Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(50)

It’s also unusual—like she’s crossed a line the school can’t forgive.

“You see, girls,” Leandra says, her heels clicking on the floor as she begins to pace, “we expect you to be prizes. Not worthless junk. Investors pay good money for exemplary girls.”

Professor Penchant smiles and crosses his arms over his chest. “Propriety is crucial for girls,” he says. “Otherwise, you invite this sort of behavior. Men can’t control themselves around beautiful girls like you,” he says, his voice raising. “So it’s up to you to draw that line. Save yourselves for your future husbands. It is, after all, what they deserve. What they are entitled to.”

I literally feel sick to my stomach, and next to me, Sydney shifts uncomfortably. I know that Professor Penchant is wrong, despite this being an extreme version of what we’re normally taught. Without the vitamins, maybe I’m just not that willing to listen anymore.

Leandra claps her hands together loudly, like she’s applauding the professor’s statements.

“You want to be treated well?” she asks us. “Then act like a girl who deserves respect. We won’t stand for this kind of behavior again—we’re not running a brothel.” She glances at Rebecca before reaching over to take her by the chin, lifting her face for all of us to see again.

“You’re weak,” she says with contempt. “You didn’t say no. You didn’t even tell anybody.” She leans in closer and whispers, “You’re worthless now.”

Rebecca breaks down sobbing, and Sydney grabs my hand, squeezing it so tightly that it hurts. My eyes are stinging with the start of tears at watching another girl be humiliated. Leandra immediately turns and strides out of the room, head held high. Professor Penchant stays a moment longer to gloat, looking over Rebecca in a predatory way, as if her vulnerability makes her more of a target for his malice.

I see the worry in Annalise’s expression, the way she wants to protect Rebecca from their humiliating remarks. But she doesn’t. She lowers her face.

I turn around in my seat and find Valentine. When she looks at me, her eyes are glassy with tears. She nods, acknowledging that this isn’t right.

It’s a sudden validation, the fact that she can see it too. I turn away, scared to get caught—like our ideas are out in the open, able to be read. I’ll have to talk to her later and see what she knows about the book I found in Lennon Rose’s room.

“Have a nice lunch,” the professor announces. He walks out, pulling a crying Rebecca alongside him as he leaves.

When the door closes, some of the girls sit stunned. Brynn openly cries, and Marcella comforts her, shock resting on her face.

It wasn’t Rebecca’s fault. Sydney and I told Anton that—he seemed to understand.

And it hits me . . . Is this my fault? If I didn’t tell Anton, would Rebecca still be punished? I quickly try to push the thought away, deciding that stopping Mr. Wolfe was important. This is the school—they’re at fault. They’re wrong to treat her this way.

“Mena,” Sydney murmurs miserably. I turn to her and hug her.

We stay here, all of us together, until we know we have to clean ourselves up and head to lunch. The school is unhappy with us, and we’ll have to make amends for Rebecca’s behavior.

I pull back, sniffling, and tell Sydney that I have to show her something. She swipes her fingers under her eyes and we get up. I look for Valentine, hoping she’ll provide more information. But she’s already gone.

We head toward the door so I can run to Lennon Rose’s room to get the book.

“Have a good lesson?” the Guardian asks, startling me as we walk out of the ballroom. He’s leaning against the wall, picking his nails and looking bored. Something about the fact that he was eavesdropping is extra creepy, and I must not hide the facial expression well.

“Will you excuse us a second, Sydney?” he asks, leaving no room for her to argue. She looks at me, debating for a second, and then tells me she’ll see me in the dining hall. Once she’s gone, the Guardian moves closer to me, glaring down.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he says.

“Like what?”

“What’s your problem?” he asks me. “I’m not the one going around fucking the girls.”

I gasp at his crudeness, shrink away from it, even. He’s always been possessive of us, angry when we talk to other men. I see that now. He’s using this vulgarity as another way to dominate me, shock me into behaving the way he wants. Only this time, it’s not going to work.

The door opens and the other girls begin to file out, heading to lunch.

“I should think not,” I tell the Guardian, backing away from him. “Or you’d be fired.”

His face hardens, clearly not expecting me to talk back. I keep walking toward my room, hoping he won’t grab me like he did that day in the gas station. And when I’m far enough away, I exhale. Feeling powerful for the first time ever.





16


After cleaning myself up in my room, I go down to the dining hall. Our salads and juices are already on the table when I get there, and I head for my usual seat. Halfway there, Sydney whispers for me to hurry up. When I join, she tugs on my arm to bring me closer. Nodding ahead.

I follow her line of sight and see Rebecca standing at the end of the table. Her hair and makeup are refreshed as if Leandra saw to it personally. But she’s just . . . standing there, staring down at her glass of juice. Several other girls notice her; a soft murmur floats around the room.