Lennon Rose presses her lips into a sympathetic smile. “Let’s get you home. Corris is probably wondering where his SUV is by now.”
The entire way home, I clutch the book to my chest. I’m torn between immediately reading it and not reading it at all. The Sharpest Thorns changed our lives so irrevocably, what if The Poison Flowers does the same? What if it’s not in the way that we want?
Yes, I’m angry. I’m angry at the men who hurt us in the academy; I’m angry at the boys who disrespect us out here. But I don’t hate all of them. I certainly don’t hate all humans, and I don’t want to start.
Lennon Rose parks outside my apartment. I glance at the time, wondering when Jackson will come by with the papers that he mentioned. I debate whether to bring it up to Lennon Rose, but Jackson wasn’t entirely sure about what he read. I don’t want to panic her unnecessarily. I decide to discuss it with the other girls first. When I look at Lennon Rose, she smiles at me, but her eyes are weary.
“Do you want to come in and say hello to the girls?” I ask. “I know Brynn would—”
“Not today, Mena,” she says, turning to look out the windshield. It hurts my heart to think of her ignoring the other girls.
“But they want to see you,” I say. “They’ve been so worried.”
“I know,” she admits. “But not today.”
I respect her right to make that decision, but I still think it sucks and I tell her so. She laughs, and nods in agreement.
“There’s a game this weekend,” she adds as I start to get out of the car. “I’ll be there with Corris if you want to meet up with us. He has some interesting ideas, and I think we’re close to finding the investor.”
This gives me the first spark of hope in a while. “Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be there.”
“Great. See you then.” She holds up her hand in a wave, and I close the car door.
As she drives away, I hurry up the porch steps to get inside. There’s so much to discuss: the expiration date in our programming, Lennon Rose’s arrangement with Winston, Garrett’s attack at the game. And then, of course, I’ll have to explain to the girls that I just met our mother and the book of poetry she gave me.
When I walk in, I’m met with laughter as Marcella and Brynn sit together on the couch, watching something on the computer. Brynn notices me first, and offers a soft smile, a private smile. She did, after all, send Jackson to the game to find me. I glance over to where Annalise is at the window. She turns to me, and I note immediately that she looks drawn and tired.
“You were with Lennon Rose,” she says. She must have seen us out the window.
Marcella’s attention snaps up, and Brynn quickly puts the computer aside. She looks hopeful, and it sinks my heart.
“Is she coming up?” Brynn asks.
Just then, Sydney walks out from the bedroom, clearly having overheard. I’m sad when I have to shake my head no.
“She’s not,” I tell Brynn. “She … She had to return the car to her friend.”
Brynn looks momentarily comforted at the idea of Lennon Rose having friends in this outside world. And although I know that’s not the reason Lennon Rose didn’t come inside, it seems cruel to say that I have no idea why Lennon Rose doesn’t want to see them. Especially with the information I’m about to relay.
“Can you all sit down?” I ask, motioning toward the couch. Marcella’s eyes widen with concern, her posture rigid as she makes room for the other girls to sit. I take the chair across from them, and Sydney notices the book on my lap.
“What’s that?” she asks.
“First,” I say, resting my hand on top of the poems, “I have some information. And honestly, a lot has happened today.”
“Since school let out?” Sydney asks, pretending to check a watch.
“Yeah,” I say, letting her know it’s serious. “And I’m not even sure where to start.…”
“All of it,” Marcella says. “Just spill it all.”
Annalise leans forward, her elbows on her knees. I wish I had good news.
“I saw Jackson today at the game,” I say. “He flew out here to talk to me.”
“It’s about time,” Marcella mutters.
“What did he say?” Brynn asks timidly. “I, um … I told him where you were.”
I smile. “I know,” I reply. “And it’s okay.” She looks relieved.
“He’s been worried about you,” she adds. “He’s missed you.”
“Yeah,” I say. “He told me that, too.”
Brynn’s eyes glass over as she smiles. “I’m glad he said it. I bet you needed to hear it.”
“This is about Jackson?” Sydney asks as if I’ve overreacted in calling a house meeting.
“No,” I tell her. “It’s about what he said. He discovered more paperwork in his mother’s things.”
“What kind of paperwork?” Sydney asks.
“He’s not entirely sure,” I say. “He’s coming by later to drop it off, but he thinks … He thinks it means the doctors gave us an … expiration date.”
The girls are quiet for a moment.
“You’re saying they installed a kill switch?” Annalise asks. Brynn gasps and grabs Marcella’s hand.
“I don’t know,” I say. “But Jackson interpreted the paperwork to mean that our systems will shut down at seven years. They planned to kill us so the sponsors would have to upgrade. Get newer models.”
The girls are horrified as they stare at me, unable to respond, until finally, Sydney touches her throat. “Do you think that’s true?” she asks.
“I honestly don’t know,” I say. “But I hope not. And even if … Even if they did that to us, it might be something Raven can reverse, right?” I ask, looking at Annalise. And it just hits me now, putting those words out where the girls can hear the true terror behind them.
They put a kill switch in our heads. Maybe Dr. Groger was right when he told us we wouldn’t get far.
