Girls with Sharp Sticks

Overall, the others determine that Anton knows what’s best. If he says it was time for Lennon Rose to leave, then it must be true.

But Sydney and I are destroyed, almost like we can physically feel a piece of us missing. Marcella stares at her hands folded on the table, sniffling every so often as Brynn comforts her. Annalise stares out the window again.

It’s Valentine, sitting across from me, who catches my attention. She meets my eyes, and then there is the slightest turn of a smile on her lips.

“Everything’s going to be fine, Philomena,” she says calmly. “You’ll see.” And then she stands up and leaves the dining hall.

As the other girls go back to their rooms for self-reflection, I decide to track down Anton. I need to talk to someone about the crushing pain in my chest. The loneliness. Who better than the analyst?

I don’t see him in the halls, so I head straight for his office, relieved when I see his light on inside. I knock softly on the glass.

“Come in,” Anton calls with a hint of surprise.

I open the door and find him at his file cabinet. His face tightens when he sees me, but then he smiles.

“Philomena,” he says, closing the drawer. “What can I do for you?”

His question seems odd, considering the circumstances. “I’m here about Lennon Rose,” I say.

“I should have figured,” Anton replies, a little embarrassed, and goes to sit behind his desk. “You want to talk about how you’re feeling.”

I nod, and he motions for me to sit down in the oversized leather chair across from his desk. I cross my legs at the ankle, not resting back the way I usually do during our therapy sessions. This time is different.

We sit in silence until Anton leans forward on his elbows. “Should I start, or . . .?” he begins, and his lips pull into a smile. Normally, I appreciate his casual demeanor, but in this situation, it feels inappropriate.

“I can be honest with you, right?” I ask. The smile fades from his lips.

“Of course,” he responds. He leans forward in his chair, his elbows on the table.

“I’m worried about Lennon Rose,” I say. “You told me she was going to be better than new, that she was just resting. You didn’t mention money. Her parents didn’t mention money. So . . . what really happened?”

Anton watches me for a long moment and then eases back in his chair. “I’m sorry,” he says. “But I can’t discuss the specifics of another girl’s education with you.”

“Why was she crying during lineup yesterday?” I ask, undeterred.

“Because she’d just learned about her family’s financial situation,” he responds easily.

I furrow my brow. “How?” I ask. “When? She didn’t mention any—”

“I told her,” he cuts in. “So I assure you, she knew. Perhaps she didn’t want to tell you.”

The thought stings. Lennon Rose was keeping a secret from me? From us? Then again, she’d been talking to Valentine—maybe she told her. Anton must notice my confusion, so he continues talking.

“I suspect Lennon Rose was embarrassed about her situation and had hoped to resolve it without your interference,” he says. “But unfortunately, despite all I could do, there wasn’t enough money to fund her education any longer. She left this morning before you woke up. She told me to tell you goodbye.”

I look up at him. “You talked to her?” I ask.

“Of course,” Anton says. “I walked her out myself.”

“With the Guardian?”

He shakes his head no. “Guardian Bose was supervising the floor—doing his job. I’m the only person who spoke with her. She will miss you.”

I swallow hard, noting the discrepancy between Anton’s and Dr. Groger’s descriptions. The doctor told me the Guardian walked Lennon Rose out.

Anton closes his eyes and slips off his glasses. He seems exhausted, and I notice for the first time the dark circles under his eyes, like he hasn’t been sleeping.

“Mena,” he says, his voice soft like he’s whispering a secret. “I’m going to confide something in you, understand?”

I nod that I do, although I’ll admit it’s a little weird to have my analyst confide in me.

“Your behavior is concerning,” he says.

The comment catches me by surprise, and I immediately straighten my posture, trying to look well-behaved. “I’m sorry,” I say without thinking.

“I told you last night to let us handle Lennon Rose, and that applies to today, as well. And going forward. The Mena I know would listen to these instructions. And yet, here you are. What’s going on inside your head?”

I’m humiliated, and I lower my eyes. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful,” I say. “I just . . . I miss her. I love Lennon Rose and I miss her.” He’s quiet, and when I look at him again, he’s inspecting me. A slight pallor to his skin.

“You love her?” he repeats. I nod, hoping he’ll understand. He waits a beat before standing up from his desk. “Well, then you’re being irrational,” he says like it’s his official diagnosis. “Overly emotional. Lennon Rose is fine; I wouldn’t have let her go otherwise. But she is no longer a concern of this academy.”

I wonder if I am being overly emotional, possibly from missing my dose of vitamins. Then again, would they have made me forget things—like how Sydney forgot about Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe? Is that what happened?

I’m suddenly overwhelmed, closing my eyes for a second. Ultimately, Anton would be angry with me for throwing up my vitamins, wasting them by being careless. I opt not to risk anymore of his disappointment today. I don’t tell him.

“You will not ask about Lennon Rose again,” Anton continues. “Or you will be assigned impulse control therapy to reassess your goals. Your parents will be notified, and the defiance will be marked on your personal record. Is that what you want?”

“No,” I whisper. I’m hurt by the harshness in his words. Anton has never scolded me before, not like this. It stuns me, and I reach to wipe a tear as it drips onto my cheek. Anton winces.

“I’m sorry,” he says, sincerely. “I’m sorry, Mena.” He rounds his desk and gathers me from the chair into a hug, holding me against him. I cry harder, not just because of what he said, but because one of my best friends is gone. Lennon Rose is gone, and I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

My eyes are squeezed shut, the smell of Anton’s shampoo filling my nostrils, the scratchiness of his beard on my temple. I pull back.

“I’m sorry I was cross,” he says. “I was hoping we could get past this quickly. I see that was the wrong approach.” He brushes my hair behind my ears and smiles. “But I promise, things will be better tomorrow,” he adds.

I look up at him, thanking him. His hands fall away from me.

“Can I ask you something else?” I say, sniffling.

Anton sighs but actually seems amused by the question. “Go ahead,” he replies.

“Have you spoken to Rebecca?” I ask. “Is she . . . Is she okay?”

Anton’s eyes flash with a spark of surprise. “She . . . I . . .” He stumbles over his words before resetting his stance in front of me. “What do you mean?” he asks. “What about Rebecca?”