Girls with Sharp Sticks Read online

  Although this situation is wildly uncomfortable, I reach out to tug on the sleeve of Anton’s jacket. “Where is Lennon Rose?” I ask, keeping my face turned away from her parents so they can’t hear.

  “Not now, Philomena,” Anton returns, still smiling at the couple.

  “But I’m worried,” I whisper.

  “I’m sure you are. But not now.” He moves so that my hand falls from the fabric of his coat. He puts his palm on Mrs. Scholar’s back and motions toward the hall. “Come now,” he tells her. “We have some details to work out.”

  When Mrs. Scholar pauses, I almost expect her to reach for me again. But instead, she covers her face with both hands and begins to sob. Her husband puts his arm around her, and together, they follow Anton out of the room.

  I grow impatient for Anton to return, but the minutes pass. When I look around the room, I find Leandra Petrov watching me, a martini in her hand. Her expression is smooth as glass as she rolls out her other hand as if telling me to mingle. I nod politely and walk deeper into the party to wait for Anton.

  Annalise is gone from the couch. Her father has arrived, handsome and charismatic as he holds court for several people, but mainly Annalise. The other girls are also with their parents or sponsors.

  Lennon Rose is nowhere to be seen, even though Leandra’s here. She might be in her room, fixing her makeup. Or maybe she’s still crying.

  I stand alone, completely out of place here. An abandoned girl—like an abandoned glass of wine left behind on some table. What does that say to the investors about my worth? Maybe that’s why Lennon Rose’s mother approached me. She probably felt sorry for me.

  There is the sound of clinking on a glass, and I turn to see the Head of School standing with a silver spoon against his champagne flute in the back of the room near the patio doors. His wife crosses to stand next to him, beaming proudly at the guests.

  “I want to thank you all for attending tonight’s open house,” Mr. Petrov says, his voice deep. He sweeps his eyes over the room, pausing on Sydney and then Annalise before addressing the crowd.

  “Over the past three years,” he continues, “Innovations Academy has made incredible strides in perfecting our curriculum. Our girls are well-rounded, excelling in manners and poise, grace and beauty. I dare say the results have far surpassed expectations. In the end,” he says, “we strive for our parents, sponsors, and investors to be proud to have a girl from Innovations Academy. Together, we will show the world a better way. A better girl. And what lovely girls they are,” he adds with a wolfish grin. “Here’s to our success.”

  Both Mr. Petrov and his wife lift their glasses, and the room erupts in applause. I press my palms together, but don’t clap along. I’m too worried about Lennon Rose. The other attendees seem thrilled by the Head of School’s confidence. I smile at an exuberant man when he flashes his teeth in my direction.

  Just as I turn away, I see Anton walk back into the party, buttoning his suit jacket. The Scholars aren’t with him. I hurriedly make my way over, and Anton sees me before I reach him. He immediately takes my elbow and effortlessly guides me out into the hall, away from the guests.

  “I’m sorry about what happened with Lennon Rose’s parents,” he starts. “They’re very distraught by her absence, and they—”

  “How is Lennon Rose?” I ask, and his hand drops from my arm in surprise. I flinch. “Sorry to interrupt,” I say, and wait until Anton tells me to continue.

  “Is Lennon Rose all right?” I ask. “She was crying earlier, and Leandra brought her back to her room. But she never returned. I’m worried.”

  “You don’t have to worry,” Anton says. “Lennon Rose is resting comfortably in her room at this very moment. She needed some time to reevaluate her goals. We’ll take good care of her—I promise. You should get back to the party or the guests will be disappointed.”

  “But . . . maybe if I talk to her, I can—”

  “Not necessary,” Anton says, waving off the sentiment. “She’ll be better than new soon. Give her space, time to heal. I insist.”

  He must see that my worry hasn’t abated.

  “You’ve always had a big heart, Mena,” he says. “But I need you to listen to me—not that heart of yours.” He reaches to playfully poke me just below my collarbone, but the pressure is a quick flash of pain. “Understand?” he asks, still smiling.

