When I get inside the room, a small, white-walled space with a scale and an examination table, I wait for her instructions. There are clipboards hanging on a bulletin board where she’ll record my weight and measurements.
“Remove your clothes,” she says, sounding bored. She drinks again from her coffee, which, now that we’re closer, I realize smells of alcohol.
I strip down to my bra and underwear, goosebumps rising on my skin. Leandra sets aside her drink and grabs a clipboard with a pen. She pulls the tape between her hands before coming to stand in front of me. She measures my bust, my waist, my hips. Then she measures my arms. She sets the clipboard on the floor and squats down to measure my thighs. She stops and grips the outside of my thigh, pinching the skin. I wince.
“This isn’t toned,” she says. I look down, feeling embarrassed, and she lets my skin go. “Not enough, at least. You need to be tighter.” She wraps the cold tape around my leg and then marks a number on the clipboard.
As she measures my other thigh, I stand up straighter, keeping my muscle flexed where I can. Leandra pauses to look up at me.
“Mr. Weeks is quite fond of you,” she says. “He mentioned you several times while at the party. Wanted to make sure you were happy.”
“Mr. Weeks seems very kind,” I say politely.
She hums out a noise, sounding unconvinced. She begins to measure again, tugging the cold tape across my skin.
“And it made me curious,” she says, casually. “Have you ever kissed a man, Philomena?”
I keep my expression completely still, trying not to betray even a hint of my shock at the question.
“No,” I say, not sure if it’s a lie. The guy at the theater kissed me.
“Would you like to?” Leandra asks, sounding distracted as she jots down my measurements. “I’ve always wondered if you girls had a feeling about it one way or the other.”
“I’m sure I’ll want to kiss my husband when I have one,” I say, trying to figure out what she wants to know. Leandra sniffs an annoyed laugh.
“Ah, yes. Your husband. Do you want a husband?”
“If that’s what Mr. Petrov and my parents think is best,” I say, parroting what I’ve been taught at the academy.
“It’s not what’s best for you,” she replies, standing up. She stares directly into my face, too close, but I hold a pleasant expression. I don’t trust her to know my real thoughts. “Then again, it doesn’t really matter what I think, does it?” she adds.
She turns away, a little unsteady on her six-inch heels. “You’re on target weight,” she adds, going over to hang the clipboard back on the wall. “But your muscles need toning. Run a few extra laps today and tomorrow. Now get dressed and head outside.”
I thank her for her time, although she doesn’t return the courtesy. She’s gone before I finish dressing. I stand there, a bit exposed even though I’m more covered up now. I can’t help but think about what she said. About marriage. About her opinion not mattering. And it strikes me as odd that she asked if I’d ever kissed a “man.” Why not “boy”? Why not “person”?
I shiver in the cold and pull on my sweater, adjusting my headband over my ears. And when I run out into the field, I’m not just running for the course. I’m running to get away. Escape what feels like humiliation and judgment. I’m thrown by her questions, by the intent of them.
The poem talked about men keeping us captive. But... what about the women who work with them? Where were the mothers in that poem?
I run to the overgrown bushes and slip through the bars into the woods, vulnerability still on my skin. I should be used to Leandra’s coldness by now, but the truth is, I’m not. Not when I let myself think about it. I nearly trip over a branch in my haste, and I reach out to catch myself. Instead, there’s a sharp sting on my hand as a thorn tears through my skin.
Gasping, I hold up my hand, nearly falling backward. I’m bleeding. It’s not a deep cut—only the size of a fingertip. But it’s a scratch on my palm, near my wrist. It might turn into a scar.
I’m panicked, not sure what to do about it.
“Mena?” Jackson calls. I spin around, my eyes tearing up, and he quickly drops his backpack and rushes over. He takes my hand and examines the cut. “You okay?” he asks concerned.
“I need to see the doctor,” I say. He lifts his head.
“For this?” he asks, confused. He checks me over like I must have another injury.
“Yes. It’ll scar,” I say.
“I... don’t think so,” he says, dropping my hand. “I mean, not in any significant way. Here, come sit down. I have a Band-Aid in my backpack.”
“I can’t have any scars,” I tell him, worried.
“We all have scars,” he says as we sit on a fallen tree. He sifts through his backpack until he comes out with a Band-Aid. “See this one?” He points to the small scar above his eye. I had, indeed, noticed. “My cousin tripped me while I was running through the living room and sent me headlong into the coffee table,” he says. “Two stitches.”
