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

“Valentine,” Guardian Bose says, raising his voice. “I said turn around.”

There are several gasps when Valentine stands up instead, positioned in the middle of the aisle. Sydney sits up straighter, her hands sliding on the green padding of the seat in front of us.

Annalise leans into the aisle, whispering for Valentine to sit down, cautiously checking on the Guardian. But Valentine’s not listening. She takes a step toward me and I gulp, scared of the attention.

The Guardian jumps up and grabs Valentine by the wrist. She grits her teeth at the pain and tries to yank away. Behind me, Marcella murmurs, “No”—afraid for her. Disturbed by her defiance.

The Guardian twists Valentine’s arm behind her back, making her cry out, and studies her eyes a moment before pushing her down in the seat. When she immediately pops up, he pushes her down again, this time more violently.

“Stay,” he warns, pointing his finger in her face.

Valentine stares back at him, but she doesn’t stand. She tilts up her chin, defiant. I’ve never seen a girl act like this before, and I wonder what’s wrong with her. Clearly her words at the Federal Flower Garden were the first symptom of this larger misbehavior.

“You’ve just earned yourself impulse control therapy,” the Guardian tells Valentine. He stands there, towering over her, his presence seeming to grow larger as she shrinks back. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Lennon Rose sniffles across the aisle from me, but I don’t try to comfort her this time.

The Guardian sits down and takes out his phone, quietly making a call while keeping a cautious eye on Valentine. For her part, Valentine turns around to face the windshield, once more impossibly still.

I can feel that Sydney wants to ask me what just happened, but none of us dares to talk. We wouldn’t want to get sent to the analyst with Valentine.

Impulse control therapy is a punishment for when redirection isn’t enough. One we earn but dread nonetheless.

I’ve only been to impulse control therapy once, and I never want to go back.

It was shortly after my first open house—an event the academy holds several times a year. Parents, sponsors, and investors are invited to celebrate our accomplishments. But my parents didn’t show up—they were the only ones who didn’t. I felt left out and abandoned. I started crying and couldn’t stop. Everything was wrong. I felt wrong.

After speaking with Anton—our analyst—he recommended the therapy. But I didn’t want to be punished, even when he told me it was for my benefit. That it would make me a better girl.

He said I was too responsive and that impulse control therapy would help me manage my emotions.

I don’t remember much after that. Impulse control therapy erases itself when it’s done. All I know is I went in crying, and twenty-four hours later, I came out better—just like he promised. And yet, whenever I try to remember what happened, I’m overcome with a crushing sense of foreboding. It’s odd to have that strong a feeling without a connection to the memory causing it. When I ask Anton, he says it’s just part of the process.

Well, it’s not a process I want to go through again. None of us do. So we lower our eyes and keep quiet the entire way back to the academy. I just hope Anton is able to help Valentine the way he helped me. Even if she won’t remember it.

? ? ?

The arches of the iron gate come into view when we turn down the gravel road. The words INNOVATIONS ACADEMY are etched into a large metal sign, which has rusted and aged quickly from the rain. The gate opens and we pull forward.

The academy looms ahead, the mountain backdrop as beautiful as a painting. The rain has finally stopped completely, and there’s a small ray of sunshine filtering between the clouds. It casts the metal roof in oranges and reds; it would be lovely if the school itself wasn’t hidden behind overgrown ivy and barred windows.

They say the bars are remnants from when this was still a factory—protection from thieves and villains. The new owners opted not to remove the bars when this was turned into an academy several years ago, because they thought we needed the security just as much. Or maybe more, considering the iron gates that now surround the property.

“It’s dangerous to leave girls unprotected,” a professor told me once. “Especially pretty girls like you.”

The bus stops with a hiss in the roundabout, and the front doors of the academy swing open. Mr. Petrov, our Head of School, walks out, dressed in a charcoal gray suit and royal blue tie. He’s visibly concerned, folding his hands over his stomach as he watches the bus. His wife descends halfway down the stone steps to pause next to him, taking his arm obediently.

I haven’t spent much time with Mr. Petrov. He limits our interactions, saying it might interfere with our educational program. His wife, however—Leandra Petrov—met with each of us when we first arrived at the academy. She taught us how to properly apply makeup and style our hair to the academy’s specifications. And I remember thinking at the time that she was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. She’s significantly younger than her husband—probably not much older than us.

Leandra’s on campus fairly often. She monitors and records our weight once a week, and she leaves products in our bathrooms to help us manage our periods. She’s one of the few women we interact with here. Poised and beautiful, an example to be emulated.

The front doors open again and Anton comes rushing out, a bit frazzled in an endearing way. He stops beside the Head of School, turning his head to talk confidentially as they wait for us to exit the bus.

Lennon Rose exhales with relief and Sydney smiles at me.

It’s reassuring to see Anton—a promise that everything will be okay. Despite him being the person who administers impulse control therapy, we mostly look forward to our time with him. He’s a wonderful listener. An excellent analyst.

He’s older—like the other men at the academy—with light brown hair, gray at the temples. Even his beard is growing in gray, and he jokes that it’s because he has so many girls to worry about.

“Philomena,” Guardian Bose calls from his seat in the front row. I jump, startled.

“Yes?”

He stands, chomping on his gum. He grabs Valentine by the arm and pulls her out of the seat. She keeps her eyes downcast, her defiance seeming to have faded away.

“Take the back stairs and go see Dr. Groger,” the Guardian tells me. “Ask him to patch you up.”

I nod, embarrassed again for my earlier behavior. My knee still stings.

The Guardian walks Valentine off the bus, and Anton quickly rushes the rest of the way down the stairs to meet them. He gives the Guardian a pointed look before gently taking Valentine’s elbow and leading her inside.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Sydney asks me as we get to our feet. We follow the other girls off the bus. I tell Sydney that I’ll be fine, but I thank her for the concern. She blows me a kiss before joining the others on the stairs of the school.

As the girls head inside, Mr. Petrov says hello to each of them as they pass, his yellowed teeth crooked in his smile. He assesses each girl, his eyes traveling over their uniforms. Their hair. Their skin. His wife nods along, her gaze drifting from girl to girl.

I round the side of the building and walk to the back steps, which lead to the kitchen entrance.