Girls with Razor Hearts

by Suzanne Young

  “No,” I say, wondering why he’s lying. Adrian told me they mentioned my name. So what is Marsh hiding? “It’s fine,” I say. “And thanks again for the books.”

  I hold them up and walk out of class. Once in the hallway, I stand there a moment, reading the back of the books. I realize pretty quickly that they won’t be helpful for my purpose. Unless that purpose is to get even angrier.

  * * *

  “It’s too bad your books weren’t sharper,” Sydney says when I tell her about bumping into Jonah Grant before class. We smile, sitting together at lunch, and the room buzzes with activity around us.

  “And why would Mr. Marsh lie?” I ask. “Unless you think Adrian was mistaken?”

  “I find that girls are rarely wrong in these cases,” she says. “She has no reason to make it up. Does Marsh?”

  “I have no idea.”

  We both think it over, but no clear answer comes to mind.

  “There has to be a better way,” I say, unwrapping my sandwich. “After what Garrett did at the game, I don’t want to fake nice with these boys anymore. I just want answers. Can’t we just break into Jonah Grant’s house or something?”

  “Yes,” she says like it’s the obvious answer. “We can. And I think we—”

  “Hey,” Lyle says, startling us.

  Sydney clicks her mouth shut, and we both smile and turn to find Lyle standing at the end of our table, holding a lunch tray.

  “Yes?” Sydney asks in controlled politeness.

  “Hi, uh … Do you mind if I sit with you again?” he asks.

  We kind of do, but he sounds hopeful and a bit embarrassed. I check with Sydney, and when she nods, I tell him he can join us.

  Lyle sits down, apologetic and nervous, and opens his chocolate milk. We don’t say anything at first, waiting instead to see if he offers a topic. When he doesn’t, I lean my elbow on the table, watching him. He looks up with a hamburger at his lips.

  “What?” he asks around his food.

  “Can I ask you something?” I start.

  “Sure,” he mumbles, and takes a bite.

  “You said your mother marched to protest the laws a few years ago,” I say. He flinches, and I wonder if he’s gotten harassment from Garrett and his friends over his admission in class the other day.

  “That’s right,” Lyle says with little enthusiasm.

  “Did she have … Does she have any books about it?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?” Lyle responds.

  “It’s just … I was going to do a paper for Mr. Marsh,” I lie, “and I wanted to write about the Essential Women’s Act. But I couldn’t find much literature on it.”

  Lyle hums out a sound, taking another bite of food. “Out of print,” he says. “The catalogs were scrubbed not too long ago.”

  “Scrubbed?” Sydney asks.

  “Yeah. Books pulled from the shelves. Big bucks paid to a PR firm to remove content from the internet.” He shrugs. “People think they have freedom now,” he says. “And as long as they think it, they don’t notice the little pieces being chipped away.”

  “And how do you know this?” I ask.

  “I’m going to be a political science major next year,” Lyle says. “If I survive high school.” He says the last part lightly, but I’m suddenly very worried. Why would books about history be pulled or altered? What purpose does it serve?

  “In fact,” Lyle says, picking up a wilted French fry to examine it before tossing it back down, “there’s going to be a new book published soon—I’ve seen it advertised. It’s basically asking for the Essential Women’s Act to be reinstated, claiming that without it, our species will die.”

  “Why would you die out?” Sydney asks. I quickly look at her and she gulps. She meant “we.” Why would we die out?

  “Not enough babies,” Lyle says. “Although a few years back, they were all complaining about overpopulation. Now all of a sudden, we’re dying out? Whatever works to feed into their sexism and racism, I guess. Anyway …” He exhales heavily and takes a sip from his chocolate milk. “To get back to your original question: No. My mother doesn’t have any books. I doubt many people do. They didn’t want to be reminded of how horrible things were. And now they’re losing the proof that it even happened.”

  Sydney and I sit quietly for the next few moments, considering Lyle’s words. And it finally clicks, finally starts to make sense.

