Girls with Sharp Sticks

Anton laughs. “What?” he asks. “No, of course not. Why would you think such a thing?”

I watch him to see if he’s lying, but he seems surprised by the question.

“He has been violent with us before,” I say. “Dr. Groger said the Guardian was with her before she disappeared. Contradicting what you told me.”

“First of all,” Anton says. “Lennon Rose didn’t disappear. I assure you, she walked out of this academy of her own volition. Guardian Bose, although his methods are becoming concerning, would never hurt you.”

“He has hurt me.”

“Not in a way that can’t be repaired,” Anton corrects. “So, no, he didn’t kill Lennon Rose, if that’s what you’re getting at.” He looks me over. “Is that it?” he asks. “Your outburst was about Lennon Rose? Nothing else?”

I notice a heaviness starting in my limbs. The way my tongue tingles. I take another sip of water. “I wanted to know what’s going on at the academy,” I say, unable to stop myself.

“That’s interesting,” he says, studying me. “You always were very curious. Do you feel wronged?” he asks. “Both by the Guardian, it seems, and your professors? Even me, possibly? Haven’t you always been able to trust me?”

“No,” I say, my voice hoarse. “Obviously not, Anton. You won’t tell me where Lennon Rose is.”

“You feel entitled to that information,” he says, like he’s trying to figure me out. “You’re a bit like a spoiled child now, you see. Lennon Rose is dismissed and you . . . what?” he asks. “Have a temper tantrum? Start making up stories about her being murdered?”

I narrow my eyes, knowing that he’s trying to manipulate me—trying to make me think I’m overreacting.

“It’s not just Lennon Rose,” I say. “Rebecca was being hurt by her lawyer, and you punished her. You used my information to cause her harm. I don’t forgive you for that, Anton. I don’t forgive you.”

“Yes, that was unfortunate,” he admits. “But some things are out of my control, Mena. Dr. Groger gets a say too. As does Mr. Petrov.”

“Then why not just send us home?” I ask. “Why give us impulse control therapy when you can just send us back to our parents?”

“Why would your parents want a damaged girl?” he asks like the suggestion is ridiculous. “Our clients expect perfection. And with you, I thought we’d achieved it.”

His comment is cruel. His deception masked by his so-called disappointment.

“What are you doing to us?” I ask. “Why?”

Anton leans back in his chair, tapping his finger on his lips as he seems to think something over. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Upset,” I say. “Scared. How do you think?” But as I say it, I get his real meaning. It settles over me with horror. My eyelids flutter with a wave of exhaustion. The pill isn’t calming me. It’s sedating me, just like the pill the Guardian gave me last night.

I blink back my tears. “Anton,” I start to say, ready to beg. But he purses his lips, scrunching up his nose.

“I know what you’re about to say,” he tells me. “I know you don’t remember our impulse control therapy sessions, but you start each time by telling me you don’t need therapy. That you’ll be better. That you’ll obey. And at every one, I tell you that you will not leave this room until we get to the root of your defiant behavior. We have to adjust your priorities.”

His words shock me, and maybe he meant them to. He made it sound like I’ve been in here multiple times. Not just once. But I refuse to believe my behavior is just a pattern he can control.

“I won’t obey,” I tell him, tilting up my chin, feeling a rush of adrenaline when I say it. “I won’t be better.”

His jaw falls open, and he stares at me, fascinated. I hold my defiant pose even though my legs are too tired to carry me out of this room. But that doesn’t mean I don’t have my words.

“Why can’t I remember impulse control therapy?” I demand.

“Because we remove those sections,” he says. “And, of course, we’ll remove this.”

“Do my parents know what you do to my head?” I ask.

“The details? No. Our parents and sponsors are results-oriented. They don’t need the details.”

“I’ll tell them,” I threaten, hearing the slur in my words.

“Even if you did, it wouldn’t matter,” he says. “Now,” he checks his watch, “we should get started. I have another appointment later today. A follow-up with Rebecca,” he says brightly. “She seems quite excellent, doesn’t she?”

“She seems like a robot,” I say.

He laughs. “Yes, it was a bit extreme, but her parents are thrilled. They were worried she’d be dismissed indefinitely.”

Anton gets up and rounds the desk, coming to stand in front of me. I’m slumped in my chair, unable to pull myself up. I’m frightened of him—something that I’ve never felt before. I may have been angry or disappointed, but never afraid. Not of him.

“I’m sorry,” he says suddenly, sounding sincere. He leans down to hug me, wrapping his arms around me. I shrink back as his cologne fills my nostrils. “I know you’re scared right now,” he whispers in my ear. “But things will be better tomorrow.”

My eyelids are too heavy, and they slide shut. I force them open, hoping someone will come in and stop this. Stop him. But no one’s coming. The other girls don’t know how much danger we’re really in.

Anton straightens, reaching to brush my hair behind my ears lovingly. He smiles once, and then goes to his desk and picks up the walkie-talkie.

“Bose,” he says, looking over at me. “I need you to prepare the room for impulse control therapy.”

• • •

The small pendulum on the desk swings back and forth, making a rhythmic ticking that’s supposed to set me at ease. Instead, it’s more like a dripping faucet that I try to forget is there. Next to it is a metal tray with a white towel covering its contents and a full glass of green juice.

The impulse control room is windowless with deep red walls and concrete floors, somewhere in the basement of the academy, I’m assuming. The only furniture is a metal desk, a rolling stool, and the reclining chair that I’m currently occupying. I stir awake, the sedatives wearing off.

Restraints hang from the metal arms of the chair, although I’m weak enough that they won’t be needed. I can barely lift my arms. Anton rolls his stool over to sit in front of me.

I swallow hard, the smell of bleach stinging my nose. I don’t remember what happens in this room. That’s the scary part—that something can be completely forgotten, yet at the same time emotionally devastating.

Last time, I left impulse control therapy with an aching head and a sore heart that didn’t go away for several days. And I don’t even know why. And then, of course, there may have been other times that I don’t remember at all.

Anton holds up the glass of green juice and tells me to take a sip.

“This procedure can be uncomfortable,” he explains. “This will help calm you.”