I watch him. “You don’t think she killed herself,” I say.
“I know she didn’t,” he responds instantly, turning to look at me. “That’s what I’ve been trying to figure out, Mena. I couldn’t get close to the school, though. And they keep you girls locked away. Then I saw the bus, met you in the gas station. I should have told you right away, but I was worried that you’d tell Petrov or any of those creeps. I didn’t want them to destroy the evidence. I should have told you,” he reiterates. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”
“You manipulated me,” I tell him. “And I’m really sick of men manipulating me.”
Despite the horror of his story, it still hurts that he used me. Logically, I see no reason to forgive him. Because the immoral use forgiveness as a weapon.
“I kept coming back because of you,” he says, his voice softer. “It wasn’t just about finding information anymore. And when you weren’t there this week, I... I was scared. And I missed you. And I was scared,” he repeats.
I want to doubt him, but as I look him over, I see that he’s a bit of a mess. His hair is unruly, his chin unshaven. His expression is frantic and helpless at the same time.
“Did you find Lennon Rose?” I ask.
“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I found her parents, the ones you mentioned. They own a big-time pharmaceutical company.” He waits a second. “And they don’t have any kids.”
My lips part. “What?”
“They have no listed dependents. Not ever.”
“I don’t understand,” I tell him.
“Neither do I. Which is why,” he adds, “you can’t go back to that school. I don’t know what they’re doing to you girls, but you’re not going back.”
There is the sound of approaching footsteps, and Jackson quickly grabs the sleeve of my sweater and swings me around, facing me as he blocks me from view. We’re suddenly close, and I stare up at him, even as he keeps his eyes to the side, checking behind him. My heart beats faster, and I’m relieved when a woman walks by instead of the Guardian.
“They’re experimenting on us,” I whisper, looking up at him. Jackson’s hand is still on my arm as he looks down at me. I see his throat bob.
“How?” he asks.
I debate telling him, but ultimately, the girls and I decided he might be our best connection to the outside world. Our way to get out of the academy permanently. So I describe what I remember from impulse control therapy. As I do, Jackson’s hand falls away from me and he takes a step back, horrified.
I tell him about EVA being a parental assistant and not a person, how none of our calls get through. And then, even though it makes me wildly uncomfortable... I tell him about Guardian Bose coming to my room. It’s violating to say the words out loud, but once they’re gone from my lips—there is relief. Release.
“I’m going—” Jackson starts, then pauses for a moment as if trying to control himself. “I’m going to fucking kill him,” he finishes.
“I don’t need you to kill him,” I say, shaking my head. Men with their violent tempers, just like in the movies the Guardian watches. “I need you to help me find a way to shut them down. Because even if we leave, our parents will send us back. And even bigger than that, there are other girls. Future girls. We can’t let them keep doing this.”
“They stuck a fucking ice pick in your eye,” he says loudly, and I quickly reach to put my hand over his mouth, casting a cautious glance toward the theater. My touch calms him, and when he pulls my hand away, he looks at the scratch on my palm.
“What do you want me to do?” he asks miserably.
“How do we get them shut down?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” he whispers. “They’re powerful. I don’t know.”
“Then that’s what you need to find out,” I say. “You have to...”
But the words fall away as my eyes drift past him to the other side of the alley. To the building set back, just out of view of the street. My chest tightens, and I push past Jackson to get a better look.
It’s a diner with flashing red sign. It’s the diner from my nightmare. Only I realize now, it wasn’t a dream at all. It was a memory.
23
The sign flashesRED’S DINER. I’m beside myself, not sure I can trust my eyes. I start that way, and Jackson catches up with me, asking what I’m doing. He keeps looking back at the theater, probably hoping that I’m running away with him. But instead, I walk up the stairs and enter the restaurant, a bell jingling on the door.
I look around, knowing what I’ll see before I do. The vinyl booths with chevron pattern, the checkered floor. And there’s the table from my dream, sitting empty. I walk over and slide into the seat, just like I’m sliding into the memory.
I sat in the booth next to the window with a bowl in front of me. The air reeked of grease—bacon, sausage, ham. Meat. The table was sticky with syrup. I had a bowl of oatmeal, unsweetened. I stirred my spoon slowly, lonely. Scared.
