“And Lacey was your best friend, but you were not aware of her condition before she was sent to The Program? You weren’t trying to hide it from us?”
“No. I had no idea.” And then I can sense what’s coming.
“Are you hiding anything now?”
“No.” I keep my face as calm as possible, meeting his eyes. I imagine that I’m a robot, void of feelings. Void of life.
“Do you have a boyfriend, Sloane?” The corner of his mouth curves up when he asks, as if he’s some guy I just met who’s trying to flirt.
“Yes.”
“James Murphy?”
Oh, God. “Mm-hmm.”
“And how is he doing?”
“James is fine. He’s strong.”
“Are you strong?” he asks, tilting his head as he looks at me.
“Yes.”
The handler nods then. “It’s only our hope to keep you well, Sloane. You know that right?”
I don’t respond, wondering what James will say under these questions. If they’ll know from one look that he’s sick.
“There is voluntary admittance into The Program if you start to feel overwhelmed. Or if you just need someone to talk to.” He reaches out then and pats my thigh, a move that catches me off guard, and I jump.
The handler stands up and walks around my chair as if he’s leaving. Instead he stops behind me, putting his hand on my shoulder. His fingers tighten on the muscle. “Have a good day, Sloane. Something tells me I’ll be seeing you again soon.”
And then he drops his arm and walks out, leaving me alone in the darkened room.
• • •
I practically run to lunch, terrified that James won’t be there. I stop, swaying on my feet when I see him at our table, drinking from a carton of orange juice.
“You’re okay,” I say when I reach him, practically collapsing onto his lap as I hug myself to him. He doesn’t hug me back, but he doesn’t push me off, either. I press my face to his neck.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’m okay.”
I pull back and look at his face, trying to gauge how damaged he is. His skin is pale and his mouth is sagging, like he’s forgotten how to smile. I run my fingers over his cheek, and he closes his eyes when I do. “I was so worried,” I whisper.
He doesn’t move, and I hug him again, holding him tight like I want him to do for me, but he doesn’t. After a while I let him go, and he starts to eat, taking small bites of his food. He stares across the cafeteria, but at no particular point. Just away.
“Has anyone interviewed you?” I ask.
He shakes his head no.
“They pulled me from class,” I say.
James looks over at me. “What happened?”
“They asked about Miller. About you. . . .”
He doesn’t react; instead he just turns back to his food. I miss him so much, even though he’s right in front me. He’s not the same. “No one’s spoken to me,” he says. “I haven’t even seen any handlers today.”
And although that should make me feel better, his statement only makes me more uneasy. Why did they pull me? Either I was the one being evaluated or they were collecting evidence on James. I’m not sure which it was.
“I want to get out of town,” I say. “Do you think you can get away? I want to go camping again.”
James chews slowly. “I can try.”
The emptiness in his voice is killing me, and I’m not sure I can keep this up much longer. “Don’t you want to go with me?” I ask, my voice small.
He nods. “Of course I do, baby.”
I exhale, leaning to put my head on James’s shoulder. Under the table, his hand finds mine and I feel better, like this small show of life can mean something. Movement in the corner catches my attention, and I dart my eyes over there, finding the handler watching me with a smile on his lips.
CHAPTER TEN
THE REST OF THE WEEK IS MORE OF THE SAME. I try to keep up the appearance of normal, especially when I feel him watching us. The handler is in my classes, the cafeteria, always staring. Always a smirk on his face. It’s like he’s willing me to mess up.
They don’t pull James aside for an interview, and I wonder what it means. Did I seem more depressed to the handler? Have they already decided to take James?
When Friday comes, I practically drag James from the building, so relieved that I won’t have to fake it through another day. But oddly enough, I don’t think I want to cry either. I’ve almost convinced myself that Miller really wasn’t our best friend. It’s the only way I can deal.
I prepacked the car so we can head directly to the campsite. James is silent in the passenger seat, staring out the window. My parents seemed a little wary about us going so soon after Miller, maybe even a little suspicious. They asked why James hasn’t been by the house, and I told them he was studying—which is probably why they were suspicious in the first place. At James’s house I’ve been a permanent fixture, whispering to him and pretending like we’re being playful when his dad is around. Really I’m just telling him to hang on. I put him in his bed at night and tell him that I love him and that I won’t let anything happen to him. He doesn’t say it back. I’m scared that he never will again.
• • •
James sits, staring at the fire pit, while I put up the tent, grunting and scraping myself with the poles. I continue to look over at him, but he never looks back. When the camp is set up, I grab my sleeping bag from the car, feeling exhausted. I call to him, tossing the other bag in his direction.
“You can at least bring in your own sleeping bag,” I say, trying to sound light. “You’re making me do everything.”
He doesn’t respond, but he does get up, walking behind me to the tent. He climbs inside as we lay out our bags, his gaze a million miles away.
“Hey,” I say, pausing in front of him to brush back his hair. “Do you want to lie down for a little bit?” His eyes meet mine, but only for a second, and then he nods and kneels down on his bag, spreading out on his back. I chew on my lip as I get down next to him, curling up against him the way he used to like. My thigh over his, my face at the crook of his neck.
I rest my hand on his chest and listen to him breathe. He doesn’t touch me. “I miss you,” I say quietly. “I’m so lonely without you, James. I’m trying to be strong, but I’m not sure how much I have left. You have to come back to me. I don’t think I can get through this alone.” My eyes well up, but James doesn’t move. God, I just want him back. I want to hear his laugh, his sarcastic comments, his fake ego. “I love you,” I whisper, and the tent is quiet.
