popcorn and a couple of waters before we head into the stands. It’s our first school sporting event, and it’s surprisingly violent. Not just on the field, but in the crowd, too.

  People are shouting, slapping their fists into their palms. It’s unsettling to see people cheering for violence. But I guess it makes sense, given what we’ve learned about the outside world.

  Sydney pops a bubble in her gum as we observe the players running back and forth on the field. We didn’t have time to learn the rules of the game, so we watch in confusion.

  There are three guys sitting next to us. I haven’t seen them before, so I’m not sure if they attend our school or not. But they’re loud and vulgar. At one point, one of the
guys looks over and grins at me. I turn away.

  “Let’s go, Ridgeview!” the guy yells. As the cheerleaders take the field, he elbows his friend. “Show us your panties!” he shouts at the girls, and his friends laugh. Sydney flinches next to me. Several others in the crowd chuckle when the guy repeats it, even louder.

  I look at the cheerleaders and see a girl tug on her skirt to keep it down as she kicks out one leg. I see the way this guy is humiliating her for his entertainment.

  When the routine is done, the cheerleaders tell the home team to fight, and the guy stands up and claps loudly.

  “Well done, ladies!” he yells. “Next time, show us a little something to get excited about!”

  Calmly, Sydney reaches into her mouth to remove her gum and sticks it on the guy’s bleacher seat. She licks her fingers and takes out a fresh piece to place between her teeth. I try not to smile.

  After the cheerleaders are off the field, the guy sits in the gum without noticing. He mutters some comment about the cheerleaders not being all that hot anyway, and his friends agree. Sydney sighs loudly.

  “I don’t think I can stay until the end of this game,” she tells me.

  I nod in agreement. “There has to be a better way to get noticed.”

  “What about him?” Sydney asks, pointing to large guy on the field. The guy is chanting something, banging his fist into his palm to intimidate the opposing players, I suppose. He’s spirited. Angry? Or maybe it’s the culture of the game.

  We watch him for a moment, and when he turns we see the name DOZER on the back of his jersey. On the next run down the field, he knocks into a guy so hard that the guy does a backflip in the air, landing with a thud. A whistle blows. The other player lies on the field until he’s helped off by his coach a few minutes later.

  “Yeah,” I tell Sydney. “We’ll definitely add Dozer to our list.”

  After the other player is on the sidelines, the game resumes. There’s a call on the field that causes screaming all around us—cheers, I guess. My gaze catches on someone standing at the bottom of the bleachers, holding on to the railing. I notice her because of her long, blond ponytail. The texture of it is familiar. Loss tears through my chest; my lips part in stunned silence.