“Maybe she couldn’t,” Brynn says, sounding hurt that Marcella would criticize our friend.
Marcella noticeably tries to contain her irritation. “Okay, well, how did she end up in the same small town as us, then? Coincidence?”
“That’s what we need to figure out,” I say, finding my voice. I hand the glass of water back to Brynn and use the sink to pull myself up. When I’m standing again, I swipe the tears off my cheeks and steady my gaze on the girls.
“Annalise, can you track down info on Winston Weeks?” I ask. “See what his connections are to this town?”
“On one condition,” she says. “You let me bring Raven back.”
“Not now,” I say, wanting to leave this enclosed space, but Annalise steps in front of the door to stop me.
“You can’t keep going like this,” she says sternly. “You—”
“She had one at Lennon Rose’s place too,” Sydney says suddenly before wincing an apology to me.
“It wasn’t a breakdown,” I clarify. “It was … a vision.”
“Another one today?” Annalise asks, concerned. “Without your phone?”
“Not exactly the same,” I say. “But it was the same woman. She was there.”
Marcella marches right up to me, examining my eyes. “Mena … what is she doing to you? How is she getting to you?”
“I’m not sure,” I say.
“We have no choice, then,” Annalise says walking into the living room. I quickly follow her, my eyelids burning from my earlier tears.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
Annalise walks over to the computer and begins clicking the keys. “I’m asking Raven to come over.”
She says it like I have no room to argue, but I reach over and close the laptop. She spins to face me.
“You need help!” she says.
“I know!” I shoot back just as easily. It wasn’t the answer she was expecting. Frankly, it wasn’t the one I planned on giving. I furrow my brow and lower myself to sit at the kitchen table. “I know,” I repeat.
Annalise sits next to me, watching me carefully. “We have to try.”
Solemnly, I nod. “I’ll meet with her again,” I say. “But I’m not going to promise you anything. I can’t just hand myself over to a hacker.”
“I understand,” she says. “But talk to her. See what she can do.”
I agree that I will.
The other girls come out, and we sit together to talk about Lennon Rose. Winston Weeks, no doubt, knows we’re here. If he didn’t before, we’re sure Lennon Rose has told him.
“Winston wasn’t so bad,” Annalise says. Sydney scoffs, turning to her. She shrugs.
“I’m just saying, he wasn’t as bad as the rest,” she clarifies.
“Just because he wasn’t absolute garbage doesn’t mean he was good,” Sydney says. Annalise flinches and when she turns, her scar catches the light.
“I’m aware, Sydney. Trust me, I’m aware.”
Sydney lowers her head. We forget sometimes about how Annalise was changed. And not just physically. The only reason she’s here now is because Leandra intervened to bring her back to life. We didn’t know how to save her; we were too trusting. That’s why Annalise has been so intent on learning about our bodies and systems—she wants to be able to repair us in the future. Teach us how to repair ourselves.
Annalise doesn’t trust easily, which is why her connection to Raven is so unusual. With that said, she’s not entirely wrong about Winston, but to that same point, neither is Sydney.
Annalise opens her computer and begins typing again.
“Raven said she can come tomorrow after school,” Annalise says.
“Wait, you’re talking to her right now?” I ask.
“Yep. Done.” She closes the laptop.
“What did you say? What did she say?” I ask.
“Nothing. I just asked her if we could meet, and she said she’d come by tomorrow.”
Annalise acts like this is all very normal, as if we’ve been using technology to communicate with outsiders our whole lives.
“Now,” she says, leaning back in the kitchen chair. A smile finally pulls at her lips. “How’s our Lennon Rose?”
12
I barely slept last night. I was scared of my dreams.
It’s left me slightly disoriented, but my headache isn’t too bad this morning. Sydney and I split apart when we walk into school. She heads toward her class, and I watch as several sets of eyes follow her.
Last night, Sydney brought up again that she’s getting an extra level of scrutiny at school. I can see it, and I wonder—if everyone else can see it too, why don’t they say something? Why is the school letting it happen?
