Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(58)

My heart sinks. “So you don’t know what Anton does in there?”

“I don’t,” she says. “But . . .” She pauses a long moment as if debating voicing it.

“What?” I ask.

“If you went in, and afterward you didn’t take the vitamins, if we all helped you to not take them . . . maybe we could find out.”

My lips part, the idea of sending myself to impulse control therapy, something I fear, is outrageous. Dangerous. I take a step back, not sure I can do it.

“Why not you?” I ask. She shakes her head.

“Again? So soon? Mena, if I get impulse control therapy again, they’re going to kill me.”

I fall back another step and shake my head. “No,” I say. “Your uncle . . . The academy isn’t going to kill you.”

“My uncle couldn’t care less,” she says immediately. “He’s not even my uncle. He’s just . . . He’s just some guy who’s paying for my education. He expects to marry me,” she adds bitterly. “My parents are dead. At least, that’s what Anton said—I don’t remember them anymore. So I have no choice but to be pleasant to Greg. At least until I get out of here. Then I’ll do what I want.” She looks away then.

It must be devastating to have no option of seeing her parents again. Even if I’m questioning how much my parents love me, the small bit of hope that I’ll see them again . . . I think it’s powerful.

“There are only so many times the analyst can try to help us,” Valentine continues. “That’s what Anton told me. I’ve exhausted his help, and if it happens again, he’ll have to let me go.”

“So they’ll send you home,” I say.

She tilts her head as if asking whether I really believe that. And even though there is a bit of doubt, I refuse to believe that my parents would send me to a school that would kill me if they couldn’t control me.

“That’s why you follow the rules, Mena,” she says. “They expect us to obey—to want to obey. But we can use their expectations to manipulate them. So, if you want to know what goes on behind the scenes, you’re going to have to act out. And then, of course,” she smiles, “beg Anton for forgiveness. Tell him you want to be a better girl. He loves to be the hero.”

“But what if they kill me?” I ask, breathless, still not sure I believe it but scared of it nonetheless.

“His prize?” she asks. “No. You just have to be convincing. Do you think you can do that?” She sounds honestly curious.

I lower my eyes, not sure I can just walk into something like this. “I . . .” I’m not sure how to answer. So when I look at her again, I shrug. “I have to talk to the other girls,” I say instead.

Valentine nods as if this is an acceptable answer, one she understands. I tell her I’ll see her at breakfast, and I walk out of her room, pausing in the hallway.

I turn toward the Guardian’s door again. I’ll have to pretend I don’t remember him in my room last night. I’ll have to pretend, or the academy will know that I don’t take the vitamins. Maybe it’s not all that different from pretending to need impulse control therapy.

And I wonder if my best play is to play along.





18


I get ready for classes, and as I head out for breakfast, Guardian Bose is already in the hallway.

“Hurry up, girls,” Guardian Bose calls loudly before yawning. “Let’s get downstairs. I’m starving.” He glances in my direction, and I’m amazed by how easily I smile in return. Almost like I’m outside myself, cut off from the real feelings that are under the surface. Like an actor, I’m assuming.

I don’t get to say anything to the girls. But I see the way Sydney looks at me from across the hall, the way her eyes search the room, a bit confused. She didn’t take her vitamins last night.

We have so much to talk about.

Breakfast is another bowl of unsweetened oatmeal. I realize now as I sit in front of it, this is not just about nutrition. They think it’s indulgent for us to want better-tasting food.

I glance over to the professors’ table and watch as they pile scrambled eggs onto their plates, generously sprinkling them with salt and pepper. I look at the pile of bacon they could never finish, and I know it will be wastefully tossed in the trash.

“I feel different today,” Sydney says as she takes her spot next to me. She looks down at her food. “The moment I woke up, I felt different.”

“I feel angry,” Annalise says, and we all look at her. Brynn tells her to keep it down, worried the Guardian or one of the professors will hear her, but she lifts her chin defiantly. “I don’t care,” she says. “I am.”

It’s such a surprising statement, being angry. Do the professors even know we can get angry? Would that be assigned immediate impulse control therapy?

The dining hall doors open, and I’m surprised to see Rebecca walk in. If she’s back already, it must have been a short impulse control therapy. I watch her as she walks to take a seat next to Ida, smiling pleasantly when she does. She immediately picks up her spoon and takes a bite of oatmeal.

“Are you okay?” I hear Ida ask her. Rebecca tilts her head, seeming confused by the question.

“Yes,” she says finally. “Anton and I had intensive therapy, and he offered me coping mechanisms. I’m one hundred percent now.” She smiles. “I’ve made him very proud.”