And as I do, my heart rate begins to quicken. Butterflies in my stomach change into dragons, fire sparking and then burning bright.
The little girls mistreated. The little girls fighting back. The little girls taking control.
When I’m done, I’m breathing fast, electricity on my skin. The other girls smile at me.
“Where did you get this?” I ask, holding up the book.
“From your room,” Sydney says.
The answer shocks me, and I start to read through it again. But then there is the sound of a door closing in the hallway. All of us quickly jump up, and I slide the book under my shirt.
“Take it back to your room,” Sydney says. “Read it. I’ll find you in the morning.”
I do just that, saying good night as the Guardian makes his rounds to drop off our vitamins. When I get into my room, I put the book under my mattress, the action highly familiar.
I’m just settled when the Guardian comes in and sets my vitamin cup on the nightstand. I smile gratefully, but he doesn’t bother to return it. Guardian Bose must be distracted, because he leaves without making sure I take my vitamins. Or maybe he just expects me to obey.
He reminds me of the controlling men in the poem. It’s so confusing, the contrast between what I read and what I’ve been told. I turn and stare at the bars on the window. Meant to keep people out. Meant to keep us in.
I take the vitamins to the bathroom and flush them down the toilet. Once they’re gone, I return to my bed and wait for sleep.
When I finally drift off, I’m plagued with nightmares. Violent, horrific, suffocating nightmares.
I dream that I’m dragged out of my room and forcibly lobotomized. I dream that Guardian Bose comes in while I’m asleep and stares at my body. I dream that Anton whispers that he loves me more than any other girl.
And I dream of ice picks and wires.
I have so many nightmares that when I wake up gasping in the morning light, I know they’re not really dreams at all.
They’re memories.
I remember. I got an ice pick jammed behind my eye, Anton telling me that my parents want results—they want a perfect girl. I remember him whispering to me, controlling my thoughts.
I remember the week before, when Lennon Rose disappeared without her shoes. I remember Mr. Wolfe and Rebecca. I remember meeting Jackson and how he was worried about me. How he said the investors at this school are powerful.
And I remember that they touch us even when they know we don’t want them to.
It has to stop, but I’m not sure how to get us out of here. If we show distress, Anton will bring us in for impulse control therapy—I see that now. Even if Annalise kills off the plants needed for the formula of the paralytic, it won’t be enough to matter. They’ll perform the lobotomies without the juice.
Anton has the ability to control our minds. But only if he gets close enough to try. We’ll have to behave, just like Valentine suggested. We can’t let them see that we know.
We will get out of here.
And yet, even as I think that, I know they’ll never let us go.
22
It’s barely light when I slip into Sydney’s room, waking her. I tell her we all have to talk. The Guardian isn’t up and about yet, and we end up getting the other girls and going to Valentine’s door, knocking softly.
When we walk in, she’s just stirring awake. But when she sees us, she sits up quickly and asks if everything is all right.
“I remember,” I say, looking at each of them. Sydney clutches her chest with relief, happy to have me back. Valentine’s eyes flash with something else—hunger for the knowledge.
As we sit there, I tell Sydney, Annalise, Marcella, Brynn, and Valentine everything I remember about impulse control therapy. It’s even more terrifying as I say the words out loud. How I couldn’t move. How Anton hurt me, shoving an ice pick behind my eye. How he had wires and a syringe, infectious thoughts.
“He lies,” I say. “They’re controlling us with lies and a mix of something else, something in that syringe.”
“They’re experimenting on us,” Marcella says, swallowing hard. “I have to get inside that lab. See what the doctor has been doing in there.”
Brynn nods, even though she looks afraid.
The horror of what the school has done lies in the fact that they forced it on us. Part of it is physical abuse, absolutely—but there’s emotional manipulation, as well. They’ve tried to convince us that if we don’t do exactly as they tell us, we’ll disappoint our families. That we’re useless without the love and admiration of the academy and the men who run it. They manipulate us with lollipops and guilt.
