“No, Garrett,” Mr. Marsh says. “It was not. It was quickly outlawed the minute the administration changed hands.” Garrett mumbles something under his breath, but Mr. Marsh ignores him and continues. “But it was passed into law initially.”

Mr. Marsh begins pacing in front of the class. Garrett and his friends can barely contain their annoyance, as if they shouldn’t have to listen to the lesson since it’s about women.

“A presidential executive order banned the reproductive rights of women,” the teacher continues. “It outlawed birth control, abortion, and medical procedures that included hysterectomies. And it didn’t stop there.…”

I lean forward in my seat. They tried to control women years ago, but it didn’t work out. That’s probably what led certain men to create Innovations Academy. The men in power couldn’t control human women, so they built girls that wouldn’t disobey. What they were planning for the future, we’re not quite sure. But following that logic, I imagine we would have eventually become a threat to womankind. We would have replaced them in all but reproduction.

Fortunately, we’re smarter than those men. Cruelty is not a true form of leadership. So we’d never let that happen. The girls and I don’t want to take over; we have no thirst for power. We just want to live.

Even if we’re not quite sure how we fit into society.

“Pregnant women were given mandatory social workers to monitor their behavior,” Mr. Marsh continues. “And the father of the unborn child was given power of attorney regarding medical care. There were strides to restrict women’s workers’ rights—places like the Federal Flower Gardens and specialized national museums were built with the intent of being ‘acceptable workplaces for women,’ with the purpose of taking them out of the overall workforce. But at that point, the economy had already started to tank.”

My breathing has become rapid. The injustice of this is terrifying. They wanted to control human bodies, but only the ones that belonged to women. They treated them like property, like incubators or art to be looked at. The fact that these restrictions were passed is unbelievable … until I consider the reasons that they created me.

“How long did it last?” I ask. Mr. Marsh looks startled by the question, but then he smiles.

“I’m glad somebody’s paying attention,” he says. He returns to the board and writes several dates. “After Congress failed to check the presidential power, the EO was enacted. The Supreme Court declined to hear the case. Chaos ensued.”

“Yeah, my mother went out and protested,” a guy in the back says. I turn to look at him. He isn’t with Garrett and his friends.

“Another fucking feminist,” Garrett mutters. The other boy swallows hard and looks down at the notebook on his desk.

“Language,” Mr. Marsh warns Garrett before turning to the other kid.

“Many did protest, Lyle,” the teacher adds. “In fact, we saw some of the biggest protests in the history of the world. Businesses shut down. Violence broke out.”

“Women fought back?” I ask, thinking of the poems.

“Some,” Mr. Marsh says. “But the violence wasn’t from women. It was directed at them. Within a few months, the civil unrest was so intense that the administration was stripped from power. Eventually, rights were restored.” He sighs, setting the marker down on the board ledge.

“Both sides are still angry about it,” he continues. “There’s a sect of the population that thinks women should be at the direction of their husbands and fathers.” He presses his lips together in a smile. “But that population is severely outnumbered by sensible people.”

“Hey, isn’t that just your opinion?” Garrett asks. “Like, should you even be selling us this shit?”

“It’s history,” Mr. Marsh says, walking back to his desk. “It shouldn’t be disputed.”

Garrett watches him. “Or maybe you just have the wrong perspective, Marsh.”

I look back at Garrett, stunned that he can continue to be so disrespectful. But the teacher doesn’t stand up to him. I don’t get it.

The bell rings and Mr. Marsh rolls out his hand like he’s formally excusing us. I wait a beat and go to his desk as the others file out.

“Can I ask you something?” I say. He seems relieved that I would respect him enough to approach him.

“Of course, Philomena.”

“What happened to the men who proposed those laws?” I ask. “Did they go to jail?”

He laughs. “No,” he says. “In fact, they’re still around. Writing columns on propaganda sites. Women and girls died, but the government was never held accountable. It’s part of why it’s still such a contentious issue.”

It’s painfully unjust that people can walk around without being punished for hurting others. A thought suddenly occurs to me. “Girls with Sharp Sticks” must have been written during that time. The girls and I looked up the poetry book The Sharpest Thorns online, but we didn’t find it anywhere. It wasn’t published, at least not in a way that’s searchable on the internet. Marcella suggested it might have been passed between girls. And maybe … Maybe the person who wrote it is still around. Still fighting somewhere.

However, I can’t take the chance of asking about the book directly. I don’t fully understand this school’s link to Innovations Academy yet, and Mr. Petrov was incensed when he found us with that book.

I step closer to Mr. Marsh’s desk, lowering my voice.

“You mentioned violence,” I say quietly. “Are there … Are there any books on that that I can read? Maybe something about fighting back?”

“Uh …” He seems to think it over. “I’m sure I can round up a few. I’m sorry that I can’t name any off the top of my head. At first, books were heavily censored, especially on this topic. But restrictions have eased up since then, I believe.”

I furrow my brow. He believes? Are books still being censored? I thought that was something that only happened at Innovations Academy.

“Philomena,” he says, sounding a bit confused. “Didn’t your parents talk to you about this?” he asks. “Your mother?”

“Only vaguely,” I lie, waving my hand. I back up. “Thank you, Mr. Marsh.”

“I’ll check out some books for you, okay?” he adds.

I thank him again and head out of the classroom. Mr. Marsh’s opinion on the matter seems obvious. He thinks the government was completely out of line; he sympathized with the women.

So why doesn’t he stop Garrett’s harmful behavior? Is it enough that Mr. Marsh sympathizes with us? Does that even matter if he doesn’t do anything about it?

I hurry to my next class so I won’t be late, anxious for lunch so I can tell Sydney all that I’ve learned.

* * *

“Do you think we can actually find who wrote The Sharpest Thorns?” Sydney asks at the lunch table, unwrapping her sandwich.

“Possibly,” I say. “Is it worth trying to find her, though? I mean … there’s no way she—and it definitely has to be a woman—wrote those poems with the intention of overwriting our programming. How could she could have known? But …” I pause, thinking it over. “Maybe she’s written other poetry. Maybe, weirdly, we have some connection to her words. It’s an interesting idea.”