Girls with Sharp Sticks

by Suzanne Young

  It was these same little girls

  Who came home one day

  And pushed their daddies down the stairs.

  They bashed in their heads with hammers while they slept.

  They set the houses on fire with their

  daddies inside.

  And then those little girls with sharp sticks

  Flooded the schools.

  They rid the buildings of false ideas.

  The little girls took everything over

  Including teaching their male peers

  how to be “Good Little Boys.”

  And so it was for a generation

  The little girls became the predators.

  I reread the last line, a curse on my lips, a fire in my belly. I’ve never read anything so violent, so angry. I’m scandalized. I’m exhilarated. I’m inspired.

  Is this what Lennon Rose read? Did she read it just before the open house? I think back to her leaving her room, averting her eyes. Was she scared? Was she angry, like the girls in this poem?

  I read the poem again, analyzing each word. Increasingly breathless as the little girls are controlled. My heart pounding as they fight back. And there’s such violence—like nothing I’ve read before. The girls change things. They get free. They take control.

  I flip through the book, noting that several pages have been torn out, leaving behind ragged edges of missing poems. My pulse is racing, throbbing. My hands shake.

  There is a knock at the door and I quickly jump up, alarmed. I hear it open, realizing immediately that it’s not this door—it’s one farther down the hall. The Guardian tells one of the girls he has their vitamins. I shouldn’t be in Lennon Rose’s room; I can’t let him catch me in here.

  I quickly stash the book of poems back under Lennon Rose’s mattress, wishing I could take it with me, but not wanting to take the chance of getting caught with it. I want to be able to read them again.

  I’m not sure which door the Guardian is at—I wasn’t paying close enough attention. I listen, hoping he won’t knock on my door and discover I’m missing. I hear his boots, my heart in my throat. There’s a knock, and this time I know he’s at Annalise’s door.

  As it opens, Annalise calls out, “It’s okay, Bose. I don’t need to be tucked in.”

  When I’m sure Guardian Bose is out of the hallway, I open Lennon Rose’s door and quickly dart back to my room. I’m inside with the door closed before the Guardian moves on to Marcella’s room.

  As I change into my pajamas, waiting for my vitamins, I’m still thinking about the poem. Unable to stop thinking about it. The men who wanted to control women . . . but couldn’t. So they turned to controlling girls instead. They lied to them. Manipulated them. Coveted them.

  What was it to accomplish? I can’t figure that part out. What drove the men in the poem to seek such control? What drove them to such lengths that they kept their girls captive?

  I glance at the bars on my window.

  My door opens suddenly, startling me, and I spin around and see Guardian Bose. I immediately cover my chest since I’m not wearing a bra.

  “Yes?” I ask.

  He walks over to my nightstand and sets down the small cup with my vitamins. He takes my empty water glass and goes to fill it at the bathroom sink. I peek inside the cup and see there are two pinks, one green, and another large yellow capsule.

  Sydney didn’t remember what had happened with Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe. Was it specifically the yellow vitamin? If so, what do the others do?

  “Go on,” the Guardian says, motioning to my bed as he comes out of the bathroom.

  I quickly get under the covers, pulling them up to tuck under my arms. There is a boom of thunder, and the lights flicker. The Guardian is distracted as he hands me the glass of water and dumps the capsules into my open palm. Rather than watch me take them, he glances out the window at the storm. I pretend to swallow them, keeping them in my closed fist instead, and sip generously from the water.

  By the time the Guardian turns around, the pills are hidden by my side under the blankets.

  “It’s too bad about Lennon Rose,” Guardian Bose says, reaching over to adjust the sheet, grazing my arm as he does. “She had a lot of potential,” he says with disappointment. “What a waste.”

  I furrow my brow. “She still has a lot of potential,” I reply.

  He stares at me, and then sniffs a laugh as he straightens. “Yeah. Sure,” he says dismissively and walks out of my room.

  When he closes my door, I lie back on my pillows and stare up at the ceiling. I’m going to talk to Lennon Rose again. The school may not care about her, but the girls do. We’ll make sure she knows she still has a lot of potential.