I can see it all now. Even the food is used to punish us. Keep us from desire. It’s why Anton asked about my attraction to Jackson. He didn’t think I should be allowed such agency.
Jackson.
“You mentioned Jackson yesterday,” I say to Sydney. “And then you and the girls looked at each other weirdly.”
Sydney’s lips form an O and she darts her gaze to Annalise.
“Yeah, like that,” I say pointing to them. “What’s going on?”
They all pause for another second, but then Sydney leans in. “You need to have a chat with your gas-station boyfriend,” she says. “It’ll be the perfect opportunity during the field trip.”
“Okay,” I say. “About what?”
“About why he’s been lying to you.”
“Lying?” I laugh. “What would he be lying about?”
“We found him in the files,” Sydney whispers.
I stare at her, the world feeling like it just dropped out from under me. “What does that mean?” I ask. “Why would he be in the files?”
“His family is involved with the academy,” she says. “His mother . . . His mother used to work here, just before it became a school. They had a file with pictures of her and her family, and . . .” She shrugs. “I recognized Jackson. He was in the picture with his name and everything. It seems the school knew a lot about his family, like they researched them or something. Anyway, his father is still listed as an investor, although it doesn’t seem like an active account.”
“His mother died,” Annalise adds.
“I know,” I say, my mind racing to catch up with this information. “He mentioned that part. But . . .” I look at the others. “Why didn’t he tell me she used to work here?”
“I’m not sure,” Sydney says. “But this file they had on his family—it was thorough. It was . . . kind of threatening. And then it stopped after his mother died. Suicide, it said. After that, it was like they just forgot all about her.”
“What did she do for the company?” I ask.
Sydney pauses before answering. “She was an analyst.”
I physically recoil, hurt. Betrayed. How could he keep this from me?
“Not like Anton,” Sydney adds. “She wasn’t an analyst for girls. It was for technology—computers or something. It wasn’t specific.”
“The boy might be looking for information,” Valentine says. “I say we give it to him. If the word gets out about what the school’s doing to us, maybe it’ll get shut down. Otherwise,” she says, “if we run, they’ll just bring us back. Trust me.”
“So we tell him what we found?” I ask, looking around at the others. “Even though he’s lied?”
“Find out why he lied,” Sydney says. “But then . . . yes. We tell him.” The other girls agree.
“At the field trip,” Annalise says. “You can tell him there.”
“What if he doesn’t show?”
She starts to smile, but holds it back when she realizes it isn’t appropriate considering the circumstances. “He’ll show,” she says.
The girls and I go over everything else we can think of, deciding we’ll be excellent girls this week, obeying all the rules. But never taking our vitamins. We’ll manipulate these men with their own expectations.
But when I go back to my room ten minutes later, I
pause a long moment before lifting my hand to look at the scar on my palm. My vision blurs with tears, the idea that Jackson was manipulating me breaking through my newfound courage.
How could he? What else has he lied about?
Seeing him at that gas station. Seeing him outside my school. I’m embarrassed that I was such an easy target, so willing to tell him everything he wanted to know.
I don’t forgive Jackson for his betrayal, just like I didn’t forgive Anton. And I intend to tell Jackson so on Sunday.
• • •
Sunday morning doesn’t come fast enough. The days in the week last a lot a longer when you have to be well-behaved, especially when you notice every wrong. But we make it without incident. The Guardian even comments on what good girls we are.
I shower and get dressed in my required uniform for the trip. Only this time, I decide to wear my hair in a ponytail, going against my specifications. It’s oddly freeing—a small infraction, but enough to break from my routine. I smile in the mirror just as I hear the girls calling excitedly for me, saying it’s time to go.
As we board the bus and leave the academy, the day seems brighter—the sun is even shining. This isn’t a normal field trip, we know too much to fully enjoy it, but we can’t help but relax a little. Annalise says we deserve it.
