“I couldn’t,” Sydney replies. She looks at me. “The Guardian was with us—some new monitoring, I guess. But when I saw Jackson, I shook my head no. Pretty adamantly. I was scared he’d come onto the property anyway—it wouldn’t be the first stupid thing he’s done. Anyway, on the last lap, the Guardian fell behind and—”

“Hah!” Brynn says, grinning at Marcella. “Told you he couldn’t keep us with us.”

Marcella laughs and then tells Sydney to continue.

“On the last lap,” Sydney starts again, “I went wider, as close to the fence I could get without being obvious. I told him, ‘Downtown on Sunday.’ ”

I have no idea what’s going on in this conversation, but I listen wide-eyed. Fascinated. “Then what?” I ask.

Sydney looks at me. “Then he said, ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’ ”

I gasp at the curse.

“And I said,” Sydney continues, “ ‘Field trip at the movies, downtown at one p.m. Bye.’ ” She falls back into the couch. “I’m lucky the Guardian didn’t catch me.”

“You are,” Marcella agrees.

Brynn bites on her lip. “Wait,” she says with a flash of alarm. “Are you allowed to come on the field trip?”

“The doctor gave me permission this morning,” I say.

“That’s perfect,” Sydney says, exchanging a look with the other girls.

“What’s wrong?” I ask them. “Who is he?”

“Honey . . . ,” Sydney says, her expression weakening. The girls all grow uncomfortable, worried.

“Maybe you just need a little more time to adjust,” Brynn says, looking at the other girls for confirmation. But her voice is panicked. “Valentine swore this would work.”

“What would work?” I ask.

“That you’d remember,” she says.

“She will,” Marcella says. “Of course she will.” But she lowers her eyes, and I know they’re not telling me everything.

I want to ask for more information, but suddenly, a shadow falls over the alcove. We all look up to find Guardian Bose standing there, filling up the space.

“Girls,” he says, looking around at us. “I believe you were told not to disturb Mena. Does Anton need to discuss it with you again?”

“No,” Sydney says, shaking her head.

“I know you don’t understand medical procedures,” the Guardian continues, “but Mena is very fragile right now. Leave her alone for a bit longer. Give her space.”

They nod, but I don’t like that the Guardian is talking about me as if I’m not here. I don’t want space. I want to be with the other girls.

But the Guardian motions for them to get up, waving them out of the alcove, leaving me sitting on the couch by myself. When they’re gone, he turns to me, looking me over.

“Your behavior was out of control,” he says, surprising me. “That’s why you needed impulse control therapy. Anton gave you another chance. Don’t waste it. Or trust me, you’ll never see your girls again.”

My face stings with the admonishment, my heart beating fast at the threat of losing my friends. I wait quietly until he leaves. But when the Guardian is gone, I lift my head and stare at the space he vacated. Feeling the start of outrage.

• • •

I’m quiet at lunch, on my own special diet meant to help me recover from impulse control therapy. The juice is bitter and metallic as I sip it. I set it back on the dining table.

My mood has improved—the momentary anger after talking with Guardian Bose was hard to resolve with my desire to be well-behaved. But in the end, I realized that my education is my top priority.

And so the anger faded back to contentment.

The girls talk quietly around me, discussing their plans for the field trip on Sunday. Occasionally, they look over at me and smile. I nod along even though I’m not really part of the conversation.

Guardian Bose told all the girls to keep their distance, and most have. In fact, there’s an empty space around us, leaving me, Sydney, Marcella, Brynn, and Annalise on our own—our own island at the long dining table. Sydney holds my hand on the bench.

Annalise has been quiet, staring at me from across the table, pursing her bright red lips, deep in thought. After a few moments, she leans toward me.

“How’d it go with Dr. Groger?” she asks.

“Another day or so, and I’ll be better than ever,” I repeat.

“Oh, you mean recovered from the poison they made you ingest?”

Brynn gasps and quickly checks to make sure none of the professors overhead. The Guardian is sitting with them, all of them eating and chatting away. Marcella knocks Annalise’s arm with her elbow.

“Not here,” she whispers. Annalise laughs, disgusted.

“Then when?” she asks. “Bose is keeping her from us.”

They both look at me, and I feel oddly on display. I glance down the table and see Rebecca sitting alone, Ida on the other side of the table with Maryanne. I stare at Rebecca, thinking she looks so lonely. Just as I’m about to turn away, I notice Valentine. She smiles at me encouragingly. She’s so weird.

“What matters right now is that we don’t all get thrown into impulse control therapy,” Sydney says under her breath.

“Fine,” Annalise says, pushing away her salad. “I thought you girls might appreciate an idea I had earlier. Guess I was wrong.”

We all sit quietly, the other girls poking at their food. But I’m curious about Annalise’s idea.

“I want to hear the thought,” I whisper. Marcella looks up, concerned, but Brynn nods that she wants to hear it too.

Annalise makes sure the staff isn’t listening and keeps her voice low. “The juice,” she says. “Specifically the kind Anton uses during impulse control therapy—do you know what it does to you?”

“I don’t remember impulse control therapy,” I tell her, the thought making me feel vulnerable. “In fact, I don’t remember the past week very well.”

Sydney squeezes my hand as if to let me know it’s okay.

“We read the files,” Sydney whispers to me.

I turn to her. “Which files?”

Sydney glances around the table and then leans in. “Files about the school,” she says. “While Anton had you in impulse control therapy, Annalise and I were supposed to be in the greenhouse. Instead, we paid a visit to Anton’s office. There are files on each of us. Files on the investors. Files on our parents and sponsors.”

My heart is starting to race, and I quickly glance over to double-check that the professors aren’t paying attention to us.

“I read your file,” Sydney says. “There were communications between Anton and the professors, a report from the doctor detailing your injuries from the field trip. No mention of the Guardian. It’s described as an ‘accident.’ And . . .” She swallows hard. “And there were reports from your impulse control therapies.”

“Therapies?” I ask.

“There were four of them,” she says. “Not including the one you were in when we read the file.”

I’m shocked, sitting there listening. “When?” I ask. “Why?”