Sydney and I head to school. The day passes quickly and without incident, but it isn’t until the end of the day that I have time to check my phone. There is disappointment when there are no missed calls or messages. I try not to analyze who exactly I was waiting to hear from.
“There’s a game directly after school,” I tell Sydney. “I’m thinking of staying. It’s possible Lennon Rose might show up, and I’d like her to explain why she left me alone with Winston Weeks. You coming?”
“I can’t,” Sydney says. “I promised Marcella and Annalise I’d help them. They want to head to the library, see if they can find more articles like the one Raven mentioned about Winston Weeks. It might lead to more information about our systems. You okay doing the game on your own?”
“Yes,” I say. “You help figure this out for Annalise. I’ll gather more information on the investor. Maybe we’ll both get lucky today.”
She smiles. “I’ll count on it. Call me if anything happens, okay?”
I promise that I will before she leaves. When she’s gone, I head to the field.
The bleachers are surprisingly crowded for such an early game. People must have left work to be here, but I’d have preferred if it’d been empty. It’s unsettling to watch people cheer for violence.
I climb the bleachers, searching for Lennon Rose, but I’m disappointed when she doesn’t turn up. The boy she was with isn’t here either. But there are several students who I recognize from school, along with my math teacher and a few loud men who I assume are fathers of the players. They call to their sons in the middle of a play, slapping their hands on the metal bar when they get it wrong. It’s all very intense. Very … angry.
I sit down and wonder why anyone would want to be part of something that makes them so upset.
As I wait and hope for Lennon Rose to arrive, I scan the crowd. My stomach sinks when I find Garrett sitting with two other boys a few rows closer to the field. He hasn’t noticed me yet, and I’m hoping that he won’t. I watch as he calls to a girl sitting alone at the end of his row. His friends cover their mouths to hide their laughs. The girl does her best to ignore him.
“Hey,” Garrett calls loudly. “Why don’t you bring that luscious ass over here?”
His friends burst out in laughter and my hands clench into fists on my lap.
“Come on, Bernie,” Garrett says. “I know you’re not getting a better offer.”
Her cheeks are glowing red, but she refuses to acknowledge his insults.
“I’ll even let you touch it,” Garrett sings out. And he’s not subtle. He’s loud enough for me to hear several rows back. An older couple sits on the other side of him and his friends. The woman looks uncomfortable, shifting on the bleacher. But the older guy smiles, amused. He even pats the woman’s leg as if telling her to relax.
“Bernice,” Garrett sings to the girl. “Remember when we hooked up in the art closet in seventh grade? I swear, it’s gotten bigger since then. Just like you.”
His friend tumbles onto the floor of the bleachers laughing dramatically, cruelly, and when I look at the girl, tears are streaming down her cheeks. I can see from here that she’s shivering. She’s … frightened.
Whatever’s going on, this isn’t the first time Garrett has harassed her. He’s most likely been terrorizing her for years.
The woman murmurs something to her husband, but he chuckles. “They’re just boys,” he says. “Lighten up. We did the same shit when we were in school.”
The woman looks past him to Bernie. I tilt my head as I examine the older woman’s expression. And I’m sure she’s thinking, Yes, I remember. Only it’s not fondly. She remembers the terror of boys just being boys.
It seems to be systematic, inherited power. The fathers pass it down to their sons: aggression, entitlement, violence. Coupled with money or influence, these boys are unstoppable. There is no catalyst for change. Their natures are nurtured rather than corrected. Even this mother doesn’t speak up.
“Bernice, come—”
“Leave her alone,” I say loudly enough for him to hear. Bernice turns to me first, shocked. Untrusting. Why should she trust me? I’m a stranger at a school that’s allowed her to be tortured. She stands up and hurries down the bleachers, fleeing the entire scene.
The older couple glances back at me. The man curls his lip before running his gaze over me. He sniffs a laugh, as if I’m off the hook because I’m pretty, and turns around. The woman, however, doesn’t seem sure what to make of me. Eventually, she looks away too.
