Girls with Sharp Sticks Read online

  I move away from Sydney, about to intervene, when there is a loud clap from the front of the line. I turn and see Mr. Petrov approach. Leandra is dutifully by his side, her gaze gliding over each of us. I quickly get back in line to wait for inspection.

  Mr. Petrov and Leandra slowly make their way past each of us, the Head of School raking his eyes over our figures, ensuring our dresses fit perfectly. Leandra leans in to Annalise and smudges some of the blush off her cheeks, telling her it looks cheap.

  They move on to Sydney, and Mr. Petrov nods appreciatively, telling her the color is beautiful against her skin. She flashes a wide smile in return. Leandra, on the other hand, grips Sydney’s hips like she’s measuring them.

  “Schedule Running Course for the morning,” Leandra says coldly. “You’re filling out this dress. I suspect you’re up a pound. That’s not acceptable, Sydney. You represent this academy.”

  Sydney’s smile falters, and she lowers her head, apologizing for her appearance. My stomach sinks; I think she looks amazing.

  I have to fight to hold my smile when the Head of School and his wife reach me.

  Leandra inspects me first, but I’m surprised when she doesn’t say anything at all. Instead, she studies my eyes. It feels almost invasive, the way she holds my stare. Like she’s saying something I can’t hear.

  Mr. Petrov reaches out to run his finger along the neckline of my dress, grazing the skin of my chest as he traces the low cut. It sends a chill down my back.

  “This is very flattering on you, Philomena,” he says, slow to remove his hand. “I dare say you could go lower.”

  “If you think so, sir,” I say politely, even though I already feel too exposed. We dress modestly with the exception of these open houses. Mr. Petrov says it’s because investors want to get a good look at us so they know how flawless we are. The inconsistency in our wardrobe leaves me uncertain—modesty or exposed skin? There seems to be a different rule based on Mr. Petrov’s . . . preference.

  The Head of School moves toward the next girl, but Leandra hangs back an extra second, still watching my reaction. Waiting.

  I press my lips together, as if thanking her, but there’s a flicker of disappointment in her expression before she walks past me to join her husband. I’m left a bit confused, and when I go to tell Sydney about it, I see she’s still feeling badly about her evaluation. I decide not to burden her any more.

  “Ah . . . ,” Mr. Petrov calls out lovingly. We all turn and find him taking Valentine by the hand, leading her out of line to show her off. He spins her around, admiring her. “Now, this,” he says, “is perfection.” Valentine dips in a bow, the front of her dress sloping down to expose her cleavage. Mr. Petrov doesn’t take his eyes off her, still holding her hand.

  Leandra watches on, a pleasant expression on her face. When Valentine returns to her place in line and Mr. Petrov walks to Lennon Rose, Leandra and Valentine exchange a private look. It’s only a moment, a split second, and then Valentine turns forward again and smiles. When she notices me, she lifts one eyebrow. Rather than indulge whatever weirdness she’s about to say, I look past her toward Lennon Rose.

  My heart skips and I quickly reach out to grab Sydney’s arm. She turns to look before taking an anxious step forward.

  “Now what is this about?” Mr. Petrov says in a fatherly tone as he guides Lennon Rose from the line. He yanks a handkerchief out of his suit pocket and hands it to her. Leandra sighs, seemingly annoyed.

  Lennon Rose is crying. Her makeup is running down her cheeks in black and blue rivers. She uses Mr. Petrov’s tissue to dot the area, but she’s clearly distraught.

  I flick an accusatory look at Valentine, but she doesn’t meet my eyes this time. She’s still smiling, though. Not even acknowledging Lennon Rose’s breakdown.

  “Leandra, darling,” Mr. Petrov says. “Can you please take our little rose upstairs and fix her up?”

  “Of course,” Leandra says, taking her by the arm. Although it looks gentle, Lennon Rose’s winces at the touch. We all watch in stunned silence as Lennon Rose is led back to the rooms.

  It has to be because of Valentine. I can’t imagine that she would purposely upset Lennon Rose—she knows how sensitive she is—but clearly, she said something wrong.

  “Marcella,” Mr. Petrov says, nodding his head to her. “A vision as always. I know your parents will be proud.” She thanks him.