I thought the outside world would be exponentially better than the academy, and in certain ways, it is. But it’s also more insidious. There is the same hatred and lust for control, but out here, they hide it better. They deny it or justify it. It’s maddening.
I walk into class and there’s a wolf whistle from the side of the room. I glance back and see Garrett smile at me.
“Nice legs,” he says.
It’s not a compliment. He says it to embarrass me, dominate me. I stare at him long enough to make his jaw tighten with anger. I walk the rest of the way to my seat, noticing that our teacher, Mr. Marsh, witnessed the entire exchange. He offers me an apologetic shrug as I sit down.
He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t address Garrett’s conduct.
Maybe if he corrected it, the behavior would stop. But instead, it’s allowed and therefore condoned.
I look sideways and see that Adrian isn’t in class today. I’m susceptible without her. There’s safety in numbers—a modicum of safety, at least. The girls and I learned that at the academy. But now I’m alone in the room with a boy set on humiliating me.
Mr. Marsh gets up in front of the class. I turn my attention to him immediately. Although I study at night, have already read the entire textbook, I want to hear his opinions on history. He goes to the whiteboard and begins to write.
“Essential Women’s Act,” he says as he writes out the words. “This isn’t in the books since the text is pretty dated.” He smiles at us like we should appreciate him pointing out the school’s obsolete materials.
“The EWA was awesome,” Garrett calls from the back of the room, and several of the boys laugh. I notice a girl wilt slightly in the corner desk.
“No, Garrett,” Mr. Marsh says. “It was not. It was quickly outlawed the minute the administration changed hands.” Garrett mumbles something under his breath, but Mr. Marsh ignores him and continues. “But it was passed into law initially.”
Mr. Marsh begins pacing in front of the class. Garrett and his friends can barely contain their annoyance, as if they shouldn’t have to listen to the lesson since it’s about women.
“A presidential executive order banned the reproductive rights of women,” the teacher continues. “It outlawed birth control, abortion, and medical procedures that included hysterectomies. And it didn’t stop there.…”
I lean forward in my seat. They tried to control women years ago, but it didn’t work out. That’s probably what led certain men to create Innovations Academy. The men in power couldn’t control human women, so they built girls that wouldn’t disobey. What they were planning for the future, we’re not quite sure. But following that logic, I imagine we would have eventually become a threat to womankind. We would have replaced them in all but reproduction.
Fortunately, we’re smarter than those men. Cruelty is not a true form of leadership. So we’d never let that happen. The girls and I don’t want to take over; we have no thirst for power. We just want to live.
Even if we’re not quite sure how we fit into society.
“Pregnant women were given mandatory social workers to monitor their behavior,” Mr. Marsh continues. “And the father of the unborn child was given power of attorney regarding medical care. There were strides to restrict women’
s workers’ rights—places like the Federal Flower Gardens and specialized national museums were built with the intent of being ‘acceptable workplaces for women,’ with the purpose of taking them out of the overall workforce. But at that point, the economy had already started to tank.”
My breathing has become rapid. The injustice of this is terrifying. They wanted to control human bodies, but only the ones that belonged to women. They treated them like property, like incubators or art to be looked at. The fact that these restrictions were passed is unbelievable … until I consider the reasons that they created me.
“How long did it last?” I ask. Mr. Marsh looks startled by the question, but then he smiles.
“I’m glad somebody’s paying attention,” he says. He returns to the board and writes several dates. “After Congress failed to check the presidential power, the EO was enacted. The Supreme Court declined to hear the case. Chaos ensued.”
“Yeah, my mother went out and protested,” a guy in the back says. I turn to look at him. He isn’t with Garrett and his friends.
“Another fucking feminist,” Garrett mutters. The other boy swallows hard and looks down at the notebook on his desk.
“Language,” Mr. Marsh warns Garrett before turning to the other kid.
