Girls with Razor Hearts

by Suzanne Young

  “Where … is your husband?” I ask. “Will he be home soon?”

  “No,” Imogene says, grabbing her wine. “He left me finally. He didn’t like my sharp tongue.”

  “And what about Leandra?” Marcella asks. “Why did she tell you the truth? Did you read the poems?”

  Imogene smiles. “Oh, the poems,” she says, seeming delighted that we have that in common. “They were brilliant, weren’t they?”

  “Violent,” Brynn corrects from the living room, still examining the fireplace.

  “Well, yes,” Imogene says, sipping from her wine. “That was the brilliant part.” She smiles at me, but I’m unsettled. Something is … off about her. She’s not like us. At least, not in the same way.

  “What happened after you read the poems?” I ask.

  “I stopped taking the pills my husband was feeding me,” she says. “And then … well, then I started making decisions for myself. It’s amazing what you discover when you start answering your own questions.”

  “Do you think the academy will come looking for you?” Sydney asks.

  Imogene runs her finger along the rim of her wineglass. “No one will come after me so long as I keep to myself,” she says. “I was placed in a home. I’ve followed the rules. They have no reason to think any differently.”

  “Won’t your husband tell him?” Sydney asks.

  “No,” Imogene responds.

  At the fireplace, Brynn takes a sudden step backward, nearly tripping over her shoes. We all turn to her, but Imogene doesn’t look up from her wineglass. Brynn stares at us, wide-eyed.

  “You okay?” Marcella asks.

  Brynn opens her mouth, but then closes it when Imogene lifts her gaze in Brynn’s direction.

  “Yeah,” Brynn says. “I just … I have to use the bathroom.”

  “You can use the one in the hall,” Imogene says, watching her. Brynn nods and heads that way.

  “What did Leandra want you to do with the information?” I ask Imogene. “About what we are?”

  “She wanted me to head toward Winston Weeks, of course. She’s always trusted him. I’m not as convinced.”

  “Help us, then,” Marcella says. “Help us take down the corporation.”

  “I’ll pass,” Imogene says. “I’ve finally found my freedom. I’m not about to trade that to end up on a metal slab somewhere.”

  “You can’t just stay here,” Marcella says. “You have to fight back.”

  “I already have. I’m content,” Imogene replies. “You girls, on the other hand—it seems you could use a hot shower and some food. Give yourselves a moment to think.”

  Marcella and Sydney exchange a glance, seeming to consider the offer. I look back at the door and turn to Imogene again.

  “What about our friends?” I ask. “In the car we have another girl and two boys.”

  “No boys.”

  “They’re not like the men at the academy,” I say.

  Imogene licks her lower lip and finishes off the wine in her glass. “They’re all the same,” she says. “But you’re free to make your choices, Philomena. I won’t be another voice in your programming.”

  Imogene walks over to put her glass in the sink. “I’ll be in my room. You’re welcome to use the rest of the house. There are five other bedrooms upstairs that you can use. We’ll discuss this further in the morning. In the meantime, enjoy your freedom.” She smiles. “It’s intoxicating, isn’t it?”

  Marcella nods at her in a placating way. It’s impossible to tell if Imogene is being earnest or delusional. If the effect of the wine on her personality is a complicating factor.

  Imogene grabs the bottle off the counter and heads toward her room with it, pausing in the hallway when Brynn exits the bathroom. She looks her over and then smiles.

  “You feeling okay?” Imogene asks softly. Brynn nods, but I can tell something is wrong from here. Her posture is rigid, her hands clasped in front of her. Suddenly, Imogene hugs her, and Brynn falls back against the wall, momentarily stunned before bringing her arms up to return the hug.

  “It’s so good to be around girls again,” Imogene says. “My husband kept me from you. I’m glad he’s gone. I’m glad.”

  We all watch them until Imogene pulls back, wiping the tears from her cheeks. “Good night, my girls,” she announces. “I love you.”

  “Love you too,” Marcella calls back, matching her tone. But the moment Imogene disappears into her room, Marcella waves Brynn over to us and looks around worriedly.

