Girls with Sharp Sticks Page 2

  Sydney heads toward the bathrooms while I step into the candy aisle. I’m overwhelmed by the sheer volume of choices, the bright colors and assorted flavors.

  The bell on the door jingles again as the two boys enter the store. They walk directly to the deli counter. The boy in the white T-shirt gives the woman his order while the guy who waved notices me standing in the aisle, watching him above the candy rack. His mouth widens with a smile.

  “Hey,” he calls. “How’s it going?”

  The other guy glances sideways at his friend—a bit of concern in his features that seems unwarranted. But the boy with the black hair waits for my response, the ghost of a smile still on his lips.

  “Anything else?” the older woman asks the two boys, ripping the top page off her pad.

  The boy with the black hair tells her that’ll be it, and his friend goes to pay at the register.

  I return to perusing the aisle, trying to focus on my mission to collect bags of candy. I am, indeed, distracted. It doesn’t take long before the boy with black hair comes to stand at the end of the aisle near the pretzels.

  “Sorry to bother you,” he says, his voice low-pitched and raspy. “But I was wondering if—” I turn to him and the words die on his lips. He smiles his recovery.

  “You’re not bothering me,” I tell him. He looks relieved and shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

  “I’m Jackson,” he says.

  “Philomena,” I reply. And then, after a beat, “Mena.”

  “Hello, Mena,” Jackson says casually. He takes a step farther into the aisle and picks out a bag of candy, seemingly at random. He draws his eyebrows together as he looks out the window toward the bus.

  “Innovations Academy?” he asks. “The one that used to be Innovations Metal Works—the old factory near the mountain?”

  “I’d like to tell you it’s not a factory anymore,” I say, “but I can still smell metal in my sheets sometimes.”

  He laughs as if I’m joking.

  Innovations Metal Works was a factory that’d been around since the town was founded. About a decade ago, they started making significant advances in technology: metal additives. Eventually, the Metal Works patent was bought out by a hospital system, and again later by a technology firm. The building itself was repurposed.

  Now it’s an academy that teaches us about manners, modesty, and gardening, a change that can be credited to new ownership and generous donors. And yet, I pick up the scent of machinery every so often.

  “A private school?” Jackson asks, glancing at my uniform.

  “Yes. All girls.”

  He nods like he finds this fascinating. “How long have you been there?”

  “Eight months,” I say. “I graduate in the fall. What about you? Do you live near the mountain?”

  “Oh, I . . . uh, I live not too far from here, actually,” he says. “It’s just . . . I saw your bus leaving the Federal Flower Garden. Was curious.”

  “You’ve been following us since the Flower Garden?” I ask, surprised. He turns away and grabs another bag of candy.

  “No,” he says, waving his hand. “Not on purpose.”

  Suddenly, his friend appears next to him holding a brown paper bag with ends of subs poking out. “Jackie,” the boy says. “We should probably get going, right?” He motions toward the glass door.

  Jackson shakes his head no, subtly, and then turns to me and smiles. “Philomena,” he says, “this is my friend Quentin.”

  Quentin glances at him, annoyed, but then smiles at me and says hello. He turns back to Jackson.

  “Five minutes, yeah?” Quentin asks him, widening his eyes.

  “Yeah,” Jackson murmurs. He presses his lips together and looks at me, waiting for his friend to leave. Once Quentin is gone, Jackson shrugs, as if saying his friend is just being impatient.

  I study the array of chocolates, and Jackson comes to stand next to me. He grabs a small bag of Hershey’s Kisses.

  “These are my favorite,” he says. I look sideways at him, struck by his imperfections. The freckles dotting his cheeks and nose. The slight turn of his canine teeth that makes his smile boyish and charming. There’s even a tiny scar near his temple.

  “I’ll try them,” I say, plucking the chocolates from his hand.

  “Ahem,” Sydney says dramatically from the other end of the aisle. She runs her gaze quickly over Jackson before settling on me.

  “Sydney, this is Jackson,” I tell her, fighting back my smile. Just as seeing someplace new is exciting, meeting someone new is absolutely thrilling. Sydney steps forward and introduces herself, politely, like we’re taught.

