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

“Well, I’m sorry,” she replies, her voice now curt. “They’re not here to take your call. I will pass along the message.”

A sudden realization crawls over my skin, a sinking in my gut. The way she just said that—her tone. I’m certain it’s the same voice on the recorded line that told me Jackson’s number was out of service, only without the accent. It was the same voice.

“Eva, I want to talk to my parents,” I repeat simply. “Put them on the phone.”

She’s quiet for a long moment. Too long.

“I’m sorry, Philomena,” she replies. “I can’t do that. They’re busy. I’m sure they’ll check in after your impulse control therapy.”

I blink quickly, like I’ve just been slapped.

“I’m not scheduled for impulse control therapy,” I tell her, my voice lowering.

“Yes, well,” she says, “sounds like maybe you’re due for one. Your impulses sound compromised.”

It’s clearly a threat. Suddenly I tune into the background. Every time I’ve spoken with Eva, it’s so quiet. In a house, shouldn’t there be a television or radio on in the background? Rustling papers at a desk? A lawnmower or traffic outside? But Eva’s voice is crystal clear, like she exists in an empty room, always answering the phone. Answering every call, even to Jackson’s number.

I’ve left so many messages with Eva, but in all this time, my parents have never called me back. Now I’m sure they never got the messages. So who exactly is Eva reporting to? It occurs to me now that she might not live with my parents at all.

“I apologize,” I say to her, sweetening up. “I had some ideas about graduation, but perhaps this is a conversation better had with the analyst. Thank you for your perspective, Eva,” I say. “It’s a reminder that I need to keep my behavior well managed so I don’t worry my parents.”

“You’re very welcome,” Eva says pleasantly. “Do you still want me to pass along your message?”

“No,” I say. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time.”

“It’s no trouble at all, dear. Have a nice day.”

“You too,” I mumble. I put my fingers on the lever to hang up the call, staring down at the receiver in my other hand.

Eva must work for the academy. How many other “assistants” are doing the same? Have they been manipulating us the entire time?

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Valentine says, startling me. I spin around and find her in her doorway, dressed impeccably, a bow in her hair.

“What?” I ask, putting the receiver back on the hook.

“It’s not an open line,” she says. “It goes through the communications office on the second floor.”

I shake my head, confused. “I don’t understand,” I say.

“There’s no such thing as EVA,” she explains. “Nor STELLA, GEMMA, or whatever else they call them. Like I said, there are no open lines. I’ve checked.”

We stare at each other, my heart thumping as I try to get up the courage to ask more questions. Find out what I really need to know. Finally, I take a step toward her.

“I read the poems,” I whisper. “And I stopped taking the vitamins.” To this, Valentine smiles—and not the fake, practiced smile. A real smile; a true glimpse of her.

“Finally,” she says. “And how are you feeling?” she asks.

“Awake.”

She smiles wider. “Good.”

For the past week, Valentine has scared me, intimidated me in a way. But it’s just that I wasn’t seeing things clearly, not the way that she was. But now I’m starting to understand her. I’m starting to trust her.

“Why weren’t you at lunch?” I ask.

“Anton,” she says. “He’s asking questions. He’s trained to notice changes like this, so be careful around him. We just have to wait a little longer.”

It’s not the answer I wanted to hear—although I can’t say exactly what it was that I expected.

“Wait for what?” I ask. My voice is a little loud, and she casts a concerned glance at the Guardian’s door before looking pointedly at me.

“For the other girls,” she says. “The only way we get out is all together.”

It strikes me then that I hadn’t thought about getting out. I should have, obviously I should have. But the idea of escaping the school suddenly leaves me feeling vulnerable, exposed to the elements.

Valentine notices my discomfort. “Just . . . behave,” she says. “Listen and learn. You’ll know when it’s time.”

She walks away then, leaving me confused and a bit irritated in the empty hallway. Sydney’s head peeks out of my room. The girls are waiting for an update, and I’m spurred into action. I quickly run over and take her hand.

“Come on,” I say, pulling her down the hall. Alarmed, she jogs alongside me.

“Where are we going?” she asks. “How did it go with your parents?”

“We’re going to the communications room.”

Sydney repeats it, confused. I explain about my phone call and what Valentine said, watching her sink inside herself. She shakes her head once, not believing it.

“We’re just going to check it out,” I say, not wanting to worry her too much. Valentine could be wrong.

We get to the second floor, and I slide myself along the wall to peek around the corner. When I don’t see any professors, we quickly hurry down to room 206. It’s clearly labeled, but I’ve never been in here before. There was never any need.

I try the door, and it opens. I’m immediately amongst a vast assortment of equipment. There are machines—not computers exactly, but large rectangular panels with buttons and dials. Switches and lights. There’s a phone and plastic box full of paper that’s labeled FAX MACHINE.

The room itself isn’t very big—about the size of a large custodial closet, like the one we have near the kitchen where we keep the mops and buckets—but I’m a little overwhelmed with the amount of wires and metal.

I decide there isn’t anything of consequence in here, but just as I start to turn away, I notice the last panel. There’s a stack of faxes in front of it, all marked READ with a stamp.

As I read the labels on the panel, my stomach drops. My breath catches in my chest.

Sydney notices my reaction and darts her eyes around the room.

“What is it?” she asks.

I swallow hard and point. Printed on the device is the brand, etched into the metal: PARENTAL ASSISTANT. And down the front of the panel are switches, each labeled. EVA, GEMMA, STELLA, MORGAN, and several others run down to the bottom.

“It’s . . . It’s a machine,” I murmur. “They’re a machine.”

“What does that mean?” Sydney asks. “Are you . . . Are you saying Gemma’s not even real?”

There’s a loud beep and we both jump, grabbing on to each other. There’s a scraping sound, a series of buzzes, and then a piece of paper gets sucked into the fax machine. We stare at it, unsure what’s happening. And then the machine spits out the paper, facedown.

We stay very still until Sydney steps forward to pull the page out of the machine. She flips it over and reads it. Her lips part, but she doesn’t say a word. She holds out the paper to me.

And when I read it, I find that it’s a fax to Anton. From EVA.





FAX


To: Anton Stuart From: EVA Re: Philomena Rhodes Date: April 18th Pages: 1

* Urgent For Review Please Reply Comments: Philomena Rhodes displayed unusual behavior patterns while calling the Rhodes residence this evening. The situation was diffused, but per guidelines, this message was generated to keep you informed.

Action is not suggested at this time.





17


Every conversation I had with EVA was a lie. She’s a computer system, a “parental assistant.” She was in the academy the entire time. She would ask questions about my contentment, and then . . . what? Pass my answers along to Anton, I guess.

“We have to go,” Sydney says, still staring at the panel of names. But then she turns, and I follow behind her. We shut off the light and close the door.

On the way back to our floor, I’m still trying to process. Sydney doesn’t say a word.

We rush back to the other girls and find them waiting in my room, sitting on the bed. When we walk in, Brynn looks up hopefully.