The Program

by Suzanne Young

  “I bet she looks beautiful,” my mother says. “The returners always look so healthy, don’t they, Don?”

  My father doesn’t respond, but I feel him watching me. I wonder if he’s gauging my reaction, mentally going through the “Is your child depressed?” checklist The Program provided them. I’m not sure I have the strength to put on the mask, but I look up anyway. And smile.

  “She does look great,” I reply. “Hopefully she’ll be able to hang out again soon.”

  “Just give her time to heal,” my mother says, grinning at me like she’s proud. “Thank God for The Program. It’s saving so many lives.”

  My stomach lurches and I stand up quickly, not wanting to cry when I’ve made it this far into the conversation. “I’ll do the dishes tonight,” I say, grabbing my plate. “After that I’ve got a ton of homework.”

  I rush from the room, getting into the kitchen just as the tears start to sting my eyes. I need to do something before I break into sobs in front of them. There is a pamphlet for The Program sitting next to our phone in the living room—something every parent received when our high school became part of the experiment. But to me that paper is like a threat, always reminding me of the next step if I slip up. So I don’t slip up. Ever.

  I look around the kitchen and my gaze rests on the gas stove. Walking over, I turn it on—the flames catching life in shades of blue and orange. I’m going to die if I don’t cry right now. The sorrow is going to rip through my chest and kill me.

  But instead, I turn over my arm, the tender part exposed, and stick it into the fire. The burn is immediate and I scream out in pain, backing away as I cover the area automatically with my hand. My entire body reacts, as if all of me is on fire.

  I decide that I like it. I like the pain and distraction.

  Tears stream down my face even though the emotional release feels good, and I drop onto the tile floor. My parents rush in, and the minute they do I hold up my arm, the blistered area bright red against my skin. “I got burned,” I sob. “I leaned against the stove to grab the pan and the burner must have turned on.”

  My mother gasps and runs to turn off the burner. “Donald,” she says. “I told you to put the pots in the sink.”

  He apologizes and kneels down next to me. “Let me see, sweetheart.” And they fuss, letting me cry as long as I want because they think I was accidentally injured. They have no idea that I’m really crying for Lacey. For Brady. And most of all, for myself.

  • • •

  James sighs. “You shouldn’t have started in the car.” His voice is concerned on the other end of the phone as I hold it to my ear. I’m curled up in bed, my arm bandaged and Tylenol PM making me sleepy. “That’s the problem, Sloane. Once you start, you might not be able to stop.” He pauses. “I shouldn’t have let you cry.”

  “I just had to mourn a little,” I say. “Not all of us can get tattoos.”

  “This isn’t about me. Now how bad is the burn?” he asks.

  “Blistered.”

  “Goddamn it.” There’s a rustling, and I imagine him roughly rubbing his face. “I’m coming over.”

  “No,” I say. “It’s late. I’m going to fall asleep soon anyway. You can be sweet to me tomorrow.”

  “I’m going to kick your ass tomorrow.”

  I smile. “Really? You really think so?”

  “Go to bed, Sloane.” He doesn’t sound nearly as amused as he normally would. “I’ll be there early to pick you up. And please,” James says, “don’t do anything else stupid tonight.”

  I swallow hard, too exhausted to cry anymore, and agree. After I hang up, I pull the comforter over my head. I think about my brother in my last moments of consciousness—guilt heavy in my chest. Sometimes it hurts so much that I pretend he never existed at all, as if that can make me okay. But then I remember his smile, his jokes, his . . . life. And I understand what my parents have lost and why they’re so concerned about me. I ask myself if I’d be different if I were them, but I don’t know the answer.

  • • •

  I feel a light touch on my cheek, and my eyes flutter open. James looks down at me as he stands next to my bed, his face worried. “We’re going to be late for school,” he says. “Your mom finally sent me up here to get you.”

  I feel confused and glance at the clock, seeing that it’s past eight. I get up on my elbows and look around the room, disoriented. When I do, James moves to sit on the edge of my bed. “Let me see your arm,” he says, taking it before I can agree.

