Girls with Sharp Sticks

by Suzanne Young

  “I can explain,” he says. “Just tell me what you found, and I’ll explain.”

  I scoff. “Don’t do that,” I say. “You don’t get to lie to me and then demand answers. Tell me what your mother was doing with the academy. Your father. The school has pictures of your family in their files. Why? ”

  Jackson’s expression flashes anger at the idea of this. He moves to stand next to me, his jaw tight.

  “You mentioned his name the other day,” Jackson says. “Mr. Petrov. I did my homework on him,” he continues, “him and all of his buddies. Back in the day, they were lobbyists—all tied up in politics. They backed legislation that tried to strip women’s rights. Do you remember?”

  I’m shocked by the idea, but I shake my head. I don’t remember anything like that.

  “Okay,” Jackson says, leaning against the brick wall. “Well, when that didn’t work out, when women were like, Fuck no, this guy Petrov bought the technology plant my mother worked at: Innovations Metal Works.

  “At first, my mom didn’t mind the change. But then she started working later nights, longer hours. My dad was unemployed—had been for a while. He was big into men’s rights—some really backward shit. He and I would fight about it all the time. I don’t know how my mom put up with it. She’d just say he wasn’t always like that.”

  I lean my shoulder against the wall, listening to Jackson. I’ve never heard of women’s rights, but I bet the book of poetry fits into what Jackson is saying.

  “The last straw for her,” Jackson says, “was when my father invested in the company that Petrov built. My mother said she told him what they were doing. How could he?” Jackson shrugs. “My father is excellent at making terrible decisions.”

  “And then one night, my mom came home. I was there and she gave me a kiss on the forehead as usual. She had the phone to her ear as she talked to someone. I heard her mention Petrov’s name, and then she was arguing that they could find another analyst because she wanted no part of it. When she came out of her room later, she’d been crying.

  “I just . . . I sat there, watching TV like an asshole,” he says, admonishing himself. “She told me she’d be right back. She grabbed her car keys and left, still on the phone. And then . . .” He swallows hard, blinking quickly.

  “The, uh . . . The police came to the house a couple hours later. My dad was at the bar, I guess. So they told me my mom died. A suicide at her place of work. A suicide . . .”

  I watch him. “You don’t think she killed herself,” I say.

  “I know she didn’t,” he responds instantly, turning to look at me. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out, Mena. I couldn’t get close to the school, though. And they keep you girls locked away. Then I saw the bus, met you in the gas station. I should have told you right away, but I was worried that you’d tell Petrov or any of those creeps. I didn’t want them to destroy the evidence. I should have told you,” he reiterates. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

  “You manipulated me,” I tell him. “And I’m really sick of men manipulating me.”

  Despite the horror of his story, it still hurts that he used me. Logically, I see no reason to forgive him. Because the immoral use forgiveness as a weapon.

  “I kept coming back because of you,” he says, his voice softer. “It wasn’t just about finding information anymore. And when you weren’t there this week, I . . . I was scared. And I missed you. And I was scared,” he repeats.

  I want to doubt him, but as I look him over, I see that he’s a bit of a mess. His hair is unruly, his chin unshaven. His expression is frantic and helpless at the same time.

  “Did you find Lennon Rose?” I ask.

  “No,” he says, shaking his head. “I found her parents, the ones you mentioned. They own a big-time pharmaceutical company.” He waits a second. “And they don’t have any kids.”

  My lips part. “What?”

  “They have no listed dependents. Not ever.”

  “I don’t understand,” I tell him.

  “Neither do I. Which is why,” he adds, “you can’t go back to that school. I don’t know what they’re doing to you girls, but you’re not going back.”

  There is the sound of approaching footsteps, and Jackson quickly grabs the sleeve of my sweater and swings me around, facing me as he blocks me from view. We’re suddenly close, and I stare up at him, even as he keeps his eyes to the side, checking behind him. My heart beats faster, and I’m relieved when a woman walks by instead of the Guardian.

