Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(73)

As we sit there, I tell Sydney, Annalise, Marcella, Brynn, and Valentine everything I remember about impulse control therapy. It’s even more terrifying as I say the words out loud. How I couldn’t move. How Anton hurt me, shoving an ice pick behind my eye. How he had wires and a syringe, infectious thoughts.

“He lies,” I say. “They’re controlling us with lies and a mix of something else, something in that syringe.”

“They’re experimenting on us,” Marcella says, swallowing hard. “I have to get inside that lab. See what the doctor has been doing in there.”

Brynn nods, even though she looks afraid.

The horror of what the school has done lies in the fact that they forced it on us. Part of it is physical abuse, absolutely—but there’s emotional manipulation, as well. They’ve tried to convince us that if we don’t do exactly as they tell us, we’ll disappoint our families. That we’re useless without the love and admiration of the academy and the men who run it. They manipulate us with lollipops and guilt.

I can see it all now. Even the food is used to punish us. Keep us from desire. It’s why Anton asked about my attraction to Jackson. He didn’t think I should be allowed such agency.

Jackson.

“You mentioned Jackson yesterday,” I say to Sydney. “And then you and the girls looked at each other weirdly.”

Sydney’s lips form an O and she darts her gaze to Annalise.

“Yeah, like that,” I say pointing to them. “What’s going on?”

They all pause for another second, but then Sydney leans in. “You need to have a chat with your gas-station boyfriend,” she says. “It’ll be the perfect opportunity during the field trip.”

“Okay,” I say. “About what?”

“About why he’s been lying to you.”

“Lying?” I laugh. “What would he be lying about?”

“We found him in the files,” Sydney whispers.

I stare at her, the world feeling like it just dropped out from under me. “What does that mean?” I ask. “Why would he be in the files?”

“His family is involved with the academy,” she says. “His mother . . . His mother used to work here, just before it became a school. They had a file with pictures of her and her family, and . . .” She shrugs. “I recognized Jackson. He was in the picture with his name and everything. It seems the school knew a lot about his family, like they researched them or something. Anyway, his father is still listed as an investor, although it doesn’t seem like an active account.”

“His mother died,” Annalise adds.

“I know,” I say, my mind racing to catch up with this information. “He mentioned that part. But . . .” I look at the others. “Why didn’t he tell me she used to work here?”

“I’m not sure,” Sydney says. “But this file they had on his family—it was thorough. It was . . . kind of threatening. And then it stopped after his mother died. Suicide, it said. After that, it was like they just forgot all about her.”

“What did she do for the company?” I ask.

Sydney pauses before answering. “She was an analyst.”

I physically recoil, hurt. Betrayed. How could he keep this from me?

“Not like Anton,” Sydney adds. “She wasn’t an analyst for girls. It was for technology—computers or something. It wasn’t specific.”

“The boy might be looking for information,” Valentine says. “I say we give it to him. If the word gets out about what the school’s doing to us, maybe it’ll get shut down. Otherwise,” she says, “if we run, they’ll just bring us back. Trust me.”

“So we tell him what we found?” I ask, looking around at the others. “Even though he’s lied?”

“Find out why he lied,” Sydney says. “But then . . . yes. We tell him.” The other girls agree.

“At the field trip,” Annalise says. “You can tell him there.”

“What if he doesn’t show?”

She starts to smile, but holds it back when she realizes it isn’t appropriate considering the circumstances. “He’ll show,” she says.

The girls and I go over everything else we can think of, deciding we’ll be excellent girls this week, obeying all the rules. But never taking our vitamins. We’ll manipulate these men with their own expectations.

But when I go back to my room ten minutes later, I pause a long moment before lifting my hand to look at the scar on my palm. My vision blurs with tears, the idea that Jackson was manipulating me breaking through my newfound courage.

How could he? What else has he lied about?

Seeing him at that gas station. Seeing him outside my school. I’m embarrassed that I was such an easy target, so willing to tell him everything he wanted to know.

I don’t forgive Jackson for his betrayal, just like I didn’t forgive Anton. And I intend to tell Jackson so on Sunday.

? ? ?

Sunday morning doesn’t come fast enough. The days in the week last a lot a longer when you have to be well-behaved, especially when you notice every wrong. But we make it without incident. The Guardian even comments on what good girls we are.

I shower and get dressed in my required uniform for the trip. Only this time, I decide to wear my hair in a ponytail, going against my specifications. It’s oddly freeing—a small infraction, but enough to break from my routine. I smile in the mirror just as I hear the girls calling excitedly for me, saying it’s time to go.