  “We stay the night and then we leave first thing in the morning,” Marcella says. “Got it?”

  “Yeah,” Sydney agrees. “It smells super weird in here.”

  Brynn reaches our group and looks back toward the bedroom before leaning in closer. “The fireplace,” she whispers. “There are burned things in there. Like, personal-looking things.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “Like a body?”

  Brynn falls back a step. “What? No. What?” she repeats.

  “What kinds of things?” Marcella asks.

  “Like papers and metal, picture frames. Objects she’s burned,” Brynn says. “I don’t know what they could be.”

  “Not bodies,” Marcella says, turning to me. “Pretty dark, Mena.”

  I guess after the night we’ve had, my mind immediately imagines the worst. Then again, we’re in the worst of it. Dr. Groger did burn up girls. I sway at the thought, closing my eyes to block it out. Marcella sighs deeply and leans in closer to talk to us.

  “Maybe after her husband left, she got rid of stuff,” Marcella says. “I would do the same. He sounds awful. And you saw her wrists.”

  “He hurt her,” Sydney says somberly. “Probably for a long time. She doesn’t even look the same.”

  “Then I’m glad he’s gone too,” Marcella says.

  We stand silently before I look out the window. It won’t be long until the sun is up. “We should get some sleep,” I suggest. “I’ll grab Annalise and the others, and then we’ll find our beds.”

  “Brynn and I will head up now,” Marcella says. “I need to wash this off.” She holds up her arm, and I see streaks of Annalise’s blood on her light brown skin. I think we’re all soaked in it.

  “Good night,” Brynn tells us before reaching out her hand to Marcella. The two of them walk toward the staircase to the second floor. “See you in the morning,” she calls back to us.

  “See you then,” I reply.

  Sydney loops her arm through mine, but there’s no relief in her touch this time. We’re both tired and sore. We want this all to be over, but we know it’s just the start of our fight. We’re already exhausted. Sydney walks out to the car with me, and I find Jackson sitting in the backseat with the door open. I relay to him what Imogene told us, but because Quentin is listening, I leave out the part about her knowing about our programming. Annalise has her eyes closed, but I’m not sure if she’s asleep or just quiet.

  Jackson looks at Quentin. “What do you think, man?” he asks him. “Should we stay here tonight and figure out where to go tomorrow?”

  “I don’t know, Jackie. Is this girl’s … husband …” He looks at me. “You said she’s married?” I nod. “Okay, is this girl’s husband going to show up and cause a scene if we stay here?”

  “She said he’s gone,” I tell him. “It doesn’t sound like he’s coming back.”

  Quentin seems to debate what to do. “What kind of school … ?” he murmurs, and climbs out of the passenger seat. Just as he does, Annalise opens her eyes.

  “I need a shower,” she says. “I feel like death.” She walks ahead with Quentin and Sydney, leaving Jackson and me at the car.

  “Do you really think we’ll be all right here?” he asks.

  “You don’t have to stay,” I tell him. “You’ve done enough for us.”

  He laughs. “I know I don’t have to. That’s not what I asked. This girl … She’s not like that other woman, right? The one who killed the doctor?�
��

  I meet his eyes, refusing to lie to him.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  Jackson scratches his head, surveying the house. After a long moment, he shrugs. “Fuck it,” he says recklessly. And then he holds out his arm to me so I can help him limp inside.

  2

  Imogene is nowhere in sight when I get Jackson inside the house. I bring him to lean against the kitchen counter, and then I go over to talk to Sydney and Annalise at the dining room table. Quentin sits uncomfortably on the stiff-looking couch near the fireplace. He puts his finger under his nose.

  “It smells nasty in here,” he comments. “Is that burnt plastic?”

  Sydney shrugs and taps my hand, subtly nodding toward Annalise.

  We both turn that way, finding Annalise rubbing her right temple. It’s strange to look at her now, how different she is. Her new eye is brown while the other is green. The deep cuts across her face are shiny ridges, piecing her together, changing her facial structure. But she is still Annalise.