Garrett, on the other hand, turns completely in the bleacher so that he’s facing me.
“Well, well,” he calls up to me. “Seems she wants to talk after all.” His friends look from him to me, their eyes glassy with excitement. But I don’t feed into Garrett’s energy. I ignore him and watch the field.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I was scared. Not of his verbal attacks—I was subjected to those daily at the academy. I know a situation can escalate. But I couldn’t let him harass that girl. I couldn’t stand by and let that happen. Girls need to protect each other, especially when adults do nothing but watch.
Garrett turns to his friends, saying something to make them laugh. I pull my hands inside the sleeves of my sweater and watch the players run back and forth on the field. I try to stay focused on my mission, evaluating each of the boys.
I notice Jonah Grant among the players and dissect his mannerisms. His confidence shines far above anyone else on that field. I wonder what makes the other boys afraid of him. What is it about him that they continue to bow to? He has power here, although I can’t quite figure out why. He seems average in every respect, but there must be something.
There’s a skirmish on the field, and I narrow my eyes as I try to see who’s fighting. There’s also a flash of movement at the end of my aisle, but I’m fascinated by what’s happening in the game.
A ref blows the whistle just as a punch is thrown. The benches empty into a rumble on the sidelines. But Jonah laughs with another player as they watch the others fight.
“A bunch of fucking Neanderthals,” a familiar voice says.
I suck in a startled gasp and turn as Jackson sits next to me with a groan, his crutches awkwardly banging against the metal. He keeps his gaze on the field, his expression weighted and heavy. The smell of him fills my nose, followed by a wave of affection. Trepidation. Guilt.
So much guilt.
His dark hair is messy, stubble grown out on his chin. He’s wearing a long-sleeved black T-shirt and a brace on his leg. His crutches lean on the metal seat next to him.
He doesn’t look at me. It hurts how much I want him to look at me.
I’m stunned to see him, and acknowledging that, he nods, continuing to watch the game.
“You didn’t say goodbye,” he says simply, as if that’s the worst of my offenses.
“I had to go,” I respond, and watch as his Adam’s apple bobs.
“Clearly. I mean …” He glances over for the first time and we both pause, our breaths held when his dark eyes meet mine. He abruptly turns away and his voice tightens. “I ended up in the hospital, you know? Q drove me directly there, and once I was admitted, he told me what you said outside the car.”
I close my eyes.
“You didn’t …” He pauses to keep his tone steady. “You didn’t have to tell him all that. He fucking hated me for a minute. So, you know, thanks.”
“You would have told him eventually,” I say, knowing it doesn’t absolve me.
“Of course I would have,” he says. “He’s my best friend. Which is why you shouldn’t have used it to drive us—me—away. That was pretty cold, Mena.”
The fight on the field has been cleared up, and two players head to the bench as two new ones charge out. Jonah Grant claps his hands, shouting out some commands to the other players.
“How did you find me?” I ask Jackson.
“I just came from your apartment,” he says. “Brynn told m
e you might be here.”
Of course she did. Although, to be fair, any one of the girls would have told him. Despite the fact that he’s human, that he’s a boy, they trust Jackson. They trust him because I do.
“I have no idea why you’re here”—he motions to the game—“but I know you’re the one who called me the other night,” he adds, a bit softer. “So I went all detective and found out the phone number was still registered to a mall kiosk in fucking Connecticut. Got a ticket and flew out same day.” He adjusts his leg, wincing slightly when he does. “When I got to the mall,” he continues, “I convinced the guy to give me a description of the girl who bought it. Nothing’s ever really anonymous. Not even a burner phone.”
“He knew where we lived?” I ask.
“No,” Jackson says. “But he noticed Sydney. Noticed her enough to copy down the GPS info from the phone he sold her. He gave it to me after I made some very persuasive threats against stalking my friends.”
“Even mall kiosk guys are the worst,” I murmur.
