Confused, I hang up and redial, double-checking each digit. I get the same message. I hang up the phone, feeling disappointed. Jackson must have written it down wrong.
There’s a shock of laughter down the hall, startling me, and I look over to see Ida and Maryanne walking in my direction. Ida asks if I’m done with the phone, and I tell her that I am.
I pass her on my way back to my room, still thinking about the recorded message. And how the voice sounded oddly familiar. I go back to my room and wait for Sydney.
• • •
It’s about forty minutes later when there’s a soft knock on my door.
“Come in,” I call.
Sydney and Annalise walk in, saying hello before they come to sit on the bed with me. Annalise is holding a hair tie, and she asks if I want her to braid my hair. I tell her I’m okay for now.
“Brynn will let me,” she says with a shrug, and I laugh because it’s true.
“Where are Marcella and Brynn?” I ask.
“I think in Marcella’s room,” Sydney says. “Why?”
“Get them,” I tell her. “I have to show you girls something. It’s important.”
Sydney says that she will, and sensing the seriousness, she rushes out. I tell Annalise that I’ll be right back, and I go to Lennon Rose’s room, checking for the Guardian before slipping inside.
For a moment, it steals my breath, the way I miss her. The way I can still sense her. It’s even stronger than yesterday—or maybe I’m just feeling more. I go over to the bed and slip my hand beneath the mattress, relieved when the book is still there. I tuck it under my shirt and quickly return to my room.
Marcella eyes me suspiciously as I reenter, closing my door and wishing I could lock it. “Another secret?” Marcella asks. But her attempt at joking falls flat. It’s been a devastating day already, and I think all of us are still raw from Leandra and Professor Penchant’s words.
I take the book out of my shirt, making Marcella start with surprise. Sydney looks uncomfortable but doesn’t react like she did on the track. When I sit on the floor, she comes to sit next to me. The other girls join us, forming a circle.
“I found this in Lennon Rose’s room,” I say. “I think she was reading it before the open house. And I think it might have been why she was so upset.”
“I thought she was upset because her parents ran out of money,” Annalise says, checking with the other girls.
“That’s what Anton said,” I explain. “But he might not have been telling the truth. And when I checked Lennon Rose’s room, I found this.”
I take out the book and flip to the poem “Girls with Sharp Sticks.” I’m scared to show the other girls; I even hesitate. It seems . . . radical. But when I look at Sydney, she nods for me to give it to her. I pass it her way first.
“The poem is called ‘Girls with Sharp Sticks,’ ” I say. Marcella smiles at the title, and the others wait impatiently as Sydney runs her eyes down the page. I watch her read, the shocked way her eyes blink. When she’s done, she looks dazed.
“Let me see,” Annalise says. Sydney hands it over without a word, lost in thought. Annalise reads it quickly, and I see her smile at the last line. Her smile is followed by a flash of guilt and then another smile.
“Who wrote this?” she asks, lifting her eyes to mine. They’re shiny with exhilaration. Defiance.
“I’m not sure,” I say. “And I don’t know how Lennon Rose got it, but I think Valentine could have given it to her.”
Brynn finishes reading, sitting very still when she’s done. Her lips are parted, her cheeks red. She passes the book to Marcella. “A girl wrote it,” Brynn says. “I’m sure of it.”
Marcella is the last to read, and when she finishes, she stares at the page. I’m suddenly worried that she isn’t going to appreciate the words or that she’ll be scared by them. But instead, she looks at me.
“This is . . . ,” she starts. “This is kind of like us. The way we are at this school. The way . . .” She doesn’t finish the thought. She looks down at the page again, and her eyes drip tears.
The parallels to our lives are obvious. At least, they are now that we’re looking for them. The way we’re taught, kept, trained. It’s only now that we’re starting to see what’s happening to us. We may not completely understand, but there is a sense that we’ve been . . . wronged.
