Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(33)

We thank him for his help and he walks inside, leaving the door open for us to follow. He’s hurried, and we watch as he goes immediately to Guardian Bose. I wonder aloud if they’re going to look for Mr. Wolfe to confront him.

Sydney takes my hand, and together we go inside just as the other girls are saying goodbye to their parents. We all end up heading upstairs at the same time. Sydney and I don’t mention what happened with Rebecca to the others; Anton said it was a private matter.

But I feel relieved, glad my concern wasn’t unwarranted. It would be disrespectful to publicly accuse a man of inappropriate behavior—worse than any crime. At least that’s what Professor Penchant told us in Modesty and Decorum earlier this year.

I’m exhausted as we reach our floor. Sydney drops my hand after we say good night and walks to her room.

I pause a moment outside Lennon Rose’s door, considering knocking and checking on her. But she’s probably asleep, so I decide it’s best not to bother her. Anton insisted that I give her space.

The buzz from the wine still isn’t gone, but it’s no longer a lightness. Instead, it’s heavy and thick. Cloudy.

Inside my room, I strip off my dress and toss it over the desk chair, even though I should hang it up. The school will collect our dresses tomorrow. We never keep anything.

I pull on my pajamas, and when I walk toward my bed, I see my vitamins waiting on my nightstand—two pinks and one green. My dose is still off. Maybe I’ll ask Anton about it at our next therapy session.

I swallow down my pills with a sip of lukewarm water and click off the lamp on the nightstand. I crawl under the cool covers and curl up on my side, knowing I’ll have to change my pillowcase in the morning because tonight’s makeup will be smeared on it.

As the wine settles in my veins, making me sleepy, I replay the night in my mind. It’s hard to grasp that Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe have met before, all of this going on without us knowing. How many other girls are kissing their lawyers? Whispering secrets in line? Meeting boys beyond the fence?

There’s the creak of a door opening in the hallway. I listen until footsteps stop outside my closed door, followed by a sharp knock.

I shift my gaze around the room, noticing my dress carelessly thrown over the back of my chair, my shoes piled on top of each other. I’m embarrassed that I didn’t properly prepare for bed.

“Come in,” I call softly.

Guardian Bose steps into my room, his body in silhouette. He doesn’t say anything at first, and I tug up my sheet to tuck it under my arms. “Yes?” I ask.

He moves farther into my room, and I see that he’s holding a small, white paper cup reserved for vitamins. He sets it next to the glass on my nightstand.

“Anton sent this up,” the Guardian says. He motions toward the cup, and I realize he intends to wait until I take it.

I glance into the cup and see one yellow capsule. I pinch it out, studying it in the dim light. I don’t remember taking this color before. I wonder what it does.

Guardian Bose shifts on his feet, impatient. “In my lifetime, Philomena,” he says.

I set the pill on my tongue, sip from the water, and gulp down the capsule while Guardian Bose watches.

When I’m done, I lie back in my blankets. Despite the water, the yellow pill has left a coating on my tongue.

Just as Guardian Bose starts to leave the room, I sit up again. “Guardian Bose,” I call after him. “How’s Lennon Rose?” I ask.

He pauses too long, but then he turns to me. “She’s resting, Philomena,” he says. “Now get some sleep.” Without another word, the Guardian walks out and closes my door. I listen as his footsteps cross the hall to Sydney’s room, the knock and click of her door opening.

And then I listen harder, sure that if I try hard enough I’ll be able to hear Lennon Rose in her bed. But it’s quiet.

My headache has faded to a dull throb, but suddenly my stomach feels sick. Really sick. I reach over and turn on the nightstand lamp, flooding the room in light. The change makes me dizzy, my mouth waters, and I quickly jump out of bed and rush for the bathroom.

I drop to my knees and throw up streaks of pink, green, and yellow from the vitamins. Purple from the wine. I try to stop, but I keep gagging until my stomach is emptied.

When I’m finished, I flush the toilet, hanging there an extra second. My head is pounding. And even more distressing, I threw up my vitamins. It’s too late to bother the Guardian for more—he has to get them from Anton directly. The analyst, rather than the doctor, monitors our vitamins. He says it’s considered a behavioral issue, and therefore his specialty.

I’ll have to discuss my missed dose with Anton tomorrow.

When I straighten up, catching sight of my reflection—streaked mascara, blotchy foundation—guilt makes me want to follow the rules. I wash my face with the approved soap, moisturize, and then I walk into my room and hang up my dress properly. Obeying.

And I swear that I’ll never drink wine again.





11


As morning light filters in through my window, I sit up in bed with the remains of a headache clinging to my temples, a dream in my memory. Something about Lennon Rose. Or was it Rebecca? For a moment, I can’t think straight—a jumble of ideas tangled like wires in my head. And then, finally, the events of last night come back to me.

Lennon Rose pulled from line. Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe in the alcove. Drinking wine with Winston Weeks.