Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(30)

When he’s quiet too long, I realize I must have overstepped my bounds. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to criticize the academy. It’s not my place to judge.”

Mr. Weeks’s jaw tightens slightly. He orders us two more drinks, and I have to rush to finish my wine to keep up. He hands me the new glass, taking the empty one from my hand to set it aside.

“No need to apologize to me,” he says after I take a sip. He doesn’t drink from his. “You make a valid point,” he continues. “It seems your school should be assimilating you as much as possible. If you’re going to be productive members of society, you need to be a part of it, right?”

“Right,” I agree, and we smile at each other before I take another sip.

Winston Weeks isn’t like the other investors. He seems wholly out of place here—like me. I’m increasingly grateful that he came over, especially when that other investor was being too familiar.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” I start. “How long have you been involved with the academy?”

“Since the beginning,” he says. “I’m personally devoted to the idea behind Innovations Academy, more so than the academy itself. I’d prefer to be more of a silent partner, but I attend these open houses to check on how things are progressing. See if you’re happy.”

He leans in to bump my elbow. “I’ll be sure to let them know you need to get out more.”

I thank him for being so considerate.

Winston Weeks sets his unfinished drink on the bar. “I should be going,” he says with a sigh. “I still have a meeting tonight.”

I’m slightly disappointed. It’s been nice to have someone to talk to, since my parents aren’t here. I hold out my hand, and he shakes it again. “It was wonderful talking with you, Mr. Weeks,” I tell him.

“Please,” he says. “Call me Winston. And it was lovely to speak with you, Mena.”

My heart trips, but I show no outward surprise that he called me by my nickname. Could be a coincidence. But it doesn’t feel that way. I suddenly think he knows more about me than I realize.

I thank him, my head buzzing from wine, and watch as he exits the party.





10


I’m a bit lost on what to do next. A bit drunk. We’re told in etiquette classes that a small amount of alcohol in social situations is acceptable with supervision. But I might have overindulged. Then again, it would have been rude to refuse Mr. Weeks’s offer. It’s so confusing.

I glance around the room and see that the party is mostly emptied. Even Carolina Deschutes and her grandmother have left. All that remains are the girls, their parents or sponsors, and a few dedicated investors.

There’s no one here for me.

I wonder suddenly if my parents would be as proud of me as Winston Weeks suggests. If they are, wouldn’t they want to see me? Or at the very least . . . talk to me on the phone?

The thought is heavy, and I decide I should take myself to bed before I dwell on the negative emotions. Besides, I have a headache.

I walk toward Guardian Bose, and he crosses his arms over his chest before I reach him.

“Yes, Mena?” he asks. I’m surprised by his annoyed tone.

“May I go back to my room?” I ask. “My parents aren’t here, and I have a headache.”

He looks me over doubtfully. “Could it be from the wine?” he asks, disapproval thick in his voice. When my lips part, he turns back to the party. “Sure, go ahead,” he says.

“Thank you,” I say. Guardian Bose waves me along, impatient.

I start down the hallway, where the lights are turned low, shadows dancing along the wall. It’s quiet—eerily so, considering the noise from the party is still echoing in my ears. Or maybe that’s from the wine I drank.

I turn the first corner and pause to rest my hand on the wood wainscoting, trying to let my head catch up with my movements. Now that I’m away from stimuli, the buzz has gotten stronger. I’m decidedly not a fan of alcohol. At least, not a fan of drinking it so quickly.

There’s a sound from one of the alcoves, followed by a high-pitched giggle. It’s so disconcerting, so out of place in this dark hallway, that I peek around the corner to look in.

The first thing I notice is the pale leg of a girl, but I can’t see her face. A man is pressing her back into the couch, half on top of her as they kiss. The girl’s profile comes into view, and I recognize Rebecca Hunt.

I swing back around the wall, holding my breath and hoping they didn’t see me. I can hear the smacking of their lips, the heavy breathing. And the man she’s with—I’m not sure, but I think he’s her family’s lawyer. The person who handled her admission here, who attends the open houses with her.

“I want to go home, Mr. Wolfe,” I hear Rebecca whisper.

“Soon,” he tells her. Another kiss. “Soon, I promise.”

“You promised before. When?”

The kissing stops, and instead there is the rustling of clothing, the creak of the couch as someone stands.

“I understand you want to go home,” the lawyer says, his tone suddenly all business. “But your parents expect a graduated girl. Withdrawing you early will—”

“You told me you’d speak to them,” she says. “You promised. But I haven’t heard from them in months.”