A heaviness pulls us down, and we all lower our heads. I think about Rebecca being humiliated and then trying to fight back in the only way she knew—destroying what they coveted: her beauty.
“There’s something else,” I say, after a moment. “You can’t take the nightly vitamins anymore.”
Brynn looks confused. “Why not?” she asks. “I’ll be off balance.”
I explain to her that I haven’t had vitamins in my system since Friday night. And when I tell them about the silver dust inside the capsule, Brynn grips Marcella’s leg, terrified.
“I’m not sure what they’ve been doing to us,” I say. “But since I stopped taking them, I see more. I understand more. Those pills are controlling us. With what? I’m not sure. But we need to figure out what the purpose of this school really is.”
I see that the girls aren’t totally getting my theories, even if the poem has moved them.
“Just . . . Just pretend to take the vitamins tonight,” I beg. “See how you feel tomorrow. Deal?”
“Yeah,” Annalise says, seeming lost in thought. “Fine. I hate swallowing those pills anyway.”
I tell them what Jackson said about the town knowing about the school, and how it’s super mysterious and kind of scary. They listen closely, and Sydney occasionally looks toward the bars on the window.
I still remember bits of my dreams, so I tell them about those, too. But we all agree it’s probably due to the abrupt change in medication. I relay the vision (memory?) of Annalise with blond hair, and she grabs her red strands and inspects them as if they’ve somehow changed instantly.
But it’s Brynn who suddenly starts to cry.
“So what happened to Lennon Rose?” she asks. “What—where is she?”
“I don’t know,” I say, miserably. “But Jackson is going to try to find her number. That way we can call and check on her. Only . . .” I shrug. “I tried to call him and it didn’t go through. He must have written his number down wrong.”
“What do we do now?” Annalise asks.
“We should call our parents,” Sydney says suddenly.
Annalise takes a breath, about to argue, but must think better of it. It’s scary to think about calling our parents. What if they don’t believe us? What if they do?
What if they do nothing at all?
“Gemma will answer,” Sydney continues, “and I’ll ask her to put my mom on the phone. Then I’ll tell my mother everything. She’ll be out here by the end of the day.” Sydney smiles, her eyes hopeful. “I bet she’ll even help us find Lennon Rose.”
The girls and I look at each other, considering it.
“We have to be careful,” Marcella warns. “We don’t want to seem disrespectful.”
I agree, but the moment I do, I realize that the academy is still inside my head. Making me believe that my parents would be disappointed, even though what’s happening here isn’t my fault. I just don’t know exactly what’s happening here.
We all hesitate, afraid to go against the analyst’s wishes. We’re supposed to forget about Lennon Rose. Sydney begins to fidget.
“I can make the first call,” I say, shoring up my courage. “Test my parents’ reaction before I tell them everything. That way, if it all goes wrong, I can blame it on missing them. Plus . . . I’m less tied to Anton’s rules now that I’m not taking the vitamins. I’ll be able to tell if my parents are lying.”
I have no idea if that’s true, but I don’t want the other girls to take the risk. I wouldn’t want one of them to end up in impulse control therapy because of this plan.
We debate for a few minutes, but ultimately
, we decide that only one of us should try. Just in case . . . Just in case what, I’m not sure. I don’t think we want to imagine the possibility of not being believed.
The girls wait inside my room while I go into the hall. My heart is in my throat as I pick up the phone receiver and dial my parents’ number. I shouldn’t be this scared to talk to them. Right?
Just as I close my eyes to take a breath, the line picks up.
“Hello?” Eva answers. I’m both comforted and disappointed to hear from her. Her motherly tone is a like a hug, but ultimately, she’s powerless to help me.
“It’s Philomena,” I say, and she makes a fuss.
“It’s nice to hear from you. How are you, honey? How are your classes? Still on track for graduation?”
“Good, and yes,” I say, trying to keep the impatience out of my voice. “Eva, can I please speak to my mother?”
“She just left,” she says with regret. “I can pass along your message.”
