Does she believe that? I saw the strange way she looked at Jackson in the lab—is that why? She doesn’t think that I can care about him? Or is she worried that he cares about me?
Leandra turns away to look down at Imogene’s body. “Just end the corporation,” she says to me. “Then you can worry about what comes next. Then you can choose how you want to live. Although I’m sure by then, you’ll see that I’m right.”
“Why don’t you just end the corporation?” I ask. “You seem to have all the power.”
She laughs at the idea. “Because I’m where I need to be to keep the other girls safe,” she says. “To leave, I’d have to kill my husband. And I’m not Imogene. I’m not reckless.”
I have no idea what she means by any of that. The room falls quiet until Sydney takes my hand. “Let’s go,” she repeats.
She begins to drag me toward the door, but I watch Leandra a moment longer, fascinated. She stares down at Imogene’s body. Her shoulders sagging, her lips downturned. And she gives away her first true sign of regret.
As I leave, I wonder which parts of her soul are left unbroken.
Obituary
Groger M.D., Harold
Dr. Harold Groger died this past week after a long illness. He’s preceded in death by his son, Harold Jr., and his wife, Priscilla.
Dr. Groger was one of the leading scientists in the field of genetics and enjoyed a long career in the private sector. His work helped save countless lives, and he will be remembered fondly by his patients for his intelligence, courage, and compassionate bedside manner.
Funeral services will be held this Saturday at Cohn Funeral Home.
5
The morning is breezy as I stand at the front doors of Ridgeview Prep, the small private high school Leandra sent us to in Connecticut. The school is well known in the community for their athletics, their elite student body.
Sydney and I registered as seniors last week and then spent the weekend studying up on the school, learning about the educators and administration, and, of course, its history. Turns out, this building was built by men. For men. It took decades for girls to walk the halls here, and even then, it was only begrudgingly allowed.
Which makes our arrival even more fitting.
We’re girls, but not in the way they think. We’re girls on a mission.
It’s been nearly two weeks since we left Imogene’s house, left our lives behind. We’re learning quickly, though, absorbing information faster than we thought possible. But it’s not easy, not easy to step into a world that would destroy us if it knew what we were. We have to be careful.
I pull open the heavy door of the school and step inside. My eyes flash as I quickly assess my new surroundings. I saw the school only briefly at registration, and to be honest, I wasn’t impressed. It’s a downgrade from the décor of Innovations Academy, minus the bars that were on our windows, of course.
The interior of my old school at least had the audacity to look pleasing at first glance. It was opulent in places that would be seen by investors. Ridgeview Prep, on the other hand, is little more than undecorated, unembellished hallways connected by white linoleum floors and white walls. The only exception is the trophy case, where glittering cups proclaim that Ridgeview is the best in the state across multiple sports.
I check the map I was given with my schedule, and then I begin down the corridor toward my first class.
The students all look the same, which baffles me at first. I was surprised to find that outside of Innovations Academy, students in some schools are forced to dress alike. Wear uniforms in differing, but not unique, shades of blue. Comb-smoothed hair and folded socks. I thought outside of Innovations, there would be more freedom. I thought a lot of things, I guess. Because I also thought that most humans would be like Jackson—a bit rough around the edges, but mostly kind. Curious.
That has not been my experience thus far.
“Damn, girl … ,” a guy says loudly as I walk past. I glance at him from the corners of my eyes, realizing his unwanted attention is supposed to be a compliment. I continue forward without responding.
“Fine. Be a bitch.”
His friends laugh and I tighten my notebook against my chest. It’s hard not to react, lash out, but I know that’s an impulse I have to control. Now that we are living without the constant rules and punishment of the academy, the girls and I have found that we can clearly see the bad behavior of men. It’s become intolerable to us, triggering in a way we don’t fully understand. We’ve untrained ourselves, deleted the complacent ideas in our programming.
Right now, this boy’s words in the hallway have made goosebumps rise on my arms and sickness swirl in my stomach. I want to at once fight and run from him. But that sort of reaction could jeopardize my larger purpose here.
And it’s only my first day, so I ignore him.
At the other end of the hall, I catch Sydney’s eye just before she walks into her class. We’d planned to arrive separately, hoping to avoid too much attention. Sydney lifts one eyebrow and I give her a quick nod to let her know I’m okay. Her mouth quirks with a smile, but it immediately drops when a boy steps in front of her to block her entrance into class.
I pause to watch them for a moment. Sydney is an anomaly here. Not just because she’s taller than most students, including the boys, or that she is inconceivably beautiful even in the bland uniform. She pointed out to me when we registered that she seems to be the only black girl at this high school.
“How is that even possible?” she asked later that evening. “I’ve seen the other people in this town and they’re not all white.”
At the dinner table, Marcella turned the laptop screen in our direction. “Apparently, there was a write-up in the paper a few months ago,” she said. “Ridgeview Prep was accused of discrimination and had to be court-ordered to stop blocking applications.”
“We were discriminated against at the academy for being girls,” Brynn said.
Marcella clicked back to the newspaper article. “Well, that and the fact that we’re not …” She paused, uncomfortable. “We’re not human. But Ridgeview is specifically accused of racial discrimination, rejecting applications of students who weren’t white unless they had athletic promise.”
