Girls with Razor Hearts

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Girls with Razor Hearts Page 24

by Suzanne Young


  Sydney and I order a car service, and as we ride to the address Lyle gave me, I stare out the window. I think about Annalise, reminded of one of our oldest memories together. Long before we were … us.

  We were alone in the greenhouse on the property of Innovations Academy, the sun streaming through the glass, falling over my cheeks and warming them. It was a rare sunny day in the mountains.

  “Do you know what I love?” Annalise said, her blond hair in a high bun since none of the professors were around to tell her how to wear it. Her gardening books were open on the small table.

  “Should I guess?” I responded, making her laugh.

  “This.” She walked over to caress a hanging flower. It was pretty, a soft delicate bell dangling on a wooden stem. “This is Angel’s Trumpet,” Annalise continued. “The best part? It’s toxic. Paralysis, memory lapses, death. Did you ever think something so pretty could be so dangerous?”

  I studied the flower and then Annalise. “Probably not good for them to grow those so close to our food though, right?” I asked.

  “Silly. They’re already in our food. But maybe one day Professor Penchant will accidentally take too much.” Annalise smiled and went back to reciting the names in her books.

  And even then, even though I never spoke it out loud, I knew Annalise had designs on putting poison in the staff’s food, although she never got the chance.

  She wanted to burn down the academy from the first day she woke up there. In a way, she was always awake. She just needed it confirmed.

  “What’s wrong?” Sydney asks, startling me from my thoughts. I turn to her in the backseat of the car just as it pulls into a modest neighborhood not far from our apartment.

  “Nothing,” I say, waving it off.

  “Well, get focused,” she says, checking her reflection in her phone camera. “We’re going to have to be annoyingly charming.” She looks sideways. “Hopefully for the last time. Because I’ll tell you what, no matter what we do next, I’m not attending school again.”

  “Maybe we’ll give public school a shot next time,” I suggest.

  The driver pulls up to Lyle’s house, and Sydney taps her phone screen to pay him. After climbing out of the backseat, we pause on the sidewalk and look at the house. There are only a few cars parked on the street, so it’s definitely not a huge party. Which is perfect.

  I take out my phone and check for any missed calls. When I see there are none, I text Raven to let her know we’ve arrived. I click record on the phone, slide it into my clutch purse, and head toward the front door of Lyle’s house.

  I knock, and there are voices on the other side of the door, a “Shhh … ,” and then it opens. Lyle smiles widely.

  “You actually came,” he says, out of breath. “I figured …” He shakes his head, glancing back inside the house. “Well, I’m glad you’re both here.”

  “Hi, Lyle,” Sydney says brightly.

  Lyle steps aside and motions us into the foyer. “Come on in,” he calls, grinning from ear to ear.

  Sydney and I go inside, and I immediately notice the big guy from the rugby team sitting at the foot of the stairs, drinking from a red cup. He’s the one who told the security guard to relax. Demarcus stands and leans on the railing when we walk in.

  “Demarcus Dozer,” he calls, introducing himself. His smile is warm, and I think that in person, he doesn’t seem as vicious as he does on the field. It’s an interesting contrast between life and game time, how aggression is encouraged in some cases.

  “Philomena,” I reply.

  “Welcome,” he says, lifting his drink in cheers before sitting back down.

  I take in the rest of the room. There are two guys I don’t recognize on the couch, mid-conversation. The living room is well decorated, although not elaborate. Nothing like Winston Weeks’s place. This is homey and inviting.

  There are footsteps before Jonah Grant appears in the doorway of the kitchen, holding a red cup.

  “This is a nice surprise,” he says. He sips from his drink, looking me over. It’s not predatory, but it is expectant. Like I should return the compliment immediately. I decide I might need to play along to gain their trust.

  “Yes, it’s nice to see you too,” I say. He chuckles and I realize I’ve answered far too formally. I’ll have to work on that. “This is my friend Sydney,” I say, nudging her arm.

  “Hey,” she calls to him, sounding effortlessly cool. Jonah grins and replies with his own “Hey.”

