“Do you sneak out often?” he asks.

“Me?” I ask. “No, never. But they don’t physically monitor us on the grounds the way they do when we’re off campus.”

“If you don’t sneak out, then what do you do? For fun, I mean.”

“The girls and I talk a lot,” I say. “We tell stories. Gossip. Sometimes about boys.” I grin.

“Boys?” he replies, like it’s scandalous. “Plural? You see a lot of boys around here?”

“None,” I say. “Which is why we gossip about them.”

He laughs. “Will I make the list?”

“You already have,” I say seriously. “We’ve made all sorts of assumptions about you. I can’t wait to tell them what I’ve learned. You are fascinating,” I say.

Jackson flinches. “Can I ask you something, Mena?”

I nod that he can.

“Could you . . . I mean, would you mind not telling your friends that stuff about my mom?” he asks. “Any of it? It’s kind of personal.”

I hadn’t really considered that, but I understand his point. I don’t lie to the girls, but I can just leave that part out.

“I won’t tell them,” I promise, and Jackson smiles gratefully. We’re quiet for a moment before he moves suddenly like he just remembered something.

“I meant to ask,” he says, taking a phone out of his pocket. “Do you think I can call you? I . . . like talking to you. Hearing about your school. And it’ll help me sleep at night, knowing you’re okay behind all those bars.”

“Personal phones aren’t allowed on campus,” I tell him. “The only phone we have is a shared one in the hallway.”

“E-mail?”

I shake my head no. “We don’t have computers.”

“That’s bullshit,” Jackson mumbles, sliding his phone back into his pocket. “And weird considering this place used to be a tech company.” He considers the statement. “But who knows?” he adds. “A few years ago, the government tried to lock everyone out of the internet—some big push to control the narrative, remember?”

I don’t answer, not wanting to mention that I didn’t have a computer at home, either.

Jackson shakes his head. “That was scary stuff.” He looks over at the school. “Thankfully it didn’t last. But maybe it made Innovations reassess their goals. No more assembly lines. Now they specialize in girls.”

“And gardening,” I say, motioning to the greenhouse. “We grow the most beautiful flowers.”

Jackson watches me a moment, amused. “Although I’m sure that’s very lucrative,” he says with a small laugh, “I’m going to guess tuition here is pretty high. You know, since the place is so ‘elite.’ I wonder how they select which girls get in.”

On the first day of school, Mr. Petrov told us about the process. He said that he and the professors scoured the country, searching for girls with the perfect blend of beauty and temperament. We were hand-selected based on these traits. Our parents were delighted.

But I don’t think this criteria will impress Jackson, so I opt not to share it.

Jackson relaxes back on his hands, taking in the academy once again. “You know,” he adds, “I bet there’s still some old equipment lying around the building. You should poke through the closets once in a while. See what you find.”

“I can’t do that,” I say, scrunching up my nose. He pops another candy into his mouth.

“I would,” he says easily. Not even a hint of guilt. When he looks at me, we both smile.

He’s so unlike the men I’ve met at the academy, or even before. Most of my interactions are a well-rehearsed dance, expected. Jackson is the opposite of rehearsed. He’s messy and unpredictable.

“You’re exciting,” I tell him. “You drove an hour with a badly formed plan to check on me. You swear and run away from home. You even nearly fought the Guardian in a gas station.”

“I try to fuck up where I can.”

“You’re good at it,” I say, making him laugh.

Jackson takes another chocolate and unwraps it slowly. I watch him, noting his movements.

“Are you left-handed?” I ask.

He seems surprised by the question and looks down at his open palm. “I am. You?”

“No. But I’ve never met anyone who was left-handed before,” I say.

“It doesn’t sound like you meet a lot of people, Mena.” He holds out his hand to me, and before I can think about it, I slide my palm along his, noting how rough his skin is. Liking the way it scratches me, contrasts me.

Jackson lifts his dark eyes to mine, and for a moment, we just stare at each other. There’s a sudden pressure in my chest, a breathlessness I’ve never experienced before. Jackson licks his lower lip again, and then slowly withdraws his hand. He turns toward the sound of the girls running, rounding the building for likely the last time.

“I should probably get back,” I say, getting to my feet.

Jackson walks me toward the fence, and we pause as we reach the iron bars. I wish I could stay just a little longer, but I appreciate the time we’ve had.

“There’s an open house tonight,” I tell him. “Goes kind of late, so we don’t have Running Course tomorrow. But . . . I’ll be back out here on Sunday. If you’re in the area.”

“This mountainous, middle-of-fucking-nowhere area?” he asks. “Yeah, of course I’ll be here. Besides, we didn’t finish all the candy.” He holds up the bag.

I laugh. The sound of sneakers hitting the dirt gets louder as the girls run along the building, getting closer. Sydney hangs near the back of the group.

“Then I’ll see you Sunday,” I say. “And bring the candy.”

He grins before nodding goodbye. I turn around to slip back through the fence, joining the girls for the rest of our morning run.

7

As the girls and I finish our run and head toward the door, we find Guardian Bose waiting for us, watching us intently. I nearly trip over my feet, worried that I’ve been caught breaking the rules; I see the same flash of fear in Sydney’s eyes. But the Guardian just waves us in impatiently. He never lets us deviate from our schedule.

I try to keep my distance so he won’t smell candy on my breath, and once we’re past him, Sydney and I exchange a relieved look. We start toward our rooms to get ready for classes.

As we walk down the hall, the other girls ahead of us, Sydney loops her arm through mine.

“And how is Jackson?” she asks quietly, leaning her head closer to mine.

“He’s coming back on Sunday,” I say with a flicker of nervousness. Excitement. I don’t want to get caught disobeying twice in one week, chance being redirected again. But I liked listening to Jackson. And I liked that he listened to me.

To get her opinion, I tell Sydney everything that Jackson and I talked about with the exception of his family. We discuss his hiking through the woods, his lack of manners, and how I held his hand, even if only for a moment. How he was worried about me, asked about me. I think that part impresses her the most.

We get to our floor, and Sydney exhales dramatically. “I say you go for it,” she says. “Just make sure he doesn’t try anything inappropriate on Sunday. Even if his manners are brutish, keep yours intact. Otherwise you’ll give him the wrong idea.”