Girls with Sharp Sticks

by Suzanne Young

  Annalise murmurs for me to smile—ironically, of course—as we get off the bus. I catch Leandra watching us, seeming curious, but I quickly walk past with a polite nod.

  Once inside, the Guardian tells us he’s sick of looking at us, possibly joking, and he goes to his room and shuts the door. He leaves us on our own, and as we stand in the hallway, my pleasantries fade away.

  Valentine comes over to look me dead in the eyes. “What?” she asks. “He can’t help?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “But . . . you all need to know something. We should . . .” The words catch in my throat, the horror of them, and I lead the girls into my room. About to destroy their world.

  • • •

  Annalise throws up in my bathroom, sobbing heavily. Marcella stares straight ahead while Brynn holds her hand, murmuring over and over that she doesn’t understand. Valentine stands at the window, facing out.

  Next to me, Sydney is motionless—in shock, I’m assuming.

  It’s hard to explain that it’s not exactly a surprise, that the signs of the academy’s true intentions were there all along. But it does not make them any less horrific.

  “And you’re saying,” Sydney starts, her voice so low it’s barely a whisper, “our parents know.”

  “If they’re our actual parents,” I say, making her flinch. “But yes, I believe they know. They all know.”

  She turns to me, tears clinging to her long lashes. “And you were hit by a car?” she asks.

  “Then how are you okay?” Brynn asks. “Why don’t you have any scars?” She looks around the room frantically, looking for an excuse not to believe. “She’d have scars, right?”

  “Broken bones,” Annalise says, coming out of the bathroom and blotting her mouth with a tissue. “Cuts and bruises—stuff like that. But the doctor used his technology to put you back together,” she says to me. “Just like the graft on your knee. I saw in the files they can do repairs like that. A doll they can fix over and over. Must be convenient.”

  Although the thought is horrifying, it would explain why I didn’t have any pain when I woke up. Annalise comes to sit on the other side of Sydney. I’ve told them everything, and now we just have to figure out how to use the information.

  “I wasn’t with you,” Brynn says, her voice soft. Marcella looks at her, seeing that she feels left out, even if it’s not something anyone would want to be a part of. She wasn’t one of our original girls. I imagine she feels suddenly lonely at the thought of being apart from us.

  “You’re here now,” Marcella whispers, putting her hand on her cheek. “You’re not going anywhere without us.”

  Brynn nods, putting her hand over Marcella’s before leaning in to hug her. Marcella keeps her arm around Brynn and turns back to us.

  “We need to find out what’s in the lab,” Marcella says. “I just . . . I have a feeling it’s the answer on how to shut this school down. Otherwise, why keep it locked up? Why only go there at night? Whatever’s in there is secret. What if we find it and then send it out to all the investors? All the wives of these men. We’ll send it to everyone we can. Jackson can do the rest, but I imagine some women wouldn’t be okay with this.” Her eyes tear up. “Right?”

  “Jackson’s mom wasn’t,” I say. “And if she wasn’t, I’m sure others won’t be.”

  I think we consider Leandra then. She’s an accomplice in all of this. Why wouldn’t she help us? Why would she go along with it?

  “It’s going to be time for dinner soon,” Valentine says. “We should get cleaned up. Remember, follow the rules. I like Marcella’s plan,” she says, smiling at her. “We get in that room and find out what they have in there. After that, we’ll decide what to do with it.”

  We all agree, hugging once before separating. Some of the girls will go back to their rooms to mourn the loss of their “parents” while others will dwell on what’s been done to them.

  And it’s a cowardly thought, but for a moment, I long for one of the academy’s vitamins—a chance to forget all this again. A chance to feel less vulnerable. I wrap my arms around myself, realizing that not knowing didn’t make me any safer. It just made me easier to manipulate.

  But still . . . I’m scared. I’m so afraid that I’ll never get outside these walls again. I’m scared of what the people claiming to be my parents have planned for me. What sort of deal the Head of School has made for me.

  I paid extra.

  I quickly spin away from the window and walk to my bed, needing a shot of courage. Needing to be brave.

