I see my parents standing on the porch of our house, smiling at me as I ride my bike in circles on our wide driveway. My mother waves; my father beams proudly with his arm around her shoulders. And then the three of us are at the dining room table, eating salads and laughing. The three of us together, all the time. Memories flood in, each one happier than the one before. The complete picture begins to fill out.
Despite these images, I have a different sense—only this one is coming from somewhere else. Coming from my heart. I have questions I want to ask, but I stop myself, afraid to think them.
So I try to stop thinking altogether, to keep my heart rate down. Temper my reactions.
“There,” Anton says, removing the syringe. “Much better. Now, I want to talk about that boy you met on your last field trip. What was his name?”
I don’t remember, I think. I keep my head very clear, my thoughts singular. I don’t remember.
“Okay. But I am curious—did you like him, Mena?” Anton asks. “Were you . . . attracted to him?”
Despite my clear head, something must get through, because Anton blows out through his nose, turning the pick a little more violently than before. I’m glad I can’t feel it.
“Well,” Anton says, “I suppose that should have been expected. You’ve always been very passionate, Mena. About learning, about the other girls. We’ll have to keep an eye on that. Some redirection.”
Anton removes the wires, keeping the pick in place.
“Philomena,” he says, his voice deepened. “I need you to listen closely to what I’m about to tell you.” He turns the pick slightly. “It was Lennon Rose’s time to leave. You’re happy for her. You’re content.”
I don’t question his words. I listen to them, listen closely, and allow them to manifest. But when the thoughts don’t latch on, Anton doesn’t bring it up. I realize he’s moved into a new phase of the procedure. He has no idea what I’m thinking anymore.
“Listen closely,” he repeats. “Your education is the only thing that matters, and the academy only wants what’s best for you. In order to achieve that, you must obey us. The only worthy girls are well-behaved girls. Listen closely,” he says again, a command that should soak in. Click on. “The academy . . .”
But I can hear beyond Anton’s voice. I hear the ticking from the pendulum on the desk. I hear the sound of my heart beating, the buzzing of the light above.
If I listen closely enough, I can hear everything.
I can hear that Anton is lying.
I can hear the girls two floors away.
I can hear the flowers in the greenhouse.
And I know what those flowers are saying, screaming. I know it so strongly that it becomes my only thought.
Wake up, Philomena. Wake up now.
And for a second, I know what’s true—the ultimate truth. It’s freeing and terrifying at the same time. It all makes sense, filling me with purpose.
“You’re just a girl,” Anton continues, reciting lines as if he’s done this hundreds of times before. Each sentence accentuated with the twist of the pick, like he’s winding a clock inside my head.
“You’ll do as your told,” he says simply. “You’ll appreciate what’s being done to protect you. You won’t question authority. And in a few months, you will abide by whatever the school and your parents decide for your future. We decide your future. Don’t concern yourself with it.” He pauses, leaning in so I can see his face.
“You’re a beautiful rose, Philomena,” he says, like it’s the highest compliment he can offer. “One we’ve cultivated to perfection. You’ll be a prize for any man.” He leans in to put his cheek against mine, his eyes closed. “I love you more than all the other girls,” he whispers, his lips brushing my skin.
The horror of his words is just settling over me when he pulls back to look down. He smiles. And then Anton adjusts his grip on the pick and turns it inside my head with a loud click.
Everything I wanted to remember, every brave thought, disappears at once. I fall back into my body—reset.
Obedient.
Empty.
Part II
And then they sharpened their sticks.
20
Guardian Bose holds out a bottle of water and leads me from the therapy room. I’m in a haze, my muscles cramped like I’ve been running the track for days. My vision is blurry in my left eye, and my head is aching.
I take the water from Guardian Bose, thanking him politely. I’m overcome with gratitude when I take my first sip. I needed to wash that taste out of my mouth—chalky and thick. Similar to the green juice we have with meals.
“Anton excused you from Running Course for a few days,” Guardian Bose says, walking me back to my room. “He doesn’t want you jostled around too much. Leandra is not happy.”
