Girls with Sharp Sticks Read online

  I get up, tugging down the hem of my pajama shorts, and walk over to the box. I bring it back to my bed and untie the bow, carefully removing the lid. I brush through the tissue paper and my fingers graze the garment. It’s sharp with sequins. I slowly drag the fabric from the box, making sure it doesn’t touch the floor.

  It’s beautiful. A full-length white sequin dress—iridescent in the light. Formfitting with a low-cut top. It’ll fit perfectly since the academy has my measurements, but it weighs a lot in my hands now. I lay the dress on top of its box without trying it on and go to the bathroom to put on my clothes for Running Course.

  Running Course isn’t terrible—we mostly enjoy it. We get to be outside, creating lean muscle and toning our legs. The best part, though, is that since we’re already surrounded by iron fencing, the Guardian doesn’t join us. It’s one of the few places where we have zero supervision.

  Although I’m wearing my warmest track clothes and a head band covering my ears, the wind is cold on my face. The other girls have already been out here for a while when I fall into step next to them, little puffs of air visibly escaping our lips as we round the building. Nights and mornings in these Colorado mountains are always cold. The spring is no exception.

  We reach the side of the academy where there are no windows or doors. Just a wall of bricks. Sydney is beside me when she suddenly reaches out to grab my arm, making me stumble to a stop. I’m about to ask if she’s okay when I see her staring into the trees. I follow her gaze there.

  Nothing moves other than the occasional shake of leaves in the wind.

  The rest of the girls continue past us, taking their run times very seriously. Sydney moves a step closer to the woods, and I come to stand next to her.

  “What is it?” I ask. “What’s wrong?”

  When Sydney turns back to me, she can barely contain her smile, her eyes flashing mischief.

  “Quick,” she says, taking my hand and pulling me toward the fence before the other girls can notice we’re gone. She tucks us between the iron and an overgrown bush that has overtaken the bars, creating an arch.

  My heart races, unsure of what Sydney has planned. I check back for the other girls, but they’ve already rounded the side of the building, buying us about five minutes.

  Sydney takes me by the shoulders, and I ask again what she’s doing. She responds by licking her palm and then using it to smooth down my flyaways. I swat her hand, but she’s determined. She moves me to the side, posing me so that I’m completely hidden under the leaves.

  When she’s done fussing, I put my hand on my hip, glaring at her.

  “Please, Sydney,” I say. “My head is starting to hurt.” And it does, a small pain behind my left eye, presumably from the extra capsule I took last night. Nothing else about my routine is different. It happens occasionally if we have too many vitamins. I’ll let the doctor know.

  Sydney smiles brilliantly. “You have company,” she says, and motions behind me.

  I spin around, confused, and catch sight of someone behind the bush. I gasp, but before I get truly frightened, the person steps toward the fence.

  Jackson.

  He looks understandably mortified to be hiding in the bushes outside the bars of my school.

  I turn back to Sydney. “How did you know he was—?”

  “I saw him this morning,” she says, impatiently waving Jackson over. I look at him and he takes a step closer.

  “You’re all right,” he says to me, sounding relieved. “I had to check on you. And I, uh . . . I also brought your candy.” He holds up the plastic bag. “Most of it got crushed, and Quentin ate, like, half, but there’s still some left. Thought you might want it. You know, if you were still alive. Which you are. Thankfully.” He closes his eyes, admonishing himself for rambling. After running his palm down his face, he flashes me an embarrassed smile.

  Sydney leans in. “You’re doing a great job, Jackson,” she tells him encouragingly.

  He thanks her, and his eyes find mine. He reaches out with the bag so I can grab it through the bars.

  Before I take it, Sydney points to a hidden section of the bars where the rusted metal is cracked, offering enough space for me to slip through. It would break several rules to do so, and I have a strong moment of doubt, thinking about Anton’s warning: Be better next time.

  But it also would be rude to leave Jackson standing there without at least seeing why he came all this way. I feel a shot of adrenaline as I slip through the bars.

