Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(68)

But I’m questioning it. Why would Sydney want me to break the rules?

The Guardian sets my vitamins and a fresh glass of water on the nightstand, and then he crosses to the window. He pulls open the curtains, flooding the room with light.

I hold up my hand to shield my eyes.

“Morning,” the Guardian says. “Dr. Groger would like to see you for a follow-up before you return to classes.”

“Thank you,” I say, my eyes adjusting to the light. I’m still a bit foggy, dull. I notice I have three pink capsules. A yellow. Despite what I promised Sydney, I don’t want to go against my instructions. I clap the pills into my mouth and reach for my water.

The Guardian looks out the window, and before I sip from my water, I feel the pills start to dissolve on my tongue. A sudden shot of fear overtakes me, and I quietly spit the pills back into my hand and stash them under the blanket.

It feels horrible to disobey, shameful. Anton would be furious with me. But I know that Sydney would never tell me to break the rules without a good reason. She loves me. And I trust her. I trust her with my life.

When the Guardian turns around, I smile and bring the glass of water to my lips, mimicking swallowing my vitamins. He nods like I’ve done well and leaves the room.

I’m still uncertain if I’ve done the right thing when I get out of bed. But I shower and blow-dry my hair, taking extra time to adhere to my specifications. I style my hair with a slight wave, a center part. I accentuate my eyes. The prettiest brown eyes they’ll ever see, Mr. Petrov described once. I apply a soft pink lipstick, a coat of mascara. When I’m done, I smile in the mirror.

But as I stare at my reflection, I see the water building up in my eyes. It’s alarming, and I quickly turn away from myself before I start crying. Part of me knows I should tell the doctor about these tears—the ones that are falling on their own. But instead, I decide the emotions will pass. Just as soon as I’m back to my normal schedule.

Dressed in my uniform, I walk to the doctor’s office, nodding hello to girls when I see them. A few, like Rebecca, stare back at me like I’m a stranger. Sydney and the others are at Running Course, probably. I might not see them until classes.

Valentine is just leaving Dr. Groger’s office as I approach, and she stops and turns to face me. She smiles.

“Hello, Philomena,” she says pleasantly. “Welcome back.”

“Hi,” I reply, about to move past her to go into the room. But Valentine reaches out to take my arm, making me gasp with her sudden touch.

“Did you take the vitamins?” she asks urgently.

“What?” I stare at her, offended that she’d want to know something so personal. Something between me and Sydney. Valentine and I aren’t close—at least we never have been.

But in her eyes, there’s a familiar gleam. A look that sets me at ease, even if I’m not sure why.

“No,” I whisper. “I didn’t take them.”

“Good. They keep you calm when you should be outraged.” She smiles. “We’ll talk more later.” She gives me a quick hug, and I’m stunned by the physical contact. She walks past me down the hall, and I turn to watch after her.

I’m not sure how to interpret her actions. Obviously, there are things I’m not remembering. But Valentine has always been a little apart from me and the other girls. Maybe while I was in impulse control therapy, her and the others grew closer. I’ll have to ask Sydney.

I’m still a bit confused as I smooth my hands over my skirt, resetting my posture before I knock on Dr. Groger’s office door. He calls for me to come inside. When I do, he puts his hand over his heart in exaggerated surprise.

“My word, Philomena,” he says. “You are a vision today.”

I smile and thank him for the compliment. I go over to the paper-covered table and hop up, letting my legs dangle.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, and then pastes on an exaggerated frown. “Your girls were very worried about you.”

I was worried about them, too. There’s a pang in my heart at the memory of my isolation after therapy. Even though I was in and out of consciousness in the impulse control therapy room, I was still aware of missing my friends.

“I’m feeling great,” I tell the doctor, holding my smile. “Very content.”

“That’s excellent news!” he says, holding up his hands in a jazzy little hurray. “Anton says you reacted very positively to treatment. I knew you would,” he adds with a grin.

“I appreciate your confidence in me.”

Dr. Groger takes a syringe from his coat pocket and uncaps it. “Now if you don’t mind,” he says, “I’d like to draw some blood and check you over officially.”

My posture weakens—I don’t like pain—but I roll up my sleeve obediently. I hold my arm out, watching apprehensively as he swabs the inside of my elbow with alcohol. I study his face while it’s so close, the small bit of sweat on his temple. He’s . . . nervous.

I wince when he injects the needle into my vein. He apologies and withdraws my blood. I think we’re both surprised by how dark the fluid is. It’s a blackish green, not the usual dark red. It unsettles me, but the doctor smiles when he notices me watching.

“Nothing to be concerned about,” he says. “Our systems sometimes get out of whack when we have such an intensive treatment.”