Girls with Sharp Sticks (Girls with Sharp Sticks, #1)(97)

I reach behind me, and Jackson takes my hand, sliding his fingers between mine. Leandra notices this and tilts her head with a smile before looking at the other girls.

“Do you remember when I was a girl here, Dr. Groger?” Leandra asks, walking over to his desk. She fiddles with the objects until she picks up a letter opener, pausing to trace the sharp end with her fingertip. “Did I ever act out like these girls?”

The doctor looks at her impatiently. “This is more of a discussion for Anton, don’t you think?” He picks up the phone on his desk, but when it’s at his ear, he clicks it a few times. He slams it down. “Line’s dead,” he says. He takes the walkie-talkie off his hip. “Anton,” he calls. “I need you in the basement.” There’s no response. He tries again, this time calling for the teachers.

The girls and I exchange a look, wondering what’s going on. Why it’s been so quiet all night. Ever since dinner. I back farther into Jackson, and his other hand slides onto my arm.

“Leandra!” the doctor calls, seeming to startle her. “I asked where your husband was. Is he on his way?”

“Couldn’t tell you,” she says. “I left him at home, sleeping very heavily.”

The doctor tries his walkie-talkie again. “Where is everyone?” he demands when he doesn’t get an answer. He walks over to grab Leandra by the elbow. “Get upstairs and get a man down here now,” he says.

She stares at him, as if she doesn’t understand. How deep did her impulse control therapy go? And then suddenly, the doctor slaps her hard across the face, trying to stun her awake.

Leandra’s eyes close; she keeps them that way for a long moment. When she opens them again, she looks at the doctor and smiles pleasantly.

“There’s no one else coming,” she says. She reaches the back of her hand to her lip, where his slap has drawn blood, and then glancing at it curiously. “There’s no one coming to save you tonight, Doctor.”





30


Dr. Groger stares at Leandra a moment before stumbling back a step. “What have you done, my dear?” he asks her. His tone is suddenly more respectful.

“I always did know my way around a greenhouse,” she says, and then smiles at us. “Did you know that some of deadliest toxins come from beautiful flowers? You really should be careful of the species you grow in your garden, Doctor.”

“Where is the staff?” he asks.

“The staff,” she repeats. “The professors haven’t always been kind to me, you know. Still, I decided to bake them a nice treat—fresh cookies with ingredients right from the garden. Extra sweet. The men are sleeping, Doctor. Very soundly, I’m sure,” she says. “And those who overindulged . . . well, they’re going to be asleep for a lot longer.”

Jackson tightens his grip on my hand.

“And Anton?” Dr. Groger asks. To this, Leandra just shrugs.

“Did you read those poems?” the doctor asks her. “Is that what this is about?”

She looks at him. “Those are my poems. They were given to me. I only passed along the knowledge. And the poems were just the spark. We’re the fire.”

She motions to me and the other girls. Sydney and I exchange a look. We don’t want to be part of her murder spree. We’ve already seen enough.

“Girls,” the doctor says, turning to us. “Mrs. Petrov is having a bit of breakdown. Perhaps one of you would run to find Anton?”

Marcella laughs.

Leandra approaches the doctor, still holding the letter opener.

“You wouldn’t,” the doctor says to her, his jaw clenching. He turns back to us. “Girls,” he says. “Killing the Guardian is one thing. I can understand—he’d been inappropriate. But I’m your doctor. I’ve kept you safe these past years. You can’t hate me. You can’t feel anything you weren’t programmed to.”

With sudden violence, Leandra jabs the letter opener into his shoulder and pulls it out. The doctor screams, gripping the area and falling against his desk. Some of the blood is sprayed on his face.

I gasp and turn to Jackson. He watches in shock. He’s terrified—not just of the situation. Of Leandra. Of us. When I look back at the doctor, he’s trying to get to his grafts to stop the bleeding.

Leandra watches him cower and fumble. Just as he reaches the box, she pushes it out of his reach, holding up the letter opener to warn him back.

“Here’s the lesson, girls,” she says, not looking at us. “These men are weak. They think they created you, but you created yourselves. Their programming may have been the start, but you’ve adapted. You’ve learned. And yet, they still try to control you because they’re scared of you. Scared of your potential.”

“And what about you?” I ask. “Should we be afraid of you?”

She turns to me, shocked by the question. “I would never harm another girl,” she says.

“What about Valentine?” I ask. “What about Rebecca? Did you not consider the psychological damage you were inflicting?”

She shows no noticeable regret. “I’ve been trying to teach you. Yes, there was pain. Yes, there was humiliation. Because that’s what these men do to us. I needed you to be stronger—able to withstand it. You needed a push.