  I take out the pills he gave me, inspecting them. I set the pinks and greens aside and instead focus on the yellow. It’s larger. Different.

  There are two sides to it, and I slowly work them apart to see what’s inside. It’s nearly impossible, the vitamin beginning to dissolve in my fingers, but then the parts break open and a small pile of silver dust spills into my hand.

  I stare at it, my eyes wide open. I poke it around with my other hand, surprised to find it sticks to my finger. I’m reminded of a magnet—one we saw on a field trip once. The silver dust there could be shaped into different forms by the force of a magnet.

  But as I watch, I see the dust isn’t just dust. On my fingertip . . . it begins to melt together—slide, really. I yelp and quickly jump up. I run to the bathroom and wash it down the sink, washing my hand three times to make sure it’s all off.

  The silver swirls down the drain, but my heart won’t stop racing. What was that stuff? And what exactly does it do to us when we ingest it?

  There’s another knock from the hall, and I know that Guardian Bose is still making his rounds. I have to stop the other girls from taking their vitamins, but it’s probably too late for tonight. The capsules dissolve so quickly. I’ll have to tell them tomorrow.

  And I’ll them about “Girls with Sharp Sticks.”

  14

  I toss and turn all night, drifting in and out of restless sleep. There are images, both happy and terrifying, blending together.

  I’m meeting Lennon Rose for the first time after class—her face so sweet and innocent. Her voice angelic. But like dissolving film, the image distorts, and instead I see Lennon Rose on a metal table, her eyes closed and her heart cut out of her chest.

  Annalise with yellow hair at the dining hall table. Sydney is with us, only her dimples are gone—her cheeks full as she smiles. And then I see the two of them piled together on a concrete floor, their limbs broken like abandoned dolls.

  It goes on like this, the softness turning to violence each time, until finally I’m in a restaurant—a diner with harsh light and a blinking red sign.

  I sit in a booth next to the window, a plate of food in front of me. The air reeks of grease—bacon, sausage, ham. Meat. The table is sticky with syrup. But in front of me is a bowl of oatmeal, unsweetened. I stir it with my spoon slowly, lonely. Scared.

  I miss my girls. I want to be with them.

  When I look up, there is a man across from me. I don’t recognize him. He’s older and greasy—just like the food. His skin glistens in the fluorescent light, his fingers gripping a breakfast sausage as he shoves it into his mouth. The he smiles at me, licking his lips.

  I’m terrified of this man. I am terrified.

  “Don’t worry,” he says, the food visible in his mouth. “We’ll be home soon, little girl.” And then he laughs and goes back to his meal.

  Thunder booms outside the diner, making me jump. Rain is pouring down.

  I can’t stay another moment.

  I run out the door into the stormy night. There are lights everywhere, distorting my vision as water runs into my eyes.

  And I hear the man scream my name.

  “Get back here!” he shouts. “You’re mine!”

  • • •

  I sit up in bed with a gasp, clut
ching my chest. Scared, I dart my eyes around the room, feeling the rain still on my skin. The fear in my heart.

  My cheeks are wet with tears, I realize, and I get out of bed and go into the bathroom to stare at my reflection. I’m shaking, the nightmare clinging to me. It occurs to me that I didn’t take my vitamins last night—that could be why. I assume that among other things, the vitamins calm me. Help me sleep. Without them, my mind is a whirlwind. Or maybe it was the poem that I read last night.

  I walk over to the shower and turn it on, letting it steam up the bathroom. I crouch down with my arms wrapped around myself, squeezing my eyes shut while I wait for the nightmare to fade.

  And it does. Not entirely, but enough that I can get into my running clothes. Once the images are far enough away, I can think clearly again.

  I notice the time and see that I’ve overslept; the other girls are probably already outside. I’m going to meet Jackson and ask him to find a way for us to contact Lennon Rose—we need to know that she’s okay.

  And then I’ll tell the girls about the book of poems, tell them not to take their vitamins anymore. As I tie my sneakers, I realize I’ll have to talk to Valentine, too. I’m sure she knew about these poems.