  I reach under my mattress and pull out the book of poetry. The moment it’s in my hands, I feel better. I feel . . . seen. Heard.

  I sit on the edge of my bed and open up to the first poem. I start working my way through, letting them fill me up. Tell my stories. My dreams. My desires. There are poems even more violent, or more moving. There is even one about love.

  But I find myself drawn to my favorite poem once again. I begin reading it out loud, enjoying the words on my tongue. I say them louder, my eyes welling up.

  “ ‘And then those little girls with sharp sticks flooded the schools,’ ” I say. “ ‘They rid the buildings of false—’ ”

  “What the hell are you doing?” Guardian Bose yells from the doorway, scaring me so badly that the book falls to the floor at my feet. I didn’t even hear him open my door.

  Guardian Bose stomps over and picks up the book before I can. “What’s this?” he demands. He flips to the first page, and I see his eyes widen as he reads. He grabs me by the wrist and hauls me from the room.

  A string of curses cascades from his lips, and I don’t resist his pulling, knowing I have to play along. I shouldn’t have taken the book out. I should have been more careful.

  Valentine’s door opens when she hears the commotion. She watches me with fearful eyes, but she doesn’t say a word.

  I have to figure a way out of this. Now that I know what the academy is capable of, I’m more afraid of them than ever. I can’t let them see that I know the truth. I don’t know what they’ll do to me. What they’ll do to the other girls.

  “Anton will have to deal with this,” the Guardian says. He’s distraught, I realize. Angry, sure. But . . . threatened.

  We get to Anton’s office, and the Guardian opens the door. Anton is standing next to his open file cabinet, staring out the window with a folder in his hand. He turns and quickly motions for Guardian Bose to let me go. The Guardian does just that, and I stumble with the sudden loss of pressure on my wrist.

  “What is this?” Anton demands from Guardian Bose.

  The Guardian holds up the book and tosses it onto Anton’s desk. He’s not in mood to talk to the analyst either. “Might want to take a look,” he says, pointing at the book. And then he backs up and leaves the room.

  Anton waits a beat, his eyes on the book, and then he turns to me and presses his lips into a smile. “Are you okay?” he asks.

  I’m not sure, if I’m honest. I don’t know what he’s going to do to me, and flashes of impulse control therapy play through my mind.

  “Have a seat, Philomena,” he says. He slides the folder he was holding into the file cabinet drawer and pushes it closed.

  I do as I’m told. But dread is slowly crawling over me. It’s disturbing that Anton thinks I don’t remember what he’s done to me. And yet, he sits down with me like he’s my therapist. Like he wants what’s best for me. The power imbalance of that is striking.

  “What’s going on, Philomena?” he asks.

  Something Sydney told me the other day stands out. She lied to Anton when he asked her a question. We always assumed he’d know if we were lying, almost as if he could read our thoughts. Apparently, he can’t unless he’s got wires in our head.

  “I was worried about Lennon Rose,” I say, keeping my voice steady.

  “I thought you were happy for her?” he asks, as if I’m being unreasonable. The book sits unopened on his desk, but he doesn’t comment. />
  “I am happy for her,” I say. “But . . . I guess I missed her. I thought maybe she left behind a note, a goodbye letter, so I checked her room. I found a book.”

  “Ah, yes,” Anton says, leaning forward to pick up the book. “And you found this? I’d wondered where it’d gotten off to.”

  “You’ve seen this book before?” I ask, surprised.

  “Yes,” he says. “It belonged to a former student.” He turns it over, examining it. “And you say you got this from Lennon Rose’s room?”

  I nod. He flips through the pages, pausing on “Girls with Sharp Sticks” to read it.

  “Philomena,” he says, his voice low. “Have you read this poem?”

  “Just that one,” I say. “But I don’t know what it means.” My lies come out so smoothly, so innocently, that I would believe them myself.

  Anton takes off his glasses to rub his eyes. He seems exhausted. When he looks at me again, he sighs. “Here’s the thing,” he says. “These poems . . . They’re not allowed at this school. They’re propaganda.” He leans his elbows on the desk. “You see, there are people outside of this academy who don’t believe in what we do,” he says. “They don’t think you deserve a well-rounded education. They want to push their values on you.

