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

Anton takes off his glasses to rub his eyes. He seems exhausted. When he looks at me again, he sighs. “Here’s the thing,” he says. “These poems . . . They’re not allowed at this school. They’re propaganda.” He leans his elbows on the desk. “You see, there are people outside of this academy who don’t believe in what we do,” he says. “They don’t think you deserve a well-rounded education. They want to push their values on you.

“I suppose they’re just jealous,” he continues. “Jealous of our success, our commitment to protecting you. Perfecting you. Innovations Academy is cutting edge and exclusive. Not everyone can send a girl through our program.” His expression grows very serious. “These people want to take that from us,” he says. “They try by deliberately spreading falsehoods. They make people angry and unhappy—especially girls—in hopes of turning you against us.

“But it won’t work,” he says with a smile. “Because we’ve trained you girls to appreciate what we do for you.”

“I’m lucky to be at such an esteemed academy,” I say immediately, without even a twinge of guilt.

“Good. Because, you see, the girl who wrote those poems must have been very unhappy to disrespect the men trying to help her. She spread that unhappiness to others. And then she dared to give it to one of our girls. I wouldn’t want—” He stops, seeming upset by the memory. “I wouldn’t want that to happen to you. You are a prize, Philomena. I want you to be successful.”

I hold my expression, but his words “you are a prize” are a cold splash of water through my chest, sending chills over my skin.

“I wouldn’t want that either, Anton,” I say evenly. “I’m so close to graduation.”

“Exactly,” he says, relieved. “So I think it’s best if we have a meeting with all the girls. Make sure we’re all on track. Make sure you have the right attitudes.”

The suggestions stuns me, scares me. But I thank him for his time; I don’t want to stay in Anton’s office for even a second longer than I have to.

I stand up and reach for the book, but Anton quickly puts his hand on it and slides it out of my reach.

“I’ll hold on to this,” he snaps. “Lennon Rose won’t need it again.”

“I’m sorry,” I reply, angry at myself for even trying to take it. I wasn’t thinking clearly. He waves me out.

I leave his office, shivering off the shadows that try to follow me out. And even though I don’t want to think it . . . Anton all but confirmed it.

Lennon Rose is truly gone.

? ? ?

When I get back to my room, some of the girls are waiting in their doorways. Before I can tell them what’s happening, Guardian Bose’s voice booms like thunder down the hall.

“Back in your rooms until I come for you!” he shouts. I flinch at the violence in his tone, exchanging a worried look with Sydney.

Not wanting to be defiant, we all do as he asks.

The Guardian doesn’t come back to get us until late in the evening. They didn’t even let us have dinner.

I’ve nearly gone out of my mind while waiting, staring out the window at the woods as they darkened. Longing to escape. I should have left from the movie theater with Jackson.

Guardian Bose doesn’t speak as he leads us downstairs to the ballroom. But we’re not allowed near each other, let alone able to talk. Guardian Bose has us each sit at a different table. I hope this separation doesn’t last. The thought that it might terrifies us.

We watch Guardian Bose head to the front of the room. My leg shakes under the table.

The door opens and Mr. Petrov walks in, his suit wrinkled in a surprising way. He’s always very careful about his appearance, but he’s unnerved. He’s angry and bitter. This is him in his truest form.

Mr. Petrov stops at the front of the room, slowly looking each of us over until he lands on me. He takes the book out of his coat pocket and holds it up.

I’m not sure how he knows, but this is my fault. I put us all at risk—I can’t let the girls take any blame.

“It was my fault,” I say, pitching up my voice to sound sweeter. “Just mine. I was curious.” I shake my head. “Weak. I didn’t mean to read the book. I should have turned it in the moment I found it.”

“Do you feel brave, Philomena?” he asks, his tone cutting through my hollow words.

“Excuse me?” I ask, wilting slightly.

“Did the words in that book make you feel brave? Make you think . . . you were better? Equal? Did they make you want to talk back?”

I shake my head, but inside, my heart is racing. How do they know how those poems affected us? “No, Mr. Petrov,” I say. “They were just words. I didn’t even understand them. The other girls didn’t even read them!”

He hums out a sound, running his eyes around the room. “Words create rebellions,” he says. “Better I crush yours right now before you hurt the other girls. Before you try to convince them with lies.”

I’m scared. I don’t know what he’s going to do to me, and I turn back to Sydney, I see her eyes brimming with tears.

“Who gave you this book?” he demands.

“I found it in Lennon Rose’s room,” I say. “I swear. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Who gave you this book?” he asks, louder. Brynn jumps from the sound, and he drags his eyes over her. Mr. Petrov nods to Guardian Bose.

The Guardian stomps over to grab Brynn by the collar of her shirt, hauling her to her feet violently. Several girls gasp. Marcella begs him to stop.

“Who gave you this book?” Mr. Petrov asks me again, his threat to Brynn obvious.

I don’t know what to say. I’m not even sure what lie will help protect the other girls. And then suddenly, Valentine stands up.

“I did,” she says simply. “I gave the book to Lennon Rose. Mena must have found it there.”

“Ah, there we go,” Mr. Petrov says. He waves the Guardian toward her. “I believe Dr. Groger would like a word with Valentine Wright.”

The Guardian pushes Brynn down in her seat—she folds in on herself, still in shock from being mishandled.

The Guardian walks to Valentine’s table. Slowly, as if completely unbothered, she smiles at him politely.

“Time’s up, sweetheart,” Guardian Bose says. “Time to go visit the lab.”

I quickly look back at Marcella, who confirms it’s the locked room in the basement.

Valentine nods, stepping away from the table to follow the Guardian out. Her eyes slide to mine with a wave of panic. She told me that the next time they thought she needed impulse control therapy, they would kill her.

“Valentine,” I call, breathless in my terror. She looks away from me because there’s nothing I can say. There’s nothing I can do. I would just endanger us all, like I already have with the book.

Valentine begins to shake. Her eyes go vacant, her expression serene, as she lets the Guardian lead her from the room.

Are they really going to kill Valentine? This can’t be happening. They can’t do this—even the idea of losing one of the girls is unbearable. But I don’t know what to do. What can any of us do?

“This school is on lockdown,” Mr. Petrov announces. “There will be no phone calls, no parental visits. Campus is closed and open houses are canceled. The fences will be reinforced and the doors bolted at night. You will pay the price for your audacity.” He stops when his voice gets tight with anger. He takes a breath, and then begins again.

“Guardian Bose will step up your supervision,” he says. “Mandatory impulse control therapy will begin shortly—we have no way of knowing how far these poisonous ideas have spread. Make no mistake,” he says, wagging his finger at us, “your parents will not be removing you from this building until you are worthy. Nobody needs another opinioned girl. You will obey!”

The words take the air out of the room and make my skin crawl. We sit there quietly, afraid it might get worse. It can always get worse. I know that now.

Mr. Petrov glances at his watch. “You will report for classes in the morning as usual,” he says. “And if you get any more ideas, you will be isolated. And it can get very lonely,” he adds menacingly. “We can’t have you spreading discontent.”

And then the Head of School walks out.





25