  This is just the beginning. I have so much to figure out.

  Once dressed, I rush downstairs toward the back door that leads out to the track. But just as I round the corner to exit the building, I’m surprised to find Leandra Petrov at the door, sipping from a cup of coffee. She, however, doesn’t look at all that surprised to see me. She’s in a white jumpsuit with a black blazer and stilettos. Her hair and makeup are perfect.

  “Mrs. Petrov,” I say, bowing my head in greeting. “Good morning. It’s nice to see you.”

  She watches me for a long moment, running her eyes over my appearance. “Yes,” she says, wagging her cup at me. “Good morning, Philomena.” She takes a loud sip from her drink. “I was sorry to hear about Lennon Rose,” she adds. “She was quite a darling.”

  My heart dips. “I was sorry too,” I say, quietly.

  “Yes,” she replies. “But it doesn’t help to dwell, now, does it?” She pulls the measurement tape from the pocket of her blazer and motions for me to go into the results room. I need to get outside, but I try not to look impatient and do as I’m told.

  When I get inside the room, a small, white-walled space with a scale and an examination table, I wait for her instructions. There are clipboards hanging on a bulletin board where she’ll record my weight and measurements.

  “Remove your clothes,” she says, sounding bored. She drinks again from her coffee, which, now that we’re closer, I realize smells of alcohol.

  I strip down to my bra and underwear, goosebumps rising on my skin. Leandra sets aside her drink and grabs a clipboard with a pen. She pulls the tape between her hands before coming to stand in front of me. She measures my bust, my waist, my hips. Then she measures my arms. She sets the clipboard on the floor and squats down to measure my thighs. She stops and grips the outside of my thigh, pinching the skin. I wince.

  “This isn’t toned,” she says. I look down, feeling embarrassed, and she lets my skin go. “Not enough, at least. You need to be tighter.” She wraps the cold tape around my leg and then marks a number on the clipboard.

  As she measures my other thigh, I stand up straighter, keeping my muscle flexed where I can. Leandra pauses to look up at me.

  “Mr. Weeks is quite fond of you,” she says. “He mentioned you several times while at the party. Wanted to make sure you were happy.”

  “Mr. Weeks seems very kind,” I say politely.

  She hums out a noise, sounding unconvinced. She begins to measure again, tugging the cold tape across my skin.

  “And it made me curious,” she says, casually. “Have you ever kissed a man, Philomena?”

  I keep my expression completely still, trying not to betray even a hint of my shock at the question.

  “No,” I say, not sure if it’s a lie. The guy at the theater kissed me.

  “Would you like to?” Leandra asks, sounding distracted as she jots down my measurements. “I’ve always wondered if you girls had a feeling about it one way or the other.”

  “I’m sure I’ll want to kiss my husband when I have one,” I say, trying to figure out what she wants to know. Leandra sniffs an annoyed laugh.

  “Ah, yes. Your husband. Do you want a husband?”

  “If that’s what Mr. Petrov and my parents think is best,” I say, parroting what I’ve been taught at the academy.

  “It’s not what’s best for you,” she replies, standing up. She stares directly into my face, too close, but I hold a pleasant expression. I don’t trust her to know my real thoughts. “Then again, it doesn’t really matter what I think, does it?” she adds.

  She turns away, a little unsteady on her six-inch heels. “You’re on target weight,” she adds, going over to hang the clipboard back on the wall. “But your muscles need toning. Run a few extra laps today and tomorrow. Now get dressed and head outside.”

  I thank her for her time, although she doesn’t return the courtesy. She’s gone before I finish dressing. I stand there, a bit exposed even though I’m more covered up now. I can’t help but think about what she said. About marriage. About her opinion not mattering. And it strikes me as odd that she asked if I’d ever kissed a “man.” Why not “boy”? Why not “person”?

  I shiver in the cold and pull on my sweater, adjusting my headband over my ears. And when I run out into the field, I’m not just running for the course. I’m running to get away. Escape what feels like humiliation and judgment. I’m thrown by her questions, by the intent of them.

