Girls with Sharp Sticks

by Suzanne Young

  “Of course,” Rebecca replies automatically, staring at the floor. “It’s just . . . After the first open house, Mr. Wolfe met with me. Said we’d continue meeting until I graduate. I can’t be rude to him,” she says. “But I thought . . . I thought if I could go home, then I wouldn’t have to meet with him anymore. I know it was wrong. I’m being selfish.”

  Maybe it’s the wine, but sickness swirls in my stomach. Although we must listen to the people protecting us, the fact that this relationship is secret seems . . . wrong. And Rebecca is hurt, confused.

  “I can help,” I say. “If you want to go to Anton, I’ll tell him what I heard and we—”

  “No,” she says adamantly, gripping my hand. “You can’t. He’ll devalue me. Mr. Wolfe has already warned me. Anton can’t help me, Mena.”

  “But—”

  “Please,” she begs. “I need you to stay out of this. Please?”

  I want to protect her, but I also want to respect her wishes. “Okay,” I say reluctantly.

  She waits a beat before thanking me. Then she grabs her clutch and gets to her feet, smoothing down her dress. She murmurs goodbye before leaving to return to the party, presumably to socialize with Mr. Wolfe like none of this happened.

  When she’s gone, I stand in the hallway awhile, not sure what to do. I’ve never been drunk before, and I find this makes my thoughts wild, unimpeded by manners.

  The night’s events are fading into a blur of fancy dresses, wolfish smiles, and loud kisses. It’s opulence and wine. Too much wine.

  I decide that I need to talk to Sydney about this and get her thoughts on the matter. I wind back toward the party, hoping to avoid Rebecca and her lawyer. Guardian Bose is still at the entrance, and he watches me curiously as I reenter. He doesn’t ask why I’m back, but I feel him scrutinizing my behavior. I work extra hard to remain steady in my heels as I cross the room, looking for Sydney.

  I don’t see her at first, although I notice Rebecca across the room standing with Mr. Wolfe, talking to another investor. She doesn’t even look in my direction.

  “There you are,” Sydney calls, startling me. I spin and find her approaching, alone. Her eyes are lit up, still joyful from seeing her parents; they must have just left.

  I covertly wave her toward me, away from the few lingering guests. Sydney comes to meet me, laughing like I’m acting strangely.

  “Okay, what did I miss?” she asks. “I saw you with Winston Weeks. Is he nice?”

  I dart a quick look across the party at Rebecca again, and Sydney narrows her eyes as she reads my mood.

  “What’s wrong?” she asks. I take her arm and bring her closer.

  “I need your opinion,” I whisper. “I saw Rebecca and her lawyer tonight.”

  “I did too,” Sydney says. “Rebecca looked lovely.”

  “She did,” I agree. “But I don’t mean at the party. They were in the hall, hidden in one of the alcoves. They were . . . kissing,” I say even lower.

  Sydney stares at me for a long moment as if she doesn’t understand what I mean. Then she shakes her head. “Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe?” she asks.

  I nod, but she looks doubtful.

  “You sure it’s not the wine?” she asks. “I watched you drink a glass.”

  “Two,” I correct. “But, yes. I’m sure. And that’s not all. Mr. Wolfe slapped her.”

  This makes Sydney frown. “Why?” she asks. “What did she do?”

  “She called him by his first name. And it turns out, Mr. Wolfe has been kissing her since the first open house, telling her they’d continue doing so until she graduates. Rebecca wants to go home to get away from him. But he . . .” I furrow my brow. “He was wrong to hit her, right?”

  “I don’t know,” Sydney says honestly. “He is in charge of her education. . . .”

  But the reasoning doesn’t hold up. The academy has warned us that there are terrible people in the world—ones who will lie to us, manipulate us. The academy promised to protect us from them.

  What if Mr. Wolfe is one of those people they should be protecting us from?

  “Is she all right?” Sydney asks suddenly. She turns to find Rebecca, but we both realize she and Mr. Wolfe have left.

  “Yes,” I say. “I told her I’d go to Anton with her and tell him what I saw, but she asked me not to. Said he’d devalue her.” My tone is helpless, and I can see that Sydney is struggling too.

