Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(24)

I laugh but decide she’s right. I have no idea why I’m the one Valentine shares her odd thoughts with, but it’s worth exploring. There’s probably a simple explanation.

We talk for a few more minutes before Guardian Bose calls us into the hallway. Sydney and I slip on our heels, take one last look at our reflections, and then head out for lineup. Lennon Rose and Valentine walk out of Lennon Rose’s room, all made up. I find it odd that they’re together. Especially when Lennon Rose avoids my eyes.

Guardian Bose gives each of us a quick once-over before leading us down the stairs toward the ballroom. He grins at Annalise in her short, pink dress—Mr. Petrov’s preference.

Always show your legs, Mr. Petrov told her specifically. They’re your best asset.

Personally, I think it’s her smile. It’s very warm and inviting.

“My parents want to talk about plans for after graduation,” Sydney says over the clicking of heels on the stairs. She looks over at me, excited.

“I can’t wait to hear them,” I say. “Remember every detail.” She promises that she will.

My parents have never spoken to me about graduation; I have no idea what their plans are for me. I even talked to Anton about it once. He assured me that my parents are still invested in my education, but he said that these decisions were too important for me to be a part of. He told me that impatience was a negative trait and asked me not to think of it again.

Most of us will get married and tend beautiful homes. We’ll appear on our husbands’ arms at important events—making them proud. Others will make our parents proud. Or whomever Mr. Petrov sees fit to guide us through society.

I can’t help but wonder what the future holds for me. But every time I try to imagine it, I hear Anton telling me again “not to think of it,” and the thoughts fade away.

“Will your parents be here tonight?” Sydney asks.

“No,” I say. “Eva told me they’re out of town.” I’m stricken with loneliness again. The sense of not belonging to anyone. Anywhere.

“You never know,” Sydney says, taking my hand. “They might surprise you.”

I look sideways at her with a small burst of hope. “You think?”

She shrugs, bumping her shoulder into mine. “If I were your mother, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I smile, loving her support.

“Come along, girls,” Guardian Bose calls, waving us into the hallway that leads to the ballroom. We pause there, single file, and wait.

We’re quiet, a few girls adjusting their hair to fall perfectly over their shoulders or smoothing their lips together. Rebecca Hunt pulls up the bust of her dress in the front of the line, fidgeting before the Head of School gets to her.

I catch the soft murmur of conversation behind me: something . . . tense.

I glance over my shoulder, surprised when I find Lennon Rose five girls back in conversation with Valentine. For her part, Valentine looks impeccable in a silver, floor-length gown, her hair pulled into a high bun. But her expression isn’t soft and obedient. Her eyes are slits, fierce. I can’t hear what she’s whispering, her lips moving urgently like she’s reciting words rather than conversing. But whatever she’s saying, it’s affecting Lennon Rose, who wraps her arms around the waist of her blue dress, her chest heaving in startled breaths.

I move away from Sydney, about to intervene, when there is a loud clap from the front of the line. I turn and see Mr. Petrov approach. Leandra is dutifully by his side, her gaze gliding over each of us. I quickly get back in line to wait for inspection.

Mr. Petrov and Leandra slowly make their way past each of us, the Head of School raking his eyes over our figures, ensuring our dresses fit perfectly. Leandra leans in to Annalise and smudges some of the blush off her cheeks, telling her it looks cheap.

They move on to Sydney, and Mr. Petrov nods appreciatively, telling her the color is beautiful against her skin. She flashes a wide smile in return. Leandra, on the other hand, grips Sydney’s hips like she’s measuring them.

“Schedule Running Course for the morning,” Leandra says coldly. “You’re filling out this dress. I suspect you’re up a pound. That’s not acceptable, Sydney. You represent this academy.”

Sydney’s smile falters, and she lowers her head, apologizing for her appearance. My stomach sinks; I think she looks amazing.

I have to fight to hold my smile when the Head of School and his wife reach me.

Leandra inspects me first, but I’m surprised when she doesn’t say anything at all. Instead, she studies my eyes. It feels almost invasive, the way she holds my stare. Like she’s saying something I can’t hear.

Mr. Petrov reaches out to run his finger along the neckline of my dress, grazing the skin of my chest as he traces the low cut. It sends a chill down my back.

“This is very flattering on you, Philomena,” he says, slow to remove his hand. “I dare say you could go lower.”

“If you think so, sir,” I say politely, even though I already feel too exposed. We dress modestly with the exception of these open houses. Mr. Petrov says it’s because investors want to get a good look at us so they know how flawless we are. The inconsistency in our wardrobe leaves me uncertain—modesty or exposed skin? There seems to be a different rule based on Mr. Petrov’s . . . preference.

The Head of School moves toward the next girl, but Leandra hangs back an extra second, still watching my reaction. Waiting.