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

“You manipulated me,” I tell him. “And I’m really sick of men manipulating me.”

Despite the horror of his story, it still hurts that he used me. Logically, I see no reason to forgive him. Because the immoral use forgiveness as a weapon.

“I kept coming back because of you,” he says, his voice softer. “It wasn’t just about finding information anymore. And when you weren’t there this week, I . . . I was scared. And I missed you. And I was scared,” he repeats.

I want to doubt him, but as I look him over, I see that he’s a bit of a mess. His hair is unruly, his chin unshaven. His expression is frantic and helpless at the same time.

“Did you find Lennon Rose?” I ask.

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I found her parents, the ones you mentioned. They own a big-time pharmaceutical company.” He waits a second. “And they don’t have any kids.”

My lips part. “What?”

“They have no listed dependents. Not ever.”

“I don’t understand,” I tell him.

“Neither do I. Which is why,” he adds, “you can’t go back to that school. I don’t know what they’re doing to you girls, but you’re not going back.”

There is the sound of approaching footsteps, and Jackson quickly grabs the sleeve of my sweater and swings me around, facing me as he blocks me from view. We’re suddenly close, and I stare up at him, even as he keeps his eyes to the side, checking behind him. My heart beats faster, and I’m relieved when a woman walks by instead of the Guardian.

“They’re experimenting on us,” I whisper, looking up at him. Jackson’s hand is still on my arm as he looks down at me. I see his throat bob.

“How?” he asks.

I debate telling him, but ultimately, the girls and I decided he might be our best connection to the outside world. Our way to get out of the academy permanently. So I describe what I remember from impulse control therapy. As I do, Jackson’s hand falls away from me and he takes a step back, horrified.

I tell him about EVA being a parental assistant and not a person, how none of our calls get through. And then, even though it makes me wildly uncomfortable . . . I tell him about Guardian Bose coming to my room. It’s violating to say the words out loud, but once they’re gone from my lips—there is relief. Release.

“I’m going—” Jackson starts, then pauses for a moment as if trying to control himself. “I’m going to fucking kill him,” he finishes.

“I don’t need you to kill him,” I say, shaking my head. Men with their violent tempers, just like in the movies the Guardian watches. “I need you to help me find a way to shut them down. Because even if we leave, our parents will send us back. And even bigger than that, there are other girls. Future girls. We can’t let them keep doing this.”

“They stuck a fucking ice pick in your eye,” he says loudly, and I quickly reach to put my hand over his mouth, casting a cautious glance toward the theater. My touch calms him, and when he pulls my hand away, he looks at the scratch on my palm.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks miserably.

“How do we get them shut down?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he whispers. “They’re powerful. I don’t know.”

“Then that’s what you need to find out,” I say. “You have to . . .”

But the words fall away as my eyes drift past him to the other side of the alley. To the building set back, just out of view of the street. My chest tightens, and I push past Jackson to get a better look.

It’s a diner with flashing red sign. It’s the diner from my nightmare. Only I realize now, it wasn’t a dream at all. It was a memory.





23


The sign flashes RED’S DINER. I’m beside myself, not sure I can trust my eyes. I start that way, and Jackson catches up with me, asking what I’m doing. He keeps looking back at the theater, probably hoping that I’m running away with him. But instead, I walk up the stairs and enter the restaurant, a bell jingling on the door.

I look around, knowing what I’ll see before I do. The vinyl booths with chevron pattern, the checkered floor. And there’s the table from my dream, sitting empty. I walk over and slide into the seat, just like I’m sliding into the memory.

I sat in the booth next to the window with a bowl in front of me. The air reeked of grease—bacon, sausage, ham. Meat. The table was sticky with syrup. I had a bowl of oatmeal, unsweetened. I stirred my spoon slowly, lonely. Scared.

I missed my girls. I wanted to be with them.

“Can I help you?” a waitress asks Jackson. He seems unsure and asks for two waters. I hear him, almost faraway. He’s not in this memory with me. The scene plays across my vision.

I looked across the table and there was a man. He was older, and his sweat glistened in the fluorescent light. His fingers gripped a breakfast sausage as he shoved it into his mouth. He had no manners. He was indulgent. Crude.

At graduation, when Anton sat me down and told me I’d have to live with this man, I cried so hard that I threw up. He gave me a vitamin and told me tomorrow would be better. And then he gave me to Mr. Pickett—my sponsor. The man who had attended all of my open houses and paid my tuition.

It had only been a car ride, but I already knew that I was terrified of Mr. Pickett. Terrified.

“Don’t worry,” he said from across the table. “We’ll be home soon.”

Thunder boomed outside, making me jump. Rain poured down. I hated the rain. I hated this man.

“I’ve had other girls before, you know,” he said, slurping his coffee. “Too stupid. They said you had spirit. I paid extra for it.”

The waitress sets down two glasses of water and asks me what I’d like to eat. Jackson impatiently asks her to give us a few more moments. I feel tears slide down my cheeks. I’m shaking.

I was shaking. This man intended to hurt me—I knew that. Even a vitamin couldn’t erase that. Couldn’t make me compliant enough. I wanted my girls. I wanted my girls.

“Hey, sweetheart,” the man said to the waitress. “Give me a refill.”

“I’m not your sweetheart,” she said, annoyed, and hastily filled his cup. As she walked away, he stared at her backside before turning to me.

“Stuck-up bitch,” he said so she could overhear him. “And look at you,” he told me. “You’re prettier than her. But you know better than to talk back, right?” He smiled at me and reached over to touch my hand.

I jerked back, hating his touch.

I jerk back, knocking over the glass of ice water, splashing it over the side of the table. Jackson tells me it’s okay, that I should stop crying. That he’s here.

I couldn’t stay another moment with Mr. Pickett. I wouldn’t. I didn’t care if they permanently dismissed me. I didn’t care about anything but getting back to my girls to protect them. We needed each other.

I jumped up from the table and rushed for the door.

I yank open the door, the bell jingling.

I ran out into the rain, the water soaking my hair and clothes. My vision was blurred with tears, thunder boomed again.

Jackson’s voice booms, shouting for me to wait as he chases after me down the alley in the sunshine.

The storm raged around me, lights blinking and confusing me. I didn’t know which way to run. The man screamed my name.

“Philomena Pickett!” he shouted. “Get back here. You’re mine!”

And so I ran faster. Faster, faster toward the lights. I just wanted to escape. I stepped off the curb, startled by the sudden change in surface. And just as I swung around, headlights blinded my vision and I raised my arm just before—

There’s a sudden grab around my waist and I’m hoisted off my feet, startling me out of my head. A car horn beeps as it passes, the driver cursing at us. The sun is shining, my face is wet with tears.

Jackson is breathing heavily, his eyes wide. His arm still around me.

“Christ, Mena,” he says. “What were you doing? You just ran out into the street. You—”

“I died,” I say as fresh tears fall from my eyes. The physical pain still resonates, the vibration, the darkness. The absolute emptiness. I look up at Jackson, stunned. Traumatized.