  They exchange a quick handshake, and Jackson tells her it’s nice to meet her. When Sydney turns back to me she covertly mouths the word “cute.”

  She smiles, pleasant and respectful, when she’s facing Jackson again.

  “I’ll meet you on the bus?” I ask her, holding up my fistfuls of candy. She pauses a long moment before nodding. She has to bite her lower lip to keep from grinning.

  “Right . . . ,” she says. “See you there.” Sydney tells Jackson it was nice to meet him and leaves the store, the bell on the handle jingling.

  Quentin watches after her while hanging out near the ATM, the brown paper bag set on top of the machine. He chews his thumbnail, and when Sydney is gone, he returns his gaze to the door.

  Jackson grabs a pack of Twizzlers while I pick up red hot candies with a flaming sun on the package. Together we head toward the register.

  “Can I buy that for you?” Jackson asks when I lay my pile of candy on the counter. It would be rude to refuse his offer, so I say yes and thank him. The cashier begins to ring up our sweets together.

  “I’m not allowed candy at school,” I confess to Jackson as he takes out his wallet. He looks at me as if he finds this unusual. “But whenever I get the chance,” I add, “it’s what I spend my allowance on. It’s not like there’s anything to buy at school.”

  “I’m sure,” he says. “Your school’s out in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

  I’m a bit shocked by his cursing; a bit exhilarated by the indecency of it. Jackson leans against the counter, studying me again.

  “Would you want to grab a coffee with me sometime, Mena?” he asks. “I have a lot of questions about this private school–factory of yours.”

  I’m about to explain that I’m not allowed to leave campus when there’s a series of clicks from the register. The woman behind the counter tells us the total for the candy, and Jackson removes several bills from his wallet to hand to the woman.

  The bell on the glass door jingles, and I turn to see Guardian Bose walk in, a hulking mass in the small store. The woman at the register busies herself by putting my items in a plastic bag.

  “Philomena,” the Guardian calls in a low voice, darting his gaze from me to Jackson. “It’s time to go.”

  I flinch at his scolding tone. I’d been told not to get distracted.

  “Be right there,” I say politely, avoiding Jackson’s eyes as I wait for my candy.

  The Guardian stomps to my side and takes me by the wrist. “No,” he says, startling me. “Now. Everyone’s already on the bus.”

  Jackson curls his lip. “Don’t touch her like that,” he says.

  I look at the Guardian to gauge his reaction; I’ve never heard anyone speak to him that way. He opens his mouth to retort, his grip loosening, and I quietly slip free to take my bag off the counter.

  But the moment I do, Guardian Bose grabs my forearm hard enough to make me wince and I drop my candy on the floor.

  “I said get on the bus, Mena,” he growls possessively, pulling me closer. I’m frightened, ashamed that I’ve upset him. I apologize even as he hurts me.

  Jackson steps forward to intervene, but the Guardian holds up his palm.

  “Back off, kid,” Guardian Bose says. “This is none of your business.”

  Jackson scoffs, red blotches rising on his cheeks an
d neck. “Try and grab me like that, tough guy,” Jackson says. “See what happens.” Guardian Bose laughs dismissively.

  I have no doubt that the Guardian would easily best Jackson in any fight, but at the same time, I’m struck by Jackson’s open defiance—how stupid and brave it is at the same time. It’s fascinating. I start to smile just before Guardian Bose yanks me toward the door.

  “Come on,” the Guardian says. I struggle to keep up, tripping over my own feet as his grip tightens painfully on my arm.

  When I look back at Jackson, he nods at Quentin, calling him over.

  “You’re hurting me,” I tell the Guardian. He doesn’t listen, using my body to push open the door. He forces me out into the misty parking lot. My shoes scrape along the pavement as I try to look over his shoulder toward the store. But the Guardian keeps me in front of him, his fingers digging into my upper arm.

  When I turn toward the bus, the girls are watching, wide-eyed, from fogged windows.

  The bus doors fold open, and Guardian Bose shoves me angrily. I trip going up the stairs and cry out in pain when my knee scrapes the rubber mat on the top step, tearing my flesh. The Guardian hauls me up by my underarms and dumps me on the seat next to Valentine. A trickle of blood runs down my shin and stains my sock.

