“Our friend Lennon Rose has left the academy, and we’re worried about her.”
Jackson sits up straighter, concern playing across his features. For a moment, I nearly stop myself, telling him that everything’s fine—no, great—to make him happy. Much like what I would say to an investor. But I don’t want to fake that all is well with him. I want honesty, pure honesty, and it feels like the most intimate decision I’ve ever made.
“She didn’t say goodbye,” I continue. “She didn’t even take her shoes.”
“What does the school say about it?” he asks.
“The analyst—Anton—told me I wasn’t allowed to mention her again. He said some things that I don’t think were true—things about Lennon Rose not affording tuition, how she left the building. But . . . maybe I’m wrong.” I pause. “I don’t think I am.”
“I believe you,” Jackson replies. “Don’t let this Anton guy tell you what you know. He probably would have excused the way that guard treated you at the gas station, too.”
“Guardian,” I correct, and he rolls his eyes.
“Yeah, that fucking guy,” Jackson says. “Well, I was there, and I can tell you that his behavior was completely out of line. So whatever’s going on at this school, I assure you, it’s mistreatment.”
I watch him, debating what to say next. “Jackson,” I start, my voice a little lower. “What do you know about Innovations Academy? You keep saying it’s wrong . . . but how do you know?”
“Because I have eyes?” he replies immediately. He must realize the answer’s unhelpful, because he apologizes. “This . . .” He pauses so long I think he might not finish the sentence. “This isn’t a normal school, Mena.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“Look, I know this place has been converted into an academy. The whole town knows that. But the weird part is that no one knows what goes on here. Fancy cars in and out, but no records of any students.” He shakes his head, disturbed. “We see pretty girls, but no one’s asking what happens to them here, because the people who run this place are powerful. Rich—ungodly rich.”
I swallow hard, shocked that we’re kept . . . secret.
“I called my dad last night,” Jackson adds like he regrets it. “I was worried about you. So I asked him to tell me everything about the academy.”
“What did he say?” I ask.
“He told me to stay out of it. Stay away from it.” Jackson looks at me pointedly. “And that’s pretty strange. Something really fucking weird is going on here.”
His words are frightening, and I turn back to look at the academy. The iron gates surrounding the property. The bars on the windows. The mountain looming behind it, isolating us.
“Can you tell me what’s going on?” Jackson asks. “I need to know.” And there’s a flash of vulnerability in his expression, although I can’t place why. After all, he seems to know more about my school than I do.
“They give us vitamins every night,” I say. “I stopped taking mine on Friday. And last night, I opened one of the capsules, and it was filled with metal. Silver dust.” I furrow my brow. “And the dust moved—like a magnet.”
Jackson’s eyes widen. “What?” he asks.
“The other girls have taken it, and it made them forget things.”
“Jesus,” he murmurs, running his hand roughly through his dark hair. “Is it like mind control or something? Like . . .” He’s searching for an answer. “Like nanotech?” he asks.
I’m deeply confused. We’ve definitely never been taught about this stuff in school.
“I’m not even allowed to use a computer,” I tell Jackson. “So I have no idea.”
He snorts a laugh. “Yeah, well, theoretically, and don’t quote me on this, but if you ingested biomedical nanotech—if that’s what it was—it would spread to your cells. Replicate the healthy cells for your organs. It could heal illnesses, cuts, and bruises.”
I’ve always been very healthy—all the girls have. Our vitamins are tailor-made for each of us. So . . . does that mean our vitamins work, after all?
“Should I keep taking them?” I ask.
Jackson widens his eyes. “No! Of course not. Mena, that tech is also spreading to your brain, and each of those tiny particles contains a pulse, something purposely included. Those pulses would then be interpreted as . . . ideas. So, yeah—my bet is mind control. And again, this is only in theory because, up until now, I didn’t think this shit existed beyond what I’ve read on the internet.”
I’m not sure if it exists. But I did see the silver dust in that vitamin. It wasn’t like anything I’ve seen before. I can’t willingly ingest any more until I have a better idea of what it does to me.
