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

This room is always loud—dishwasher running, refrigerator humming. There’s a large silver pot on the stove bubbling with water, and Mrs. Decatur, the cook, is chopping carrots at the counter, the knife clicking on the wooden board below it.

Mrs. Decatur is only here Mondays through Fridays. She’s a little older than my parents and wears her white-blond hair pulled into a tight bun. She’s never spoken to me beyond pointing out a recipe. On the weekends, the other girls and I take over the cooking. Home economics is one of the important skills we learn at the academy, the value of an organized domestic life. Cooking, cleaning, hosting, and decorating—we try to excel in each. And if I’m honest, we’re better cooks than Mrs. Decatur. I much prefer the food the girls serve. We at least try to sneak a dash of salt where we can.

Mrs. Decatur glances up at me and I smile. She doesn’t return the pleasantry, and instead grabs a stalk of celery from beside the cutting board and chops again. I push through the room, resisting the urge to grab a piece of carrot on my way.

The hallway from the kitchen is narrow, and it always makes me feel claustrophobic when I have to come through here. The walls are thin plaster and the floors are stained concrete. Unlike the rest of the building, little was done to make this area more palatable. Thankfully, I turn a corner and enter the reception hall.

This is one of the nicest rooms in the entire academy, but the students are rarely allowed in here. It’s mainly used for parental visits and open houses, and the occasional prospective sponsor or investor. It’s finely decorated with dark wood wainscoting and beautiful flowered wallpaper. There are several tables with thick, padded chairs, a red couch with end tables on either side of it, and a buffet.

As students, we have dorm rooms and a few sitting areas throughout the building, but nothing this elaborate. Nothing this nice. Lennon Rose once asked our sewing teacher why we didn’t have a “place to relax,” and he said relaxation was laziness. And that girls needed to stay in top form.

I get through the reception hall and take another turn, finding the back stairs that lead up to the doctor’s office. My knee is sore, but the blood has dried, leaving the skin stiff. When I get to the second-floor landing—the hallway extending to include several other offices for the teachers—I stop at the doctor’s room, my shoulders tight with tension, and knock on the frosted glass.

“Come in,” the doctor calls warmly. I open the door. Dr. Groger is sitting at his desk, several files open in front of him. He has white tufts of curly hair just above his ears on both sides, the top of his head smooth and bald. His glasses are perpetually sliding down his nose, and he pushes them up when I walk in.

“Ah . . . Philomena,” he says, but immediately notices my bloody knee. He stands from his desk quickly and walks over to take my hand. He leads me to the table, and I climb up on the paper-covered pad. Dr. Groger wheels over his stool and a silver tray. He sits in front of me and pushes up his glasses.

“What have you done, my dear?” he asks good-naturedly, wetting a gauze pad to clean my wound. I wince at the sting, and Dr. Groger pouts sympathetically. “Let’s get this taken care of,” he continues. “We wouldn’t want it to scar.”

The doctor is always warning us about scarring, how difficult scars are to repair. How unsightly.

I don’t have any scars. Not one. Sydney has a small, half-moon-shaped scar on her arm from when she got caught on a piece of old razor wire while pulling weeds near the fence last year. The doctor tried, but he couldn’t repair all the damage. Even though he promised her it wasn’t that bad, Sydney’s still a little self-conscious about it. I told her I thought it was cute. Then again, it’s not on my body. I might feel differently then.

Once the doctor is done cleaning my scrape, he inspects it carefully, taking measurements with a steel instrument. He jots something down on a notepad and then opens the metal box on the tray he wheeled over.

“Now stay very still,” he warns in a fatherly voice, patting my knee with his cold hand.

The doctor opens the foil package with the grafts in it and selects the correct size. Using a pair of tweezers, Dr. Groger lays the small skin graft over my scrape and presses the edges down until they stick. He takes his time to be precise.

Once it’s placed, he smiles up at me and then grabs the warming light from the tray. He holds it against my knee so the graft can set, melting into place. The red light is hot, and it’s a bit uncomfortable.

When I wince, the doctor gives me an exaggerated sympathetic smile, and then he reaches to pluck a sugar-free lollipop off his tray. I laugh and thank him as I take it.

“So tell me about your field trip,” he says conversationally, moving the red light to seal the graft. There is a quick flash of panic in my chest.

I’m scared to tell him, afraid he’ll reprimand me. But I can’t lie. Besides, he likely knows already. I swallow hard and look down at the floor.

“We went to the Federal Flower Garden,” I start in a quiet voice, “but we had to leave early because of the rain.”

“The Federal Flower Garden is beautiful,” he says. “You always enjoy yourself there.”

I nod that I do, and Dr. Groger moves the light to another corner of my graft.

“After the Flower Garden,” I tell him, considering what I’m going to say next, “we stopped at a gas station so some of the girls could use the restroom. I was going to get candy.”

The doctor rolls his eyes, playing along like I was being mischievous. He shifts the red light again.

“And?” he asks, his voice dropping lower. He does know the rest of the story.

“There was a boy there,” I add, ashamed.

The doctor clicks off the light. He takes it from my knee and sets it back on the tray.

“What did you and this boy talk about?” he asks. He grabs the tube of silicone gel and puts some on a gauze patch, then rubs it over my knee.

“Candy, mostly,” I say. “But . . . when Guardian Bose came in and told me it was time to leave, I didn’t listen right away.” I’m humiliated by the admission.

“And why do you think you disobeyed?” he asks.

“I wanted a few more minutes in the store.”

Dr. Groger sighs. “That’s not like you, Philomena,” he says. “The girl I know would never misbehave.” His disappointed tone nearly makes me cry. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” he adds. “But it was improper for you to carry on with a stranger—especially a boy we don’t know. Guardian Bose was right to redirect you.”

I nod and tell him that I understand. And when he smiles, not angry, I’m relieved.

The doctor pats my thigh this time, and then reaches for a sparkly Band-Aid. He places it over my graft for decoration and declares that I’m still scar-free.

I hop down from the table, pulling the wrapper off the sugar-free lollipop, and stick the candy between my cheek and teeth. I watch Dr. Groger write notes in my file, pushing up his glasses every few seconds.

“Can I ask you something?” I begin quietly.

The doctor’s pencil stops. “Of course,” he says, looking at me above his glasses. “What is it?”

“Is Valentine getting impulse control therapy?” I ask. Even saying the words out loud causes a twist in my stomach, a prickle on my skin. “She misbehaved on the bus, and—”

“Valentine Wright will be just fine,” he says. “Her impulses are compromised, but a good session with Anton should cure her of that. She’ll be back to herself in no time. It’s very sweet of you to worry about her, though.”

I thank him for the compliment. However, I’m still bothered. “But the Guardian grabbed—”

“I’m aware of the incident, Philomena,” he replies, interrupting me again. “There’s no need for you to consider it any longer.”

I don’t argue, accepting that he’s right.