Girls with Sharp Sticks
This lockdown goes on for days, and it begins to work on our sanity. The isolation is torture. And it leaves me feeling sick and worn down. I just want to talk to the girls for a minute. Make sure they’re okay.
At night there are vitamins—one pink, one green, one yellow. Guardian Bose waits for us to take them. Several times, I had to throw them up after he didn’t leave fast enough.
I stare out the window in the evenings, confined to my room alone. I wonder if Jackson has come by the school. If he’s worried. I regret pushing him away, even if I’m angry that he lied to me. In the end, he could have helped us. I should have let him. I should have run.
Of course, every time I think that, I start crying. So I try not to think about that anymore.
And I start to think that Jackson has been worried. For example, one afternoon, I notice a police cruiser leaving our gates—leaving us here at the academy, unchecked. The professors don’t mention it, and I haven’t seen Anton or the doctor since Mr. Petrov talked to us about the poems, but I doubt they’ll tell me either. Jackson must have called them, but it was for nothing.
He was right—the men are too powerful.
There’s no one coming to save us. We’re alone in our penance.
And none of us has seen Valentine.
Whenever I get the chance, I go by her room and peer inside. It’s just as she left it: a book about plants open on her desk, her makeup scattered, and a pile of laundry waiting to be washed. I’m devastated with guilt, wishing I’d done more.
But I keep walking past, hoping each time that I’ll find her. But I never do.
• • •
It’s Sunday evening and campus is quiet. We no longer have movie nights. I’m cleaning the kitchen on my own after dinner, not allowed to work with other girls. I’m finishing up the last of the dishes, and when I pull open the wrong drawer, I see the keys again.
I stare at them.
“Looking for a way out?” a voice asks. Startled, I look up as Leandra enters the kitchen. It occurs to me that I haven’t seen Mr. Petrov’s wife since we returned from the field trip.
She turns before I see her face and walks over to the stove, picking up a kettle. She’s wearing a fitted black dress, her hair hanging long. She wags the teapot and sighs.
Leandra moves past me to fill the kettle at the sink, the water loud in the silent room. She sets it back on the stove and lights the range.
When she turns around, she leans against the cabinets, her face on display.
Her left eye has a bruise underneath, the white of her eye turned bloodred. She lets me look. She wants me to see.
“Are you okay?” I ask, unsure of what else to say.
She smiles. “Anton and I had a very intense therapy session. I’m one hundred percent now. I’ve made him very proud.”
My heart dips, and I look between her and the door before I step closer.
“You . . . You got impulse control therapy?” I whisper.
She nods. I point to my own eye to indicate hers.
“Why do you have a bruise?” I ask. “I’ve never—”
“My husband opted against the patch kit,” she says. “He thought I’d prefer to see the damage firsthand. You know, as a reminder.”
“A reminder?” I ask.
“Of what happens to girls who misbehave. Seems that book of poetry caused quite a stir,” Leandra says. “The men are afraid the discontent will spread. They want to root it out; they started with me. Valentine should have been more careful,” she adds. “It was, after all, a secret.”
My mouth drops open, and it takes me a second to find my words.
“You gave her the book?” I ask.
“It had been mine,” Leandra replies, her expression giving nothing away. “A gift someone had given me when I was different. Back when I was one of you. It woke me up. I’m curious if it’s done the same for you, Mena.”
I assume Leandra did give the book to Valentine, but she doesn’t say it outright. I don’t press the issue. I’m not sure if she’s purposefully being evasive or if she just can’t remember after impulse control therapy.
It’s shocking to think that Leandra Petrov was once a girl at this academy. However, what’s more shocking is that she owned those poems of rebellion—of revenge. What kind of friend would give her the book and then leave her here? It seems cruel. Then again, Leandra understands what this academy does to us, and yet . . . she stayed. She’s part of their system.
“Then what are you doing here?” I ask, incredulous. “Why have you stayed all this time?”
My question gives her pause. Leandra steps closer to me and runs her perfectly manicured fingernail down my cheek.
“I’m right where I belong, Philomena,” she whispers. “And when I grow discontented, Anton removes that piece. Again and again. As often as it takes.”
Staring at her bloody eye with her sharp nail against my skin, I’m certain that Leandra is not here to help me at all. Even when the men here abuse her, she stays. Because if she admits that what they’ve done to her is wrong, she’ll have to admit her role in hurting us.
The kettle begins to whistle, and Leandra turns to take it off the heat.
“In fact,” she says as she pours hot water into a cup, “Anton checks me over once a week, just to make sure.” She gets a tea bag from the wooden box next to the stove. “It’s at my husband’s request. Although it’s not really a request, you understand.”
She sets the kettle aside and turns to study me.
“Do you like cookies, Mena?” she asks curiously. Her question catches me off guard.
“I . . . I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I’ve never had one.”
“They’re too sweet,” she replies with a shrug. “You should avoid them.”
I don’t respond. I’m not sure if she’s really talking about cookies, or if there’s some deeper meaning in her advice that I don’t quite understand. To be honest, I don’t understand her. I never have.
Leandra picks up her cup from the counter. “Gold one opens the kitchen door,” she adds, motioning to the drawer of keys. “But you might want to take the silver key instead. I believe it opens the door to the lab downstairs. All this technology . . . ,” she says, looking around. “You’d think they would have changed the locks.”
My heart is pounding wildly, scared that Leandra will tell Anton I’ve been dreaming of escape. Scared that if she does, I’ll end up worse than her.
But then, as if we never spoke at all, Leandra sips from her tea and leaves the kitchen.
To: All Staff
RE: Emergency Impulse Control Therapy
From: Petrov, Roman
Today at 6:33 AM
As many of you have noted, this year’s class of girls has shown an unprecedented level of defiance. Due to this disruption, Innovations Academy is instituting emergency impulse control therapy, starting immediately. Once we have analyzed the data, we will take the necessary steps to preserve our investment. Girls who are not cleared for graduation will be dismissed permanently.
Evaluations are expected to be completed by the end of the week. Intensive follow-ups will be given to those exposed to the recovered reading material.