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

That night, when Guardian Bose comes to my room to give me my vitamins—one yellow and one sedative—he stands there and watches me take them. I make a show of it, extra apologetic. The pills rest just under my tongue, and I can feel them dissolving, unable to do anything while the Guardian is here.

I can barely stand it. The idea of the silver tech gliding over my tongue and down my throat, or the sedative making me powerless with sleep, almost makes me gag. But the Guardian casts a dirty look in my direction and leaves to harass another girl.

The second he walks out the door, I spit the vitamins across the room. I take a mouthful of water and then rush to the bathroom, rinsing the bitter taste out of my mouth. When I go back to my room to destroy the evidence, I’m grateful to find the silver tech still contained inside its capsule. I pick it up and flush it away along with the sedative, knowing the Guardian will be back later.

? ? ?

The footsteps stop just outside my door like I knew they would. I’d been waiting—dreading—for hours. As the door opens, I relax my expression: lips parted slightly, tense shoulders loose, hand palm up. Defenseless in sleep.

The floor creaks as the Guardian walks into my room. I let my breathing sound congested, deep in sleep, slow and heavy—hoping he’ll just leave. It’s a fight to appear calm when my heart is racing.

I feel his figure pause over me, his shadow looming. He might be here to bring me down to the lab. To bring me to Anton to be reset. He might be here to kill me.

I want to open my eyes. I want to scream. But instead, I let my breathing catch slightly, and smack my lips together like he’s about to wake me.

He’s about to kill me.

The Guardian doesn’t move, and his presence is overwhelming. I wish I could run out into the woods, but they’re reinforcing the fence. There is no escape.

Guardian Bose is closer, close enough to touch me, I’m sure. I wait for it, working out in my head how I’ll fight back, but knowing I’m at a disadvantage in every way. He can break me with a single hit. I’m at his mercy, and the thought of that tears through my heart.

The shadow shifts over my face, and he’s closer still, hovering just above me. His cool fingers slide around my neck to choke me.

I’m about to scream for my life, but then, like a miracle, there is a thump from another room. I feel Guardian Bose turn toward it, and his hand falls away. There is the sound of his footsteps as he exits my room. The door shuts.

I jolt once but don’t open my eyes. My entire body hiccups with profound fear. Loss. I listen until Guardian Bose’s footsteps make it all the way down the hall and the door to his room opens and closes. And once I hear that, I sit up in bed and take in a huge gulp of air, my fingers on my throat, my eyes wide and fearful.

I continue to gasp for breath like I’m drowning. Tears stream down my cheeks as I stare at my doorway. My entire body shakes in a way that I can’t stop, my head bobbing, my arms like they’re being shocked with electricity.

I want to crawl into Sydney’s bed and tell her what’s happened. But I can’t chance it now. He’ll come back. He’ll drag me downstairs next.

I squeeze my eyes shut, crying silently. I’ve never been so scared—I don’t know how I can live and be this scared. I have a wild and irrational thought that my hair has streaks of white now.

I am at the mercy of these men. Of these horrible, terrible, abusive men.

And it’s crushing because I can’t change the circumstances right now. Not at this moment.

I know I can’t live like this, though. I won’t.

I pull the covers up to my chin, my body still jolting forward every few minutes, slowing as the adrenaline begins to wear down. Exhaustion is settling in.

Making it until morning is my new goal. Then I’ll talk to Sydney and the other girls—we’ll make a plan. We’ll get Valentine and run. We’ll never come back.

? ? ?

Professor Penchant stands at the front of the classroom, pacing. “You’re a disgrace,” he says to all of us, spittle flying from his mouth. “Naughty things.”

I cringe at the use of the word “naughty”—it’s creepy and infantile at the same time. It bothers the other girls too. Annalise grips the edge of her desk, her nails digging into the wood.

“Who would want girls like you?” Professor Penchant demands. “Disobedient trash. I’ll be glad when your lot is finally gone. You’re worthless.” He looks at Rebecca like this particular insult was reserved for her.

Annalise’s hand shoots up in the air, and Professor Penchant glances at her in surprise.

“How dare you—” he starts, furious she would dare ask a question while he’s admonishing us.

“Pardon me, sir,” she says in her sweetest voice. “But I’m ready to be a better girl. I was hoping I could learn a lesson today—if you’re up for teaching.”

I fight back my smile. But no sooner does the thought amuse me than Professor Penchant storms across the room and stops at the side of her desk. He grabs Annalise out of her chair, knocking her to the floor. He then begins to drag her by the wrist toward the front of the room while she unsuccessfully tries to free herself from his grip. Several girls scream, and I stand up from my desk.

The professor unhands her, kicking Annalise in the thigh as she tries to move away from him. He grabs his pointer stick and whacks her with it. She cries out in pain, a red slash quickly appearing on her thigh.

“Stay,” he says, like she’s a dog. With sudden ferocity, the professor turns back to all of us.

“You think we don’t see,” he says. “See the wheels turning.” He makes a motion near his temple. “The girls who wrote those kinds of poems were wicked. They were corrupt. Girls were put on this planet for the benefit of men. And you—” He whacks Annalise again, on her arm this time, and she cowers away from him. “You are here to serve at our pleasure. There is no other way for you girls—know that. Outside these walls, without our grace, you are nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

Brynn is crying next to me. Several other girls are trying to hold back their tears, afraid of being next in line for his cruelty.

The professor squats down next to Annalise. He raises his hand, and she flinches away. But to our horror, he runs the backs of his fingers along her neck, down to her collarbone. And the intimate touch is more horrifying than any slap. She moves away from him, but his threat is enough to break us all down. Highlight our vulnerability.

Every night we sleep behind unlocked doors in a school where the men hate us.

When the professor stands up, Annalise wipes her cheeks, quickly clearing the tears. He holds out his hand like a gentleman, and Annalise has no choice but to take it and thank him for the chivalry.

Professor Penchant smiles and watches her walk back to her desk, limping.

I hate him. I hate the professor with a fire I never thought was possible. And I know why we should be outraged.

? ? ?

We’re not allowed to close our doors anymore. That’s the new rule Guardian Bose has enacted. We can’t be in each other’s rooms, we can’t sleep with our doors closed, we can’t go outside.

This lockdown goes on for days, and it begins to work on our sanity. The isolation is torture. And it leaves me feeling sick and worn down. I just want to talk to the girls for a minute. Make sure they’re okay.

At night there are vitamins—one pink, one green, one yellow. Guardian Bose waits for us to take them. Several times, I had to throw them up after he didn’t leave fast enough.

I stare out the window in the evenings, confined to my room alone. I wonder if Jackson has come by the school. If he’s worried. I regret pushing him away, even if I’m angry that he lied to me. In the end, he could have helped us. I should have let him. I should have run.

Of course, every time I think that, I start crying. So I try not to think about that anymore.

And I start to think that Jackson has been worried. For example, one afternoon, I notice a police cruiser leaving our gates—leaving us here at the academy, unchecked. The professors don’t mention it, and I haven’t seen Anton or the doctor since Mr. Petrov talked to us about the poems, but I doubt they’ll tell me either. Jackson must have called them, but it was for nothing.