Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(10)

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Basics





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Social Graces Etiquette





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Decorum and Modesty





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Fitness





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Modern Manners





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Teacher’s Remarks Philomena is a delightful, well-mannered girl. She follows instructions and is amiable to all requests with continued direction. She will make a fine addition to any household.

Anton Stuart





4


My afternoon classes have already started by the time I leave the doctor’s office, and I go back to my room to grab my textbook. I’m feeling vulnerable, an odd sense of loneliness. Separation. As I leave my bedroom, I glance down the hall toward the phone.

I’d planned to call my parents to see if they’ll be attending tomorrow’s open house, but I hadn’t gotten the chance yet. I decide to call them now.

I head down the hall and try not to think about them missing another open house as I pick up the phone. My parents are very busy people—I understand that. I haven’t spoken to them since the holidays, and even then, it was just a short chat with my mother. A quick check-in to make sure I’d received the extra allowance. She told me to buy myself something nice. But . . . there’s nothing to spend it on here. I guess she doesn’t know that.

I dial their number and press the receiver to my ear. I steady myself against the wall with my other hand. There’s a click on the line, and I immediately straighten up as if they can see me.

“Hello?” a warm voice calls. “This is the Rhodes residence.” I smile softly.

“Hi, Eva,” I say. “It’s Philomena.”

“Philomena,” she says lovingly. “How are you, darling?” Her accent is stronger when she pronounces my name—the origin unclear. When I asked about it once, she replied, “Oh, you know. I’m from here and there.” That was the end of the discussion.

Eva is my parents’ live-in assistant. All of the families affiliated with the academy have an assistant, and I’m lucky to have Eva. She answers my every call, every letter. I’ve personally never met her—she was hired after I left for school—but I don’t usually mind when I talk to her as a surrogate for my parents. She’s kind. She even sent me gloves during the winter. It was very sweet.

“I’m sorry to call again,” I say. “I was wondering . . . Is my mother around?”

“No, honey,” Eva says. “I’m sorry, but she’s out of town through the weekend. Is this about the open house tomorrow? She’s very disappointed that she can’t attend. I’m sure you’ll look lovely, though.”

“Thank you,” I say, my heart sinking. “Any chance my father’s home? I’d like to speak with him.”

“He’s with your mother,” Eva sings out like she’s guessing I’ll be disappointed. “But you can always talk to me, sweetheart,” she says. “That’s why I’m here.”

And she is there, every time. My mother runs a charity, jet-setting from place to place. I’m not quite clear on what charity, but she’s very dedicated to it. Before that, she homeschooled me. She taught me to read with Basics books the academy lends out to prospective parents. She gave me an overview of society and manners, and guided me through an organic, plant-based diet with exercise. My father runs a law firm, but he always made it home for dinner.

We never traveled, not like my parents do now. Our days at home were as repetitive as my days at school. I never had anything new happen until I came here. Until I met the other girls.

“I’m worried about you, Mena,” Eva announces. “You sound troubled. Is everything okay? How’s school? Your calendar shows you had a field trip today—how did that go?”

I wish I didn’t have to talk about the incident with the Guardian at the gas station. But I can’t lie to Eva. That’d be as bad as lying to my parents. Plus, I don’t want her to relay to my parents that she thinks I’m troubled.

I twist the phone cord around my finger and turn to rest my back against the wall. I start out telling her about the Federal Flower Garden, the rainy day. The more I talk, the more my skin heats up with embarrassment.

“The bus had to make a quick stop on the way back from our field trip. There was a boy in the store, and while we were talking, the Guardian came in and told me it was time to leave. I . . . I didn’t listen right away.”

There is a long pause. “And then?” Eva asks.

“I was redirected,” I say. “I’ve already spoken to Dr. Groger about it, so—”

“Why were you at the doctor?” she interrupts. “Are you unwell, Mena?”

“No,” I say quickly. “I’m fine. It was just a scratch, but it’s taken care of. No scar.”

“And your behavior,” she follows up. “Is that taken care of too?”

The coldness in her voice, the practicality of it, makes me feel ten times worse. My eyes sting with tears.