  “Do you want a drink?” Lyle asks us. He seems extra nervous, so I accept the offer even though I don’t plan to drink. Sydney declines, and gazes around instead.

  “Lyle,” Sydney says after a moment, “do you mind if I use your bathroom?” She skips directly to the mission, which I can appreciate. I would have maybe put in an appearance first, but I trust her judgment.

  “Sure,” Lyle says. He motions to a hallway on the other side of the stairs. “Second door on the left. Next to my mom’s office.”

  “Great!” Sydney replies. She hikes up one eyebrow to let me know she’s going to search the office for paperwork. When she leaves, I follow behind Lyle toward the kitchen.

  When I get to where Jonah is standing in the doorway, he waits an extra beat before moving out of the way. He stares down at me, almost curiously, as he sips from his cup. I’m starting to feel a bit on edge. It’s only occurring to me now that Sydney and I are outnumbered. We should have considered that sooner.

  Lyle grabs a cup from a plastic sleeve and fills it with various liquids lined up along the counter.

  “Here you go,” he says proudly, holding it out to me. When I take the drink from his hands, he reaches out his own in cheers. I force another smile and knock my cup against his. I pretend to sip from my drink. The smell of it makes my eyes water.

  “Are you two going to hide in here all night?”

  I turn and find Jonah looking bored as he enters the kitchen. He wants my attention, and I think it bothers him that I won’t give it easily.

  “Would you like a tour?” he asks me.

  I laugh. “You don’t even live here,” I say.

  “Then we’ll discover it together,” he says. “Come on. Give me a reason to stick around. I want to get to know you better.” He smiles. “You’re so mysterious.”

  It takes all my patience to not roll my eyes. He thinks he’s charming, but in truth, his words sound like well-rehearsed lines. They’re inauthentic. But I nod.

  “Sure,” I tell him, and then glance at Lyle. He seems hurt that I’m leaving, and I debate it, but ultimately, I’m here on a mission. That means helping Lyle feel better about himself doesn’t make the list.

  I walk with Jonah into the living room, and he introduces me to “the guys.” He doesn’t bother naming them, and they seem to take the hint. I get a few chilly waves, and then I see their side glances at each other. Jonah has called dibs.

  “Now,” he says, “I think there’s an office or something over here.” We start to round the stairs, and I worry about walking in on Sydney mid-search. I quickly grab Jonah’s arm.

  “Wait,” I tell him, completely at a loss for what to say next. He looks down at where I’m touching him, and I quickly drop my hand.

  “What’s upstairs?” I ask, lifting my cup in that direction. Jonah smiles slyly and it turns my stomach.

  “Let’s go find out,” he replies in a breathy voice. He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it as he leads me toward the steps. His palm is wet and warm, and I think I might throw up a little, so I take a sip from my drink, wincing the second I do.

  As Jonah pulls me up the stairs, I crane my neck over the railing to see if I can catch Sydney, but all the doors to the rooms are closed. For now, I’m on my own.

  “Turn up the music!” Jonah yells, slapping his hand on the railing. The other guys cheer the suggestion and turn it up loud enough for the bass to rattle the windows.

  25

  The staircase is narrow, so thankfully,
Jonah drops my hand to walk in front of me. My phone buzzes in my purse, but I don’t check it, worried that it’ll tip Jonah off that I’m recording him. As we ascend, I notice the row of framed pictures on the wall. There are photos of Lyle—school pictures of him throughout the years in various stages of awkwardness.

  It occurs to me that I don’t have pictures like that. I was never a little girl. I was never the awkward child. There’s a devastating reality to that, the fact that I’m not like any of these people. I’m not people.

  When we get to the second story, the ceilings are low, but again, it’s kind of homey. There are four doors, two on each side of the hallway.

  Jonah looks back over his shoulder at me, smiling like we’re having great fun. He opens the first door and peers inside.

  “This must be Matty’s room,” he says, poking his head around before closing it. I’m surprised at the level of respect he’s showing Lyle’s little brother, but then I remember that Matt’s on the team. This clearly gives him worth.