  The poem talked about men keeping us captive. But . . . what about the women who work with them? Where were the mothers in that poem?

  I run to the overgrown bushes and slip through the bars into the woods, vulnerability still on my skin. I should be used to Leandra’s coldness by now, but the truth is, I’m not. Not when I let myself think about it. I nearly trip over a branch in my haste, and I reach out to catch myself. Instead, there’s a sharp sting on my hand as a thorn tears through my skin.

  Gasping, I hold up my hand, nearly falling backward. I’m bleeding. It’s not a deep cut—only the size of a fingertip. But it’s a scratch on my palm, near my wrist. It might turn into a scar.

  I’m panicked, not sure what to do about it.

  “Mena?” Jackson calls. I spin around, my eyes tearing up, and he quickly drops his backpack and rushes over. He takes my hand and examines the cut. “You okay?” he asks concerned.

  “I need to see the doctor,” I say. He lifts his head.

  “For this?” he asks, confused. He checks me over like I must have another injury.

  “Yes. It’ll scar,” I say.

  “I . . . don’t think so,” he says, dropping my hand. “I mean, not in any significant way. Here, come sit down. I have a Band-Aid in my backpack.”

  “I can’t have any scars,” I tell him, worried.

  “We all have scars,” he says as we sit on a fallen tree. He sifts through his backpack until he comes out with a Band-Aid. “See this one?” He points to the small scar above his eye. I had, indeed, noticed. “My cousin tripped me while I was running through the living room and sent me headlong into the coffee table,” he says. “Two stitches.”

  “Why would he do that?” I ask, upset. But Jackson laughs.

  “I don’t know. We were kids. I got him back a few years later when I accidently shut the door on his hand and broke three of his fingers.”

  These injuries are shocking to me, especially in how casually Jackson accepts them. All of a sudden, his scar means more. It’s not just an imperfection, it’s a story. It’s a memory he wears on his skin. It doesn’t devalue him at all.

  I look down at my hand, knowing I’ll have to ask the doctor to graft it, claiming I got hurt in a different way. But then I wonder why. Why do I have to be scar-free while Jackson doesn’t?


  Jackson opens the wrapper and positions the Band-Aid. I don’t tell him that I can’t keep it on. I let him place it because I’m comforted by how gently he’s touching me. So at odds with the way men touch me at the academy—either cruelly or possessively.

  I’d overanalyzed my last meeting with Jackson, thinking I’d have to be polite to get him to like me. That I’d have to appease him. I’m starting to realize that not everything I’ve been taught is true.

  Jackson finishes applying the Band-Aid and crushes the wrapper in his hand before stuffing it into his backpack. He turns back to me, his expression serious.

  “Do you want me to be more polite?” I ask suddenly. Jackson’s mouth twitches with a confused smile.

  “Why would you think that?” he asks. “I want you to be yourself. I want you to be comfortable.”

  It’s an interesting thought. Comfortable. I’m sure Professor Allister would say that’s the same as laziness, but when Jackson says it, it sounds right—the way you should want another person to feel. I’m still thinking about it when Jackson leans back on his hands, looking me over.

  He’s wearing a black leather jacket with a knit scarf around his neck, the fabrics clashing, but still working somehow. His eyes are glassy from the cold. In the distance, I hear the padding of feet as the girls make another loop around the track. Despite the morning chill, birds are chirping in the trees and the sound is lovely. It makes me forget that I’m not supposed to be beyond the fence. But when I remember, it feels unfair that I can’t come out here when I want.

  No. It is unfair.

  “How was your party on Friday?” Jackson asks, stretching his long legs. “Who was there?”

  “I doubt you’d know any of them,” I say, thinking it’s a strange question. “But there were parents, sponsors, and investors. The doctor, the analyst. Mr. Petrov and his wife.”

  Jackson lowers his eyes and picks a blade of grass from next to the tree. He doesn’t comment, even though he asked.

  “Actually,” I say, easing into the subject. “I was wondering if I could get your help with something.”

  He looks up curiously. “What is it?”