Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(5)

“I’ll try them,” I say, plucking the chocolates from his hand.

“Ahem,” Sydney says dramatically from the other end of the aisle. She runs her gaze quickly over Jackson before settling on me.

“Sydney, this is Jackson,” I tell her, fighting back my smile. Just as seeing someplace new is exciting, meeting someone new is absolutely thrilling. Sydney steps forward and introduces herself, politely, like we’re taught.

They exchange a quick handshake, and Jackson tells her it’s nice to meet her. When Sydney turns back to me she covertly mouths the word “cute.”

She smiles, pleasant and respectful, when she’s facing Jackson again.

“I’ll meet you on the bus?” I ask her, holding up my fistfuls of candy. She pauses a long moment before nodding. She has to bite her lower lip to keep from grinning.

“Right . . . ,” she says. “See you there.” Sydney tells Jackson it was nice to meet him and leaves the store, the bell on the handle jingling.

Quentin watches after her while hanging out near the ATM, the brown paper bag set on top of the machine. He chews his thumbnail, and when Sydney is gone, he returns his gaze to the door.

Jackson grabs a pack of Twizzlers while I pick up red hot candies with a flaming sun on the package. Together we head toward the register.

“Can I buy that for you?” Jackson asks when I lay my pile of candy on the counter. It would be rude to refuse his offer, so I say yes and thank him. The cashier begins to ring up our sweets together.

“I’m not allowed candy at school,” I confess to Jackson as he takes out his wallet. He looks at me as if he finds this unusual. “But whenever I get the chance,” I add, “it’s what I spend my allowance on. It’s not like there’s anything to buy at school.”

“I’m sure,” he says. “Your school’s out in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

I’m a bit shocked by his cursing; a bit exhilarated by the indecency of it. Jackson leans against the counter, studying me again.

“Would you want to grab a coffee with me sometime, Mena?” he asks. “I have a lot of questions about this private school–factory of yours.”

I’m about to explain that I’m not allowed to leave campus when there’s a series of clicks from the register. The woman behind the counter tells us the total for the candy, and Jackson removes several bills from his wallet to hand to the woman.

The bell on the glass door jingles, and I turn to see Guardian Bose walk in, a hulking mass in the small store. The woman at the register busies herself by putting my items in a plastic bag.

“Philomena,” the Guardian calls in a low voice, darting his gaze from me to Jackson. “It’s time to go.”

I flinch at his scolding tone. I’d been told not to get distracted.

“Be right there,” I say politely, avoiding Jackson’s eyes as I wait for my candy.

The Guardian stomps to my side and takes me by the wrist. “No,” he says, startling me. “Now. Everyone’s already on the bus.”

Jackson curls his lip. “Don’t touch her like that,” he says.

I look at the Guardian to gauge his reaction; I’ve never heard anyone speak to him that way. He opens his mouth to retort, his grip loosening, and I quietly slip free to take my bag off the counter.

But the moment I do, Guardian Bose grabs my forearm hard enough to make me wince and I drop my candy on the floor.

“I said get on the bus, Mena,” he growls possessively, pulling me closer. I’m frightened, ashamed that I’ve upset him. I apologize even as he hurts me.

Jackson steps forward to intervene, but the Guardian holds up his palm.

“Back off, kid,” Guardian Bose says. “This is none of your business.”

Jackson scoffs, red blotches rising on his cheeks and neck. “Try and grab me like that, tough guy,” Jackson says. “See what happens.” Guardian Bose laughs dismissively.

I have no doubt that the Guardian would easily best Jackson in any fight, but at the same time, I’m struck by Jackson’s open defiance—how stupid and brave it is at the same time. It’s fascinating. I start to smile just before Guardian Bose yanks me toward the door.

“Come on,” the Guardian says. I struggle to keep up, tripping over my own feet as his grip tightens painfully on my arm.

When I look back at Jackson, he nods at Quentin, calling him over.

“You’re hurting me,” I tell the Guardian. He doesn’t listen, using my body to push open the door. He forces me out into the misty parking lot. My shoes scrape along the pavement as I try to look over his shoulder toward the store. But the Guardian keeps me in front of him, his fingers digging into my upper arm.

When I turn toward the bus, the girls are watching, wide-eyed, from fogged windows.

The bus doors fold open, and Guardian Bose shoves me angrily. I trip going up the stairs and cry out in pain when my knee scrapes the rubber mat on the top step, tearing my flesh. The Guardian hauls me up by my underarms and dumps me on the seat next to Valentine. A trickle of blood runs down my shin and stains my sock.

The bus driver witnesses all of this with a flash of concern, but the Guardian whispers something to him. The white-haired driver closes the bus doors and shifts into gear.

Tears sting my eyes, but Guardian Bose doesn’t apologize. He doesn’t even look in my direction. There are murmurs of concern from some of the other girls.