Girls with Sharp Sticks Page 4

  “I’d like to talk to them about it,” I say pleadingly. “If I could just explain it to them, I’m sure I could—”

  “Your parents are very busy,” Eva says, cutting off my request. “They don’t have time to listen to your excuses. Your focus should be on your education, Philomena. It’s what they’re investing in.”

  My face stings from the admonishment. “I understand,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

  “That’s all right,” Eva says, her tone softening. “And perhaps your parents don’t need all the details,” she adds, like it can be our little secret.

  “I’d appreciate that,” I say. “I don’t want to disappoint them.”

  “We still believe in you, Philomena,” she says, speaking on their behalf. “Now . . . aren’t you supposed to be in class?” she adds teasingly.

  I laugh and then quickly sniffle away my tears. “Yes,” I say, happy that Eva isn’t angry with me. She’s always very sympathetic. “I’m on my way there now. Would you mind letting my parents know I called?” I ask. “I’d . . . I’d like to talk to them.”

  “Of course,” Eva says warmly. “When they return from their trip. And you have a nice time at the open house. Don’t forget to smile. Make us proud.”

  I promise that I will, and then I hang up and head toward class. The loneliness mostly gone from my chest.

  • • •

  I keep my head down as I walk into Modesty and Decorum class, worried that Professor Penchant will scold me in front of the others. I’m still a little tender from Dr. Groger’s reprimand. Eva’s disappointment.

  “Shame is the best teacher,” the professor said last week when Lennon Rose started to cry. He told her she looked unkempt, a poor representation of the academy. He made her go back to her room to take out her ponytail and brush her hair; he held the class until she returned. I offered to help her, but he told me it was a lesson she needed to learn.

  “I know girls these days like to think their appearance doesn’t matter,” he lectured us. “Pajamas in a movie theater, messy hair at the grocery store.” He scrunched up his nose as if he found these types of girls particularly distasteful. “But you will take pride in your appearance at all times. No exceptions. And why is that?”

  “Because beauty is our greatest asset,” we said in unison, knowing the appropriate response. Knowing we’d be graded on it.

  “Correct,” the professor replied, assessing each of us.

  Lennon Rose came back to class shortly after that, a vision with her long hair smoothed, fresh makeup applied, her uniform shirt tucked in, and her socks perfectly folded. Professor Penchant showed her off.

  I feel his eyes on me now as I sit at my desk, but he doesn’t call my name. I take out my book and follow along with the lesson.

  “Compliance is an appealing quality,” he says from the front of the room. “Especially with graduation growing near. You’ll find that out there,” he motions toward the windows, “people won’t appreciate your opinions. Hold your tongue and listen. It’s a good lesson for all young women.”

  We can’t wait for graduation—the chance to show what exemplary girls we’ve become. Better girls. Once we’ve completed our education at Innovations Academy, Mr. Petrov works closely with our parents or sponsors to find us the perfect opportunity for success, usually through marriage. He says there are other prospects as well, but he hasn’t explained them. Instead, he tells us to trust him; he only wants what’s best for us.

  We’re going to make our parents so proud.

  There’s a loud exhale behind me, and I put my chin on my shoulder and look back covertly. Annalise sits in the desk behind me, and when she notices me, she rolls her eyes.

  Annalise is outspoken, more so than the rest of us. Brutally honest, Anton told her once, a description that Annalise found appealing.

  A few months ago, Annalise suggested that Professor Penchant try compliments rather than admonishments. It’s no surprise that he didn’t “appreciate” Annalise’s opinion on this matter. Now she keeps them to herself during class.

  She winks at me and I smile.

  “Ah, Philomena,” the professor calls, startling me. I quickly spin around. “Glad you’ve recovered from your little mishap on the bus. All is well?”

  “Yes, Professor Penchant,” I reply, back straight, chin up.

  “Very good,” he says. “Now, would you like to stay after class with me and discuss why you find it so difficult to pay attention during my lesson?”

  “No, sir,” I say, heat rising to my cheeks. “I apologize for my disruption.”

