Annalise laughs like I’m joking. But as she stares at me, her expression starts to sag. “They’re not . . . real?” she asks. “Stella?” I shake my head no. She considers it a moment, blood rushing to her cheeks. We sit in shock, absorbing the information. Feeling more isolated than ever. Sydney looks at the bars on the window again.
“I talked to Valentine,” I say.
“Good,” Marcella says. “Did she have any answers?”
“None that she would give me. She told me we have to behave. And that ‘we’d know’ when it was time to leave.”
“Leave?” Brynn repeats, seeming confused by the sentiment. It didn’t occur to her that we’d have to leave the school, just like it hadn’t occurred to me. What if we’ve been trained to ignore that option?
We sit with the thought for a moment, and then Annalise jumps up suddenly. She glances at the clock. “I have to go,” she says. “I was supposed to meet Professor Driscoll in the greenhouse five minutes ago.”
She grabs her jacket, and we all stand so the other girls can go back to their rooms. We promise to meet up at dinner, although we have no solid plan going forward. I think we all need to process. And I think they need to get clearer heads.
Sydney grips my hand before we part, and then we separate to our own spaces. Once everyone’s gone, I stand in my room.
Even though I’ve learned how alone I really am at this school, I feel stronger now that the girls and I are on the same page. Together, we’ll figure this out. I walk to my window and stare out, trying to see beyond the woods.
I think about Jackson’s questions: Who are your parents? Why would they send you here?
And now the question hurts even more. I’ve never had an ability to contact them. Who would allow that? What do they want this school to do to me?
I put my hand on the cold glass of the window. On Sundays, the afternoons can be used for leisure time, or in some cases, visits from family or custodians. That’s happened to me once. My mother came out to visit. The only time she’s done so since dropping me off.
“How do you like it here, Philomena?” she asked, sitting across from me in the reception hall. I’d been at the school for a month, and I liked it just fine. I told her so, and she nodded, studying my expression.
My mother is quite beautiful, although more reserved than some of the other adults I’ve seen come through here. She was wearing a white turtleneck, a sleek white coat, and no jewelry. Her dark hair was smoothed straight and long, her dark eyes fanned out with perfect makeup. She placed her hand over mine, and I was surprised by the warmth in her gesture.
“I hope you’ll enjoy your time at the academy,” she said, watching me. “These are important years in your life. Remember everything. It’ll go by fast.”
I nodded that I would, and thinking back on it now, I didn’t say much while she was here. I was sort of in a fog then—all of us were. We were a bit overwhelmed with our new lives, our classes, the monitoring. I was very compliant then, and less . . . me. I think my mother must have seen that, because her brow furrowed in concern.
“We’ll check in periodically,” she said. “And the analyst will give us updates monthly.” Her dark eyes swept over me once again, and then she stood. I followed her lead.
“I hope you’ll be successful,” she said. She reached out to grip my hand, squeezing it once—a little harder than I anticipated—and then she nodded goodbye and walked out. After that, both of my parents missed the next open house.
They don’t check in periodically. Not with me, at least.
How could they leave me here? Do they know what the academy is doing? How the men control us, shame us, harm us? Do my parents get reports from EVA, too?
Do they even love me?
I spin away from the window like I can turn away from the hurt. I push off the memory of my mother coming to school. It’s easier if I imagine she’s never been here at all. It’s easier to forget it than face it.
But . . . there’s still a part of me that thinks it must be a mistake. They wouldn’t leave their only daughter in a place like this. They’re being manipulated too. If I could just show them, prove what’s happening here—they’d understand. They’d bring us all home.
For a few peaceful moments, I let myself believe that.
• • •
At dinner, there is still a space left open where Lennon Rose used to sit. And now that Rebecca’s gone, there is another. I wonder how long it’ll be before she returns. And I wonder what exactly impulse control therapy will do to her.
