Girls with Razor Hearts

by Suzanne Young

“This might not be what you want to hear,” he says. “But after you talk to your hacker friend, if everything checks out …” He swallows hard. “You can stop. You don’t have to do this. Fight all of this. You don’t have to save the world, Mena. I wouldn’t think less of you if you took off to live a quiet life somewhere. I’d come visit.” He smiles. “I just wanted you to know that it was an option.”

  Jackson would be relieved if I made a choice like that. But I would never abandon my girls. Not the ones here or back at Innovations. And I know he knows that, because he sighs loudly.

  “I should go,” he says. “It’s been a really long day.”

  I don’t want him to leave, but I don’t stop him as he grabs his crutches and pulls himself up. I follow behind him to the door. He pauses there and turns back to me.

  “You can come by again,” I offer. “Or to a game.”

  “I hate sports, but I guess I could manage to sit through it if you were to explain the rules to me.”

  I laugh. “Sure. I’ll be making them up as I go along, though.”

  “Perfect.”

  Jackson reaches for the door handle, but I have sudden desperation. A loneliness that bubbles over so intensely, my voice actually cracks when I say his name. Jackson looks back, alarmed.

  “I really am sorry,” I say to him. For a second, I think of Rosemarie telling me never to apologize. But I see how selfish that line of thinking can be. I care about Jackson. When I hurt him, I should tell him I’m sorry. I should tell him until he believes it.

  He shakes his head no, but I take a step closer to him. His lips part slightly, startled.

  “Can I … Will you hug me?” I ask him. I think about us lying together that night of our escape and how he was going to say something to me. I’ll never know what.

  He opens his arms. “Are you kidding? Come here.”

  I step into him and put my head on his chest as he wraps himself around me. He moves to bury his face in my hair, his breath warm on my neck. His hug doesn’t dominate me; it’s desperate for me.

  “Promise you’ll tell me before you run away next time,” he whispers. “Give me a chance to survive it.”

  I close my eyes, knowing I wounded him deeply. Knowing I can’t promise that I won’t do it again. I run my fingers along the back of his neck, holding him a few seconds longer than a hug should last.

  But when I straighten, staring up at him, I smile and nod, telling him that I’ll put it in writing.

  Jackson reaches to brush his hand over my hair playfully. Lovingly.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he says. He maneuvers around the door, and I lock it behind him, waiting there an extra second as my heart pounds away.

  After I clean up the living room, I walk to my bedroom and lock the door as usual. I start to undress, but when I catch my reflection in the mirror, the happiness I had fades away.

  I stand there in my bra, red scratches still visible on my neck despite the graft. Seeing them there is like seeing the entire incident again. The violence.

  Girls don’t say no to me.

  My breath catches on a cry, and I quickly sit on the edge of my bed, rocking softly. I stare at my door, at the lock. The light isn’t even off, but I can see him.

  I see Guardian Bose waiting there, his silhouette in the doorway of my room. And then he’s Garrett, smiling and sounding out my name.

  He’s the doctor and the analyst. The sponsors and the investors.

  These men are all hunting me, I can feel it.

  And then, suddenly, I can really feel it. There’s a flash in my head, but not like how it felt when Rosemarie tried to invade my thoughts. This is different.

  Come home, girls, it says without words. It’s time to come home.

  I jump to my feet, and on the other side of the bedroom wall, I hear Sydney and Annalise do the same. Soft screams and pounding feet.

  I scramble for the door, and then we’re all out in the living room, staring at each other with sleepy eyes and terrified expressions.

  “You heard it too?” Marcella asks breathlessly. “You heard it, right?”

  We all nod, murmuring that we did.

  “Who was it?” Brynn asks, sounding frightened. She looks at Marcella. “Whose voice was that?”

  Brynn asks, but she knows the answer. We all do. And this time, his voice is clear.

  “Come home, girls,” Anton whispers in our heads. “It’s time to come home.”

  20

  The voice went away, disappearing like it was never there. If the girls didn’t hear it too, I might have convinced myself it wasn’t real. I want to convince myself it wasn’t real.

