Girls with Sharp Sticks

She’s right. The rules are there to keep us safe. I vow to be careful, even crossing my heart to show I’m serious.

Sydney snorts a laugh before we part to get ready for class.

As I shower, the taste of candy still on my tongue, I take extra time to shave my legs carefully, moisturize after, and blow-dry my hair. I don’t want to have to do it all before the party.

We’re required to look our best tonight. The Head of School will check us over before we walk out, and request changes if needed. He tends to like my hair pulled up for formal events, so I know to style it that way, a few curls framing my face. He likes Sydney’s hair straight or with big waves. And Lennon Rose must have her hair down at all times. There are more “specifications”—that’s what he calls them—and it’s up to us to meet his goals and then exceed them.

After slipping on my uniform and required makeup (foundation, blush, eyeliner, eye shadow, lipstick, mascara), I head to my morning classes. Professor Penchant discusses posture in Modesty and Decorum, while Professor Levin has us create party invitations in Modern Manners using the open house as our example. We’ve created these invitations several times before with little to no variation, but I like using the felt-tipped pens, so I don’t mind.

In Social Graces Etiquette, we read about the Federal Flower Garden again. Professor Allister says we need to understand the importance of beautiful things, so we just keep going over it.

Class goes by slowly, and I find myself staring out the window into the foggy morning, toward the woods. They’re thick, and they take up a few acres between us and the road, the iron fence slowly getting swallowed up by the growing brush. I wonder if one day the entire school will be enveloped, vines snaking inside the windows, smashing the glass, and wrapping around the bars.

But then I imagine Jackson lost in the woods this morning, trying to get to me, misguided and good-hearted. I smile and rest my chin on my palm.

“Philomena?” Professor Allister calls. Startled, I look up to find him waiting.

“I’m sorry, what?” I ask. He sighs and taps the white board with a pointer stick.

“When was the Federal Flower Garden erected?” he asks for what I assume is the second time.

“Three years ago,” I answer, feeling the heat from the stares of the other girls in class.

“And why?” Professor Allister follows up.

“Because beautiful things need to be preserved,” I recite. “Put on a pedestal. The flowers are an example to be emulated. Only beautiful things have value.”

“Excellent,” he says, nodding. He sweeps his eyes over me once and then turns back to the class to continue with his lesson.

I rest my chin on my palm and stare out the window again.

After yesterday’s excitement at the gas station, and today’s excitement beyond the fence with Jackson, I can barely keep my head in the classroom, drifting out into the woods and looking for adventure. Sydney has to kick my shoe twice in Etiquette, and I miss a lesson on proper phone manners. I’ve heard it before, though. They treat us like we forget everything the moment we walk out of class. But in fact, we’re excellent learners.

As I continue to analyze my interaction with Jackson today, I recognize that it doesn’t line up with what the academy teaches us at all. It’s a contradiction that I need clarification on.

I raise my hand and Professor Allister points at me, surprised.

“Yes, Philomena?”

“I have a question about etiquette,” I say, earning a few looks from the other girls. “In-person etiquette.”

The professor nods for me to continue.

“When having a conversation . . . ,” I start, considering my words. “When the man is very casual, is it proper to be casual in return?”

“Of course not, Philomena,” he says. “If you are conversing with a man, it is up to you to be pleasing and appropriate. Bad manners on your part show him you’re not worth his time.”

My heart sinks. Was I too casual with Jackson? If so, he might not return on Sunday.

“And this is a good lesson,” the professor says, addressing the class. “You must always be on your best behavior—a man will expect it. You represent the finest girls society has to offer. You represent Innovations Academy. Act accordingly.”

Several girls nod, but I swallow hard, regretting my earlier behavior. The past two days have left me lost, making mistakes I’ve never made before. I have to be better.

My last lesson of the day is Basics, and for that, I’m grateful. It’s a math day, and we’re working up to more complicated stuff—basic fractions to use while measuring ingredients or soil we use for our plants.

Although Innovations is an academy, they’re also growing their own produce, hybrid flowers, as well as plants used in our juices and vitamins. Annalise said the gardening teacher—Professor Driscoll—told her the academy hopes to go wide with the formulas. He said we’ve been a great example of their success.

Annalise smiles at me from across the classroom. All of us are eager to learn today. It never lasts, though—we won’t get another math lesson this month.

“Too much thinking is bad for your looks,” Professor Slowski says at least once a week in Basics, like it’s our running joke. But each time he says it, we wilt a little. We’re hungry for knowledge, but we don’t want it to adversely affect us.

When class is dismissed twenty minutes later, we’re told to have lunch and prepare for the party. The families and sponsors will begin to arrive around four, and dinner is served around five. We’re served salad, even though we’d much rather eat the rubbery chicken and potatoes. Then again, too much change in our diet makes us sick. But the occasional candy isn’t too bad, I’ve found.

I wave to Sydney as she exits her class, and we walk together toward the dining hall for lunch. Our salads and juices are already set out on the table, and Sydney and I sit down. Lennon Rose smiles when we join her and the other girls.

Brynn immediately starts to tell us about her dress for the open house—a soft lavender, which is Mr. Petrov’s favorite color on her. Brynn feels it clashes with her hair, but the Head of School knows best.

“I have another black dress,” Marcella says, sounding disappointed. “I was hoping it’d be red this time. Anton said that—”

“Can I sit here?” a voice asks suddenly, startling us.

The girls and I look up, surprised to find Valentine Wright standing at the end of our table, smiling politely.

Valentine is wearing the required uniform with delicate white socks, black shoes, and a bow tied in her hair. She’s perfectly poised, and yet . . . and yet there’s something different about her. A sharp edge I can’t quite see but sense is there. It’s puzzling, and I furrow my brow as I try to pinpoint the source of the feeling.

Marcella slides over to make room for Valentine at the table, the other girls watching curiously. Valentine has never sat with us before. When she takes a spot directly across from me and reaches for a salad, I study her a moment longer.

Her skin is bright and clear with the exception of a small bruise near the inside corner of her eye, the bluish color so subtle that the other girls might not even notice, almost like a pinprick.

Valentine thanks us for letting her join us and begins to eat. She offers no other comment, but obviously something is different. Why did she come to sit with us in the first place? I lean into the table toward Valentine.