Girls with Sharp Sticks

“You’ll be a beautiful bride one day soon,” he tells her. “And your husband will be a very lucky man, indeed.”

Mr. Petrov turns to inspect the next girl, but Brynn continues to stare straight ahead, smile held. Eyes shiny. It isn’t until Marcella reaches back to take her hand that Brynn lets out a held breath. I’m reminded of Lennon Rose’s question in my room. And the answer: Mr. Petrov knows what’s best for us. I ignore my feelings on the matter, and I turn around, opting not to watch any more of the inspections.

• • •

The first thing I notice is the bright red lipstick stain on the wineglass. The liquid has been abandoned at one of the tables near the sofa shortly after dinner, and I make my way over to sit on the velvet cushion closest to it. As the music from the piano drifts over the room, I search for the other girls and find nearly all of them occupied.

Sydney is smiling, beaming under her parents’ attention. I’ve always liked her family. They dress smartly, but not lavishly—no furs or overemphatic jewelry. Sydney told me once that her parents saved their entire adult lives to be able to afford sending her here. She does everything she can to make them proud.

Tonight, Sydney looks gorgeous in the sequined blush dress. Her mother and father exchange pleased looks as Sydney tells them a story. I feel a twinge of pride too. Sydney is dynamic and lovely. I’m lucky to have her in my life.

Sadly, she was wrong about my parents. They didn’t show up unexpectedly. I was prepared, of course. But . . . I did have a small bit of hope they would find a way to see me. Maybe next time.

It hasn’t gone unnoticed that my parents have missed all three open houses this year, even though the girls don’t bring it up. Anton tells me not to dwell on their absence. I try not to, but sometimes it’s hard not to wallow a little.

A loud laugh near the door startles me. I turn in that direction and see Marcella entertaining her parents. She must feel me watching her, because she looks over at me, and then at the wineglass. She flashes me a smile as if telling me to go for it. I sniff a laugh and turn to survey the rest of the room.

Lennon Rose’s parents are here, even though she hasn’t arrived yet. The couple is talking with Dr. Groger near the buffet table, drinks in hand. Serious expressions.

Lennon Rose’s mother is rail thin, elegant with heavy black brows and black hair. Her father has graying dark hair, brown eyes, and a stern chin. Lennon Rose’s parents are looking forward to bringing her home, grateful for the opportunity to raise an Innovations Girl—I’ve heard them say as much. They look positively forlorn now.

There’s a flash of pink fabric, and I turn just as Annalise drops onto the couch next to me. She tries to follow my line of vision. “Who are we staring at?” she asks, sounding bored.

“Lennon Rose’s parents,” I say.

Annalise juts out her bottom lip. “I noticed them too,” she says. “Hopefully Lennon Rose will be here soon.”

She shifts her eyes to mine, but we don’t mention the possibility that she might not. We still don’t even know why she was crying in line. At the thought of it, I look for Valentine and find her with her sponsor—her uncle—smiling and sipping seltzer water.

“She’ll be back,” Annalise murmurs about Lennon Rose. “Everyone has a bad day once in a while.”

It’s a normal thing to say, a phrase we’ve heard in movies. But it’s not exactly true at the academy. The last time I had a bad day, I was in impulse control therapy for twenty-four hours.

An uncomfortable thought scratches in my head, out of my reach. Dread crawls under my skin. I elect to change the subject.

Annalise sighs heavily and sits back against the sofa. She crosses her long legs, one of her stiletto heels dangling off her toes. Her feet are probably killing her, but Mr. Petrov requires at least a six-inch heel at all events. He says they’re the most flattering.

“Do you think any of these people do number four?” Annalise asks casually.

I burst out laughing and quickly put my palm over my mouth when I garner several discouraging stares.

There are prospective parents and sponsors here, as well as investors. The parents want to know if Innovations Academy can make their daughters exceptional—beautiful, respectful, obedient. Sponsors have a girl with potential, a relative or family friend, that they think will be a perfect fit. Then there are the investors—people without a girl who share the academy’s mission to make us all better. Extraordinary girls. Extraordinary school.

The investors are the ones we have to impress most, Professor Penchant told us at the beginning of the year. Demonstrate your value to those in attendance by showing how appealing a beautiful, obedient girl can be. Hold your tongue. Bat your eyes. Smile. Be best.

After meeting us, many of the prospective parents apply for their girls to attend Innovations. Few are selected. The rarity makes us more elite, I’m told.

But no prospective students ever attend these open houses. Their parents make the decision for them. I’m not sure when my parents decided to send me here. One day, we just showed up at the academy. We never even had a discussion about it—at least, not one that I remember.

I try not to think about it. Because every day that I’m at Innovations, my life before the academy grows a little foggier. The past getting farther away. Disappearing.

It’s not something I’ve mentioned to Anton; it’s never come up. And I haven’t told the other girls because it doesn’t seem important enough to worry them. Besides, it doesn’t really matter. I’m going to be a better girl after graduation.

I’m lucky to be here, I think. I’m lucky to be at such an esteemed academy.

Rebecca Hunt stands in the corner of the room, holding a glass of water while her lawyer holds an animated conversation with several guests. It’s odd, the way Rebecca seems to fade into the shadows on the wall. Trying to disappear rather than be on display.

Suddenly, a former student, Carolina Deschutes, sweeps into the ballroom wearing an extravagant gown, her grandmother on her arm. It’s rare for us to see alumni, but the Deschuteses make every open house.

Two girls, Andrea and Maryanne, rush over to Carolina, fawning over her peacock-inspired dress. She spins so they can take it all in, her grandmother beaming proudly at her side. And her grandmother is a spectacle herself. I once heard Anton call her, “Our very own Miss Havisham.” But I don’t understand the reference.

Grandmother Deschutes is at least eighty and barely five feet tall. She’s wearing a navy gown with a black stole, a sparkly headband in her short, gray hair. Her makeup is heavy, her eyelids painted purple.

Grandmother Deschutes has had three granddaughters attend Innovations Academy. Two of them are now married to very prestigious men, I’ve heard. She plans to have another granddaughter attend in the fall. The Deschutes name is quickly becoming a legacy, especially considering that Innovations Academy has only graduated twenty girls in the past three years.

This year will be different, though—that’s what Mr. Petrov says. We’re all on track for graduation. The academy’s most accomplished class of girls yet.

“My word, Philomena,” Annalise whispers. “Grandmother Deschutes is easily the most fabulous woman alive.” She turns to me wide-eyed. “I want to be her when I grow up.”