  He peels back the bandage and I wince. “I’m really unhappy with you right now,” he says, not looking at me, just examining my burn. “I like your skin better without the scars.” His eyes meet mine, and then he leans down to kiss just above the tender spot on my arm. He climbs onto the bed and gets under the sheets next to me, not caring that my parents are downstairs and could come up at any second.

  “I know it’s not easy,” he whispers, his breath warm as his lips touch my ear. “But we have to push through.” He picks up one of my curls and twists it around his finger, wrapping and unwrapping. “Every morning I think this will be it, the day I get sick. The day the handlers will flag me, take me. And I don’t want to get out of bed. But I do. Because I can’t leave you here alone.”

  At the thought of losing him, I reach out to take his hand, squeezing my fingers between his.

  “We have to fake it to make it,” he says, sounding bitter. “And I don’t make it without you, baby. Brady told us to take care of each other, and I’m not going to let him down again.”

  “I’m tired of faking it.”

  “So am I.” He breathes. “So am I.”

  He pulls our held hands to his mouth and kisses mine. Then he turns and puts his lips on my neck. “Let’s ditch,” he murmurs between kisses. “We’ll say you have an appointment and go to the river, lie around in the sun all day.”

  I smile. “Didn’t we do that yesterday?”

  “Yes. But I could use another day off.” He takes my thigh and pulls it over his, leaning in to kiss my collarbone.

  “Stop,” I say, but it’s halfhearted. Truth is, I could use the heat that James gives me. But before we get too far, he sighs and pulls away.

  “You’re right. I really shouldn’t take advantage of you when you’re injured.” He sits up, pulling back the cover and exposing my pajamas. “Wear a skirt maybe,” he says. “Staring at your legs always puts me in a better mood.” He flashes that broad smile as he stands. He goes to my door and pauses, his facade nearly crumbling. But without looking back, he nods and then goes downstairs.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  WHEN WE PULL INTO THE PARKING LOT, I GO TO climb out of the car when James catches my hand. “Hey,” he says seriously. “I have to tell you something before we go in.”

  My heart skips a beat. “What?”

  “I didn’t want to say anything when we were at your house, but Miller broke into Lacey’s bedroom last night, hoping to talk to her. He thinks he might get flagged today. I’ll let him tell you the rest. But he’s okay. He’s alive.”

  I lower my head and try to catch my breath, taking my hand from James’s before resting it on the dashboard to steady myself. “He’s okay?” I ask, looking sideways at him. He nods, but there’s something in his expression that keeps me from feeling relieved.

  “Do you think they’re coming for him?” I ask.

  “I hope not.”

  I close my eyes and throw my head back against the seat. “Why did he do that?” I moan. “Why didn’t he just wait?”

  “I don’t know,” James says. “But I think we should take off early today, maybe after lunch. We need to keep a lower profile around here.”

  “Says the guy who faked a school project at Sumpter.”

  “That was different. I was trying to help Miller.”

  “It was dumb,” I say. “We have to do better. It’s our fault if they take him.”

  “I know that,” James snaps. “Don’t you thin
k I know that?”

  We stare at each other, his features taking on a wild edge. James feels responsible for my brother’s death. For my safety, and Miller’s safety. It’s just how he is. And sometimes I’m stupid enough to believe that he can really keep us safe.

  “I know everything you think,” I murmur, despair settling in my chest.

  James’s expression softens. “Come here,” he says. At first I don’t move, the impending threat on Miller making the space in the car, in the world, suffocatingly small. “Sloane, I need you,” James adds, his voice thick.

  And when I hear his plea, I push aside everything else. I lean into him, digging my nails into his back as I clutch him to me. He flinches, and then squeezes me tighter. The minute I turn eighteen, James and I are going to leave town—start over someplace else. But we can’t go yet. They’ll find us, issue an Amber Alert as a way to track us down. We’d never get away. No one has ever gotten away before.