I absorb the sights as they pass by the bus window. Every tree, every building. I’ve never been to a movie theater before, and I’m curious what it will be like.
“I can’t wait to get my hands on some popcorn,” Sydney says. “And I mean my entire hand.” She mimics picking up a fistful of popcorn and shoving it into her mouth, making several girls laugh.
I smile, but then I catch sight of Guardian Bose turned around in his seat. Rebecca is next to him, her face downturned. They allowed her to come with us, but Sydney says she hasn’t been the same since her impulse control therapy. We’ve considered telling her to stop taking the vitamins, but we’re afraid she’ll let the doctor know.
I wish Guardian Bose didn’t have to come to the movies with us; he’s obviously miserable about it. But we knew there’d be rules for this field trip—of course there would be. It’s going to be tough to avoid him.
The bus turns onto Main Street, and we’re all pressed to the windows. The town is small, less than fifteen hundred people, but there are dozens of residents walking around downtown right now. People watch us drive by, men tipping up their hats to get a better look. Women shaking their heads in disapproval.
I think about the hosts at the places we visit, always scurrying out of sight the minute we arrive. Jackson said the town knew about the school, but not about the girls. They wonder about us. But not enough to question the men in power.
I used to fantasize about coming into town. But now that I’m here . . . I feel suddenly vulnerable. It makes Winston Weeks’s request seem more appropriate than ever. We need to be socialized to society, and society needs to be socialized to us. By hiding us away, the academy made us outsiders. Maybe they wanted it that way.
Who would believe girls they’ve never seen before? Who would believe outsiders?
The bus hisses to a stop at the corner gas station, and the doors fold open. Guardian Bose moves to the block the aisle.
“We’re heading down Main Street toward the movie theater,” he says. “Straight there, understand? No funny business.”
Brynn snorts a laugh at “funny business” and quickly covers her mouth. We try to nod solemnly and deeply like we’re taking him very seriously. He rolls his eyes, annoyed with all of us.
We file off the bus, gathering to wait for everyone. The open air smells like gas and trash from a nearby dumpster. Weirdly, despite our important mission, the sudden freedom is intoxicating. We find ourselves smiling, accepting the abnormality of our lives to have these few moments. Sydney smiles at me.
Guardian Bose leads the way, but several of us hang toward the back. I keep my eyes out for Jackson, scared the Guardian will notice him before I do.
We continue down Main Street, passing people who don’t say hello, even though we’re very polite to them. Mostly, they avoid our eyes.
As Annalise pauses at a shop window, distracted, a woman walks toward us with a child, clutching her hand to her side as they pass. The woman doesn’t look at me, but the little girl does. Her large blue eyes study me, her fingers in her mouth. I smile at her and offer a wave.
The little girl smiles back with several missing teeth, and I find her response delightful. She continues to look back over her shoulder at me. And then she pulls her fingers out of her mouth to hold them up in a wave. Her mother tugs her forward and tells her to keep walking.
“She was cute,” I say. Brynn comes over, looking after her too.
“I’ll take several of those,” she says, pointing at the kid, but talking like Annalise would while shopping. We both start laughing.
The Main Street theater is old fashioned, with a freestanding ticket booth. The boy selling tickets—not much older than we are—averts his eyes. His hands shake as he takes our money and slides the tickets in our direction, making sure never to touch us.
“Thank you,” Annalise sings out, leaning in to kiss the glass window. She leaves a red lipstick mark. When the boy looks up at it, he actually gulps.
“Let’s go,” Marcella says, grabbing Annalise’s arms. “Let’s not terrorize boys so early into the afternoon.”
Annalise laughs, and we head inside. The entry is dramatic, with oversized red drapes and statues of famous actresses set up throughout the lobby so people can take pictures with them. While the others check them out, Sydney and I head straight for the concession—mostly to keep an eye out for Jackson. Well, mostly so she can get popcorn and I can get candy, but also to watch for him.