  The Head of School turns to Brynn, taking his time examining her. And then, almost impulsively, he steps closer and leans in to kiss her cheek. Brynn jumps, but as Mr. Petrov pulls back, she smiles at him.

  “You’ll be a beautiful bride one day soon,” he tells her. “And your husband will be a very lucky man, indeed.”

  Mr. Petrov turns to inspect the next girl, but Brynn continues to stare straight ahead, smile held. Eyes shiny. It isn’t until Marcella reaches back to take her hand that Brynn lets out a held breath. I’m reminded of Lennon Rose’s question in my room. And the answer: Mr. Petrov knows what’s best for us. I ignore my feelings on the matter, and I turn around, opting not to watch any more of the inspections.

  • • •

  The first thing I notice is the bright red lipstick stain on the wineglass. The liquid has been abandoned at one of the tables near the sofa shortly after dinner, and I make my way over to sit on the velvet cushion closest to it. As the music from the piano drifts over the room, I search for the other girls and find nearly all of them occupied.

  Sydney is smiling, beaming under her parents’ attention. I’ve always liked her family. They dress smartly, but not lavishly—no furs or overemphatic jewelry. Sydney told me once that her parents saved their entire adult lives to be able to afford sending her here. She does everything she can to make them proud.

  Tonight, Sydney looks gorgeous in the sequined blush dress. Her mother and father exchange pleased looks as Sydney tells them a story. I feel a twinge of pride too. Sydney is dynamic and lovely. I’m lucky to have her in my life.

  Sadly, she was wrong about my parents. They didn’t show up unexpectedly. I was prepared, of course. But . . . I did have a small bit of hope they would find a way to see me. Maybe next time.

  It hasn’t gone unnoticed that my parents have missed all three open houses this year, even though the girls don’t bring it up. Anton tells me not to dwell on their absence. I try not to, but sometimes it’s hard not to wallow a little.

  A loud laugh near the door startles me. I turn in that direction and see Marcella entertaining her parents. She must feel me watching her, because she looks over at me, and then at the wineglass. She flashes me a smile as if telling me to go for it. I sniff a laugh and turn to survey the rest of the room.

  Lennon Rose’s parents are here, even though she hasn’t arrived yet. The couple is talking with Dr. Groger near the buffet table, drinks in hand. Serious expressions.

  Lennon Rose’s mother is rail thin, elegant with heavy black brows and black hair. Her father has graying dark hair, brown eyes, and a stern chin. Lennon Rose’s parents are looking forward to bringing her home, grateful for the opportunity to raise an Innovations Girl—I’ve heard them say as much. They look positively forlorn now.

  There’s a flash of pink fabric, and I turn just as Annalise drops onto the couch next to me. She tries to follow my line of vision. “Who are we staring at?” she asks, sounding bored.

  “Lennon Rose’s parents,” I say.

  Annalise juts out her bottom lip. “I noticed them too,” she says. “Hopefully Lennon Rose will be here soon.”

  She shifts her eyes to mine, but we don’t mention the possibility that she might not. We still don’t even know why she was crying in line. At the thought of it, I look for Valentine and find her with her sponsor—her uncle—smiling and sipping seltzer water.

  “She’ll be back,” Annalise murmurs about Lennon Rose. “Everyone has a bad day once in a while.”

  It’s a normal thing to say, a phrase we’ve heard in movies. But it’s not exactly tr
ue at the academy. The last time I had a bad day, I was in impulse control therapy for twenty-four hours.

  An uncomfortable thought scratches in my head, out of my reach. Dread crawls under my skin. I elect to change the subject.

  Annalise sighs heavily and sits back against the sofa. She crosses her long legs, one of her stiletto heels dangling off her toes. Her feet are probably killing her, but Mr. Petrov requires at least a six-inch heel at all events. He says they’re the most flattering.

  “Do you think any of these people do number four?” Annalise asks casually.

  I burst out laughing and quickly put my palm over my mouth when I garner several discouraging stares.

  There are prospective parents and sponsors here, as well as investors. The parents want to know if Innovations Academy can make their daughters exceptional—beautiful, respectful, obedient. Sponsors have a girl with potential, a relative or family friend, that they think will be a perfect fit. Then there are the investors—people without a girl who share the academy’s mission to make us all better. Extraordinary girls. Extraordinary school.

