Just as Guardian Bose starts to leave the room, I sit up again. “Guardian Bose,” I call after him. “How’s Lennon Rose?” I ask.

He pauses too long, but then he turns to me. “She’s resting, Philomena,” he says. “Now get some sleep.” Without another word, the Guardian walks out and closes my door. I listen as his footsteps cross the hall to Sydney’s room, the knock and click of her door opening.

And then I listen harder, sure that if I try hard enough I’ll be able to hear Lennon Rose in her bed. But it’s quiet.

My headache has faded to a dull throb, but suddenly my stomach feels sick. Really sick. I reach over and turn on the nightstand lamp, flooding the room in light. The change makes me dizzy, my mouth waters, and I quickly jump out of bed and rush for the bathroom.

I drop to my knees and throw up streaks of pink, green, and yellow from the vitamins. Purple from the wine. I try to stop, but I keep gagging until my stomach is emptied.

When I’m finished, I flush the toilet, hanging there an extra second. My head is pounding. And even more distressing, I threw up my vitamins. It’s too late to bother the Guardian for more—he has to get them from Anton directly. The analyst, rather than the doctor, monitors our vitamins. He says it’s considered a behavioral issue, and therefore his specialty.

I’ll have to discuss my missed dose with Anton tomorrow.

When I straighten up, catching sight of my reflection—streaked mascara, blotchy foundation—guilt makes me want to follow the rules. I wash my face with the approved soap, moisturize, and then I walk into my room and hang up my dress properly. Obeying.

And I swear that I’ll never drink wine again.

11

As morning light filters in through my window, I sit up in bed with the remains of a headache clinging to my temples, a dream in my memory. Something about Lennon Rose. Or was it Rebecca? For a moment, I can’t think straight—a jumble of ideas tangled like wires in my head. And then, finally, the events of last night come back to me.

Lennon Rose pulled from line. Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe in the alcove. Drinking wine with Winston Weeks.

I get out of bed quickly, regretting it the moment I do. Pain throbs behind my eyes. I wait it out, and once I’m settled, I get dressed for breakfast.

When I walk into the dining hall, the smell of scrambled eggs and bacon hangs in the air. Neither of those things are at our table, though. Instead, the professors are eating from overflowing plates. We have oatmeal.

“Morning,” Sydney mumbles, looking exhausted, as I sit across from her at the long table in the dining hall.

Marcella and Brynn smile their hellos and Annalise waves her spoon at me. They’re upbeat—normal for a Saturday morning. Sydney and I, on the other hand . . .

“I have never had a headache like this,” Sydney says to me, her voice scratchy. “I might go see Dr. Groger after breakfast.”

“Oh, no,” I say. I reach across the table to take her hand, grateful when it doesn’t feel feverish or clammy. She thanks me for being so sweet.

Around us, the other girls discuss the open house: Carolina Deschutes and her grandmother, an investor who made crude comments (I can just about guess who), and Winston Weeks being friendlier than usual. Annalise flashes me a smile when she says it, and I laugh, knowing all the girls must have noticed our interaction at the party.

But as they continue, Sydney begins to rub her temple, her eyes squeezed shut. My concern deepens; we never get sick.

“Did you drink any wine?” I ask. “Because I threw up last night from it.”

“Gross,” Sydney murmurs, poking her oatmeal with her spoon. “But, no.”

“Maybe it was the extra vitamin Anton sent to the room,” I suggest.

She scrunches up her nose and lifts her gaze to mine. “Extra vitamin?” she asks. “I didn’t get one. What was it?”

“I’m not sure,” I say. “But . . . you really didn’t get one? I thought I heard the Guardian go to your door.”

She shakes her head no, but then winces at the pain. I pout my bottom lip, feeling sorry for her.

It’s strange, though. I was certain I heard Guardian Bose go to her room. I must have been mistaken. I glance down the table and immediately notice Rebecca, sitting apart, her head down. She seems sullen and sad.

“I wonder if Anton talked to her last night,” I whisper to Sydney, nodding toward Rebecca. “Should I say something to her?”

“Why? What happened last night?” Sydney asks, distracted as she tastes a bite of her oatmeal, looking queasy when she does.

I stare at her before leaning into the table and lowering my voice. “She and Mr. Wolfe . . . ?” I whisper. Sydney waves her hand for me to explain.

“We spoke to Anton about it,” I add quietly.

“Mena,” Sydney says. “I hardly even saw Anton last night. What are you talking about?”

There’s a strange sensation over my skin, spikes of worry. We most definitely talked to Anton last night. How could Sydney forget that? Just as my alarm begins to tick up, Annalise calls my name.

“Lennon Rose still isn’t here,” she says. “We should go check on her.”

My stomach drops as I look around, double-checking that she’s right. Lennon Rose was resting comfortably in her room last night, I was told. I wonder if she’s still there. She must miss us terribly; Lennon Rose hates being alone.

I agree to go with Annalise, and despite her headache, Sydney volunteers to come with us. We can’t leave before finishing breakfast, so we plan to head there as soon as we’re done.

I’m reminded suddenly that Valentine is the one who talked to Lennon Rose just before she started crying. Why did she say to her? What did she do?

But Valentine’s ignoring all of us, stirring her oatmeal slowly, the oats gathering in lumps on her spoon. Her lips are moving ever so slightly, like she’s repeating something. The image is disconcerting, repetitive in a way that doesn’t seem natural, and I quickly avert my eyes before she notices me.

I’m off today—wrong, somehow.

And as I eat my breakfast, I think about getting sick last night, the streaks of colors from undigested vitamins. Covertly, I lift my eyes to Sydney, wondering if that could be the difference.

Vitamins keep us balanced. Maybe I’m the one out of balance.

• • •

While Marcella and Brynn have cleanup duty, Annalise, Sydney, and I go to check on Lennon Rose. We knock on the door, and when there’s no answer, Annalise tries again a little louder.

Annalise looks back at us before pushing inside, whispering Lennon Rose’s name since she’s probably still asleep.

But Lennon Rose isn’t here. And it’s not just her physical absence that we notice, either—the room feels . . . empty. Lonely. Like she hasn’t been here in a while, even though I know she was here just last night.

Annalise stomps over to the bed and pulls back the sheets. There’s an empty water glass on the nightstand, a white cup without vitamins. Lennon Rose’s dress and heels from the open house are set for pickup, hanging near her dresser.

It’s then that I notice Lennon Rose’s school shoes near her bed.

We only own two pairs of shoes at the academy: our uniform-appropriate shoes and our sneakers for Running Course. Lennon Rose’s sneakers are piled in the corner, and her uniform shoes are at the foot of the bed.