“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?”
“That’s the thing,” Sydney says. “Not just you, Mena.” She looks at the other girls. “We’ve all been through it. Multiple times.”
“Which brings me back to my thought,” Annalise says. “They are using some high-tech gadgets here. There were files about networks, computer chips, and ‘silver tech,’ they called it. They’re making us ingest the stuff. And they put a paralytic in the juice for impulse control therapy—I saw it in the formula.”
The other girls look at her, surprised.
“I read plant,” she explains. “It’s deadly nightshade mixed with sodium pentothal and a splash of bloodroot. It’s why we’re sick afterward. Anyways,” she continues, “it’s how they perform the therapies—you can’t move. Then they inject you with something—that silver tech stuff. I’m not sure what it does. But I’ve already started to kill off the plant hybrids they made for the juice. At least that way they can’t make us defenseless.”
Sydney tells her that was a good idea, but I sit there staring at them. This is all too much. Too outrageous. Why would the school do this to us? To what end?
“Lennon Rose’s file was empty,” Annalise whispers. “Only thing in there was a notice of permanent dismissal citing money as the reason. But...” She shifts her eyes around checking for eavesdroppers. “There was no follow-up address. It’s like... It’s like she just disappeared.”
We’re quiet for a moment, sadness drifting into my chest.I was happy for Lennon Rose, I think.
“And the doctor has a lab in the basement,” Marcella says. “Annalise saw it mentioned in the file, so I went down there to check it out. It was locked. From what I can tell, he works there at night. Late night. Whatever’s happening at this school—the technology—I think it’s coming from there. I think they’re experimenting on us.”
My head is literally starting to hurt from all the information. It’s like I’ve dropped into a different world: same people, different reality.
“Tell her about the poems,” Brynn suggests.
“Poems?” I ask. The girls fall quiet.
There’s a loud clanking noise, startling us, and we all look up to see Professor Penchant knocking his bowl against the table while glaring at us. Glaring at me, specifically.
“That’s enough, girls,” he calls. “Leave Philomena on her own.”
The way he spits out my name is hate-filled, and I immediately lower my eyes, feeling horrible.
“My room before lights-out,” Annalise murmurs, spearing a piece of salad with her fork.
We agree, but I try not to think anymore. My head is killing me.
•••
During quiet reflection before bed, I slip into Annalise’s room, hoping Guardian Bose won’t notice. The girls are in there already, waiting, and they jump when I open the door. Sydney has a book under her hand.
They’re all staring at me, and I feel different from them. It makes me sad because we’ve always been one. Like roses, growing separate from the other flowers, but all together. I don’t want to be apart from them.
“Come here,” Sydney says sympathetically. “I know this is hard. You’ll be better soon, I know it.”
“Soon I’ll be one hundred percent,” I say as I sit next to her. She puts her arm around me.
“Not that kind of better,” she says, only this time it sounds like a warning. She slides the book in my direction.
