“You’re here now,” Marcella whispers, putting her hand on her cheek. “You’re not going anywhere without us.”

Brynn nods, putting her hand over Marcella’s before leaning in to hug her. Marcella keeps her arm around Brynn and turns back to us.

“We need to find out what’s in the lab,” Marcella says. “I just . . . I have a feeling it’s the answer on how to shut this school down. Otherwise, why keep it locked up? Why only go there at night? Whatever’s in there is secret. What if we find it and then send it out to all the investors? All the wives of these men. We’ll send it to everyone we can. Jackson can do the rest, but I imagine some women wouldn’t be okay with this.” Her eyes tear up. “Right?”

“Jackson’s mom wasn’t,” I say. “And if she wasn’t, I’m sure others won’t be.”

I think we consider Leandra then. She’s an accomplice in all of this. Why wouldn’t she help us? Why would she go along with it?

“It’s going to be time for dinner soon,” Valentine says. “We should get cleaned up. Remember, follow the rules. I like Marcella’s plan,” she says, smiling at her. “We get in that room and find out what they have in there. After that, we’ll decide what to do with it.”

We all agree, hugging once before separating. Some of the girls will go back to their rooms to mourn the loss of their “parents” while others will dwell on what’s been done to them.

And it’s a cowardly thought, but for a moment, I long for one of the academy’s vitamins—a chance to forget all this again. A chance to feel less vulnerable. I wrap my arms around myself, realizing that not knowing didn’t make me any safer. It just made me easier to manipulate.

But still . . . I’m scared. I’m so afraid that I’ll never get outside these walls again. I’m scared of what the people claiming to be my parents have planned for me. What sort of deal the Head of School has made for me.

I paid extra.

I quickly spin away from the window and walk to my bed, needing a shot of courage. Needing to be brave.

I reach under my mattress and pull out the book of poetry. The moment it’s in my hands, I feel better. I feel . . . seen. Heard.

I sit on the edge of my bed and open up to the first poem. I start working my way through, letting them fill me up. Tell my stories. My dreams. My desires. There are poems even more violent, or more moving. There is even one about love.

But I find myself drawn to my favorite poem once again. I begin reading it out loud, enjoying the words on my tongue. I say them louder, my eyes welling up.

“ ‘And then those little girls with sharp sticks flooded the schools,’ ” I say. “ ‘They rid the buildings of false—’ ”

“What the hell are you doing?” Guardian Bose yells from the doorway, scaring me so badly that the book falls to the floor at my feet. I didn’t even hear him open my door.

Guardian Bose stomps over and picks up the book before I can. “What’s this?” he demands. He flips to the first page, and I see his eyes widen as he reads. He grabs me by the wrist and hauls me from the room.

A string of curses cascades from his lips, and I don’t resist his pulling, knowing I have to play along. I shouldn’t have taken the book out. I should have been more careful.

Valentine’s door opens when she hears the commotion. She watches me with fearful eyes, but she doesn’t say a word.

I have to figure a way out of this. Now that I know what the academy is capable of, I’m more afraid of them than ever. I can’t let them see that I know the truth. I don’t know what they’ll do to me. What they’ll do to the other girls.

“Anton will have to deal with this,” the Guardian says. He’s distraught, I realize. Angry, sure. But . . . threatened.

We get to Anton’s office, and the Guardian opens the door. Anton is standing next to his open file cabinet, staring out the window with a folder in his hand. He turns and quickly motions for Guardian Bose to let me go. The Guardian does just that, and I stumble with the sudden loss of pressure on my wrist.

“What is this?” Anton demands from Guardian Bose.

The Guardian holds up the book and tosses it onto Anton’s desk. He’s not in mood to talk to the analyst either. “Might want to take a look,” he says, pointing at the book. And then he backs up and leaves the room.

Anton waits a beat, his eyes on the book, and then he turns to me and presses his lips into a smile. “Are you okay?” he asks.

I’m not sure, if I’m honest. I don’t know what he’s going to do to me, and flashes of impulse control therapy play through my mind.

“Have a seat, Philomena,” he says. He slides the folder he was holding into the file cabinet drawer and pushes it closed.

I do as I’m told. But dread is slowly crawling over me. It’s disturbing that Anton thinks I don’t remember what he’s done to me. And yet, he sits down with me like he’s my therapist. Like he wants what’s best for me. The power imbalance of that is striking.

“What’s going on, Philomena?” he asks.

Something Sydney told me the other day stands out. She lied to Anton when he asked her a question. We always assumed he’d know if we were lying, almost as if he could read our thoughts. Apparently, he can’t unless he’s got wires in our head.

“I was worried about Lennon Rose,” I say, keeping my voice steady.

“I thought you were happy for her?” he asks, as if I’m being unreasonable. The book sits unopened on his desk, but he doesn’t comment.

“I am happy for her,” I say. “But . . . I guess I missed her. I thought maybe she left behind a note, a goodbye letter, so I checked her room. I found a book.”

“Ah, yes,” Anton says, leaning forward to pick up the book. “And you found this? I’d wondered where it’d gotten off to.”

“You’ve seen this book before?” I ask, surprised.

“Yes,” he says. “It belonged to a former student.” He turns it over, examining it. “And you say you got this from Lennon Rose’s room?”

I nod. He flips through the pages, pausing on “Girls with Sharp Sticks” to read it.

“Philomena,” he says, his voice low. “Have you read this poem?”

“Just that one,” I say. “But I don’t know what it means.” My lies come out so smoothly, so innocently, that I would believe them myself.

Anton takes off his glasses to rub his eyes. He seems exhausted. When he looks at me again, he sighs. “Here’s the thing,” he says. “These poems . . . They’re not allowed at this school. They’re propaganda.” He leans his elbows on the desk. “You see, there are people outside of this academy who don’t believe in what we do,” he says. “They don’t think you deserve a well-rounded education. They want to push their values on you.

“I suppose they’re just jealous,” he continues. “Jealous of our success, our commitment to protecting you. Perfecting you. Innovations Academy is cutting edge and exclusive. Not everyone can send a girl through our program.” His expression grows very serious. “These people want to take that from us,” he says. “They try by deliberately spreading falsehoods. They make people angry and unhappy—especially girls—in hopes of turning you against us.