“I’m not sure what the doctor meant,” I say. I lean into the table and drop my voice lower. “But Valentine is getting impulse control therapy right now.”

“Good,” Brynn says, nodding. “Hopefully it’ll get her back on track.”

I look down at my salad, the feeling of dread coming over me again. “The impulse control therapy part doesn’t bother you, though?” I ask, barely a whisper.

“Why would it?” Sydney asks curiously. “It’ll fix her.”

The other girls nod, perplexed by my question. Lennon Rose recently underwent her own impulse control therapy. She’d been acting a little sad, and we were told she was homesick and needed to reassess her goals. We haven’t discussed it with her since she returned—Anton said it would be best not to.

Lennon Rose is no longer contributing to the discussion now, clearly uncomfortable. The other girls watch me, puzzled, and I feel bad for worrying them.

“Never mind,” I say with a quick wave of my hand. “I was probably just shaken up after seeing so much blood.”

Sydney scrunches up her nose, admitting that the sight of blood was disgusting. The girls agree, and the conversation about impulse control therapy fades away.

As the other girls eat, I glance around the dining hall and find the Guardian sitting with the professors as they devour their dinners. Overflowing plates of meat and gravy, potatoes, and vegetables. Steam rises from their plates, and for a moment, my mouth actually waters. I spear a piece of lettuce and shove it between my teeth.

Sydney uses her straw to stir her juice, poking at the thick liquid. “You have to come to my room later,” she says. “After evening classes. We have a lot to discuss.” She emphasizes the last word, and I know she wants to talk about the boys we met. I fight back my grin and tell her that I’ll be there. Next to her, Lennon Rose’s eyes light up.

On Thursdays, we all attend classes well into the night, but it gives us a shorter school day on Friday. And this Friday is especially important because it’s an open house. Parents, sponsors, and potential investors are invited to see the grand achievements of the Innovations Academy. Namely: us.

The events are lavish and impressive, a chance to mingle and socialize. We all look forward to them because these are our only chances to see our parents during the year.

“Drink your juice,” Sydney says, taking a big sip of hers and gagging before finishing it off. I tell her she’s out of her mind and slosh the straw around in my drink, wishing the entire thing would just evaporate.

I feel heat on the back of my neck. Sensing him, I look up to find Guardian Bose watching me. I’m conscious that I don’t want to break any more rules. I pick up my juice and guzzle it down. When I set the glass on the table, sick to my stomach, the Guardian smiles and goes back to his meal.

5

My evening classes are monotonous, but I listen in each one, wanting to meet my professors’ expectations. We add new roses to our garden in Plant Design and Development, learn (again) how to properly set a table in Modern Manners, and practice informal greetings in Social Graces Etiquette class.

I’m mortified when I realize that I introduced myself all wrong today when meeting Jackson. I didn’t offer him my hand, didn’t stop what I was doing to give him my full attention. And I certainly talked too much about myself.

Although I did well with eye contact, I didn’t ask Jackson enough questions. I should have found a topic he enjoyed and pursued it. Exuded confidence in order to boost his. Or if he preferred, been humble and soft-spoken.

On the other hand, Jackson broke all the rules of etiquette. He blushed, cursed, and lost his temper with the Guardian. He suggested we go out without formally asking me. But men don’t have to follow the same rules of engagement that we do. Perhaps if I’d acted properly, he would have done the same.

But Jackson seemed more casual in his manners. And I liked it. It felt more . . . honest. I smile to myself, deciding that if I ever see him again, I’ll be sure to make a better impression. I want to learn more about him.

But, of course, I’ll never see him again.

“Philomena,” Professor Allister scolds. “Daydreaming again? We’ve talked about this.”

“Sorry, professor,” I say. That’s my biggest flaw, my professors have told me. I daydream too often, drift away in my thoughts. I just can’t seem to stay out of my head, even though I know it’s unsightly. It might be something to bring up with Anton at our next meeting. Perhaps he could offer some coping methods to redirect me.

Once classes are completed for the day, I return to my room to get into my pajamas. The halls are quiet. We’re supposed to stay in our rooms for studying or quiet reflection before bed, but I tiptoe out to meet with the other girls.

Our floor is made up of individual suites, the one at the end of the hall belonging to Guardian Bose. He keeps an eye on us at night, providing security even though we already have bars on our windows.

I walk down the hall in my socks toward Sydney’s room, glancing at Guardian Bose’s door to make sure he’s not standing there watching. When I’m sure it’s clear, I knock softly and enter Sydney’s room.

I startle the girls inside, and several of them gasp guiltily. Sydney leaps to her feet, motioning for me to close the door.

“Quickly,” she whispers, and there’s a flutter of papers behind her back.

“Okay . . . ,” I respond in exaggerated suspicion, and close the door. I check the faces of the others—Lennon Rose, Marcella, Brynn, and Annalise—and note the pink blush high on their cheeks. The smiles they’re hiding behind their hands.

I turn dramatically to Sydney, hands on my hips. I can’t believe she left me out of whatever is going on. She waves me forward to sit with her on the bed while the others crowd around us in a half circle on the rug.

“What is going on?” I ask, amused. Sydney is still wearing her white button-down uniform shirt with no pants and knee-high socks, her hair pinned back. She pushes the folded sleeves of her shirt above her elbows, and then throws her arm around my shoulders.

“Remember when you saw those cute boys today?” she asks. “And then one of them bought you candy?”

“Yes,” I say, realizing they don’t all know the story. “A whole bag of it.”

“Wow,” Lennon Rose sighs.

“What kind of candy?” Marcella asks with practicality.

“Doesn’t matter,” I say. “The Guardian dragged me out before I could eat it. Next time I’ll be sure to shove all the chocolates into my mouth before he can get to me,” I add, making her laugh. I turn to Sydney.

“Is that what you all were talking about?” I ask.

“Nope,” she says, then gives me a smack of a kiss on my temple before pulling her arm away to reach behind her.

Triumphantly, she holds out a magazine, the pages fluttering so I can’t see the cover. I’m instantly suspicious.

“Did you steal that?” I ask.

“I did,” Marcella says, and when I turn to her, she shrugs. “They had a bunch of them at the gas station,” she adds, as if that makes it okay.

I take the magazine from Sydney’s hand, but she quickly snatches it back and holds it out of my reach.