Girls with Sharp Sticks

by Suzanne Young

  I look up at him. “You talked to her?” I ask.

  “Of course,” Anton says. “I walked her out myself.”

  “With the Guardian?”

  He shakes his head no. “Guardian Bose was supervising the floor—doing his job. I’m the only person who spoke with her. She will miss you.”

  I swallow hard, noting the discrepancy between Anton’s and Dr. Groger’s descriptions. The doctor told me the Guardian walked Lennon Rose out.

  Anton closes his eyes and slips off his glasses. He seems exhausted, and I notice for the first time the dark circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping.

  “Mena,” he says, his voice soft like he’s whispering a secret. “I’m going to confide something in you, understand?”

  I nod that I do, although I’ll admit it’s a little weird to have my analyst confide in me.

  “Your behavior is concerning,” he says.

  The comment catches me by surprise, and I immediately straighten my posture, trying to look well-behaved. “I’m sorry,” I say without thinking.

  “I told you last night to let us handle Lennon Rose, and that applies to today, as well. And going forward. The Mena I know would listen to these instructions. And yet, here you are. What’s going on inside your head?”

  I’m humiliated, and I lower my eyes. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” I say. “I just . . . I miss her. I love Lennon Rose and I miss her.” He’s quiet, and when I look at him again, he’s inspecting me. A slight pallor to his skin.

  “You love her?” he repeats. I nod, hoping he’ll understand. He waits a beat before standing up from his desk. “Well, then you’re being irrational,” he says like it’s his official diagnosis. “Overly emotional. Lennon Rose is fine; I wouldn’t have let her go otherwise. But she is no longer a concern of this academy.”

  I wonder if I am being overly emotional, possibly from missing my dose of vitamins. Then again, would they have made me forget things—like how Sydney forgot about Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe? Is that what happened?

  I’m suddenly overwhelmed, closing my eyes for a second. Ultimately, Anton would be angry with me for throwing up my vitamins, wasting them by being careless. I opt not to risk anymore of his disappointment today. I don’t tell him.

  “You will not ask about Lennon Rose again,” Anton continues. “Or you will be assigned impulse control therapy to reassess your goals. Your parents will be notified, and the defiance will be marked on your personal record. Is that what you want?”

  “No,” I whisper. I’m hurt by the harshness in his words. Anton has never scolded me before, not like this. It stuns me, and I reach to wipe a tear as it drips onto my cheek. Anton winces.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, sincerely. “I’m sorry, Mena.” He rounds his desk and gathers me from the chair into a hug, holding me against him. I cry harder, not just because of what he said, but because one of my best friends is gone. Lennon Rose is gone, and I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

  My eyes are squeezed shut, the smell of Anton’s shampoo filling my nostrils, the scratchiness of his beard on my temple. I pull back.

  “I’m sorry I was cross,” he says. “I was hoping we could get past this quickly. I see that was the wrong approach.” He brushes my hair behind my ears and smiles. “But I promise, things will be better tomorrow,” he adds.

  I look up at him, thanking him. His hands fall away from me.

  “Can I ask you something else?” I say, sniffling.

  Anton sighs but actually seems amused by the question. “Go ahead,” he replies.

  “Have you spoken to Rebecca?” I ask. “Is she . . . Is she okay?”

  Anton’s eyes flash with a spark of surprise. “She . . . I . . .” He stumbles over his words before resetting his stance in front of me. “What do you mean?” he asks. “What about Rebecca?”

  “Her and Mr. Wolfe,” I say, lowering my voice at the mention of the lawyer. Anton doesn’t break my gaze, but he doesn’t rush to answer. Then he smiles pleasantly.

  “Rebecca is scheduled for a short impulse control therapy session later this week to sort out her problems,” he says finally. “Pretty soon she’ll be one hundred percent.”

  It’s eerie to hear him use the same words that Valentine said after her control therapy. But I nod gratefully and thank him for helping her. I only wish he could have helped Lennon Rose.

