Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(56)

“I hope you’ll be successful,” she said. She reached out to grip my hand, squeezing it once—a little harder than I anticipated—and then she nodded goodbye and walked out. After that, both of my parents missed the next open house.

They don’t check in periodically. Not with me, at least.

How could they leave me here? Do they know what the academy is doing? How the men control us, shame us, harm us? Do my parents get reports from EVA, too?

Do they even love me?

I spin away from the window like I can turn away from the hurt. I push off the memory of my mother coming to school. It’s easier if I imagine she’s never been here at all. It’s easier to forget it than face it.

But . . . there’s still a part of me that thinks it must be a mistake. They wouldn’t leave their only daughter in a place like this. They’re being manipulated too. If I could just show them, prove what’s happening here—they’d understand. They’d bring us all home.

For a few peaceful moments, I let myself believe that.

? ? ?

At dinner, there is still a space left open where Lennon Rose used to sit. And now that Rebecca’s gone, there is another. I wonder how long it’ll be before she returns. And I wonder what exactly impulse control therapy will do to her.

I stay after dinner with Marcella, cleaning up the kitchen. I’m putting away one of the knives, distracted, and I accidentally open the wrong drawer. I pause a moment, surprised to see scattered keys. I stare at them a moment, wondering what they’re for.

“Can you hand me another rag?” Marcella asks, stirring me out of my thoughts. I pass it to her, and she smiles her thank-you. The idea that we can’t call our parents, even if it was always the case, is weighing on us.

Before bed, the girls all promise not to take their vitamins. We’re scared to part, more vulnerable than ever, but I tell them tomorrow will be better.

I wash my face and get into my pajamas, dreading the Guardian coming to my room with my vitamins. I fill up my glass of water in anticipation and wait for him. I haven’t talked to him since the ballroom, and I’m not sure if he’s angry with me.

To comfort myself, I think about the poem again. I think about taking over the school and teaching the men how to behave.

My door opens suddenly, startling me, and I sit up to see Guardian Bose. He walks over to my nightstand and sets down the white cup with my vitamins. I take them obediently, or at least pretend to. When he’s not looking I spit them into my hand and shove them under the blanket.

I’m setting the glass of water back on my nightstand when the Guardian steps forward to place a small white pill next to it. I don’t know what it is, and I look at him questioningly.

“Anton sent it,” he tells me. “He says it’ll help you sleep.”

A sedative? My heart begins to race.

“No, thank you,” I say. “I’m fine. I—”

“Take it, Mena,” Guardian Bose says impatiently. “After today’s events, the analyst wants you resting soundly.” His expression leaves no room for argument. But I don’t want to go to sleep. Guardian Bose sighs at my hesitation.

“Take it or I’ll shove it down your throat.”

His threat is simple. He doesn’t even raise his voice. It’s the simple fact that he is physically stronger than me. That he’ll use that physical strength, and there is nothing I can do about it.

I have no choice. This time, he waits for me to take it, watching closely. It’s not suspicion—he looks pleased. I can’t hide the pill under my tongue or spit it out. I swallow it, squeezing my eyes shut the moment it’s down. I hold the glass of water with a shaky hand.

“Anton let you off easy, you know,” the Guardian says, taking the glass from me. Confused, I look at him and ask him what he means.

“I told him what you said to me earlier,” he says. “Told him you needed impulse control therapy to set you straight, but he declined. Guess he was playing favorites.”

And I am suddenly so tired of the Guardian—his constant possessiveness, his threats. I can’t stop myself when I reply, “It’s not really any of your business, since you’re not the analyst.”

Guardian Bose flinches, and then he takes an angry step forward like he’s mad I saw his reaction. “Don’t you dare talk to me like that,” he says. “Who do you think you are?”

And maybe it’s the poem, or the grief, or maybe I’m just sick of being pushed around, but I sit up straighter and stare back at him. “I know I’m not yours,” I say, “so back off.”

His fists clench at his sides, and for a moment, I think he’s going to punch me like the violent men in his movies. Fear streaks through me, but I don’t back down. Instead, the Guardian lifts his hands, taking a step back.

“You’re turning into a real bitch, you know that, Mena?” he asks. He tells me to have a nice rest before walking out and slamming my door.

The moment he’s gone, I double over, shocked at how close I came to violence. Both proud and frightened of my bravery. It was stupid, standing up like that. But at the same time, I feel powerful.

I am powerful. I smile at the agency of it. I look around my room, thinking about what else I can control. But the idea of the sedative in my system freaks me out. I grab the vitamins and run to the bathroom.