  But if Rosemarie can get into my head, is it impossible to believe that Anton can too? Looking back, he was able to see memories where Raven could not. Leandra and Lennon Rose both thought they were able to manipulate him back at the academy, but it’s possible we’ve underestimated him.

  The girls and I stay up half the night, debating what to do. We consider calling Leandra, but we don’t want to end up with spikes in our heads. If that really was Anton, then we know what it means.

  Innovations Academy has figured out that we’re still alive. And now they’re looking for us.

  When we finally sleep, piled together in the living room, I’m struck with nightmares. Dreams of being dragged back to the academy, finding bodies of girls cut open along the floor. The entire school plastered with their blood. And Anton whispering that their deaths are all our fault.

  I wake up with a start, bleary eyed and scared. Shaking. There’s noise, and I look over to find Brynn in the kitchen, making eggs and toast. Sydney and Marcella are at the table, sipping from mugs, while Annalise clicks on the laptop keys. I run my palm over my face.

  “Why didn’t you wake me?” I ask. Sydney looks over.

  “Because you spent half the night screaming,” she says. “We thought you needed the rest.”

  Marcella turns to me, studying me before speaking. “Has it always been like this?” she asks. “The nightmares?”

  I nod that it has. I’ve been haunted for so long now, I forget what honest sleep looks like.

  Brynn comes over with plates and sets them out on the table. There are shadows under her eyes, her skin waxy in appearance. None of us look well.

  And how could we? It’s one thing to believe you’re in danger. It’s another to know it plainly.

  “Eat up,” Brynn says, uncharacteristically short. “We’ve got work to do.”

  The other girls grab their forks, and I come to take my spot at the table. We eat in silence, hurrying so that the day can begin.

  Because we need to destroy the corporation before they find and destroy us first.

  * * *

  I bring the book of poetry to school with me. Despite its violent words, I have to admit there’s comfort in the idea of fighting back so viscerally. Fighting back against the same monsters who wanted to abuse us.

  I pause in the hallway, book pressed to my chest, and place my hand on the wall to steady myself. Rosemarie’s words have affected me. They’re powerful; they make me want to act out. Make me want to take control. And maybe that’s the point. It’s not the right means, but it’s the right end. Yesterday, I thought I didn’t need the poems, but clearly that’s not true. We’re in more danger than ever.

  This time we won’t be repurposed for a new investor. If the academy finds us, they’ll destroy us forever. They’ll take the girls from me, separate us.

  We’ll kill them all before we let that happen.

  The flash of violence in my thoughts unsettles me, and I quickly try to regain my composure. I look around at the bustling hallways, the students rushing to class, oblivious to the war in my head.

  Rosemarie wants us to fight her cause, and we’re not adverse. But none of her poems talk about working together. None of them talk about love.

  And that’s what makes the girls and me strong—the fact that we love so deeply. I don’t believe a single one
of us would be here if we didn’t fight for each other. Fight to the absolute brink of annihilation. In fact, Annalise came back from the dead to fight.

  The other girls are my strength, and I theirs. Together, we’re powerful.

  The image of Rosemarie ripping out my heart pricks the back of my mind, and my skin goes cold. Those visions she put in my head were just another form of manipulation.

  It seems that as girls, everyone wants to control us. Even the woman claiming to be our mother.

  The warning bell rings, startling me, and I rush toward my first-hour class. Just as I turn the corner to walk into class, I glance down at the time on my phone. I accidentally slam into the person in front of me, my cheek banging against their chest as we both launch into the wall. My book of poetry falls to the floor, and I quickly apologize as I bend down to get it.

  There’s a soft laugh and I look up. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

  Standing in the doorway of my classroom is Jonah Grant. He rubs his side where the corner of my book dug into him. His smile is slightly lopsided, good-natured. But it’s his green eyes that I notice. The way they scan me over quickly, deeming my worth. They don’t hold the jovial expression he’s showing me. Instead, they’re calculating. They’re cold. But he’s so confident that he doesn’t realize that I notice.

