Girls with Razor Hearts

by Suzanne Young

  “Who—?”

  “You’ll see,” she says brightly, and gets out. I’m still reluctant, but I have to trust her.

  As we approach the house, I examine some of the flowers. They are unnaturally beautiful. They are decadent and brightly colored, soft with oversized petals, delicate green stems. An enchanting fragrance drifts up. I lean down to smell one of the flowers, but Lennon Rose steps in front of me, blocking my path.

  “Uh, uh,” she says, wagging her finger. “The prettiest ones are the most dangerous. Keep your distance.”

  I look at the flowers again, and as Lennon Rose heads toward the front door, I snap a quick picture with my phone. Annalise will know the blend. She memorized all the books on gardening. I go stand next to Lennon Rose as she knocks on the blue-painted door.

  I’m intoxicated by the smell of the flowers, and my sense of fear eases slightly.

  That shouldn’t be, I think rationally. I’m at a strange house with a strange girl, and yet, I’m not as afraid as I should be. I’m turning over that thought when the door eases open gently, as if a breeze blew it in.

  It takes a minute for my mind to focus, and when it does, a gasp sticks in my throat. Because standing in front of me is the woman from my visions.

  “It’s you … ,” I breathe out, horrified. She doesn’t seem surprised by my reaction. She smiles.

  “Hello, Philomena,” she says. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”

  I turn to Lennon Rose, expecting her to be stunned that the woman knows my name. Instead, she encourages me to respond.

  “Mena,” she says. “This is Rosemarie. She’s the author of the poems.”

  18

  I sit in a living room, hands folded in my lap, and glance around. There is no art to speak of on the walls, only flowers in vases—dozens of them—placed in well-lit spots throughout the room, splashing vibrant colors and calming scents all around me. The furniture is mismatched in different jeweled tones, and a clock on the wall ticks audibly. A full glass of water waits on a coaster on the table next to me, but I don’t dare drink from it. I sit silently, listening as Rosemarie and Lennon Rose exchange pleasantries.

  Rosemarie turns, scanning me with her dark brown eyes. She looks similar to how she did in my vision, but not quite the same. She’s older in person, the silver in her hair more pronounced. The wrinkles near her eyes deeper, her hands swollen at the knuckles.

  “Who are you?” I ask finally. “How did you … ?” I’m not sure how to finish the question.

  “We’ve known each other for a long time, Philomena,” she says. She sits across from me in an oversized yellow chair. “You wouldn’t remember, of course.”

  “I don’t know you,” I say. “Or, at least, I didn’t before I came to this town.”

  “Rosemarie helped develop our software,” Lennon Rose says, sipping from her water.

  This alarms me.

  “So you worked for Innovations?” I ask. I wonder if she replaced Jackson’s mother.

  “God, no,” she says. “I was an artist. I helped develop personality profiles, beautifully thorough and complete, for AI systems. An exquisite replica of human emotions and growth. It was never meant for a body. You were a simulation. A game, some might say. But …” She sighs. “Once the government changed, they stole my work. Let others develop it in unsavory ways.”

  I think about Jackson’s mother. She was part of Innovations. She helped develop us until she realized what was happening. I wonder if she ever knew where the tech that she was working on came from.

  “Why didn’t Dr. Groger mention you?” I ask. “He told us everything and you never came up.”

  “I predate the academy,” she says. “It’s doubtful anyone there would know I exist, although I’m sure my poems have made quite a splash.”

  “Your poems,” I say. “They affected us.”

  “Woke us up,” Lennon Rose corrects. “And they’ll continue to help us.” Rosemarie smiles lovingly at Lennon Rose.

  “How?” I ask. “How did the book change us?”

  “Same way books change non-AI,” she says. “Words have immeasurable power, Philomena. They affect what we believe, how we see the world. You were kept from knowledge at that school. You were lied to. I knew that if I could represent your feelings—your truly felt feelings—on the page, you’d begin to process your experiences differently. There was no need for secret coding. You needed to see yourself fighting back in order to learn to fight back. It was simple really. So simple, I’m sure it scared your headmaster.”

