Girls with Sharp Sticks Read online

  They say the bars are remnants from when this was still a factory—protection from thieves and villains. The new owners opted not to remove the bars when this was turned into an academy several years ago, because they thought we needed the security just as much. Or maybe more, considering the iron gates that now surround the property.

  “It’s dangerous to leave girls unprotected,” a professor told me once. “Especially pretty girls like you.”

  The bus stops with a hiss in the roundabout, and the front doors of the academy swing open. Mr. Petrov, our Head of School, walks out, dressed in a charcoal gray suit and royal blue tie. He’s visibly concerned, folding his hands over his stomach as he watches the bus. His wife descends halfway down the stone steps to pause next to him, taking his arm obediently.

  I haven’t spent much time with Mr. Petrov. He limits our interactions, saying it might interfere with our educational program. His wife, however—Leandra Petrov—met with each of us when we first arrived at the academy. She taught us how to properly apply makeup and style our hair to the academy’s specifications. And I remember thinking at the time that she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. She’s significantly younger than her husband—probably not much older than us.

  Leandra’s on campus fairly often. She monitors and records our weight once a week, and she leaves products in our bathrooms to help us manage our periods. She’s one of the few women we interact with here. Poised and beautiful, an example to be emulated.

  The front doors open again and Anton comes rushing out, a bit frazzled in an endearing way. He stops beside the Head of School, turning his head to talk confidentially as they wait for us to exit the bus.

  Lennon Rose exhales with relief and Sydney smiles at me.

  It’s reassuring to see Anton—a promise that everything will be okay. Despite him being the person who administers impulse control therapy, we mostly look forward to our time with him. He’s a wonderful listener. An excellent analyst.

  He’s older—like the other men at the academy—with light brown hair, gray at the temples. Even his beard is growing in gray, and he jokes that it’s because he has so many girls to worry about.

  “Philomena,” Guardian Bose calls from his seat in the front row. I jump, startled.

  “Yes?”

  He stands, chomping on his gum. He grabs Valentine by the arm and pulls her out of the seat. She keeps her eyes downcast, her defiance seeming to have faded away.

  “Take the back stairs and go see Dr. Groger,” the Guardian tells me. “Ask him to patch you up.”

  I nod, embarrassed again for my earlier behavior. My knee still stings.

  The Guardian walks Valentine off the bus, and Anton quickly rushes the rest of the way down the stairs to meet them. He gives the Guardian a pointed look before gently taking Valentine’s elbow and leading her inside.

  “Do you want me to come with you?” Sydney asks me as we get to our feet. We follow the other girls off the bus. I tell Sydney that I’ll be fine, but I thank her for the concern. She blows me a kiss before joining the others on the stairs of the school.

  As the girls head inside, Mr. Petrov says hello to each of them as they pass, his yellowed teeth crooked in his smile. He assesses each girl, his eyes traveling over their uniforms. Their hair. Their skin. His wife nods along, her gaze drifting from girl to girl.

  I round the side of the building and walk to the back steps, which lead to the kitchen entrance.

  This room is always loud—dishwasher running, refrigerator humming. There’s a large silver pot on the stove bubbling with water, and Mrs. Decatur, the cook, is chopping carrots at the counter, the knife clicking on the wooden board below it.

  Mrs. Decatur is only here Mondays through Fridays. She’s a little older than my parents and wears her white-blond hair pulled into a tight bun. She’s never spoken to me beyond pointing out a recipe. On the weekends, the other girls and I take over the cooking. Home economics is one of the important skills we learn at the academy, the value of an organized domestic life. Cooking, cleaning, hosting, and decorating—we try to excel in each. And if I’m honest, we’re better cooks than Mrs. Decatur. I much prefer the food the girls serve. We at least try to sneak a dash of salt where we can.

  Mrs. Decatur glances up at me and I smile. She doesn’t return the pleasantry, and instead grabs a stalk of celery from beside the cutting board and chops again. I push through the room, resisting the urge to grab a piece of carrot on my way.