  “Okay,” he says warmly. “That’s one way to meet someone. Guess I’m lucky you weren’t too busy reading the dull end of a knife.”

  He waits for me to laugh, and on cue, I do just that.

  I straighten, holding the book to my chest. I don’t want him to see the cover, but it’s clear he’s not interested in what I’m reading anyway.

  “I’m Jonah,” he says. Again, he waits for me to fawn over him.

  “Mena,” I reply.

  “Yeah, I know.” He thinks his casual knowledge makes him more attractive somehow. That I should be grateful that he learned my name. I glance past his shoulder and see Adrian turned around in her seat, watching us wide-eyed. I’m relieved to find Garrett’s desk empty.

  I have no idea what Jonah is doing in this classroom, but I can’t miss this opportunity to get to know him. If he’s not the investor’s son, he might be the key to finding out who is.

  “I saw you at the game,” Jonah says with a smirk. “You a big fan of rugby?”

  I think about how to play the next round of conversation. I can compliment him, go mindless and hope that’s his type. Or I can challenge him and see if it’s the chase he’s after. I debate it only a second before I sigh.

  “Big fan?” I repeat. “Not especially.”

  His eyes flash and his smile widens. “Then why would you go?”

  I shrug. “Curious, I guess. Why, are you good or something?”

  Jonah laughs. Above us the starting bell rings, and several students push past me to get into the classroom.

  “I should go,” I say, motioning toward my seat. I start that way, but Jonah calls my name, loud enough for the entire classroom to look in my direction.

  “It was cool to meet you finally,” Jonah says. I turn back to him, forcing a smile.

  “Cool to meet you, too.” My response comes out awkwardly, but he seems to find it endearing. He laughs and holds up his hand in a wave.

  And without giving him a second more of attention, I walk to my seat. The room is quiet and I can feel the sets of eyes focused on me. I wish I could complain aloud, like I would to the girls. I’m sick of faking nice as a way to avoid violence, avoid menace.

  Girls have to play nice or face the consequences.

  How can the girls in this society stand it? Then again, when I was at the academy, I was literally created for it. They taught me to behave that way. I guess they’ve taught human girls too.

  I take out my phone and quickly text Sydney to let her know I made contact with Jonah Grant. Once it’s sent, I put my phone away and look up.

  Mr. Marsh is staring dead at me, his brow furrowed deeply. He quickly straightens his expression and smiles at me, saying good morning.

  “Good morning, Mr. Marsh,” I reply sweetly. My tone seems to comfort him, and he addresses the class to say we’re having a pop quiz. As he begins to hand out the papers, Adrian leans toward me.

  “They were talking about you,” she whispers, shooting a cautious glance in Marsh’s direction.

  “Who?” I ask.

  “Mr. Marsh and Jonah Grant,” she says.

  Alarmed, I look back at the door even though Jonah is gone. “What about?” I ask Adrian. “What did they say?”

  She shrugs, leaning back in her seat. “I’m not sure. But Jonah was here when I came in, and I heard them say your name. Marsh looked pissed. He slammed his hand down on the desk at one point and Jonah seemed genuinely intimidated. I’ve never seen him like that. Or Marsh, for that matter.”

  Confused, I turn to watch Mr. Marsh as he passes papers along the right aisle. I try to figure out what they could have been talking about. Although I’m relieved Garrett isn’t here (that’s an understatement), he’s the one who hurt me at the game, who has been repeatedly harassing me. He should be the one Mr. Marsh was confronting.

  Adrian told me on my first day that Mr. Marsh never corrects the behavior of the boys at school, especially Jonah Grant. So what’s changed? I turn to Adrian.

  “Hey,” I start. “Would you want to hang out after school?”

  I think it’s time I dig into the history of Ridgeview a bit more. And it’s time for Adrian to tell me what she’s so scared of. It might be the clue we need in order to find the investor.

  “Oh, uh …” Her mouth twitches with a smile. “Yes, I mean. Sure. I’d like that.”