What if he was right?
I look around at the other girls, and they each seem to be processing the idea that we might run out of time.
“It’s not true,” Annalise announces, sounding confident. “I haven’t seen anything like that in my research. Raven didn’t mention it when she downloaded my programming, and she would have noticed. And let’s be honest, Dr. Groger would have used that little tidbit to keep us from killing him.”
She has a point. The girls and I let that comfort us for a moment, ignoring the part where a man is dead. He would have manipulated us with the information, that’s for sure. Jackson must have read the paperwork wrong. Or perhaps the plan was never enacted.
“What else?” Marcella asks impatiently. “What else happened today?”
“Well … ,” I start, “I met someone.”
I go on to tell the girls about Rosemarie and her offer. Who she is. How she got inside my head, and how she’s secretly working with Lennon Rose. They are, to say the least, shocked.
But we’re all concerned that we don’t fully understand Rosemarie’s intent, her potential for violence. We can’t comprehend her endgame. And we don’t quite trust it.
“I can’t believe Winston Weeks has a mother,” Marcella murmurs.
Brynn motions to the book on my lap. “Mena,” she says. “Is that the second book?”
“It is, but I haven’t opened it yet,” I reply, my nerves ratcheting up. I’m scared to read it.
“Do you think there’s coding in her words?” Brynn asks. “I mean, she designed us, so do you think she did something to affect us specifically?”
“I don’t think it’s code,” Annalise interjects. “If it was, it would have changed all the girls who read it in the same way.”
“My guess is it instigated change,” Marcella adds. “A catalyst for a mind that was already heading in that direction. I don’t think it has the power on its own. It needs a willing host.”
“Host?” Sydney repeats. “You make it sound like a parasite.”
“Could be
, I guess,” Marcella says with a shrug. “An idea that grows, taking over the thoughts of the person housing it. Especially ideas of violence or prejudice—those grow like parasites.”
“But?” I ask, hoping for some good news.
“Like I said, it’s a catalyst,” she says. “If you weren’t already prejudiced, racist words wouldn’t attract you. If you didn’t already hate women, misogynist words wouldn’t interest you. The same can be said about violence.”
“The last poems were violent,” Brynn adds.
We all fall quiet, and I look down at the book.
“Should we read it, then?” I ask. “Do we take the chance?”
“Definitely,” Marcella says. “We have each other.”
When I pause again, Marcella holds out her hand.
“Let me do it,” she says. I give the book over to her, and we all scoot closer, breaths held as we get ready to listen. Marcella opens the front cover and starts reading.
It’ll Be Okay
It will be okay, he said. It will be fine.
Those were the words he whispered to my tears.
But it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t fine.
They came for us, came for the women,
The girls.
They came for our bodies, our rights, our souls.
They pushed us down and told us they knew better.
Said they were the ones to decide.
It will be okay, he said. It will be fine.
We fought with our words, our votes.
But those who thought it would be fine didn’t show.
Didn’t stand beside us when it counted.
And then we were nothing more than flesh in the eyes of the law.
Consumable.
Disposable.
But it’s okay, he said. It’s fine.
It was not fine. It was not okay.
So I turned away from love. From him.
I chose myself.
I chose to fight back.
I chose to bash in their windows with my fists.
I burned them to the ground.
And now I am just fine.
When Marcella finishes reading the first poem, I see the other girls thinking it over. My heart is beating quickly, and I see a bit of what it must have been like during the Essential Women’s Act. The helplessness they must have felt, much like how we felt at the academy once we woke up.
I think of my teacher Mr. Marsh and how he seemed so horrified by those laws, and yet he couldn’t name a single book written on the subject. How he doesn’t correct the boys’ behavior when they act cruelly. He probably thinks it will all be fine.
I turn to Annalise and find her staring out the window again, impossibly still. So impossible that I snap my fingers to make sure she’ll react. She does, and her gaze drifts over to me.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says, forcing a smile. “Got a match?”
Marcella snorts a laugh, but when we all look at each other again, I think there’s more to her comment than a joke. That poem confirms what we already know—we can only trust each other. We can’t expect anyone to fight for us, no matter how much they say they want to.
“So the author doesn’t think we should love?” Brynn asks about the poem, checking with the others for confirmation. “The poem wants us to choose ourselves. And I get it. But …” She furrows her brow. “I love you girls. Am I not supposed to do that?”
“I think it’s just men,” Annalise says. “She thinks they’re too dangerous to love. And maybe she’s not wrong.”
My heart is racing. These poems have the ability to make us see things clearly, but what if they’re only wiping a small section of glass instead of the entire picture window? What if it’s only showing us what it knows will change us? Rosemarie said that Imogene didn’t interpret the poems properly. We don’t want to fall into that same trap.
The girls and I have survived something awful. Do these poems use our trauma to manipulate us?
Use us?
I’m not here to forward Rosemarie’s agenda when I don’t fully understand it. I’ve already learned that shutting everyone out is lonely. It can also be dangerous.