“Who are you parents, Mena?” Jackson asks again. “They have to be important people to send you here. To do this kind of stuff to you. Who are they?”
His questions are suddenly more alarming. Quickly, I try to call up information. I tell him my father is a lawyer and my mother is a philanthropist. But the more Jackson presses me (Where did they grow up? When were they born? Who are your grandparents?), the more I realize I don’t know all that much about them.
Panic rises in my chest, making me feel overwhelmed. Where are my parents? Why haven’t they called to check on me? Why have they abandoned me here?
Jackson furrows his brow, watching me. “I’m sorry,” he says. I brush off his apology, sniffling before any tears can fall. We sit quietly until I can calm myself again.
“You mentioned an . . . analyst?” Jackson says after a moment. “What’s that? What does he do?”
“He helps us control our impulses,” I say.
“My guess is he’s doing more than that,” Jackson says. “They’re manipulating you somehow, with the vitamins, through him—I don’t know. I think you should leave. I think we should go right now.”
I look at him, surprised. “I can’t just leave,” I say. “What about the other girls?”
“You all need to leave.”
“We . . . We can’t. Our parents—”
“I think they’ll understand,” he says, growing impatient. “Mena, this shit isn’t normal.” His voice gets loud, and I put my hand over his mouth, scared someone will overhear us. When I touch him, he freezes, staring into my eyes. And for a moment, I see . . . guilt.
Jackson slowly removes my hand, nodding an apology for losing his composure.
“Fine,” he says, looking away. “If you won’t leave, then we need to figure out what the academy is using you for. Can you get that kind of information?”
The question seems suddenly cold, businesslike. I wonder if I’ve offended in him in some way.
“What exactly are you looking for?” I ask.
“Files,” he says. “Employee files, parent files, whatever you can find. Something I can research.”
“I don’t understand,” I say. “Where would I even get that sort of thing?”
“Maybe this analyst,” he suggests. “He probably has everything in his office.”
“I don’t think I could do that,” I say, scared. He wants me to break in to my analyst’s office? That’s . . . That’s too much. I couldn’t disobey the rules like that.
“Then just keep your eyes open,” Jackson says. I’m surprised when he reaches over to smooth down the edge of the Band-Aid on my hand that’s come unstuck. “Notice anything out of the ordinary.”
At his soft touch, I long for him to look at me again, the way he did that first time. I want to watch the words die on his lips when his eyes meet mine. I want him to like me. But right now, I can’t read how he feels. It’s not obvious, and I can’t bring myself to ask, scared of the answer.
Instead, I opt to tell him about the poems. But the moment I open my mouth, there is the sound of a metal door slamming shut.
I quickly turn and look toward the school, alarmed when I see Guardian Bose out on the track. The girls are jogging on the other side of the building, but when they come around, he’ll see that I’m not with the
m.
Scared, I get to my feet. Jackson stands up too, his jaw tightening when he sees the Guardian. When he turns back to me, his expression is pleading for me to run away.
To my relief, the Guardian seems frustrated and goes back inside, as if he doesn’t have the time to wait for the girls. I sigh, my hand on my chest.
“I have to go,” I say.
Jackson stares down at me, impatient. “Mena,” he whispers, pained. But when I walk to the fence, he doesn’t try to stop me.
I decide that I’m going to look for evidence, just like in the movies that the Guardian lets us watch. If I find anything, I’ll pass it along to Jackson. What he’ll do with that information afterward, I’m not sure. But he’s made it sound like it’ll help us.
“Please be careful,” Jackson says.
I smile and promise him that I will. I let him know that I’ll be running again on Tuesday.
“That’s funny,” he says. “I’ll happen to be skulking around these woods early that morning. Should we meet?”
Before I answer, he snaps his fingers. “Hold on,” he says, darting over to his backpack. He returns with a small piece of paper.
“I wrote down my number,” he says. “Call me later and let me know that you’re all right.”