I close my eyes. “No, Eva. I need to talk to her. This is important.”
“Oh?” she replies, sounding concerned. “Well, if it’s an emergency, then I think we should get Mr. Petrov on the line right away.”
“No!” I snap.
“Philomena,” Eva scolds. “What is going on over there?”
“I just need to talk to my parents,” I say as calmly as possible. “It’s not about school. I need to talk to them.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” she replies, her voice now curt. “They’re not here to take your call. I will pass along the message.”
A sudden realization crawls over my skin, a sinking in my gut. The way she just said that—her tone. I’m certain it’s the same voice on the recorded line that told me Jackson’s number was out of service, only without the accent. It was the same voice.
“Eva, I want to talk to my parents,” I repeat simply. “Put them on the phone.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. Too long.
“I’m sorry, Philomena,” she replies. “I can’t do that. They’re busy. I’m sure they’ll check in after your impulse control therapy.”
I blink quickly, like I’ve just been slapped.
“I’m not scheduled for impulse control therapy,” I tell her, my voice lowering.
“Yes, well,” she says, “sounds like maybe you’re due for one. Your impulses sound compromised.”
It’s clearly a threat. Suddenly I tune into the background. Every time I’ve spoken with Eva, it’s so quiet. In a house, shouldn’t there be a television or radio on in the background? Rustling papers at a desk? A lawnmower or traffic outside? But Eva’s voice is crystal clear, like she exists in an empty room, always answering the phone. Answering every call, even to Jackson’s number.
I’ve left so many messages with Eva, but in all this time, my parents have never called me back. Now I’m sure they never got the messages. So who exactly is Eva reporting to? It occurs to me now that she might not live with my parents at all.
“I apologize,” I say to her, sweetening up. “I had some ideas about graduation, but perhaps this is a conversation better had with the analyst. Thank you for your perspective, Eva,” I say. “It’s a reminder that I need to keep my behavior well managed so I don’t worry my parents.”
“You’re very welcome,” Eva says pleasantly. “Do you still want me to pass along your message?”
“No,” I say. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”
“It’s no trouble at all, dear. Have a nice day.”
“You too,” I mumble. I put my fingers on the lever to hang up the call, staring down at the receiver in my other hand.
Eva must work for the academy. How many other “assistants” are doing the same? Have they been manipulating us the entire time?
“You shouldn’t have done that,” Valentine says, startling me. I spin around and find her in her doorway, dressed impeccably, a bow in her hair.
“What?” I ask, putting the receiver back on the hook.
“It’s not an open line,” she says. “It goes through the communications office on the second floor.”
I shake my head, confused. “I don’t understand,” I say.
“There’s no such thing as EVA,” she explains. “Nor STELLA, GEMMA, or whatever else they call them. Like I said, there are no open lines. I’ve checked.”
We stare at each other, my heart thumping as I try to get up the courage to ask more questions. Find out what I really need to know. Finally, I take a step toward her.
“I read the poems,” I whisper. “And I stopped taking the vitamins.” To this, Valentine smiles—and not the fake, practiced smile. A real smile; a true glimpse of her.
“Finally,” she says. “And how are you feeling?” she asks.
“Awake.”
She smiles wider. “Good.”
For the past week, Valentine has scared me, intimidated me in a way. But it’s just that I wasn’t seeing things clearly, not the way that she was. But now I’m starting to understand her. I’m starting to trust her.
“Why weren’t you at lunch?” I ask.
“Anton,” she says. “He’s asking questions. He’s trained to notice changes like this, so be careful around him. We just have to wait a little longer.”
It’s not the answer I wanted to hear—although I can’t say exactly what it was that I expected.
“Wait for what?” I ask. My voice is a little loud, and she casts a concerned glance at the Guardian’s door before looking pointedly at me.
“For the other girls,” she says. “The only way we get out is all together.”