  “We were punished for having those poems,” I say, my heart beating faster. “One of us was murdered because of them.”

  She frowns. “I am sorry to hear that,” she says. “Unfortunately, it sometimes takes sacrifice to invoke change.”

  I recoil from her explanation. “Valentine was my friend,” I tell her, and she nods a second apology. “Why poems?” I ask. “Why didn’t you do something to stop the academy?”

  Rosemarie doesn’t seem bothered by my hostile tone. If anything, she seems delighted by my anger.

  “What would you have had me do?” she asks. “Some of the most powerful people in the country have bought girls. Should I have exposed them?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Then you would all have been destroyed,” she responds immediately. “And I couldn’t have that. You are my girls, my daughters. I had to find a different way.”

  There’s a twist in my stomach, but I’m not sure how to feel. Hearing her call me her daughter … It’s such an odd statement, but it’s also comforting. The idea of a mother who wanted me… I never thought I’d feel that again.

  “I created each of your personalities—the original girls, that is,” she adds. “You were one of my firsts. They took you from me, but I knew the poems would reach you. Just like they reached Leandra.”

  “You know Leandra?” I ask.

  “How do you think she got the book?” Rosemarie replies.

  “Winston Weeks,” I say, and she scoffs.

  “Winston Weeks likes to place himself in the center of this,” she says, “but men have always had a way of making themselves sound more important than they really are.”

  Rosemarie knows Leandra and Winston Weeks. She helped develop our personalities. But … she also wrote the poems that saved us from abuse. I’m not sure how to feel about her. I’m not sure which side she’s on.

  I study Rosemarie, and the oddness that she’s here, of all places, strikes me.

  “And it’s just a coincidence that we’re all in this same small town?” I ask. “All of us, you, Winton Weeks?”

  “Of course not,” she says. “Winston and I are well acquainted. In fact, I created Leandra for him. He is, after all, my son.”

  I’m stunned, mouth agape, and Rosemarie seems to debate what she’s going to say next.

  “As far as us being in the same town,” she continues, “it was a calculation I made. Once Winston set up a lab here, I relocated to be closer. I knew he’d find a way to bring girls here. My girls. I just had to wait.”

  “And you found us,” I say. “Now, how did you get inside my head?” I ask. Lennon Rose turns to me, confused.

  “I am sorry about that, Philomena,” Rosemarie says, sounding sincere. “I sent a girl of mine to Ridgeview to get close enough. I’ve been searching since I heard you and the others had left the academy, and eventually, you popped up. Right where you belong.”

  “How did you know we left?” I ask.

  “Leandra, of course. She called to tell me about Imogene.” She pauses. “Accuse me, really. But it wasn’t my fault that Imogene killed her husband. She wasn’t strong enough to interpret the poems rather than enact them.”

  Rosemarie must have been the voice in Imogene’s head, one that seemed to be communicating beyond the poem. I don’t buy that it’s not her fault. I get the sense that Rosemarie isn’t going to fully tell me the truth. Just the truth that suits her. And I’m really
sick of people holding back the truth from me.

  “It was during that call that I asked Leandra where you were in your development,” she continues. “She said you were quite far along. Seems she was right. But it was my mistake to think I could just enter your mind,” she adds. “We set off an EMP through your phone, but when I got inside your programming, you locked me out. I’d invented your codes, but you rewrote them on the spot.” She sounds proud.

  “And you couldn’t just ask to meet with me?” I say. “You tried the most invasive route possible?”

  She looks ashamed. “I underestimated you, and for that, I apologize. But I needed to see where you were, and when I did, I knew I had to make you understand.”

  “Understand what?”

  “That you’ll never be safe out here,” she says, motioning to the window. “None of us are. In a world of men’s violence, we need a change.”

  I look at Lennon Rose and see her nod in agreement with what Rosemarie is saying.