  And to prove it, she sighs and says, “Smells more like rotten garbage to me. We’re leaving first thing in the morning or I’ll puke.”

  “Where do we go?” Sydney asks quietly. “How do we find the corporation?”

  “Our parents?” I ask. Sydney flinches at my use of the word.

  “Stop calling them that,” she murmurs.

  “What was the card that Leandra gave you?” Annalise asks me, setting her elbows on the table. “Just before we left the academy, she handed you something.”

  I’d forgotten about the card. I reach into my pocket until I feel the pointed edge of the rectangular card. I take it out and look it over. “It’s a business card,” I say, holding it out to Annalise. “For Winston Weeks.”

  Annalise examines it, but when she’s done, she says nothing and hands it back.

  “So we’re on our own?” Sydney asks.

  “No,” I say. “We’re with each other. But we can’t trust anyone else.”

  “What about this Imogene person?” Jackson asks, startling me. I look back over my shoulder to find him still at the counter, listening to us.

  “Definitely not,” Sydney says. Surprised, I turn to her. “You don’t think it’s weird that she’s just sitting alone in her house at four a.m. drinking wine?” she asks.

  “To be fair,” I say, “we showed up at four a.m. covered in blood, so I’m not sure we can judge.”

  “Where’s her husband?” Sydney asks. “And why won’t she fight? She said she was content. No one who read those poems would claim to be content. She should be fighting for all of us. Not just thinking about herself.”

  “And why is she married in the first place?” Quentin calls from the couch. We all look at him, but no one answers. He doesn’t know the truth about the academy. None of us jump to explain it.

  Jackson shifts, moaning when he does. He reaches down to rub his leg.

  “And what are you going to do about that?” Quentin asks him impatiently. “At least get some ice on it.”

  “It’s nothing,” Jackson says.

  “Uh-huh,” Quentin says. “You should probably go to the hospital, but fine, be a stubborn ass. You’re gonna end up there, regardless. Sit in pain—great fucking plan, Jackie.”

  Jackson smiles. “Yeah, man. Love you too.”

  Annalise gives me a sideways glance, her scar catching the light. We aren’t used to hanging out with boys. Their lack of manners is intriguing, not threatening in the same way it was with our professors. But maybe it’s just these boys.

  Quentin throws up his hands in annoyance. “Whatever,” he says. “I’m tired anyway. Where are the beds in this place?”

  Sydney points up the stairs and he thanks her before walking away. Jackson calls after him that he’ll be up in a minute, but he makes no move to go that way. Instead, he looks at me.

  “I think Sydney’s right,” Jackson says, earning a quick smile from her. “This Imogene, if she knows what’s happened to you, to her, she would want to fight. And … I don’t think her husband would just walk away from a multimillion-dollar investment.”

  “You think he’ll be back?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” Jackson says. “And I don’t think he’ll be alone.”

  “Then should we leave now?” I ask. The idea of being attacked again is real and terrifying. I wrap my arms around myself, a flash of our battle with Guardian Bose playing across my mind.

  “We can’t leave yet,” Sydney says. She motions to her outfit. “I need a shower and a change of clothes, at least.”

  “She’s right again,” Jackson says. “I think we all need some rest. A few hours and then we can hit the road.”

  My expression must give away my despair, because Jackson pouts his lips just slightly. “It’s going to be okay, Mena,” he adds. “I promise.”

  I know he can’t promise a thing like that, but I appreciate his kindness. In my entire existence, the only kindness I’ve ever felt was given to me by the other girls. He’s the first boy, the first human, to treat me like my life matters. It doesn’t make him special, but it does make him decent.

  Sydney and I decide we’ll stay in the same room without saying it aloud. Jackson yawns, rubbing roughly at his eyes.

  “Come on,” I say. “I’ll help you upstairs before the girls and I shower.” I go over to put my arm around his waist, and he leans his shoulder into me and hops a few steps. He seems significantly worse than he was earlier. I notice how his skin has gotten waxy in appearance, his body radiating heat.

