Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(79)

“Perfection,” Leandra announced on our first day back, “is our guarantee. Our investors expect it.”

And I open my eyes, knowing that the academy will do anything to keep their investors happy. Even if it means making us over again and again.

When we get back to school a short while later, Mr. Petrov and his wife are waiting on the stairs to welcome us, smiling and waving proudly.

Annalise murmurs for me to smile—ironically, of course—as we get off the bus. I catch Leandra watching us, seeming curious, but I quickly walk past with a polite nod.

Once inside, the Guardian tells us he’s sick of looking at us, possibly joking, and he goes to his room and shuts the door. He leaves us on our own, and as we stand in the hallway, my pleasantries fade away.

Valentine comes over to look me dead in the eyes. “What?” she asks. “He can’t help?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “But . . . you all need to know something. We should . . .” The words catch in my throat, the horror of them, and I lead the girls into my room. About to destroy their world.

? ? ?

Annalise throws up in my bathroom, sobbing heavily. Marcella stares straight ahead while Brynn holds her hand, murmuring over and over that she doesn’t understand. Valentine stands at the window, facing out.

Next to me, Sydney is motionless—in shock, I’m assuming.

It’s hard to explain that it’s not exactly a surprise, that the signs of the academy’s true intentions were there all along. But it does not make them any less horrific.

“And you’re saying,” Sydney starts, her voice so low it’s barely a whisper, “our parents know.”

“If they’re our actual parents,” I say, making her flinch. “But yes, I believe they know. They all know.”

She turns to me, tears clinging to her long lashes. “And you were hit by a car?” she asks.

“Then how are you okay?” Brynn asks. “Why don’t you have any scars?” She looks around the room frantically, looking for an excuse not to believe. “She’d have scars, right?”

“Broken bones,” Annalise says, coming out of the bathroom and blotting her mouth with a tissue. “Cuts and bruises—stuff like that. But the doctor used his technology to put you back together,” she says to me. “Just like the graft on your knee. I saw in the files they can do repairs like that. A doll they can fix over and over. Must be convenient.”

Although the thought is horrifying, it would explain why I didn’t have any pain when I woke up. Annalise comes to sit on the other side of Sydney. I’ve told them everything, and now we just have to figure out how to use the information.

“I wasn’t with you,” Brynn says, her voice soft. Marcella looks at her, seeing that she feels left out, even if it’s not something anyone would want to be a part of. She wasn’t one of our original girls. I imagine she feels suddenly lonely at the thought of being apart from us.

“You’re here now,” Marcella whispers, putting her hand on her cheek. “You’re not going anywhere without us.”

Brynn nods, putting her hand over Marcella’s before leaning in to hug her. Marcella keeps her arm around Brynn and turns back to us.

“We need to find out what’s in the lab,” Marcella says. “I just . . . I have a feeling it’s the answer on how to shut this school down. Otherwise, why keep it locked up? Why only go there at night? Whatever’s in there is secret. What if we find it and then send it out to all the investors? All the wives of these men. We’ll send it to everyone we can. Jackson can do the rest, but I imagine some women wouldn’t be okay with this.” Her eyes tear up. “Right?”

“Jackson’s mom wasn’t,” I say. “And if she wasn’t, I’m sure others won’t be.”

I think we consider Leandra then. She’s an accomplice in all of this. Why wouldn’t she help us? Why would she go along with it?

“It’s going to be time for dinner soon,” Valentine says. “We should get cleaned up. Remember, follow the rules. I like Marcella’s plan,” she says, smiling at her. “We get in that room and find out what they have in there. After that, we’ll decide what to do with it.”

We all agree, hugging once before separating. Some of the girls will go back to their rooms to mourn the loss of their “parents” while others will dwell on what’s been done to them.

And it’s a cowardly thought, but for a moment, I long for one of the academy’s vitamins—a chance to forget all this again. A chance to feel less vulnerable. I wrap my arms around myself, realizing that not knowing didn’t make me any safer. It just made me easier to manipulate.

But still . . . I’m scared. I’m so afraid that I’ll never get outside these walls again. I’m scared of what the people claiming to be my parents have planned for me. What sort of deal the Head of School has made for me.

I paid extra.

I quickly spin away from the window and walk to my bed, needing a shot of courage. Needing to be brave.

I reach under my mattress and pull out the book of poetry. The moment it’s in my hands, I feel better. I feel . . . seen. Heard.

I sit on the edge of my bed and open up to the first poem. I start working my way through, letting them fill me up. Tell my stories. My dreams. My desires. There are poems even more violent, or more moving. There is even one about love.