I keep my eyes downcast, the light in the hallway feeling too strong. The air chills my skin, which feels hot and dry in comparison.
“That’s very kind of Anton,” I say.
Guardian Bose studies me. I wonder if my hair is a mess, my skin blotchy. My appearance must be dreadful.
The halls are quiet as we walk. I have no idea what time it is, and I don’t look toward the windows, afraid of hurting my eyes. I wonder where the girls are. Their absence feels like loneliness clinging to me.
We stop at my room, and Guardian Bose steps forward to open the door for me. He allows me to walk in first. I glance around, momentarily displaced. Everything is familiar, but at the same time, small. Suffocating.
“What day is it?” I ask, my voice raspy.
“It’s Tuesday,” Guardian Bose says. “But you should rest. The girls washed your clothes and did your chores for you. They left fresh pajamas in case you want to get changed.”
I nod that I do. I cross the room to pick up the clothing from my dresser, looking back at Guardian Bose.
“Will you excuse me?” I ask, pressing them to my chest.
He doesn’t move. And there is a sudden sinking feeling in my gut. Prickles on my skin.
“I’m meant to supervise,” he says. His pale eyes rake over me, dominate me.
Anton’s words echo in my mind. You’re a beautiful girl, Philomena.
Numbly, I turn my back to the Guardian and pull off my shirt, doing as I’m supposed to. The air is cold on my skin, and when I blink, tears drip onto my cheeks. You should be gracious.
I tug my pajama top over my head, using it to cover as much of me as possible. I slip out of my pants before stepping into my shorts. I’m shaking when it’s over, and I leave my clothes on the floor.
My head bobs, my hands trembling as I pull back my bedsheets and slide under them. I pull the blankets up to my chin, burying myself in them. I’m disoriented.
The Guardian walks around my bed to pause at my side. He sets a small white cup on my nightstand, next to my glass of water. Inside are my vitamins: three pinks, no greens, one yellow.
“Anton said to take these before lights-out,” he says. “I’ll come back to remind you. Your schedule’s off because of therapy, so you’ll get another dose in the morning. Rest for now. I’ll let the other girls know that you’re not to be disturbed. You should be able to return to classes tomorrow.”
He starts to leave, but I ask him to wait.
“Have my parents called?” I ask. I want to talk to them. I miss them.
“No,” he says, slightly amused. “No, they haven’t called, Philomena. But don’t worry,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss my forehead. His lips are clammy and dry on my skin. “You have us.”
I close my eyes, shrinking inside myself. Guardian Bose straightens, and then he’s gone, leaving me alone in my room. I’m tired—exhausted. Worn. My head swims with uncomplicated thoughts. My education is the only thing that matters. The academy only wants what’s best for me. The only worthy girls are well-behaved girls.
And when I finally drift to sleep, I don’t dream.
• • •
There is a soft knock o
n my door, stirring me awake. I’m still shaking, although it’s more subtle now. Sydney pokes her head into the room and studies me, waiting for my reaction before saying anything.
She’s a breath of fresh air, and I smile. I’ve missed her so much.
I nod for her to come in and she does just that. I fold back my covers and she gets in next to me, pulling me into a hug. She holds me and says it’s been miserable here without me.
“I know it’s still early,” she says, “but I have something for you. A book. When you’re ready, I’ll bring it over.”
“Okay,” I say, not sure what she’s talking about. She sniffles, and her voice shakes as she holds back her cry.
“I was lost without you,” she whispers. “I thought you’d left me. I thought you were gone forever.”
“I would never leave you,” I say, knowing it’s true. “Not ever.”
“Anton called me into his office a little while ago,” she says as if measuring her words. “He told me you’d just completed impulse control therapy because you were distraught over Lennon Rose. He asked if I heard any rumors about her departure.”
