Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks #1)

“Quickly,” she whispers, and there’s a flutter of papers behind her back.

“Okay . . . ,” I respond in exaggerated suspicion, and close the door. I check the faces of the others—Lennon Rose, Marcella, Brynn, and Annalise—and note the pink blush high on their cheeks. The smiles they’re hiding behind their hands.

I turn dramatically to Sydney, hands on my hips. I can’t believe she left me out of whatever is going on. She waves me forward to sit with her on the bed while the others crowd around us in a half circle on the rug.

“What is going on?” I ask, amused. Sydney is still wearing her white button-down uniform shirt with no pants and knee-high socks, her hair pinned back. She pushes the folded sleeves of her shirt above her elbows, and then throws her arm around my shoulders.

“Remember when you saw those cute boys today?” she asks. “And then one of them bought you candy?”

“Yes,” I say, realizing they don’t all know the story. “A whole bag of it.”

“Wow,” Lennon Rose sighs.

“What kind of candy?” Marcella asks with practicality.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “The Guardian dragged me out before I could eat it. Next time I’ll be sure to shove all the chocolates into my mouth before he can get to me,” I add, making her laugh. I turn to Sydney.

“Is that what you all were talking about?” I ask.

“Nope,” she says, then gives me a smack of a kiss on my temple before pulling her arm away to reach behind her.

Triumphantly, she holds out a magazine, the pages fluttering so I can’t see the cover. I’m instantly suspicious.

“Did you steal that?” I ask.

“I did,” Marcella says, and when I turn to her, she shrugs. “They had a bunch of them at the gas station,” she adds, as if that makes it okay.

I take the magazine from Sydney’s hand, but she quickly snatches it back and holds it out of my reach.

“Uh, uh,” she sings. She sets it on her crossed knees and flips to a page. I’m stunned to see a couple on a couch in the late stages of undressing. This time, my cheeks blush.

“You stole a dirty magazine?” I ask Marcella with a laugh.

“No,” Sydney says for her. “It’s a women’s magazine.”

I look around at the girls, confused. “I don’t get it.”

“It deals with women’s issues—only,” Sydney says. “In fact, I think I’ve found my new favorite quiz.”

“And what’s that?” I ask, trying to sneak another look at the couple on the page.

“It’s called . . .” She clears her throat. “?‘Are you good at oral sex?’?”

I burst out laughing, imagining she’s joking, but instead, she lists off the first three bullet points. It’s downright scandalous, but at the same time, we close in around her, hanging on her every word.

Although all of us grew up in strict households—followed by the isolation of the academy—we’re not completely naive. Most of our nights are filled with long talks while piled together in a room, recounting stories we’ve heard—collectively or individually. Bits of advertising we’ve picked up on field trips. We rehash the censored parts of movies that we’ve embellished with our imaginations.

When Sydney’s done going through all the points on the list, including tips of things to avoid, we collectively decide that we’d be pretty bad at the whole oral sex thing if we followed those suggestions. It all sounds wildly unpleasant.

“What I don’t get,” I say, thinking it over, “is if this is a women’s magazine, why are they telling us how to pleasure guys? Shouldn’t it be about our pleasure? Or even mutual pleasure?”

“Huh,” Sydney says, flipping to the front cover of the magazine and tracing her finger over the words “Women’s Magazine.” “That’s a good point, actually,” Sydney says, and turns to me. “Will you do me a favor?” she asks.

“Sure,” I reply reluctantly.

“Next time you see your gas station boyfriend,” she says, “will you make him take this quiz?”

We all laugh, and I swear that I will. But we know that I’d never ask those sorts of questions.

“Also,” I add, holding up one finger. “Can we please not call him my gas station boyfriend??” Sydney does a quick cross over her heart, smiling.

“Is there anything about kissing in there?” Lennon Rose asks in her sweet, small voice. Sydney and I exchange a look—Lennon Rose is just too adorable—and Sydney flips through the pages until she finds a picture of a couple kissing. She turns the magazine around to show the group.

“This is fake,” Sydney says, “but it looks like that. Except with tongues.”

Lennon Rose scrunches her nose at the idea, and Marcella motions to the paper.

“Not totally like that,” Marcella says, shaking her head. “It can be nice, too. You know, just . . . kissing and hugging at the same time. You don’t have to lick each other’s faces like dogs.”

Marcella knows what she’s talking about. She and Brynn sneak a kiss whenever they can, the sweet kind with whispers in between. Soft smiles and hand-holding. It’s not tongue wrestling on a couch, and she tells us as much.

“Have you ever kissed anyone?” Lennon Rose asks me.

“Yes, she has,” Sydney answers for me, and then seems to think better of it the moment the words are out.

“Who did you kiss?” Marcella asks doubtfully.

I look at Sydney first, and she apologizes under her breath. I sigh.

“It was near the beginning of the year,” I start. “We were at the theater for a ballet—the one with the extravagant costumes.” The title escapes me.

“Oh, I remember,” Marcella says. “The Guardian . . .” She squints her eyes like she’s trying to recall a specific detail. “Guardian Thompson—the one with the scar,” she says, drawing a line across her cheek with her finger. “The one who got fired and replaced with Bose. He was with us, right?”

“That’s why he got fired,” Sydney says.

I actually feel bad that Guardian Thompson got fired; I hate to think I was the cause of him losing his job. He had a family to support. We talked about them once while we were on the bus. He even had a daughter who died, he told me—and that was why he took the job at the academy. We reminded him of her.

In theory, at least, he clarified with a smile. I still don’t get what he meant.

“I need details,” Marcella says, eyes wide. “Kissing with a Guardian nearby? Why is this the first I’m hearing about it?”

“Because it was nothing to brag about,” I say, motioning to the magazine. “And it was nothing like what’s in there.”

“Tell me,” Marcella says. She settles in next to Brynn, and all the girls wait for me to explain.

I’m a little uncomfortable that Sydney brought up the topic.

“We were at the theater,” I start, “and I told Sydney I’d be right back while I went to the bathroom. When I was done, I decided to go to the counter and order some candy.”

The girls all nod like, Of course you did. My sugar addiction is legendary.

“I was at the counter,” I continue, “practicing greetings with the guy working the concessions. He was very friendly. He asked if I would sit outside with him because it was a nice night. I didn’t want to be rude, so I said yes.

“We sat on a bench a little off to the side and shared a box of Junior Mints. I tried to follow the rules of etiquette, ask him about himself, but he kept interrupting me, commenting on how ‘hot’ I was. When he asked if I had a boyfriend, I told him I wasn’t allowed to date. He laughed.

“Then he told me he had to get back inside,” I say. “Before he left, he grabbed me by the shoulders and kissed me hard, smashing our faces together. It was . . . surprising,” I say, thinking about it. “Especially when he stuck his tongue in my mouth.”

Lennon Rose gasps, horrified.

“It only lasted a few seconds,” I say. “It was wet, and although I’d been curious about kissing, it wasn’t sexy. I mean, it’s supposed to be foreplay, right?” I ask, and Sydney nods emphatically like she’s the consulting sexpert.