It’s thrilling to have to wait in line with other people. It shouldn’t be, I’m sure. But Sydney and I exchange a few smiles as we overhear people talking about their lives. Their jobs. Their favorite soda.
It occurs to me then that the girls and I don’t talk about our futures, not in a significant way. The academy tells us to trust them, that they know what’s best. Clearly that’s not true. The only one who ever questioned our futures was Lennon Rose. And soon after . . . she was gone.
I look around at the people in this concession line, wondering if I’ll be like them once this is over. Able to make my own choices. Or will Mr. Petrov hand us over to another man—one we have to marry. Or will it be our parents, telling us to charm our fathers’ rivals?
The school is using us, using our futures. Our potential. To what end, I’m not sure. I think we’ve been trained to not imagine the possibilities.
The Guardian calls gruffly from behind the line for us to hurry up. We’re not in control of the line, but I glance back at him and smile obediently anyway. I can feel him checking every person who comes near us. But after a bit, he must give up because he goes to wait at the theater door.
We’re each allowed one item from the concession, at Dr. Groger’s suggestion. You need to learn how to moderate your choices, selecting items based on what you’ve learned here.
Well, I’m obviously buying candy. That seems like a good choice to me.
Once I have my candy and Sydney has her large popcorn, we meet the others at theater nine. I’m surprised by how big the room is—all the seats and the massive screen.
It’s a little crowded, so we can’t all sit together. The Guardian allows Sydney and me to grab two seats in a row near the back. Annalise and the others opt to move closer, asking the Guardian to sit with them. They’re going to try to keep him distracted while I talk to Jackson. If Jackson shows up.
The room suddenly darkens and I gasp before realizing it’s supposed to happen. The screen expands and the volume gets louder as a voice over a loud speaker tells us we’re about to watch trailers for upcoming movies.
We watch, mildly interested even though the previews are men with guns, men with fast cars, and men diving from one skyscr
aper to another. In the hallway there were posters for movies that seemed much more interesting.
I’m growing impatient when suddenly there’s a flash of movement at the end of the row. I glance over casually just as he sits next to me, and when I see it’s Jackson, I viciously rip off a piece of licorice with my teeth.
Jackson’s out of breath, his eyes wide as he stares at me. Worried, I guess. I haven’t seen him all week.
I sweep my gaze over him in the darkened theater. And then I narrow my eyes and ask, “When were you going to tell me about your mother?”
He runs his hand though his hair and whispers, “Fuck.”
“Jackson,” Sydney whispers, leaning forward to look at him. She quickly checks to make sure the Guardian hasn’t noticed him sitting with us. “For the record, I knew you’d show up.” I give her a pointed look, and she presses her lips together and goes back to watching the movie.
“We need to talk,” he whispers to me, sounding a bit desperate.
“Oh, you think?” I ask. He doesn’t seem to like my coldness, but I don’t care what he thinks about my behavior. For once, I’m acting the way I feel. Speaking my mind. And right now, my mind is angry.
Sydney checks on the Guardian again. “If Bose comes looking for you,” she says, “I’ll tell him you’re in the bathroom. Just hurry.”
I get up, motioning for Jackson to follow me, and duck as I hurry down the aisle past him. At the door, I check to see if the Guardian noticed me. When I’m sure he hasn’t, I slip into the hallway.
The light is much brighter out here, and it takes a second for my eyes to adjust. Jackson walks out of the theater and immediately comes over to me, stopping closer than I expect. I take a step back from him. It clearly hurts his feelings, and his eyes weaken.
“I’m sorry,” he says, holding up his hands. “But—”
“We can’t talk here,” I say. I start for the exit doors, checking around to make sure no one is paying attention. They’re not. I even walk behind the ticket booth so the boy there doesn’t notice.
When we get to the side of the building, I cross my arms over my chest and glare at Jackson. Even though I’m upset, there’s a small soft spot when his brown eyes meet mine. I quickly look away.
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