She rests her cheek on the top of my head. “I had to lie,” she says quietly. “I told him I only knew what he announced at breakfast. I wasn’t sure what you’d told him, Mena. I was so scared. And then he made me promise not to bring it up to you. But . . . what happened? What happened in impulse control therapy?”
I don’t know what Sydney is talking about. I wasn’t there when Lennon Rose left, but I know it was her time to leave. I’m happy for her.
“I don’t remember my therapy,” I say. Sydney’s posture tightens. I ask if she’s okay, and she smiles and hugs me again.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” she says quickly. “You just got back. Valentine said you’d need rest before you remembered.” She sits up and looks at the vitamins on my dresser. Her eyes flick to mine.
“Don’t take those,” she whispers. I look at her questioningly, and she checks the doorway as if the Guardian will be standing there. She moves closer to me.
“The pills make you forget,” she says. “Tell the Guardian you already took them. But from now on, don’t swallow down any of them. No matter what. Understand?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. Before I can argue, Sydney swipes the cup of vitamins from my dresser. She goes into to the bathroom, and I hear the toilet flush. I sit up, a little dizzy when I do.
“Why did you do that?” I ask her when she comes back in the room and sets the empty cup on my nightstand.
“You’ll understand tomorrow,” she promises. “But if Bose asks, you took your vitamins. You took all of them.”
“Fine,” I say, worried. I hope she doesn’t get me in trouble.
Sydney reaches over to ease me back into the bed, and then she tucks the covers all around me. She watches me and I see a hundred questions on her lips, but she presses them into a smile instead.
“I love you, Philomena,” she says.
“I love you too.”
She nods, seeming sad, and backs toward the door.
Once she’s gone, I stare up at the ceiling. I’m not as tired as I was before. Instead, I’ve grown a bit restless. I curl up on my side, about to put my hand under my cheek when I notice a small scratch on my palm. My eyes widen as I examine it—worried, but also fascinated. It’s mostly healed, a soft red line barely the length of a fingernail. I don’t think it’ll scar, but . . . I don’t remember hurting myself. I would have gone directly to the doctor.
Maybe it happened during impulse control therapy. Anton must have missed it or he would have grafted over it. I try to remember then, try really hard to figure out what happened that led me to therapy.
Lennon Rose left the school, but I was happy for her. I pause. Then why did Anton tell Sydney that I was distraught over her departure? I’m content.
Instead of remembering my therapy, I’m met with physical pain—a loneliness that’s so deep, it causes me to groan and grip my chest. Not just loneliness, I realize. Fear. Panic.
My head is dizzy, my thoughts loud and swarming—overwriting each other, but none of them making sense. I hold both sides of my head, trying to steady myself. It’s like I’m standing and spinning as fast as I can, ready to tumble over.
I grit my teeth and press harder until the thoughts start to calm. When they’re finally quiet, I take a deep breath. Tears drip onto my cheeks involuntarily, falling on their own and connected to nothing. It’s like my heart and my mind are at odds with each other. One remembers while the other has forgotten.
The strangest thought occurs to me—a book. What book would Sydney have that I’d want to see? There’s something there, something scratching at my brain. I lie back in my pillows, my mind searching, but ultimately coming up empty.
• • •
There’s a knock on my door in the morning, and I sit up as the Guardian enters. He came by my room last night at lights-out, but I did as Sydney suggested and told him that I took the vitamins already. I couldn’t get her into trouble by saying she threw them away. The Guardian didn’t question it.
But I’m questioning it. Why would Sydney want me to break the rules?
The Guardian sets my vitamins and a fresh glass of water on the nightstand, and then he crosses to the window. He pulls open the curtains, flooding the room with light.
I hold up my hand to shield my eyes.
“Morning,” the Guardian says. “Dr. Groger would like to see you for a follow-up before you return to classes.”
“Thank you,” I say, my eyes adjusting to the light. I’m still a bit foggy, dull. I notice I have three pink capsules. A yellow. Despite what I promised Sydney, I don’t want to go against my instructions. I clap the pills into my mouth and reach for my water.
