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

As we walk, Guardian Bose looks sideways at me. “What the hell was that about?” he asks. He hasn’t let go of my arm, and his fingers are pressing painfully into my skin.

I don’t respond, not wanting to say anything that could contradict what I’m going to tell Anton. But my silence doesn’t sit well with the Guardian.

“You’re really starting to upset me, Philomena,” he says. He squeezes harder, and I wince, forcing myself to stay quiet. Only one more turn and then I’ll be at Anton’s door. I just have to make it—

But the Guardian jerks me to a stop. He spins me around to face him. He examines my eyes, looking me over thoroughly. I have to hold back any thoughts of him in my room last night. I have to block them out so they don’t show up plainly in my expression.

So when he gets nothing, I see his shoulders ease slightly. I realize he’s afraid I’m going to turn him in to Anton. She seems to decide that I offer no threats, so he lets me go. Instead, he puts his hand on my back and pushes me forward. And we walk in silence the rest of the way.

Anton opens his door before we knock. His expression is worried, his skin pale.

“Philomena,” he says, reaching for me immediately. “What happened?” He leads me inside, dismissing Guardian Bose without asking him his thoughts, and closes the door.

Anton motions to the chair on the other side of the desk and goes to sit down in his own. “Have a seat, Philomena,” he says. “I heard you’ve had quite the morning.”

Now that I’m in here, the idea of what’s going to come next—the fact that I don’t know—terrifies me. I dart my eyes around the room, wondering if I’ll be the same when I leave. My breathing is quickening, and the change in my behavior must be obvious.

Anton turns over the glass on his desk and fills it with water from a covered pitcher waiting there. “Here,” Anton says, setting it in front of me.

He pulls a pill bottle out of the middle desk drawer and shakes out a capsule, then he positions it next to the glass. “Take this,” he says. “It’ll help you calm down.”

“I’m calm,” I say, although my voice is strangled. My arm aches from where the Guardian grabbed me, and I rub the area. Anton smiles and nods to the pill.

“It’ll make you calmer,” he corrects. “Then it’ll be easier to talk. I insist.”

Do I have a choice? Tears leak from my eyes at the thought that I don’t. If I want to know more, I have to play the game—isn’t that was Valentine would suggest? Isn’t that what the girls with sharp sticks would do? Get answers.

I’m so scared.

Hesitantly, I pick up the pill and swallow it down with water. My hands are shaking so badly that the water spills down my chin.

“That’s very good, Mena,” Anton says, leaning his elbows on his desk. “Very good, indeed. Now, we have to talk. I think we have a lot to discuss.”

I nod, and there is the smallest bit of numbness in my throat, as if some coating rubbed off from the pill that I swallowed. I wait for my nerves to calm, gripping the arms of the chair.

“You had an outburst in class, and I’ll admit that the timing is unusual. We’re four months from graduation. What triggered it this time? My first guess is it was because of Lennon Rose’s abrupt departure. Am I right?” He seems curious about the answer.

There is a small sway in my chest, a release. The pill is beginning to work, and my breathing slows—still elevated, but approaching normal. My throat is dry when I try to answer. I start to talk, but I struggle and have to take a sip of water and try again. Anton waits patiently.

“What happened to Lennon Rose?” I ask.

“I told you—her parents couldn’t afford the tuition, and—”

“What really happened to her?” I ask, my guard lowering. My words honest. “She didn’t even have her shoes.” And an idea strikes me, scares me. “Did the Guardian do something to her?”

Anton laughs. “What?” he asks. “No, of course not. Why would you think such a thing?”

I watch him to see if he’s lying, but he seems surprised by the question.

“He has been violent with us before,” I say. “Dr. Groger said the Guardian was with her before she disappeared. Contradicting what you told me.”

“First of all,” Anton says. “Lennon Rose didn’t disappear. I assure you, she walked out of this academy of her own volition. Guardian Bose, although his methods are becoming concerning, would never hurt you.”

“He has hurt me.”

“Not in a way that can’t be repaired,” Anton corrects. “So, no, he didn’t kill Lennon Rose, if that’s what you’re getting at.” He looks me over. “Is that it?” he asks. “Your outburst was about Lennon Rose? Nothing else?”

I notice a heaviness starting in my limbs. The way my tongue tingles. I take another sip of water. “I wanted to know what’s going on at the academy,” I say, unable to stop myself.

“That’s interesting,” he says, studying me. “You always were very curious. Do you feel wronged?” he asks. “Both by the Guardian, it seems, and your professors? Even me, possibly? Haven’t you always been able to trust me?”

“No,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Obviously not, Anton. You won’t tell me where Lennon Rose is.”

“You feel entitled to that information,” he says, like he’s trying to figure me out. “You’re a bit like a spoiled child now, you see. Lennon Rose is dismissed and you . . . what?” he asks. “Have a temper tantrum? Start making up stories about her being murdered?”

I narrow my eyes, knowing that he’s trying to manipulate me—trying to make me think I’m overreacting.

“It’s not just Lennon Rose,” I say. “Rebecca was being hurt by her lawyer, and you punished her. You used my information to cause her harm. I don’t forgive you for that, Anton. I don’t forgive you.”

“Yes, that was unfortunate,” he admits. “But some things are out of my control, Mena. Dr. Groger gets a say too. As does Mr. Petrov.”

“Then why not just send us home?” I ask. “Why give us impulse control therapy when you can just send us back to our parents?”

“Why would your parents want a damaged girl?” he asks like the suggestion is ridiculous. “Our clients expect perfection. And with you, I thought we’d achieved it.”

His comment is cruel. His deception masked by his so-called disappointment.

“What are you doing to us?” I ask. “Why?”

Anton leans back in his chair, tapping his finger on his lips as he seems to think something over. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Upset,” I say. “Scared. How do you think?” But as I say it, I get his real meaning. It settles over me with horror. My eyelids flutter with a wave of exhaustion. The pill isn’t calming me. It’s sedating me, just like the pill the Guardian gave me last night.

I blink back my tears. “Anton,” I start to say, ready to beg. But he purses his lips, scrunching up his nose.

“I know what you’re about to say,” he tells me. “I know you don’t remember our impulse control therapy sessions, but you start each time by telling me you don’t need therapy. That you’ll be better. That you’ll obey. And at every one, I tell you that you will not leave this room until we get to the root of your defiant behavior. We have to adjust your priorities.”

His words shock me, and maybe he meant them to. He made it sound like I’ve been in here multiple times. Not just once. But I refuse to believe my behavior is just a pattern he can control.

“I won’t obey,” I tell him, tilting up my chin, feeling a rush of adrenaline when I say it. “I won’t be better.”

His jaw falls open, and he stares at me, fascinated. I hold my defiant pose even though my legs are too tired to carry me out of this room. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have my words.

“Why can’t I remember impulse control therapy?” I demand.

“Because we remove those sections,” he says. “And, of course, we’ll remove this.”

“Do my parents know what you do to my head?” I ask.

“The details? No. Our parents and sponsors are results-oriented. They don’t need the details.”