  The investors are the ones we have to impress most, Professor Penchant told us at the beginning of the year. Demonstrate your value to those in attendance by showing how appealing a beautiful, obedient girl can be. Hold your tongue. Bat your eyes. Smile. Be best.

  After meeting us, many of the prospective parents apply for their girls to attend Innovations. Few are selected. The rarity makes us more elite, I’m told.

  But no prospective students ever attend these open houses. Their parents make the decision for them. I’m not sure when my parents decided to send me here. One day, we just showed up at the academy. We never even had a discussion about it—at least, not one that I remember.

  I try not to think about it. Because every day that I’m at Innovations, my life before the academy grows a little foggier. The past getting farther away. Disappearing.

  It’s not something I’ve mentioned to Anton; it’s never come up. And I haven’t told the other girls because it doesn’t seem important enough to worry them. Besides, it doesn’t really matter. I’m going to be a better girl after graduation.

  I’m lucky to be here, I think. I’m lucky to be at such an esteemed academy.

  Rebecca Hunt stands in the corner of the room, holding a glass of water while her lawyer holds an animated conversation with several guests. It’s odd, the way Rebecca seems to fade into the shadows on the wall. Trying to disappear rather than be on display.

  Suddenly, a former student, Carolina Deschutes, sweeps into the ballroom wearing an extravagant gown, her grandmother on her arm. It’s rare for us to see alumni, but the Deschuteses make every open house.

  Two girls, Andrea and Maryanne, rush over to Carolina, fawning over her peacock-inspired dress. She spins so they can take it all in, her grandmother beaming proudly at her side. And her grandmother is a spectacle herself. I once heard Anton call her, “Our very own Miss Havisham.” But I don’t understand the reference.

  Grandmother Deschutes is at least eighty and barely five feet tall. She’s wearing a navy gown with a black stole, a sparkly headband in her short, gray hair. Her makeup is heavy, her eyelids painted purple.

  Grandmother Deschutes has had three granddaughters attend Innovations Academy. Two of them are now married to very prestigious men, I’ve heard. She plans to have another granddaughter attend in the fall. The Deschutes name is quickly becoming a legacy, especially considering that Innovations Academy has only graduated twenty girls in the past three years.

  This year will be different, though—that’s what Mr. Petrov says. We’re all on track for graduation. The academy’s most accomplished class of girls yet.

  “My word, Philomena,” Annalise whispers. “Grandmother Deschutes is easily the most fabulous woman alive.” She turns to me wide-eyed. “I want to be her when I grow up.”

  “Carolina looks great too,” I add.

  “Yes, of course,” Annalise allows as if it’s not the exciting part.

  “Stand up straighter,” a woman’s voice calls. I turn to see Brynn being fussed over by her mother. “What are they even teaching you in this school?” the woman asks bitterly, yanking on the braid in Brynn’s hair and making her wince. “You look like a slob,” she adds.

  I watch them, but I don’t intervene. We don’t disrespect adults at Innovations Academy.

  Brynn’s mother adjusts her hair roughly. When she’s finished, the braid is redone and slicked in a way that’s more sophisticated, less Brynn. Her mother grabs her by the upper arm and swings her around to face the other side of the room.

  “Now go talk to your father,” she orders. “You need to prove that you’re worth the money we’ve pumped into your education.”

  Brynn swallows hard, her blue eyes downcast from the insults, but she doesn’t talk back. “What should I say?” Brynn asks in a quiet voice.

  “See that gentleman next to him?” her mother asks, pointing across the room to a man in a gray suit. “That’s the new junior partner—ambitious, ruthless. He’s vying for your father’s position. But . . . ,” she says, turning to study the side of Brynn’s face. “Mr. Callis wants a beautiful girl who can raise his children—they’re still small, you see. And you’ll be perfect for the position.”

  “What about their mother?” Brynn asks, confused.

  “She’s not your concern. Now,” she directs Brynn, “go say hello. Charm him. Be a prize, and he’ll come begging for your father’s favor.”

  Brynn’s eyes flutter for a moment, but then she makes her way over to her father and the other man, looking confident.