I glance at the clock and see that it’s getting later. There’s still more to tell the girls, but Annalise is staring out the window again; Brynn and Marcella are whispering to each other. Sydney meets my gaze and lifts the corner of her mouth in a sad smile.
“Another day being a girl?” she asks, motioning to my neck. And the fear floods back in, the terror of Garrett attacking me at the game.
The girls all look at me, and I don’t even have to tell them. They already know. Marcella’s expression clouds with anger, Annalise’s knuckles crack as she makes a fist at her side. She walks over to sit on the arm of my chair and points to Marcella.
“Go on,” she tells her. “Read us the next poem.”
* * *
It’s well after dinner and we’re a bit more relaxed. After raging—literal screaming into pillows—we’re ready to keep going. I’ll find Lennon Rose at the game and see what information Corris Hawkes can give me.
We decide it’s time to accelerate our plan. It’s too dangerous to stick around much longer. It’s too dangerous to let the corporation exist much longer.
Annalise called Raven, and the hacker told her she didn’t notice any kind of kill switch in her programming. She said it would be obvious, but she promises to come by tomorrow to read over the paperwork, just to make sure.
Sydney sits with me on the couch, playing a game on her phone while snacking on popcorn. Annalise is in the chair, skimming the book of poetry, and Marcella and Brynn have already gone to bed.
When the doorbell rings, Sydney looks sideways at me.
“I’m guessing it’s for you,” she says.
“Technically it’s for all of us,” I correct, but she snorts a laugh.
I head to the door and open it, my stomach fluttering slightly when I find Jackson standing there, leaning on his crutches and looking just as awful as he did at the game. But when his eyes meet mine, he pulls his lips to the side in an embarrassed smile.
“You’re home,” he says. “I thought maybe I’d show up and find the place cleaned out. I’m glad you didn’t run away.”
“Yeah, well”—I open the door more—“I figured you’d be slow on those crutches, so I could always run if I had to.”
“Fair.”
“Come on in,” I say, motioning him forward. When he walks inside, I see that Sydney is peering over the couch at him.
“Long time, gas station boyfriend,” she says. “How’s the leg?”
“Still kind of broken,” he replies. “You?”
“Same.” She smiles at him and then grabs the bowl of popcorn and heads into her bedroom.
Annalise stays behind, studying us as I lead Jackson to the couch. She holds out her hand expectantly. Jackson sits down, taking a moment to look over her scars again, before placing the papers on her open palm.
“How are you, Annalise?” he asks kindly.
“Peachy.” She begins reading the papers, but then asks if she can take them into the bedroom with her. Since I don’t know enough about our tech to understand what they say, I tell her that’s fine.
When we’re alone, I offer Jackson something to drink or something to eat, but he turns down both options.
“How’d you get here?” I ask. “I thought you flew to Connecticut.”
“I did. I have a rental car.” Jackson leans forward, resting his elbow on his uninjured leg. “Mena,” he starts. “I saw someone today, someone … someone I thought might be following me.”
“What?” I ask. “Who?”
“A girl,” he says, brow furrowed. “One of your friends, I think. The one who … The one who died.”
A cold realization slides over me. “You saw Lennon Rose,” I murmur.
His eyes widen, showing a small hint of betrayal. “You knew she was alive?” he asks. “You didn�
�t think to mention that? I looked for her, remember?”
“Yes,” I say. “But I didn’t know she was alive. Not until the other day.”
Jackson nods, easing back into the sofa. “Well, where has she been?” he asks. “If I’m remembering correctly, she didn’t even have her shoes.”
“She was with an investor. With … an author. It’s honestly hard to explain right now,” I say, a bit tired from my day.
“Okay, cool,” Jackson says. “I’ll keep stumbling haphazardly onto information and bring it to drop at your feet so that you can not explain it to me.” He’s half joking, and it earns him a smile.
“Appreciate that,” I say. He sniffs a laugh.
“So … ,” I start with a bit of worry. “How’s Quentin?” I ask. “Does he hate me now?”
Jackson’s expression falters. “Of course he doesn’t hate you,” he says, like the question is out of line. “He was angry, confused, and ultimately, worried about you. All of you. I told you he was a good guy.”
“I know he is,” I say. “But I still figured … There’s only so much a person can take. And maybe helping artificial girls was his breaking point.”
“Naw.” Jackson waves his hand. “He can take a lot.”
The room is quiet around us, the house falling into slumber. I get up to sit next to Jackson on the couch. He rests his arm on the back of the sofa and leans his head on it as he gazes at me.
“I had a lot of things I was going to say to you,” he says, the small smile still tugging at his lips. “But I forgot everything the moment I saw you.”
“That’s probably good for me.”
“Definitely better for you. Shitty for me because I’m sure I’ll overanalyze it all when I get home.”
“Home?” I ask. “Where’s that?”
“Oh, God,” he says, widening his eyes. “Literally the sketchiest motel I’ve ever seen. So, you know, if you want to get murdered this weekend, stop by.”
“I’ll put it on my list.”
We fall quiet again, and I can sense that Jackson wants to reach out, his fingers so close to touching my hair. But he doesn’t.
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