  Sydney checks over her shoulder and tells me to be careful. I hear the echo of the other girls’ feet jogging this way. “See you in fifteen,” she adds, winking at me. She exchanges a quick goodbye with Jackson and then runs to rejoin the girls.

  My heart is thumping wildly as Jackson and I walk a few yards into the woods to keep out of sight. We find a thick patch of bushes with a broken log behind them that we can sit on. It’s a little damp, but I don’t mind. When Jackson sits next to me, the wood creaking, I notice scratches on his hand, and a few marks on his leather coat.

  “You’re hurt,” I say, concerned. I trace one of the longer scratches on his hand with my fingertip, never actually touching him.

  Jackson inspects his scratches now that I’ve pointed them out. “Huh,” he says. “Well, yeah. Those woods are downright treacherous. Not exactly student-friendly.”

  “We never come out here,” I say, glancing up at the tree canopies. “And if I’m honest, I can’t believe you did.” I look sideways at him and see his breath catch when I do. “Did you really think I was dead?” I ask.

  “No,” he says. “Not really. Okay, sort of, which is why I had to come check on you. I navigated those woods only to find an impenetrable fence—or so I thought—and then I saw your friends jogging. I hoped they wouldn’t think I was an ax murderer. Thankfully Sydney recognized me and held up her finger to tell me to hold on. That was like . . .” He pauses, thinking about it. “Twenty minutes ago.”

  “You’ve been out here that long?” I ask.

  “Longer.” He widens his eyes. “This was not a well-thought-out plan.”

  I laugh, and he holds out the bag of candy to me. I thank him politely and reach in to take the sour candies. He does the same with his chocolate kisses.

  “So . . . ,” he says. “If you don’t mind me asking, what the fuck kind of school is this?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What do I mean?” he repeats surprised. “This place belongs to a technology firm—or at least it used to. Not to mention some asshole grabbed you and physically pulled you from the store. He yanked you outside. I should have done more to stop him.”

  I’m embarrassed that he’s brought up my behavior. “I didn’t listen,” I say quietly, and pick through the candy. I’m fidgeting, I realize suddenly, and stop to pay attention to Jackson again.

  He stares at me, and I sense the worry in his expression.

  “Who are your parents, Mena?” he asks. “Why are you here? I’m sure there are other schools that want to ‘make girls great again,’ or whatever bullshit people still believe, but why one so isolated? Why this one?”

  His question surprises me. “Because this is one of the most esteemed finishing schools in the country. Extensive training on social etiquette. It’s elite.”

  “Okay . . . ,” he says, unimpressed. “And your parents? They’re okay with some guy grabbing you?”

  “If I earned it? Yes,” I say. “My parents trust the academy. And they’re very smart people. My father runs a law firm and my mother is a philanthropist. She’s thinking of running for office one day.”

  Jackson looks away, shifting his boots in the grass. “Yeah, well,” he says. “If she thinks you deserve this, she’s not getting my fucking vote.”

  I’m not sure why, but I smile. I kind of enjoy his behavior, the bluntness of it. Like he’s saying exactly what he’s thinking. He notices my smile and laughs at himself.

  “I waited a day, you know,” he
adds. “I was worried about you, debated what to do. I almost followed the bus back here. But Q talked me down. Told me to make a plan. But I couldn’t wait that long, so I . . . I showed up. Some plan, right?”

  I appreciate his concern. It’s different from the way the academy worries about me. Jackson doesn’t seem to care about my manners, about my hair or makeup—things he hasn’t mentioned even once.

  “Seems like a good plan to me,” I say, and hold out the bag of candy to him. He licks his lower lip, and then reaches to take out another piece of chocolate.

  Although I was hesitant about my behavior at first, Jackson’s continued casual manners set me at ease. Sunlight filters through the clouds and branches, landing near my feet. I move so my sneaker can be in the warmth. I stare at the woods, listening to the birds chirping. It’s really peaceful out here.

  “Would you like a kiss?” Jackson asks.

