Girls with Sharp Sticks

by Suzanne Young

  “And how is Jackson?” she asks quietly, leaning her head closer to mine.

  “He’s coming back on Sunday,” I say with a flicker of nervousness. Excitement. I don’t want to get caught disobeying twice in one week, chance being redirected again. But I liked listening to Jackson. And I liked that he listened to me.

  To get her opinion, I tell Sydney everything that Jackson and I talked about with the exception of his family. We discuss his hiking through the woods, his lack of manners, and how I held his hand, even if only for a moment. How he was worried about me, asked about me. I think that part impresses her the most.

  We get to our floor, and Sydney exhales dramatically. “I say you go for it,” she says. “Just make sure he doesn’t try anything inappropriate on Sunday. Even if his manners are brutish, keep yours intact. Otherwise you’ll give him the wrong idea.”

  She’s right. The rules are there to keep us safe. I vow to be careful, even crossing my heart to show I’m serious.

  Sydney snorts a laugh before we part to get ready for class.

  As I shower, the taste of candy still on my tongue, I take extra time to shave my legs carefully, moisturize after, and blow-dry my hair. I don’t want to have to do it all before the party.

  We’re required to look our best tonight. The Head of School will check us over before we walk out, and request changes if needed. He tends to like my hair pulled up for formal events, so I know to style it that way, a few curls framing my face. He likes Sydney’s hair straight or with big waves. And Lennon Rose must have her hair down at all times. There are more “specifications”—that’s what he calls them—and it’s up to us to meet his goals and then exceed them.

  After slipping on my uniform and required makeup (foundation, blush, eyeliner, eye shadow, lipstick, mascara), I head to my morning classes. Professor Penchant discusses posture in Modesty and Decorum, while Professor Levin has us create party invitations in Modern Manners using the open house as our example. We’ve created these invitations several times before with little to no variation, but I like using the felt-tipped pens, so I don’t mind.

  In Social Graces Etiquette, we read about the Federal Flower Garden again. Professor Allister says we need to understand the importance of beautiful things, so we just keep going over it.

  Class goes by slowly, and I find myself staring out the window into the foggy morning, toward the woods. They’re thick, and they take up a few acres between us and the road, the iron fence slowly getting swallowed up by the growing brush. I wonder if one day the entire school will be enveloped, vines snaking inside the windows, smashing the glass, and wrapping around the bars.

  But then I imagine Jackson lost in the woods this morning, trying to get to me, misguided and good-hearted. I smile and rest my chin on my palm.

  “Philomena?” Professor Allister calls. Startled, I look up to find him waiting.

  “I’m sorry, what?” I ask. He sighs and taps the white board with a pointer stick.

  “When was the Federal Flower Garden erected?” he asks for what I assume is the second time.

  “Three years ago,” I answer, feeling the heat from the stares of the other girls in class.

  “And why?” Professor Allister follows up.

  “Because beautiful things need to be preserved,” I recite. “Put on a pedestal. The flowers are an example to be emulated. Only beautiful things have value.”

  “Excellent,” he says, nodding. He sweeps his eyes over me once and then turns back to the class to continue with his lesson.

  I rest my chin on my palm and stare out the window again.

  After yesterday’s excitement at the gas station, and today’s excitement beyond the fence with Jackson, I can barely keep my head in the classroom, drifting out into the woods and looking for adventure. Sydney has to kick my shoe twice in Etiquette, and I miss a lesson on proper phone manners. I’ve heard it before, though. They treat us like we forget everything the moment we walk out of class. But in fact, we’re excellent learners.

  As I continue to analyze my interaction with Jackson today, I recognize that it doesn’t line up with what the academy teaches us at all. It’s a contradiction that I need clarification on.

  I raise my hand and Professor Allister points at me, surprised.

  “Yes, Philomena?”

  “I have a question about etiquette,” I say, earning a few looks from the other girls. “In-person etiquette.”

  The professor nods for me to continue.

