“Uh, uh,” she sings. She sets it on her crossed knees and flips to a page. I’m stunned to see a couple on a couch in the late stages of undressing. This time, my cheeks blush.

“You stole a dirty magazine?” I ask Marcella with a laugh.

“No,” Sydney says for her. “It’s a women’s magazine.”

I look around at the girls, confused. “I don’t get it.”

“It deals with women’s issues—only,” Sydney says. “In fact, I think I’ve found my new favorite quiz.”

“And what’s that?” I ask, trying to sneak another look at the couple on the page.

“It’s called . . .” She clears her throat. “ ‘Are you good at oral sex?’ ”

I burst out laughing, imagining she’s joking, but instead, she lists off the first three bullet points. It’s downright scandalous, but at the same time, we close in around her, hanging on her every word.

Although all of us grew up in strict households—followed by the isolation of the academy—we’re not completely naive. Most of our nights are filled with long talks while piled together in a room, recounting stories we’ve heard—collectively or individually. Bits of advertising we’ve picked up on field trips. We rehash the censored parts of movies that we’ve embellished with our imaginations.

When Sydney’s done going through all the points on the list, including tips of things to avoid, we collectively decide that we’d be pretty bad at the whole oral sex thing if we followed those suggestions. It all sounds wildly unpleasant.

“What I don’t get,” I say, thinking it over, “is if this is a women’s magazine, why are they telling us how to pleasure guys? Shouldn’t it be about our pleasure? Or even mutual pleasure?”

“Huh,” Sydney says, flipping to the front cover of the magazine and tracing her finger over the words “Women’s Magazine.” “That’s a good point, actually,” Sydney says, and turns to me. “Will you do me a favor?” she asks.

“Sure,” I reply reluctantly.

“Next time you see your gas station boyfriend,” she says, “will you make him take this quiz?”

We all laugh, and I swear that I will. But we know that I’d never ask those sorts of questions.

“Also,” I add, holding up one finger. “Can we please not call him my gas station boyfriend ?” Sydney does a quick cross over her heart, smiling.

“Is there anything about kissing in there?” Lennon Rose asks in her sweet, small voice. Sydney and I exchange a look—Lennon Rose is just too adorable—and Sydney flips through the pages until she finds a picture of a couple kissing. She turns the magazine around to show the group.

“This is fake,” Sydney says, “but it looks like that. Except with tongues.”

Lennon Rose scrunches her nose at the idea, and Marcella motions to the paper.

“Not totally like that,” Marcella says, shaking her head. “It can be nice, too. You know, just . . . kissing and hugging at the same time. You don’t have to lick each other’s faces like dogs.”

Marcella knows what she’s talking about. She and Brynn sneak a kiss whenever they can, the sweet kind with whispers in between. Soft smiles and hand-holding. It’s not tongue wrestling on a couch, and she tells us as much.

“Have you ever kissed anyone?” Lennon Rose asks me.

“Yes, she has,” Sydney answers for me, and then seems to think better of it the moment the words are out.

“Who did you kiss?” Marcella asks doubtfully.

I look at Sydney first, and she apologizes under her breath. I sigh.

“It was near the beginning of the year,” I start. “We were at the theater for a ballet—the one with the extravagant costumes.” The title escapes me.

“Oh, I remember,” Marcella says. “The Guardian . . .” She squints her eyes like she’s trying to recall a specific detail. “Guardian Thompson—the one with the scar,” she says, drawing a line across her cheek with her finger. “The one who got fired and replaced with Bose. He was with us, right?”

“That’s why he got fired,” Sydney says.

I actually feel bad that Guardian Thompson got fired; I hate to think I was the cause of him losing his job. He had a family to support. We talked about them once while we were on the bus. He even had a daughter who died, he told me—and that was why he took the job at the academy. We reminded him of her.

In theory, at least, he clarified with a smile. I still don’t get what he meant.

“I need details,” Marcella says, eyes wide. “Kissing with a Guardian nearby? Why is this the first I’m hearing about it?”

“Because it was nothing to brag about,” I say, motioning to the magazine. “And it was nothing like what’s in there.”

“Tell me,” Marcella says. She settles in next to Brynn, and all the girls wait for me to explain.

I’m a little uncomfortable that Sydney brought up the topic.

“We were at the theater,” I start, “and I told Sydney I’d be right back while I went to the bathroom. When I was done, I decided to go to the counter and order some candy.”

The girls all nod like, Of course you did. My sugar addiction is legendary.

“I was at the counter,” I continue, “practicing greetings with the guy working the concessions. He was very friendly. He asked if I would sit outside with him because it was a nice night. I didn’t want to be rude, so I said yes.

“We sat on a bench a little off to the side and shared a box of Junior Mints. I tried to follow the rules of etiquette, ask him about himself, but he kept interrupting me, commenting on how ‘hot’ I was. When he asked if I had a boyfriend, I told him I wasn’t allowed to date. He laughed.

“Then he told me he had to get back inside,” I say. “Before he left, he grabbed me by the shoulders and kissed me hard, smashing our faces together. It was . . . surprising,” I say, thinking about it. “Especially when he stuck his tongue in my mouth.”

Lennon Rose gasps, horrified.

“It only lasted a few seconds,” I say. “It was wet, and although I’d been curious about kissing, it wasn’t sexy. I mean, it’s supposed to be foreplay, right?” I ask, and Sydney nods emphatically like she’s the consulting sexpert.

“He must have been doing something wrong, then,” I say. “Because the last thing I wanted to do was find out what was under his clothes. If anything, I wanted him to put more on.”

“Ew, Mena,” Annalise says, disgusted. “You’re making me hope I never kiss anyone.”

“Maybe it just wasn’t for me,” I say. “I wanted to hear about his life. Hear about the world. Instead, I nearly choked to death on his tongue.”

Sydney puts her curled fist to her mouth and pretends to barf into it.

Marcella stares at me and slowly shakes her head. “Mena,” she says seriously. “That’s . . . That’s not how kissing works.” She looks at Brynn who agrees. “In fact, when Brynn and I first kissed—”

“I asked her to,” Brynn adds, finishing the thought. “She didn’t just shove her face in mine.” Brynn smiles softly. “I asked her to kiss me.”