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

The investors are the ones we have to impress most, Professor Penchant told us at the beginning of the year. Demonstrate your value to those in attendance by showing how appealing a beautiful, obedient girl can be. Hold your tongue. Bat your eyes. Smile. Be best.

After meeting us, many of the prospective parents apply for their girls to attend Innovations. Few are selected. The rarity makes us more elite, I’m told.

But no prospective students ever attend these open houses. Their parents make the decision for them. I’m not sure when my parents decided to send me here. One day, we just showed up at the academy. We never even had a discussion about it—at least, not one that I remember.

I try not to think about it. Because every day that I’m at Innovations, my life before the academy grows a little foggier. The past getting farther away. Disappearing.

It’s not something I’ve mentioned to Anton; it’s never come up. And I haven’t told the other girls because it doesn’t seem important enough to worry them. Besides, it doesn’t really matter. I’m going to be a better girl after graduation.

I’m lucky to be here, I think. I’m lucky to be at such an esteemed academy.

Rebecca Hunt stands in the corner of the room, holding a glass of water while her lawyer holds an animated conversation with several guests. It’s odd, the way Rebecca seems to fade into the shadows on the wall. Trying to disappear rather than be on display.

Suddenly, a former student, Carolina Deschutes, sweeps into the ballroom wearing an extravagant gown, her grandmother on her arm. It’s rare for us to see alumni, but the Deschuteses make every open house.

Two girls, Andrea and Maryanne, rush over to Carolina, fawning over her peacock-inspired dress. She spins so they can take it all in, her grandmother beaming proudly at her side. And her grandmother is a spectacle herself. I once heard Anton call her, “Our very own Miss Havisham.” But I don’t understand the reference.

Grandmother Deschutes is at least eighty and barely five feet tall. She’s wearing a navy gown with a black stole, a sparkly headband in her short, gray hair. Her makeup is heavy, her eyelids painted purple.

Grandmother Deschutes has had three granddaughters attend Innovations Academy. Two of them are now married to very prestigious men, I’ve heard. She plans to have another granddaughter attend in the fall. The Deschutes name is quickly becoming a legacy, especially considering that Innovations Academy has only graduated twenty girls in the past three years.

This year will be different, though—that’s what Mr. Petrov says. We’re all on track for graduation. The academy’s most accomplished class of girls yet.

“My word, Philomena,” Annalise whispers. “Grandmother Deschutes is easily the most fabulous woman alive.” She turns to me wide-eyed. “I want to be her when I grow up.”

“Carolina looks great too,” I add.

“Yes, of course,” Annalise allows as if it’s not the exciting part.

“Stand up straighter,” a woman’s voice calls. I turn to see Brynn being fussed over by her mother. “What are they even teaching you in this school?” the woman asks bitterly, yanking on the braid in Brynn’s hair and making her wince. “You look like a slob,” she adds.

I watch them, but I don’t intervene. We don’t disrespect adults at Innovations Academy.

Brynn’s mother adjusts her hair roughly. When she’s finished, the braid is redone and slicked in a way that’s more sophisticated, less Brynn. Her mother grabs her by the upper arm and swings her around to face the other side of the room.

“Now go talk to your father,” she orders. “You need to prove that you’re worth the money we’ve pumped into your education.”

Brynn swallows hard, her blue eyes downcast from the insults, but she doesn’t talk back. “What should I say?” Brynn asks in a quiet voice.

“See that gentleman next to him?” her mother asks, pointing across the room to a man in a gray suit. “That’s the new junior partner—ambitious, ruthless. He’s vying for your father’s position. But . . . ,” she says, turning to study the side of Brynn’s face. “Mr. Callis wants a beautiful girl who can raise his children—they’re still small, you see. And you’ll be perfect for the position.”

“What about their mother?” Brynn asks, confused.

“She’s not your concern. Now,” she directs Brynn, “go say hello. Charm him. Be a prize, and he’ll come begging for your father’s favor.”

Brynn’s eyes flutter for a moment, but then she makes her way over to her father and the other man, looking confident.

Brynn’s parents have put her on a specialized track at the academy, one that offers a class in childhood development. She enjoys it. In fact, Brynn’s mentioned several times how she can’t wait to have children of her own. “A whole pile of them,” she says with a smile. But, of course, that will be up to her parents and Mr. Petrov.

“I’m going outside to get some air,” I tell Annalise, standing up from the couch. She waves and tells me to have fun.

I make my way through the party toward the glass doors of the patio. Cool air rushes to meet me when I slide the door open, and I shiver against it. I’m surprised to find Lennon Rose’s parents already out here, arguing. Her mother, Mrs. Scholar, has a fresh drink in her hand, the liquid sloshing around as she talks animatedly.

“They can’t just keep her,” she hisses, grabbing her husband’s forearm.

I freeze, not sure if I should slip back inside before they notice me, but it’s too late.

Mr. Scholar turns in my direction and instinctively puts his hand over his wife’s to stop her from talking. Mrs. Scholar looks at me, and I note the glassiness in her eyes, the smudges of mascara in the creases around them. She blinks rapidly and then takes a shaky sip from her drink.

“Hello, darling,” she says, sweeping her gaze over me. Only she says it like she might cry, my presence making her miserable.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Scholar,” I say pleasantly. “How are you tonight?” I have no idea what to say when they both appear upset. Possibly drunk. Mr. Scholar nods his greeting and takes his wife’s hand.

“Thank you for asking,” he says to me. “We’re just fine. But we should get back inside. Come along, Diane.”

He pulls his wife behind him, but as they pass me, Mrs. Scholar brushes her fingers along my arm. When I hear the door close, I turn to make sure they’ve gone. My heart is in my throat.

Keep her—what does that mean? What’s happened to Lennon Rose?





9


I rub my arms in the chilly night weather before deciding to go back inside to look for Lennon Rose. When I open the glass doors, a blast of heat hits my face and several people look in my direction.

I’m newly concerned that Lennon Rose still hasn’t returned to the party. I search for Leandra, or even Dr. Groger. Instead, I spot Anton across the room. I smile my relief. The analyst will know what’s going on.

I move toward him, but before I can reach him, Lennon Rose’s mother steps into my path, her drink spilling over the edge of her glass.

“Why don’t your parents ever come to the open houses?” she asks suddenly, her words slurred. “I’ve seen you here alone before. You shouldn’t be alone.”

She’s clearly had too much to drink.

“My parents, uh . . . ,” I say, looking past her to find Anton. But she moves, blocking my view. “My parents couldn’t make it.”

“How dare they,” Mrs. Scholar replies with disgust, slowly shaking her head. “Don’t they realize how lucky they are?”

Her words catch me off guard, and I look up at her. She smiles desperately, her eyes watery. Her lower lip shakes.

“You could be mine,” she whispers, reaching out to take my hand. Her palm is sticky from alcohol, and she clutches my fingers tightly. “You could be my daughter,” she offers.