  We get to the next door, and Jonah opens it and then quickly shuts it, turning to me with a smile. “I think this one’s Mommy’s room,” he says.

  He is insufferable and I’m not sure how much longer I can pretend to find him entertaining.

  “Should we check her drawers?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

  Okay, that might actually work.

  “Yes,” I say, and he steps back with exaggerated shock.

  “Philomena,” he says. “I thought you were a good girl.”

  My skin crawls, and I’m barely able to contain myself before reaching to touch his arm, smiling innocently.

  “What?” I ask playfully. “I’m curious.”

  Actually, Jonah, I need to search through her belongings to see if she’s part of the system that’s trying to decommission me. Mind?

  He opens the door and ushers me inside. The room is dark at first, and I have a sinking feeling before he flicks the light on. Relieved, I turn as Jonah closes the door, a grin on his lips.

  The room itself is average, the bed unmade. A pile of laundry waiting to be folded on a chair in the corner. There’s a small desk near the closet. I immediately cross to it and begin sorting through the drawers.

  “Oh, hey. Check this out,” Jonah says excitedly. He reaches into the drawer of the bedside table and pulls out a pack of condoms. He begins to laugh, waving it like it’s something unusual. I, for one, commend Lyle’s mom on her safe-sex practices. When I show no sign of amusement, Jonah drops them back in the drawer and slams it shut, looking for something else to impress me.

  He is exhausting.

  In the desk, I find some bills, a few receipts, and a stack of printed emails. Curious, I pick one up and see that it’s from Lyle’s dad, arguing about child-support payments. Lyle’s mom must have printed them out. There’s nothing about Ridgeview other than a copy of Lyle’s last report card.

  Disappointed, I close the drawer.

  “This is kind of awesome,” Jonah says, sliding open the window at the back of the house. I get on my tiptoes, looking past him. There’s an expanse of roof just outside, making its own little slanted patio.

  “Come on,” Jonah coaxes, holding out his hand to me. “We’ll finish our drinks out there. Talk.”

  Right. We have to talk.

  I leave my too-strong drink on the desk and head his way. Jonah climbs out the window first, and then he takes my elbow to help me. When I’m standing outside, a soft breeze rustles my hair. It feels good, free, in the night air. I went years without going out in the nighttime, trapped behind barred windows.

  Jonah takes a spot on the roof and pats the tiles next to him for me to sit. I carefully walk that way, making sure I don’t fall, and sit down. For a few moments, it’s peaceful. The breeze, the bass of the music from downstairs. The crickets in the garden.

  “So … ,” Jonah says, knocking his knee against mine. “Heard you had an interesting afternoon.” He laughs and takes another sip of his drink. In the moonlight, his eyes are glassy, a buzz of alcohol probably working through his system right now.

  I hope the phone is recording our conversation. I set my purse between us to assure his voice can get picked up.

  “Did you see what happened?” I ask him. Jonah smirks, shaking his head.

  “No,” he says. “I have a different lunch hour. Wasn’t the first time, though. Dude can never keep his hands to himself.”

  “You’re talking about Garrett?” I ask.

  “The one and only,” Jonah replies.

  “So he has a reputation?”

  “You talk like an adult, you know,” he says. “It’s kind of weird.”

  I reach to twist a lock of hair around my finger, smiling. “Good girl, remember?”

  Jonah laughs and takes a sloppy sip from his cup. “Yeah, all right. I like it,” he says. “Anyway, fucking Garrett. Last semester he locked himself in the art room closet with Bernice. It was wild,” Jonah says. “I mean, he didn’t even touch her, but I thought she was going to stab out his eyes.”

  Maybe she should have.

  “And he doesn’t get in trouble?” I ask, pretending to sound fascinated.

  “For what?” Jonah asks. “I just said he didn’t touch her.”

  I don’t know, how about false imprisonment? A number of other harassment charges?

  Jonah licks his lips before his mouth turns up in a grin. “Not you, though,” he says. “I heard you broke a lunch tray over his head. What did he do? Hand up your skirt?”

