Girls with Sharp Sticks

My heart is thumping wildly as Jackson and I walk a few yards into the woods to keep out of sight. We find a thick patch of bushes with a broken log behind them that we can sit on. It’s a little damp, but I don’t mind. When Jackson sits next to me, the wood creaking, I notice scratches on his hand, and a few marks on his leather coat.

“You’re hurt,” I say, concerned. I trace one of the longer scratches on his hand with my fingertip, never actually touching him.

Jackson inspects his scratches now that I’ve pointed them out. “Huh,” he says. “Well, yeah. Those woods are downright treacherous. Not exactly student-friendly.”

“We never come out here,” I say, glancing up at the tree canopies. “And if I’m honest, I can’t believe you did.” I look sideways at him and see his breath catch when I do. “Did you really think I was dead?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “Not really. Okay, sort of, which is why I had to come check on you. I navigated those woods only to find an impenetrable fence—or so I thought—and then I saw your friends jogging. I hoped they wouldn’t think I was an ax murderer. Thankfully Sydney recognized me and held up her finger to tell me to hold on. That was like . . .” He pauses, thinking about it. “Twenty minutes ago.”

“You’ve been out here that long?” I ask.

“Longer.” He widens his eyes. “This was not a well-thought-out plan.”

I laugh, and he holds out the bag of candy to me. I thank him politely and reach in to take the sour candies. He does the same with his chocolate kisses.

“So . . . ,” he says. “If you don’t mind me asking, what the fuck kind of school is this?”

“What do you mean?”

“What do I mean?” he repeats surprised. “This place belongs to a technology firm—or at least it used to. Not to mention some asshole grabbed you and physically pulled you from the store. He yanked you outside. I should have done more to stop him.”

I’m embarrassed that he’s brought up my behavior. “I didn’t listen,” I say quietly, and pick through the candy. I’m fidgeting, I realize suddenly, and stop to pay attention to Jackson again.

He stares at me, and I sense the worry in his expression.

“Who are your parents, Mena?” he asks. “Why are you here? I’m sure there are other schools that want to ‘make girls great again,’ or whatever bullshit people still believe, but why one so isolated? Why this one?”

His question surprises me. “Because this is one of the most esteemed finishing schools in the country. Extensive training on social etiquette. It’s elite.”

“Okay . . . ,” he says, unimpressed. “And your parents? They’re okay with some guy grabbing you?”

“If I earned it? Yes,” I say. “My parents trust the academy. And they’re very smart people. My father runs a law firm and my mother is a philanthropist. She’s thinking of running for office one day.”

Jackson looks away, shifting his boots in the grass. “Yeah, well,” he says. “If she thinks you deserve this, she’s not getting my fucking vote.”

I’m not sure why, but I smile. I kind of enjoy his behavior, the bluntness of it. Like he’s saying exactly what he’s thinking. He notices my smile and laughs at himself.

“I waited a day, you know,” he adds. “I was worried about you, debated what to do. I almost followed the bus back here. But Q talked me down. Told me to make a plan. But I couldn’t wait that long, so I . . . I showed up. Some plan, right?”

I appreciate his concern. It’s different from the way the academy worries about me. Jackson doesn’t seem to care about my manners, about my hair or makeup—things he hasn’t mentioned even once.

“Seems like a good plan to me,” I say, and hold out the bag of candy to him. He licks his lower lip, and then reaches to take out another piece of chocolate.

Although I was hesitant about my behavior at first, Jackson’s continued casual manners set me at ease. Sunlight filters through the clouds and branches, landing near my feet. I move so my sneaker can be in the warmth. I stare at the woods, listening to the birds chirping. It’s really peaceful out here.

“Would you like a kiss?” Jackson asks.

Heat swarms my face, and when I turn to him, he holds out a small, silver-covered chocolate. He smiles at my blush.

“Thank you,” I say, taking it from between his fingers. Jackson turns back toward the academy, sweeping his eyes over the stone façade. Pausing at the barred windows.

“So it’s a school now,” he says. “Looks the same, you know, other than the terrifying sign they added near the road. Might as well be a skull and crossbones.”

“Wait,” I say, sitting up straighter. “You’ve been on campus before?”

“Yeah,” he says. “On the property. Back before it was all overgrown. Before they put a fence around it.”

“When was the last time you were here?” I ask, fascinated. The idea that Jackson has been to the academy before is thrilling. It’s like we suddenly have so much in common, even though rationally, we probably don’t.

“Four years ago,” he says, avoiding my eyes. “When I was fourteen. I used to run away a lot. I was a bit of a fuckup, if I’m honest. I would usually stay at Q’s house, but every so often, his parents would look worried, and I’d know it was time to take off for a while. Pretend to go home. Instead, we’d find places—old buildings, places to camp. My parents would always track me down, though. Eventually had to go to court. Was given community service where I literally spent one hundred hours picking up trash on the freeway.”

“Why did you run away from home?” I ask. I’m astonished at the idea of hiding from your own parents. It seems so . . . disrespectful.

“My dad,” Jackson says. “My dad could be a real . . .” He stops himself and looks at the school again. “We didn’t get along,” Jackson says instead. “We had different values. And I didn’t like the way he treated my mother.”

“And now?”

Jackson flicks his eyes to mine, pausing a long moment before answering. “Now it’s just the two of us, so we don’t have a choice.”

“Two of you?”

“My mother died,” he says, and then swallows hard. “She died three years ago, and my father sobered up real quick.”

There is a sudden ache in my heart. I’ve never known anyone who’s died. “I’m so sorry,” I say.

“I know you are,” he says, wincing, “and I have no idea why I just told you that. It was stupid. I’m sorry.” He looks away, vulnerable. Still pained. He clearly doesn’t want to talk about it.

We sit quietly, eating candy. It’s not uncomfortable, despite the lack of conversation. When Jackson turns back to me, his expression softens.

“So what about you?” he asks. “You’ve been here eight months. How often do you go home?”

“Never,” I say.

“What?” he asks. “You just . . . You stay here?”

“Yes. We live here full-time. It’s an accelerated program.”