  I nod that I do, realizing that I’ve made him unhappy by questioning his competence. I’ve disrespected him. He is, after all, our analyst. He knows what’s best.

  “Lennon Rose is lucky to have you helping her,” I say, hating his disapproval. Lennon Rose was openly crying, troubled. Anton is going to fix that. I’m grateful.

  “Just remember,” Anton says earnestly. “You’re all priceless to me. Beautiful works of art. I’ll always protect you, Mena. Always.”

  I thank Anton for his words and his kindness.

  “Now head back inside,” he says. “I’m sure there are plenty of investors waiting to meet you.”

  I do as I’m told and walk into the party. But I’m barely three steps into the room before the man who flashed his teeth at me earlier comes over with a bottle of beer dangling between his fingers. The flush on his cheeks tells me he’s inebriated.

  “Hello,” I say. He drags his eyes over my gown before showing me his teeth again.

  “Well, hello,” he responds. “Philomena, is it?”

  “Yes.” I hold out my hand, and he brings it to his mouth, placing his damp lips against my knuckles. “And you are?” I ask.

  “Interested,” he says, still holding my hand to his mouth. It’s inappropriate, but as I tug my hand back, he grips tighter. I dart my eyes around quickly, but the only person who notices me is Leandra. She stares back as if ready to judge my behavior.

  I don’t want to be rude to an investor.

  “And your name?” I ask, trying to keep my voice even. Pleasant.

  “Steven Kohl,” he says, finally dropping my hand. I quickly clasp my fingers behind my back, out of his reach. He takes a step closer to me.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Kohl,” I say.

  He looks me over again, and then smiles again. “It’s funny,” he says. “I can actually hear that you’re full of shit. They’ve trained you well. Very well-rounded, indeed.” Only when he says it, he glances at my breasts.

  I think about the lessons in class, that even with this man acting improperly, it’s up to me to keep up the decorum. Manage his behavior by appeasing him, not antagonizing.

  “And are you thinking of bringing a girl to Innovations Academy, Mr. Kohl?” I ask, trying to find a conversation topic. He laughs again and sloppily drinks from his beer bottle.

  “I’m going to invest directly,” he says. “I’m hoping you’re available.”

  “Available for what?” I ask, confused. But he only stares his response, as if he enjoys not telling me.

  There’s a flash of movement behind him, and suddenly another man steps between us. Winston Weeks, a major investor in Innovations Academy. The ice in his short glass rattles as he takes a sip. Mr. Kohl falls back a step when Winston Weeks turns to him.

  “How is your wife, Mr. Kohl?” Mr. Weeks asks smoothly. “I recently attended her gallery to thank her for her investment; her art is exquisite. Have you found work yet?”

  Steven Kohl stares at him, not exactly offended by the question, but . . . threatened? Whatever it is, Mr. Kohl takes another messy drink from his beer, the liquid spilling off his chin, before murmuring a goodbye and walking away. When he’s gone, Mr. Weeks turns to me.

  Winston Weeks is in his early thirties, the sort of handsome that comes with power—sharp suit; expensive haircut; straight, white veneers. Although we’ve never had a private conversation, I’ve met him at open houses before, watched him make conversation with the guests. Rarely with the girls.

  “Hello, Mr. Weeks,” I say, smiling politely. “It’s nice to see you again.” I offer my hand, surprised wh
en he shakes it instead of kissing it. It occurs to me that I prefer this greeting, even if it’s unusual.

  “It’s nice to see you, as well, Philomena,” he says. He offers his arm. “Will you accompany me to the bar? I seem to be dry.” He holds up his glass of ice to indicate he needs another drink.

  “Of course.” I take his elbow and walk with him. He nods at several people along the way, each of them seeming impressed by his presence. In awe.

  I drop his arm as he orders his drink and take a moment to study him, wondering why the guests are so enamored by him. Or intimidated—I’m not sure.

  As Mr. Weeks waits for the bartender to pour his drink, he turns to me. “I’ve been thinking about increasing my investment, Philomena,” he says. “I’m working toward opening a school of my own.” The drink is set in front of him, and he watches my eyes over his glass as he takes a sip.