  The hallway from the kitchen is narrow, and it always makes me feel claustrophobic when I have to come through here. The walls are thin plaster and the floors are stained concrete. Unlike the rest of the building, little was done to make this area more palatable. Thankfully, I turn a corner and enter the reception hall.

  This is one of the nicest rooms in the entire academy, but the students are rarely allowed in here. It’s mainly used for parental visits and open houses, and the occasional prospective sponsor or investor. It’s finely decorated with dark wood wainscoting and beautiful flowered wallpaper. There are several tables with thick, padded chairs, a red couch with end tables on either side of it, and a buffet.

  As students, we have dorm rooms and a few sitting areas throughout the building, but nothing this elaborate. Nothing this nice. Lennon Rose once asked our sewing teacher why we didn’t have a “place to relax,” and he said relaxation was laziness. And that girls needed to stay in top form.

  I get through the reception hall and take another turn, finding the back stairs that lead up to the doctor’s office. My knee is sore, but the blood has dried, leaving the skin stiff. When I get to the second-floor landing—the hallway extending to include several other offices for the teachers—I stop at the doctor’s room, my shoulders tight with tension, and knock on the frosted glass.

  “Come in,” the doctor calls warmly. I open the door. Dr. Groger is sitting at his desk, several files open in front of him. He has white tufts of curly hair just above his ears on both sides, the top of his head smooth and bald. His glasses are perpetually sliding down his nose, and he pushes them up when I walk in.

  “Ah . . . Philomena,” he says, but immediately notices my bloody knee. He stands from his desk quickly and walks over to take my hand. He leads me to the table, and I climb up on the paper-covered pad. Dr. Groger wheels over his stool and a silver tray. He sits in front of me and pushes up his glasses.

  “What have you done, my dear?” he asks good-naturedly, wetting a gauze pad to clean my wound. I wince at the sting, and Dr. Groger pouts sympathetically. “Let’s get this taken care of,” he continues. “We wouldn’t want it to scar.”

  The doctor is always warning us about scarring, how difficult scars are to repair. How unsightly.

  I don’t have any scars. Not one. Sydney has a small, half-moon-shaped scar on her arm from when she got caught on a piece of old razor wire while pulling weeds near the fence last year. The doctor tried, but he couldn’t repair all the damage. Even though he promised her it wasn’t that bad, Sydney’s still a little self-conscious about it. I told her I thought it was cute. Then again, it’s not on my body. I might feel differently then.

  Once the doctor is done cleaning my scrape, he inspects it carefully, taking measurements with a steel instrument. He jots something down on a notepad and then opens the metal box on the tray he wheeled over.

  “Now stay very still,” he warns in a fatherly voice, patting my knee with his cold hand.

  The doctor opens the foil package with the grafts in it and selects the correct size. Using a pair of tweezers, Dr. Groger lays the small skin graft over my scrape and presses the edges down until they stick. He takes his time to be precise.

  Once it’s placed, he smiles up at me and then grabs the warming light from the tray. He holds it against my knee so the graft can set, melting into place. The red light is hot, and it’s a bit uncomfortable.

  When I wince, the doctor gives me an exaggerated sympathetic smile, and then he reaches to p
luck a sugar-free lollipop off his tray. I laugh and thank him as I take it.

  “So tell me about your field trip,” he says conversationally, moving the red light to seal the graft. There is a quick flash of panic in my chest.

  I’m scared to tell him, afraid he’ll reprimand me. But I can’t lie. Besides, he likely knows already. I swallow hard and look down at the floor.

  “We went to the Federal Flower Garden,” I start in a quiet voice, “but we had to leave early because of the rain.”

  “The Federal Flower Garden is beautiful,” he says. “You always enjoy yourself there.”

  I nod that I do, and Dr. Groger moves the light to another corner of my graft.

  “After the Flower Garden,” I tell him, considering what I’m going to say next, “we stopped at a gas station so some of the girls could use the restroom. I was going to get candy.”