  Heat swarms my face, and when I turn to him, he holds out a small, silver-covered chocolate. He smiles at my blush.

  “Thank you,” I say, taking it from between his fingers. Jackson turns back toward the academy, sweeping his eyes over the stone façade. Pausing at the barred windows.

  “So it’s a school now,” he says. “Looks the same, you know, other than the terrifying sign they added near the road. Might as well be a skull and crossbones.”

  “Wait,” I say, sitting up straighter. “You’ve been on campus before?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “On the property. Back before it was all overgrown. Before they put a fence around it.”

  “When was the last time you were here?” I ask, fascinated. The idea that Jackson has been to the academy before is thrilling. It’s like we suddenly have so much in common, even though rationally, we probably don’t.

  “Four years ago,” he says, avoiding my eyes. “When I was fourteen. I used to run away a lot. I was a bit of a fuckup, if I’m honest. I would usually stay at Q’s house, but every so often, his parents would look worried, and I’d know it was time to take off for a while. Pretend to go home. Instead, we’d find places—old buildings, places to camp. My parents would always track me down, though. Eventually had to go to court. Was given community service where I literally spent one hundred hours picking up trash on the freeway.”

  “Why did you run away from home?” I ask. I’m astonished at the idea of hiding from your own parents. It seems so . . . disrespectful.

  “My dad,” Jackson says. “My dad could be a real . . .” He stops himself and looks at the school again. “We didn’t get along,” Jackson says instead. “We had different values. And I didn’t like the way he treated my mother.”

  “And now?”

  Jackson flicks his eyes to mine, pausing a long moment before answering. “Now it’s just the two of us, so we don’t have a choice.”

  “Two of you?”

  “My mother died,” he says, and then swallows hard. “She died three years ago, and my father sobered up real quick.”

  There is a sudden ache in my heart. I’ve never known anyone who’s died. “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “I know you are,” he says, wincing, “and I have no idea why I just told you that. It was stupid. I’m sorry.” He looks away, vulnerable. Still pained. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about it.

  We sit quietly, eating candy. It’s not uncomfortable, despite the lack of conversation. When Jackson turns back to me, his expression softens.

  “So what about you?” he asks. “You’ve been here eight months. How often do you go home?”

  “Never,” I say.

  “What?” he asks. “You just . . . You stay here?”

  “Yes. We live here full-time. It’s an accelerated program.”

  “Do you sneak out often?” he asks.

  “Me?” I ask. “No, never. But they don’t physically monitor us on the grounds the way they do when we’re off campus.”

  “If you don’t sneak out, then what do you do? For fun, I mean.”

  “The girls and I talk a lot,” I say. “We tell stories. Gossip. Sometimes about boys.” I grin.

  “Boys?” he replies, like it’s scandalous. “Plural? You see a lot of boys around here?”

  “None,” I say. “Which is why we gossip about them.”

  He laughs. “Will I make the list?”

  “You already have,” I say seriously. “We’ve made all sorts of assumptions about you. I can’t wait to tell them what I’ve learned. You are fascinating,” I say.

  Jackson flinches. “Can I ask you something, Mena?”

  I nod that he can.

  “Could you . . . I mean, would you mind not telling your friends that stuff about my mom?” he asks. “Any of it? It’s kind of personal.”

  I hadn’t really considered that, but I understand his point. I don’t lie to the girls, but I can just leave that part out.

  “I won’t tell them,” I promise, and Jackson smiles gratefully. We’re quiet for a moment before he moves suddenly like he just remembered something.

  “I meant to ask,” he says, taking a phone out of his pocket. “Do you think I can call you? I . . . like talking to you. Hearing about your school. And it’ll help me sleep at night, knowing you’re okay behind all those bars.”

  “Personal phones aren’t allowed on campus,” I tell him. “The only phone we have is a shared one in the hallway.”

  “E-mail?”