  The bus driver witnesses all of this with a flash of concern, but the Guardian whispers something to him. The white-haired driver closes the bus doors and shifts into gear.

  Tears sting my eyes, but Guardian Bose doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t even look in my direction. There are murmurs of concern from some of the other girls.

  “You’re responsible for the damages,” Guardian Bose says. “The visit to the infirmary will come from your savings.”

  Ashamed and injured, I turn toward the window, looking past Valentine. She hasn’t spoken to me, not even to ask if I’m okay. But her hands are balled into fists on her lap.

  Jackson and Quentin come out of the store and watch as our bus pulls away. Jackson is clutching my bag of candy. Despite my circumstance, his thoughtfulness makes me smile. I reach to press my fingers against the window in a wave.

  In return, Jackson holds up his hand in the same way he did when I first saw him. He stays like that until we’re on the road. I watch as long as I can, until Quentin says something to Jackson, nodding to the car at the pump. And then they both turn away as I disappear.

  3

  The mood on the bus has shifted from excitement to dread, and the driver seems to be going over the speed limit. I’m embarrassed that he saw me fall, saw me get redirected by the Guardian. But more than that, I’m regretful that my behavior led to this consequence.

  Professor Penchant stays near the back of the bus with the other girls. When I glance at him, he purses his lips in disapproval, and I turn toward the front again.

  Although the Guardian isn’t one of our professors, he watches over the students on a daily basis. He’s typically indifferent, but not unpleasant. He’s never spoken to me so viciously.

  I’m shaken by it all, but at the same time, I’m deeply ashamed. We’re not supposed to anger the men taking care of us. I never have. It was selfish of me to not listen immediately.

  I glance at Valentine, watching her as she stares straight ahead. Her body sways along with the movement of the bus, her nails causing indents in her skin where her fists are clenched. But she doesn’t say anything to me. I’m almost convinced that I imagined our entire conversation at the Federal Flower Garden.

  I slide my eyes to the side so I can peer over at Guardian Bose. He’s angry, his jaw set hard. I should apologize, but before I can, there’s a flash of dark hair as Sydney sits down next to him. The Guardian is ready to argue, but she smiles sweetly.

  “I got you something,” she says to him. He eyes her suspiciously. Sydney pulls a pack of gum from her pocket and holds it out to him.

  Guardian Bose takes it, not realizing Sydney must have stolen it while in the store. He unwraps a piece and folds it into his mouth, not offering gum to the rest of us.

  Sydney waits patiently, and after a moment, Guardian Bose nods and turns toward the window. Sydney beams, having won my freedom, and she reaches for my hand and brings me to my usual seat.

  The moment I sit down, Lennon Rose crosses the aisle to hug me, sniffling back her tears. I promise her that I’m okay, petting her blond hair. She sits back down in her seat, watching me with concern. I’ve never been injured before. Not even a scratch.

  Sydney bends forward to look at my knee. She sucks at her teeth and straightens up. “There’s so much blood,” she says, lifting her eyes to mine. “Do you think the doctor will be able fix it?”

  Lennon Rose gasps. Sydney and I both turn to her.

  “Of course he’ll be able to,” I say for Lennon Rose’s benefit. Although the idea that I might be scarred for life creeps into my worries. “Dr. Groger is the best around.”

  “Absolutely,” Sydney agrees in the same tone. Lennon Rose’s panic eases slightly, but her brow is still furrowed. She’s the most sensitive of all the girls. We try not to burden her needlessly.

  We all understand that there are consequences for poor behavior. But since we don’t act out, we’ve never earned them. What I did was wrong, therefore I deserved the pain that followed, even if I didn’t like it. My opinion on the subject is irrelevant.

  I rest my head back against the seat and close my eyes, trying to relax in hopes of lessening the stinging in my knee. There is the occasional pop of gum from the front seat.

  I’m struck suddenly by the feeling of being watched. I open my eyes and lean out into the aisle. To my surprise, I find Valentine Wright turned around to face me with the same fierce expression she had at the Federal Flower Garden. It raises the hairs on my arms.

