The floor creaks as the Guardian walks into my room. I let my breathing sound congested, deep in sleep, slow and heavy—hoping he’ll just leave. It’s a fight to appear calm when my heart is racing.
I feel his figure pause over me, his shadow looming. He might be here to bring me down to the lab. To bring me to Anton to be reset. He might be here to kill me.
I want to open my eyes. I want to scream. But instead, I let my breathing catch slightly, and smack my lips together like he’s about to wake me.
He’s about to kill me.
The Guardian doesn’t move, and his presence is overwhelming. I wish I could run out into the woods, but they’re reinforcing the fence. There is no escape.
Guardian Bose is closer, close enough to touch me, I’m sure. I wait for it, working out in my head how I’ll fight back, but knowing I’m at a disadvantage in every way. He can break me with a single hit. I’m at his mercy, and the thought of that tears through my heart.
The shadow shifts over my face, and he’s closer still, hovering just above me. His cool fingers slide around my neck to choke me.
I’m about to scream for my life, but then, like a miracle, there is a thump from another room. I feel Guardian Bose turn toward it, and his hand falls away. There is the sound of his footsteps as he exits my room. The door shuts.
I jolt once but don’t open my eyes. My entire body hiccups with profound fear. Loss. I listen until Guardian Bose’s footsteps make it all the way down the hall and the door to his room opens and closes. And once I hear that, I sit up in bed and take in a huge gulp of air, my fingers on my throat, my eyes wide and fearful.
I continue to gasp for breath like I’m drowning. Tears stream down my cheeks as I stare at my doorway. My entire body shakes in a way that I can’t stop, my head bobbing, my arms like they’re being shocked with electricity.
I want to crawl into Sydney’s bed and tell her what’s happened. But I can’t chance it now. He’ll come back. He’ll drag me downstairs next.
I squeeze my eyes shut, crying silently. I’ve never been so scared—I don’t know how I can live and be this scared. I have a wild and irrational thought that my hair has streaks of white now.
I am at the mercy of these men. Of these horrible, terrible, abusive men.
And it’s crushing because I can’t change the circumstances right now. Not at this moment.
I know I can’t live like this, though. I won’t.
I pull the covers up to my chin, my body still jolting forward every few minutes, slowing as the adrenaline begins to wear down. Exhaustion is settling in.
Making it until morning is my new goal. Then I’ll talk to Sydney and the other girls—we’ll make a plan. We’ll get Valentine and run. We’ll never come back.
• • •
Professor Penchant stands at the front of the classroom, pacing. “You’re a disgrace,” he says to all of us, spittle flying from his mouth. “Naughty things.”
I cringe at the use of the word “naughty”—it’s creepy and infantile at the same time. It bothers the other girls too. Annalise grips the edge of her desk, her nails digging into the wood.
“Who would want girls like you?” Professor Penchant demands. “Disobedient trash. I’ll be glad when your lot is finally gone. You’re worthless.” He looks at Rebecca like this particular insult was reserved for her.
Annalise’s hand shoots up in the air, and Professor Penchant glances at her in surprise.
“How dare you—” he starts, furious she would dare ask a question while he’s admonishing us.
“Pardon me, sir,” she says in her sweetest voice. “But I’m ready to be a better girl. I was hoping I could learn a lesson today—if you’re up for teaching.”
I fight back my smile. But no sooner does the thought amuse me than Professor Penchant storms across the room and stops at the side of her desk. He grabs Annalise out of her chair, knocking her to the floor. He then begins to drag her by the wrist toward the front of the room while she unsuccessfully tries to free herself from his grip. Several girls scream, and I stand up from my desk.
The professor unhands her, kicking Annalise in the thigh as she tries to move away from him. He grabs his pointer stick and whacks her with it. She cries out in pain, a red slash quickly appearing on her thigh.
“Stay,” he says, like she’s a dog. With sudden ferocity, the professor turns back to all of us.
“You think we don’t see,” he says. “See the wheels turning.” He makes a motion near his temple. “The girls who wrote those kinds of poems were wicked. They were corrupt. Girls were put on this planet for the benefit of men. And you—” He whacks Annalise again, on her arm this time, and she cowers away from him. “You are here to serve at our pleasure. There is no other way for you girls—know that. Outside these walls, without our grace, you are nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
Brynn is crying next to me. Several other girls are trying to hold back their tears, afraid of being next in line for his cruelty.
The professor squats down next to Annalise. He raises his hand, and she flinches away. But to our horror, he runs the backs of his fingers along her neck, down to her collarbone. And the intimate touch is more horrifying than any slap. She moves away from him, but his threat is enough to break us all down. Highlight our vulnerability.
Every night we sleep behind unlocked doors in a school where the men hate us.
When the professor stands up, Annalise wipes her cheeks, quickly clearing the tears. He holds out his hand like a gentleman, and Annalise has no choice but to take it and thank him for the chivalry.
Professor Penchant smiles and watches her walk back to her desk, limping.
I hate him. I hate the professor with a fire I never thought was possible. And I know why we should be outraged.