  “When having a conversation . . . ,” I start, considering my words. “When the man is very casual, is it proper to be casual in return?”

  “Of course not, Philomena,” he says. “If you are conversing with a man, it is up to you to be pleasing and appropriate. Bad manners on your part show him you’re not worth his time.”

  My heart sinks. Was I too casual with Jackson? If so, he might not return on Sunday.

  “And this is a good lesson,” the professor says, addressing the class. “You must always be on your best behavior—a man will expect it. You represent the finest girls society has to offer. You represent Innovations Academy. Act accordingly.”

  Several girls nod, but I swallow hard, regretting my earlier behavior. The past two days have left me lost, making mistakes I’ve never made before. I have to be better.

  My last lesson of the day is Basics, and for that, I’m grateful. It’s a math day, and we’re working up to more complicated stuff—basic fractions to use while measuring ingredients or soil we use for our plants.

  Although Innovations is an academy, they’re also growing their own produce, hybrid flowers, as well as plants used in our juices and vitamins. Annalise said the gardening teacher—Professor Driscoll—told her the academy hopes to go wide with the formulas. He said we’ve been a great example of their success.

  Annalise smiles at me from across the classroom. All of us are eager to learn today. It never lasts, though—we won’t get another math lesson this month.

  “Too much thinking is bad for your looks,” Professor Slowski says at least once a week in Basics, like it’s our running joke. But each time he says it, we wilt a little. We’re hungry for knowledge, but we don’t want it to adversely affect us.

  When class is dismissed twenty minutes later, we’re told to have lunch and prepare for the party. The families and sponsors will begin to arrive around four, and dinner is served around five. We’re served salad, even though we’d much rather eat the rubbery chicken and potatoes. Then again, too much change in our diet makes us sick. But the occasional candy isn’t too bad, I’ve found.

  I wave to Sydney as she exits her class, and we walk together toward the dining hall for lunch. Our salads and juices are already set out on the table, and Sydney and I sit down. Lennon Rose smiles when we join her and the other girls.

  Brynn immediately starts to tell us about her dress for the open house—a soft lavender, which is Mr. Petrov’s favorite color on her. Brynn feels it clashes with her hair, but the Head of School knows best.

  “I have another black dress,” Marcella says, sounding disappointed. “I was hoping it’d be red this time. Anton said that—”

  “Can I sit here?” a voice asks suddenly, startling us.

  The girls and I look up, surprised to find Valentine Wright standing at the end of our table, smiling politely.

  Valentine is wearing the required uniform with delicate white socks, black shoes, and a bow tied in her hair. She’s perfectly poised, and yet . . . and yet there’s something different about her. A sharp edge I can’t quite see but sense is there. It’s puzzling, and I furrow my brow as I try to pinpoint the source of the feeling.

  Marcella slides over to make room for Valentine at the table, the other girls watching curiously. Valentine has never sat with us before. When she takes a spot directly across from me and reaches for a salad, I study her a moment longer.

  Her skin is bright and clear with the exception of a small bruise near the inside corner of her e
ye, the bluish color so subtle that the other girls might not even notice, almost like a pinprick.

  Valentine thanks us for letting her join us and begins to eat. She offers no other comment, but obviously something is different. Why did she come to sit with us in the first place? I lean into the table toward Valentine.

  “How are you feeling?” I ask her.

  Valentine pauses, staring at the piece of lettuce balanced on her fork, and then lifts her head.

  “I feel well,” she responds automatically. “Anton was able to help me work through my problems. We completed impulse control therapy, and he offered me coping mechanisms. I’m one hundred percent now.” She smiles. “I’ve made him very proud.”

  Sydney shifts uncomfortably and turns to me. But I continue to watch Valentine as she raises her fork and eats the bite of salad nonchalantly. The girls and I are quiet until Annalise sighs impatiently.

  “What happened to you on the bus?” Annalise asks Valentine. “You directly defied the Guardian. What were you thinking?”

  Valentine finishes her mouthful of food, and then dots the corners of her mouth with a napkin before looking up at us.