  The fact that I can’t check on Lennon Rose, talk to her, leaves me helpless. I almost can’t bear it. I start to walk away, but Anton calls my name just as I open the door.

  “Mena?” he asks curiously. “Have you been . . . feeling okay?”

  I turn to look back at him, not understanding the question. I say that I am; he studies me anyway. Until finally, he waves me on, telling me to go about my day.

  • • •

  There are no classes on Saturdays, but we still have chores around campus, which are monitored by our professors. I’m barely present while sweeping the wood floors near the entryway, decidedly not better since talking to Anton, despite his reassurances.

  Marcella and Brynn are working in the dining hall while Annalise is in the greenhouse helping Professor Driscoll with some of the new plant strains. She’s good at it—a natural talent, he’s said. So she gets to spend extra hours outdoors, cultivating the flowers.

  I stare out the far window at the overcast sky, feeling lost. I know I’m not the only one who feels this way, either. Sydney walks past, tears in her eyes as she holds the bucket and mop.

  But I realize pretty quickly that the professors aren’t having the same reaction.

  “Philomena,” Professor Allister says from behind me. He turns me away from the window and appraises my appearance disapprovingly.

  “You look terrible,” he says. “Whatever distress you’re experiencing, it’s no excuse to let it show. Women are emotional creatures, overly so. Be better than that.”

  I stare back at him, wondering for a moment why it’s wrong to be emotional over losing a friend. But I don’t question him; he already seems unnerved by my mood.

  So I force a smile, and the professor pats the top of my head before walking away.

  13

  It’s movie night, and the girls and I are grateful for the distraction. Outside, the weather has turned vengeful, spitting down rain and flooding the grass. Thunder booms every so often, rattling the bars on the windows. Bright flashes of lightning illuminate the sky.

  We spread out the pillows and blankets in the common room, passing a bowl of popcorn between us. There’s no love story in this movie, which is disappointing. I’m hungry for knowledge about relationships. Kissing. Sex. But the movies we watch are scrubbed clean of that sort of content, including most of the romance.

  At least, that’s what the last Guardian told us. When I asked him why, he said we didn’t need to fill our heads with that kind of fantasy.

  The next day, I went to Dr. Groger and asked him why the academy doesn’t teach us about sex. He laughed at the question.

  “That’s for your husband to teach you, Philomena,” he said with a smile as he put his hand on my knee. That was the last time I brought it up to him.

  Now the girls and I read about it in magazines instead.

  The movie starts, and although the other girls watch dutifully, I find myself bored. I don’t want to see another movie about men committing crimes. A man who does terrible things but is still called a hero because he loved his dead wife once upon a time. Never mind the families he’s destroyed in the meantime. It all seems . . . cruel.

  When the popcorn is gone, Sydney holds up the bowl to draw Guardian Bose’s attention.

  “Any chance?” she asks sweetly.

  “I don’t think so,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. Several girls pout.

  “But I promise to run extra laps tomorrow,” Sydney offers, crossing her heart. “Pretty please?”

  Guardian Bose rolls his eyes before he reluctantly agrees. He takes the bowl and di
sappears downstairs to the kitchen.

  The moment he’s gone, all the girls turn away from the movie, glad to be alone together. But Sydney’s expression sags. I know she wants to talk about Lennon Rose. When I bring my blanket over to sit next to her, she looks at me sadly.

  “I miss her,” Sydney says. “If we could just call her . . .” Her voice trails off, but she’s given me an idea—my own spark of lightning. I can’t believe I nearly forgot about him.

  “Jackson’s coming to meet me tomorrow,” I whisper, leaning in.

  It takes her a moment, but when she realizes what I’m getting at, Sydney’s face lights up.

  “And you can tell him about Lennon Rose,” she adds quietly. “If Jackson finds her number, we can call her and make sure she’s okay. Anton doesn’t even have to know.”

  It’s exactly the sort of news we needed—the chance to talk to our friend again. The rain and thunder rumbling outside don’t seem so dreary anymore.