  We stay close until James’s hand slides onto my bare thigh just below the hem of my skirt, his breathing deepening. “My lips are tired of talking,” he whispers next to my ear. “Now kiss me and make me forget,” he says.

  I pull back to see the sadness in James’s eyes, the mix of desire there. And so I whisper that I love him, then climb onto his lap and kiss him, as if it’s the last one we’ll ever have.

  • • •

  In economics class, I stare at Miller as he sits next to me with his head lowered, drawing in the notepad he has under his desk. I’m checking his mannerisms to see if there’s anything that can get him flagged. He seems fine.

  “Well?” I whisper as the teacher starts walking around to hand back quizzes. “What happened at Lacey’s?”

  Miller pauses in his sketching. “I slipped in through her window after her parents were asleep. I tried to tell her that I wasn’t going to hurt her, but she started crying.” He shakes his head. “She thought I was there to kill her or something. Who knows what The Program has told her about me.”

  I put my hand on my forehead, leaning my elbow on my desk. This is a major disaster. This is enough to get him taken away for sure. “Did she call for her parents?”

  “No,” Miller says. “She told me to get out—even after I tried to explain who I was, she told me to get out.” His tone is flat. “I guess I was hoping that on some level she could still love me.” He looks over, his eyes glassy. “Do you think she could?”

  “Yes,” I say, “I do. But Miller, you could have been arrested. Sent away. And then what? What would I do without you?”

  “I had to try. You wouldn’t give up on James.”

  I pause. “No. I wouldn’t.” He nods, looking sorry that he made the comparison, and goes back to his notepad. “Are you going to keep trying?” I ask.

  “No point,” he answers. “She’s not the same person. I don’t even think she’d fall for me again.”

  I blink back warm tears. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know,” he says. “I have to move on, right? At least that’s what my mom tells me.” Miller’s mom was never crazy about Lacey in the first place. She hoped her son would end up with someone more on the cheerful side. But in our lives, there isn’t all that much to be peppy about anymore. And those that are have usually gone through The Program.

  “Miller, you don’t—”

  “Sloane Barstow?” Mr. Rocco calls, and then glares me into silence. Miller’s head is down as he continues to doodle in his notepad under the desk, but I’m relieved that he isn’t planning anything crazy. If we can just keep it together through this latest threat, we’ll survive. And maybe in a few months, when her monitoring is over, we can convince Lacey to hang out with us again.

  “James and I are leaving after lunch,” I whisper when I’m sure the teacher isn’t looking. “You in?”

  “Hell yes. You think I’m here to learn?”

  I smile. Miller sounds like himself for the first time today. Just before I text James to tell him it’s on, I glance once more at Miller, catching what he’s drawing in his notepad. A large, black spiral, taking over the entire page. I turn toward the front, pretending not to notice. In my pocket, my phone vibrates.

  I covertly slide it out and check the message. KEEP MILLER CLOSE. EXTRA HANDLERS ON CAMPUS.

  “Miller,” I whisper. “James says there are more handlers today. Do you think they’re here for you?”

  Miller licks at his bottom lip, as if considering, then he nods. “Could be. Let’s leave before lunch then,” he says. “We’ll go to my house.”

  I agree and text James, glad to leave. The last thing I want is to see my best friend get taken away. Again.

  • • •

  I sit next to Miller on his flower-patterned couch as James is in the kitchen rummaging through the refrigerator. Miller chews on his thumbnail, and when he moves to the next finger, I see that they’re all bitten painfully short, bleeding under the slivers of the nail still there. I reach out and smack his hand away from his face and he rests it in his lap.

  “Saw her on the way to school today,” Miller says, staring out the picture window across from us.

  “Lacey?”

  “Yeah. Drove by Sumpter and saw her in the lot, talking to Evan Freeman. She . . . was laughing.” He begins biting on his nail again, but I don’t stop him. Instead I lean my head on Miller’s shoulder and stare out the window with him.