  I’m not sure what to say to her, not sure what she wants. She’s unsettling me.

  I quickly glance around, but the other girls haven’t noticed her. The Guardian, however, looks in Valentine’s direction. His head tilts slightly, examining her.

  “Turn around,” he orders.

  Valentine doesn’t listen. Doesn’t even acknowledge the command. She continues to watch me, her eyes finding the blood running down my leg. In the seat behind her, Ida Welch and Maryanne Lindstrom exchange a concerned glance.

  My heart begins to beat faster. Lennon Rose looks over the seat to see what’s going on, her eyes wide and fearful.

  “Valentine,” Guardian Bose says, raising his voice. “I said turn around.”

  There are several gasps when Valentine stands up instead, positioned in the middle of the aisle. Sydney sits up straighter, her hands sliding on the green padding of the seat in front of us.

  Annalise leans into the aisle, whispering for Valentine to sit down, cautiously checking on the Guardian. But Valentine’s not listening. She takes a step toward me and I gulp, scared of the attention.

  The Guardian jumps up and grabs Valentine by the wrist. She grits her teeth at the pain and tries to yank away. Behind me, Marcella murmurs, “No”—afraid for her. Disturbed by her defiance.

  The Guardian twists Valentine’s arm behind her back, making her cry out, and studies her eyes a moment before pushing her down in the seat. When she immediately pops up, he pushes her down again, this time more violently.

  “Stay,” he warns, pointing his finger in her face.

  Valentine stares back at him, but she doesn’t stand. She tilts up her chin, defiant. I’ve never seen a girl act like this before, and I wonder what’s wrong with her. Clearly her words at the Federal Flower Garden were the first symptom of this larger misbehavior.

  “You’ve just earned yourself impulse control therapy,” the Guardian tells Valentine. He stands there, towering over her, his presence seeming to grow larger as she shrinks back. “I’ll make sure of it.”

  Lennon Rose sniffles across the aisle from me, but I don’t try to comfort her this time.

  The Guardian sits down and takes out his phone, quietly making a cal
l while keeping a cautious eye on Valentine. For her part, Valentine turns around to face the windshield, once more impossibly still.

  I can feel that Sydney wants to ask me what just happened, but none of us dares to talk. We wouldn’t want to get sent to the analyst with Valentine.

  Impulse control therapy is a punishment for when redirection isn’t enough. One we earn but dread nonetheless.

  I’ve only been to impulse control therapy once, and I never want to go back.

  It was shortly after my first open house—an event the academy holds several times a year. Parents, sponsors, and investors are invited to celebrate our accomplishments. But my parents didn’t show up—they were the only ones who didn’t. I felt left out and abandoned. I started crying and couldn’t stop. Everything was wrong. I felt wrong.

  After speaking with Anton—our analyst—he recommended the therapy. But I didn’t want to be punished, even when he told me it was for my benefit. That it would make me a better girl.

  He said I was too responsive and that impulse control therapy would help me manage my emotions.

  I don’t remember much after that. Impulse control therapy erases itself when it’s done. All I know is I went in crying, and twenty-four hours later, I came out better—just like he promised. And yet, whenever I try to remember what happened, I’m overcome with a crushing sense of foreboding. It’s odd to have that strong a feeling without a connection to the memory causing it. When I ask Anton, he says it’s just part of the process.

  Well, it’s not a process I want to go through again. None of us do. So we lower our eyes and keep quiet the entire way back to the academy. I just hope Anton is able to help Valentine the way he helped me. Even if she won’t remember it.

  • • •

  The arches of the iron gate come into view when we turn down the gravel road. The words INNOVATIONS ACADEMY are etched into a large metal sign, which has rusted and aged quickly from the rain. The gate opens and we pull forward.

  The academy looms ahead, the mountain backdrop as beautiful as a painting. The rain has finally stopped completely, and there’s a small ray of sunshine filtering between the clouds. It casts the metal roof in oranges and reds; it would be lovely if the school itself wasn’t hidden behind overgrown ivy and barred windows.