Girls with Sharp Sticks

“Waiting for what?” I ask.

Valentine turns to me and whispers, “To wake up.”

Her eyes narrow, fierce and unwavering. Her hands curl into fists at her side.

I shiver again, but this time it’s not from the rain. The academy tells us not to ask philosophical questions because we’re not equipped for the answers. They teach us what we need, rather than indulging our passing curiosities. They say it helps maintain our balance, like soil ripe for growth.

Valentine’s words are dangerous in that way—the beginning of a larger conversation I want to have. But at the same time, one I don’t quite understand. One that scares me. Why would the flowers say such a thing? Why would flowers say anything at all?

Just as I’m about to ask her what the flowers are waking up from, there is a firm grip on my elbow. Startled, I spin around to find Guardian Bose towering over me.

“I’ve got it from here, Philomena,” he says in his deep voice. “Catch up with the others.”

I shoot a cautious glace at Valentine, but her expression has gone back to pleasant. As the Guardian approaches her, Valentine nods obediently before he even says a word. Her abrupt change in character has left me confused.

I start toward the bus, my brows pulled together as I think. Sydney holds out her hand when she sees me and I take it gratefully, our fingers wet and cold.

“What was that about?” she asks as we walk.

“I’m not exactly sure,” I say. “Valentine is . . . off,” I add for lack of a better word. I don’t know how to explain what just happened. Especially when it’s left me so uneasy.

Sydney and I look back in Valentine’s direction, but she and the Guardian are already heading our way. Valentine is quiet. Perfect posture. Perfect temperament.

“She looks fine to me,” Sydney says with a shrug. “Her usual boring self.”

I study Valentine a moment longer, but the girl who spoke to me is gone, replaced with a flawless imitation. Or, I guess, the original version.

And I’m left with the burden of the words, an infectious thought.

Wake up, it whispers. Wake up, Philomena.

 

 

2



The bus tires bump over a pothole, and Sydney falls from her seat to land in the center aisle with a flop. She immediately laughs, standing up to take a dramatic bow when the other girls giggle.

Professor Penchant orders Sydney to sit down, poking the air impatiently with his finger. Sydney offers him an apologetic smile and slides into the seat next to me, mouthing the word “Ouch.”

I jut out my bottom lip in a show of sympathy before Sydney gets up on her knees to talk to Marcella and Brynn in the seat behind us.

“At least they bought us rain covers,” Marcella is saying to Brynn. “I’ve always wanted to wear a trash bag in public. Goal achieved.”

“I believe it’s called a ‘rain slicker,’ ” Sydney corrects, making Brynn snort a laugh. “And don’t settle yet, Marcella,” she adds. “Maybe next time we’ll get a potato sack.”

Brynn nearly falls out of her seat laughing. Marcella catches her by the hand, intertwining their fingers. They smile at each other.

Marcella and Brynn have been dating since our second day of school at the Innovations Academy. Eight months later, they’re closer than ever. A perfect pair, if anyone were to ask me. Marcella is clever and decisive while Brynn is nurturing and creative. Despite the strength of their relationship, they keep it a secret from the school—afraid the Guardian will separate them if he finds out. Our education is supposed to be our only focus. Dating is strictly forbidden.

Annalise Gibbons raises her hand from the seat in front of us, and when Guardian Bose notices, he exhales loudly and rolls his eyes. “What?” he asks.

“I really have to go to the bathroom,” she says. “It’s an emergency.”

We’re still about an hour from the school, I’m guessing, so the Guardian gets up to speak to the driver. We wait in anticipation of an unexpected stop, watching him in the oversized rearview mirror as he talks quietly to the older man behind the wheel. The white-haired driver nods as if he doesn’t care either way, and Guardian Bose lifts his eyes to the mirror, where he catches us staring at him. Several of us lower our heads so we don’t sway his opinion in the other direction.

“There’s a gas station a few miles up,” Guardian Bose announces. “Only those who have to go to the bathroom get off the bus, understand? Otherwise we’ll fall behind schedule.”

There are murmurs of “yes, we understand,” but a buzz reverberates through all of us. Normally our field trips are limited to one place and very few people outside of our group. Nothing unexpected ever happens. At that thought, I sit up taller to check on Valentine.

She’s in the front seat, across the aisle from the Guardian. Her long black hair flows over the back of the padded green seat, but she is impossibly still, staring out the windshield and not acknowledging any of us. Like she’s thinking about the roses again.

Today has been unexpected. Unusual, even. But it’s about more than Valentine’s peculiar behavior in the flower garden. It’s about the restlessness her words have caused. The way my head seems to itch somewhere just out of reach.

No, today is different—that much I know for certain. And to prove it, a sign for a gas station appears on our right and the bus edges that way, bumping over the lane dividers.

The other girls press against the windows as I grab money from the front pocket of my backpack and tuck it into my waistband. The bus hisses to a stop to the side of the building.

A beat-up yellow car pulls in just behind us and parks at the gas pump. Other than that, the place looks deserted, run down. Grimy in a quaint way, I suppose. Like it’s never been updated. Never changed.

Despite the Guardian’s warning, nearly all of us stand to go inside—thrilled at the chance to see someplace new.

Guardian Bose is quick to hold up his hands. “Really?” he asks. “All of you?”

A few make frantic gestures like their bladders might explode, and others look at him pleadingly. I just want to buy candy. We’re not allowed sweets at the academy; our food is closely monitored. Even at home, my parents didn’t allow sugar in my diet. But I find I crave it desperately, especially after getting a taste on a field trip earlier this year.

The school brought us to an art exhibit at a museum just outside of town. It wasn’t during regular business hours, so we had the place to ourselves. Sydney and I raced up the stairs when the Guardian wasn’t looking, and Lennon Rose, Annalise, and I spent extra time staring at the nude male statues until Annalise nearly snapped off a penis while posing dramatically next to him. And before we left, we all stopped in the gift shop. Some bought postcards for their parents or a souvenir or two. I picked out several bags of M&M’s and Starburst candies.

Honestly, I don’t understand the addictive properties of sugar—it’s never been mentioned in our classes—but I can attest they are life altering.

And so I put on my most pleasing and innocent expression for the Guardian. I must not be alone in trying this, because he darts his pale eyes around the bus and then shakes his head.

“Fine,” he says. “You go in small groups. Fifteen minutes and we’re back on the road. Understand?”