“They’re all yours now, Dr. Ginschlaugh,” says Ms. Fitz after dropping us in a classroom where all the chairs have been arranged in a big circle.

“Thank you, Ms. Fitz!” booms a voice from inside an adjoining office.

It’s that guy who looks like a discount bad guy. Only this time he’s wearing a shirt and tie. He drinks us all in and smiles.

“Well then,” he says. “Who’s ready to talk about feelings?”

It doesn’t take long to figure out that group therapy is going to be the most exquisite torture we’ll find here at reform school—it’s actually people bragging about their bullying—but I’m skipping ahead.

“So welcome to group therapy!” our hairless leader announces. “Here, you can say anything you like. The most important rule is to be honest. This is a place for you to be totally honest. Brutally honest.”

We fidget in our seats.

“Who would like to begin?” he asks with a look around the circle. When he meets my eye, I break out in a cold sweat.

And then he waits, like he’s expecting us to read his mind about what happens next. But that’s not how classes are supposed to work, Tom—it’s the teacher’s job to tell us about what we need to know for the test. That’s why they call them “teachers” instead of, like, “inquisitors.”

And still? Much like the Spanish Inquisition, in group therapy the right answers are kept secret. You’re supposed to just know them, like by magic, and you’re punished with more torturous therapy if you do not.

“Okay, fine,” Razan calls out. “I’ll go first. You know what the weirdest part of this whole ‘discipline’ is?” She’s pretty dramatic, Tom. “The very first thing they tell us to do here at reform school is the exact thing I did to get sent to reform school.”

“Hold on,” says the girl next to her. “You got sent to reform school for talking about feelings?”

“No.” Razan pauses for effect. “I got sent here for dancing.”

“Oh,” says the girl. Then she frowns. “Wait. You got sent to reform school for what?”

Razan fires a devilish smile at Rembrandt. He’s as far across the circle from her as he can get, I see. And something tells me that’s not an accident. “You want to tell the story, Remy?”

“No, you go ahead, Razan,” he says, glaring daggers at her. “Tell us a story.”

“All right, children,” says Dr. Ginschlaugh. “Let’s get to the point. We’ll hear both your sides. Razan, please continue.”

Razan’s grin gets twice as lopsided, but just when it looks like it’ll slide off her face, she brightens and goes on. “Basically it’s like this. There we were. Remy and me, I mean.” She points across the circle to her nemesis.

He refuses to respond.

“We were the best,” she says, turning to the rest of the class. “The people loved us and the competition hated us … and then Rembrandt ruined everything.”

Rembrandt rolls his eyes. “Come on—”

“No interruptions!” She plows onward: “There we were, the champions of the competitive dancing world. Best friends, partners, and there was nothing we couldn’t do when we were together … until he betrayed me.”

“Oh seriously! I betrayed you? How did I—?”

“You dropped me for another partner, Remy,” she explains calmly.

“Your family moved to Ohio that year! What was I supposed to—?”

“Oh, I don’t know … not abandon me for a girl who’s half a foot short of two left feet?”

“Nice,” he says. “You’ve always been the funny one.”

“You know what was really funny? When you soaked that kid Luke’s costume in dog pee. And when you snipped off half of Daniel’s hair so he’d be too embarrassed to get up in front of everyone looking like a—”

“—stop it, Razan. You set me up!”

“So you’re saying I forced you? You were just a helpless, witless idiot?” Her eyes move around the circle defiantly. “That time you replaced Whitney’s shoes with ones that were two sizes too small? I somehow tricked you?”

Rembrandt’s fists are getting white—and then, after a moment: “What do you want, Razan? We both moved on. You want me gone for good? Dead?”

Razan smiles. “Oh, I don’t want you dead, Rembrandt,” she says sweetly. “But you might wish you were after …”

“Oh yeah?”

“You know that time you messed up the routine and your mom stood up in the middle of our show and dragged you out of the hotel ballroom while you screeched like a five-year-old with tears running down your face? You might think that was your worst memory, but that will only be the start after I’ve gotten my revenge.”

I keep waiting for Ginschlaugh to put an end to it. But he just watches like a reptile, unblinking.

I should probably run away before my turn comes. Or before these two set fire to the room. Or if they don’t, maybe I should set fire to the room so we can all bust out?

I turn to Ash nervously and he gives me a “calm down” look.

Fine, I promise silently. I’ll stay.

But in the back of my head, I’m definitely keeping the whole “setting a fire” thing as Plan B.