  Innovations Academy was never meant to just be for the rich. It started with the rich. Once they got enough investors, enough supporters, they would have used us to get new laws passed.

  They would have shown what a beautiful, obedient girl looked like, never mentioning that we weren’t girls at all. Maybe this was always political. Or maybe those ambitions grew from their success. But it’s clear that the girls and I were pawns in a much bigger experiment.

  “Oh, shit,” Lyle says under his breath, drawing my attention.

  “What?” I ask, and then follow his line of sight. My body spikes with fear when I see Garrett crossing the cafeteria. He must have come late to school or skipped history class. When he glances in my direction, a sneer on his lips, panic shoots through my veins.

  Even though the scratches on my neck are mostly gone, they begin to burn again. And all at once, it’s like I can feel his hands on my shirt, his breath in my face. I hate him, I decide. And it’s such a negative thought that it shocks me. The way I wish him harm is violent and counterproductive, but it’s there nonetheless. I think about the book of poetry in my backpack.

  Garrett chuckles to himself as if satisfied with my reaction, and he continues to walk across the cafeteria. My stomach seizes when I realize where he’s going.

  Adrian is at her usual cafeteria table, oblivious, until Garrett slides onto the bench next to her. She jumps, and before she can move away, he puts his arm over her shoulders and says something to her friends. They quickly gather up their food and leave, even as Adrian looks after them helplessly.

  Garrett turns to Adrian, and she pushes his arm off her. Garrett smiles as he talks, but I get the sense that whatever he’s saying is vicious. I watch as Adrian begins to fold in on herself. She tries to stand up, but Garrett grabs her by the wrist, yanking her back down to sit. He doesn’t let go even as she struggles.

  And then he pulls her hand into his lap, mimicking a sexual act. Adrian cries, fighting to get free. I jump up, my face on fire with rage, and Sydney and I rush toward the table. Lyle stays behind.

  The entire cafeteria is witnessing this attack, but no one is stopping Garrett.

  “Damn, Addie,” Garrett calls for the benefit of the room. “You’re so good at this!”

  His friends laugh as Adrian continues to cry, struggling against Garrett’s strength.

  And the tears glistening on Adrian’s face remind me of the tears on mine. On Rebecca’s. On all of ours. Our tears for male consumption, male pleasure.

  “Hey!” I shout, my voice raw with anger, grave and untamed. Garrett is licking his teeth when he casually glances over at me and then laughs before turning back to Adrian.

  Something inside me snaps. Something angry and ugly and free.

  I grab a plastic lunch tray off another table as I approach, and in a smooth movement, I swing it and hit the back of Garrett’s head, shattering the tray as a loud crack echoes across the room. There is a collective gasp.

  Garrett yelps out his surprise as the pieces of plastic fall over him. The tray wasn’t substantial enough to do real damage, but the surprise was enough for Adrian to free herself and flee the scene. She doesn’t even take her backpack.

  Garrett turns around to stare at me, wide-eyed. And then the room erupts in laughter, even a few cheers.

  “You fucking bitch!” Garrett says, standing up and pulling himself to his full height. Before he can lunge at me, a gray-haired security guard appears between me and Garrett. The guard puts his arms out to the sides to hold Garrett back.

  But when I start to explain the sit
uation, the security guard steps forward and grabs me roughly by the upper arm, making my breath catch. He wags his finger in Sydney’s direction as if warning her not to approach.

  “Hey, man. Relax!” a guy calls from a nearby table. “Don’t grab a girl like that.”

  I turn, surprised to find one of the rugby players getting up from his seat. He has dark skin and shaved black hair, and I quickly place him as the player who had DOZER written across his jersey. He looks annoyed, and behind him, his friends are shaking their heads, glaring at the guard.

  “Stay out of this, Demarcus,” the security guard tells the guy, and then nods to the entire table. “All of you mind your own business.”

  “We were trying to until you started grabbing people,” Demarcus mutters before turning back to his friends.

  And maybe that’s the problem—Demarcus should have said something to Garrett when he was attacking Adrian. She was being grabbed too. Did he react differently because Garrett is one of his peers?

