Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(13)

There are a few types of books at the school: gardening, beauty standards, or social etiquette, but I’ve already read them all. So most days, it’s just me and the girls. Which is more than enough. We’re fast learners, absorbing words, phrases, and ideas quickly. And we tell each other everything—our own kind of internet, I suppose.

I look down to the other end of the table and see the empty spot where Valentine normally sits. It’s a bit jarring for her to be missing, and I blink quickly as I resettle myself. Even though Valentine doesn’t socialize with us, she’s still part of our class. And none of us likes to be separated.

I poke through my salad with my fork before looking up at the other girls. “Hey,” I say quietly, drawing gazes from Marcella and Brynn, from Sydney and Lennon Rose. “When I was with Dr. Groger earlier, I asked him about Valentine.”

Marcella’s eyes narrow slightly, as if she’s both confused and interested in what I have to say next. Brynn sets her elbow on the table.

“What did he say?” Sydney asks from next to me.

“He told me that Guardian Bose can be overzealous sometimes,” I say. “And that he’d talk to him about it.”

“Dr. Groger is very kind,” Lennon Rose says in her quiet way. She nods that we should agree.

“What does he mean by ‘overzealous’?” Brynn asks, pushing her blond braid over her shoulder. “Valentine wasn’t listening to him. He redirected her.”

“He did injure Mena,” Marcella suggests as a reason, turning sideways to Brynn. I’m immediately embarrassed again by my behavior.

“I’m not sure what the doctor meant,” I say. I lean into the table and drop my voice lower. “But Valentine is getting impulse control therapy right now.”

“Good,” Brynn says, nodding. “Hopefully it’ll get her back on track.”

I look down at my salad, the feeling of dread coming over me again. “The impulse control therapy part doesn’t bother you, though?” I ask, barely a whisper.

“Why would it?” Sydney asks curiously. “It’ll fix her.”

The other girls nod, perplexed by my question. Lennon Rose recently underwent her own impulse control therapy. She’d been acting a little sad, and we were told she was homesick and needed to reassess her goals. We haven’t discussed it with her since she returned—Anton said it would be best not to.

Lennon Rose is no longer contributing to the discussion now, clearly uncomfortable. The other girls watch me, puzzled, and I feel bad for worrying them.

“Never mind,” I say with a quick wave of my hand. “I was probably just shaken up after seeing so much blood.”

Sydney scrunches up her nose, admitting that the sight of blood was disgusting. The girls agree, and the conversation about impulse control therapy fades away.

As the other girls eat, I glance around the dining hall and find the Guardian sitting with the professors as they devour their dinners. Overflowing plates of meat and gravy, potatoes, and vegetables. Steam rises from their plates, and for a moment, my mouth actually waters. I spear a piece of lettuce and shove it between my teeth.

Sydney uses her straw to stir her juice, poking at the thick liquid. “You have to come to my room later,” she says. “After evening classes. We have a lot to discuss.” She emphasizes the last word, and I know she wants to talk about the boys we met. I fight back my grin and tell her that I’ll be there. Next to her, Lennon Rose’s eyes light up.

On Thursdays, we all attend classes well into the night, but it gives us a shorter school day on Friday. And this Friday is especially important because it’s an open house. Parents, sponsors, and potential investors are invited to see the grand achievements of the Innovations Academy. Namely: us.

The events are lavish and impressive, a chance to mingle and socialize. We all look forward to them because these are our only chances to see our parents during the year.

“Drink your juice,” Sydney says, taking a big sip of hers and gagging before finishing it off. I tell her she’s out of her mind and slosh the straw around in my drink, wishing the entire thing would just evaporate.

I feel heat on the back of my neck. Sensing him, I look up to find Guardian Bose watching me. I’m conscious that I don’t want to break any more rules. I pick up my juice and guzzle it down. When I set the glass on the table, sick to my stomach, the Guardian smiles and goes back to his meal.





5


My evening classes are monotonous, but I listen in each one, wanting to meet my professors’ expectations. We add new roses to our garden in Plant Design and Development, learn (again) how to properly set a table in Modern Manners, and practice informal greetings in Social Graces Etiquette class.

I’m mortified when I realize that I introduced myself all wrong today when meeting Jackson. I didn’t offer him my hand, didn’t stop what I was doing to give him my full attention. And I certainly talked too much about myself.

Although I did well with eye contact, I didn’t ask Jackson enough questions. I should have found a topic he enjoyed and pursued it. Exuded confidence in order to boost his. Or if he preferred, been humble and soft-spoken.

On the other hand, Jackson broke all the rules of etiquette. He blushed, cursed, and lost his temper with the Guardian. He suggested we go out without formally asking me. But men don’t have to follow the same rules of engagement that we do. Perhaps if I’d acted properly, he would have done the same.