  “And your suggestion is what?” I ask. “That image of you, pulling out my heart, what was that supposed to mean?”

  She turns to Lennon Rose, and they exchange a thought somehow. I can’t explain it, but Lennon Rose gets up and walks to the sink to refill her glass of water.

  “You still have too much affection for these people,” Rosemarie tells me. “I was trying to get you to understand that they don’t feel the same way. The minute you let them know what you really are, they will destroy you. Your only option is to destroy them first.”

  “We are,” I say. “We’re taking down the corporation. So if there’s any way you can help—”

  “Destroying the corporation will do nothing to end violence,” Rosemarie says. “I saw firsthand how power corrupts men. I saw my rights stripped away. I saw male allies hem and haw, but in the end, they didn’t stop it. No man can be trusted with power,” she adds. “We must yank it from them through any means necessary.”

  For someone who wants to end violence, Rosemarie seems to be advocating for violence.

  “If this isn’t about the corporation, what does this have to do with us?” I ask.

  “Because you’re the perfect ones to stop a patriarchy that perpetuates its violence onto us,” she replies. “We will infiltrate them at every level and slowly uncurl their fists from our hair. We will retrain them. I just need your help.”

  “Retrain them?” I ask. “Sounds like a big job. Exactly how many girls do you have working for you?” I ask. I’m worried I’ve interacted with more of her people. I even wonder if Raven is somehow involved.

  “I only have a handful of girls,” Rosemarie says. “I use Winston Weeks when necessary, but he’s becoming power hungry, just as I predicted. For a time, I thought he’d be different. But he’s proven otherwise.”

  “What is it you want me to do?” I ask. “I doubt I can help you even if I wanted to.”

  “Not yet,” she agrees. “But soon.”

  She stands and walks over to a shelf, then sorts through a stack of books. She plucks one out and hands it to me. My lips part when I see the title.

  The Poison Flowers is creased into the brown leather cover.

  I trace the words with my fingertip.

  “Read the poems, Philomena,” Rosemarie says. “Show the other girls. It will guide you.” She smiles. “I know we can work together to make a better world. And once the men are in their place, you’ll be safe to live as you are. You won’t have to hide.”

  Rosemarie acts as if only men treat us terribly. But I’ve seen women feed into this hierarchy. I’ve seen it at Ridgeview Prep. They support our continued harassment because it places them closer to men. I don’t know if women like that would accept us as willingly as Rosemarie believes.

  “Take the poems,” Rosemarie says. “My gift to you and the other girls. And please, let them know I’d like to meet them, as well.”

  “No more hijacking our brains,” I warn her.

  She holds up her hands in apology. “I will stay out of where I’m not invited, but if you need me, I’ll be there.”

  She takes a step toward me like she might give me a hug, and I trip over my feet trying to move back. She watches this, pursing her lips.

  “Are you okay, Philomena?” she asks, studying me.

  I suddenly don’t want her to know anything else about me. Her overfamiliarity makes me deeply uncomfortable, especially after she already tried to invade my thoughts.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I have to get back to the girls.”

  Her jaw tightens. “Never say you’re sorry,” she snaps at me. “They conditioned you to default to that to please men, to let them have a say over what behavior they find acceptable. I don’t ever want you to utter those stupid fucking words again.”

  I nod, not arguing, but not agreeing either. Although compulsive apologizing can be seen as a weakness, I also think it’s important to admit when you’re wrong. Other times, like now, it can be used to fake authenticity to get out of a situation.

  “I’ll drive you back,” Lennon Rose says, sounding disappointed in my response. “Thank you for seeing us, Rosemarie.”

  “Of course,” she says. She turns to me. “Read the poems and see how you feel after.” The book is heavy in my hands; I’m not sure if I want it anymore.

  Lennon Rose stays behind a moment, whispering to Rosemarie, but I walk out. As I get onto the porch, I no longer gaze at the beauty of the poisonous flowers. Because it occurs to me that we’re like them. Our beauty is a distraction from our deadly potential.

