“Nothing to be concerned about,” he says. “Our systems sometimes get out of whack when we have such an intensive treatment.”
He says our like he undergoes the same procedures, although I don’t point out the fallacy in his words. That would be rude.
Dr. Groger has me hold a gauze pad over the spot after he removes the needle. He walks to his desk, making a note in his file before putting the vial into his desk drawer. He makes a show of locking it, and then slides the key into his pocket. He watches me for my reaction, but I stare at him blankly before I remember to smile.
He nods and comes back to wrap my arm in a bright pink bandage. He stands in front of me, very close, and takes out his penlight to shine it into my eyes, studying me.
“Your demeanor is quite lovely,” he says. “Friendly. Obedient.” He lowers the penlight with a sigh, his other hand falling to rest on my bare leg.
“Thank you, Doctor,” I say, although dread coils in my stomach. A sickening feeling.
“Now,” he says, removing his hand as he turns away. “Another day or so, and I dare say you’ll be better than ever. Anton offered you some excellent coping mechanisms. You’ll be one hundred percent.” He smiles. “You’ve made him very proud.”
I nod, thanking him.
“Limit your interactions with others until you’re completely settled,” he says. “And limit your physical activity. You can resume exercise next week. And I’m clearing you to attend the field trip on Sunday,” he adds. “Just so long as you behave. I believe you’re all going to the movies.”
I beam at him, thrilled. “Thank you, Doctor,” I say gratefully. “I’m so excited!”
He chuckles. “I thought you might be.”
He motions for me to hop down from the table. Then he comes over and holds out a sugar-free lollipop.
I take the sucker and unwrap it, sticking it between my teeth and cheek. But the sudden shot of sweetness turns my stomach. I can barely swallow down the chemical flavor. The doctor puts his hand on my low back and leads me toward the door.
“We’ll see you in a few weeks, my girl,” he says. “Have a wonderful day.”
I smile around the lollipop, thanking him again, and walk out into the hall. Once his office door shuts, the smile falls from my lips and I immediately take the lollipop out of my mouth.
I decide that I don’t like it anymore. In fact, I never want another lollipop again.
The idea comes in a flash, something angrier than warranted. I’m reminded of what Valentine said to me outside the office: You should be outraged.
Outraged about what?
But just as quickly as it came on, the anger fades, leaving me uncomfortable instead. I start back to my room to gather my books for class, dropping the lollipop in the trash along the way.
Impulse Control Therapy Analysis
Philomena Rhodes Y2, S2
Philomena was displaying signs of distress, related to the dismissal of another girl.
To alleviate this pain, the emotions were overwritten. She is now happy for the student and very contented.
Parental memories were also reset, offering a more loving backstory. It increases her attachment to the Rhodes family and positions her for a successful future after graduation. She should be very amenable to their requests.
The past week of memories were also adjusted to avoid confusion.
After a consult with Winston Weeks, it is my belief that Philomena is still on track for graduation, although she has entered probationary status for the remainder of the year. However, it was advised that she continue socialization. Her character thrives when in proximity to others.
From all accounts, impulse control therapy appears to be a success and no follow-up is necessary at this time.
Anton Stuart
Innovations Academy
21
Professor Allister makes a scene when I rejoin the class. We’ve moved on from phone manners to stylization. How to best present yourself to make a memorable impression.
“And look what we have here,” the professor announces as I walk in. He runs his gaze over me approvingly. “You see, girls,” he tells the class, “this is beauty. Pleasant and contained.”
He comes to stand next to me, and I can smell his perspiration through his suit. “Outrageous hair and wild makeup will turn people off. It’s an act of rebellion, displeasing to men. We want to see your natural beauty, not a trick of mirrors. Mr. Petrov has determined your best assets and wants you to accentuate them, not make a spectacle of yourself.” He turns to me, offering his hand. Reluctantly, I slide my palm into it.
“Thank you, Philomena. You are lovely.”
He sends me in the direction of my seat, and I’m happy when his hand falls away from mine. I sit down in my chair, and Marcella leans up behind me.
“You are lovely,” she whispers teasingly. I sniff a laugh and turn back to look at her.
“I missed you,” I say.
“Missed you, too,” she replies with a wink, and goes back to drawing flowers in the corner of her notebook.
I turn around, feeling a bit of peace now that I’m back among my friends.
When class ends, Marcella waits for me. We have a short break before our next session, so we opt to sit on a couch in an alcove. We’re barely there a minute before Sydney appears, out of breath.
“There you are,” she says to me, nodding hello to Marcella. She drops between us on the couch. “I booked it here from Professor Penchant’s class. He’s still really angry with you,” she says, widening her eyes.
“Why?” I ask, feeling horrible. I’m normally well-behaved. I wonder what I’ve done to vex the professor.
Marcella and Sydney exchange a look.
“Hi, girls.” Brynn pops her head in, relieved to have found us. She comes over to give me a quick hug. “Glad to have you back, Mena,” she whispers.
“Sit down, sit down,” Marcella tells her, grabbing her hand to pull her down on the couch with us.
