Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(72)

They’re all staring at me, and I feel different from them. It makes me sad because we’ve always been one. Like roses, growing separate from the other flowers, but all together. I don’t want to be apart from them.

“Come here,” Sydney says sympathetically. “I know this is hard. You’ll be better soon, I know it.”

“Soon I’ll be one hundred percent,” I say as I sit next to her. She puts her arm around me.

“Not that kind of better,” she says, only this time it sounds like a warning. She slides the book in my direction.

I pick it up, examining the leather cover, the title: The Sharpest Thorns. It sounds familiar even though I’m sure I’ve never seen it before. I open the cover and see it’s a collection of poetry.

The other girls sit forward, anxious for me to read it. I feel like I’m on display again, but ultimately, I’m curious. I read the first poem, surprised by it.

“?‘Wake Up’

“It was a beautiful dream

All of it

The idea that one day

Decisions would be mine

to make.

“That after youth

I would be free.

“But I see that was never true

Never real.

“Because they never

let go of their control.

“Be good.

Be beautiful.

“Be quiet.

Be obedient.

Be careful. . . .

“They never intended for me to be free.

Just trade one set of rules for another.

“And I see their dream for me

is my nightmare.

“Now I’m awake.

And they will never put me to sleep again.”

I’m startled, confused. When I look at Sydney, she turns to a poem called “Girls with Sharp Sticks.” She nods for me to read it.

And as I do, my heart rate begins to quicken. Butterflies in my stomach change into dragons, fire sparking and then burning bright.

The little girls mistreated. The little girls fighting back. The little girls taking control.

When I’m done, I’m breathing fast, electricity on my skin. The other girls smile at me.

“Where did you get this?” I ask, holding up the book.

“From your room,” Sydney says.

The answer shocks me, and I start to read through it again. But then there is the sound of a door closing in the hallway. All of us quickly jump up, and I slide the book under my shirt.

“Take it back to your room,” Sydney says. “Read it. I’ll find you in the morning.”

I do just that, saying good night as the Guardian makes his rounds to drop off our vitamins. When I get into my room, I put the book under my mattress, the action highly familiar.

I’m just settled when the Guardian comes in and sets my vitamin cup on the nightstand. I smile gratefully, but he doesn’t bother to return it. Guardian Bose must be distracted, because he leaves without making sure I take my vitamins. Or maybe he just expects me to obey.

He reminds me of the controlling men in the poem. It’s so confusing, the contrast between what I read and what I’ve been told. I turn and stare at the bars on the window. Meant to keep people out. Meant to keep us in.

I take the vitamins to the bathroom and flush them down the toilet. Once they’re gone, I return to my bed and wait for sleep.

When I finally drift off, I’m plagued with nightmares. Violent, horrific, suffocating nightmares.

I dream that I’m dragged out of my room and forcibly lobotomized. I dream that Guardian Bose comes in while I’m asleep and stares at my body. I dream that Anton whispers that he loves me more than any other girl.

And I dream of ice picks and wires.

I have so many nightmares that when I wake up gasping in the morning light, I know they’re not really dreams at all.

They’re memories.

I remember. I got an ice pick jammed behind my eye, Anton telling me that my parents want results—they want a perfect girl. I remember him whispering to me, controlling my thoughts.

I remember the week before, when Lennon Rose disappeared without her shoes. I remember Mr. Wolfe and Rebecca. I remember meeting Jackson and how he was worried about me. How he said the investors at this school are powerful.

And I remember that they touch us even when they know we don’t want them to.

It has to stop, but I’m not sure how to get us out of here. If we show distress, Anton will bring us in for impulse control therapy—I see that now. Even if Annalise kills off the plants needed for the formula of the paralytic, it won’t be enough to matter. They’ll perform the lobotomies without the juice.

Anton has the ability to control our minds. But only if he gets close enough to try. We’ll have to behave, just like Valentine suggested. We can’t let them see that we know.

We will get out of here.

And yet, even as I think that, I know they’ll never let us go.





22


It’s barely light when I slip into Sydney’s room, waking her. I tell her we all have to talk. The Guardian isn’t up and about yet, and we end up getting the other girls and going to Valentine’s door, knocking softly.

When we walk in, she’s just stirring awake. But when she sees us, she sits up quickly and asks if everything is all right.

“I remember,” I say, looking at each of them. Sydney clutches her chest with relief, happy to have me back. Valentine’s eyes flash with something else—hunger for the knowledge.