daddies inside.

And then those little girls with sharp sticks

Flooded the schools.

They rid the buildings of false ideas.

The little girls took everything over

Including teaching their male peers

how to be “Good Little Boys.”

And so it was for a generation

The little girls became the predators.

I reread the last line, a curse on my lips, a fire in my belly. I’ve never read anything so violent, so angry. I’m scandalized. I’m exhilarated. I’m inspired.

Is this what Lennon Rose read? Did she read it just before the open house? I think back to her leaving her room, averting her eyes. Was she scared? Was she angry, like the girls in this poem?

I read the poem again, analyzing each word. Increasingly breathless as the little girls are controlled. My heart pounding as they fight back. And there’s such violence—like nothing I’ve read before. The girls change things. They get free. They take control.

I flip through the book, noting that several pages have been torn out, leaving behind ragged edges of missing poems. My pulse is racing, throbbing. My hands shake.

There is a knock at the door and I quickly jump up, alarmed. I hear it open, realizing immediately that it’s not this door—it’s one farther down the hall. The Guardian tells one of the girls he has their vitamins. I shouldn’t be in Lennon Rose’s room; I can’t let him catch me in here.

I quickly stash the book of poems back under Lennon Rose’s mattress, wishing I could take it with me, but not wanting to take the chance of getting caught with it. I want to be able to read them again.

I’m not sure which door the Guardian is at—I wasn’t paying close enough attention. I listen, hoping he won’t knock on my door and discover I’m missing. I hear his boots, my heart in my throat. There’s a knock, and this time I know he’s at Annalise’s door.

As it opens, Annalise calls out, “It’s okay, Bose. I don’t need to be tucked in.”

When I’m sure Guardian Bose is out of the hallway, I open Lennon Rose’s door and quickly dart back to my room. I’m inside with the door closed before the Guardian moves on to Marcella’s room.

As I change into my pajamas, waiting for my vitamins, I’m still thinking about the poem. Unable to stop thinking about it. The men who wanted to control women . . . but couldn’t. So they turned to controlling girls instead. They lied to them. Manipulated them. Coveted them.

What was it to accomplish? I can’t figure that part out. What drove the men in the poem to seek such control? What drove them to such lengths that they kept their girls captive?

I glance at the bars on my window.

My door opens suddenly, startling me, and I spin around and see Guardian Bose. I immediately cover my chest since I’m not wearing a bra.

“Yes?” I ask.

He walks over to my nightstand and sets down the small cup with my vitamins. He takes my empty water glass and goes to fill it at the bathroom sink. I peek inside the cup and see there are two pinks, one green, and another large yellow capsule.

Sydney didn’t remember what had happened with Rebecca and Mr. Wolfe. Was it specifically the yellow vitamin? If so, what do the others do?

“Go on,” the Guardian says, motioning to my bed as he comes out of the bathroom.

I quickly get under the covers, pulling them up to tuck under my arms. There is a boom of thunder, and the lights flicker. The Guardian is distracted as he hands me the glass of water and dumps the capsules into my open palm. Rather than watch me take them, he glances out the window at the storm. I pretend to swallow them, keeping them in my closed fist instead, and sip generously from the water.

By the time the Guardian turns around, the pills are hidden by my side under the blankets.

“It’s too bad about Lennon Rose,” Guardian Bose says, reaching over to adjust the sheet, grazing my arm as he does. “She had a lot of potential,” he says with disappointment. “What a waste.”

I furrow my brow. “She still has a lot of potential,” I reply.

He stares at me, and then sniffs a laugh as he straightens. “Yeah. Sure,” he says dismissively and walks out of my room.

When he closes my door, I lie back on my pillows and stare up at the ceiling. I’m going to talk to Lennon Rose again. The school may not care about her, but the girls do. We’ll make sure she knows she still has a lot of potential.

I take out the pills he gave me, inspecting them. I set the pinks and greens aside and instead focus on the yellow. It’s larger. Different.

There are two sides to it, and I slowly work them apart to see what’s inside. It’s nearly impossible, the vitamin beginning to dissolve in my fingers, but then the parts break open and a small pile of silver dust spills into my hand.

I stare at it, my eyes wide open. I poke it around with my other hand, surprised to find it sticks to my finger. I’m reminded of a magnet—one we saw on a field trip once. The silver dust there could be shaped into different forms by the force of a magnet.

But as I watch, I see the dust isn’t just dust. On my fingertip . . . it begins to melt together—slide, really. I yelp and quickly jump up. I run to the bathroom and wash it down the sink, washing my hand three times to make sure it’s all off.

The silver swirls down the drain, but my heart won’t stop racing. What was that stuff? And what exactly does it do to us when we ingest it?

There’s another knock from the hall, and I know that Guardian Bose is still making his rounds. I have to stop the other girls from taking their vitamins, but it’s probably too late for tonight. The capsules dissolve so quickly. I’ll have to tell them tomorrow.

And I’ll them about “Girls with Sharp Sticks.”

14

I toss and turn all night, drifting in and out of restless sleep. There are images, both happy and terrifying, blending together.

I’m meeting Lennon Rose for the first time after class—her face so sweet and innocent. Her voice angelic. But like dissolving film, the image distorts, and instead I see Lennon Rose on a metal table, her eyes closed and her heart cut out of her chest.

Annalise with yellow hair at the dining hall table. Sydney is with us, only her dimples are gone—her cheeks full as she smiles. And then I see the two of them piled together on a concrete floor, their limbs broken like abandoned dolls.

It goes on like this, the softness turning to violence each time, until finally I’m in a restaurant—a diner with harsh light and a blinking red sign.

I sit in a booth next to the window, a plate of food in front of me. The air reeks of grease—bacon, sausage, ham. Meat. The table is sticky with syrup. But in front of me is a bowl of oatmeal, unsweetened. I stir it with my spoon slowly, lonely. Scared.

I miss my girls. I want to be with them.

When I look up, there is a man across from me. I don’t recognize him. He’s older and greasy—just like the food. His skin glistens in the fluorescent light, his fingers gripping a breakfast sausage as he shoves it into his mouth. The he smiles at me, licking his lips.

I’m terrified of this man. I am terrified.

“Don’t worry,” he says, the food visible in his mouth. “We’ll be home soon, little girl.” And then he laughs and goes back to his meal.