  He narrows his dark eyes on me. “Correct answer,” he responds, darting his gaze at Annalise before turning back to the board to finish the lesson.

  Suddenly, the classroom door opens and Leandra Petrov sweeps into the room. We all position ourselves to look our best, exemplify the teachings of the academy. She smiles politely, and when she turns to Professor Penchant, she lowers her head in a show of respect. He puffs up with confidence and allows her to take the floor.

  “Hello, girls,” Leandra says to us. Her voice is graceful and elegant. Her light hair is styled in thick waves, tucked at the nape of her neck. Her navy blue dress is formfitting and flattering. I turn to Lennon Rose, who is watching Leandra with unbridled admiration.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt your lesson,” Leandra continues, “but I’d like to speak with you about Valentine Wright.”

  A few girls shift in their seats and I see Professor Penchant scowl at their lack of restraint. Leandra steps forward, her heels clicking on the linoleum.

  “As you’re aware, Valentine was insubordinate while on the field trip. She defied Guardian Bose, and by extension, she defied the academy.” She pulls her eyebrows together, a slight frown on her full lips.

  “Innovations Academy has given you girls everything,” she says. “Arranged for you to lead an exemplary life. You should appreciate it. Appreciate what Guardian Bose does to keep you safe. What your esteemed professors”—she glances at Professor Penchant—“teach you in the classroom.” Leandra takes a few more steps so that she is almost at the front row of desks.

  “You are perfection personified,” she continues, “and we must ask that you act like it. I never want to hear about this kind of behavior again. It would break my heart.” She puts her hand on her chest to drive home the point. Several girls nod emphatically, as if promising they would never dream of upsetting her.

  “We are lucky,” Leandra says, holding open her arms, “to have such wonderful girls. And you are lucky to have such wonderful men to guide you. Don’t ever forget that.” She smiles for a long moment, gazing at each of us, before taking a cleansing breath and directing us to do the same. We all feel a little better once we have.

  “Now,” Leandra says, “although we are deeply disappointed in Valentine’s behavior, we are committed to returning her to her best self. She is currently being sent through impulse control therapy to identify the cause of her actions. I’m here to assure you that she’ll be fine. No,” she corrects, “she’ll be better than ever.” She pauses a moment and waits for us to clap. When I look sideways, Lennon Rose beams at me.

  I’m grateful that Valentine will get the help she needs. And to prove it, I clap along with the others.

  Leandra glances around once more, and for a moment, her eyes hold mine. And then, just as easily as she walked in, she dips her chin to the professor in gratitude and sweeps back out of the classroom.

  • • •

  I don’t see Sydney until dinner. We only have a few classes together, and none of them were this afternoon. I’ve missed her, and I’m grateful to find her waiting at our usual table in the dining hall. The area where we take our meals is small, and we sit close enough together that there are few conversations that are private.

  For example, as I approach the table, I hear Marcella talking about the “bloodbath” that was her period last weekend. I snort a laugh and take a seat nex
t to Sydney.

  “Let me see it,” Sydney says, motioning toward my knee. I put my foot on the seat and slowly pull off the glitter Band-Aid with a wince. She leans close to examine it like she’s a scar specialist.

  “Pretty good,” she says, nodding. I hope she’s not feeling self-conscious about her scar, but when she reaches for the center of the table, I notice that she tugs down her sleeve to cover the mark. She grabs a salad and slides it in front of me.

  “No chicken today?” I ask, picking through the dry lettuce.

  “They announced we’ve had too many calories this week. Now it’s salad and juice cleanses until next weigh-in.”

  “Gross.”

  “Don’t be negative,” she sings out, pushing a green sludge–filled glass my way. I try a sip and it’s awful, of course. She laughs. None of us like the juice.

  The green juices are made of plants from our garden. Assorted flowers that we grow specially mixed with vitamins for an added boost. The juice keeps our moods centered, content.

