Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(46)

I’m not sure if it exists. But I did see the silver dust in that vitamin. It wasn’t like anything I’ve seen before. I can’t willingly ingest any more until I have a better idea of what it does to me.

“Who are you parents, Mena?” Jackson asks again. “They have to be important people to send you here. To do this kind of stuff to you. Who are they?”

His questions are suddenly more alarming. Quickly, I try to call up information. I tell him my father is a lawyer and my mother is a philanthropist. But the more Jackson presses me (Where did they grow up? When were they born? Who are your grandparents?), the more I realize I don’t know all that much about them.

Panic rises in my chest, making me feel overwhelmed. Where are my parents? Why haven’t they called to check on me? Why have they abandoned me here?

Jackson furrows his brow, watching me. “I’m sorry,” he says. I brush off his apology, sniffling before any tears can fall. We sit quietly until I can calm myself again.

“You mentioned an . . . analyst?” Jackson says after a moment. “What’s that? What does he do?”

“He helps us control our impulses,” I say.

“My guess is he’s doing more than that,” Jackson says. “They’re manipulating you somehow, with the vitamins, through him—I don’t know. I think you should leave. I think we should go right now.”

I look at him, surprised. “I can’t just leave,” I say. “What about the other girls?”

“You all need to leave.”

“We . . . We can’t. Our parents—”

“I think they’ll understand,” he says, growing impatient. “Mena, this shit isn’t normal.” His voice gets loud, and I put my hand over his mouth, scared someone will overhear us. When I touch him, he freezes, staring into my eyes. And for a moment, I see . . . guilt.

Jackson slowly removes my hand, nodding an apology for losing his composure.

“Fine,” he says, looking away. “If you won’t leave, then we need to figure out what the academy is using you for. Can you get that kind of information?”

The question seems suddenly cold, businesslike. I wonder if I’ve offended in him in some way.

“What exactly are you looking for?” I ask.

“Files,” he says. “Employee files, parent files, whatever you can find. Something I can research.”

“I don’t understand,” I say. “Where would I even get that sort of thing?”

“Maybe this analyst,” he suggests. “He probably has everything in his office.”

“I don’t think I could do that,” I say, scared. He wants me to break in to my analyst’s office? That’s . . . That’s too much. I couldn’t disobey the rules like that.

“Then just keep your eyes open,” Jackson says. I’m surprised when he reaches over to smooth down the edge of the Band-Aid on my hand that’s come unstuck. “Notice anything out of the ordinary.”

At his soft touch, I long for him to look at me again, the way he did that first time. I want to watch the words die on his lips when his eyes meet mine. I want him to like me. But right now, I can’t read how he feels. It’s not obvious, and I can’t bring myself to ask, scared of the answer.

Instead, I opt to tell him about the poems. But the moment I open my mouth, there is the sound of a metal door slamming shut.

I quickly turn and look toward the school, alarmed when I see Guardian Bose out on the track. The girls are jogging on the other side of the building, but when they come around, he’ll see that I’m not with them.

Scared, I get to my feet. Jackson stands up too, his jaw tightening when he sees the Guardian. When he turns back to me, his expression is pleading for me to run away.

To my relief, the Guardian seems frustrated and goes back inside, as if he doesn’t have the time to wait for the girls. I sigh, my hand on my chest.

“I have to go,” I say.

Jackson stares down at me, impatient. “Mena,” he whispers, pained. But when I walk to the fence, he doesn’t try to stop me.

I decide that I’m going to look for evidence, just like in the movies that the Guardian lets us watch. If I find anything, I’ll pass it along to Jackson. What he’ll do with that information afterward, I’m not sure. But he’s made it sound like it’ll help us.

“Please be careful,” Jackson says.

I smile and promise him that I will. I let him know that I’ll be running again on Tuesday.

“That’s funny,” he says. “I’ll happen to be skulking around these woods early that morning. Should we meet?”

Before I answer, he snaps his fingers. “Hold on,” he says, darting over to his backpack. He returns with a small piece of paper.

“I wrote down my number,” he says. “Call me later and let me know that you’re all right.”

I take the paper and stare down at the number. “I’ll try,” I say. “And . . . my friend?” I look up hopeful. “Her last name is Scholar,” I say. “And her mother’s name is Diane.”

“Lennon Rose Scholar,” Jackson says, nodding. “Got it. I’ll find her. She has to be somewhere.”

We get to the cracked part of the fence, and I turn to him before I slide through.