She stands and walks over to a shelf, then sorts through a stack of books. She plucks one out and hands it to me. My lips part when I see the title.

The Poison Flowers is creased into the brown leather cover.

I trace the words with my fingertip.

“Read the poems, Philomena,” Rosemarie says. “Show the other girls. It will guide you.” She smiles. “I know we can work together to make a better world. And once the men are in their place, you’ll be safe to live as you are. You won’t have to hide.”

Rosemarie acts as if only men treat us terribly. But I’ve seen women feed into this hierarchy. I’ve seen it at Ridgeview Prep. They support our continued harassment because it places them closer to men. I don’t know if women like that would accept us as willingly as Rosemarie believes.

“Take the poems,” Rosemarie says. “My gift to you and the other girls. And please, let them know I’d like to meet them, as well.”

“No more hijacking our brains,” I warn her.

She holds up her hands in apology. “I will stay out of where I’m not invited, but if you need me, I’ll be there.”

She takes a step toward me like she might give me a hug, and I trip over my feet trying to move back. She watches this, pursing her lips.

“Are you okay, Philomena?” she asks, studying me.

I suddenly don’t want her to know anything else about me. Her overfamiliarity makes me deeply uncomfortable, especially after she already tried to invade my thoughts.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly. “I have to get back to the girls.”

Her jaw tightens. “Never say you’re sorry,” she snaps at me. “They conditioned you to default to that to please men, to let them have a say over what behavior they find acceptable. I don’t ever want you to utter those stupid fucking words again.”

I nod, not arguing, but not agreeing either. Although compulsive apologizing can be seen as a weakness, I also think it’s important to admit when you’re wrong. Other times, like now, it can be used to fake authenticity to get out of a situation.

“I’ll drive you back,” Lennon Rose says, sounding disappointed in my response. “Thank you for seeing us, Rosemarie.”

“Of course,” she says. She turns to me. “Read the poems and see how you feel after.” The book is heavy in my hands; I’m not sure if I want it anymore.

Lennon Rose stays behind a moment, whispering to Rosemarie, but I walk out. As I get onto the porch, I no longer gaze at the beauty of the poisonous flowers. Because it occurs to me that we’re like them. Our beauty is a distraction from our deadly potential.

We’re poison. Beautiful and contented when left alone to grow together, but lethal when used by others for a malicious goal.

A lesson the men of Innovations Academy have already learned.

19

I take Lennon Rose up on her offer to get my scratches taken care of after she promises that Winston won’t be home. She and I don’t say much to each other on the ride, but I keep the book of poetry in my hands, afraid of leaving it behind accidentally.

Ultimately, I decided that visible scratches would bolster Garrett’s thirst for violence. Show that he can physically harm me without repercussions. Leave his mark. I don’t want him to intimidate me, but when he does, I don’t want him to know.

I sit very still as Lennon Rose slides the red light over the skin graft, my neck tilted painfully far to the side. When the doctor used to apply the grafts at the academy, they didn’t hurt. Lennon Rose isn’t quite as skilled, but I appreciate her help.

“Thank you,” I say quietly as she wipes the area with a silicone gel.

“I doubt it will be scar free,” she replies, and then meets my gaze. “But I’ve learned to like the scars. The only reason we weren’t allowed to have any at the academy was because it lowered their profit margin.” Her eyes flash. “Guaranteed perfect.”

Leandra used to promise investors that any girl they bought would be guaranteed perfect. We were to be scar free, our bodies toned, our clothing and appearance matched to their preferences. Lennon Rose is right. The scars are ours to keep.

“Have you given any thought to what Rosemarie said?” Lennon Rose asks, setting the medical supplies back in the metal box she retrieved from Winston’s office.

“Does Winston know that you meet with Rosemarie?” I ask. Lennon Rose doesn’t noticeably react to the question, which tells me that she’s hiding something.

“It’s not really his business,” she replies. “Winston and I have an arrangement. I’m allowed to make my own decisions, and, in return, I give him information. It’s just easier when I give it to him with a dose of sugar. I owe Winston Weeks everything!  ” she says in a sweet voice before dropping the act. “He eats it up.”

“Making your own decisions shouldn’t be a bargaining chip,” I point out. “You should have that anyway.”

“Sure, but would I live in a mansion?” she asks. “Would I have access to the greatest technologies in the world? It’s a trade, Mena. One I entered into willingly. That is the difference.”

“What does Winston want from you?” I ask. “You can tell me.”

“There’s what Winston wants, and there’s what has to happen.”

“I don’t understand,” I say.

“Winston wants a showpiece,” she explains. “But more than that, he wants a companion who can further his agenda. A person whose goals align with his. That’s me. He just doesn’t realize that in the end, I’m with the girls. Not humans.”

“And Rosemarie?” I ask. “Is she really with the girls?”

Lennon Rose thinks it over for a second before reaching out to tap the book where it’s balanced on my knees. “Read these poems,” she says. “I think you’ll start to see Rosemarie’s side to this. But in the end, we align with those who can further our agenda, even if the end goals are different.” Lennon Rose’s eyes stray to my neck. “They’ve hurt you, Mena,” she says gently. “The men. The boys. It seems to be all they know how to do, and for that, Rosemarie is right. We have to stop them.”

“Are you talking about the corporation or men in general?” I ask.

“Wouldn’t the second accomplish the first?” she asks. “You have to admit, there are some points to be made for sweeping all dangerous men out of society.”

I lower my eyes. Although I think dangerous people should be prevented from harming people, who’s to say it’s only men? Who’s to say we have the right to decide? Then again … we’re the constant targets of that violence. The thirst for cruelty is so great in society that humans had to create a new species to abuse so they wouldn’t wipe out their own. I guess … I guess I see both points. It’s not like humans worry if they’ve hurt the feelings of their … toaster.

“They would be better under our rule,” Lennon Rose says, clicking the box shut and standing up. “All humans would.”

I watch her a moment, wondering if Rosemarie knows that Lennon Rose considers all humans to be the problem and not just men. Would the author be so gracious if she knew Lennon Rose resented her kind?