  Our diets here at the academy are strict, measured, and always monitored. Even when we cook, it’s with natural ingredients, no additives. No extras. But every once in a while, we’ll get the chance to taste something different in cooking class—“chef tasting,” they call it—to make sure it’s correctly seasoned. Men like their foods flavorful, and we’re expected to provide a tantalizing meal. But it would be inappropriate for us to indulge, crave food for ourselves.

  Same goes for our movies. The school selects what we watch: mostly films from the early 50s. There is the occasional action film with explosions, but I imagine those are Guardian Bose’s influence. We’re sometimes asked our thoughts on the entertainment, but the conversation always steers back to how Guardian Bose felt about it, and we’re to echo his sentiment. It makes for a more pleasing conversation.

  The academy has no cable or internet, which we’re told is a good thing.

  “The internet is rife with falsehoods,” Professor Levin told us in Modern Manners. “You’ll do best to ignore it completely, even after graduation. Your husbands or custodians will let you know any important news you need. Trust in their supervision.”

  Before the academy, my parents didn’t allow me on the internet either. Being homeschooled, I was protected—just like I am here. So when it comes to the internet, I don’t know what I’m missing. I defer to the professors’ knowledge on the matter.

  There are a few types of books at the school: gardening, beauty standards, or social etiquette, but I’ve already read them all. So most days, it’s just me and the girls. Which is more than enough. We’re fast learners, absorbing words, phrases, and ideas quickly. And we tell each other everything—our own kind of internet, I suppose.

  I look down to the other end of the table and see the empty spot where Valentine normally sits. It’s a bit jarring for her to be missing, and I blink quickly as I resettle myself. Even though Valentine doesn’t socialize with us, she’s still part of our class. And none of us likes to be separated.

  I poke through my salad with my fork before looking up at the other girls. “Hey,” I say quietly, drawing gazes from Marcella and Brynn, from Sydney and Lennon Rose. “When I was with Dr. Groger earlier, I asked him about Valentine.”

  Marcella’s eyes narrow slightly, as if she’s both confused and interested in what I have to say next. Brynn sets her elbow on the table.

  “What did he say?” Sydney asks from next to me.

  “He told me that Guardian Bose can be overzealous sometimes,” I say. “And that he’d talk to him about it.”

  “Dr. Groger is very kind,” Lennon Rose says in her quiet way. She nods that we should agree.

  “What does he mean by ‘overzealous’?” Brynn asks, pushing her blond braid over her shoulder. “Valentine wasn’t listening to him. He redirected her.”

  “He did injure Mena,” Marcella suggests as a reason, turning sideways to Brynn. I’m immediately embarrassed again by my behavior.

  “I’m not sure what the doctor meant,” I say. I lean into the table and drop my voice lower. “But Valentine is getting impulse control therapy right now.”

  “Good,” Brynn says, nodding. “Hopefully it’ll get her back on track.”

  I look down at my salad, the feeling of dread coming over me again. “The impulse control therapy part doesn’t bother you, though?” I ask, barely a whisper.

  “Why would it?” Sydney asks curiously. “It’ll fix her.”

  The other girls nod, perplexed by my question. Lennon Rose recently underwent her own impulse control therapy. She’d been acting a little sad, and we were told she was homesick and needed to reassess her goals. We haven’t discussed it with her since she returned—Anton said it would be best not to.

  Lennon Rose is no longer contributing to the discussion now, clearly uncomfortable. The other girls watch me, puzzled, and I feel bad for worrying them.

  “Never mind,” I say with a quick wave of my hand. “I was probably just shaken up after seeing so much blood.”

  Sydney scrunches up her nose, admitting that the sight of blood was disgusting. The girls agree, and the conversation about impulse control therapy fades away.

  As the other girls eat, I glance around the dining hall and find the Guardian sitting with the professors as they devour their dinners. Overflowing plates of meat and gravy, potatoes, and vegetables. Steam rises from their plates, and for a moment, my mouth actually waters. I spear a piece of lettuce and shove it between my teeth.

