Girls with Razor Hearts

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 placating 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.