• • •
We’re not allowed to close our doors anymore. That’s the new rule Guardian Bose has enacted. We can’t be in each other’s rooms, we can’t sleep with our doors closed, we can’t go outside.
This lockdown goes on for days, and it begins to work on our sanity. The isolation is torture. And it leaves me feeling sick and worn down. I just want to talk to the girls for a minute. Make sure they’re okay.
At night there are vitamins—one pink, one green, one yellow. Guardian Bose waits for us to take them. Several times, I had to throw them up after he didn’t leave fast enough.
I stare out the window in the evenings, confined to my room alone. I wonder if Jackson has come by the school. If he’s worried. I regret pushing him away, even if I’m angry that he lied to me. In the end, he could have helped us. I should have let him. I should have run.
Of course, every time I think that, I start crying. So I try not to think about that anymore.
And I start to think that Jackson has been worried. For example, one afternoon, I notice a police cruiser leaving our gates—leaving us here at the academy, unchecked. The professors don’t mention it, and I haven’t seen Anton or the doctor since Mr. Petrov talked to us about the poems, but I doubt they’ll tell me either. Jackson must have called them, but it was for nothing.
He was right—the men are too powerful.
There’s no one coming to save us. We’re alone in our penance.
And none of us has seen Valentine.
Whenever I get the chance, I go by her room and peer inside. It’s just as she left it: a book about plants open on her desk, her makeup scattered, and a pile of laundry waiting to be washed. I’m devastated with guilt, wishing I’d done more.
But I keep walking past, hoping each time that I’ll find her. But I never do.
• • •
It’s Sunday evening and campus is quiet. We no longer have movie nights. I’m cleaning the kitchen on my own after dinner, not allowed to work with other girls. I’m finishing up the last of the dishes, and when I pull open the wrong drawer, I see the keys again.
I stare at them.
“Looking for a way out?” a voice asks. Star
tled, I look up as Leandra enters the kitchen. It occurs to me that I haven’t seen Mr. Petrov’s wife since we returned from the field trip.
She turns before I see her face and walks over to the stove, picking up a kettle. She’s wearing a fitted black dress, her hair hanging long. She wags the teapot and sighs.
Leandra moves past me to fill the kettle at the sink, the water loud in the silent room. She sets it back on the stove and lights the range.
When she turns around, she leans against the cabinets, her face on display.
Her left eye has a bruise underneath, the white of her eye turned bloodred. She lets me look. She wants me to see.
“Are you okay?” I ask, unsure of what else to say.
She smiles. “Anton and I had a very intense therapy session. I’m one hundred percent now. I’ve made him very proud.”
My heart dips, and I look between her and the door before I step closer.
“You . . . You got impulse control therapy?” I whisper.
She nods. I point to my own eye to indicate hers.
“Why do you have a bruise?” I ask. “I’ve never—”
“My husband opted against the patch kit,” she says. “He thought I’d prefer to see the damage firsthand. You know, as a reminder.”
“A reminder?” I ask.
“Of what happens to girls who misbehave. Seems that book of poetry caused quite a stir,” Leandra says. “The men are afraid the discontent will spread. They want to root it out; they started with me. Valentine should have been more careful,” she adds. “It was, after all, a secret.”
My mouth drops open, and it takes me a second to find my words.
“You gave her the book?” I ask.
“It had been mine,” Leandra replies, her expression giving nothing away. “A gift someone had given me when I was different. Back when I was one of you. It woke me up. I’m curious if it’s done the same for you, Mena.”
I assume Leandra did give the book to Valentine, but she doesn’t say it outright. I don’t press the issue. I’m not sure if she’s purposefully being evasive or if she just can’t remember after impulse control therapy.
It’s shocking to think that Leandra Petrov was once a girl at this academy. However, what’s more shocking is that she owned those poems of rebellion—of revenge. What kind of friend would give her the book and then leave her here? It seems cruel. Then again, Leandra understands what this academy does to us, and yet . . . she stayed. She’s part of their system.
“Then what are you doing here?” I ask, incredulous. “Why have you stayed all this time?”
My question gives her pause. Leandra steps closer to me and runs her perfectly manicured fingernail down my cheek.
“I’m right where I belong, Philomena,” she whispers. “And when I grow discontented, Anton removes that piece. Again and again. As often as it takes.”
Staring at her bloody eye with her sharp nail against my skin, I’m certain that Leandra is not here to help me at all. Even when the men here abuse her, she stays. Because if she admits that what they’ve done to her is wrong, she’ll have to admit her role in hurting us.
The kettle begins to whistle, and Leandra turns to take it off the heat.
“In fact,” she says as she pours hot water into a cup, “Anton checks me over once a week, just to make sure.” She gets a tea bag from the wooden box next to the stove. “It’s at my husband’s request. Although it’s not really a request, you understand.”
She sets the kettle aside and turns to study me.
“Do you like cookies, Mena?” she asks curiously. Her question catches me off guard.
“I . . . I don’t know,” I say. “I guess I’ve never had one.”
“They’re too sweet,” she replies with a shrug. “You should avoid them.”
I don’t respond. I’m not sure if she’s really talking about cookies, or if there’s some deeper meaning in her advice that I don’t quite understand. To be honest, I don’t understand her. I never have.