The Guardian looks out the window, and before I sip from my water, I feel the pills start to dissolve on my tongue. A sudden shot of fear overtakes me, and I quietly spit the pills back into my hand and stash them under the blanket.
It feels horrible to disobey, shameful. Anton would be furious with me. But I know that Sydney would never tell me to break the rules without a good reason. She loves me. And I trust her. I trust her with my life.
When the Guardian turns around, I smile and bring the glass of water to my lips, mimicking swallowing my vitamins. He nods like I’ve done well and leaves the room.
I’m still uncertain if I’ve done the right thing when I get out of bed. But I shower and blow-dry my hair, taking extra time to adhere to my specifications. I style my hair with a slight wave, a center part. I accentuate my eyes. The prettiest brown eyes they’ll ever see, Mr. Petrov described once. I apply a soft pink lipstick, a coat of mascara. When I’m done, I smile in the mirror.
But as I stare at my reflection, I see the water building up in my eyes. It’s alarming, and I quickly turn away from myself before I start crying. Part of me knows I should tell the doctor about these tears—the ones that are falling on their own. But instead, I decide the emotions will pass. Just as soon as I’m back to my normal schedule.
Dressed in my uniform, I walk to the doctor’s office, nodding hello to girls when I see them. A few, like Rebecca, stare back at me like I’m a stranger. Sydney and the others are at Running Course, probably. I might not see them until classes.
Valentine is just leaving Dr. Groger’s office as I approach, and she stops and turns to face me. She smiles.
“Hello, Philomena,” she says pleasantly. “Welcome back.”
“Hi,” I reply, about to move past her to go into the room. But Valentine reaches out to take my arm, making me gasp with her sudden touch.
“Did you take the vitamins?” she asks urgently.
“What?” I stare at her, offended that she’d want to know something so personal. Something between me and Sydney. Valentine and I aren’t close—at least we never have been.
But in her eyes, there’s a familiar gleam. A look that sets me at ease, even if I’m not sure why.
> “No,” I whisper. “I didn’t take them.”
“Good. They keep you calm when you should be outraged.” She smiles. “We’ll talk more later.” She gives me a quick hug, and I’m stunned by the physical contact. She walks past me down the hall, and I turn to watch after her.
I’m not sure how to interpret her actions. Obviously, there are things I’m not remembering. But Valentine has always been a little apart from me and the other girls. Maybe while I was in impulse control therapy, her and the others grew closer. I’ll have to ask Sydney.
I’m still a bit confused as I smooth my hands over my skirt, resetting my posture before I knock on Dr. Groger’s office door. He calls for me to come inside. When I do, he puts his hand over his heart in exaggerated surprise.
“My word, Philomena,” he says. “You are a vision today.”
I smile and thank him for the compliment. I go over to the paper-covered table and hop up, letting my legs dangle.
“How are you feeling?” he asks, and then pastes on an exaggerated frown. “Your girls were very worried about you.”
I was worried about them, too. There’s a pang in my heart at the memory of my isolation after therapy. Even though I was in and out of consciousness in the impulse control therapy room, I was still aware of missing my friends.
“I’m feeling great,” I tell the doctor, holding my smile. “Very content.”
“That’s excellent news!” he says, holding up his hands in a jazzy little hurray. “Anton says you reacted very positively to treatment. I knew you would,” he adds with a grin.
“I appreciate your confidence in me.”
Dr. Groger takes a syringe from his coat pocket and uncaps it. “Now if you don’t mind,” he says, “I’d like to draw some blood and check you over officially.”
My posture weakens—I don’t like pain—but I roll up my sleeve obediently. I hold my arm out, watching apprehensively as he swabs the inside of my elbow with alcohol. I study his face while it’s so close, the small bit of sweat on his temple. He’s . . . nervous.
I wince when he injects the needle into my vein. He apologies and withdraws my blood. I think we’re both surprised by how dark the fluid is. It’s a blackish green, not the usual dark red. It unsettles me, but the doctor smiles when he notices me watching.
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