Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(80)

But I find myself drawn to my favorite poem once again. I begin reading it out loud, enjoying the words on my tongue. I say them louder, my eyes welling up.

“?‘And then those little girls with sharp sticks flooded the schools,’?” I say. “?‘They rid the buildings of false—’?”

“What the hell are you doing?” Guardian Bose yells from the doorway, scaring me so badly that the book falls to the floor at my feet. I didn’t even hear him open my door.

Guardian Bose stomps over and picks up the book before I can. “What’s this?” he demands. He flips to the first page, and I see his eyes widen as he reads. He grabs me by the wrist and hauls me from the room.

A string of curses cascades from his lips, and I don’t resist his pulling, knowing I have to play along. I shouldn’t have taken the book out. I should have been more careful.

Valentine’s door opens when she hears the commotion. She watches me with fearful eyes, but she doesn’t say a word.

I have to figure a way out of this. Now that I know what the academy is capable of, I’m more afraid of them than ever. I can’t let them see that I know the truth. I don’t know what they’ll do to me. What they’ll do to the other girls.

“Anton will have to deal with this,” the Guardian says. He’s distraught, I realize. Angry, sure. But . . . threatened.

We get to Anton’s office, and the Guardian opens the door. Anton is standing next to his open file cabinet, staring out the window with a folder in his hand. He turns and quickly motions for Guardian Bose to let me go. The Guardian does just that, and I stumble with the sudden loss of pressure on my wrist.

“What is this?” Anton demands from Guardian Bose.

The Guardian holds up the book and tosses it onto Anton’s desk. He’s not in mood to talk to the analyst either. “Might want to take a look,” he says, pointing at the book. And then he backs up and leaves the room.

Anton waits a beat, his eyes on the book, and then he turns to me and presses his lips into a smile. “Are you okay?” he asks.

I’m not sure, if I’m honest. I don’t know what he’s going to do to me, and flashes of impulse control therapy play through my mind.

“Have a seat, Philomena,” he says. He slides the folder he was holding into the file cabinet drawer and pushes it closed.

I do as I’m told. But dread is slowly crawling over me. It’s disturbing that Anton thinks I don’t remember what he’s done to me. And yet, he sits down with me like he’s my therapist. Like he wants what’s best for me. The power imbalance of that is striking.

“What’s going on, Philomena?” he asks.

Something Sydney told me the other day stands out. She lied to Anton when he asked her a question. We always assumed he’d know if we were lying, almost as if he could read our thoughts. Apparently, he can’t unless he’s got wires in our head.

“I was worried about Lennon Rose,” I say, keeping my voice steady.

“I thought you were happy for her?” he asks, as if I’m being unreasonable. The book sits unopened on his desk, but he doesn’t comment.

“I am happy for her,” I say. “But . . . I guess I missed her. I thought maybe she left behind a note, a goodbye letter, so I checked her room. I found a book.”

“Ah, yes,” Anton says, leaning forward to pick up the book. “And you found this? I’d wondered where it’d gotten off to.”

“You’ve seen this book before?” I ask, surprised.

“Yes,” he says. “It belonged to a former student.” He turns it over, examining it. “And you say you got this from Lennon Rose’s room?”

I nod. He flips through the pages, pausing on “Girls with Sharp Sticks” to read it.

“Philomena,” he says, his voice low. “Have you read this poem?”

“Just that one,” I say. “But I don’t know what it means.” My lies come out so smoothly, so innocently, that I would believe them myself.

Anton takes off his glasses to rub his eyes. He seems exhausted. When he looks at me again, he sighs. “Here’s the thing,” he says. “These poems . . . They’re not allowed at this school. They’re propaganda.” He leans his elbows on the desk. “You see, there are people outside of this academy who don’t believe in what we do,” he says. “They don’t think you deserve a well-rounded education. They want to push their values on you.

“I suppose they’re just jealous,” he continues. “Jealous of our success, our commitment to protecting you. Perfecting you. Innovations Academy is cutting edge and exclusive. Not everyone can send a girl through our program.” His expression grows very serious. “These people want to take that from us,” he says. “They try by deliberately spreading falsehoods. They make people angry and unhappy—especially girls—in hopes of turning you against us.

“But it won’t work,” he says with a smile. “Because we’ve trained you girls to appreciate what we do for you.”

“I’m lucky to be at such an esteemed academy,” I say immediately, without even a twinge of guilt.

“Good. Because, you see, the girl who wrote those poems must have been very unhappy to disrespect the men trying to help her. She spread that unhappiness to others. And then she dared to give it to one of our girls. I wouldn’t want—” He stops, seeming upset by the memory. “I wouldn’t want that to happen to you. You are a prize, Philomena. I want you to be successful.”