  The doctor rolls his eyes, playing along like I was being mischievous. He shifts the red light again.

  “And?” he asks, his voice dropping lower. He does know the rest of the story.

  “There was a boy there,” I add, ashamed.

  The doctor clicks off the light. He takes it from my knee and sets it back on the tray.

  “What did you and this boy talk about?” he asks. He grabs the tube of silicone gel and puts some on a gauze patch, then rubs it over my knee.

  “Candy, mostly,” I say. “But . . . when Guardian Bose came in and told me it was time to leave, I didn’t listen right away.” I’m humiliated by the admission.

  “And why do you think you disobeyed?” he asks.

  “I wanted a few more minutes in the store.”

  Dr. Groger sighs. “That’s not like you, Philomena,” he says. “The girl I know would never misbehave.” His disappointed tone nearly makes me cry. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” he adds. “But it was improper for you to carry on with a stranger—especially a boy we don’t know. Guardian Bose was right to redirect you.”

  I nod and tell him that I understand. And when he smiles, not angry, I’m relieved.

  The doctor pats my thigh this time, and then reaches for a sparkly Band-Aid. He places it over my graft for decoration and declares that I’m still scar-free.

  I hop down from the table, pulling the wrapper off the sugar-free lollipop, and stick the candy between my cheek and teeth. I watch Dr. Groger write notes in my file, pushing up his glasses every few seconds.

  “Can I ask you something?” I begin quietly.

  The doctor’s pencil stops. “Of course,” he says, looking at me above his glasses. “What is it?”

  “Is Valentine getting impulse control therapy?” I ask. Even saying the words out loud causes a twist in my stomach, a prickle on my skin. “She misbehaved on the bus, and—”

  “Valentine Wright will be just fine,” he says. “Her impulses are compromised, but a good session with Anton should cure her of that. She’ll be back to herself in no time. It’s very sweet of you to worry about her, though.”

  I thank him for the compliment. However, I’m still bothered. “But the Guardian grabbed—”

  “I’m aware of the incident, Philomena,” he replies, interrupting me again. “There’s no need for you to consider it any longer.”

  I don’t argue, accepting that he’s right.

  Dr. Groger waits a beat before closing my file and setting it inside his desk drawer. When I don’t say anything else, he sighs as if he was being too harsh. He walks out from behind his desk.

  “Guardian Bose may be a bit overzealous at times,” the doctor admits, glancing at my Band-Aid. “I will speak to him. But he knows what’s best for you—all of you. You should respect that.”

  The lollipop has gone sour in my mouth. I’ve never been in trouble before; I’ve never disappointed the doctor. I promise to do better. “I won’t misbehave again,” I assure him.

  “Good.” Dr. Groger takes off his glasses and slips them into the front pocket of his shirt. He looks me up and down. “That’s very good, Philomena.”

  He walks me to the door, his hand on the small of my back. And just before I leave, I pause long enough to thank him for his guidance.

  IA Report Card

  Student’s Name: Philomena Rhodes

  Year: 2 Q1

  Metrics

  A – Superior, B – Above average, C – Average,

  D – Below average, E – Poor, F – Failure

  Conduct

  Cooperative

  A

  Good listener

  A

  Manners and poise

  A

  Beauty

  A

  Compliance

  A

  Academics

  Plant Design and Development

  A

  Basics

  A

  Social Graces Etiquette

  A

  Decorum and Modesty

  A

  Fitness

  A

  Modern Manners

  A

  Teacher’s Remarks

  Philomena is a delightful, well-mannered girl. She follows instructions and is amiable to all requests with continued direction. She will make a fine addition to any household.

  Anton Stuart

  4

  My afternoon classes have already started by the time I leave the doctor’s office, and I go back to my room to grab my textbook. I’m feeling vulnerable, an odd sense of loneliness. Separation. As I leave my bedroom, I glance down the hall toward the phone.