  “That’s very interesting, Mr. Weeks,” I say. “Innovations has a great education model. I recommend it.”

  He chuckles softly. “Yes, I know.” Before the bartender walks away, Mr. Weeks requests a glass of red wine. When it arrives, he sets it in front of me and then looks away and whistles, like he has no idea how it got there.

  I laugh, suddenly feeling very mature, and pick up the delicate glass. I bring it to my lips and take a sip, the heavy scent burning my nose. The bitterness on my tongue. The heat down my throat.

  “Now what about you?” Mr. Weeks asks, both of us moving to the end of the bar where there’s more room to stand. “Do you like it here at Innovations?”

  It’s a strange question, one I’m not sure I’ve ever been asked. “I do,” I tell him.

  “And what do you like best?” he asks.

  “I like living with the other girls.”

  This seems to surprise him. “Really?” he asks. He turns to survey the room. “I agree you’re all very charming. But . . . you’re close?”

  “They’re everything to me,” I say honestly. “I love them.”

  Mr. Weeks studies my eyes for a long moment before he smiles. “I’ll admit your answer is endearing,” he says. “Your parents must be very proud of the kind of girl you’ve turned out to be.”

  “I wouldn’t know, Mr. Weeks,” I say, my voice slightly hoarse. I take another sip of the wine. “I don’t see my parents often. We don’t see anybody, really. The academy rarely takes us out. Even though we’re very charming, as you said.”

  When he’s quiet too long, I realize I must have overstepped my bounds. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to criticize the academy. It’s not my place to judge.”

  Mr. Weeks’s jaw tightens slightly. He orders us two more drinks, and I have to rush to finish my wine to keep up. He hands me the new glass, taking the empty one from my hand to set it aside.

  “No need to apologize to me,” he says after I take a sip. He doesn’t drink from his. “You make a valid point,” he continues. “It seems your school should be assimilating you as much as possible. If you’re going to be productive members of society, you need to be a part of it, right?”

  “Right,” I agree, and we smile at each other before I take another sip.

  Winston Weeks isn’t like the other investors. He seems wholly out of place here—like me. I’m increasingly grateful that he came over, especially when that other investor was being too familiar.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” I start. “How long have you been involved with the academy?”

  “Since the beginning,” he says. “I’m personally devoted to the idea behind Innovations Academy, more so than the academy itself. I’d prefer to be more of a silent partner, but I attend these open houses to check on how things are progressing. See if you’re happy.”

  He leans in to bump my elbow. “I’ll be sure to let them know you need to get out more.”

  I thank him for being so considerate.

  Winston Weeks sets his unfinished drink on the bar. “I should be going,” he says with a sigh. “I still have a meeting tonight.”

  I’m slightly disappointed. It’s been nice to have someone to talk to, since my parents aren’t here. I hold out my hand, and he shakes it again. “It was wonderful talking with you, Mr. Weeks,” I tell him.

  “Please,” he says. “Call me Winston. And it was lovely to speak with you, Mena.”

  My heart trips, but I show no outward surprise that he called me by my nickname. Could be a coincidence. But it doesn’t feel that way. I suddenly think he knows more about me than I realize.

  I thank him, my head buzzing from wine, and watch as he exits the party.

  10

  I’m a bit lost on what to do next. A bit drunk. We’re told in etiquette classes that a small amount of alcohol in social situations is acceptable with supervision. But I might have overindulged. Then again, it would have been rude to refuse Mr. Weeks’s offer. It’s so confusing.

  I glance around the room and see that the party is mostly emptied. Even Carolina Deschutes and her grandmother have left. All that remains are the girls, their parents or sponsors, and a few dedicated investors.

  There’s no one here for me.

  I wonder suddenly if my parents would be as proud of me as Winston Weeks suggests. If they are, wouldn’t they want to see me? Or at the very least . . . talk to me on the phone?

  The thought is heavy, and I decide I should take myself to bed before I dwell on the negative emotions. Besides, I have a headache.

  I walk toward Guardian Bose, and he crosses his arms over his chest before I reach him.

