Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(14)

But Jackson seemed more casual in his manners. And I liked it. It felt more . . . honest. I smile to myself, deciding that if I ever see him again, I’ll be sure to make a better impression. I want to learn more about him.

But, of course, I’ll never see him again.

“Philomena,” Professor Allister scolds. “Daydreaming again? We’ve talked about this.”

“Sorry, professor,” I say. That’s my biggest flaw, my professors have told me. I daydream too often, drift away in my thoughts. I just can’t seem to stay out of my head, even though I know it’s unsightly. It might be something to bring up with Anton at our next meeting. Perhaps he could offer some coping methods to redirect me.

Once classes are completed for the day, I return to my room to get into my pajamas. The halls are quiet. We’re supposed to stay in our rooms for studying or quiet reflection before bed, but I tiptoe out to meet with the other girls.

Our floor is made up of individual suites, the one at the end of the hall belonging to Guardian Bose. He keeps an eye on us at night, providing security even though we already have bars on our windows.

I walk down the hall in my socks toward Sydney’s room, glancing at Guardian Bose’s door to make sure he’s not standing there watching. When I’m sure it’s clear, I knock softly and enter Sydney’s room.

I startle the girls inside, and several of them gasp guiltily. Sydney leaps to her feet, motioning for me to close the door.

“Quickly,” she whispers, and there’s a flutter of papers behind her back.

“Okay . . . ,” I respond in exaggerated suspicion, and close the door. I check the faces of the others—Lennon Rose, Marcella, Brynn, and Annalise—and note the pink blush high on their cheeks. The smiles they’re hiding behind their hands.

I turn dramatically to Sydney, hands on my hips. I can’t believe she left me out of whatever is going on. She waves me forward to sit with her on the bed while the others crowd around us in a half circle on the rug.

“What is going on?” I ask, amused. Sydney is still wearing her white button-down uniform shirt with no pants and knee-high socks, her hair pinned back. She pushes the folded sleeves of her shirt above her elbows, and then throws her arm around my shoulders.

“Remember when you saw those cute boys today?” she asks. “And then one of them bought you candy?”

“Yes,” I say, realizing they don’t all know the story. “A whole bag of it.”

“Wow,” Lennon Rose sighs.

“What kind of candy?” Marcella asks with practicality.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “The Guardian dragged me out before I could eat it. Next time I’ll be sure to shove all the chocolates into my mouth before he can get to me,” I add, making her laugh. I turn to Sydney.

“Is that what you all were talking about?” I ask.

“Nope,” she says, then gives me a smack of a kiss on my temple before pulling her arm away to reach behind her.

Triumphantly, she holds out a magazine, the pages fluttering so I can’t see the cover. I’m instantly suspicious.

“Did you steal that?” I ask.

“I did,” Marcella says, and when I turn to her, she shrugs. “They had a bunch of them at the gas station,” she adds, as if that makes it okay.

I take the magazine from Sydney’s hand, but she quickly snatches it back and holds it out of my reach.

“Uh, uh,” she sings. She sets it on her crossed knees and flips to a page. I’m stunned to see a couple on a couch in the late stages of undressing. This time, my cheeks blush.

“You stole a dirty magazine?” I ask Marcella with a laugh.

“No,” Sydney says for her. “It’s a women’s magazine.”

I look around at the girls, confused. “I don’t get it.”

“It deals with women’s issues—only,” Sydney says. “In fact, I think I’ve found my new favorite quiz.”

“And what’s that?” I ask, trying to sneak another look at the couple on the page.

“It’s called . . .” She clears her throat. “?‘Are you good at oral sex?’?”

I burst out laughing, imagining she’s joking, but instead, she lists off the first three bullet points. It’s downright scandalous, but at the same time, we close in around her, hanging on her every word.

Although all of us grew up in strict households—followed by the isolation of the academy—we’re not completely naive. Most of our nights are filled with long talks while piled together in a room, recounting stories we’ve heard—collectively or individually. Bits of advertising we’ve picked up on field trips. We rehash the censored parts of movies that we’ve embellished with our imaginations.

When Sydney’s done going through all the points on the list, including tips of things to avoid, we collectively decide that we’d be pretty bad at the whole oral sex thing if we followed those suggestions. It all sounds wildly unpleasant.

“What I don’t get,” I say, thinking it over, “is if this is a women’s magazine, why are they telling us how to pleasure guys? Shouldn’t it be about our pleasure? Or even mutual pleasure?”

“Huh,” Sydney says, flipping to the front cover of the magazine and tracing her finger over the words “Women’s Magazine.” “That’s a good point, actually,” Sydney says, and turns to me. “Will you do me a favor?” she asks.