Jackson nods that it’s true. He looks over at me, his expression sobering when our gazes lock. He lowers his eyes to the floor of the bleachers.
“Why did you leave me like that?” he asks quietly. “Did Imogene really kill her husband?”
“Yes.”
“I saw a different man die in front of me that same night; why did you think this was different?” he asks. “Why did you really want me gone?”
And I have to evaluate if I still want him gone. Jackson would leave if I asked him to. He’d leave and never look back if that’s what I really wanted. But I didn’t ask that of him. I lied to him, instead. I tricked him and ran away. He wants an answer that’s more complicated than I can give.
“You had to leave because Leandra was coming and I was scared for you,” I say.
Jackson looks sideways at me while I watch the field. “I don’t believe you,” he says.
Surprised, I turn to him.
“It’s true,” I say. “She came there and—”
“No, I don’t believe that’s the only reason you sent me away,” he clarifies. “I think that was just your excuse.”
He’s angry with me. No, he’s hurt. And I hate that I’m the one who did that to him when all he’s ever done is try to be my friend. But maybe … Maybe it was more.
“Why do you think I sent you away?” I ask, daring him to answer. My heart beats faster, anticipating, yet scared of, the answer. Jackson takes a long moment to respond.
“Philomena,” he says, “by the time I got to the hospital, I had a fever and an infection in my goddamn bone that was spreading. And do you know what I was worried about?” he asks. “You. You getting to my house and me not being there. You being afraid that I’d left you. But after talking to Q, after he cussed me out in a hospital room, I worried about why you would hurt me like that on purpose.
“And I was mad,” he admits. “But after a few days”—he swallows hard and lowers his eyes again—“I worried about where you were and if you were okay. But apparently, you never had that same worry.”
It’s not entirely true. I’ve thought about Jackson plenty. The difference is, I pushed the thoughts away before they could hurt me, disregarding how I’d hurt him.
“You sent me away because you were scared of what I’d think of you,” Jackson says in a low voice. “You’re scared that you’re not real because you’re not human. And you thought, correct me if I’m wrong, that if I saw another murderous girl, I’d put that on you. Use it to generalize about you. And who knows?” He shrugs. “Maybe I would have had a moment like that. I’m not fucking perfect. I’m a mess. But don’t sit here and tell me that you lied to my face because you were scared for me. You were scared for yourself.”
Little pricks of heat pass over my skin, part exposure to the truth, part embarrassment. He’s right. He sees right through me in a way that most people can’t. And maybe that counts for something.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“It’s not about being sorry,” he says. “Just …” He stops himself, and when he talks again, his voice is softer. “You ruined me,” he adds. “You could … You could have called me. You could have checked on me. You could have told me you weren’t dragged back to that academy and lying on a metal slab.”
He’s right. I should have been honest. But I didn’t consider that Jackson would think the girls and I had been caught and destroyed. He looks more miserable than when he first sat down.
“I’m sorry that I hurt you,” I tell him. “But … as long as you’re around me, you’re going to keep getting hurt. Over and over. Some of your people want to kill me,” I say, making him flinch. “And some of my girls want to kill you.”
To this, he shrugs. “Yeah, well,” he says. “I’m starting to get used to that part.”
“What are you doing here, Jackson?” I ask. “What do you want from me?”
“Want from you?” he asks, offended. “First of all, I wanted to make sure you didn’t get kidnapped by a bunch of monsters. That was number one. Secondly …” His brow furrows. “I didn’t just sit around in the hospital. I got out early and drove to that damn school. But you weren’t there. Thankfully, you weren’t there.”
“You went back to Innovations?” I ask, my eyes widening.
“Yeah, a few times. But just to the fence,” he says. “But there was no Running Course. There wasn’t much activity that I could see at all. Didn’t even see another girl.”
“Did you see anyone?” The mention of the other students has sent me reeling, a reminder that they’re still trapped there.