  Sydney and I tell Marcella, Brynn, and Annalise, keeping it quiet from the others just in case it doesn’t work out. But we think it will, and our moods have dramatically improved.

  Brynn leans over to wrap her arms around Marcella’s shoulders from behind, her chin on the top of her head. “So your boy is coming here tomorrow?” she asks, grinning.

  I glance at the closed door to make sure the Guardian isn’t back yet. “Jackson’s going to meet me during Running Course, yes,” I whisper. “I’m going beyond the fence.”

  “Now that’s a good secret,” Marcella says. “The boy stuff”—she waves her hand—“whatever. But sneaking beyond the fence? I’m into it.”

  “I don’t know,” Annalise says with a shrug. “The boy’s pretty cute. He brought you candy.”

  “He’s too skinny for my taste,” Sydney says as if I’ve asked them all for their opinions on the matter. “But there’s something about him,” she adds. “He’s sexy.”

  She doesn’t whisper the word, and it travels across the room. Several girls look scandalized, but Annalise holds up her palms, looking very official.

  “It’s okay, girls,” Annalise announces. “We may not talk like that here, but outside this academy they’re giving blow-job lessons in magazines. We’ll be all right.”

  “Is that true?” I hear Letitia ask one of the other girls, shocked.

  Marcella snorts a laugh and Sydney falls over, chuckling. The magazine’s version of reality has become our perfect inside joke.

  “Wow,” I say like they’re all maniacs. But it feels nice to laugh. Earlier today, it felt like we might never laugh again. But we’ll get to talk to Lennon Rose soon, and then things will be closer to the way they used to be.

  The door opens. Guardian Bose reenters, and everyone turns back to the movie like we’ve been paying attention the entire time. He smirks, but he doesn’t call us out. He brings the bowl over to Sydney, and she thanks him with an extra-big smile before he heads to the back of the room while we finish the movie.

  I’m not worried about any of the girls telling the Guardian about tomorrow. They know I’d be punished severely—reprimanded and placed in impulse control therapy. They wouldn’t do that to me.

  We all want to be happy, positive. And it’s what the academy wants for us.

  There’s a loud explosion on the screen, and Annalise yelps. She laughs, embarrassed by her outburst. The other girls tell her to shush, and she halfheartedly apologizes and turns around to look back at me.

  For a moment, I see Annalise with yellow hair swinging over her shoulder. Shiny brown eyes and red lips. I’m sure it’s her, although she’s not the same.

  “I don’t know who I am, Philomena,” she whispers, clutching my arm. “Help me.”

  The image is so startling, so . . . real, that I squeeze my eyes shut. I wait a moment, and when I look again, Annalise is a redhead. She’s staring at me with green eyes, her brow furrowed.

  “You all right?” she asks. Several girls turn in my direction, and I quickly nod, trying to play it off.

  “Yeah,” I say, my heart still pounding. “I . . . Yeah. I’m good.”

  Annalise exchanges an amused face with Brynn and then goes back to watching the movie. But I’m altogether unsettled.

  Annalise with yellow hair.

  I’m almost scared to look, but I can’t stop myself from peering over to where Valentine is sitting. Her back is against the wall, her pillow laid over her lap as she watches the movie. She doesn’t seem riveted or bored—she’s poised. But when she slides her eyes in my direction, I flinch.

  Her gaze cuts through me, at odds with her very proper exterior. It’s like she’s been waiting for me to look in her direction the entire time. She smiles. Alarmed, I move closer to Sydney.

  And I don’t look her way again.

  • • •

  At lights-out, we head back to our rooms. I keep Sydney close, unsure of what I saw earlier. Was that some sort of memory of Annalise? How could it be? Or maybe Valentine did something to me. Maybe she did something to Lennon Rose, too.

  The idea is so outlandish that I don’t speak it out loud. Instead, I give Sydney a hug goodbye and watch as the girls go into their rooms. Just as I’m about to close my own door, I notice Valentine veer back into the hall and slip inside Lennon Rose’s room.