I take the paper and stare down at the number. “I’ll try,” I say. “And . . . my friend?” I look up hopeful. “Her last name is Scholar,” I say. “And her mother’s name is Diane.”
“Lennon Rose Scholar,” Jackson says, nodding. “Got it. I’ll find her. She has to be somewhere.”
We get to the cracked part of the fence, and I turn to him before I slide through.
“Thank you,” I say. “For helping me.”
He bottom lip tightens before he smiles, a gorgeous smile that I think is meant to charm me. And it does. But I notice that it doesn’t reach his eyes. Instead, he seems sad. He seems lonely.
He murmurs goodbye as I slip through the fence.
As soon as he’s gone, I pull off the Band-Aid he’d given me, seeing the red scratch still on my hand. And I decide not to the tell the doctor about it, to leave it as a memory instead.
15
When the girls round the building for the last time, I slip out from behind the bush and fall into step next to Sydney. She examines me, her nose red from the cold, her eyes shiny.
“How’d it go?” she asks between heavy breaths.
“I have so much to tell you,” I say, darting my eyes around.
She smiles but keeps running. No mention of me trying to get Lennon Rose’s number. I move closer to her, earning a confused look and a laugh.
“What?” she asks.
“I read a poem last night,” I whisper. Sydney keeps jogging, her pace fast.
“Really?” she asks. “Where did you see a poem?” I tell her to keep it down, not wanting the other girls to know yet.
“It’s called ‘Girls with Sharp Sticks,’ ” I say. “And . . . it’s about girls fighting back. They killed the men who—”
Sydney comes to an abrupt halt, making me jog a few paces past her. She stares at me, alarmed.
“What are you talking about, Mena? Why would you read something like that?”
I come back to her, nodding politely to the other girls as they jog past. “I found it,” I say. “And the girls were—”
“Stop,” Sydney says, holding up her hand. “Do you hear yourself? You just said . . .” She can’t say the words. “Men are here to give us guidance,” she says, lowering her voice. “Why would you be so disrespectful?”
I stare at her, seeing how worried she is about me. And it’s like I can predict what she’s going to say next. That she’ll say the men have our—
“—best interests at heart,” she finishes.
There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach. I wonder what was in last night’s vitamin.
I beckon for Sydney to jog with me again, smiling sweetly. She does, returning the expression just as easily.
“I miss Lennon Rose,” I say, testing her.
“I know,” Sydney says with exaggerated sympathy. “It’s too bad about her parents’ financial problems. Innovations is very exclusive. Not everyone can afford it.”
I swallow hard and quietly agree. We continue jogging, and I’m horrified at the idea that Sydney doesn’t remember being upset about Lennon Rose. Just like she didn’t remember Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe.
I decide not to tell her any more about the poems, not yet. I’m scared of how she’ll respond. And when she doesn’t bring them up again, I’m grateful. Even if I hate keeping this secret from her.
It occurs to me that maybe this is why Lennon Rose didn’t tell us about the poems. She was worried we wouldn’t understand. Or worse, that we’d tell the analyst about it.
I have a peculiar feeling—like there are two narratives in my head. I have no idea how to explain that to Sydney.
“Sorry if I was rude,” Sydney says as we finish the run. “I just don’t want you to get in trouble for defiance. Think about what Anton would say.”
“But what if Anton’s not always right?” I ask quietly.
Sydney stands silently, thinking it over, before the metal door swings opens. Guardian Bose reappears, and we quickly go back to smiling.
The Guardian searches our faces and motions us inside. He looks angry, and I wonder why he was out here earlier. He must be looking for someone.
I hurry past him, relieved when I’m not the reason for his darkened temperament. But when I turn around, I see him grab Rebecca’s elbow, making her stagger to a stop.
“Anton’s looking for you,” he says, staring down at her in a way that lets her know she needs to go there immediately. She recoils from him but doesn’t pull from his grasp.
“Why?” Rebecca asks in a small voice.
“I think you know,” Guardian Bose replies with a sneer. “Now shut up and do as you’re told.”