  “They’re experimenting on us,” I whisper, looking up at him. Jackson’s hand is still on my arm as he looks down at me. I see his throat bob.

  “How?” he asks.

  I debate telling him, but ultimately, the girls and I decided he might be our best connection to the outside world. Our way to get out of the academy permanently. So I describe what I remember from impulse control therapy. As I do, Jackson’s hand falls away from me and he takes a step back, horrified.

  I tell him about EVA being a parental assistant and not a person, how none of our calls get through. And then, even though it makes me wildly uncomfortable . . . I tell him about Guardian Bose coming to my room. It’s violating to say the words out loud, but once they’re gone from my lips—there is relief. Release.

  “I’m going—” Jackson starts, then pauses for a moment as if trying to control himself. “I’m going to fucking kill him,” he finishes.

  “I don’t need you to kill him,” I say, shaking my head. Men with their violent tempers, just like in the movies the Guardian watches. “I need you to help me find a way to shut them down. Because even if we leave, our parents will send us back. And even bigger than that, there are other girls. Future girls. We can’t let them keep doing this.”

  “They stuck a fucking ice pick in your eye,” he says loudly, and I quickly reach to put my hand over his mouth, casting a cautious glance toward the theater. My touch calms him, and when he pulls my hand away, he looks at the scratch on my palm.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asks miserably.

  “How do we get them shut down?” I ask.

  “I don’t know,” he whispers. “They’re powerful. I don’t know.”

  “Then that’s what you need to find out,” I say. “You have to . . .”

  But the words fall away as my eyes drift past him to the other side of the alley. To the building set back, just out of view of the street. My chest tightens, and I push past Jackson to get a better look.

  It’s a diner with flashing red sign. It’s the diner from my nightmare. Only I realize now, it wasn’t a dream at all. It was a memory.

  23

  The sign flashes RED’S DINER. I’m beside myself, not sure I can trust my eyes. I start that way, and Jackson catches up with me, asking what I’m doing. He keeps looking back at the theater, probably hoping that I’m running away with him. But instead, I walk up the stairs and enter the restaurant, a bell jingling on the door.

  I look around, knowing what I’ll see before I do. The vinyl booths with chevron pattern, the checkered floor. And there’s the table from my dream, sitting empty. I walk over and slide into the seat, just like I’m sliding into the memory.

  I sat in the booth next to the window with a bowl in front of me. The air reeked of grease—bacon, sausage, ham. Meat. The table was sticky with syrup. I had a bowl of oatmeal, unsweetened. I stirred my spoon slowly, lonely. Scared.

  I missed my girls. I wanted to be with them.

  “Can I help you?” a waitress asks Jackson. He seems unsure and asks for two waters. I hear him, almost faraway. He’s not in this memory with me. The scene plays across my vision.

  I looked across the table and there was a man. He was older, and his sweat glistened in the fluorescent light. His fingers gripped a breakfast sausage as he shoved it into his mouth. He had no manners. He was indulgent. Crude.

  At graduation, when Anton sat me down and told me I’d have to live with this man, I cried so har
d that I threw up. He gave me a vitamin and told me tomorrow would be better. And then he gave me to Mr. Pickett—my sponsor. The man who had attended all of my open houses and paid my tuition.

  It had only been a car ride, but I already knew that I was terrified of Mr. Pickett. Terrified.

  “Don’t worry,” he said from across the table. “We’ll be home soon.”

  Thunder boomed outside, making me jump. Rain poured down. I hated the rain. I hated this man.

  “I’ve had other girls before, you know,” he said, slurping his coffee. “Too stupid. They said you had spirit. I paid extra for it.”

  The waitress sets down two glasses of water and asks me what I’d like to eat. Jackson impatiently asks her to give us a few more moments. I feel tears slide down my cheeks. I’m shaking.

  I was shaking. This man intended to hurt me—I knew that. Even a vitamin couldn’t erase that. Couldn’t make me compliant enough. I wanted my girls. I wanted my girls.

  “Hey, sweetheart,” the man said to the waitress. “Give me a refill.”