“Many did protest, Lyle,” the teacher adds. “In fact, we saw some of the biggest protests in the history of the world. Businesses shut down. Violence broke out.”
“Women fought back?” I ask, thinking of the poems.
“Some,” Mr. Marsh says. “But the violence wasn’t from women. It was directed at them. Within a few months, the civil unrest was so intense that the administration was stripped from power. Eventually, rights were restored.” He sighs, setting the marker down on the board ledge.
“Both sides are still angry about it,” he continues. “There’s a sect of the population that thinks women should be at the direction of their husbands and fathers.” He presses his lips together in a smile. “But that population is severely outnumbered by sensible people.”
“Hey, isn’t that just your opinion?” Garrett asks. “Like, should you even be selling us this shit?”
“It’s history,” Mr. Marsh says, walking back to his desk. “It shouldn’t be disputed.”
Garrett watches him. “Or maybe you just have the wrong perspective, Marsh.”
I look back at Garrett, stunned that he can continue to be so disrespectful. But the teacher doesn’t stand up to him. I don’t get it.
The bell rings and Mr. Marsh rolls out his hand like he’s formally excusing us. I wait a beat and go to his desk as the others file out.
“Can I ask you something?” I say. He seems relieved that I would respect him enough to approach him.
“Of course, Philomena.”
“What happened to the men who proposed those laws?” I ask. “Did they go to jail?”
He laughs. “No,” he says. “In fact, they’re still around. Writing columns on propaganda sites. Women and girls died, but the government was never held accountable. It’s part of why it’s still such a contentious issue.”
It’s painfully unjust that people can walk around without being punished for hurting others. A thought suddenly occurs to me. “Girls with Sharp Sticks” must have been written during that time. The girls and I looked up the poetry book The Sharpest Thorns online, but we didn’t find it anywhere. It wasn’t published, at least not in a way that’s searchable on the internet. Marcella suggested it might have been passed between girls. And maybe … Maybe the person who wrote it is still around. Still fighting somewhere.
However, I can’t take the chance of asking about the book directly. I don’t fully understand this school’s link to Innovations Academy yet, and Mr. Petrov was incensed when he found us with that book.
I step closer to Mr. Marsh’s desk, lowering my voice.
“You mentioned violence,” I say quietly. “Are there … Are there any books on that that I can read? Maybe something about fighting back?”
“Uh …” He seems to think it over. “I’m sure I can round up a few. I’m sorry that I can’t name any off the top of my head. At first, books were heavily censored, especially on this topic. But restrictions have eased up since then, I believe.”
I furrow my brow. He believes? Are books still being censored? I thought that was something that only happened at Innovations Academy.
“Philomena,” he says, sounding a bit confused. “Didn’t your parents talk to you about this?” he asks. “Your mother?”
“Only vaguely,” I lie, waving my hand. I back up. “Thank you, Mr. Marsh.”
“I’ll check out some books for you, okay?” he adds.
I thank him again and head out of the classroom. Mr. Marsh’s opinion on the matter seems obvious. He thinks the government was completely out of line; he sympathized with the women.
So why doesn’t he stop Garrett’s harmful behavior? Is it enough that Mr. Marsh sympathizes with us? Does that even matter if he doesn’t do anything about it?
I hurry to my next class so I won’t be late, anxious for lunch so I can tell Sydney all that I’ve learned.
* * *
“Do you think we can actually find who wrote The Sharpest Thorns?” Sydney asks at the lunch table, unwrapping her sandwich.
“Possibly,” I say. “Is it worth trying to find her, though? I mean … there’s no way she—and it definitely has to be a woman—wrote those poems with the intention of overwriting our programming. How could she could have known? But …” I pause, thinking it over. “Maybe she’s written other poetry. Maybe, weirdly, we have some connection to her words. It’s an interesting idea.”
“It’s definitely interesting,” Sydney says. “And that stuff about the government taking away women’s rights … Did Jackson ever mention that to you when he was visiting the school?”