  “I was defiant,” she responds simply. “I regret the choice I made. But Anton was able to help me work through my problems. We completed impulse control therapy, and he offered me coping mechanisms,” she repeats as if it’s the first time she said it. “I’m one hundred percent now.” She smiles. “I’ve made him very proud.”

  Annalise’s complexion pales, and she shifts her eyes to mine. None of us follow up on the question, taken aback by Valentine’s practiced response. After impulse control therapy, girls typically sit alone and stay quiet—at least for a while. I’ve never noticed this sort of behavior change before. This seems deeper, more controlled.

  Then again, we’ve never asked a girl why she ended up in impulse control therapy. We accept the consequence as deserved and move on. Perhaps our question was too personal. We should have deferred to the school’s policy of giving a girl space after therapy, even if Valentine is the one who sat with us.

  To fill the silence, Brynn starts talking about dresses again, and the other girls seem relieved for the usual conversation. But I’m still thinking about Valentine’s behavior modification, watching as she eats quietly. Peacefully.

  I glance over to the professors’ table, and find Guardian Bose with them, watching us.

  There’s something disconcerting about his attention, as if he’s been watching the entire time but I’ve only just noticed. So that he doesn’t think I’m ungrateful, I dip my chin in thanks for his care, and he returns the gesture with exaggerated slowness. I finish eating in silence.

  • • •

  We’re dismissed from lunch a short time later. Annalise and Lennon Rose are on cleanup duty while the rest of us head back to our rooms to prepare for tonight’s open house.

  I walk with Sydney, but on the way, I glance back at Valentine. Her expression is empty, vacant. But when she catches me looking, she smiles. I turn around quickly and take Sydney’s arm.

  “. . . and I promised Lennon Rose I’d do her makeup tonight,” Sydney says, midconversation. “The blue shadow I have matches her dress perfectly.”

  “I’ll come by before we line up to witness your expertise,” I say.

  Sydney grins, telling me she’ll see me later, and then goes into her room. When her door closes, I turn toward mine. I jump when I find myself alone in the hall with Valentine.

  She’s standing there expectantly, waiting for me. She tilts her head to the side.

  “I had a delightful memory recently,” she says in a faraway voice. “Do you remember the time Annalise asked us to paint her hair yellow? She said she was supposed to be blond, not a redhead. She was distraught. So you stole paints from art class and painted it yellow for her. She looked beautiful. Anton was furious with you.”

  “What are you talking about?” I ask. “That . . . That never happened.”

  Valentine smiles. “It was nice, then,” she adds, ignoring my comment. “I miss it.”

  I’ve never stolen paints and I’ve certainly never painted Annalise’s hair. Valentine must still be adjusting after impulse control therapy, confusing her thoughts. Maybe the other girls and I should let Anton know.

  “Well, see you at the open house,” Valentine says pleasantly. She turns on her heel and heads to her room, quietly closing the door with a click.

  I stand there an extra moment, perplexed. A little frightened. But the emotion fades and I decide I’ll ask Sydney her thoughts when I go to her room later.

  To: Stuart, Anton

  RE: Philomena Rhodes

  From: Allister, Tobias

  Today at 1:05 PM

  Per our discussion, I’ve taken note of Philomena’s behavior in class. She has been daydreaming again, and also asking questions about interactions with men. Although her mannerisms seem consistent, I have concerns, especially after Valentine Wright’s outburst. I do not want a repeat of last time.

  If the daydreams do not abate, then I suggest impulse control therapy to rid her of this nasty habit.

  Sincerely,

  Tobias Allister

  This communication may contain information that is legally privileged, confidential, proprietary, or otherwise exempt from disclosure. If you are not the intended recipient, please note that any dissemination, distribution, or copying of this communication is strictly prohibited. Anyone who receives this message in error should notify the sender immediately by telephone or return e-mail and delete it from their computer.