  “I think we tell Anton anyway,” says Sydney with forced certainty. “If nothing else, her lawyer’s distracting her from her education.” She pauses. “Right?”

  We’re both quiet as we think it over, the hum of quiet conversation still echoing around the room. The piano player’s gone for the evening, and the bartender is packing up. There was something about the interaction between Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe, something . . . familiar. Even though that’s not possible.

  We definitely need Anton to sort this out. He is our analyst, after all.

  “I haven’t seen Anton in a while,” Sydney says. “Do you think he left?”

  “He might have.” I worry that we’ll have to wait until morning; it wouldn’t be appropriate for us to go to his office at night.

  But when I glance out the glass doors of the patio, I see Anton outside, talking on his phone. I’m relieved that he’s still here. I pat Sydney’s arm, getting her attention, and then we rush that way.

  When Anton sees us coming toward him, he turns his face, saying something into the phone before clicking off his call. He slips the phone into his pocket as we open the doors and are hit immediately with chilly night air. Sydney noticeably shivers.

  “Hello, girls,” Anton says, the corners of his mouth pulling up in a smile. His cheeks and the tip of his nose are red from the cold, and he doesn’t seem happy to see us. We interrupted his call.

  Anton adjusts the knot on his tie to loosen it. “I’ve been in and out of meetings tonight,” he says. “Were you looking for me? Because if this is about Lennon Rose again, then—”

  “It’s not,” I say quickly. “I just . . . I saw something,” I tell the analyst. “And Sydney and I think you should know about it.”

  Anton resets his stance, completely serious. “Go on,” he says, motioning for me to continue.

  It feels a bit like a betrayal, telling Anton about the private moment between Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe—especially after promising her I’d stay out of it. But it also feels like something the school should be aware of. At least, that’s what I predict Anton will say.

  I describe Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe on the couch. The slap. The threat. And then I tell him what Rebecca said to me afterward. Anton’s throat visibly bobs as he listens, and he occasionally flicks his gaze to Sydney to make sure she’s agreeing with what I’m saying.

  When I’m done, shaking in the cold and embarrassed to have told the analyst such an explicit story, Anton crosses his arms over his chest. He nods appreciatively.

  “You were right to tell me,” he says, and I sigh out my relief. When I turn to Sydney, she smiles like she’s proud of us for making the right decision.

  “Was it wrong?” Sydney asks him. “Was it wrong of Mr. Wolfe to treat Rebecca that way?”

  But something about the question seems to trouble Anton, and he examines her, pausing long enough to make Sydney apologize.

  “It’s not for you to judge,” Anton says finally, even with a bit of humor. “You leave that sort of analysis up to me. It’s why I get paid the big bucks.” He smiles at both of us, and Sydney and I are reassured.

  “I’ll handle the situation,” Anton says. “But if you see anything like that again—I suspect you won’t, but if you do—you can always come to me. Understand?”

  “Yes,” we say. Anton puts his hand on Sydney’s arm, rubbing it for moment to warm her up.

  “Let’s keep this between us,” Anton says. “It’s a private matter. Now,” he adds with a smile, “the party’s over, girls. Go back to your rooms.”

  We thank him for his help
and he walks inside, leaving the door open for us to follow. He’s hurried, and we watch as he goes immediately to Guardian Bose. I wonder aloud if they’re going to look for Mr. Wolfe to confront him.

  Sydney takes my hand, and together we go inside just as the other girls are saying goodbye to their parents. We all end up heading upstairs at the same time. Sydney and I don’t mention what happened with Rebecca to the others; Anton said it was a private matter.

  But I feel relieved, glad my concern wasn’t unwarranted. It would be disrespectful to publicly accuse a man of inappropriate behavior—worse than any crime. At least that’s what Professor Penchant told us in Modesty and Decorum earlier this year.

  I’m exhausted as we reach our floor. Sydney drops my hand after we say good night and walks to her room.

  I pause a moment outside Lennon Rose’s door, considering knocking and checking on her. But she’s probably asleep, so I decide it’s best not to bother her. Anton insisted that I give her space.

  The buzz from the wine still isn’t gone, but it’s no longer a lightness. Instead, it’s heavy and thick. Cloudy.

