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

I rest my chin on my palm and stare out the window again.

After yesterday’s excitement at the gas station, and today’s excitement beyond the fence with Jackson, I can barely keep my head in the classroom, drifting out into the woods and looking for adventure. Sydney has to kick my shoe twice in Etiquette, and I miss a lesson on proper phone manners. I’ve heard it before, though. They treat us like we forget everything the moment we walk out of class. But in fact, we’re excellent learners.

As I continue to analyze my interaction with Jackson today, I recognize that it doesn’t line up with what the academy teaches us at all. It’s a contradiction that I need clarification on.

I raise my hand and Professor Allister points at me, surprised.

“Yes, Philomena?”

“I have a question about etiquette,” I say, earning a few looks from the other girls. “In-person etiquette.”

The professor nods for me to continue.

“When having a conversation . . . ,” I start, considering my words. “When the man is very casual, is it proper to be casual in return?”

“Of course not, Philomena,” he says. “If you are conversing with a man, it is up to you to be pleasing and appropriate. Bad manners on your part show him you’re not worth his time.”

My heart sinks. Was I too casual with Jackson? If so, he might not return on Sunday.

“And this is a good lesson,” the professor says, addressing the class. “You must always be on your best behavior—a man will expect it. You represent the finest girls society has to offer. You represent Innovations Academy. Act accordingly.”

Several girls nod, but I swallow hard, regretting my earlier behavior. The past two days have left me lost, making mistakes I’ve never made before. I have to be better.

My last lesson of the day is Basics, and for that, I’m grateful. It’s a math day, and we’re working up to more complicated stuff—basic fractions to use while measuring ingredients or soil we use for our plants.

Although Innovations is an academy, they’re also growing their own produce, hybrid flowers, as well as plants used in our juices and vitamins. Annalise said the gardening teacher—Professor Driscoll—told her the academy hopes to go wide with the formulas. He said we’ve been a great example of their success.

Annalise smiles at me from across the classroom. All of us are eager to learn today. It never lasts, though—we won’t get another math lesson this month.

“Too much thinking is bad for your looks,” Professor Slowski says at least once a week in Basics, like it’s our running joke. But each time he says it, we wilt a little. We’re hungry for knowledge, but we don’t want it to adversely affect us.

When class is dismissed twenty minutes later, we’re told to have lunch and prepare for the party. The families and sponsors will begin to arrive around four, and dinner is served around five. We’re served salad, even though we’d much rather eat the rubbery chicken and potatoes. Then again, too much change in our diet makes us sick. But the occasional candy isn’t too bad, I’ve found.

I wave to Sydney as she exits her class, and we walk together toward the dining hall for lunch. Our salads and juices are already set out on the table, and Sydney and I sit down. Lennon Rose smiles when we join her and the other girls.

Brynn immediately starts to tell us about her dress for the open house—a soft lavender, which is Mr. Petrov’s favorite color on her. Brynn feels it clashes with her hair, but the Head of School knows best.

“I have another black dress,” Marcella says, sounding disappointed. “I was hoping it’d be red this time. Anton said that—”

“Can I sit here?” a voice asks suddenly, startling us.

The girls and I look up, surprised to find Valentine Wright standing at the end of our table, smiling politely.

Valentine is wearing the required uniform with delicate white socks, black shoes, and a bow tied in her hair. She’s perfectly poised, and yet . . . and yet there’s something different about her. A sharp edge I can’t quite see but sense is there. It’s puzzling, and I furrow my brow as I try to pinpoint the source of the feeling.

Marcella slides over to make room for Valentine at the table, the other girls watching curiously. Valentine has never sat with us before. When she takes a spot directly across from me and reaches for a salad, I study her a moment longer.

Her skin is bright and clear with the exception of a small bruise near the inside corner of her eye, the bluish color so subtle that the other girls might not even notice, almost like a pinprick.

Valentine thanks us for letting her join us and begins to eat. She offers no other comment, but obviously something is different. Why did she come to sit with us in the first place? I lean into the table toward Valentine.

“How are you feeling?” I ask her.

Valentine pauses, staring at the piece of lettuce balanced on her fork, and then lifts her head.

“I feel well,” she responds automatically. “Anton was able to help me work through my problems. We completed impulse control therapy, and he offered me coping mechanisms. I’m one hundred percent now.” She smiles. “I’ve made him very proud.”

Sydney shifts uncomfortably and turns to me. But I continue to watch Valentine as she raises her fork and eats the bite of salad nonchalantly. The girls and I are quiet until Annalise sighs impatiently.

“What happened to you on the bus?” Annalise asks Valentine. “You directly defied the Guardian. What were you thinking?”

Valentine finishes her mouthful of food, and then dots the corners of her mouth with a napkin before looking up at us.

“I was defiant,” she responds simply. “I regret the choice I made. But Anton was able to help me work through my problems. We completed impulse control therapy, and he offered me coping mechanisms,” she repeats as if it’s the first time she said it. “I’m one hundred percent now.” She smiles. “I’ve made him very proud.”

Annalise’s complexion pales, and she shifts her eyes to mine. None of us follow up on the question, taken aback by Valentine’s practiced response. After impulse control therapy, girls typically sit alone and stay quiet—at least for a while. I’ve never noticed this sort of behavior change before. This seems deeper, more controlled.

Then again, we’ve never asked a girl why she ended up in impulse control therapy. We accept the consequence as deserved and move on. Perhaps our question was too personal. We should have deferred to the school’s policy of giving a girl space after therapy, even if Valentine is the one who sat with us.

To fill the silence, Brynn starts talking about dresses again, and the other girls seem relieved for the usual conversation. But I’m still thinking about Valentine’s behavior modification, watching as she eats quietly. Peacefully.

I glance over to the professors’ table, and find Guardian Bose with them, watching us.

There’s something disconcerting about his attention, as if he’s been watching the entire time but I’ve only just noticed. So that he doesn’t think I’m ungrateful, I dip my chin in thanks for his care, and he returns the gesture with exaggerated slowness. I finish eating in silence.

? ? ?

We’re dismissed from lunch a short time later. Annalise and Lennon Rose are on cleanup duty while the rest of us head back to our rooms to prepare for tonight’s open house.

I walk with Sydney, but on the way, I glance back at Valentine. Her expression is empty, vacant. But when she catches me looking, she smiles. I turn around quickly and take Sydney’s arm.

“. . . and I promised Lennon Rose I’d do her makeup tonight,” Sydney says, midconversation. “The blue shadow I have matches her dress perfectly.”

“I’ll come by before we line up to witness your expertise,” I say.

Sydney grins, telling me she’ll see me later, and then goes into her room. When her door closes, I turn toward mine. I jump when I find myself alone in the hall with Valentine.