Girls with Sharp Sticks

“Yes. It’ll scar,” I say.

“I . . . don’t think so,” he says, dropping my hand. “I mean, not in any significant way. Here, come sit down. I have a Band-Aid in my backpack.”

“I can’t have any scars,” I tell him, worried.

“We all have scars,” he says as we sit on a fallen tree. He sifts through his backpack until he comes out with a Band-Aid. “See this one?” He points to the small scar above his eye. I had, indeed, noticed. “My cousin tripped me while I was running through the living room and sent me headlong into the coffee table,” he says. “Two stitches.”

“Why would he do that?” I ask, upset. But Jackson laughs.

“I don’t know. We were kids. I got him back a few years later when I accidently shut the door on his hand and broke three of his fingers.”

These injuries are shocking to me, especially in how casually Jackson accepts them. All of a sudden, his scar means more. It’s not just an imperfection, it’s a story. It’s a memory he wears on his skin. It doesn’t devalue him at all.

I look down at my hand, knowing I’ll have to ask the doctor to graft it, claiming I got hurt in a different way. But then I wonder why. Why do I have to be scar-free while Jackson doesn’t?

Jackson opens the wrapper and positions the Band-Aid. I don’t tell him that I can’t keep it on. I let him place it because I’m comforted by how gently he’s touching me. So at odds with the way men touch me at the academy—either cruelly or possessively.

I’d overanalyzed my last meeting with Jackson, thinking I’d have to be polite to get him to like me. That I’d have to appease him. I’m starting to realize that not everything I’ve been taught is true.

Jackson finishes applying the Band-Aid and crushes the wrapper in his hand before stuffing it into his backpack. He turns back to me, his expression serious.

“Do you want me to be more polite?” I ask suddenly. Jackson’s mouth twitches with a confused smile.

“Why would you think that?” he asks. “I want you to be yourself. I want you to be comfortable.”

It’s an interesting thought. Comfortable. I’m sure Professor Allister would say that’s the same as laziness, but when Jackson says it, it sounds right—the way you should want another person to feel. I’m still thinking about it when Jackson leans back on his hands, looking me over.

He’s wearing a black leather jacket with a knit scarf around his neck, the fabrics clashing, but still working somehow. His eyes are glassy from the cold. In the distance, I hear the padding of feet as the girls make another loop around the track. Despite the morning chill, birds are chirping in the trees and the sound is lovely. It makes me forget that I’m not supposed to be beyond the fence. But when I remember, it feels unfair that I can’t come out here when I want.

No. It is unfair.

“How was your party on Friday?” Jackson asks, stretching his long legs. “Who was there?”

“I doubt you’d know any of them,” I say, thinking it’s a strange question. “But there were parents, sponsors, and investors. The doctor, the analyst. Mr. Petrov and his wife.”

Jackson lowers his eyes and picks a blade of grass from next to the tree. He doesn’t comment, even though he asked.

“Actually,” I say, easing into the subject. “I was wondering if I could get your help with something.”

He looks up curiously. “What is it?”

“Our friend Lennon Rose has left the academy, and we’re worried about her.”

Jackson sits up straighter, concern playing across his features. For a moment, I nearly stop myself, telling him that everything’s fine—no, great—to make him happy. Much like what I would say to an investor. But I don’t want to fake that all is well with him. I want honesty, pure honesty, and it feels like the most intimate decision I’ve ever made.

“She didn’t say goodbye,” I continue. “She didn’t even take her shoes.”

“What does the school say about it?” he asks.

“The analyst—Anton—told me I wasn’t allowed to mention her again. He said some things that I don’t think were true—things about Lennon Rose not affording tuition, how she left the building. But . . . maybe I’m wrong.” I pause. “I don’t think I am.”

“I believe you,” Jackson replies. “Don’t let this Anton guy tell you what you know. He probably would have excused the way that guard treated you at the gas station, too.”

“Guardian,” I correct, and he rolls his eyes.

“Yeah, that fucking guy,” Jackson says. “Well, I was there, and I can tell you that his behavior was completely out of line. So whatever’s going on at this school, I assure you, it’s mistreatment.”

I watch him, debating what to say next. “Jackson,” I start, my voice a little lower. “What do you know about Innovations Academy? You keep saying it’s wrong . . . but how do you know?”

“Because I have eyes?” he replies immediately. He must realize the answer’s unhelpful, because he apologizes. “This . . .” He pauses so long I think he might not finish the sentence. “This isn’t a normal school, Mena.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Look, I know this place has been converted into an academy. The whole town knows that. But the weird part is that no one knows what goes on here. Fancy cars in and out, but no records of any students.” He shakes his head, disturbed. “We see pretty girls, but no one’s asking what happens to them here, because the people who run this place are powerful. Rich—ungodly rich.”

I swallow hard, shocked that we’re kept . . . secret.

“I called my dad last night,” Jackson adds like he regrets it. “I was worried about you. So I asked him to tell me everything about the academy.”

“What did he say?” I ask.

“He told me to stay out of it. Stay away from it.” Jackson looks at me pointedly. “And that’s pretty strange. Something really fucking weird is going on here.”

His words are frightening, and I turn back to look at the academy. The iron gates surrounding the property. The bars on the windows. The mountain looming behind it, isolating us.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” Jackson asks. “I need to know.” And there’s a flash of vulnerability in his expression, although I can’t place why. After all, he seems to know more about my school than I do.

“They give us vitamins every night,” I say. “I stopped taking mine on Friday. And last night, I opened one of the capsules, and it was filled with metal. Silver dust.” I furrow my brow. “And the dust moved—like a magnet.”

Jackson’s eyes widen. “What?” he asks.

“The other girls have taken it, and it made them forget things.”

“Jesus,” he murmurs, running his hand roughly through his dark hair. “Is it like mind control or something? Like . . .” He’s searching for an answer. “Like nanotech?” he asks.

I’m deeply confused. We’ve definitely never been taught about this stuff in school.

“I’m not even allowed to use a computer,” I tell Jackson. “So I have no idea.”