I don’t want to believe her. I want to believe our experiences at Innovations Academy were the worst of the worst. Outliers of men with extraordinary cruelty. But … I’ve seen some terrifying things in the outside world. In fact, my neck aches where a boy tried to take ownership of my body.

How long can we suffer before we turn against men permanently? Women have put up with it since the beginning of time—programmed like us, but by society. What poem will make them wake up? What poem can stop the inequity, the violence, and the cruelty in this society?

“Why did you mention the poems?” I say, looking at Lennon Rose. This time, a genuine smile tugs at her lips.

“Did you know there was a second book?” she asks. My heart leaps.

“There is?” I ask. “Have you read it?”

“I have.”

“Can … Can I see it?” I ask. The last book unlocked us from the hell that was Innovations. Maybe a second book can free us from the hell that is high school.

“That’s where we’re going,” Lennon Rose says. “To get it.”

I sit back in the seat and stare out the windshield. I’m both exhilarated and terrified. But it’s that feeling of being on the verge of knowing something. A promise so close to coming true, even if I have no idea if it will. It’s exciting.

“And this new book of poems,” I start, unable to keep the thrill out of my voice. “What’s it called?”

“The Poison Flowers,” she says. “It starts with the last poem from The Sharpest Thorns.”

I don’t recall that poem, yet I’ve used that phrase before. At Imogene’s, I thought that I wanted to be a girl with a razor heart. And the vision I had with that woman … She pulled a heart of razor blades out of my chest.

What a strange set of coincidences. I try to sift through my mental catalog. Is it possible I missed this poem? “Where did you find the new book?” I ask. “Did Winston give it to you?”

Lennon Rose laughs. “No. He has no idea it exists. Besides, it’s not for men. This is our book.”

I’m confused. Just yesterday, Lennon Rose seemed all-in about her life with Winston. Is she playing him, too? Is Lennon Rose playing all of us?

“I don’t understand which side you’re on, Lennon Rose,” I say softly, watching her.

Her brow furrows, and I think I see genuine hurt cross her features. She glances at me and reaches to take my hand.

“I’m on the side of the girls,” Lennon Rose says. “I’m on our side, Mena. I always will be.”

And despite every thought I had on the way out here, I believe her.

I believe Lennon Rose is fully awake and fully aware. I sense what she wants, and that it’s to save us all. But I also know there’s more to her than I realize.

“And here we are,” she says, nodding out the windshield.

I turn and see a small cottage covered in ivy, flowers everywhere. It’s surrounded by a thick canopy of trees, a well spigot, and a beat-up car parked on the side. Despite its dilapidated condition, I’m immediately charmed by the house.

“Who—?”

“You’ll see,” she says brightly, and gets out. I’m still reluctant, but I have to trust her.

As we approach the house, I examine some of the flowers. They are unnaturally beautiful. They are decadent and brightly colored, soft with oversized petals, delicate green stems. An enchanting fragrance drifts up. I lean down to smell one of the flowers, but Lennon Rose steps in front of me, blocking my path.

“Uh, uh,” she says, wagging her finger. “The prettiest ones are the most dangerous. Keep your distance.”

I look at the flowers again, and as Lennon Rose heads toward the front door, I snap a quick picture with my phone. Annalise will know the blend. She memorized all the books on gardening. I go stand next to Lennon Rose as she knocks on the blue-painted door.

I’m intoxicated by the smell of the flowers, and my sense of fear eases slightly.

That shouldn’t be, I think rationally. I’m at a strange house with a strange girl, and yet, I’m not as afraid as I should be. I’m turning over that thought when the door eases open gently, as if a breeze blew it in.

It takes a minute for my mind to focus, and when it does, a gasp sticks in my throat. Because standing in front of me is the woman from my visions.

“It’s you … ,” I breathe out, horrified. She doesn’t seem surprised by my reaction. She smiles.

“Hello, Philomena,” she says. “It’s nice to finally meet you in person.”

I turn to Lennon Rose, expecting her to be stunned that the woman knows my name. Instead, she encourages me to respond.

“Mena,” she says. “This is Rosemarie. She’s the author of the poems.”

18

I sit in a living room, hands folded in my lap, and glance around. There is no art to speak of on the walls, only flowers in vases—dozens of them—placed in well-lit spots throughout the room, splashing vibrant colors and calming scents all around me. The furniture is mismatched in different jeweled tones, and a clock on the wall ticks audibly. A full glass of water waits on a coaster on the table next to me, but I don’t dare drink from it. I sit silently, listening as Rosemarie and Lennon Rose exchange pleasantries.

Rosemarie turns, scanning me with her dark brown eyes. She looks similar to how she did in my vision, but not quite the same. She’s older in person, the silver in her hair more pronounced. The wrinkles near her eyes deeper, her hands swollen at the knuckles.

“Who are you?” I ask finally. “How did you … ?” I’m not sure how to finish the question.

“We’ve known each other for a long time, Philomena,” she says. She sits across from me in an oversized yellow chair. “You wouldn’t remember, of course.”

“I don’t know you,” I say. “Or, at least, I didn’t before I came to this town.”

“Rosemarie helped develop our software,” Lennon Rose says, sipping from her water.

This alarms me.

“So you worked for Innovations?” I ask. I wonder if she replaced Jackson’s mother.

“God, no,” she says. “I was an artist. I helped develop personality profiles, beautifully thorough and complete, for AI systems. An exquisite replica of human emotions and growth. It was never meant for a body. You were a simulation. A game, some might say. But …” She sighs. “Once the government changed, they stole my work. Let others develop it in unsavory ways.”

I think about Jackson’s mother. She was part of Innovations. She helped develop us until she realized what was happening. I wonder if she ever knew where the tech that she was working on came from.

“Why didn’t Dr. Groger mention you?” I ask. “He told us everything and you never came up.”

“I predate the academy,” she says. “It’s doubtful anyone there would know I exist, although I’m sure my poems have made quite a splash.”

“Your poems,” I say. “They affected us.”

“Woke us up,” Lennon Rose corrects. “And they’ll continue to help us.” Rosemarie smiles lovingly at Lennon Rose.