  I shake my head no. “We don’t have computers.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Jackson mumbles, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “And weird considering this place used to be a tech company.” He considers the statement. “But who knows?” he adds. “A few years ago, the government tried to lock everyone out of the internet—some big push to control the narrative, remember?”

  I don’t answer, not wanting to mention that I didn’t have a computer at home, either.

  Jackson shakes his head. “That was scary stuff.” He looks over at the school. “Thankfully it didn’t last. But maybe it made Innovations reassess their goals. No more assembly lines. Now they specialize in girls.”

  “And gardening,” I say, motioning to the greenhouse. “We grow the most beautiful flowers.”

  Jackson watches me a moment, amused. “Although I’m sure that’s very lucrative,” he says with a small laugh, “I’m going to guess tuition here is pretty high. You know, since the place is so ‘elite.’ I wonder how they select which girls get in.”

  On the first day of school, Mr. Petrov told us about the process. He said that he and the professors scoured the country, searching for girls with the perfect blend of beauty and temperament. We were hand-selected based on these traits. Our parents were delighted.

  But I don’t think this criteria will impress Jackson, so I opt not to share it.

  Jackson relaxes back on his hands, taking in the academy once again. “You know,” he adds, “I bet there’s still some old equipment lying around the building. You should poke through the closets once in a while. See what you find.”

  “I can’t do that,” I say, scrunching up my nose. He pops another candy into his mouth.

  “I would,” he says easily. Not even a hint of guilt. When he looks at me, we both smile.

  He’s so unlike the men I’ve met at the academy, or even before. Most of my interactions are a well-rehearsed dance, expected. Jackson is the opposite of rehearsed. He’s messy and unpredictable.

  “You’re exciting,” I tell him. “You drove an hour with a badly formed plan to check on me. You swear and run away from home. You even nearly fought the Guardian in a gas station.”

  “I try to fuck up where I can.”

  “You’re good at it,” I say, making him laugh.

  Jackson takes another chocolate and unwraps it slowly. I watch him, noting his movements.

  “Are you left-handed?” I ask.

  He seems surprised by the question and looks down at his open palm. “I am. You?”

  “No. But I’ve never met anyone who was
left-handed before,” I say.

  “It doesn’t sound like you meet a lot of people, Mena.” He holds out his hand to me, and before I can think about it, I slide my palm along his, noting how rough his skin is. Liking the way it scratches me, contrasts me.

  Jackson lifts his dark eyes to mine, and for a moment, we just stare at each other. There’s a sudden pressure in my chest, a breathlessness I’ve never experienced before. Jackson licks his lower lip again, and then slowly withdraws his hand. He turns toward the sound of the girls running, rounding the building for likely the last time.

  “I should probably get back,” I say, getting to my feet.

  Jackson walks me toward the fence, and we pause as we reach the iron bars. I wish I could stay just a little longer, but I appreciate the time we’ve had.

  “There’s an open house tonight,” I tell him. “Goes kind of late, so we don’t have Running Course tomorrow. But . . . I’ll be back out here on Sunday. If you’re in the area.”

  “This mountainous, middle-of-fucking-nowhere area?” he asks. “Yeah, of course I’ll be here. Besides, we didn’t finish all the candy.” He holds up the bag.

  I laugh. The sound of sneakers hitting the dirt gets louder as the girls run along the building, getting closer. Sydney hangs near the back of the group.

  “Then I’ll see you Sunday,” I say. “And bring the candy.”

  He grins before nodding goodbye. I turn around to slip back through the fence, joining the girls for the rest of our morning run.

  7

  As the girls and I finish our run and head toward the door, we find Guardian Bose waiting for us, watching us intently. I nearly trip over my feet, worried that I’ve been caught breaking the rules; I see the same flash of fear in Sydney’s eyes. But the Guardian just waves us in impatiently. He never lets us deviate from our schedule.

  I try to keep my distance so he won’t smell candy on my breath, and once we’re past him, Sydney and I exchange a relieved look. We start toward our rooms to get ready for classes.

  As we walk down the hall, the other girls ahead of us, Sydney loops her arm through mine.