“I can’t believe Winston Weeks has a mother,” Marcella murmurs.

Brynn motions to the book on my lap. “Mena,” she says. “Is that the second book?”

“It is, but I haven’t opened it yet,” I reply, my nerves ratcheting up. I’m scared to read it.

“Do you think there’s coding in her words?” Brynn asks. “I mean, she designed us, so do you think she did something to affect us specifically?”

“I don’t think it’s code,” Annalise interjects. “If it was, it would have changed all the girls who read it in the same way.”

“My guess is it instigated change,” Marcella adds. “A catalyst for a mind that was already heading in that direction. I don’t think it has the power on its own. It needs a willing host.”

“Host?” Sydney repeats. “You make it sound like a parasite.”

“Could be, I guess,” Marcella says with a shrug. “An idea that grows, taking over the thoughts of the person housing it. Especially ideas of violence or prejudice—those grow like parasites.”

“But?” I ask, hoping for some good news.

“Like I said, it’s a catalyst,” she says. “If you weren’t already prejudiced, racist words wouldn’t attract you. If you didn’t already hate women, misogynist words wouldn’t interest you. The same can be said about violence.”

“The last poems were violent,” Brynn adds.

We all fall quiet, and I look down at the book.

“Should we read it, then?” I ask. “Do we take the chance?”

“Definitely,” Marcella says. “We have each other.”

When I pause again, Marcella holds out her hand.

“Let me do it,” she says. I give the book over to her, and we all scoot closer, breaths held as we get ready to listen. Marcella opens the front cover and starts reading.

It’ll Be Okay

It will be okay, he said. It will be fine.

Those were the words he whispered to my tears.

But it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t fine.

They came for us, came for the women,

The girls.

They came for our bodies, our rights, our souls.

They pushed us down and told us they knew better.

Said they were the ones to decide.

It will be okay, he said. It will be fine.

We fought with our words, our votes.

But those who thought it would be fine didn’t show.

Didn’t stand beside us when it counted.

And then we were nothing more than flesh in the eyes of the law.

Consumable.

Disposable.

But it’s okay, he said. It’s fine.

It was not fine. It was not okay.

So I turned away from love. From him.

I chose myself.

I chose to fight back.

I chose to bash in their windows with my fists.

I burned them to the ground.

And now I am just fine.

When Marcella finishes reading the first poem, I see the other girls thinking it over. My heart is beating quickly, and I see a bit of what it must have been like during the Essential Women’s Act. The helplessness they must have felt, much like how we felt at the academy once we woke up.

I think of my teacher Mr. Marsh and how he seemed so horrified by those laws, and yet he couldn’t name a single book written on the subject. How he doesn’t correct the boys’ behavior when they act cruelly. He probably thinks it will all be fine.

I turn to Annalise and find her staring out the window again, impossibly still. So impossible that I snap my fingers to make sure she’ll react. She does, and her gaze drifts over to me.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“Sure,” she says, forcing a smile. “Got a match?”

Marcella snorts a laugh, but when we all look at each other again, I think there’s more to her comment than a joke. That poem confirms what we already know—we can only trust each other. We can’t expect anyone to fight for us, no matter how much they say they want to.

“So the author doesn’t think we should love?” Brynn asks about the poem, checking with the others for confirmation. “The poem wants us to choose ourselves. And I get it. But …” She furrows her brow. “I love you girls. Am I not supposed to do that?”

“I think it’s just men,” Annalise says. “She thinks they’re too dangerous to love. And maybe she’s not wrong.”

My heart is racing. These poems have the ability to make us see things clearly, but what if they’re only wiping a small section of glass instead of the entire picture window? What if it’s only showing us what it knows will change us? Rosemarie said that Imogene didn’t interpret the poems properly. We don’t want to fall into that same trap.

The girls and I have survived something awful. Do these poems use our trauma to manipulate us?

Use us?

I’m not here to forward Rosemarie’s agenda when I don’t fully understand it. I’ve already learned that shutting everyone out is lonely. It can also be dangerous.

I glance at the clock and see that it’s getting later. There’s still more to tell the girls, but Annalise is staring out the window again; Brynn and Marcella are whispering to each other. Sydney meets my gaze and lifts the corner of her mouth in a sad smile.

“Another day being a girl?” she asks, motioning to my neck. And the fear floods back in, the terror of Garrett attacking me at the game.

The girls all look at me, and I don’t even have to tell them. They already know. Marcella’s expression clouds with anger, Annalise’s knuckles crack as she makes a fist at her side. She walks over to sit on the arm of my chair and points to Marcella.

“Go on,” she tells her. “Read us the next poem.”

 

* * *

 

It’s well after dinner and we’re a bit more relaxed. After raging—literal screaming into pillows—we’re ready to keep going. I’ll find Lennon Rose at the game and see what information Corris Hawkes can give me.

We decide it’s time to accelerate our plan. It’s too dangerous to stick around much longer. It’s too dangerous to let the corporation exist much longer.

Annalise called Raven, and the hacker told her she didn’t notice any kind of kill switch in her programming. She said it would be obvious, but she promises to come by tomorrow to read over the paperwork, just to make sure.

Sydney sits with me on the couch, playing a game on her phone while snacking on popcorn. Annalise is in the chair, skimming the book of poetry, and Marcella and Brynn have already gone to bed.

When the doorbell rings, Sydney looks sideways at me.

“I’m guessing it’s for you,” she says.

“Technically it’s for all of us,” I correct, but she snorts a laugh.

I head to the door and open it, my stomach fluttering slightly when I find Jackson standing there, leaning on his crutches and looking just as awful as he did at the game. But when his eyes meet mine, he pulls his lips to the side in an embarrassed smile.

“You’re home,” he says. “I thought maybe I’d show up and find the place cleaned out. I’m glad you didn’t run away.”

“Yeah, well”—I open the door more—“I figured you’d be slow on those crutches, so I could always run if I had to.”