I stay after dinner with Marcella, cleaning up the kitchen. I’m putting away one of the knives, distracted, and I accidentally open the wrong drawer. I pause a moment, surprised to see scattered keys. I stare at them a moment, wondering what they’re for.
“Can you hand me another rag?” Marcella asks, stirring me out of my thoughts. I pass it to her, and she smiles her thank-you. The idea that we can’t call our parents, even if it was always the case, is weighing on us.
Before bed, the girls all promise not to take their vitamins. We’re scared to part, more vulnerable than ever, but I tell them tomorrow will be better.
I wash my face and get into my pajamas, dreading the Guardian coming to my room with my vitamins. I fill up my glass of water in anticipation and wait for him. I haven’t talked to him since the ballroom, and I’m not sure if he’s angry with me.
To comfort myself, I think about the poem again. I think about taking over the school and teaching the men how to behave.
My door opens suddenly, startling me, and I sit up to see Guardian Bose. He walks over to my nightstand and sets down the white cup with my vitamins. I take them obediently, or at least pretend to. When he’s not looking I spit them into my hand and shove them under the blanket.
I’m setting the glass of water back on my nightstand when the Guardian steps forward to place a small white pill next to it. I don’t know what it is, and I look at him questioningly.
“Anton sent it,” he tells me. “He says it’ll help you sleep.”
A sedative? My heart begins to race.
“No, thank you,” I say. “I’m fine. I—”
“Take it, Mena,” Guardian Bose says impatiently. “After today’s events, the analyst wants you resting soundly.” His expression leaves no room for argument. But I don’t want to go to sleep. Guardian Bose sighs at my hesitation.
“Take it or I’ll shove it down your throat.”
His threat is simple. He doesn’t even raise his voice. It’s the simple fact that he is physically stronger than me. That he’ll use that physical strength, and there is nothing I can do about it.
I have no choice. This time, he waits for me to take it, watching closely. It’s not suspicion—he looks pleased. I can’t hide the pill under my tongue or spit it out. I swallow it, squeezing my eyes shut the moment it’s down. I hold the glass of water with a shaky hand.
“Anton let you off easy, you know,” the Guardian says, taking the glass from me. Confused, I look at him and ask him what he means.
“I told him what you said to me earlier,” he says. “Told him you needed impulse control therapy to set you straight, but he declined. Guess he was playing favorites.”
And I am suddenly so tired of the Guardian—his constant possessiveness, his threats. I can’t stop myself when I reply, “It’s not really any of your business, since you’re not the analyst.”
Guardian Bose flinches, and then he takes an angry step forward like he’s mad I saw his reaction. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” he says. “Who do you think you are?”
And maybe it’s the poem, or the grief, or maybe I’m just sick of being pushed around, but I sit up straighter and stare back at him. “I know I’m not yours,” I say, “so back off.”
His fists clench at his sides, and for a moment, I think he’s going to punch me like the violent men in his movies. Fear streaks through me, but I don’t back down. Instead, the Guardian lifts his hands,
taking a step back.
“You’re turning into a real bitch, you know that, Mena?” he asks. He tells me to have a nice rest before walking out and slamming my door.
The moment he’s gone, I double over, shocked at how close I came to violence. Both proud and frightened of my bravery. It was stupid, standing up like that. But at the same time, I feel powerful.
I am powerful. I smile at the agency of it. I look around my room, thinking about what else I can control. But the idea of the sedative in my system freaks me out. I grab the vitamins and run to the bathroom.
Nothing comes up, though, and the chalky taste of the sedative rests on my tongue. It’s too late. At least it’s not the yellow vitamin. I flush those pills down the toilet and go back to my room.
I sit on my bed and reach under the mattress, where I had stowed the book of poetry, to pull it out. I turn to “Girls with Sharp Sticks.” I read it again and again until my eyes start to feel heavy—the effect of the sedative. Before I get too tired, I hide the book under my mattress again, the same place Lennon Rose hid hers. And then I lie back and think about her. Hoping she’s happy, learning exciting subjects. Evolving.