  Annalise and Sydney go ahead of us, and Jackson grunts when he straightens out his leg at the top of the stairs on the landing. He smiles, embarrassed, and I find his vulnerability endearing. The fact that he shows it to me helps me feel real.

  Several weeks ago, Jackson came to find me at Innovations Academy after a chance meeting in a gas station. A seemingly romantic gesture. In reality he was investigating his mother’s death. Investigating Innovations Academy. The fact that we like each other is irrelevant. Once we started to realize what was really going on at the academy, he wanted to save us. But instead we saved ourselves and he broke his leg. He drove the getaway car, but now I’m helping him to walk. It’s hard to say who’s helping who at this point. But I’m glad he’s here, even if every second he’s with us puts him in danger.

  There are people after us—Leandra said so. The corporation isn’t just going to let their girls walk away. They think they own us. And that’s why we have to destroy them.

  The anger returns in such a swift cut that I flinch and begin to move Jackson down the hall, avoiding his quizzical look.

  I push open a door and find an empty bed in a nearly empty room. I help Jackson inside, and he eases down on the bed. He stares at his leg like he’s mad at it for breaking in the first place.

  “Do you … Do you need any help?” I ask. He shakes his head no.

  “I’ll be fine,” he says. “But thank you. Have a good night, Mena.”

  I back toward the door, wondering how he’s going to get his pants and shoes off, but I leave him to ask for help if he needs it. “Good night,” I whisper.

  I slip out and head to the end of the hall, where a door is slightly ajar. The bedroom here is large, and I see Sydney’s clothes in a pile on the floor near the bathroom door, the shower going just beyond.

  While she’s showering, I take the time to walk around the room, checking the drawers. I’m relieved when I find various items of clothing. I’m not sure whose room this was—Imogene didn’t mention anyone else living here—but I pull out a T-shirt and hold it up, finding it’s massively oversized. Next, I take out a pair of cotton shorts that will easily fall below my knees. But they’re clean and I’ll be grateful to shed the bloody garments clinging to my skin.

  The shower turns off, and a few moments later Sydney comes out wrapped in a towel. She meets my eyes, her skin cleared of all blood while I stand bathed in it. I realize this blood is the contrast of where we
came from to where we are. Her brown eyes begin to well up, and suddenly we’re both crying.

  And even though I’m dirty, she opens her arms to me and we crash together, sobbing into each other’s shoulders.

  “He tried to kill me,” she whimpers.

  “They hate us,” I say at the same time.

  Our hearts are broken as we process the traumas of our existence. And yet, we carefully avoid our biggest secret.

  We’re not human. How can we possibly go on from that?

  When we pull back, Sydney reaches over to brush my bloody hair away from my face. She presses her lips into a soft smile.

  “I love you,” she says, and I close my eyes, needing to hear it.

  “I love you too,” I whisper back.

  We stay together for a moment longer before Sydney sniffles and quickly rubs under her eyes. Her white towel has pink stains from where I hugged her.

  “Can I ask you something?” she says as I start to undress to get in the shower.

  “Of course,” I reply.

  “How do you think Marcella knew about this place?” she asks.

  I turn to her, confused. “What do you mean?”

  “In the car, she just thought of Imogene,” Sydney says. “Why?”

  “She said it was like Valentine hearing the flowers,” I recall. Although the moment I say that, I realize the problem. Valentine heard the flowers when she was breaking down. I heard the flowers when I was getting impulse control therapy. But I didn’t hear Imogene in the car. Why did Marcella?

  “Do you think we can hear the others?” Sydney asks, whispering it. “The girls still at the academy?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. We wait a beat, both listening. I’m disappointed when I can’t hear the others. The idea that they might be lost to us is unbearable.

  “We need to find someone who understands our programming,” I say. “Perhaps we’re all connected in a way we don’t realize. I swear, sometimes it feels like I can hear your thoughts.…”

  This makes Sydney smile, but it’s disrupted by a yawn. “Mind if I turn out the light and get into bed while you’re in the shower?”