It strikes me then that I hadn’t thought about getting out. I should have, obviously I should have. But the idea of escaping the school suddenly leaves me feeling vulnerable, exposed to the elements.
Valentine notices my discomfort. “Just . . . behave,” she says. “Listen and learn. You’ll know when it’s time.”
She walks away then, leaving me confused and a bit irritated in the empty hallway. Sydney’s head peeks out of my room. The girls are waiting for an update, and I’m spurred into action. I quickly run over and take her hand.
“Come on,” I say, pulling her down the hall. Alarmed, she jogs alongside me.
“Where are we going?” she asks. “How did it go with your parents?”
“We’re going to the communications room.”
Sydney repeats it, confused. I explain about my phone call and what Valentine said, watching her sink inside herself. She shakes her head once, not believing it.
“We’re just going to check it out,” I say, not wanting to worry her too much. Valentine could be wrong.
We get to the second floor, and I slide myself along the wall to peek around the corner. When I don’t see any professors, we quickly hurry down to room 206. It’s clearly labeled, but I’ve never been in here before. There was never any need.
I try the door, and it opens. I’m immediately amongst a vast assortment of equipment. There are machines—not computers exactly, but large rectangular panels with buttons and dials. Switches and lights. There’s a phone and plastic box full of paper that’s labeled FAX MACHINE.
The room itself isn’t very big—about the size of a large custodial closet, like the one we have near the kitchen where we keep the mops and buckets—but I’m a little overwhelmed with the amount of wires and metal.
I decide there isn’t anything of consequence in here, but just as I start to turn away, I notice the last panel. There’s a stack of faxes in front of it, all marked READ with a stamp.
As I read the labels on the panel, my stomach drops. My breath catches in my chest.
Sydney notices my reaction and darts her eyes around the room.
“What is it?” she asks.
I swallow hard and point. Printed on the device is the brand, etched into the metal: PARENTAL ASSISTANT. And down the front of the panel are switches, each labeled. EVA, GEMMA, STELLA, MORGAN, and several others run down to the bottom.
“It
’s . . . It’s a machine,” I murmur. “They’re a machine.”
“What does that mean?” Sydney asks. “Are you . . . Are you saying Gemma’s not even real?”
There’s a loud beep and we both jump, grabbing on to each other. There’s a scraping sound, a series of buzzes, and then a piece of paper gets sucked into the fax machine. We stare at it, unsure what’s happening. And then the machine spits out the paper, facedown.
We stay very still until Sydney steps forward to pull the page out of the machine. She flips it over and reads it. Her lips part, but she doesn’t say a word. She holds out the paper to me.
And when I read it, I find that it’s a fax to Anton. From EVA.
FAX
To: Anton Stuart
From: EVA
Re: Philomena Rhodes
Date: April 18th
Pages: 1
* Urgent For Review Please Reply
Comments:
Philomena Rhodes displayed unusual behavior patterns while calling the Rhodes residence this evening. The situation was diffused, but per guidelines, this message was generated to keep you informed.
Action is not suggested at this time.
17
Every conversation I had with EVA was a lie. She’s a computer system, a “parental assistant.” She was in the academy the entire time. She would ask questions about my contentment, and then . . . what? Pass my answers along to Anton, I guess.
“We have to go,” Sydney says, still staring at the panel of names. But then she turns, and I follow behind her. We shut off the light and close the door.
On the way back to our floor, I’m still trying to process. Sydney doesn’t say a word.
We rush back to the other girls and find them waiting in my room, sitting on the bed. When we walk in, Brynn looks up hopefully.
“Did you talk to your parents?” she asks. “Did they believe you?”
I stare back at her, suddenly unable to speak. Sydney steps beside me, and we exchange a look, knowing we have to tell them.
“EVA answered,” I say. “But . . . our parents’ assistants aren’t real,” I say. “They’re part of a computer system. And they report directly to Anton. Pretty much right away.” Sydney nods to let them know it’s true.
Girls with Sharp Sticks Page 16
