“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.”
“That’s what you said about the pill.”
He winces. “Yes, sorry. I was a bit dishonest there. But for the record, it’s easier to get you ready for therapy when you’re unconscious. This”—he motions to the juice—“will make you more... pliable.”
He brings the glass to my lips, and I lift my hands to knock it away. My limbs are heavy, clumsy, and he easily brushes them aside. Anton lifts the juice, splashing it over my top lip, and nods for me to go ahead.
I take a sip, hating the taste. Anton smiles and sets it back on the desk before turning to me again.
“Why did you misbehave in class?” he asks simply.
“Because I wanted to check on Lennon Rose,” I say, although it’s not the entire story. But I don’t want him to know about our plan. In fact, I push that memory away, as if I can erase it myself. He can’t know the other girls were involved.
“Why did you misbehave in class?” Anton repeats, louder. He rolls closer and places his hand on my knee, about to say something. His palm is warm on my skin and I flinch. He pauses.
“What did you just think?” he asks, glancing down at his hand before removing it.
“That I wanted to push your hand away,” I admit, lifting my eyes to his. He smiles.
“Good,” he replies. “Now you’re being honest.”