  Brynn’s parents have put her on a specialized track at the academy, one that offers a class in childhood development. She enjoys it. In fact, Brynn’s mentioned several times how she can’t wait to have children of her own. “A whole pile of them,” she says with a smile. But, of course, that will be up to her parents and Mr. Petrov.

  “I’m going outside to get some air,” I tell Annalise, standing up from the couch. She waves and tells me to have fun.

  I make my way through the party toward the glass doors of the patio. Cool air rushes to meet me when I slide the door open, and I shiver against it. I’m surprised to find Lennon Rose’s parents already out here, arguing. Her mother, Mrs. Scholar, has a fresh drink in her hand, the liquid sloshing around as she talks animatedly.

  “They can’t just keep her,” she hisses, grabbing her husband’s forearm.

  I freeze, not sure if I should slip back inside before they notice me, but it’s too late.

  Mr. Scholar turns in my direction and instinctively puts his hand over his wife’s to stop her from talking. Mrs. Scholar looks at me, and I note the glassiness in her eyes, the smudges of mascara in the creases around them. She blinks rapidly and then takes a shaky sip from her drink.

  “Hello, darling,” she says, sweeping her gaze over me. Only she says it like she might cry, my presence making her miserable.

  “Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Scholar,” I say pleasantly. “How are you tonight?” I have no idea what to say when they both appear upset. Possibly drunk. Mr. Scholar nods his greeting and takes his wife’s hand.

  “Thank you for asking,” he says to me. “We’re just fine. But we should get back inside. Come along, Diane.”

  He pulls his wife behind him, but as they pass me, Mrs. Scholar brushes her fingers along my arm. When I hear the door close, I turn to make sure they’ve gone. My heart is in my throat.

  Keep her—what does that mean? What’s happened to Lennon Rose?

  9

  I rub my arms in the chilly night weather before deciding to go back inside to look for Lennon Rose. When I open the glass doors, a blast of heat hits my face and several people look in my direction.

  I’m newly concerned that Lennon Rose still hasn’t returned to the party. I search for Leandra, or even Dr. Groger. Instead, I spot Anton across the room. I smile my relief. The analyst will know what’s going on.
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  I move toward him, but before I can reach him, Lennon Rose’s mother steps into my path, her drink spilling over the edge of her glass.

  “Why don’t your parents ever come to the open houses?” she asks suddenly, her words slurred. “I’ve seen you here alone before. You shouldn’t be alone.”

  She’s clearly had too much to drink.

  “My parents, uh . . . ,” I say, looking past her to find Anton. But she moves, blocking my view. “My parents couldn’t make it.”

  “How dare they,” Mrs. Scholar replies with disgust, slowly shaking her head. “Don’t they realize how lucky they are?”

  Her words catch me off guard, and I look up at her. She smiles desperately, her eyes watery. Her lower lip shakes.

  “You could be mine,” she whispers, reaching out to take my hand. Her palm is sticky from alcohol, and she clutches my fingers tightly. “You could be my daughter,” she offers.

  I stare back, unclear on how to respond. She’s obviously in pain, and she thinks I can alleviate it in some way. But I can’t. I’m trying to figure out how to kindly tell her that I already have my own family, when her husband appears next to her, holding her jacket.

  “Diane, stop,” he says in hushed anger. He pulls her hand from mine, but she doesn’t even turn to him. She’s watching me, tears dripping from her eyes. “We’re leaving,” Mr. Scholar says, pulling her backward. She turns on him fiercely.

  “Well, why not?” she demands. “We’ve been waiting long enough.” She looks at me hopefully and reaches out to brush a strand of hair near my face. “Why can’t we have this girl?” she asks him, gazing at me. “She’s just as beautiful. She—”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Scholar,” Anton says, walking over. He slides his hands into his suit pockets, and flashes a glance at Guardian Bose, who’s standing by the door. “Can I speak with you?” he asks the couple.

  “No,” Diane says abruptly. “No, I don’t want to hear it, Anton. I want my girl. You can’t keep her from us.”

  Anton laughs tightly. “I assure you,” he says. “No one is keeping Lennon Rose from you. But perhaps we can discuss this out in the hall.”