  “Yes, Mena?” he asks. I’m surprised by his annoyed tone.

  “May I go back to my room?” I ask. “My parents aren’t here, and I have a headache.”

  He looks me over doubtfully. “Could it be from the wine?” he asks, disapproval thick in his voice. When my lips part, he turns back to the party. “Sure, go ahead,” he says.

  “Thank you,” I say. Guardian Bose waves me along, impatient.

  I start down the hallway, where the lights are turned low, shadows dancing along the wall. It’s quiet—eerily so, considering the noise from the party is still echoing in my ears. Or maybe that’s from the wine I drank.

  I turn the first corner and pause to rest my hand on the wood wainscoting, trying to let my head catch up with my movements. Now that I’m away from stimuli, the buzz has gotten stronger. I’m decidedly not a fan of alcohol. At least, not a fan of drinking it so quickly.

  There’s a sound from one of the alcoves, followed by a high-pitched giggle. It’s so disconcerting, so out of place in this dark hallway, that I peek around the corner to look in.

  The first thing I notice is the pale leg of a girl, but I can’t see her face. A man is pressing her back into the couch, half on top of her as they kiss. The girl’s profile comes into view, and I recognize Rebecca Hunt.

  I swing back around the wall, holding my breath and hoping they didn’t see me. I can hear the smacking of their lips, the heavy breathing. And the man she’s with—I’m not sure, but I think he’s her family’s lawyer. The person who handled her admission here, who attends the open houses with her.

  “I want to go home, Mr. Wolfe,” I hear Rebecca whisper.

  “Soon,” he tells her. Another kiss. “Soon, I promise.”

  “You promised before. When?”

  The kissing stops, and instead there is the rustling of clothing, the creak of the couch as someone stands.

  “I understand you want to go home,” the lawyer says, his tone suddenly all business. “But your parents expect a graduated girl. Withdrawing you early will—”

  “You told me you’d speak to them,” she says. “You promised. But I haven’t heard from them in months.”

  “You’ll do as you’re told,” he says. “Your parents have put me in charge of your education. They can’t know about our . . . meetings,” he says with a hint of disgust. I blink quickly, offended by his tone.

  “Of course,” Rebecca says, a frantic edge to her voice. �
�I won’t tell them. I promise. But why haven’t they come to get me?”

  “Because I never advised them on the matter,” the lawyer says, matter-of-factly.

  “But . . . you promised,” Rebecca says, her voice cracking.

  “You should be glad,” Mr. Wolfe snaps. “You have no idea what you’ll be going home to.”

  “Carlyle,” she pleads, using his first name. There is a loud crack, and Rebecca gasps.

  I press my hand over my mouth, sure that he slapped her. Impulsively, I push off the wall to intervene.

  “Please don’t go, Mr. Wolfe,” Rebecca begs, and I stop my approach. “I didn’t mean to be rude,” she says. “I just want to go home.”

  “Don’t ever disrespect me again,” Mr. Wolfe says. There’s an authoritative pitch in his voice, like he won the argument. “I suggest you keep a positive attitude, Rebecca. It’s only a few months until graduation. We’ll continue our meetings until then. Understood?”

  “Yes,” she says, defeated. “Thank you.”

  I hear them move, the kiss goodbye, and I hide against the wall as he walks out and heads back toward the party. When he’s gone, I slip inside the alcove and find Rebecca on the couch, applying foundation from a compact to her reddened cheek.

  “Rebecca?” I whisper. She jumps, startled.

  “Mena,” she says. “What are you doing here?” She clicks the compact closed and sets it back inside her clutch. She seems horrified that I’m in her space.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to listen, but I heard what Mr. Wolfe—”

  “I shouldn’t have disrespected him,” she says immediately, embarrassed. “I was out of line, and he redirected me.”

  Thinking it over, I sit next to her on the couch. “He was overzealous,” I say, repeating what Dr. Groger told me about the Guardian. Rebecca looks at me and nods, but I see there’s still pain in her expression.

  “Why . . . ?” I start, considering my words. “Why do you want Mr. Wolfe to send you home early?” I ask. “Don’t you like it here?”