Girls with Sharp Sticks

“I want to go home, Mr. Wolfe,” I hear Rebecca whisper.

“Soon,” he tells her. Another kiss. “Soon, I promise.”

“You promised before. When?”

The kissing stops, and instead there is the rustling of clothing, the creak of the couch as someone stands.

“I understand you want to go home,” the lawyer says, his tone suddenly all business. “But your parents expect a graduated girl. Withdrawing you early will—”

“You told me you’d speak to them,” she says. “You promised. But I haven’t heard from them in months.”

“You’ll do as you’re told,” he says. “Your parents have put me in charge of your education. They can’t know about our . . . meetings,” he says with a hint of disgust. I blink quickly, offended by his tone.

“Of course,” Rebecca says, a frantic edge to her voice. “I won’t tell them. I promise. But why haven’t they come to get me?”

“Because I never advised them on the matter,” the lawyer says, matter-of-factly.

“But . . . you promised,” Rebecca says, her voice cracking.

“You should be glad,” Mr. Wolfe snaps. “You have no idea what you’ll be going home to.”

“Carlyle,” she pleads, using his first name. There is a loud crack, and Rebecca gasps.

I press my hand over my mouth, sure that he slapped her. Impulsively, I push off the wall to intervene.

“Please don’t go, Mr. Wolfe,” Rebecca begs, and I stop my approach. “I didn’t mean to be rude,” she says. “I just want to go home.”

“Don’t ever disrespect me again,” Mr. Wolfe says. There’s an authoritative pitch in his voice, like he won the argument. “I suggest you keep a positive attitude, Rebecca. It’s only a few months until graduation. We’ll continue our meetings until then. Understood?”

“Yes,” she says, defeated. “Thank you.”

I hear them move, the kiss goodbye, and I hide against the wall as he walks out and heads back toward the party. When he’s gone, I slip inside the alcove and find Rebecca on the couch, applying foundation from a compact to her reddened cheek.

“Rebecca?” I whisper. She jumps, startled.

“Mena,” she says. “What are you doing here?” She clicks the compact closed and sets it back inside her clutch. She seems horrified that I’m in her space.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to listen, but I heard what Mr. Wolfe—”

“I shouldn’t have disrespected him,” she says immediately, embarrassed. “I was out of line, and he redirected me.”

Thinking it over, I sit next to her on the couch. “He was overzealous,” I say, repeating what Dr. Groger told me about the Guardian. Rebecca looks at me and nods, but I see there’s still pain in her expression.

“Why . . . ?” I start, considering my words. “Why do you want Mr. Wolfe to send you home early?” I ask. “Don’t you like it here?”

“Of course,” Rebecca replies automatically, staring at the floor. “It’s just . . . After the first open house, Mr. Wolfe met with me. Said we’d continue meeting until I graduate. I can’t be rude to him,” she says. “But I thought . . . I thought if I could go home, then I wouldn’t have to meet with him anymore. I know it was wrong. I’m being selfish.”

Maybe it’s the wine, but sickness swirls in my stomach. Although we must listen to the people protecting us, the fact that this relationship is secret seems . . . wrong. And Rebecca is hurt, confused.

“I can help,” I say. “If you want to go to Anton, I’ll tell him what I heard and we—”

“No,” she says adamantly, gripping my hand. “You can’t. He’ll devalue me. Mr. Wolfe has already warned me. Anton can’t help me, Mena.”

“But—”

“Please,” she begs. “I need you to stay out of this. Please?”

I want to protect her, but I also want to respect her wishes. “Okay,” I say reluctantly.

She waits a beat before thanking me. Then she grabs her clutch and gets to her feet, smoothing down her dress. She murmurs goodbye before leaving to return to the party, presumably to socialize with Mr. Wolfe like none of this happened.

When she’s gone, I stand in the hallway awhile, not sure what to do. I’ve never been drunk before, and I find this makes my thoughts wild, unimpeded by manners.

The night’s events are fading into a blur of fancy dresses, wolfish smiles, and loud kisses. It’s opulence and wine. Too much wine.

I decide that I need to talk to Sydney about this and get her thoughts on the matter. I wind back toward the party, hoping to avoid Rebecca and her lawyer. Guardian Bose is still at the entrance, and he watches me curiously as I reenter. He doesn’t ask why I’m back, but I feel him scrutinizing my behavior. I work extra hard to remain steady in my heels as I cross the room, looking for Sydney.

I don’t see her at first, although I notice Rebecca across the room standing with Mr. Wolfe, talking to another investor. She doesn’t even look in my direction.

“There you are,” Sydney calls, startling me. I spin and find her approaching, alone. Her eyes are lit up, still joyful from seeing her parents; they must have just left.

I covertly wave her toward me, away from the few lingering guests. Sydney comes to meet me, laughing like I’m acting strangely.

“Okay, what did I miss?” she asks. “I saw you with Winston Weeks. Is he nice?”

I dart a quick look across the party at Rebecca again, and Sydney narrows her eyes as she reads my mood.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. I take her arm and bring her closer.

“I need your opinion,” I whisper. “I saw Rebecca and her lawyer tonight.”

“I did too,” Sydney says. “Rebecca looked lovely.”

“She did,” I agree. “But I don’t mean at the party. They were in the hall, hidden in one of the alcoves. They were . . . kissing,” I say even lower.

Sydney stares at me for a long moment as if she doesn’t understand what I mean. Then she shakes her head. “Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe?” she asks.

I nod, but she looks doubtful.

“You sure it’s not the wine?” she asks. “I watched you drink a glass.”

“Two,” I correct. “But, yes. I’m sure. And that’s not all. Mr. Wolfe slapped her.”

This makes Sydney frown. “Why?” she asks. “What did she do?”

“She called him by his first name. And it turns out, Mr. Wolfe has been kissing her since the first open house, telling her they’d continue doing so until she graduates. Rebecca wants to go home to get away from him. But he . . .” I furrow my brow. “He was wrong to hit her, right?”

“I don’t know,” Sydney says honestly. “He is in charge of her education. . . .”

But the reasoning doesn’t hold up. The academy has warned us that there are terrible people in the world—ones who will lie to us, manipulate us. The academy promised to protect us from them.

What if Mr. Wolfe is one of those people they should be protecting us from?