  Sydney uses her straw to stir her juice, poking at the thick liquid. “You have to come to my room later,” she says. “After evening classes. We have a lot to discuss.” She emphasizes the last word, and I know she wants to talk about the boys we met. I fight back my grin and tell her that I’ll be there. Next to her, Lennon Rose’s eyes light up.

  On Thursdays, we all attend classes well into the night, but it gives us a shorter school day on Friday. And this Friday is especially important because it’s an open house. Parents, sponsors, and potential investors are invited to see the grand achievements of the Innovations Academy. Namely: us.

  The events are lavish and impressive, a chance to mingle and socialize. We all look forward to them because these are our only chances to see our parents during the year.

  “Drink your juice,” Sydney says, taking a big sip of hers and gagging before finishing it off. I tell her she’s out of her mind and slosh the straw around in my drink, wishing the entire thing would just evaporate.

  I feel heat on the back of my neck. Sensing him, I look up to find Guardian Bose watching me. I’m conscious that I don’t want to break any more rules. I pick up my juice and guzzle it down. When I set the glass on the table, sick to my stomach, the Guardian smiles and goes back to his meal.

  5

  My evening classes are monotonous, but I listen in each one, wanting to meet my professors’ expectations. We add new roses to our garden in Plant Design and Development, learn (again) how to properly set a table in Modern Manners, and practice informal greetings in Social Graces Etiquette class.

  I’m mortified when I realize that I introduced myself all wrong today when meeting Jackson. I didn’t offer him my hand, didn’t stop what I was doing to give him my full attention. And I certainly talked too much about myself.

  Although I did well with eye contact, I didn’t ask Jackson enough questions. I should have found a topic he enjoyed and pursued it. Exuded confidence in order to boost his. Or if he preferred, been humble and soft-spoken.

  On the other hand, Jackson broke all the rules of etiquette. He blushed, cursed, and lost his temper with the Guardian. He suggested we go out without formally asking me. But men don’t have to follow the same rules of engagement that we do. Perhaps if I’d acted properly, he would have done the same.

  But Jackson seemed more casual in his manners. And I liked it. It felt more . . . honest. I smile to myself, deciding that if I ever see him again, I’ll be sure to make a better impres
sion. I want to learn more about him.

  But, of course, I’ll never see him again.

  “Philomena,” Professor Allister scolds. “Daydreaming again? We’ve talked about this.”

  “Sorry, professor,” I say. That’s my biggest flaw, my professors have told me. I daydream too often, drift away in my thoughts. I just can’t seem to stay out of my head, even though I know it’s unsightly. It might be something to bring up with Anton at our next meeting. Perhaps he could offer some coping methods to redirect me.

  Once classes are completed for the day, I return to my room to get into my pajamas. The halls are quiet. We’re supposed to stay in our rooms for studying or quiet reflection before bed, but I tiptoe out to meet with the other girls.

  Our floor is made up of individual suites, the one at the end of the hall belonging to Guardian Bose. He keeps an eye on us at night, providing security even though we already have bars on our windows.

  I walk down the hall in my socks toward Sydney’s room, glancing at Guardian Bose’s door to make sure he’s not standing there watching. When I’m sure it’s clear, I knock softly and enter Sydney’s room.

  I startle the girls inside, and several of them gasp guiltily. Sydney leaps to her feet, motioning for me to close the door.

  “Quickly,” she whispers, and there’s a flutter of papers behind her back.

  “Okay . . . ,” I respond in exaggerated suspicion, and close the door. I check the faces of the others—Lennon Rose, Marcella, Brynn, and Annalise—and note the pink blush high on their cheeks. The smiles they’re hiding behind their hands.

  I turn dramatically to Sydney, hands on my hips. I can’t believe she left me out of whatever is going on. She waves me forward to sit with her on the bed while the others crowd around us in a half circle on the rug.

  “What is going on?” I ask, amused. Sydney is still wearing her white button-down uniform shirt with no pants and knee-high socks, her hair pinned back. She pushes the folded sleeves of her shirt above her elbows, and then throws her arm around my shoulders.