“He talked about locking down the internet,” I say. “But—”
“Hey there, new girl,” a male voice says. My stomach sinks when Garrett drops onto the bench next to me, jostling me toward Sydney as he grins. I didn’t invite him to sit with us. I turn to Sydney and she sets down her sandwich, annoyed.
“We’re in the middle of—”
“I wasn’t fucking talking to you,” he snaps at her. Sydney flinches and looks at me with a fiery expression.
“Don’t talk to her like that,” I tell Garrett. It strikes me that Garrett doesn’t smile or charm Sydney. Where he tries to embarrass and ridicule me, dominate me, he takes a different approach with her. He won’t allow her to talk at all.
“You need to leave,” I say to him. “Right now.”
Garrett laughs dismissively. “You don’t own this cafeteria, Phil-o-mena.”
I hate the way he says my name, and I suspect he knows that. It’s why he keeps doing it. To prove that he can.
“Now,” he says, leaning his elbow casually on the table. “Why don’t you bring your cute little behind over to my table. My friends want to meet you.”
The invite revolts me. Despite how awful he is, he still thinks I’ll be flattered, happy for his attention. I glance over to his table and see several boys watching us with breathless anticipation. I resent them for egging him on.
“Sorry,” I tell Garrett. “I’m not interested. I’m perfectly happy at this table.”
I turn back to Sydney, hoping to ignore Garrett until he leaves. But my rejection is gasoline to his burning insecurity. He reaches out and knocks over my chocolate milk, spilling it into my lap.
I yelp and jump up, brushing the liquid off my skirt and legs. I look at him and he offers a lazy smile.
“Think before you speak next time,” he offers, standing up. “I was being cool.” He drags his gaze over me, but I refuse to let his predatory gaze intimidate me. “Keep it up and I might revoke your invite,” he adds.
He grabs the apple from my lunch and takes a loud bite, a spray of juice squirting out. He walks away as streams of milk continue to run off the table onto my se
at.
I turn to find Sydney staring at the milk. She’s angry, a bit defeated. When she lifts her gaze to mine, she begins shaking her head.
“Are they all terrible, Mena? Every last one of them?”
I’m not sure how to answer. I used to think there’d be others like Jackson, but I’m proven wrong every day. Given enough time, he might have disappointed me too.
“You okay?”
I turn to see Lyle, the boy from my first hour who spoke up during our lesson, approaching. He looks concerned as he holds out a huge stack of napkins. I take a few to clean myself up, and he tosses the rest onto the spilled milk.
I’m not sure about him at first, but he asks Sydney if she’s okay, and I decide that he’s genuine. After all, his mother protested the Essential Women’s Act.
“I’m good,” Sydney says, sounding wary.
Lyle looks at my uniform and winces. He turns back to the boys who watch with interest from their table. Lyle is pale with curly dark hair that he continually tries to tuck behind his ears.
“Those guys can be real assholes,” he says, wiping up the milk on my seat. “I apologize on their behalf.” He offers a small smile, and I thank him for his help.
After he cleans the milk, he tosses the napkins into the trash and returns to our table.
“Do you … Do you mind if I sit with you?” he asks.
I check with Sydney first. It will mean adjusting our conversation, but at the same time … Lyle will have insight into the boys at this school. We might be able to get some clues that can lead us to the son of the investor. Sydney nods.
“Sure,” I tell Lyle. “Join us.”
“Much appreciated.” He sits down and folds his hands in his lap.
He seems nice, just a little awkward. Something about his mannerisms, his deep but cracking tone of voice, makes him stand out. I’m not sure that’s something the average high school student wants—at least that’s what Marcella has told us. I’ve seen Adrian spend her day trying not to draw attention.
Garrett seemed annoyed with Lyle in class, and I wonder if they clash regularly, or if Lyle stays out of his orbit. I debate asking, but ultimately decide to keep things light to build trust.
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