  Returners aren’t allowed to get too close to people for a few months after coming back, but they are allowed to make a few friends—especially if they’re also successful graduates of The Program. I guess the handlers figure that if they’re both scrubbed clean, they can’t be bad influences on each other. Before Miller, Lacey actually went on a few dates with Evan Freeman. She said he used too much tongue.

  And now, the fact that Lacey was talking to him—laughing—all while not realizing that she already knows him, makes me sick. It’s so disturbing that I can barely handle it.

  “What do you think they did to her in there?” I mumble, not sure I really want the answer.

  “They dissected her,” Miller responds, spitting out a bit of nail. “They opened up her head and took out the pieces, putting them back together as a happy-face puzzle. It’s like she’s not even real anymore.”

  “We don’t know that,” I say. “She could still be the same on the inside. She just doesn’t remember.”

  “And if she never does?” He turns to me, a tear spilling over onto his cheek. “Do you really think anything can ever be the same again? She’s empty, Sloane. She’s the walking dead now.”

  I don’t want to believe that. I’ve seen returners for nearly two years, and although I’ve never had more than a standing-next-to-me-in-line-at-the-mall conversation, I’m sure they’re still people. Just . . . shinier, as if everything is great. They’ve been brainwashed or something. But they’re not empty. They can’t be.

  “It would have been better if she had died,” Miller whispers. I sit up and glare at him.

  “Don’t say that,” I say. “She’s not dead. And in time we’ll try again. She may not know you, Miller. But her heart will.”

  He shakes his head, not meeting my eyes. “No. I give up. I’m letting her go just like the psychologist said I should.”

  After The Program took her, they sentenced me, James, and Miller to two weeks of daily intensive therapy—therapy beyond the usual assessments. They asked for details, things they could use in her treatment. But really I think they were trying to see if we were infected too. Luckily we weren’t.

  I want to tell Miller not to move on, to wait it out and try to win her again. But in a way, I know he’s right. The way Lacey looked, how she acted. She’s not the same. And she probably never will be.

  I remember the first time Miller met Lacey. I’d brought him to our table, hoping to introduce them, but Lacey was in the lunch line arguing with the lady at the register. Lacey was wearing this ridiculous black-and-white-striped dress that made her look like Beetlejui
ce, but Miller got this puppy-dog expression on his face. He leaned in and told me and James that she was exactly the kind of girl he was looking for—the kind who would piss off his mother.

  I shoved his shoulder, but James laughed from across the table. “Don’t do it, man,” James told him with a smirk. “She’s like a black widow. She eats dudes like you for breakfast.”

  And Miller just smiled as if the idea fascinated him. Lacey wasn’t so easy to convince. But when they finally got together, they were happy. They were so happy.

  “I’m sorry, Miller,” I say in a low voice. He nods and then turns suddenly to hug me. I rest my hand on the back of his neck as he squeezes me so tight I can barely breathe. I don’t tell him it’ll be okay because I don’t know if I can hope that it’s true.

  Just then James walks into the living room, biting into an apple. He looks at us, tilting his head as if assessing the situation. He takes another bite and walks over, leaning down to put his arms around both of us. “Can I have some love too?” he asks in the stupid way he does when he’s trying to make sure we’re not getting too sad. He’s trying to distract us. He kisses loudly at Miller’s cheek, and I laugh, pushing him away.

  James straightens, but Miller just stands and doesn’t say anything. James’s expression falters and he shoots me a warning look, as if telling me I shouldn’t have let Miller break down like that. I shrug because I didn’t mean to.

  Glancing around the room to figure out what to do next, James walks to the fireplace mantel and picks up the latest family photo. “Man,” he says, looking at Miller. “Your mom is smokin’ hot in this picture.”

  “Go to hell,” Miller says, biting his thumbnail again as he hovers in the doorway. They have this same conversation every time James sees Miller’s mom, who is indeed very pretty. She’s single, raising Miller by herself. She has blond hair and wears short skirts, and has a possible crush on my obnoxious boyfriend who she says is going to be a “heartbreaker” when he gets older. Uh, yeah. Not if I can help it.