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
Itoss 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 amterrified.
“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.
Thunder booms outside the diner, making me jump. Rain is pouring down.
I can’t stay another moment.
I run out the door into the stormy night. There are lights everywhere, distorting my vision as water runs into my eyes.
And I hear the man scream my name.
“Get back here!” he shouts. “You’remine!”
•••
I sit up in bed with a gasp, clutching my chest. Scared, I dart my eyes around the room, feeling the rain still on my skin. The fear in my heart.
My cheeks are wet with tears, I realize, and I get out of bed and go into the bathroom to stare at my reflection. I’m shaking, the nightmare clinging to me. It occurs to me that I didn’t take my vitamins last night—that could be why. I assume that among other things, the vitamins calm me. Help me sleep. Without them, my mind is a whirlwind. Or maybe it was the poem that I read last night.
I walk over to the shower and turn it on, letting it steam up the bathroom. I crouch down with my arms wrapped around myself, squeezing my eyes shut while I wait for the nightmare to fade.
And it does. Not entirely, but enough that I can get into my running clothes. Once the images are far enough away, I can think clearly again.
I notice the time and see that I’ve overslept; the other girls are probably already outside. I’m going to meet Jackson and ask him to find a way for us to contact Lennon Rose—we need to know that she’s okay.
And then I’ll tell the girls about the book of poems, tell them not to take their vitamins anymore. As I tie my sneakers, I realize I’ll have to talk to Valentine, too. I’m sure she knew about these poems.
This is just the beginning. I have so much to figure out.
Once dressed, I rush downstairs toward the back door that leads out to the track. But just as I round the corner to exit the building, I’m surprised to find Leandra Petrov at the door, sipping from a cup of coffee. She, however, doesn’t look at all that surprised to see me. She’s in a white jumpsuit with a black blazer and stilettos. Her hair and makeup are perfect.
“Mrs. Petrov,” I say, bowing my head in greeting. “Good morning. It’s nice to see you.”
She watches me for a long moment, running her eyes over my appearance. “Yes,” she says, wagging her cup at me. “Good morning, Philomena.” She takes a loud sip from her drink. “I was sorry to hear about Lennon Rose,” she adds. “She was quite a darling.”
My heart dips. “I was sorry too,” I say, quietly.
“Yes,” she replies. “But it doesn’t help to dwell, now, does it?” She pulls the measurement tape from the pocket of her blazer and motions for me to go into the results room. I need to get outside, but I try not to look impatient and do as I’m told.
