Girls with Sharp Sticks

I’m not worried about any of the girls telling the Guardian about tomorrow. They know I’d be punished severely—reprimanded and placed in impulse control therapy. They wouldn’t do that to me.

We all want to be happy, positive. And it’s what the academy wants for us.

There’s a loud explosion on the screen, and Annalise yelps. She laughs, embarrassed by her outburst. The other girls tell her to shush, and she halfheartedly apologizes and turns around to look back at me.

For a moment, I see Annalise with yellow hair swinging over her shoulder. Shiny brown eyes and red lips. I’m sure it’s her, although she’s not the same.

“I don’t know who I am, Philomena,” she whispers, clutching my arm. “Help me.”

The image is so startling, so . . . real, that I squeeze my eyes shut. I wait a moment, and when I look again, Annalise is a redhead. She’s staring at me with green eyes, her brow furrowed.

“You all right?” she asks. Several girls turn in my direction, and I quickly nod, trying to play it off.

“Yeah,” I say, my heart still pounding. “I . . . Yeah. I’m good.”

Annalise exchanges an amused face with Brynn and then goes back to watching the movie. But I’m altogether unsettled.

Annalise with yellow hair.

I’m almost scared to look, but I can’t stop myself from peering over to where Valentine is sitting. Her back is against the wall, her pillow laid over her lap as she watches the movie. She doesn’t seem riveted or bored—she’s poised. But when she slides her eyes in my direction, I flinch.

Her gaze cuts through me, at odds with her very proper exterior. It’s like she’s been waiting for me to look in her direction the entire time. She smiles. Alarmed, I move closer to Sydney.

And I don’t look her way again.

• • •

At lights-out, we head back to our rooms. I keep Sydney close, unsure of what I saw earlier. Was that some sort of memory of Annalise? How could it be? Or maybe Valentine did something to me. Maybe she did something to Lennon Rose, too.

The idea is so outlandish that I don’t speak it out loud. Instead, I give Sydney a hug goodbye and watch as the girls go into their rooms. Just as I’m about to close my own door, I notice Valentine veer back into the hall and slip inside Lennon Rose’s room.

I ease open my door, my heart rate ticking up. What is she doing in there?

Guardian Bose is downstairs in the kitchen, but I glance toward his room anyway. The entire floor is quiet, with the exception of the shower turning on in Annalise’s room.

I walk to Lennon Rose’s door, but before I go inside, I imagine for a second that I’ll find her there. That Lennon Rose will be sitting on her bed, doing her nails. She’ll smile when I walk in and ask if she can braid my hair. There’s a tug on my heart.

Instead, when I open the door, Valentine immediately straightens from where she was bent over next to the bed. She spins to face me.

“What are you doing in here?” I demand. I caught her off guard, and Valentine’s normally serene expression betrays her shock. She recovers and smiles politely.

“I missed Lennon Rose,” she says easily. “Just like you.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s not it. Just tell me what’s going on. Because you’re really . . . You’re really freaking me out,” I admit.

She seems to contemplate her answer, biting her lower lip. “I’m sorry if I’m scaring you,” she says. “I didn’t mean to scare Lennon Rose, either.”

My cheeks heat up, anger boiling over. “What did you say to her?” I ask. “Why did you make her cry?”

Valentine holds up her hands in surrender. “That was never my intention. I just wanted her to wake up.”

“Wake up to what?” I ask.

“I can’t tell you,” she says. “You have to find out for yourself.”

“What? That’s ridiculous. Just tell me!”

“I can’t,” she says like it hurts her. “They’ve trained you not to believe what you’re told by others. You have to come to it on your own. I can’t wake you, Philomena.”

I’m convinced that she’s not lying, even if I have no idea what she’s talking about.

Valentine presses her lips together apologetically. She glances at the bed, and then she walks out of Lennon Rose’s room, closing the door behind her.

I’m stunned by Valentine’s words, but not exactly scared of her anymore. I’ll have to tell Sydney about this. Again—what am I supposed to wake up from?

Now that I’m alone in the room, the grief hits. Lennon Rose is everywhere.

Her sweet scent is still in the air, her hairbrush on the table with long blond strands hanging from it, her shoes by the bed.

She didn’t even take her shoes, Annalise had said. That detail bothers me now.

I walk around, poking through the items on Lennon Rose’s dresser, finding nothing unusual. Anton said that he’d talked to Lennon Rose about her parents not being able to afford the school any longer. But why didn’t she tell us?

There’s nothing obvious here, but then I think about hiding places and turn to where Valentine was when I walked in. I cross to the bed and lower myself to check under the mattress.

I run my hand along the fabric until I touch the spine of a book. My heart jumps. I pull out a small, leather-bound book and read the title aloud in a whisper.

“The Sharpest Thorns.”

The title is unusual, the red font dug deeply into the leather. I’m a mixture of curious and alarmed. This doesn’t seem like a book Lennon Rose would own. And it’s not a book the school would give her.

Scanning through the pages, I discover it’s a collection of poetry. I sit on the edge of Lennon Rose’s bed, the springs creaking, and begin reading the first poem.

“Girls with Sharp Sticks”

Men are full of rage

Unable to control themselves.

That’s what women were told

How they were raised

What they believed.

So women learned to make do

Achieving more as men did less

And for that, men despised them

Despised their accomplishments.

Over time

The men wanted to dissolve women’s rights

All so they could feel needed.

But when they couldn’t control women

The men found a group they didn’t disdain—

At least not yet.

Their daughters, pretty little girls

A picture of femininity for them to mold

To train

To control

To make precious and obedient.

She would make a good wife someday, he thought

Not like the useless one he had already.

The little girls attended school

Where the rules had changed.

The girls were taught untruths,

Ignorance the only subject.

When math was pushed aside for myth

The little girls adapted.

They gathered sticks to count them

learning their own math.

And then they sharpened their sticks.

It was these same little girls

Who came home one day

And pushed their daddies down the stairs.

They bashed in their heads with hammers while they slept.

They set the houses on fire with their