My eyelids flutter closed, but I fight to keep them open a little longer. I think about the girl who must have written those poems, wondering where she is now. Wondering who she is.
And I fall asleep imagining she’s me.
• • •
I’m sedated, my entire body heavy with sleep, when my door opens well after lights out. I turn my head, fighting to open my eyes to see who it is. There’s a sudden jolt of shock when I find Guardian Bose standing there in silhouette.
Dread curls in my stomach as I try to sit up. My head is stuffed with cotton; my arms are rubbery. I fall back in the bed. Guardian Bose steps into my room, his lack of boundaries terrifying.
I feel defenseless and I pull up on my sheets, trying to cover my body, but I’m tangled in the fabric. My bare leg is exposed on top of the blanket.
The Guardian comes to stand next to my bed. He doesn’t say anything right away. I might as well be naked for the way he’s examining me. And I shake my head, trying to clear the sleep that wants to pull me back under.
“How are you feeling, Mena?” he asks. His eyes travel the length of my body.
“Go away,” I tell him, my voice slurred with fatigue. But I’m feeling a crushing fear of my vulnerability.
There’s a small laugh, low and guttural, from Guardian Bose’s throat. And then to my horror, he reaches to run the backs of his fingers along my thigh. I try to roll away from him, but he grips my leg then, holding me in place. Squeezing hard enough to make me cry out in pain. He licks his teeth.
“Don’t ever talk back to me again, Philomena,” he whispers, leaning toward me. “Or next time, I’ll fucking kill you.”
He lets go of me then, and I curl up on my side, starting to sob. My skin stings where he grabbed me, and the idea that he might not be done is a terrifying possibility.
“Leave me alone,” I whimper, trying to gather the blanket over me again. The Guardian lowers his hand to my cheek, holding it there until I turn out of his touch.
“Remember what I said,” he says, and then he walks out of my room, quietly closing the door behind him.
I’m left to sob into my pillow, dipping in and out of consciousness. Too weak to get up. Too weak to fight. He violated me, openly and with malice.
Any power I felt earlier is gone. And maybe that was his point. The Guardian proves daily that he can act without repercussions. Overzealous, they explain.
We’re going to change the rules, I think desperately.
The idea offers me a small bit of comfort. A hope I cling to as I’m submerged again, sucked under by medication. By trauma. Sleep crashes over me in a heavy wave.
But I’m plagued with nightmares. Violent, horrific, suffocating nightmares.
I dream that I’m in a cold room with Dr. Groger and Anton standing above me. I’m lying on a table, unable to move, unable to speak.
“You’re so beautiful,” Anton whispers admiringly. “We couldn’t just let you go.”
Inside I’m screaming for him to leave me alone, but instead, he leans down and puts his forehead against my temple, like he’s overwhelmed by his love.
“Welcome home, Philomena.”
• • •
I wake, sitting straight up and then immediately regretting it. My head is pounding with a headache. It takes a moment for me to remember why, and then the events come back to me. The sedative. The Guardian putting his hand on my leg—he threatened my life. He made me weak, helpless, and then he exploited that to punish me. He just didn’t think I’d remember it, because of the vitamins.
He’s a monster. He’s a danger to all the girls.
With that being said, I’m not sure how to get us out of here. If we show distress, Anton will bring us in for impulse control therapy.
But the question is . . . what does that do? What is impulse control therapy?
I wonder if Valentine remembers from her last session. She might have some insight. I quickly get out of bed and ease open my door, peering into the hallway. I feel a flash of anger when I look at the Guardian’s door, but I can’t focus on that now.
I have to find evidence to prove what’s going on here.
I dart over to Valentine’s door, knocking softly before slipping inside. She sits up, blinking against the morning light, surprised to see me. “Mena,” she says. “What are you doing? Don’t break the rules.”
“What happens in impulse control therapy?” I ask her. “You just had it done. What did Anton do to you?”
