Girls with Sharp Sticks

And she is there, every time. My mother runs a charity, jet-setting from place to place. I’m not quite clear on what charity, but she’s very dedicated to it. Before that, she homeschooled me. She taught me to read with Basics books the academy lends out to prospective parents. She gave me an overview of society and manners, and guided me through an organic, plant-based diet with exercise. My father runs a law firm, but he always made it home for dinner.

We never traveled, not like my parents do now. Our days at home were as repetitive as my days at school. I never had anything new happen until I came here. Until I met the other girls.

“I’m worried about you, Mena,” Eva announces. “You sound troubled. Is everything okay? How’s school? Your calendar shows you had a field trip today—how did that go?”

I wish I didn’t have to talk about the incident with the Guardian at the gas station. But I can’t lie to Eva. That’d be as bad as lying to my parents. Plus, I don’t want her to relay to my parents that she thinks I’m troubled.

I twist the phone cord around my finger and turn to rest my back against the wall. I start out telling her about the Federal Flower Garden, the rainy day. The more I talk, the more my skin heats up with embarrassment.

“The bus had to make a quick stop on the way back from our field trip. There was a boy in the store, and while we were talking, the Guardian came in and told me it was time to leave. I . . . I didn’t listen right away.”

There is a long pause. “And then?” Eva asks.

“I was redirected,” I say. “I’ve already spoken to Dr. Groger about it, so—”

“Why were you at the doctor?” she interrupts. “Are you unwell, Mena?”

“No,” I say quickly. “I’m fine. It was just a scratch, but it’s taken care of. No scar.”

“And your behavior,” she follows up. “Is that taken care of too?”

The coldness in her voice, the practicality of it, makes me feel ten times worse. My eyes sting with tears.

“Yes, Eva,” I say, humiliated. “I agree with the doctor’s assessment that I needed the redirection. It won’t happen again.” I quickly wipe the tears from my eyes before they can ruin my makeup.

“That’s good to hear,” Eva says. “We all want you to be the best girl possible. And good girls obey the rules. Your parents will be sick over this.”

“I’d like to talk to them about it,” I say pleadingly. “If I could just explain it to them, I’m sure I could—”

“Your parents are very busy,” Eva says, cutting off my request. “They don’t have time to listen to your excuses. Your focus should be on your education, Philomena. It’s what they’re investing in.”

My face stings from the admonishment. “I understand,” I say quietly. “I’m sorry I brought it up.”

“That’s all right,” Eva says, her tone softening. “And perhaps your parents don’t need all the details,” she adds, like it can be our little secret.

“I’d appreciate that,” I say. “I don’t want to disappoint them.”

“We still believe in you, Philomena,” she says, speaking on their behalf. “Now . . . aren’t you supposed to be in class?” she adds teasingly.

I laugh and then quickly sniffle away my tears. “Yes,” I say, happy that Eva isn’t angry with me. She’s always very sympathetic. “I’m on my way there now. Would you mind letting my parents know I called?” I ask. “I’d . . . I’d like to talk to them.”

“Of course,” Eva says warmly. “When they return from their trip. And you have a nice time at the open house. Don’t forget to smile. Make us proud.”

I promise that I will, and then I hang up and head toward class. The loneliness mostly gone from my chest.

• • •

I keep my head down as I walk into Modesty and Decorum class, worried that Professor Penchant will scold me in front of the others. I’m still a little tender from Dr. Groger’s reprimand. Eva’s disappointment.

“Shame is the best teacher,” the professor said last week when Lennon Rose started to cry. He told her she looked unkempt, a poor representation of the academy. He made her go back to her room to take out her ponytail and brush her hair; he held the class until she returned. I offered to help her, but he told me it was a lesson she needed to learn.

“I know girls these days like to think their appearance doesn’t matter,” he lectured us. “Pajamas in a movie theater, messy hair at the grocery store.” He scrunched up his nose as if he found these types of girls particularly distasteful. “But you will take pride in your appearance at all times. No exceptions. And why is that?”

“Because beauty is our greatest asset,” we said in unison, knowing the appropriate response. Knowing we’d be graded on it.

“Correct,” the professor replied, assessing each of us.

Lennon Rose came back to class shortly after that, a vision with her long hair smoothed, fresh makeup applied, her uniform shirt tucked in, and her socks perfectly folded. Professor Penchant showed her off.

I feel his eyes on me now as I sit at my desk, but he doesn’t call my name. I take out my book and follow along with the lesson.

“Compliance is an appealing quality,” he says from the front of the room. “Especially with graduation growing near. You’ll find that out there,” he motions toward the windows, “people won’t appreciate your opinions. Hold your tongue and listen. It’s a good lesson for all young women.”

We can’t wait for graduation—the chance to show what exemplary girls we’ve become. Better girls. Once we’ve completed our education at Innovations Academy, Mr. Petrov works closely with our parents or sponsors to find us the perfect opportunity for success, usually through marriage. He says there are other prospects as well, but he hasn’t explained them. Instead, he tells us to trust him; he only wants what’s best for us.

We’re going to make our parents so proud.

There’s a loud exhale behind me, and I put my chin on my shoulder and look back covertly. Annalise sits in the desk behind me, and when she notices me, she rolls her eyes.

Annalise is outspoken, more so than the rest of us. Brutally honest, Anton told her once, a description that Annalise found appealing.

A few months ago, Annalise suggested that Professor Penchant try compliments rather than admonishments. It’s no surprise that he didn’t “appreciate” Annalise’s opinion on this matter. Now she keeps them to herself during class.

She winks at me and I smile.

“Ah, Philomena,” the professor calls, startling me. I quickly spin around. “Glad you’ve recovered from your little mishap on the bus. All is well?”

“Yes, Professor Penchant,” I reply, back straight, chin up.

“Very good,” he says. “Now, would you like to stay after class with me and discuss why you find it so difficult to pay attention during my lesson?”

“No, sir,” I say, heat rising to my cheeks. “I apologize for my disruption.”

He narrows his dark eyes on me. “Correct answer,” he responds, darting his gaze at Annalise before turning back to the board to finish the lesson.