  I open my palms to the security guard to demonstrate that I’m not going to be violent … again. The man lets me go, and I quickly move to Sydney’s side.

  “I notice you didn’t jump up when he was sexually assaulting a girl,” Sydney tells the guard. The older man tightens his jaw.

  “The only assault I saw was you and your friend,” he responds.

  “Sydney didn’t even do anything!” I point out.

  “Both of you, to the office, now,” the guard says.

  Garrett is pacing behind the man, too angry to take any pleasure in our unfair punishment. He looks over at me like he’s going to kill me. He feels entitled to my attention. To Adrian’s body. To the school’s justice. He thinks it’s all his. But he’s wrong.

  “Fine,” I tell the guard. “We’ll go right now.”

  I motion for Sydney to come with me, and the guard watches us walk away. He doesn’t order Garrett to do the same.

  As we leave, Sydney is justifiably furious. The second we leave the cafeteria, I turn to her and see that she’s shaking.

  “He blamed us,” she says, half under her breath. “That guard blamed us when we were the only ones stepping up to protect Adrian. It’s like no one cares what’s happening right in front of them!”

  “This won’t stand,” I say, putting my hand on her arm. She relaxes slightly. “We’ll tell the vice principal what happened. Garrett was hurting Adrian. He was sexually bullying her. Now is our chance to turn those whispers into actions,” I say. “We saw it. We witnessed it, as did an entire cafeteria. They can’t willfully ignore it anymore.”

  “That’s a good point,” Sydney says, reluctantly accepting the idea. We walk a little farther before she snorts a laugh. I turn to her, already smiling.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” she says, trying to hide her grin. “It’s just … You busted a lunch tray over that boy’s head. It was unintentionally hilarious and cathartic.”

  I’m not proud of attacking someone. But, at the same time, I find myself giggling at the outrageousness of my weapon.

  “It was so much louder than I thought it would be.”

  “You humiliated him,” Sydney says. “And even if the tray didn’t leave a mark, the sting of embarrassment won’t fade any time soon. Personally, I hope he has ‘Ridgeview Prep Cafeteria’ imprinted into his head for the rest of the day.”

  As we approach the office, my smile fades. I think about her comment about his humiliation, and I wonder: Is there anything as dangerous as an embarrassed man?

  Disciplinary Referral

  Ridgeview Prep

  Student: Philomena Calla

  Referring Staff: Officer Mitch

  Reason(s) for disciplinary action:

  Bullying/Harassment

  Destruction of School Property

  Fighting

  Action:

  Detained

  Referred to Office

  Notes:

  Philomena attacked another student without provocation. Philomena displayed violent behavior during the incident and she was insubordinate when I tried to detain her. Attack was premeditated, resulting in injuries, harassment, and destruction of property. Further action required.

  21

  Sydney and I sit in the uncomfortable chairs by the windows in the front office. The vice principal has been made aware of our presence, we’re told, and now we wait for her punishment. When the secretary goes to the back of the office, Sydney turns to me.

  “How are girls supposed to stay safe here?” she asks.

  “I don’t know,” I reply honestly. “At least at Innovations, it was kind of us against them, you know? All of us were on the same side. Here … the other girls are either too scared to say anything, or they’re part of the problem.”

  “These girls are being terrorized, but no one speaks up. Or, if they do, it’s a whisper to another girl. Never an outright accusation. It’s so … secretive,” she says. “And if that’s how they have to protect themselves—whispers—then the adults in the room are handling things very poorly.”

  I agree, and Sydney shakes her head, looking toward the vice principal’s office.

  “But I guess I’m not that surprised,” she says. “That information, knowing who to avoid, it could really help us, but it wouldn’t help the boys. And it’s their futures everyone seems concerned about.” Sydney taps her lower lip with her finger, a sign that she’s thinking deeply about something.

  “So how do we get the other girls to tell us who to watch out for?” I ask. “How do we get into their network?’

