Girls with Sharp Sticks

Page 5

Sydney waits patiently, and after a moment, Guardian Bose nods and turns toward the window. Sydney beams, having won my freedom, and she reaches for my hand and brings me to my usual seat.

The moment I sit down, Lennon Rose crosses the aisle to hug me, sniffling back her tears. I promise her that I’m okay, petting her blond hair. She sits back down in her seat, watching me with concern. I’ve never been injured before. Not even a scratch.

Sydney bends forward to look at my knee. She sucks at her teeth and straightens up. “There’s so much blood,” she says, lifting her eyes to mine. “Do you think the doctor will be able fix it?”

Lennon Rose gasps. Sydney and I both turn to her.

“Of course he’ll be able to,” I say for Lennon Rose’s benefit. Although the idea that I might be scarred for life creeps into my worries. “Dr. Groger is the best around.”

“Absolutely,” Sydney agrees in the same tone. Lennon Rose’s panic eases slightly, but her brow is still furrowed. She’s the most sensitive of all the girls. We try not to burden her needlessly.

We all understand that there are consequences for poor behavior. But since we don’t act out, we’ve never earned them. What I did was wrong, therefore I deserved the pain that followed, even if I didn’t like it. My opinion on the subject is irrelevant.

I rest my head back against the seat and close my eyes, trying to relax in hopes of lessening the stinging in my knee. There is the occasional pop of gum from the front seat.

I’m struck suddenly by the feeling of being watched. I open my eyes and lean out into the aisle. To my surprise, I find Valentine Wright turned around to face me with the same fierce expression she had at the Federal Flower Garden. It raises the hairs on my arms.

I’m not sure what to say to her, not sure what she wants. She’s unsettling me.

I quickly glance around, but the other girls haven’t noticed her. The Guardian, however, looks in Valentine’s direction. His head tilts slightly, examining her.

“Turn around,” he orders.

Valentine doesn’t listen. Doesn’t even acknowledge the command. She continues to watch me, her eyes finding the blood running down my leg. In the seat behind her, Ida Welch and Maryanne Lindstrom exchange a concerned glance.

My heart begins to beat faster. Lennon Rose looks over the seat to see what’s going on, her eyes wide and fearful.

“Valentine,” Guardian Bose says, raising his voice. “I said turn around.”

There are several gasps when Valentine stands up instead, positioned in the middle of the aisle. Sydney sits up straighter, her hands sliding on the green padding of the seat in front of us.

Annalise leans into the aisle, whispering for Valentine to sit down, cautiously checking on the Guardian. But Valentine’s not listening. She takes a step toward me and I gulp, scared of the attention.

The Guardian jumps up and grabs Valentine by the wrist. She grits her teeth at the pain and tries to yank away. Behind me, Marcella murmurs, “No”—afraid for her. Disturbed by her defiance.

The Guardian twists Valentine’s arm behind her back, making her cry out, and studies her eyes a moment before pushing her down in the seat. When she immediately pops up, he pushes her down again, this time more violently.

“Stay,” he warns, pointing his finger in her face.

Valentine stares back at him, but she doesn’t stand. She tilts up her chin, defiant. I’ve never seen a girl act like this before, and I wonder what’s wrong with her. Clearly her words at the Federal Flower Garden were the first symptom of this larger misbehavior.

“You’ve just earned yourself impulse control therapy,” the Guardian tells Valentine. He stands there, towering over her, his presence seeming to grow larger as she shrinks back. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Lennon Rose sniffles across the aisle from me, but I don’t try to comfort her this time.

The Guardian sits down and takes out his phone, quietly making a call while keeping a cautious eye on Valentine. For her part, Valentine turns around to face the windshield, once more impossibly still.

I can feel that Sydney wants to ask me what just happened, but none of us dares to talk. We wouldn’t want to get sent to the analyst with Valentine.

Impulse control therapy is a punishment for when redirection isn’t enough. One we earn but dread nonetheless.

I’ve only been to impulse control therapy once, and I never want to go back.

It was shortly after my first open house—an event the academy holds several times a year. Parents, sponsors, and investors are invited to celebrate our accomplishments. But my parents didn’t show up—they were the only ones who didn’t. I felt left out and abandoned. I started crying and couldn’t stop. Everything was wrong. I felt wrong.

After speaking with Anton—our analyst—he recommended the therapy. But I didn’t want to be punished, even when he told me it was for my benefit. That it would make me a better girl.

He said I was too responsive and that impulse control therapy would help me manage my emotions.

I don’t remember much after that. Impulse control therapy erases itself when it’s done. All I know is I went in crying, and twenty-four hours later, I came out better—just like he promised. And yet, whenever I try to remember what happened, I’m overcome with a crushing sense of foreboding. It’s odd to have that strong a feeling without a connection to the memory causing it. When I ask Anton, he says it’s just part of the process.

Well, it’s not a process I want to go through again. None of us do. So we lower our eyes and keep quiet the entire way back to the academy. I just hope Anton is able to help Valentine the way he helped me. Even if she won’t remember it.

• • •

The arches of the iron gate come into view when we turn down the gravel road. The words INNOVATIONS ACADEMY are etched into a large metal sign, which has rusted and aged quickly from the rain. The gate opens and we pull forward.

The academy looms ahead, the mountain backdrop as beautiful as a painting. The rain has finally stopped completely, and there’s a small ray of sunshine filtering between the clouds. It casts the metal roof in oranges and reds; it would be lovely if the school itself wasn’t hidden behind overgrown ivy and barred windows.

They say the bars are remnants from when this was still a factory—protection from thieves and villains. The new owners opted not to remove the bars when this was turned into an academy several years ago, because they thought we needed the security just as much. Or maybe more, considering the iron gates that now surround the property.

“It’s dangerous to leave girls unprotected,” a professor told me once. “Especially pretty girls like you.”

The bus stops with a hiss in the roundabout, and the front doors of the academy swing open. Mr. Petrov, our Head of School, walks out, dressed in a charcoal gray suit and royal blue tie. He’s visibly concerned, folding his hands over his stomach as he watches the bus. His wife descends halfway down the stone steps to pause next to him, taking his arm obediently.

I haven’t spent much time with Mr. Petrov. He limits our interactions, saying it might interfere with our educational program. His wife, however—Leandra Petrov—met with each of us when we first arrived at the academy. She taught us how to properly apply makeup and style our hair to the academy’s specifications. And I remember thinking at the time that she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. She’s significantly younger than her husband—probably not much older than us.

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