Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(17)

“But . . . But what about Marcella and Brynn?” she asks, straightening out of Sydney’s arms.

“What do you mean?” I reply.

“They love each other. They want to kiss each other endlessly. So . . . when Mr. Petrov places them after graduation . . .”

There’s a tightening in my chest before she even finishes the sentence.

Lennon Rose sniffles, wiping under her nose. “What if he places them with different people?” she asks. “How will they still love each other?”

I open my mouth to answer, but no words come out. I glance sideways at Sydney and see her with the same shocked expression. The thought has never occurred to us. The thought is a contradiction. The thought is dangerous.

“Lennon Rose,” Sydney says after a long moment. “The academy knows what’s best for us. So maybe they’ll place Marcella and Brynn together. Who knows?” She forces a smile. “But it’s not for us to decide.”

Lennon Rose nods like this comment outweighs any other she’s heard on the matter. I can practically see her fighting back her emotions. Her tenderness.

“You’re right,” Lennon Rose says, lowering her eyes. “The academy knows what’s best.”

“Don’t dwell on it, okay?” Sydney says, giving her another quick hug before walking her to the door. “As the professor would say, it’s bad for your complexion.”

Lennon Rose offers a closed-mouth smile, pulling back. She murmurs good night to both of us and leaves.

Sydney stares at the empty doorway and taps her lower lip with her index finger. “She’s going to dwell,” she says after a moment.

“She’ll be better tomorrow,” I say, coming to stand next to Sydney. “We’re always better in the morning.” Sydney and I exchange a look, and then I lean in to give her a hug, both of us holding on an extra moment.

I leave, but once in the hallway, I’m startled by a figure near my room. Guardian Bose smiles at me, holding a glass of water and a small paper cup with my nightly vitamins. I politely smile back at him.

“How’s your knee?” he asks, not looking at it as I approach.

“All better,” I say. “Thank you for asking.”

He nods while I enter my room, then follows me inside. He closes the door behind me.

“Let me ask you something, Mena,” he says, turning to study my expression. “That boy you were talking to today, did you know him?”

I’m taken aback by the question. “Of course not,” I say. “Why?”

“No reason,” he says. He walks over to the nightstand to set down my vitamins and water. “He was probably just captivated by your beauty. Or perhaps you led him on, either way . . .” He shrugs like it doesn’t matter, and runs his gaze up and down my pajamas, taking me all in.

Something about the way he does this makes me feel ashamed, and I lower my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest even though we’re not supposed to fidget.

“Well, you have a good night, Mena,” the Guardian says. He steps closer, towering over me, and leans down to press his dry lips to my forehead. “See you in the morning,” he murmurs.

I stand there a moment after he leaves, my arms still around me. I turn expectantly to my nightstand. Next to the glass of water is the small plastic cup with capsules, two pinks and one green.

Every night, the academy delivers a regimen of vitamins tailored to our specific needs. I’m normally one pink and one green. But I’m guessing the incident at the gas station requires an extra dose.

I sigh heavily and quickly gulp down the capsules before getting into bed.





6


I love mornings. The other girls think I’m unhinged, the way I normally smile through breakfast and hum in the shower. Only Lennon Rose likes mornings as much as I do, but Lennon Rose likes almost everything.

As I stretch this morning, I see the white box lying inside my doorway with a big red bow. My dress.

I rub my eyes, sleep still clinging to the edges of my mind. I never remember my dreams, but this morning, there is the hint of something there—an idea just out of my reach. Something about roses. But the more I try to grab it, the farther away it gets.

When it’s gone entirely, I look at the white box again.

Mr. Petrov furnishes each girl with a gown for the open house. He has them made especially for us. Part of me wishes I could pick out my own dress, one without so many sparkles, but the Head of School is very particular. I’m grateful for his attention to detail.

I get up, tugging down the hem of my pajama shorts, and walk over to the box. I bring it back to my bed and untie the bow, carefully removing the lid. I brush through the tissue paper and my fingers graze the garment. It’s sharp with sequins. I slowly drag the fabric from the box, making sure it doesn’t touch the floor.

It’s beautiful. A full-length white sequin dress—iridescent in the light. Formfitting with a low-cut top. It’ll fit perfectly since the academy has my measurements, but it weighs a lot in my hands now. I lay the dress on top of its box without trying it on and go to the bathroom to put on my clothes for Running Course.

Running Course isn’t terrible—we mostly enjoy it. We get to be outside, creating lean muscle and toning our legs. The best part, though, is that since we’re already surrounded by iron fencing, the Guardian doesn’t join us. It’s one of the few places where we have zero supervision.