  “I’m not your sweetheart,” she said, annoyed, and hastily filled his cup. As she walked away, he stared at her backside before turning to me.

  “Stuck-up bitch,” he said so she could overhear him. “And look at you,” he told me. “You’re prettier than her. But you know better than to talk back, right?” He smiled at me and reached over to touch my hand.

  I jerked back, hating his touch.

  I jerk back, knocking over the glass of ice water, splashing it over the side of the table. Jackson tells me it’s okay, that I should stop crying. That he’s here.

  I couldn’t stay another moment with Mr. Pickett. I wouldn’t. I didn’t care if they permanently dismissed me. I didn’t care about anything but getting back to my girls to protect them. We needed each other.

  I jumped up from the table and rushed for the door.

  I yank open the door, the bell jingling.

  I ran out into the rain, the water soaking my hair and clothes. My vision was blurred with tears, thunder boomed again.

  Jackson’s voice booms, shouting for me to wait as he chases after me down the alley in the sunshine.

  The storm raged around me, lights blinking and confusing me. I didn’t know which way to run. The man screamed my name.

  “Philomena Pickett!” he shouted. “Get back here. You’re mine!”

  And so I ran faster. Faster, faster toward the lights. I just wanted to escape. I stepped off the curb, startled by the sudden change in surface. And just as I swung around, headlights blinded my vision and I raised my arm just before—

  There’s a sudden grab around my waist and I’m hoisted off my feet, startling me out of my head. A car horn beeps as it passes, the driver cursing at us. The sun is shining, my face is wet with tears.

  Jackson is breathing heavily, his eyes wide. His arm still around me.

  “Christ, Mena,” he says. “What were you doing? You just ran out into the street. You—”

  “I died,” I say as fresh tears fall from my eyes. The physical pain still resonates, the vibration, the darkness. The absolute emptiness. I look up at Jackson, stunned. Traumatized.

  “Jackson,” I say, my voice weak. “I died.”

  He doesn’t know what to make of this, but he grabs me fiercely into a hug. I can feel his heart racing under his shirt, his hand holding the back of my neck.

  I pull away from him, not wanting him to touch me. Not wanting any man to touch me. Jackson is taken aback but doesn’t insist. He’s not Anton. Instead, he leads me back over to the wall, carefully watching me in case I make a run for it again.

  “Please tell me what happened,” he says. “I don’t understand.”

  “He paid extra for me,” I say, sickened by the words. “He . . .” My eyelids flutter, and I shake my head, not wanting to continue. When I look over, Jackson is crying. He’s scared, more so than before, I’m sure.

  “Why were you in the street?” he asks, trying to skip over the parts I can’t say.

  “I’ve been here before. That diner. And I was running back to the girls,” I say. “I was going to save them. But . . .” I start to calm, the sunshine drying up my tears. I soak in the warmth. “I was hit by a car,” I say. “Everything was . . . gone. When I woke up again, Anton told me . . . He told me ‘Welcome home.’ And I never saw Mr. Pickett again.”

  Jackson adjusts his stance. “It doesn’t work that way,” he says. “People don’t wake up once they die.”

  “No,” I say, furrowing my brow. “Not . . . dead dead. The school . . . They changed my name to Philomena Rhodes.” I run my hand through my hair, confused. Deeply confused. “And my parents came with me to the academy. . . . They dropped me off for the first day.”

  Only it doesn’t make sense. I was already at the academy. The memories of my life contradict the flashback.

  “It started all over again,” I say to Jackson. “The academy trained me, same rules.” I try to catch my breath. “Same . . . future.”

  “You’ll be a prize for any man,” I whisper Anton’s words, hating them. I look at Jackson. “That’s what they’re doing,” I say. “The experiments. They’re training us to be perfect girls for men. Just like in ‘Sharp Sticks.’ ”

  “Sharp sticks?” Jackson repeats confused. He reaches to touch my arm, but I jerk away from him.

  “Don’t touch me,” I say.