His tone has sent a spark of anger through my bloodstream. I want to snap at him and tell him not to talk to her like that. I’m starting to see how unusual our lives are here. And the more I recognize it . . . the more I want to change it.
I just don’t know how.
So I watch silently as the Guardian leads Rebecca away.
• • •
Sydney and I walk to the main hall to see if anyone knows why the Guardian was so upset. I’m surprised to see that nearly the entire class is here, crowded around each other. Whispering behind their hands. I know something has happened.
I lead Sydney over to Ida Welch—who’s on her own, looking bored. She never goes to running class (good genes, she says). She sits in one of the oversized chairs, filing her nails.
“Hey,” I call, drawing her attention. “What’s going on?”
“Mr. Wolfe is on campus, and he doesn’t look happy,” she says. “I think Dr. Groger had the sheriff fetch him.” She pauses her filing. “Him and you know who.”
“You know who?” Sydney asks.
Ida grins. “Winston Weeks,” she says like we should already know. “He came in before Mr. Wolfe and demanded to speak to Mr. Petrov about an urgent matter.” Ida deepens her voice in a pretty dead-on impression. “He wouldn’t leave until he spoke to him. Annalise had to fetch the Head of School and his wife from their residence.”
My lips part. What is Mr. Weeks doing here? He’s never been on campus before, not unless it was for an open house. For a moment, I wonder if he asked about me, but if he did, Ida would have told me straightaway.
Ida starts filing her nails again. “The girls were kind of smitten with the investor, especially Annalise. They brought him food and drinks while he waited, charming him. He told them they were very nice girls, indeed. And then Mr. Petrov showed up, and they left to talk.”
“And what about Mr. Wolfe?” I ask.
“I assume Mr. Wolfe’s presence has to do with Rebecca. He is her lawyer, right? Although when the police car showed up and dropped him off at the front door,
Mr. Wolfe was beside himself,” Ida says, exaggerating her expression to show fury. “He stomped in, brushing right past us, and headed to Dr. Groger’s office. One of the girls heard it’s a problem with Rebecca’s . . . with her certification.” Ida lowers her eyes then, the fun gone from the conversation. In fact, it sucks the air out of the room.
Every girl must be certified to graduate. If there’s a problem, Rebecca might be delayed. Or dismissed.
But it wouldn’t be her fault. Mr. Wolfe has been manipulating her. Anton promised she would just get impulse control therapy. He didn’t mention they might kick her out.
I look toward the stairs to Dr. Groger’s office, worried that Mr. Wolfe is here to call Rebecca a liar. What if they take Mr. Wolfe’s side? I can corroborate Rebecca’s story.
“I have to see Dr. Groger,” I say, and abruptly turn and start that way. Sydney chases after me.
“Wait up,” she says. “Isn’t Rebecca with Anton?”
“Yes,” I say. “But Ida said Mr. Wolfe went to the doctor—I want to know why. He can’t get away with it,” I add under my breath.
“What’s going on, Mena?” Sydney asks, walking with me. “Why would Rebecca get certified so early? And what kind of ‘problem’ could she have?”
“No idea,” I say, not elaborating.
Sydney keeps talking, and we turn down the hallway to Dr. Groger’s office. She doesn’t remember the incident between Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe, and I’m not sure if I should tell her again after the way she reacted to the poem.
Just as Sydney and I approach the doctor’s office, elevated male voices carry into the hallway.
Sydney pulls me to the side of the door so that Dr. Groger won’t see our silhouettes through the glass. She bends down to tie and untie her sneakers, trying to provide cover in case we’re caught eavesdropping.
“She’s a liability, Harold,” Mr. Wolfe says loudly from inside the room. I realize that I never knew Dr. Groger’s first name before, and it’s suddenly intimate to have that personal detail about him. “You’ve known me for years,” the lawyer continues. “I need you to take care of this.”
“And tell her parents what?” the doctor asks coldly. “They’ve invested in her education. You were improper.”
Girls with Sharp Sticks Page 14
