Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(54)

“I apologize,” I say to her, sweetening up. “I had some ideas about graduation, but perhaps this is a conversation better had with the analyst. Thank you for your perspective, Eva,” I say. “It’s a reminder that I need to keep my behavior well managed so I don’t worry my parents.”

“You’re very welcome,” Eva says pleasantly. “Do you still want me to pass along your message?”

“No,” I say. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

“It’s no trouble at all, dear. Have a nice day.”

“You too,” I mumble. I put my fingers on the lever to hang up the call, staring down at the receiver in my other hand.

Eva must work for the academy. How many other “assistants” are doing the same? Have they been manipulating us the entire time?

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Valentine says, startling me. I spin around and find her in her doorway, dressed impeccably, a bow in her hair.

“What?” I ask, putting the receiver back on the hook.

“It’s not an open line,” she says. “It goes through the communications office on the second floor.”

I shake my head, confused. “I don’t understand,” I say.

“There’s no such thing as EVA,” she explains. “Nor STELLA, GEMMA, or whatever else they call them. Like I said, there are no open lines. I’ve checked.”

We stare at each other, my heart thumping as I try to get up the courage to ask more questions. Find out what I really need to know. Finally, I take a step toward her.

“I read the poems,” I whisper. “And I stopped taking the vitamins.” To this, Valentine smiles—and not the fake, practiced smile. A real smile; a true glimpse of her.

“Finally,” she says. “And how are you feeling?” she asks.

“Awake.”

She smiles wider. “Good.”

For the past week, Valentine has scared me, intimidated me in a way. But it’s just that I wasn’t seeing things clearly, not the way that she was. But now I’m starting to understand her. I’m starting to trust her.

“Why weren’t you at lunch?” I ask.

“Anton,” she says. “He’s asking questions. He’s trained to notice changes like this, so be careful around him. We just have to wait a little longer.”

It’s not the answer I wanted to hear—although I can’t say exactly what it was that I expected.

“Wait for what?” I ask. My voice is a little loud, and she casts a concerned glance at the Guardian’s door before looking pointedly at me.

“For the other girls,” she says. “The only way we get out is all together.”

It strikes me then that I hadn’t thought about getting out. I should have, obviously I should have. But the idea of escaping the school suddenly leaves me feeling vulnerable, exposed to the elements.

Valentine notices my discomfort. “Just . . . behave,” she says. “Listen and learn. You’ll know when it’s time.”

She walks away then, leaving me confused and a bit irritated in the empty hallway. Sydney’s head peeks out of my room. The girls are waiting for an update, and I’m spurred into action. I quickly run over and take her hand.

“Come on,” I say, pulling her down the hall. Alarmed, she jogs alongside me.

“Where are we going?” she asks. “How did it go with your parents?”

“We’re going to the communications room.”

Sydney repeats it, confused. I explain about my phone call and what Valentine said, watching her sink inside herself. She shakes her head once, not believing it.

“We’re just going to check it out,” I say, not wanting to worry her too much. Valentine could be wrong.

We get to the second floor, and I slide myself along the wall to peek around the corner. When I don’t see any professors, we quickly hurry down to room 206. It’s clearly labeled, but I’ve never been in here before. There was never any need.

I try the door, and it opens. I’m immediately amongst a vast assortment of equipment. There are machines—not computers exactly, but large rectangular panels with buttons and dials. Switches and lights. There’s a phone and plastic box full of paper that’s labeled FAX MACHINE.

The room itself isn’t very big—about the size of a large custodial closet, like the one we have near the kitchen where we keep the mops and buckets—but I’m a little overwhelmed with the amount of wires and metal.

I decide there isn’t anything of consequence in here, but just as I start to turn away, I notice the last panel. There’s a stack of faxes in front of it, all marked READ with a stamp.

As I read the labels on the panel, my stomach drops. My breath catches in my chest.

Sydney notices my reaction and darts her eyes around the room.

“What is it?” she asks.

I swallow hard and point. Printed on the device is the brand, etched into the metal: PARENTAL ASSISTANT. And down the front of the panel are switches, each labeled. EVA, GEMMA, STELLA, MORGAN, and several others run down to the bottom.

“It’s . . . It’s a machine,” I murmur. “They’re a machine.”

“What does that mean?” Sydney asks. “Are you . . . Are you saying Gemma’s not even real?”