  “I suppose they’re just jealous,” he continues. “Jealous of our success, our commitment to protecting you. Perfecting you. Innovations Academy is cutting edge and exclusive. Not everyone can send a girl through our program.” His expression grows very serious. “These people want to take that from us,” he says. “They try by deliberately spreading falsehoods. They make people angry and unhappy—especially girls—in hopes of turning you against us.

  “But it won’t work,” he says with a smile. “Because we’ve trained you girls to appreciate what we do for you.”

  “I’m lucky to be at such an esteemed academy,” I say immediately, without even a twinge of guilt.

  “Good. Because, you see, the girl who wrote those poems must have been very unhappy to disrespect the men trying to help her. She spread that unhappiness to others. And then she dared to give it to one of our girls. I wouldn’t want—” He stops, seeming upset by the memory. “I wouldn’t want that to happen to you. You are a prize, Philomena. I want you to be successful.”

  I hold my expression, but his words “you are a prize” are a cold splash of water through my chest, sending chills over my skin.

  “I wouldn’t want that either, Anton,” I say evenly. “I’m so close to graduation.”

  “Exactly,” he says, relieved. “So I think it’s best if we have a meeting with all the girls. Make sure we’re all on track. Make sure you have the right attitudes.”

  The suggestions stuns me, scares me. But I thank him for his time; I don’t want to stay in Anton’s office for even a second longer than I have to.

  I stand up and reach for the book, but Anton quickly puts his hand on it and slides it out of my reach.

  “I’ll hold on to this,” he snaps. “Lennon Rose won’t need it again.”

  “I’m sorry,” I reply, angry at myself for even trying to take it. I wasn’t thinking clearly. He waves me out.

  I leave his office, shivering off the shadows that try to follow me out. And even though I don’t want to think it . . . Anton all but confirmed it.

  Lennon Rose is truly gone.

  • • •

  When I get back to my room, some of the girls are waiting in their doorways. Before I can tell them what’s happening, Guardian Bose’s voice booms like thunder down the hall.

  “Back in your rooms until I come for you!” he shouts. I flinch at the violence in his tone, exchanging a worried look with Sydney.

  Not wanting to be defiant, we all do as he asks.

  The Guardian doesn’t come back to get us until late in the evening. They didn’t even let us have dinner.

  I’ve nearly gone out of my mind while waiting, staring out the window at the woods as they darkened. Longing to escape. I should have left from the movie theater with Jackson.

  Guardian Bose doesn’t speak as he leads us downstairs to the ballroom. But we’re not allowed near each other, let alone able to talk. Guardian Bose has us each sit at a different table. I hope this separation doesn’t last. The thought that it might terrifies us.

  We watch Guardian Bose head to the front of the room. My leg shakes under the table.

  The door opens and Mr. Petrov walks in, his suit wrinkled in a surprising way. He’s always very careful about his appearance, but he’s unnerved. He’s angry and bitter. This is him in his truest form.

  Mr. Petrov stops at the front of the room, slowly looking each of us over until he lands on me. He takes the book out of his coat pocket and holds it up.

  I’m not sure how he knows, but this is my fault. I put us all at risk—I can’t let the girls take any blame.

  “It was my fault,” I say, pitching up my voice to sound sweeter. “Just mine. I was curious.” I shake my head. “Weak. I didn’t mean to read the book. I should have turned it in the moment I found it.”

  “Do you feel brave, Philomena?” he asks, his tone cutting through my hollow words.

  “Excuse me?” I ask, wilting slightly.

  “Did the words in that book make you feel brave? Make you think . . . you were better? Equal? Did they make you want to talk back?”

  I shake my head, but inside, my heart is racing. How do they know how those poems affected us? “No, Mr. Petrov,” I say. “They were just words. I didn’t even understand them. The other girls didn’t even read them!”