  8

  After I’m dressed, I go to Sydney’s room to watch her apply Lennon Rose’s eye makeup (Sydney is absolutely brilliant at cosmetology and aces every tutorial Leandra gives us), but Lennon Rose never shows. I hang out anyway, pulling up the low neckline of my dress, the material itchy on my skin.

  Sydney places the last swipe of highlighter under her brow bone. As she got ready, I had a chance to tell her about my strange conversation with Valentine. When she sets down her brush, Sydney turns to me, tapping her lower lip with her index finger.

  “Yellow hair?” she asks, as if that’s the troubling part. “First of all, Annalise would never let you touch her hair. Definitely not with paint. And Valentine said she was with you?”

  “Said it was nice,” I tell her. “That she misses it.”

  “Weird,” Sydney murmurs.

  “I was going to ask if we should tell Anton,” I say, “but I’m afraid to get her in trouble so soon after impulse control therapy. She might just need a few days to adjust. What do you think we should do?”

  “Talk to her,” Sydney suggests, turning to me. “Ask Valentine what’s going on with her. She obviously trusts you. Otherwise she wouldn’t keep telling you random, creepy things.”

  I laugh but decide she’s right. I have no idea why I’m the one Valentine shares her odd thoughts with, but it’s worth exploring. There’s probably a simple explanation.

  We talk for a few more minutes before Guardian Bose calls us into the hallway. Sydney and I slip on our heels, take one last look at our reflections, and then head out for lineup. Lennon Rose and Valentine walk out of Lennon Rose’s room, all made up. I find it odd that they’re together. Especially when Lennon Rose avoids my eyes.

  Guardian Bose gives each of us a quick once-over before leading us down the stairs toward the ballroom. He grins at Annalise in her short, pink dress—Mr. Petrov’s preference.

  Always show your legs, Mr. Petrov told her specifically. They’re your best asset.

  Personally, I think it’s her smile. It’s very warm and inviting.

  “My parents want to talk about plans for after graduation,” Sydney says over the clicking of heels on the stairs. She looks over at me, excited.

  “I can’t wait to hear them,” I say. “Remember every detail.” She promises that she will.

  My parents have never spoken to me about graduation; I have no idea what their plan
s are for me. I even talked to Anton about it once. He assured me that my parents are still invested in my education, but he said that these decisions were too important for me to be a part of. He told me that impatience was a negative trait and asked me not to think of it again.

  Most of us will get married and tend beautiful homes. We’ll appear on our husbands’ arms at important events—making them proud. Others will make our parents proud. Or whomever Mr. Petrov sees fit to guide us through society.

  I can’t help but wonder what the future holds for me. But every time I try to imagine it, I hear Anton telling me again “not to think of it,” and the thoughts fade away.

  “Will your parents be here tonight?” Sydney asks.

  “No,” I say. “Eva told me they’re out of town.” I’m stricken with loneliness again. The sense of not belonging to anyone. Anywhere.

  “You never know,” Sydney says, taking my hand. “They might surprise you.”

  I look sideways at her with a small burst of hope. “You think?”

  She shrugs, bumping her shoulder into mine. “If I were your mother, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I smile, loving her support.

  “Come along, girls,” Guardian Bose calls, waving us into the hallway that leads to the ballroom. We pause there, single file, and wait.

  We’re quiet, a few girls adjusting their hair to fall perfectly over their shoulders or smoothing their lips together. Rebecca Hunt pulls up the bust of her dress in the front of the line, fidgeting before the Head of School gets to her.

  I catch the soft murmur of conversation behind me: something . . . tense.

  I glance over my shoulder, surprised when I find Lennon Rose five girls back in conversation with Valentine. For her part, Valentine looks impeccable in a silver, floor-length gown, her hair pulled into a high bun. But her expression isn’t soft and obedient. Her eyes are slits, fierce. I can’t hear what she’s whispering, her lips moving urgently like she’s reciting words rather than conversing. But whatever she’s saying, it’s affecting Lennon Rose, who wraps her arms around the waist of her blue dress, her chest heaving in startled breaths.