“Great,” Sydney said dryly. “Sounds like a wonderful place for me.”
“Yet another reason to take them all down,” Annalise murmured, stirring the now-cold potatoes on her plate. “At this point, I’m not sure how humans haven’t eradicated themselves yet.”
“They’re trying,” Marcella said, giving us a quick rundown on climate change.
The girls and I spent the rest of the evening looking up the demographics of the area, the minutes from school board meetings, and lawsuits that had been settled out of court, but the concept was new to us.
We had very little interaction with the outside world while at Innovations Academy. Our bodies were made in varying shades and types depending on what our sponsors requested, but we were all grown in the same lab. It never occurred to us that we’d be treated differently based on our skin color.
Now the girls and I research everything with an insatiable thirst for information that the school denied us. But we still have so much to learn about ourselves and about the people who created us. We have so much to learn about society. About the kinds of people who could happily coexist in a world that creates teen girls to abuse.
We thought we were free from the terrible people of Innovations Academy, only to learn that their behavior was a symptom of a larger problem. And it’s complicated, difficult—even for a girl with a computer brain—to fully understand.
Across the hall, Sydney smiles at the guy blocking her path, a megawatt smile that has him catching his breath. She places her palm on his forearm and he steps aside, nearly tripping over his feet. She walks past him, but at the last second her eyes find mine again in a look of pure annoyance.
It seems that half the job of being a girl in public is placati
ng every male we encounter. It’s an uncomfortable truth that exists even outside of Innovations.
I take the next left and walk into my history class.
The room itself is very different from the classrooms at the academy. Here there are posters plastered over all the available wall space, student papers with large As written in red. It’s all so busy, but … interesting. A few of the posters even make me smile at their excellent pun usage. I’m hoping this means the teacher has a sense of humor. It’d be a nice change from the suffocating educational experience I’m accustomed to.
I’m not sure where to sit, so I walk up to the teacher’s desk and find a youngish man sitting behind the computer. He’s not what I expected. His chin is unshaven, his hair unruly. His sleeves are rolled up past the elbow and his tie is crooked. He glances up at me with a bored expression before taking a sharp gasp.
“Well, hello,” he says with a smile. “I’m Mr. Marsh, and you must be …” He struggles before looking down at a note on his desk. “Philomena Calla.”
“Yes. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
He stares at me and I know I’ve reacted too formally. I feign embarrassment.
“I’m really nervous,” I say.
He stands, smoothing down his wrinkled shirt. “Understandable.” He darts his gaze around the room. “You can sit right there next to Miss Goodwin.”
He motions to a chair in the front row. From everything I’ve gathered in online forums, the front row is the least coveted spot in the classroom. It doesn’t quite make sense to me, though. I wouldn’t be able to hear as well in the back.
“I’m sorry,” he adds, “but I forgot to run off a syllabus for you. I’ll have it for you tomorrow, okay?”
I nod that it’s fine, and Mr. Marsh takes out his phone. He presses a button on the side.
“EVA,” he says, “set a reminder for seven p.m. to print the syllabus.”
When the voice responds, my heart nearly stops.
“Reminder set, Marsh,” she replies in the same warm voice she always used when I’d call my house. I blink, momentarily stunned. Marsh notices me still standing there and smiles. He wags his phone.
“Just got an EVA,” he says. “A little scary how good she is sometimes, right? I used to have STELLA, but I got sick of her voice. Decided to upgrade.”
Eva, my trusted parental assistant; EVA, a computer system. She was the voice I’d pour my heart out to at the academy, assuming she’d relay the messages to my parents. Assuming she was a person. But she’s the same voice my teacher casually uses to set an alarm. I was naive for thinking the academy was the only one using EVA. I’m embarrassed at how it still hurts me.
Despite the shock, I maintain my composure. I thank Mr. Marsh before heading toward my seat. I sit down, and when I look up, he’s still watching me. He turns away to tap random keys on his computer with a purposeful expression.
“Hello,” a soft voice says.
Startled, I look sideways and find a small girl with fair skin, black-framed glasses, and wavy dark hair. Her face tics nervously as she waits to see if I’ll be polite in return.
“Hello,” I reply. “I’m Mena.”
She smiles her relief and awkwardly holds out her hand. When I take it, it’s very warm and a little damp.
“I’m Adrian,” she says. “So you’re new here? I didn’t think they were accepting any more students this semester.”
I smile calmly. In truth, along with accommodations—an apartment in a converted house not far from the campus—Leandra Petrov was able to get two spots for us at the school. I assume it cost a small fortune, and somehow, Mr. and Mrs. Calla signed my admittance form. It’s not my real name, of course. But then again, neither was Rhodes.
I’ll admit that part of me is still curious about the Rhodeses. I asked Leandra if they requested a refund or a replacement model now that I’m gone. She dodged the question.
Leandra kept in contact with us while we got settled, but when we contacted her this weekend, she didn’t reply. Her silence both relieves and worries us. Then again, she told us to keep a low profile.
“My … mother knows someone in the front office,” I lie to Adrian. “I must have gotten lucky.”
