Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(20)

“So what about you?” he asks. “You’ve been here eight months. How often do you go home?”

“Never,” I say.

“What?” he asks. “You just . . . You stay here?”

“Yes. We live here full-time. It’s an accelerated program.”

“Do you sneak out often?” he asks.

“Me?” I ask. “No, never. But they don’t physically monitor us on the grounds the way they do when we’re off campus.”

“If you don’t sneak out, then what do you do? For fun, I mean.”

“The girls and I talk a lot,” I say. “We tell stories. Gossip. Sometimes about boys.” I grin.

“Boys?” he replies, like it’s scandalous. “Plural? You see a lot of boys around here?”

“None,” I say. “Which is why we gossip about them.”

He laughs. “Will I make the list?”

“You already have,” I say seriously. “We’ve made all sorts of assumptions about you. I can’t wait to tell them what I’ve learned. You are fascinating,” I say.

Jackson flinches. “Can I ask you something, Mena?”

I nod that he can.

“Could you . . . I mean, would you mind not telling your friends that stuff about my mom?” he asks. “Any of it? It’s kind of personal.”

I hadn’t really considered that, but I understand his point. I don’t lie to the girls, but I can just leave that part out.

“I won’t tell them,” I promise, and Jackson smiles gratefully. We’re quiet for a moment before he moves suddenly like he just remembered something.

“I meant to ask,” he says, taking a phone out of his pocket. “Do you think I can call you? I . . . like talking to you. Hearing about your school. And it’ll help me sleep at night, knowing you’re okay behind all those bars.”

“Personal phones aren’t allowed on campus,” I tell him. “The only phone we have is a shared one in the hallway.”

“E-mail?”

I shake my head no. “We don’t have computers.”

“That’s bullshit,” Jackson mumbles, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “And weird considering this place used to be a tech company.” He considers the statement. “But who knows?” he adds. “A few years ago, the government tried to lock everyone out of the internet—some big push to control the narrative, remember?”

I don’t answer, not wanting to mention that I didn’t have a computer at home, either.

Jackson shakes his head. “That was scary stuff.” He looks over at the school. “Thankfully it didn’t last. But maybe it made Innovations reassess their goals. No more assembly lines. Now they specialize in girls.”

“And gardening,” I say, motioning to the greenhouse. “We grow the most beautiful flowers.”

Jackson watches me a moment, amused. “Although I’m sure that’s very lucrative,” he says with a small laugh, “I’m going to guess tuition here is pretty high. You know, since the place is so ‘elite.’ I wonder how they select which girls get in.”

On the first day of school, Mr. Petrov told us about the process. He said that he and the professors scoured the country, searching for girls with the perfect blend of beauty and temperament. We were hand-selected based on these traits. Our parents were delighted.

But I don’t think this criteria will impress Jackson, so I opt not to share it.

Jackson relaxes back on his hands, taking in the academy once again. “You know,” he adds, “I bet there’s still some old equipment lying around the building. You should poke through the closets once in a while. See what you find.”

“I can’t do that,” I say, scrunching up my nose. He pops another candy into his mouth.

“I would,” he says easily. Not even a hint of guilt. When he looks at me, we both smile.

He’s so unlike the men I’ve met at the academy, or even before. Most of my interactions are a well-rehearsed dance, expected. Jackson is the opposite of rehearsed. He’s messy and unpredictable.

“You’re exciting,” I tell him. “You drove an hour with a badly formed plan to check on me. You swear and run away from home. You even nearly fought the Guardian in a gas station.”

“I try to fuck up where I can.”

“You’re good at it,” I say, making him laugh.

Jackson takes another chocolate and unwraps it slowly. I watch him, noting his movements.

“Are you left-handed?” I ask.

He seems surprised by the question and looks down at his open palm. “I am. You?”

“No. But I’ve never met anyone who was left-handed before,” I say.

“It doesn’t sound like you meet a lot of people, Mena.” He holds out his hand to me, and before I can think about it, I slide my palm along his, noting how rough his skin is. Liking the way it scratches me, contrasts me.

Jackson lifts his dark eyes to mine, and for a moment, we just stare at each other. There’s a sudden pressure in my chest, a breathlessness I’ve never experienced before. Jackson licks his lower lip again, and then slowly withdraws his hand. He turns toward the sound of the girls running, rounding the building for likely the last time.