  “I don’t know, but it’s not fair,” she says. “Not just the abuse, but the way the girls are getting the word out.” She looks at me. “So … what?” she starts. “If we’re not friends with the right people, we don’t get a warning? We’re on our own? The answer isn’t to get into their network. It’s to make the network public. Call out their behavior—why keep it a secret?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, baffled.

  I see Sydney’s point. I’m glad girls at Ridgeview are taking steps to protect themselves, but it does open up more problems. Who gets the benefits of the warning? The entire system is broken. There is no accountability.

  “Mrs. Reacher will see you now,” the secretary says, coming out from the back hall. She motions in that direction, and Sydney and I walk together, strengthening our resolve to tell the vice principal exactly what we saw in the cafeteria. Surely assaulting a girl is worse than trying to prevent that assault.

  The office door is already open. Mrs. Reacher looks up from behind her desk and waves us in. “Close the door,” she says sternly. We do as she asks and then sit in the two chairs on the other side of her desk. She folds her hands in front of her and rakes her gaze over us, appraising our appearance. She lingers on Sydney.

  Finally, Mrs. Reacher shakes her head slowly from side to side. “How dare you,” she says, her voice dripping with anger.

  “Excuse me?” I ask, truly surprised by her venom. She shoots a hateful look at me before leaning closer.

  “How dare you attack another student,” she says. “Garrett Wooley is from a good family. He’s on honor roll. And then I let two questionable girls into our school and suddenly he’s being attacked in the cafeteria?”

  “He was assaulting a girl!” I say. “In front of everyone. There were witnesses! Garrett grabbed a girl’s hand, put it in his lap, and he—”

  “There was no mention of a … a sexual assault”—Mrs. Reacher whispers the words—“in the incident report. Besides, do you even know Garrett? He’s admired by both male and female students. Your violence won’t be tolerated.”

  “My …” I point to myself, stunned speechless.

  “Mrs. Reacher,” Sydney says impatiently, leaning on the desk. “He—”

  But Mrs. Reacher rocks back as if Sydney is threatening her. Her rosy cheeks grow pale, and she flusters herself going through her papers.

  “I didn’t ask you,” she say
s dismissively.

  “Didn’t ask—” Sydney starts to repeat, and then turns to me in frustration.

  “Look,” Mrs. Reacher says to us in sudden rush of bleeding-heart sympathy. “I get it. It’s difficult being a young lady in society, the pressures the media puts on you to flaunt yourselves. Dress inappropriately, behave promiscuously. But trust me, that’s not the kind of attention you want.”

  Sydney actually laughs. Mrs. Reacher is wrong. The girls and I have come a long way since leaving the academy, able to view society through an unfiltered lens. Absorbing it all.

  And the truth is, the media doesn’t just put pressure on girls to “flaunt” ourselves. Because at the same time, society puts pressure on us to be modest, sexy, exciting, humble, proud, perfect, flawed. That’s the thing about this world—they want girls to be the fantasy of whoever is looking at them. Tailored specifically to the taste of their viewer, the audience. Girls, even human ones, are treated like a product.

  They are consumable, replaceable, with their own kill switches. Youth in women is coveted. Treasured. Celebrated. And once that’s gone, they are cast aside. They are left for dead. And it has nothing to do with how they dress.

  It was inevitable that the same society would want to create young girls with predetermined programming. Customer specific and guaranteed perfect.

  “Now,” Mrs. Reacher continues, eyeing Sydney before picking up a yellow slip of paper to examine it. She looks at me. “Garrett already told the security officer that you’ve been trying to get his attention since you arrived,” she continues. “But I can’t let a physical attack stand. I have no choice but to suspend you both until the board looks over your case.”

  “Suspended?” I repeat. But there’s even more injustice here. “And why is Sydney suspended?”

  “Exactly,” Sydney says, the first sign of anger in her voice. “I didn’t do anything!”

  “And how am I supposed to know that you didn’t help her plan it?” Mrs. Reacher asks.

  “Plan it?” I repeat. “We saw Garrett attacking a girl. I stopped him. Sydney didn’t touch him.”