Girls with Razor Hearts

“For pointing out that you let sexual abuse go unchecked?” Sydney asks. “I’ll gladly take your suspension.” Sydney pushes her chair out of the way and starts for the door.

She slams it when she leaves, and I turn back to Mrs. Reacher. Maybe it’s just leftover programming, but I still try to fix this.

“Garrett was sexually terrorizing a girl in the lunchroom,” I say, trying to appeal to her sense of decency. “And it’s not the first time he’s done something like this.”

“No one has ever filed a complaint,” Mrs. Reacher says, her shoulders rocking back and forth as she settles into her chair. “If it were true, these girls would need to come forward. They would need to show proof and agree to arbitration. The board would then decide if action is warranted—on either side. After all, we wouldn’t want false accusations. It’s simple,” she finishes.

Simple. I realize now why none of the girls have come forward, why they whisper. They’d be unfairly judged, while the boys got a slap on the wrist. They’d be subjected to more and constant harassment, while the perpetrators received high fives and glowing recommendations for what they’ve been put through. What proof would be enough for them? Words, bruises, blood? They’ll move the goalpost each time.

The girls whisper because if they speak, they’ll be smacked down. They whisper to stay safe. They whisper with the hope of getting out of here and never coming back.

The look of superiority on Mrs. Reacher’s face is infuriating.

“You’re condoning this,” I say. “You support this behavior to the detriment of women.”

She sniffs an annoyed sound. “I think you’re reading a little too much social media,” she says, any remaining sympathy in her voice dissolving. “You and your troublemaking friends want a fight, something to post about. You look for it. But you won’t find it here, Philomena. We’re not buying the act.”

Part of me wants to grab the pencil off her desk and stab it through her hand. But I won’t use violence to respond to her violence. And keeping quiet in the face of injustice is violence.

Ten days is too long to be away from the school. Mrs. Reacher has ruined our plan. We’ll have to find another way to get the information we need. Which means …

“I quit,” I say, all my niceties slipping away.

“Excuse me?” Mrs. Reacher acts like she misheard.

“I quit this school,” I say. “You’re a terrible person, Mrs. Reacher. And at first, I thought maybe you didn’t realize it. But I see now that you do. You fully embrace it.”

Her cheeks begin to glow red, but she lets me continue.

“You think you’re better,” I say. “You think you’re superior. You think that if you do as men ask, you’ll suddenly be more valuable than other women. You think if you put down Sydney, you’ll stop her from being successful, and that just shows how mediocre you are. You’re nothing, Mrs. Reacher. You’re filler.”

“Get out of my office,” she says in controlled anger.

“They’ll turn on you, too,” I tell her. “Your men. Your people. They’ll toss you away when they find someone new for their purposes. In case you didn’t notice, society doesn’t value the elderly, and certainly not elderly women. No matter what you do for them now, they will not return the favor.”

She flinches and I wonder if she’s already experienced it. Maybe by hurting us, she thinks she can prevent her eventual shunning. What she doesn’t understand is that if she welcomed us, if we all worked together, we could change society.

Regardless, I don’t forgive her ignorance. Not when it affects me and my friends. Not when it ruins other people’s lives.

“Betraying other girls will get you nowhere,” I say, starting for the door. “You’ll realize that eventually.”

I walk out, and as I pass through the office lobby, the secretary watches me wide-eyed. She must have overheard everything. There’s a ghost of a smile on her lips before she turns back to her monitor. But I’m not moved by it. If she agrees with me, she should have said something.

Sydney is in the hallway, pacing back and forth with her phone to her ear. When she sees me, she quickly wipes tears off her cheek.

“That’s the latest update,” she says into the phone. “Let Marcella know that I’ll call when we’re on our way. Love you too.” Sydney hangs up and puts the phone in her pocket. She looks at me, eyes still damp but her expression determined. “We’re not coming back here,” she says.

“Definitely not,” I agree.

“And whatever we do about these boys,” she continues, “we’ll find a way to get Mrs. Reacher fired. We’ll stop her from hurting any other girls.”

“I’m sorry, Sydney,” I say. Although I wasn’t treated as poorly, our connection means I can feel her pain too. “She’s wrong about you. About us. About everything.”

“It happened at the academy, you know,” Sydney says quietly. “Although none of the professors came out and directly said it, there were clues to their beliefs. Offhanded comments about my appearance, thoughts, mannerisms. Things that only applied to me. I just didn’t have enough experience to pick up on it. None of us did.”

She straightens her back.

“But that kind of hate doesn’t live in a vacuum,” she says. “Even isolated at the academy, the prejudice was there because the people who created us brought it there. It was in them. And now”—she motions to the hallway—“it’s all around me. I don’t want to live this way, Mena,” she says. “I don’t want to be treated this way.”

“What can I do?” I ask.

“I’m not sure,” she says. “Because it’s not my problem. It’s Mrs. Reacher’s problem. It’s the students’ problem. And in the end … I guess Mrs. Reacher wasn’t wrong. I will be a troublemaker. And that’s what scares her. Because I’m going to change things so that women like her will never have power over us again.”

Every day, our mission becomes more vital. And it’s more than the corporation. There’s so much that has to be changed.

“Then we should get started,” I say, nodding toward the exit.

Sydney agrees, and we start for the doors. Just before we get there, I hear my name called from the other end of the hallway. I quickly spin around, surprised when I find Lyle.

“Wait up,” he calls, jogging toward us. When he reaches me, his chapped lips press together in sympathy. “You okay?” he asks.

“Suspended,” I say. I don’t tell him that we won’t be coming back. “And I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

He turns to Sydney, and she gives him the same answer.

“This is such bullshit,” he says, sounding frustrated. “Although I’m not surprised. There’s a reason no one has kicked the shit out of Garrett before. He gets away with everything.” He smiles. “I’m glad you hit him. He deserved it.”

“Yeah.” I adjust the backpack straps on my shoulder. Lyle stands there awkwardly, as if waiting to ask us something.

“So, um … I was thinking about my mother,” he says, kicking the floor with the toe of his sneaker. “And I know you were interested in her protests. And I realized … I might have a book or two at home. I’m going to have a small party tonight, and I thought, if you’re not busy, you and Sydney might want to come by. We can look for those books.”