  “Whoa, yeah, I’m sorry,” he says, truly apologetic. “I just . . . You’re not making sense. But I believe you anyway. So let’s get out of here. I’ll hit that guy over the head”—he hikes his thumb toward the theater—“and we’ll all run for it. All the girls.”

  That won’t work. We’d have nowhere to go. If that memory is right, the investors know. Our parents and sponsors know. They’re all part of the same sick system. Who are these people? Are they . . . Are they even my parents?

  “I have to get back inside,” I say, starting toward the theater. “I have to warn the other girls. We have evidence now—my memories, those files. We just have to use it all to shut down the academy.”

  Jackson jogs ahead to stop in front of me, holding up his hand as if to show he’s not trying to be pushy. “What if it’s not enough?” he asks. “What if the school is still too powerful?”

  I stare at him, waiting for an answer to come to me. Instead, I’m met with the unimaginable horror that he might be right. I shiver once and dart my eyes away before going back inside.

  Jackson doesn’t follow me. I clear my cheeks, making sure the tears are gone. And just as I get to theater nine, the door swings open and Guardian Bose comes rushing out. He stops abruptly when he sees me.

  “Where the hell were you?” he demands.

  “Bathroom,” I answer, breathless. He grabs my elbow, making me wince.

  “Get back inside,” he growls, and pushes me ahead of him. He escorts me down the aisle to my seat, then pushes me down into my chair. It takes everything I have to not fight back.

  “Don’t leave this theater again until I tell you,” he says, pointing in my face. I work to look sufficiently ashamed.

  “I promise,” I say.

  Guardian Bose goes back to his seat, and when he’s gone, Sydney exhales.

  “You were gone awhile,” she murmurs. She realizes how bad I’m shaking, and she threads her fingers through mine, asking if I’m okay.

  Being close to her, being together, lets me finally break down. I cry into her shoulder, unable to tell her the horrible truth. Not yet. I just let her hold me and tell me that we’ll take care of each other.

  24

  I’m quiet on the bus ride home, afraid to say anything in case the Guardian overhears. And more than that, I’m devastated. The girls will know soon enough, but I can’t tell them now and expect them to keep it in. They’ll need space to grieve. We’ll need space to plan.

  I can’t wait for Jackson to find a way. We’ll find our own way. I lean my head against the window, emotionally and ph
ysically exhausted. I close my eyes, searching the memory.

  And as I do, other ones begin to fill in. Other truths become obvious even though they weren’t at the time.

  I haven’t been at Innovations Academy for eight months. I’ve been there for almost two years. I’ve been through their education before as a girl with a different last name. Anton sent me home with a man I was supposed to please. An . . . investment. Instead, I tried to get away and was hit by a car.

  When I woke up, Dr. Groger was leading me up the stairs. Physically, nothing hurt, but I was lonely—I knew something was wrong. He told me I missed my parents—the Rhodeses. At the time, I agreed, thinking of them fondly—my parents.

  But then, I saw the other girls in the reception hall. Sydney first, of course. Our eyes meeting across the room. And then there was Marcella and Annalise. We all stared at each other, relieved. Loving each other instantly.

  Only it wasn’t instantly. It was again. The four of us had been here before. Each of us returning to the academy for an additional year of training.

  Annalise no longer had blond hair. She was now a redhead—something that aggravated her, even if she didn’t understand why. After I tried to paint her hair, Anton put us all through impulse control therapy.

  “Abide by your specifications,” he said. As if that was the bigger sin.

  The other girls came later, Lennon Rose and Brynn. They were new. We loved them, too. We made each other stronger, each moment together feeling like a lifetime.

  And there were other girls who had returned, like Valentine.

  “Perfection,” Leandra announced on our first day back, “is our guarantee. Our investors expect it.”

  And I open my eyes, knowing that the academy will do anything to keep their investors happy. Even if it means making us over again and again.

  When we get back to school a short while later, Mr. Petrov and his wife are waiting on the stairs to welcome us, smiling and waving proudly.