Leandra picks up her cup from the counter. “Gold one opens the kitchen door,” she adds, motioning to the drawer of keys. “But you might want to take the silver key instead. I believe it opens the door to the lab downstairs. All this technology . . . ,” she says, looking around. “You’d think they would have changed the locks.”
My heart is pounding wildly, scared that Leandra will tell Anton I’ve been dreaming of escape. Scared that if she does, I’ll end up worse than her.
But then, as if we never spoke at all, Leandra sips from her tea and leaves the kitchen.
To: All Staff
RE: Emergency Impulse Control Therapy
From: Petrov, Roman
Today at 6:33 AM
As many of you have noted, this year’s class of girls has shown an unprecedented level of defiance. Due to this disruption, Innovations Academy is instituting emergency impulse control therapy, starting immediately. Once we have analyzed the data, we will take the necessary steps to preserve our investment. Girls who are not cleared for graduation will be dismissed permanently.
Evaluations are expected to be completed by the end of the week. Intensive follow-ups will be given to those exposed to the recovered reading material.
In addition, arrangements are under way to speed up the vetting process for a new batch of girls. Until further notice, Dr. Groger will be unavailable in the evenings as he continues his important work.
Thank you for your prompt attention.
Sincerely,
Roman Petrov, Head of School
IA: Innovations Academy
This communication may contain information that is legally privileged, confidential, proprietary, or otherwise exempt from disclosure. If you are not the intended recipient, please note that any dissemination, distribution, or copying of this communication is strictly prohibited. Anyone who receives this message in error should notify the sender immediately by telephone or return e-mail and delete it from their computer.
26
On the way to breakfast in the morning, I manage to tell Marcella about my conversation with Leandra. I didn’t take the silver key, afraid she was setting me up.
Then I whisper about the Guardian putting his hands around my neck, and Marcella’s eyes flash with anger. With fear. She passes along the message as we walk, letting the others know. Brynn looks back at me horrified, but I nod to tell her that I’m okay.
We sit down for our meal, careful not to get caught talking too much. Ida Welch is missing, I notice. She’s the second girl in the past week.
It’s starting to feel empty in here. There are vacant spaces where my friends used to be. Friends that haven’t been coming back.
I’m leaning in to mention Ida’s absence to Marcella when Guardian Bose walks into the room and joins the faculty at their table. I have a visceral reaction when I see him, goosebumps on my skin, a twist in my gut. I can barely stand to be around him, although I don’t really have much of a choice.
The men laugh together, eating their biscuits and gravy.
Guardian Bose holds a conversation, popular among the teachers—even though Anton thought him unprofessional. He gets to live his life, free of judgment. Free of restraint. All while he comes into my room at night to intimidate me.
I wait to make sure none of the staff is paying attention, and then I lean in to the table.
“Tomorrow we have Running Course,” I whisper. “Jackson will probably be beyond the fence. We can make a plan.”
“What do we do about the other girls?” Brynn asks.
“We can’t tell them,” Annalise says. “If they tip off Anton, who knows what will happen to us.” Annalise doesn’t lift her eyes when she says this. In fact, since Professor Penchant attacked her in the front of the room, she hasn’t said much of anything.
“We can’t just leave them,” Brynn says.
“They’ll slow us down,” Annalise replies. When Brynn turns to her, obviously hurt, Annalise winces.
“I�
�m sorry, but they will,” Annalise adds. “We’ll get this academy shut down. I promise. And then the others will really be free. We can’t take the chance now.”
“But—” Brynn starts, but Annalise shakes her head no.
“I won’t take the chance,” Annalise repeats adamantly. She rubs absently at the bruise on her arm, the one left from Professor Penchant’s attack during class. Annalise’s jaw tightens, her eyes welling up.
“I’ll kill those men before I let them touch me again,” she whispers. “Before I knowingly let them stick an ice pick in my eye.”
“We have a plan,” I say to Annalise, trying to calm her. “It’s going to work. You believe that too.”
“I’m just letting you know I have a plan B,” Annalise replies.
We stare at each other a moment, and then I nod, understanding why. The others stay quiet, none of them arguing. What if they come for us next? What if we have to protect ourselves?
Ida’s missing presence is a gaping hole at the table. A reminder to all of us that something is happening.
I sip from my juice and stare toward the windows. I know beyond the glass is an expansive lawn. The thick woods. And of course, the iron fence between the two. We’re locked behind barred windows, miles from the closest neighbor.
The academy has kept us isolated so we couldn’t run. But they didn’t count on my skill to make really awesome friends. And they didn’t count on our ability to fight back.
“What if we don’t wait?” Marcella whispers. I turn to her, my heart kicking up its beats.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“We can leave tonight,” she suggests, lowering her voice. “We call Jackson to pick us up. Then we run. We run because we’re not staying here to let Anton put us through impulse control therapy again. We’re not letting the Guardian puts his disgusting hands on you again.”
“I don’t have a way to talk to Jackson,” I say. “I have his number, but the phone in the hall doesn’t work. And I imagine they’ve locked the communications room.”
Girls with Sharp Sticks Page 25