Jackson tries to think. “Uh … I saw a couple of men in suits, professors maybe. And a skinny guy, graying hair, glasses. He wandered around outside for a bit. For a second, I thought he saw me, but he went back inside.”
“Anton,” I whisper, feeling sick. I don’t want to picture the analyst, but I’m helpless. His face pops into my mind, his smile. His whispered lies.
“There’s more,” Jackson says, nudging me when I’ve drifted too far. I focus on him again. “I found some paperwork that belonged to my mom,” he continues. “And it’s why I’m really here, Mena. It’s important and I knew you needed to see it.”
“What kind of paperwork?” I ask. I should have figured Jackson would keep researching. He’s good at it. He’s reckless about it.
Jackson’s mother was part of Innovations before they opened the academy. When she found out what Mr. Petrov was doing with her technology, she wanted out. Instead, she ended up dead.
“I left the papers at the hotel, so I don’t have them with me,” he says. “But I’ll be a hundred percent honest, I don’t entirely understand what they mean.…”
He seems extraordinarily worried, and that concern transfers to me. “Just say it,” I demand.
“It was about your … your shelf life.” Jackson winces and meets my eyes. “A design decision.”
Although he must not like the word choice, he has no idea how horrible those words are to hear. Reminding me once again that I’m a product built for consumption.
“What kind of design decision?” I ask.
“It was written a few weeks before my mother died,” Jackson says, looking away to stare at the field. “It was mixed in with the other paperwork where she stated that she didn’t want to be part of the school anymore. Their defense for using her programming was the guarantee that systems would only be active for fifteen years.”
I straighten. “What does that mean?” I ask.
“I’m not done.” He swallows hard, lowering his head. “My mother didn’t think that was good enough. So she … She designed them for seven.” He’s quiet, but my skin is prickly—a chill racing up my arms and down my back. “I’m not sure if that design went into effect. It was an option. One you need to be aware of.”
“I don’t understand,” I say.
“It implies that your system will shut down at the seven-year mark,” Jackson says. I can see
that he’s uncomfortable thinking of me as a machine. He’s not alone in that. “It was devised as a way to keep you from overdeveloping. Becoming sentient. It also played into the business model. An incentive for investors to keep coming back to … upgrade. Like any major appliance. If you lasted forever, there would be no repeat customers.”
“But we age,” I say, my voice quiet so that no one can overhear this truly bizarre conversation. “We have human organs—I’ve seen them.”
“It’s not your body that fails,” he says. “It’s something …” He taps his temple.
“What will happen at seven years?” I ask. I’m not exactly sure how long I’ve been alive, but it’s been at least three years. Does that mean I only have four left?
“I don’t know, Mena,” Jackson says. “But I have the papers, and I’m happy to drop them off at the apartment. Is there someone who can fix this if it’s true? I know the doctor is …” He flinches. “The doctor’s dead, so … he can’t help. What about that analyst guy?”
“None of those men would help us,” I say. Jackson’s face falters, and I’m sure it’s fear in his expression. I’d hate to think it was pity. After a beat, he nods to himself.
“I’m not going to just give up on you,” he says, as if I’d argued the contrary. “I nearly died at that school too, you know. Going inside there. Maybe you didn’t need to be rescued like I thought, but I did show up for you. Fuck, I drove the getaway car with a busted leg,” he adds.
And the last comment makes me smile, a lull in the tension. He did come to save us, even though we had already gone through hell to save ourselves. He found out what we were, but he got us out of there anyway. He’s always shown up for me, even though I didn’t do the same.
“I might know someone,” I tell him. “A hacker.”
“A hacker?” He sounds almost amused. “You’ve been meeting hackers out here in the world? I bet he’s fucking impressed.”
“She. And yeah, she is. I don’t know yet, but she might be able to work on this,” I say. “Give us an update or something. She has other ideas that might tie in.”
Thinking on it now, Raven might have seen the flaw when she looked at Annalise’s programming. She might have found it and not even realized.
Girls with Razor Hearts Page 15