  Inside my room, I strip off my dress and toss it over the desk chair, even though I should hang it up. The school will collect our dresses tomorrow. We never keep anything.

  I pull on my pajamas, and when I walk toward my bed, I see my vitamins waiting on my nightstand—two pinks and one green. My dose is still off. Maybe I’ll ask Anton about it at our next therapy session.

  I swallow down my pills with a sip of lukewarm water and click off the lamp on the nightstand. I crawl under the cool covers and curl up on my side, knowing I’ll have to change my pillowcase in the morning because tonight’s makeup will be smeared on it.

  As the wine settles in my veins, making me sleepy, I replay the night in my mind. It’s hard to grasp that Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe have met before, all of this going on without us knowing. How many other girls are kissing their lawyers? Whispering secrets in line? Meeting boys beyond the fence?

  There’s the creak of a door opening in the hallway. I listen until footsteps stop outside my closed door, followed by a sharp knock.

  I shift my gaze around the room, noticing my dress carelessly thrown over the back of my chair, my shoes piled on top of each other. I’m embarrassed that I didn’t properly prepare for bed.

  “Come in,” I call softly.

  Guardian Bose steps into my room, his body in silhouette. He doesn’t say anything at first, and I tug up my sheet to tuck it under my arms. “Yes?” I ask.

  He moves farther into my room, and I see that he’s holding a small, white paper cup reserved for vitamins. He sets it next to the glass on my nightstand.

  “Anton sent this up,” the Guardian says. He motions toward the cup, and I realize he intends to wait until I take it.

  I glance into the cup and see one yellow capsule. I pinch it out, studying it in the dim light. I don’t remember taking this color before. I wonder what it does.

  Guardian Bose shifts on his feet, impatient. “In my lifetime, Philomena,” he says.

  I set the pill on my tongue, sip from the water, and gulp down the capsule while Guardian Bose watches.

  When I’m done, I lie back in my blankets. Despite the water, the yellow pill has left a coating on my tongue.

  Just as Guardian Bose starts to leave the room, I sit up again. “Guardian Bose,” I call after him. “How’s Lennon Rose?” I ask.

  He pauses too long, but then he turns to me. “She’s resting, Philomena,” he says. “Now get some sleep.” Without another word, the Guardian walks out and closes my door. I listen as his footsteps cross the hall to Sydney’s room, the knock and click of her door opening.

  And then I listen harder, sure that if I try hard enough I’ll be able to hear Lennon Rose in her bed. But it’s quiet.

  My headache has faded to a dull throb, but suddenly my stomach feels sick. Really sick. I reach over and turn on the nightstand lamp, flooding the room in light. The change makes me dizzy, my mouth waters, and I quickly jump out of bed and rush for the bathroom.

  I drop to my knees and throw up streaks of pink, green, and yellow from the vitamins. Purple from the wine. I try to stop, but I keep gagging until my stomach is emptied.

  When I’m finished, I flush the toilet, hanging there an extra second. My head is pounding. And even more distressing, I threw up my vitamins. It’s too late to bother the Guardian for more—he has to get them from Anton directly. The analyst, rather than the doctor, monitors our vitamins. He says it’s considered a behavioral issue, and therefore his specialty.

  I’ll have to discuss my missed dose with Anton tomorrow.

  When I straighten up, catching sight of my reflection—streaked mascara, blotchy foundation—guilt makes me want to follow the rules. I wash my face with the approved soap, moisturize, and then I walk into my room and hang up my dress properly. Obeying.

  And I swear that I’ll never drink wine again.

  11

  As morning light filters in through my window, I sit up in bed with the remains of a headache clinging to my temples, a dream in my memory. Something about Lennon Rose. Or was it Rebecca? For a moment, I can’t think straight—a jumble of ideas tangled like wires in my head. And then, finally, the events of last night come back to me.

  Lennon Rose pulled from line. Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe in the alcove. Drinking wine with Winston Weeks.

  I get out of bed quickly, regretting it the moment I do. Pain throbs behind my eyes. I wait it out, and once I’m settled, I get dressed for breakfast.

