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

As morning light filters in through my window, I sit up in bed with the remains of a headache clinging to my temples, a dream in my memory. Something about Lennon Rose. Or was it Rebecca? For a moment, I can’t think straight—a jumble of ideas tangled like wires in my head. And then, finally, the events of last night come back to me.

Lennon Rose pulled from line. Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe in the alcove. Drinking wine with Winston Weeks.

I get out of bed quickly, regretting it the moment I do. Pain throbs behind my eyes. I wait it out, and once I’m settled, I get dressed for breakfast.

When I walk into the dining hall, the smell of scrambled eggs and bacon hangs in the air. Neither of those things are at our table, though. Instead, the professors are eating from overflowing plates. We have oatmeal.

“Morning,” Sydney mumbles, looking exhausted, as I sit across from her at the long table in the dining hall.

Marcella and Brynn smile their hellos and Annalise waves her spoon at me. They’re upbeat—normal for a Saturday morning. Sydney and I, on the other hand . . .

“I have never had a headache like this,” Sydney says to me, her voice scratchy. “I might go see Dr. Groger after breakfast.”

“Oh, no,” I say. I reach across the table to take her hand, grateful when it doesn’t feel feverish or clammy. She thanks me for being so sweet.

Around us, the other girls discuss the open house: Carolina Deschutes and her grandmother, an investor who made crude comments (I can just about guess who), and Winston Weeks being friendlier than usual. Annalise flashes me a smile when she says it, and I laugh, knowing all the girls must have noticed our interaction at the party.

But as they continue, Sydney begins to rub her temple, her eyes squeezed shut. My concern deepens; we never get sick.

“Did you drink any wine?” I ask. “Because I threw up last night from it.”

“Gross,” Sydney murmurs, poking her oatmeal with her spoon. “But, no.”

“Maybe it was the extra vitamin Anton sent to the room,” I suggest.

She scrunches up her nose and lifts her gaze to mine. “Extra vitamin?” she asks. “I didn’t get one. What was it?”

“I’m not sure,” I say. “But . . . you really didn’t get one? I thought I heard the Guardian go to your door.”

She shakes her head no, but then winces at the pain. I pout my bottom lip, feeling sorry for her.

It’s strange, though. I was certain I heard Guardian Bose go to her room. I must have been mistaken. I glance down the table and immediately notice Rebecca, sitting apart, her head down. She seems sullen and sad.

“I wonder if Anton talked to her last night,” I whisper to Sydney, nodding toward Rebecca. “Should I say something to her?”

“Why? What happened last night?” Sydney asks, distracted as she tastes a bite of her oatmeal, looking queasy when she does.

I stare at her before leaning into the table and lowering my voice. “She and Mr. Wolfe . . . ?” I whisper. Sydney waves her hand for me to explain.

“We spoke to Anton about it,” I add quietly.

“Mena,” Sydney says. “I hardly even saw Anton last night. What are you talking about?”

There’s a strange sensation over my skin, spikes of worry. We most definitely talked to Anton last night. How could Sydney forget that? Just as my alarm begins to tick up, Annalise calls my name.

“Lennon Rose still isn’t here,” she says. “We should go check on her.”

My stomach drops as I look around, double-checking that she’s right. Lennon Rose was resting comfortably in her room last night, I was told. I wonder if she’s still there. She must miss us terribly; Lennon Rose hates being alone.

I agree to go with Annalise, and despite her headache, Sydney volunteers to come with us. We can’t leave before finishing breakfast, so we plan to head there as soon as we’re done.

I’m reminded suddenly that Valentine is the one who talked to Lennon Rose just before she started crying. Why did she say to her? What did she do?

But Valentine’s ignoring all of us, stirring her oatmeal slowly, the oats gathering in lumps on her spoon. Her lips are moving ever so slightly, like she’s repeating something. The image is disconcerting, repetitive in a way that doesn’t seem natural, and I quickly avert my eyes before she notices me.

I’m off today—wrong, somehow.

And as I eat my breakfast, I think about getting sick last night, the streaks of colors from undigested vitamins. Covertly, I lift my eyes to Sydney, wondering if that could be the difference.

Vitamins keep us balanced. Maybe I’m the one out of balance.

? ? ?

While Marcella and Brynn have cleanup duty, Annalise, Sydney, and I go to check on Lennon Rose. We knock on the door, and when there’s no answer, Annalise tries again a little louder.

Annalise looks back at us before pushing inside, whispering Lennon Rose’s name since she’s probably still asleep.

But Lennon Rose isn’t here. And it’s not just her physical absence that we notice, either—the room feels . . . empty. Lonely. Like she hasn’t been here in a while, even though I know she was here just last night.

Annalise stomps over to the bed and pulls back the sheets. There’s an empty water glass on the nightstand, a white cup without vitamins. Lennon Rose’s dress and heels from the open house are set for pickup, hanging near her dresser.

It’s then that I notice Lennon Rose’s school shoes near her bed.

We only own two pairs of shoes at the academy: our uniform-appropriate shoes and our sneakers for Running Course. Lennon Rose’s sneakers are piled in the corner, and her uniform shoes are at the foot of the bed.

That means they’re not on her feet. Where would she go barefoot? I walk over to the bathroom and peer inside, finding it empty and dry. She hasn’t showered today either.

“Where is she?” Sydney asks. Annalise casts a concerned glance in my direction.

“She must be with Anton,” I say. “He . . . He must have put her in impulse control therapy.” Lennon Rose was so upset last night, it would make sense if Anton was trying to help her reassess her goals. He didn’t mention it, though. He should have told me.

“Without her shoes?” Sydney asks, confused.

I tell them about my conversation with Anton. He said Lennon Rose was resting comfortably last night. “But I didn’t check,” I add guiltily. “I should have checked on her.”

“It’s okay, Mena,” Sydney says. “If Anton says she’ll be better than new, then I’m sure she’s fine.”

I swallow hard, the words not as reassuring as usual, although I can’t pinpoint exactly why.

“I’m going to speak with Anton,” I say. “See if there’s anything we can do for Lennon Rose.”

Annalise nods that she thinks that’s a great idea.

“If you talk to her, tell her we love her,” Sydney adds.

“Of course,” I say. I glance at Lennon Rose’s shoes again, their placement so odd in how routine it is. Like she’ll be back at any moment, the bottoms of her feet dirty.

My heart races madly, and it occurs to me that I’m acutely aware of my feelings. The sense that something is wrong. I’m reminded of my missing vitamins.

“Check with the other girls?” I ask Annalise. “They might have seen Lennon Rose last night or this morning.”

“Sure,” Annalise says. She asks Sydney if she wants to come with her. We walk out into the hall and I wrap my arms around myself, careful not to alarm the others. I’m certain I’m overreacting. When I see Anton, I’ll let him know about my missing vitamins. I don’t like how I feel right now, how irrational.

Annalise and Sydney head toward Marcella’s room, and I start for the second floor.

By the time I get there, my chest has tightened, making it harder to breathe. I’m scared that Lennon Rose is in trouble. And I don’t even know why she was crying.