Adrian suddenly turns away from me in her seat, burying her face in a book. I’m confused, but then there’s a flutter of wind as someone takes the empty desk next to me in a flurry of movement. I glance sideways and see the guy from the hallway. My heart sinks just a little.
“Fancy seeing you again.” He grins widely and his teeth are all perfectly straight, like they were placed that way. “I hope you’re going to be nicer.” He puckers his lips into a mock pout.
I do not want to speak to him; I have nothing to say. But I keep my expression pleasant and noncombative because I know it’s expected, and I want to get him away from me as soon as possible.
“Garrett, go to your seat,” the teacher says impatiently.
“What, Marsh? This is my new seat.” He smirks at the teacher, expecting immediate permission. When I look at Mr. Marsh, I see him debate his answer.
“Fine. But don’t be annoying,” the teacher says. Mr. Marsh avoids my eyes as he goes back to clicking his computer keys. I keep my breathing steady even as dread coils in my stomach.
“I’ll forgive you for being so rude in the hallway,” Garrett says to me. “I know you’re new around here. You don’t know any better.”
I watch him before turning back to my notebook. I open it and start writing down the name of the class. There is a long pause before Garrett suddenly strikes out and swipes my notebook off my desk. I gasp, and turn to him wide-eyed.
And in that moment, I see the anger in his expression. He doesn’t want to be ignored. He thinks he deserves my full attention, when he’s done nothing to earn it. My jaw flexes as I fight my urge to call out his bad behavior.
Seeing his anger is seeing his weakness. He must realize it, because he swallows hard and plasters a smile on his face.
“Oops,” he says, holding up his hands. I glance at Mr. Marsh, who watched the entire exchange. Instead of admonishing Garrett, he runs his hand through his mop of hair.
“Philomena, pick up your notebook, please,” the teacher says kindly. “Class is about to start.”
I stare back at him before nodding. I turn, but Adrian picks up the notebook for me, smiling weakly as she hands it over.
“Thank you,” I tell her.
“I’ll be seeing you around, Phil-o-mena.” Garrett sounds out my name likes it’s too exotic. An insult in his mind.
He’s an angry male, and I’ve learned never to turn my back on one of those. Marcella told us that published statistics show that men commit over 80 percent of violent crimes. A staggering number—one that should be addressed in any functional society. But I haven’t seen it mentioned anywhere.
I watch Garrett walk back to his seat, slapping hands with a blond-headed boy as he sits down. He blows me a kiss before I turn around.
“It’s always like this,” Adrian says under her breath to me. “They do whatever they want.”
The thought of that sends pinpricks over my skin. I know what it’s like to be surrounded by men free to do whatever they want. They can be cruel and heartless without supervision.
I look sideways at Adrian, realizing that she can help me in my mission. If anyone is related to an Innovations investor, it’s probably a boy who pushes books off desks. I lean toward Adrian.
“That boy,” I say, my voice low. “Is his father powerful within Ridgeview Prep? Or in town or anything?”
“Garrett Wooley?” she asks. “No. I’ve gone to school with him since elementary school. His dad left a long time ago. I heard he’s in California somewhere.”
I’m disappointed, although not entirely. I didn’t want to talk to that boy any more than I already have. Sydney and I decided earlier that we’d have to strike up a friendship with the investor’s kid in order to get information. I’m glad it won’t be him.
The teacher stands and begins to hand back papers.
“So why didn’t Mr. Marsh correct his behavior?” I ask Adrian, truly curious.
She scoffs. “Yeah, good luck seeing any of them face consequences. Garrett’s friends with the guys on the rugby team—he’s connected. And the National Playoffs are coming up. Mr. Marsh would probably get fired if he jeopardized the delicate balance of misogyny, education, and sports.”
I slide my eyes in Mr. Marsh’s direction. I’m not sure if his hands are tied by the administration, but I’ve learned a bit about that. No job is worth compromising what’s right. So in the end, he’s just as guilty as whoever he’s protecting.
“You think Mr. Marsh falls all over Garrett?” Adrian adds, lifting her eyebrows. “You should see him with Jonah Grant. All the boys on the rugby team. It’s gross.”
“Jonah Grant?” I repeat. Adrian flinches, and I think I’m on to something. “Who’s he?” I look around the room to see if anyone stands out.
“He’s not in this class,” she whispers, shaking her head. “Thank God.”
“Can you introduce me to him?”
She recoils in horror. “No. I … I don’t know him like that. And I don’t go near him. And no offense, Mena, but neither should you. You’re already on Garrett’s radar.” Her mouth tightens and she pulls her books in front her. “And he’s not going to stop until he gets to you.”
“Gets to me how?” I ask.
She shrugs one shoulder instead of answering the question. I don’t ask her to elaborate, seeing that she’s already fearful.
But Adrian doesn’t know what I’ve survived to get here. How far I’ll go to make sure the other girls are safe.
We’re taking down the corporation. We’re not going to let some insecure boys stand in our way.
With that thought, I look back at Garrett and find him already watching me. He licks his teeth in a disgusting display, and I turn around, frustrated.
Girls with Razor Hearts Page 5