  When I walk into the dining hall, the smell of scrambled eggs and bacon hangs in the air. Neither of those things are at our table, though. Instead, the professors are eating from overflowing plates. We have oatmeal.

  “Morning,” Sydney mumbles, looking exhausted, as I sit across from her at the long table in the dining hall.

  Marcella and Brynn smile their hellos and Annalise waves her spoon at me. They’re upbeat—normal for a Saturday morning. Sydney and I, on the other hand . . .

  “I have never had a headache like this,” Sydney says to me, her voice scratchy. “I might go see Dr. Groger after breakfast.”

  “Oh, no,” I say. I reach across the table to take her hand, grateful when it doesn’t feel feverish or clammy. She thanks me for being so sweet.

  Around us, the other girls discuss the open house: Carolina Deschutes and her grandmother, an investor who made crude comments (I can just about guess who), and Winston Weeks being friendlier than usual. Annalise flashes me a smile when she says it, and I laugh, knowing all the girls must have noticed our interaction at the party.

  But as they continue, Sydney begins to rub her temple, her eyes squeezed shut. My concern deepens; we never get sick.

  “Did you drink any wine?” I ask. “Because I threw up last night from it.”

  “Gross,” Sydney murmurs, poking her oatmeal with her spoon. “But, no.”

  “Maybe it was the extra vitamin Anton sent to the room,” I suggest.

  She scrunches up her nose and lifts her gaze to mine. “Extra vitamin?” she asks. “I didn’t get one. What was it?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “But . . . you really didn’t get one? I thought I heard the Guardian go to your door.”

  She shakes her head no, but then winces at the pain. I pout my bottom lip, feeling sorry for her.

  It’s strange, though. I was certain I heard Guardian Bose go to her room. I must have been mistaken. I glance down the table and immediately notice Rebecca, sitting apart, her head down. She seems sullen and sad.

  “I wonder if Anton talked to her last night,” I whisper to Sydney, nodding toward Rebecca. “Should I say something to her?”

  “Why? What happened last night?” Sydney asks, distracted as she tastes a bite of her oatmeal, looking queasy when she does.

  I stare at her before leaning into the table and lowering my voice. “She and Mr. Wolfe . . . ?” I whisper. Sydney waves her hand for me to expla
in.

  “We spoke to Anton about it,” I add quietly.

  “Mena,” Sydney says. “I hardly even saw Anton last night. What are you talking about?”

  There’s a strange sensation over my skin, spikes of worry. We most definitely talked to Anton last night. How could Sydney forget that? Just as my alarm begins to tick up, Annalise calls my name.

  “Lennon Rose still isn’t here,” she says. “We should go check on her.”

  My stomach drops as I look around, double-checking that she’s right. Lennon Rose was resting comfortably in her room last night, I was told. I wonder if she’s still there. She must miss us terribly; Lennon Rose hates being alone.

  I agree to go with Annalise, and despite her headache, Sydney volunteers to come with us. We can’t leave before finishing breakfast, so we plan to head there as soon as we’re done.

  I’m reminded suddenly that Valentine is the one who talked to Lennon Rose just before she started crying. Why did she say to her? What did she do?

  But Valentine’s ignoring all of us, stirring her oatmeal slowly, the oats gathering in lumps on her spoon. Her lips are moving ever so slightly, like she’s repeating something. The image is disconcerting, repetitive in a way that doesn’t seem natural, and I quickly avert my eyes before she notices me.

  I’m off today—wrong, somehow.

  And as I eat my breakfast, I think about getting sick last night, the streaks of colors from undigested vitamins. Covertly, I lift my eyes to Sydney, wondering if that could be the difference.

  Vitamins keep us balanced. Maybe I’m the one out of balance.

  • • •

  While Marcella and Brynn have cleanup duty, Annalise, Sydney, and I go to check on Lennon Rose. We knock on the door, and when there’s no answer, Annalise tries again a little louder.

  Annalise looks back at us before pushing inside, whispering Lennon Rose’s name since she’s probably still asleep.

  But Lennon Rose isn’t here. And it’s not just her physical absence that we notice, either—the room feels . . . empty. Lonely. Like she hasn’t been here in a while, even though I know she was here just last night.