“Jackson was outside yesterday,” Sydney says quietly. Marcella exhales heavily, looking away. Brynn purses her lips. “He came to the fence.”
“I noticed him too,” Marcella says. “Did you end up talking to him?”
“I couldn’t,” Sydney replies. She looks at me. “The Guardian was with us—some new monitoring, I guess. But when I saw Jackson, I shook my head no. Pretty adamantly. I was scared he’d come onto the property anyway—it wouldn’t be the first stupid thing he’s done. Anyway, on the last lap, the Guardian fell behind and—”
“Hah!” Brynn says, grinning at Marcella. “Told you he couldn’t keep us with us.”
Marcella laughs and then tells Sydney to continue.
“On the last lap,” Sydney starts again, “I went wider, as close to the fence I could get without being obvious. I told him, ‘Downtown on Sunday.’ ”
I have no idea what’s going on in this conversation, but I listen wide-eyed. Fascinated. “Then what?” I ask.
Sydney looks at me. “Then he said, ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ ”
I gasp at the curse.
“And I said,” Sydney continues, “ ‘Field trip at the movies, downtown at one p.m. Bye.’ ” She falls back into the couch. “I’m lucky the Guardian didn’t catch me.”
“You are,” Marcella agrees.
Brynn bites on her lip. “Wait,” she says with a flash of alarm. “Are you allowed to come on the field trip?”
“The doctor gave me permission this morning,” I say.
“That’s perfect,” Sydney says, exchanging a look with the other girls.
“What’s wrong?” I ask them. “Who is he?”
“Honey . . . ,” Sydney says, her expression weakening. The girls all grow uncomfortable, worried.
“Maybe you just need a little more time to adjust,” Brynn says, looking at the other girls for confirmation. But her voice is panicked. “Valentine swore this would work.”
“What would work?�
� I ask.
“That you’d remember,” she says.
“She will,” Marcella says. “Of course she will.” But she lowers her eyes, and I know they’re not telling me everything.
I want to ask for more information, but suddenly, a shadow falls over the alcove. We all look up to find Guardian Bose standing there, filling up the space.
“Girls,” he says, looking around at us. “I believe you were told not to disturb Mena. Does Anton need to discuss it with you again?”
“No,” Sydney says, shaking her head.
“I know you don’t understand medical procedures,” the Guardian continues, “but Mena is very fragile right now. Leave her alone for a bit longer. Give her space.”
They nod, but I don’t like that the Guardian is talking about me as if I’m not here. I don’t want space. I want to be with the other girls.
But the Guardian motions for them to get up, waving them out of the alcove, leaving me sitting on the couch by myself. When they’re gone, he turns to me, looking me over.
“Your behavior was out of control,” he says, surprising me. “That’s why you needed impulse control therapy. Anton gave you another chance. Don’t waste it. Or trust me, you’ll never see your girls again.”
My face stings with the admonishment, my heart beating fast at the threat of losing my friends. I wait quietly until he leaves. But when the Guardian is gone, I lift my head and stare at the space he vacated. Feeling the start of outrage.
• • •
I’m quiet at lunch, on my own special diet meant to help me recover from impulse control therapy. The juice is bitter and metallic as I sip it. I set it back on the dining table.
My mood has improved—the momentary anger after talking with Guardian Bose was hard to resolve with my desire to be well-behaved. But in the end, I realized that my education is my top priority.
And so the anger faded back to contentment.
The girls talk quietly around me, discussing their plans for the field trip on Sunday. Occasionally, they look over at me and smile. I nod along even though I’m not really part of the conversation.
Guardian Bose told all the girls to keep their distance, and most have. In fact, there’s an empty space around us, leaving me, Sydney, Marcella, Brynn, and Annalise on our own—our own island at the long dining table. Sydney holds my hand on the bench.
Annalise has been quiet, staring at me from across the table, pursing her bright red lips, deep in thought. After a few moments, she leans toward me.
“How’d it go with Dr. Groger?” she asks.
“Another day or so, and I’ll be better than ever,” I repeat.
“Oh, you mean recovered from the poison they made you ingest?”
Brynn gasps and quickly checks to make sure none of the professors overhead. The Guardian is sitting with them, all of them eating and chatting away. Marcella knocks Annalise’s arm with her elbow.
“Not here,” she whispers. Annalise laughs, disgusted.
“Then when?” she asks. “Bose is keeping her from us.”
They both look at me, and I feel oddly on display. I glance down the table and see Rebecca sitting alone, Ida on the other side of the table with Maryanne. I stare at Rebecca, thinking she looks so lonely. Just as I’m about to turn away, I notice Valentine. She smiles at me encouragingly. She’s so weird.
“What matters right now is that we don’t all get thrown into impulse control therapy,” Sydney says under her breath.
“Fine,” Annalise says, pushing away her salad. “I thought you girls might appreciate an idea I had earlier. Guess I was wrong.”
We all sit quietly, the other girls poking at their food. But I’m curious about Annalise’s idea.
“I want to hear the thought,” I whisper. Marcella looks up, concerned, but Brynn nods that she wants to hear it too.