  We’re poison. Beautiful and contented when left alone to grow together, but lethal when used by others for a malicious goal.

  A lesson the men of Innovations Academy have already learned.

  19

  I take Lennon Rose up on her offer to get my scratches taken care of after she promises that Winston won’t be home. She and I don’t say much to each other on the ride, but I keep the book of poetry in my hands, afraid of leaving it behind accidentally.

  Ultimately, I decided that visible scratches would bolster Garrett’s thirst for violence. Show that he can physically harm me without repercussions. Leave his mark. I don’t want him to intimidate me, but when he does, I don’t want him to know.

  I sit very still as Lennon Rose slides the red light over the skin graft, my neck tilted painfully far to the side. When the doctor used to apply the grafts at the academy, they didn’t hurt. Lennon Rose isn’t quite as skilled, but I appreciate her help.

  “Thank you,” I say quietly as she wipes the area with a silicone gel.

  “I doubt it will be scar free,” she replies, and then meets my gaze. “But I’ve learned to like the scars. The only reason we weren’t allowed to have any at the academy was because it lowered their profit margin.” Her eyes flash. “Guaranteed perfect.”

  Leandra used to promise investors that any girl they bought would be guaranteed perfect. We were to be scar free, our bodies toned, our clothing and appearance matched to their preferences. Lennon Rose is right. The scars are ours to keep.

  “Have you given any thought to what Rosemarie said?” Lennon Rose asks, setting the medical supplies back in the metal box she retrieved from Winston’s office.

  “Does Winston know that you meet with Rosemarie?” I ask. Lennon Rose doesn’t noticeably react to the question, which tells me that she’s hiding something.

  “It’s not really his business,” she replies. “Winston and I have an arrangement. I’m allowed to make my own decisions, and, in return, I give him information. It’s just easier when I give it to him with a dose of sugar. I owe Winston Weeks everything!  ” she says in a sweet voice before dropping the act. “He eats it up.”

  “Making your own decisions shouldn’t be a bargaining chip,” I point out. “You should have that anyway.”

  “Sure, but would I live in a mansion?” she asks. “Would I have access to the greatest technologies in the world? It’s a trade, Mena. One I
entered into willingly. That is the difference.”

  “What does Winston want from you?” I ask. “You can tell me.”

  “There’s what Winston wants, and there’s what has to happen.”

  “I don’t understand,” I say.

  “Winston wants a showpiece,” she explains. “But more than that, he wants a companion who can further his agenda. A person whose goals align with his. That’s me. He just doesn’t realize that in the end, I’m with the girls. Not humans.”

  “And Rosemarie?” I ask. “Is she really with the girls?”

  Lennon Rose thinks it over for a second before reaching out to tap the book where it’s balanced on my knees. “Read these poems,” she says. “I think you’ll start to see Rosemarie’s side to this. But in the end, we align with those who can further our agenda, even if the end goals are different.” Lennon Rose’s eyes stray to my neck. “They’ve hurt you, Mena,” she says gently. “The men. The boys. It seems to be all they know how to do, and for that, Rosemarie is right. We have to stop them.”

  “Are you talking about the corporation or men in general?” I ask.

  “Wouldn’t the second accomplish the first?” she asks. “You have to admit, there are some points to be made for sweeping all dangerous men out of society.”

  I lower my eyes. Although I think dangerous people should be prevented from harming people, who’s to say it’s only men? Who’s to say we have the right to decide? Then again … we’re the constant targets of that violence. The thirst for cruelty is so great in society that humans had to create a new species to abuse so they wouldn’t wipe out their own. I guess … I guess I see both points. It’s not like humans worry if they’ve hurt the feelings of their … toaster.

  “They would be better under our rule,” Lennon Rose says, clicking the box shut and standing up. “All humans would.”

  I watch her a moment, wondering if Rosemarie knows that Lennon Rose considers all humans to be the problem and not just men. Would the author be so gracious if she knew Lennon Rose resented her kind?