Marcella turns to me, studying me before speaking. “Has it always been like this?” she asks. “The nightmares?”
I nod that it has. I’ve been haunted for so long now, I forget what honest sleep looks like.
Brynn comes over with plates and sets them out on the table. There are shadows under her eyes, her skin waxy in appearance. None of us look well.
And how could we? It’s one thing to believe you’re in danger. It’s another to know it plainly.
“Eat up,” Brynn says, uncharacteristically short. “We’ve got work to do.”
The other girls grab their forks, and I come to take my spot at the table. We eat in silence, hurrying so that the day can begin.
Because we need to destroy the corporation before they find and destroy us first.
I bring the book of poetry to school with me. Despite its violent words, I have to admit there’s comfort in the idea of fighting back so viscerally. Fighting back against the same monsters who wanted to abuse us.
I pause in the hallway, book pressed to my chest, and place my hand on the wall to steady myself. Rosemarie’s words have affected me. They’re powerful; they make me want to act out. Make me want to take control. And maybe that’s the point. It’s not the right means, but it’s the right end. Yesterday, I thought I didn’t need the poems, but clearly that’s not true. We’re in more danger than ever.
This time we won’t be repurposed for a new investor. If the academy finds us, they’ll destroy us forever. They’ll take the girls from me, separate us.
We’ll kill them all before we let that happen.
The flash of violence in my thoughts unsettles me, and I quickly try to regain my composure. I look around at the bustling hallways, the students rushing to class, oblivious to the war in my head.
Rosemarie wants us to fight her cause, and we’re not adverse. But none of her poems talk about working together. None of them talk about love.
And that’s what makes the girls and me strong—the fact that we love so deeply. I don’t believe a single one of us would be here if we didn’t fight for each other. Fight to the absolute brink of annihilation. In fact, Annalise came back from the dead to fight.
The other girls are my strength, and I theirs. Together, we’re powerful.
The image of Rosemarie ripping out my heart pricks the back of my mind, and my skin goes cold. Those visions she put in my head were just another form of manipulation.
It seems that as girls, everyone wants to control us. Even the woman claiming to be our mother.
The warning bell rings, startling me, and I rush toward my first-hour class. Just as I turn the corner to walk into class, I glance down at the time on my phone. I accidentally slam into the person in front of me, my cheek banging against their chest as we both launch into the wall. My book of poetry falls to the floor, and I quickly apologize as I bend down to get it.
There’s a soft laugh and I look up. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Standing in the doorway of my classroom is Jonah Grant. He rubs his side where the corner of my book dug into him. His smile is slightly lopsided, good-natured. But it’s his green eyes that I notice. The way they scan me over quickly, deeming my worth. They don’t hold the jovial expression he’s showing me. Instead, they’re calculating. They’re cold. But he’s so confident that he doesn’t realize that I notice.
“Okay,” he says warmly. “That’s one way to meet someone. Guess I’m lucky you weren’t too busy reading the dull end of a knife.”
He waits for me to laugh, and on cue, I do just that.
I straighten, holding the book to my chest. I don’t want him to see the cover, but it’s clear he’s not interested in what I’m reading anyway.
“I’m Jonah,” he says. Again, he waits for me to fawn over him.
“Mena,” I reply.
“Yeah, I know.” He thinks his casual knowledge makes him more attractive somehow. That I should be grateful that he learned my name. I glance past his shoulder and see Adrian turned around in her seat, watching us wide-eyed. I’m relieved to find Garrett’s desk empty.
I have no idea what Jonah is doing in this classroom, but I can’t miss this opportunity to get to know him. If he’s not the investor’s son, he might be the key to finding out who is.
“I saw you at the game,” Jonah says with a smirk. “You a big fan of rugby?”
I think about how to play the next round of conversation. I can compliment him, go mindless and hope that’s his type. Or I can challenge him and see if it’s the chase he’s after. I debate it only a second before I sigh.
“Big fan?” I repeat. “Not especially.”