  He hums out a sound, running his eyes around the room. “Words create rebellions,” he says. “Better I crush yours right now before you hurt the other girls. Before you try to convince them with lies.”

  I’m scared. I don’t know what he’s going to do to me, and I turn back to Sydney, I see her eyes brimming with tears.

  “Who gave you this book?” he demands.

  “I found it in Lennon Rose’s room,” I say. “I swear. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

  “Who gave you this book?” he asks, louder. Brynn jumps from the sound, and he drags his eyes over her. Mr. Petrov nods to Guardian Bose.

  The Guardian stomps over to grab Brynn by the collar of her shirt, hauling her to her feet violently. Several girls gasp. Marcella begs him to stop.

  “Who gave you this book?” Mr. Petrov asks me again, his threat to Brynn obvious.

  I don’t know what to say. I’m not even sure what lie will help protect the other girls. And then suddenly, Valentine stands up.

  “I did,” she says simply. “I gave the book to Lennon Rose. Mena must have found it there.”

  “Ah, there we go,” Mr. Petrov says. He waves the Guardian toward her. “I believe Dr. Groger would like a word with Valentine Wright.”

  The Guardian pushes Brynn down in her seat—she folds in on herself, still in shock from being mishandled.

  The Guardian walks to Valentine’s table. Slowly, as if completely unbothered, she smiles at him politely.

  “Time’s up, sweetheart,” Guardian Bose says. “Time to go visit the lab.”

  I quickly look back at Marcella, who confirms it’s the locked room in the basement.

  Valentine nods, stepping away from the table to follow the Guardian out. Her eyes slide to mine with a wave of panic. She told me that the next time they thought she needed impulse control therapy, they would kill her.

  “Valentine,” I call, breathless in my terror. She looks away from me because there’s nothing I can say. There’s nothing I can do. I would just endanger us all, like I already have with the book.

  Valentine begins to shake. Her eyes go vacant, her expression serene, as she lets the Guardian lead her from the room.

  Are they really going to kill Valentine? This can’t be happening. They can’t do this—even the idea of losing one of the girls is unbearable. But I don’t know what to do. What can any of us do?

  “This school is on lockdown
,” Mr. Petrov announces. “There will be no phone calls, no parental visits. Campus is closed and open houses are canceled. The fences will be reinforced and the doors bolted at night. You will pay the price for your audacity.” He stops when his voice gets tight with anger. He takes a breath, and then begins again.

  “Guardian Bose will step up your supervision,” he says. “Mandatory impulse control therapy will begin shortly—we have no way of knowing how far these poisonous ideas have spread. Make no mistake,” he says, wagging his finger at us, “your parents will not be removing you from this building until you are worthy. Nobody needs another opinioned girl. You will obey!”

  The words take the air out of the room and make my skin crawl. We sit there quietly, afraid it might get worse. It can always get worse. I know that now.

  Mr. Petrov glances at his watch. “You will report for classes in the morning as usual,” he says. “And if you get any more ideas, you will be isolated. And it can get very lonely,” he adds menacingly. “We can’t have you spreading discontent.”

  And then the Head of School walks out.

  25

  That night, when Guardian Bose comes to my room to give me my vitamins—one yellow and one sedative—he stands there and watches me take them. I make a show of it, extra apologetic. The pills rest just under my tongue, and I can feel them dissolving, unable to do anything while the Guardian is here.

  I can barely stand it. The idea of the silver tech gliding over my tongue and down my throat, or the sedative making me powerless with sleep, almost makes me gag. But the Guardian casts a dirty look in my direction and leaves to harass another girl.

  The second he walks out the door, I spit the vitamins across the room. I take a mouthful of water and then rush to the bathroom, rinsing the bitter taste out of my mouth. When I go back to my room to destroy the evidence, I’m grateful to find the silver tech still contained inside its capsule. I pick it up and flush it away along with the sedative, knowing the Guardian will be back later.

  • • •

  The footsteps stop just outside my door like I knew they would. I’d been waiting—dreading—for hours. As the door opens, I relax my expression: lips parted slightly, tense shoulders loose, hand palm up. Defenseless in sleep.