Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(39)

“Have you spoken to Rebecca?” I ask. “Is she . . . Is she okay?”

Anton’s eyes flash with a spark of surprise. “She . . . I . . .” He stumbles over his words before resetting his stance in front of me. “What do you mean?” he asks. “What about Rebecca?”

“Her and Mr. Wolfe,” I say, lowering my voice at the mention of the lawyer. Anton doesn’t break my gaze, but he doesn’t rush to answer. Then he smiles pleasantly.

“Rebecca is scheduled for a short impulse control therapy session later this week to sort out her problems,” he says finally. “Pretty soon she’ll be one hundred percent.”

It’s eerie to hear him use the same words that Valentine said after her control therapy. But I nod gratefully and thank him for helping her. I only wish he could have helped Lennon Rose.

The fact that I can’t check on Lennon Rose, talk to her, leaves me helpless. I almost can’t bear it. I start to walk away, but Anton calls my name just as I open the door.

“Mena?” he asks curiously. “Have you been . . . feeling okay?”

I turn to look back at him, not understanding the question. I say that I am; he studies me anyway. Until finally, he waves me on, telling me to go about my day.

? ? ?

There are no classes on Saturdays, but we still have chores around campus, which are monitored by our professors. I’m barely present while sweeping the wood floors near the entryway, decidedly not better since talking to Anton, despite his reassurances.

Marcella and Brynn are working in the dining hall while Annalise is in the greenhouse helping Professor Driscoll with some of the new plant strains. She’s good at it—a natural talent, he’s said. So she gets to spend extra hours outdoors, cultivating the flowers.

I stare out the far window at the overcast sky, feeling lost. I know I’m not the only one who feels this way, either. Sydney walks past, tears in her eyes as she holds the bucket and mop.

But I realize pretty quickly that the professors aren’t having the same reaction.

“Philomena,” Professor Allister says from behind me. He turns me away from the window and appraises my appearance disapprovingly.

“You look terrible,” he says. “Whatever distress you’re experiencing, it’s no excuse to let it show. Women are emotional creatures, overly so. Be better than that.”

I stare back at him, wondering for a moment why it’s wrong to be emotional over losing a friend. But I don’t question him; he already seems unnerved by my mood.

So I force a smile, and the professor pats the top of my head before walking away.





13


It’s movie night, and the girls and I are grateful for the distraction. Outside, the weather has turned vengeful, spitting down rain and flooding the grass. Thunder booms every so often, rattling the bars on the windows. Bright flashes of lightning illuminate the sky.

We spread out the pillows and blankets in the common room, passing a bowl of popcorn between us. There’s no love story in this movie, which is disappointing. I’m hungry for knowledge about relationships. Kissing. Sex. But the movies we watch are scrubbed clean of that sort of content, including most of the romance.

At least, that’s what the last Guardian told us. When I asked him why, he said we didn’t need to fill our heads with that kind of fantasy.

The next day, I went to Dr. Groger and asked him why the academy doesn’t teach us about sex. He laughed at the question.

“That’s for your husband to teach you, Philomena,” he said with a smile as he put his hand on my knee. That was the last time I brought it up to him.

Now the girls and I read about it in magazines instead.

The movie starts, and although the other girls watch dutifully, I find myself bored. I don’t want to see another movie about men committing crimes. A man who does terrible things but is still called a hero because he loved his dead wife once upon a time. Never mind the families he’s destroyed in the meantime. It all seems . . . cruel.

When the popcorn is gone, Sydney holds up the bowl to draw Guardian Bose’s attention.

“Any chance?” she asks sweetly.

“I don’t think so,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest. Several girls pout.

“But I promise to run extra laps tomorrow,” Sydney offers, crossing her heart. “Pretty please?”

Guardian Bose rolls his eyes before he reluctantly agrees. He takes the bowl and disappears downstairs to the kitchen.

The moment he’s gone, all the girls turn away from the movie, glad to be alone together. But Sydney’s expression sags. I know she wants to talk about Lennon Rose. When I bring my blanket over to sit next to her, she looks at me sadly.

“I miss her,” Sydney says. “If we could just call her . . .” Her voice trails off, but she’s given me an idea—my own spark of lightning. I can’t believe I nearly forgot about him.

“Jackson’s coming to meet me tomorrow,” I whisper, leaning in.

It takes her a moment, but when she realizes what I’m getting at, Sydney’s face lights up.

“And you can tell him about Lennon Rose,” she adds quietly. “If Jackson finds her number, we can call her and make sure she’s okay. Anton doesn’t even have to know.”

It’s exactly the sort of news we needed—the chance to talk to our friend again. The rain and thunder rumbling outside don’t seem so dreary anymore.