Girls with Sharp Sticks

I get up, motioning for Jackson to follow me, and duck as I hurry down the aisle past him. At the door, I check to see if the Guardian noticed me. When I’m sure he hasn’t, I slip into the hallway.

The light is much brighter out here, and it takes a second for my eyes to adjust. Jackson walks out of the theater and immediately comes over to me, stopping closer than I expect. I take a step back from him. It clearly hurts his feelings, and his eyes weaken.

“I’m sorry,” he says, holding up his hands. “But—”

“We can’t talk here,” I say. I start for the exit doors, checking around to make sure no one is paying attention. They’re not. I even walk behind the ticket booth so the boy there doesn’t notice.

When we get to the side of the building, I cross my arms over my chest and glare at Jackson. Even though I’m upset, there’s a small soft spot when his brown eyes meet mine. I quickly look away.

“I can explain,” he says. “Just tell me what you found, and I’ll explain.”

I scoff. “Don’t do that,” I say. “You don’t get to lie to me and then demand answers. Tell me what your mother was doing with the academy. Your father. The school has pictures of your family in their files. Why? ”

Jackson’s expression flashes anger at the idea of this. He moves to stand next to me, his jaw tight.

“You mentioned his name the other day,” Jackson says. “Mr. Petrov. I did my homework on him,” he continues, “him and all of his buddies. Back in the day, they were lobbyists—all tied up in politics. They backed legislation that tried to strip women’s rights. Do you remember?”

I’m shocked by the idea, but I shake my head. I don’t remember anything like that.

“Okay,” Jackson says, leaning against the brick wall. “Well, when that didn’t work out, when women were like, Fuck no, this guy Petrov bought the technology plant my mother worked at: Innovations Metal Works.

“At first, my mom didn’t mind the change. But then she started working later nights, longer hours. My dad was unemployed—had been for a while. He was big into men’s rights—some really backward shit. He and I would fight about it all the time. I don’t know how my mom put up with it. She’d just say he wasn’t always like that.”

I lean my shoulder against the wall, listening to Jackson. I’ve never heard of women’s rights, but I bet the book of poetry fits into what Jackson is saying.

“The last straw for her,” Jackson says, “was when my father invested in the company that Petrov built. My mother said she told him what they were doing. How could he?” Jackson shrugs. “My father is excellent at making terrible decisions.”

“And then one night, my mom came home. I was there and she gave me a kiss on the forehead as usual. She had the phone to her ear as she talked to someone. I heard her mention Petrov’s name, and then she was arguing that they could find another analyst because she wanted no part of it. When she came out of her room later, she’d been crying.

“I just . . . I sat there, watching TV like an asshole,” he says, admonishing himself. “She told me she’d be right back. She grabbed her car keys and left, still on the phone. And then . . .” He swallows hard, blinking quickly.

“The, uh . . . The police came to the house a couple hours later. My dad was at the bar, I guess. So they told me my mom died. A suicide at her place of work. A suicide . . .”

I watch him. “You don’t think she killed herself,” I say.

“I know she didn’t,” he responds instantly, turning to look at me. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out, Mena. I couldn’t get close to the school, though. And they keep you girls locked away. Then I saw the bus, met you in the gas station. I should have told you right away, but I was worried that you’d tell Petrov or any of those creeps. I didn’t want them to destroy the evidence. I should have told you,” he reiterates. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“You manipulated me,” I tell him. “And I’m really sick of men manipulating me.”

Despite the horror of his story, it still hurts that he used me. Logically, I see no reason to forgive him. Because the immoral use forgiveness as a weapon.

“I kept coming back because of you,” he says, his voice softer. “It wasn’t just about finding information anymore. And when you weren’t there this week, I . . . I was scared. And I missed you. And I was scared,” he repeats.

I want to doubt him, but as I look him over, I see that he’s a bit of a mess. His hair is unruly, his chin unshaven. His expression is frantic and helpless at the same time.

“Did you find Lennon Rose?” I ask.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I found her parents, the ones you mentioned. They own a big-time pharmaceutical company.” He waits a second. “And they don’t have any kids.”

My lips part. “What?”

“They have no listed dependents. Not ever.”

“I don’t understand,” I tell him.

“Neither do I. Which is why,” he adds, “you can’t go back to that school. I don’t know what they’re doing to you girls, but you’re not going back.”

There is the sound of approaching footsteps, and Jackson quickly grabs the sleeve of my sweater and swings me around, facing me as he blocks me from view. We’re suddenly close, and I stare up at him, even as he keeps his eyes to the side, checking behind him. My heart beats faster, and I’m relieved when a woman walks by instead of the Guardian.

“They’re experimenting on us,” I whisper, looking up at him. Jackson’s hand is still on my arm as he looks down at me. I see his throat bob.

“How?” he asks.

I debate telling him, but ultimately, the girls and I decided he might be our best connection to the outside world. Our way to get out of the academy permanently. So I describe what I remember from impulse control therapy. As I do, Jackson’s hand falls away from me and he takes a step back, horrified.

I tell him about EVA being a parental assistant and not a person, how none of our calls get through. And then, even though it makes me wildly uncomfortable . . . I tell him about Guardian Bose coming to my room. It’s violating to say the words out loud, but once they’re gone from my lips—there is relief. Release.

“I’m going—” Jackson starts, then pauses for a moment as if trying to control himself. “I’m going to fucking kill him,” he finishes.

“I don’t need you to kill him,” I say, shaking my head. Men with their violent tempers, just like in the movies the Guardian watches. “I need you to help me find a way to shut them down. Because even if we leave, our parents will send us back. And even bigger than that, there are other girls. Future girls. We can’t let them keep doing this.”

“They stuck a fucking ice pick in your eye,” he says loudly, and I quickly reach to put my hand over his mouth, casting a cautious glance toward the theater. My touch calms him, and when he pulls my hand away, he looks at the scratch on my palm.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks miserably.

“How do we get them shut down?” I ask.