Annalise makes sure the staff isn’t listening and keeps her voice low. “The juice,” she says. “Specifically the kind Anton uses during impulse control therapy—do you know what it does to you?”
“I don’t remember impulse control therapy,” I tell her, the thought making me feel vulnerable. “In fact, I don’t remember the past week very well.”
Sydney squeezes my hand as if to let me know it’s okay.
“We read the files,” Sydney whispers to me.
I turn to her. “Which files?”
Sydney glances around the table and then leans in. “Files about the school,” she says. “While Anton had you in impulse control therapy, Annalise and I were supposed to be in the greenhouse. Instead, we paid a visit to Anton’s office. There are files on each of us. Files on the investors. Files on our parents and sponsors.”
My heart is starting to race, and I quickly glance over to double-check that the professors aren’t paying attention to us.
“I read your file,” Sydney says. “There were communications between Anton and the professors, a report from the doctor detailing your injuries from the field trip. No mention of the Guardian. It’s described as an ‘accident.’ And . . .” She swallows hard. “And there were reports from your impulse control therapies.”
“Therapies?” I ask.
“There were four of them,” she says. “Not including the one you were in when we read the file.”
I’m shocked, sitting there listening. “When?” I ask. “Why?”
“That’s the thing,” Sydney says. “Not just you, Mena.” She looks at the other girls. “We’ve all been through it. Multiple times.”
“Which brings me back to my thought,” Annalise says. “They are using some high-tech gadgets here. There were files about networks, computer chips, and ‘silver tech,’ they called it. They’re making us ingest the stuff. And they put a paralytic in the juice for impulse control therapy—I saw it in the formula.”
The other girls look at her, surprised.
“I read plant,” she explains. “It’s deadly nightshade mixed with sodium pentothal and a splash of bloodroot. It’s why we’re sick afterward. Anyways,” she continues, “it’s how they perform the therapies—you can’t move. Then they inject you with something—that silver tech stuff. I’m not sure what it does. But I’ve already started to kill off the plant hybrids they made for the juice. At least that way they can’t make us defenseless.”
Sydney tells her that was a good idea, but I sit there staring at them. This is all too much. Too outrageous. Why would the school do this to us? To what end?
“Lennon Rose’s file was empty,” Annalise whispers. “Only thing in there was a notice of permanent dismissal citing money as the reason. But . . .” She shifts her eyes around checking for eavesdroppers. “There was no follow-up address. It’s like . . . It’s like she just disappeared.”
We’re quiet for a moment, sadness drifting into my chest. I was happy for Lennon Rose, I think.
“And the doctor has a lab in the basement,” Marcella says. “Annalise saw it mentioned in the file, so I went down there to check it out. It was locked. From what I can tell, he works there at night. Late night. Whatever’s happening at this school—the technology—I think it’s coming from there. I think they’re experimenting on us.”
My head is literally starting to hurt from all the information. It’s like I’ve dropped into a different world: same people, different reality.
“Tell her about the poems,” Brynn suggests.
“Poems?” I ask. The girls fall quiet.
There’s a loud clanking noise, startling us, and we all look up to see Professor Penchant knocking his bowl against the table while glaring at us. Glaring at me, specifically.
“That’s enough, girls,” he calls. “Leave Philomena on her own.”
The way he spits out my name is hate-filled, and I immediately lower my eyes, feeling horrible.
“My room before lights-out,” Annalise murmurs, spearing a piece of salad with her fork.
We agree, but I try not to think anymore. My head is killing me.
• • •<
br />
During quiet reflection before bed, I slip into Annalise’s room, hoping Guardian Bose won’t notice. The girls are in there already, waiting, and they jump when I open the door. Sydney has a book under her hand.
They’re all staring at me, and I feel different from them. It makes me sad because we’ve always been one. Like roses, growing separate from the other flowers, but all together. I don’t want to be apart from them.
“Come here,” Sydney says sympathetically. “I know this is hard. You’ll be better soon, I know it.”
“Soon I’ll be one hundred percent,” I say as I sit next to her. She puts her arm around me.
“Not that kind of better,” she says, only this time it sounds like a warning. She slides the book in my direction.
I pick it up, examining the leather cover, the title: The Sharpest Thorns. It sounds familiar even though I’m sure I’ve never seen it before. I open the cover and see it’s a collection of poetry.
The other girls sit forward, anxious for me to read it. I feel like I’m on display again, but ultimately, I’m curious. I read the first poem, surprised by it.
“ ‘Wake Up’
“It was a beautiful dream
All of it
The idea that one day
Decisions would be mine
to make.
“That after youth
I would be free.
“But I see that was never true
Never real.
“Because they never
let go of their control.
“Be good.
Be beautiful.
“Be quiet.
Be obedient.
Be careful. . . .
“They never intended for me to be free.
Just trade one set of rules for another.
“And I see their dream for me
is my nightmare.
“Now I’m awake.
And they will never put me to sleep again.”
I’m startled, confused. When I look at Sydney, she turns to a poem called “Girls with Sharp Sticks.” She nods for me to read it.
Girls with Sharp Sticks Page 21