Valentine waits a moment, and then brushes her hair back from her face. “I can’t remember,” she says, disappointed. “I hadn’t been thinking clearly, then. I didn’t play the game right, and they caught me. After impulse control, they upped the vitamin dose. Before I could remember not to take them, I’d gone two days. And once I stopped, the memories were completely erased.”
My heart sinks. “So you don’t know what Anton does in there?”
“I don’t,” she says. “But . . .” She pauses a long moment as if debating voicing it.
“What?” I ask.
“If you went in, and afterward you didn’t take the vitamins, if we all helped you to not take them . . . maybe we could find out.”
My lips part, the idea of sending myself to impulse control therapy, something I fear, is outrageous. Dangerous. I take a step back, not sure I can do it.
“Why not you?” I ask. She shakes her head.
“Again? So soon? Mena, if I get impulse control therapy again, they’re going to kill me.”
I fall back another step and shake my head. “No,” I say. “Your uncle . . . The academy isn’t going to kill you.”
“My uncle couldn’t care less,” she says immediately. “He’s not even my uncle. He’s just . . . He’s just some guy who’s paying for my education. He expects to marry me,” she adds bitterly. “My parents are dead. At least, that’s what Anton said—I don’t remember them anymore. So I have no choice but to be pleasant to Greg. At least until I get out of here. Then I’ll do what I want.” She looks away then.
It must be devastating to have no option of seeing her parents again. Even if I’m questioning how much my parents love me, the small bit of hope that I’ll see them again . . . I think it’s powerful.
“There are only so many times the analyst can try to help us,” Valentine continues. “That’s what Anton told me. I’ve exhausted his help, and if it happens again, he’ll have to let me go.”
“So they’ll send you home,” I say.
She tilts her head as if asking whether I really believe that. And even though there is a bit of doubt, I refuse to believe that my parents would send me to a school that would kill me if they couldn’t control me.
“That’s why you follow the rules, Mena,” she says. “They expect us to obey—to want to obey. But we can use their expectations
to manipulate them. So, if you want to know what goes on behind the scenes, you’re going to have to act out. And then, of course,” she smiles, “beg Anton for forgiveness. Tell him you want to be a better girl. He loves to be the hero.”
“But what if they kill me?” I ask, breathless, still not sure I believe it but scared of it nonetheless.
“His prize?” she asks. “No. You just have to be convincing. Do you think you can do that?” She sounds honestly curious.
I lower my eyes, not sure I can just walk into something like this. “I . . .” I’m not sure how to answer. So when I look at her again, I shrug. “I have to talk to the other girls,” I say instead.
Valentine nods as if this is an acceptable answer, one she understands. I tell her I’ll see her at breakfast, and I walk out of her room, pausing in the hallway.
I turn toward the Guardian’s door again. I’ll have to pretend I don’t remember him in my room last night. I’ll have to pretend, or the academy will know that I don’t take the vitamins. Maybe it’s not all that different from pretending to need impulse control therapy.
And I wonder if my best play is to play along.
18
I get ready for classes, and as I head out for breakfast, Guardian Bose is already in the hallway.
“Hurry up, girls,” Guardian Bose calls loudly before yawning. “Let’s get downstairs. I’m starving.” He glances in my direction, and I’m amazed by how easily I smile in return. Almost like I’m outside myself, cut off from the real feelings that are under the surface. Like an actor, I’m assuming.
I don’t get to say anything to the girls. But I see the way Sydney looks at me from across the hall, the way her eyes search the room, a bit confused. She didn’t take her vitamins last night.
We have so much to talk about.
Breakfast is another bowl of unsweetened oatmeal. I realize now as I sit in front of it, this is not just about nutrition. They think it’s indulgent for us to want better-tasting food.
I glance over to the professors’ table and watch as they pile scrambled eggs onto their plates, generously sprinkling them with salt and pepper. I look at the pile of bacon they could never finish, and I know it will be wastefully tossed in the trash.
Girls with Sharp Sticks Page 17