  I physically recoil from the suggestion, and Jonah laughs an apology.

  “No,” I say. “It wasn’t me. He was pretending that Adrian was …” I know I have to stop being so formal, but I’m truly not sure how to word this. “That she was jerking him off,” I say quickly, internally cringing. “She was crying. It was traumatic.”

  But Jonah scoffs.

  “Crying? What a baby,” he says. He uses his cup to point at me. “We need more girls like you,” he says. “Ones who like to fight a little. You can hold your own, Mena. What made you so brave?”

  Dealing with men like you.

  The wind blows my hair across my face, sticking it to my lip gloss. I peel it away.

  “I’m not sure how I got this way,” I say sweetly. But I might have a guess.

  Jonah stares at me like he’s trying to figure me out. Between us, my phone begins buzzing again.

  “Should you get that?” he asks dreamily. He leans noticeably closer.

  “It can wait,” I say. I pretend to feel something crawling on my leg and use it as an excuse to move back a few inches. Jonah trails me with his eyes.

  “Why aren’t you dating anyone?” he asks. I don’t want to stray into this conversation, I need him to stay focused.

  “Do the other boys act like Garrett?” I ask. “Locking girls in rooms?”

  He stares at me a moment, seeming confused. He takes a drink. “No. I’ve never had to lock a girl in a room to have sex with me, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “I’m sure you haven’t,” I say. “It just seems …” I search for the right way to phrase this. “It seems that at least Garrett does this a lot. I wondered if I should watch out for others.”

  “Stick with me and you won’t have to,” he replies. He’s growing tense, possessive.

  “I’m thinking about my friends,” I say. “Who they should look out for?”

  “I don’t know what you’re really asking,” he says. “But none of us do anything that they didn’t beg for first. The girls at school? They beg.”

  I hate him. It comes so clearly to me. I hate him and everything he stands for. The sense of entitlement, privilege. That girls being afraid of his reaction is the same as consent. Jonah thinks he deserves girls. That they’re his possessions.

  And I understand why the men of Innovations created us. It’s not just about the needs of guys like Jonah. They fill the desires of men who don’t have youth or looks or popularity, to g
ive them the access that Jonah has. Through Innovations, they can buy it. They can buy us.

  “And after you give those girls … what they begged for?” I ask.

  Jonah sips from his cup before crushing it and tossing it off the roof into the yard. “Well, after that they’re sluts and I’m not interested,” he says. “But you … You seem fun. You might be able to hold my attention for more than three seconds.”

  It’s a telling statement, and I debate infuriating him to make him spill details. But his irritation with the topic is making his cheeks glow red, splotches appearing on his neck.

  “Why are you asking so many questions?” Jonah says. “Marsh already told us to leave you alone, so I don’t know if you’ve got something going on with him, but—”

  “Mr. Marsh did what?” I ask, surprised.

  Jonah pauses. “Yeah, the history teacher is suddenly Mr. Fucking Proper. Told us to leave you alone or he’d file a report. I told him I’d have his job if he ever talked to me like that again. So if you’re—”

  “I don’t have any kind of relationship with Mr. Marsh,” I say, cutting him off.

  Mr. Marsh had allowed the harassment by not saying anything, but it seems that he’s finally standing up to the boys at school. He’s finally doing the right thing.

  “Then what is this?” Jonah asks, motioning between us. “Do you want to hook up or not?”

  And I realize that if Mr. Marsh is willing to report the boys, if he’s willing to stand up to them, we don’t need undercover recordings and anonymous posts. What we need is for good people to stand up against bad people—simple really. But in this society, they never put the burden on men to be the good people in this scenario. Maybe Marsh is willing to change that. I need to call the girls and talk to them.

  “No,” I tell Jonah, getting to my feet. “We are definitely not hooking up.” I teeter slightly on the slanted roof but hold out my arms to find my balance.

  “Wait, what?” Jonah asks, a sudden darkness in his voice that sends goosebumps over my skin. When I look back at him, I can see his hurt ego. His anger.

 

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