  “Great.” I smile at her and set the book of poetry on my desk. She jots down her number and hands it to me.

  Just then, I notice Mr. Marsh standing over me, and I gasp in surprise.

  “Sorry,” he says, laying the quiz over my book. “Good luck, Philomena,” he adds, walking to Adrian’s desk.

  * * *

  Forty-five minutes later, the bell rings and I gather my belongings. Mr. Marsh calls my name when I stand up. Adrian tells me she’ll see me later, and I say goodbye.

  I walk up to Mr. Marsh’s desk, and he leans down to rummage through a lower drawer in his desk.

  “Yes?” I ask.

  “I got some things for you,” he says. When he sits up, he holds out two small books to me. He seems troubled as I take them from his hands.

  “Those weren’t easy to track down,” Mr. Marsh says. “I guess I never really looked until now.” The chair creaks as he leans back into it, running his hand through his hair. “I assumed more books were written about the Essential Women’s Act,” he continues, “but actually … there weren’t many. And none written by women. It’s the damnedest thing,” he murmurs to himself.

  I turn over one of the books in my hand, reading the back. But a quote stands out to me: Balanced.

  “What does this mean?” I ask Mr. Marsh, pointing it out to him. “What does it have to do with the Essential Women’s Act?”

  “It, uh … It means the book explains both sides of the issue,” he says. “Equal coverage.”

  “Both … sides?” I ask. “As in defending the side that was stripping women’s rights?”

  “Yeah. Thinly veiled propaganda.” He pauses. “Do you know what that is?”

  I nod. I’d read that chapter in our history book the first day.

  “Like I said,” Mr. Marsh continues, “I thought there’d be more books.” He closes the desk drawer as students for his next class begin to file into the room. “I mean, we’re not that far gone as a society that we ignore women completely, right?” He laughs and I smile reflexively.

  Maybe Mr. Marsh doesn’t realize how far his society has gone—or that he’s part of the problem. The fact that he’s never bothered to read a book about something so devastating as the Essential Women’s Act when he teaches history, the fact that he was so unbothered that he didn
’t even try to seek out a woman’s point of view on the topic, says a lot about it. He can call it propaganda, speak out in the safety of his classroom. But where was Mr. Marsh when the laws were being passed? Probably at home, watching a male newscaster say how awful it was for women.

  “Thank you for these,” I tell him, holding up the books as I back away.

  “Hey, uh … Philomena,” he says. “I noticed those scratches are gone.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  He points on his neck to the same area where Garrett scratched me during his attack.

  “The scratches you had at the game,” he clarifies. “They’re barely there. Are you a fast healer or something?”

  “Oh,” I say, running my finger over the area. “Um, sort of. But they looked worse than they really were. Plus”—I smile winningly—“I have excellent makeup.”

  He continues to stare at the area but relaxes his shoulders. “How’d you get them again?” he asks.

  It occurs to me that I can’t demand that Mr. Marsh change his behavior if I don’t tell him what’s going on. Don’t give him the chance to react.

  “One of the boys,” I say. “Garrett. He doesn’t like that I stand up to him when he’s harassing me or other girls.”

  Mr. Marsh’s eyes narrow slightly. He looks suddenly impatient. “Yes,” he says. “He’s been problematic before. I’ll talk to him, okay? I’ll tell him to leave you alone.” My teacher waits, and I realize he’s expecting praise.

  “Thank you,” I say. “I’d appreciate that.” He nods that it’s not a problem and begins to gather test papers for his next class.

  I start to leave, but at the last second, I turn around. “Mr. Marsh?” I call.

  He sighs, good-naturedly, holding a stack of papers. “Yes, Philomena?”

  “Is that why Jonah Grant was in here?” I ask.

  “Excuse me?” he asks, as if he misheard.

  “Jonah Grant,” I say. “He was talking to you before I came in.”

  “Oh, yes.” Mr. Marsh begins to tap the papers on his desk, straightening them. “Jonah’s in my seventh-hour class. It had nothing to do with you, but if he’s a problem …”