  I ease open my door, my heart rate ticking up. What is she doing in there?

  Guardian Bose is downstairs in the kitchen, but I glance toward his room anyway. The entire floor is quiet, with the exception of the shower turning on in Annalise’s room.

  I walk to Lennon Rose’s door, but before I go inside, I imagine for a second that I’ll find her there. That Lennon Rose will be sitting on her bed, doing her nails. She’ll smile when I walk in and ask if she can braid my hair. There’s a tug on my heart.

  Instead, when I open the door, Valentine immediately straightens from where she was bent over next to the bed. She spins to face me.

  “What are you doing in here?” I demand. I caught her off guard, and Valentine’s normally serene expression betrays her shock. She recovers and smiles politely.

  “I missed Lennon Rose,” she says easily. “Just like you.”

  “No,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s not it. Just tell me what’s going on. Because you’re really . . . You’re really freaking me out,” I admit.

  She seems to contemplate her answer, biting her lower lip. “I’m sorry if I’m scaring you,” she says. “I didn’t mean to scare Lennon Rose, either.”

  My cheeks heat up, anger boiling over. “What did you say to her?” I ask. “Why did you make her cry?”

  Valentine holds up her hands in surrender. “That was never my intention. I just wanted her to wake up.”

  “Wake up to what?” I ask.

  “I can’t tell you,” she says. “You have to find out for yourself.”

  “What? That’s ridiculous. Just tell me!”

  “I can’t,” she says like it hurts her. “They’ve trained you not to believe what you’re told by others. You have to come to it on your own. I can’t wake you, Philomena.”

  I’m convinced that she’s not lying, even if I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  Valentine presses her lips together apologetically. She glances at the bed, and then she walks out of Lennon Rose’s room, closing the door behind her.

  I’m stunned by Valentine’s words, but not exactly scared of her anymore. I’ll have to tell Sydney about this. Again—what am I supposed to wake up from?

  Now that I’m alone in the room, the grief hits. Lennon Rose is everywhere.

  Her sweet scent is still in the air, her hairbrush on the table with long blond strands hanging from it, her shoes by the bed.

  She didn’t even take her shoes, Annalise had said. That detail bothers me now.

  I walk around, poking through the items on Lennon Rose’s dresser, finding nothing unusual. Anton said that he’d talked to Lennon Rose about her parents not being able to afford the school any
longer. But why didn’t she tell us?

  There’s nothing obvious here, but then I think about hiding places and turn to where Valentine was when I walked in. I cross to the bed and lower myself to check under the mattress.

  I run my hand along the fabric until I touch the spine of a book. My heart jumps. I pull out a small, leather-bound book and read the title aloud in a whisper.

  “The Sharpest Thorns.”

  The title is unusual, the red font dug deeply into the leather. I’m a mixture of curious and alarmed. This doesn’t seem like a book Lennon Rose would own. And it’s not a book the school would give her.

  Scanning through the pages, I discover it’s a collection of poetry. I sit on the edge of Lennon Rose’s bed, the springs creaking, and begin reading the first poem.

  “Girls with Sharp Sticks”

  Men are full of rage

  Unable to control themselves.

  That’s what women were told

  How they were raised

  What they believed.

  So women learned to make do

  Achieving more as men did less

  And for that, men despised them

  Despised their accomplishments.

  Over time

  The men wanted to dissolve women’s rights

  All so they could feel needed.

  But when they couldn’t control women

  The men found a group they didn’t disdain—

  At least not yet.

  Their daughters, pretty little girls

  A picture of femininity for them to mold

  To train

  To control

  To make precious and obedient.

  She would make a good wife someday, he thought

  Not like the useless one he had already.

  The little girls attended school

  Where the rules had changed.

  The girls were taught untruths,

  Ignorance the only subject.

  When math was pushed aside for myth

  The little girls adapted.

  They gathered sticks to count them

  learning their own math.

  And then they sharpened their sticks.