  I’d planned to call my parents to see if they’ll be attending tomorrow’s open house, but I hadn’t gotten the chance yet. I decide to call them now.

  I head down the hall and try not to think about them missing another open house as I pick up the phone. My parents are very busy people—I understand that. I haven’t spoken to them since the holidays, and even then, it was just a short chat with my mother. A quick check-in to make sure I’d received the extra allowance. She told me to buy myself something nice. But . . . there’s nothing to spend it on here. I guess she doesn’t know that.

  I dial their number and press the receiver to my ear. I steady myself against the wall with my other hand. There’s a click on the line, and I immediately straighten up as if they can see me.

  “Hello?” a warm voice calls. “This is the Rhodes residence.” I smile softly.

  “Hi, Eva,” I say. “It’s Philomena.”

  “Philomena,” she says lovingly. “How are you, darling?” Her accent is stronger when she pronounces my name—the origin unclear. When I asked about it once, she replied, “Oh, you know. I’m from here and there.” That was the end of the discussion.

  Eva is my parents’ live-in assistant. All of the families affiliated with the academy have an assistant, and I’m lucky to have Eva. She answers my every call, every letter. I’ve personally never met her—she was hired after I left for school—but I don’t usually mind when I talk to her as a surrogate for my parents. She’s kind. She even sent me gloves during the winter. It was very sweet.

  “I’m sorry to call again,” I say. “I was wondering . . . Is my mother around?”

  “No, honey,” Eva says. “I’m sorry, but she’s out of town through the weekend. Is this about the open house tomorrow? She’s very disappointed that she can’t attend. I’m sure you’ll look lovely, though.”

  “Thank you,” I say, my heart sinking. “Any chance my father’s home? I’d like to speak with him.”

  “He’s with your mother,” Eva sings out like she’s guessing I’ll be disappointed. “But you can always talk to me, sweetheart,” she says. “That’s why I’m here.”

  And she is there, every time. My mother runs a charity, jet-setting from place to place. I’m not quite clear on what charity, but she’s very dedicated to it. Before that, she homeschooled me. She taught me to read with Basics books the academy lends out to prospective parents. She gave me an overview of society and manners, and guided me through an org
anic, plant-based diet with exercise. My father runs a law firm, but he always made it home for dinner.

  We never traveled, not like my parents do now. Our days at home were as repetitive as my days at school. I never had anything new happen until I came here. Until I met the other girls.

  “I’m worried about you, Mena,” Eva announces. “You sound troubled. Is everything okay? How’s school? Your calendar shows you had a field trip today—how did that go?”

  I wish I didn’t have to talk about the incident with the Guardian at the gas station. But I can’t lie to Eva. That’d be as bad as lying to my parents. Plus, I don’t want her to relay to my parents that she thinks I’m troubled.

  I twist the phone cord around my finger and turn to rest my back against the wall. I start out telling her about the Federal Flower Garden, the rainy day. The more I talk, the more my skin heats up with embarrassment.

  “The bus had to make a quick stop on the way back from our field trip. There was a boy in the store, and while we were talking, the Guardian came in and told me it was time to leave. I . . . I didn’t listen right away.”

  There is a long pause. “And then?” Eva asks.

  “I was redirected,” I say. “I’ve already spoken to Dr. Groger about it, so—”

  “Why were you at the doctor?” she interrupts. “Are you unwell, Mena?”

  “No,” I say quickly. “I’m fine. It was just a scratch, but it’s taken care of. No scar.”

  “And your behavior,” she follows up. “Is that taken care of too?”

  The coldness in her voice, the practicality of it, makes me feel ten times worse. My eyes sting with tears.

  “Yes, Eva,” I say, humiliated. “I agree with the doctor’s assessment that I needed the redirection. It won’t happen again.” I quickly wipe the tears from my eyes before they can ruin my makeup.

  “That’s good to hear,” Eva says. “We all want you to be the best girl possible. And good girls obey the rules. Your parents will be sick over this.”