His eyes flash and his smile widens. “Then why would you go?”

I shrug. “Curious, I guess. Why, are you good or something?”

Jonah laughs. Above us the starting bell rings, and several students push past me to get into the classroom.

“I should go,” I say, motioning toward my seat. I start that way, but Jonah calls my name, loud enough for the entire classroom to look in my direction.

“It was cool to meet you finally,” Jonah says. I turn back to him, forcing a smile.

“Cool to meet you, too.” My response comes out awkwardly, but he seems to find it endearing. He laughs and holds up his hand in a wave.

And without giving him a second more of attention, I walk to my seat. The room is quiet and I can feel the sets of eyes focused on me. I wish I could complain aloud, like I would to the girls. I’m sick of faking nice as a way to avoid violence, avoid menace.

Girls have to play nice or face the consequences.

How can the girls in this society stand it? Then again, when I was at the academy, I was literally created for it. They taught me to behave that way. I guess they’ve taught human girls too.

I take out my phone and quickly text Sydney to let her know I made contact with Jonah Grant. Once it’s sent, I put my phone away and look up.

Mr. Marsh is staring dead at me, his brow furrowed deeply. He quickly straightens his expression and smiles at me, saying good morning.

“Good morning, Mr. Marsh,” I reply sweetly. My tone seems to comfort him, and he addresses the class to say we’re having a pop quiz. As he begins to hand out the papers, Adrian leans toward me.

“They were talking about you,” she whispers, shooting a cautious glance in Marsh’s direction.

“Who?” I ask.

“Mr. Marsh and Jonah Grant,” she says.

Alarmed, I look back at the door even though Jonah is gone. “What about?” I ask Adrian. “What did they say?”

She shrugs, leaning back in her seat. “I’m not sure. But Jonah was here when I came in, and I heard them say your name. Marsh looked pissed. He slammed his hand down on the desk at one point and Jonah seemed genuinely intimidated. I’ve never seen him like that. Or Marsh, for that matter.”

Confused, I turn to watch Mr. Marsh as he passes papers along the right aisle. I try to figure out what they could have been talking about. Although I’m relieved Garrett isn’t here (that’s an understatement), he’s the one who hurt me at the game, who has been repeatedly harassing me. He should be the one Mr. Marsh was confronting.

Adrian told me on my first day that Mr. Marsh never corrects the behavior of the boys at school, especially Jonah Grant. So what’s changed? I turn to Adrian.

“Hey,” I start. “Would you want to hang out after school?”

I think it’s time I dig into the history of Ridgeview a bit more. And it’s time for Adrian to tell me what she’s so scared of. It might be the clue we need in order to find the investor.

“Oh, uh …” Her mouth twitches with a smile. “Yes, I mean. Sure. I’d like that.”

“Great.” I smile at her and set the book of poetry on my desk. She jots down her number and hands it to me.

Just then, I notice Mr. Marsh standing over me, and I gasp in surprise.

“Sorry,” he says, laying the quiz over my book. “Good luck, Philomena,” he adds, walking to Adrian’s desk.

* * *

Forty-five minutes later, the bell rings and I gather my belongings. Mr. Marsh calls my name when I stand up. Adrian tells me she’ll see me later, and I say goodbye.

I walk up to Mr. Marsh’s desk, and he leans down to rummage through a lower drawer in his desk.

“Yes?” I ask.

“I got some things for you,” he says. When he sits up, he holds out two small books to me. He seems troubled as I take them from his hands.

“Those weren’t easy to track down,” Mr. Marsh says. “I guess I never really looked until now.” The chair creaks as he leans back into it, running his hand through his hair. “I assumed more books were written about the Essential Women’s Act,” he continues, “but actually … there weren’t many. And none written by women. It’s the damnedest thing,” he murmurs to himself.

I turn over one of the books in my hand, reading the back. But a quote stands out to me: Balanced.

“What does this mean?” I ask Mr. Marsh, pointing it out to him. “What does it have to do with the Essential Women’s Act?”

“It, uh … It means the book explains both sides of the issue,” he says. “Equal coverage.”

“Both … sides?” I ask. “As in defending the side that was stripping women’s rights?”

“Yeah. Thinly veiled propaganda.” He pauses. “Do you know what that is?”

I nod. I’d read that chapter in our history book the first day.

“Like I said,” Mr. Marsh continues, “I thought there’d be more books.” He closes the desk drawer as students for his next class begin to file into the room. “I mean, we’re not that far gone as a society that we ignore women completely, right?” He laughs and I smile reflexively.

Maybe Mr. Marsh doesn’t realize how far his society has gone—or that he’s part of the problem. The fact that he’s never bothered to read a book about something so devastating as the Essential Women’s Act when he teaches history, the fact that he was so unbothered that he didn’t even try to seek out a woman’s point of view on the topic, says a lot about it. He can call it propaganda, speak out in the safety of his classroom. But where was Mr. Marsh when the laws were being passed? Probably at home, watching a male newscaster say how awful it was for women.

“Thank you for these,” I tell him, holding up the books as I back away.

“Hey, uh … Philomena,” he says. “I noticed those scratches are gone.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

He points on his neck to the same area where Garrett scratched me during his attack.

“The scratches you had at the game,” he clarifies. “They’re barely there. Are you a fast healer or something?”

“Oh,” I say, running my finger over the area. “Um, sort of. But they looked worse than they really were. Plus”—I smile winningly—“I have excellent makeup.”

He continues to stare at the area but relaxes his shoulders. “How’d you get them again?” he asks.

It occurs to me that I can’t demand that Mr. Marsh change his behavior if I don’t tell him what’s going on. Don’t give him the chance to react.

“One of the boys,” I say. “Garrett. He doesn’t like that I stand up to him when he’s harassing me or other girls.”

Mr. Marsh’s eyes narrow slightly. He looks suddenly impatient. “Yes,” he says. “He’s been problematic before. I’ll talk to him, okay? I’ll tell him to leave you alone.” My teacher waits, and I realize he’s expecting praise.

“Thank you,” I say. “I’d appreciate that.” He nods that it’s not a problem and begins to gather test papers for his next class.