I’m losing him, just like I lost the others. I sniffle back the start of tears and talk like he’s there with me. “I won’t let you go, you know?” I say. “I’m never going to just give up. So don’t even think about getting another girlfriend.” I smile, pretending he laughed. “I know things are bad right now, but they’ll get better. You’re not like Brady. You won’t quit. You won’t leave me on the side of a river wondering why. You’re stronger than that. I know you are.”
I slide my hand under his shirt, resting it over his heart. His skin is warm, familiar. The beating is slow.
“We should probably get that heart rate up,” I say lightly. “You could use the exercise.” I get up on my elbow, looking down into his beautiful face, his eyes fixed on a point beyond the tent that I can’t see. “Hey,” I whisper. When he slowly drags his gaze to mine, it’s lost and unfocused.
James and I have a million shared memories, but somehow I know that talking about his little-league games or the time he sliced open his foot on a rock isn’t going to snap him out of this. Instead I run my hand down his upper body and over his stomach, stopping when I get to the top of his jeans. And when I slip my hand inside them, his eyelids flutter and he takes a breath, but just a small one.
I think quickly, remembering that I don’t have any condoms. I doubt James brought any, and neither of us, right mind or not, would ever take a chance. Not in this world. Bu
t I want him. I want him to forget how sad he is.
“I love you,” I say, but James’s eyes are shut. I lean down and kiss softly at his lips, nearly stopping when he doesn’t respond. Then I kiss his neck, his chest. I undo his button as I kiss his stomach and then lower. And it isn’t until I feel his hand in my hair and hear him murmur my name breathlessly that I know I have him back—even if only for a second.
• • •
“Do you want me to build a fire?” I ask. James is wrapped tightly around me, his cheek against the back of my neck.
“No,” he says softly, holding me. “I just want to stay here with you.”
I smile a little and realize it’s the first real smile I’ve had since Miller died. The thought of him makes the happiness quickly fade. “Miller would want you to be okay,” I whisper.
James swallows hard and his arms loosen from around me. “I’m not well, Sloane,” James says. I turn and face him. His eyes are bloodshot, his chin growing stubbly.
“Don’t say that,” I tell him.
“I’m going to kill myself.”
My entire chest seizes up, and I grab James hard, pulling him toward me. “Don’t you dare!” I cry out. “I swear to God, James!” But I’m shaking so hard I’m not even sure he can understand my words. “Don’t leave me,” I sob. “Please don’t leave me here alone. Please.”
Slowly James puts his arms around me and guides me against his chest, brushing back my hair. “Sloane,” he says. “I can’t go into The Program. I don’t want to forget you, forget Brady.”
I pull back and look at him. “Do you think you’ll remember if you’re dead? You promised me, James. You promised forever.” Tears roll down my cheeks, and I expect him to wipe them and tell me it’s going to be okay.
Instead he tightens his arms, clinging to me silently as I rest beside him. But he didn’t agree to not kill himself.
“Please hold on,” I whisper. “Tell me you’ll hold on.”
His breath is warm against my skin. “I’ll try.”
We lie around in the tent until it’s dark, leaving only to get energy bars and water, and then later to use the bathroom. I don’t sleep all night, worried about what tomorrow will bring. Wondering if the old James will ever come back.
And when the sun rises again, I look over at him hopefully. He’s on his back, staring into nothing, and I know that he’s lost. And so am I.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
IT’S BEEN TWO WEEKS AND TWO DAYS SINCE MILLER died, but James is still not himself. I’m exhausted, keeping up our front, pretending to be okay. I do James’s homework, ripping out his pages of black spirals and instead writing in math logarithms. I walk him to his classes, making sure he doesn’t try to buy QuikDeath, always watching if anyone notices his change.
It’s clear they do. Other students avert their eyes when we pass, not wanting to be associated with us for the risk of getting flagged. I know time is running out, and so I overcompensate even more. I get louder with my laughter. Kiss James passionately in the hallway—even though he doesn’t respond. I’m starting to forget what he was like before. I’m starting to forget what we were like before.
Nearly a month after Miller’s death, our classes change for the semester. James ends up in my math class by some miracle—or maybe it’s the fact that our student population continues to dwindle. There have been two suicides since Miller. I notice an increase in handlers, including the one who watches me.
And he’s here now, standing at the door of our class with another handler, staring in. Next to me James sits, looking down at his desk. He hasn’t taken out his notebook. He doesn’t move.
“James,” I whisper, hoping to not draw attention to us. “Please.” But he doesn’t respond.
There is a shuffling of feet, and I know it before I even look up, know it by the sound of gasps in the room. My eyes start to water, but I hold back the tears and watch my boyfriend. I know what’s coming next.
“I love you,” I murmur to James. “You’ll come back to me.” My words are barely a breath when the white coats come into my vision. Surrounding him. Grabbing him from his chair.
I almost vomit, but I grip my desktop and keep back my tears. Around me, the other students drop their heads, not wanting to betray their emotions. My James. My James.
The handlers are pulling him to the door, but James suddenly looks back at me, his blue eyes wide. He starts to fight, tearing from their grip. My face nearly breaks with a cry.
“Sloane!” he yells, falling to his knees as they hold him. “Wait,” he says fiercely to them. But they’re not listening. They’re pulling him back, the one handler shooting me a glare, warning me to not respond.
I try to smile, anything to let James know that he’ll survive this. And that I’ll be here when he gets back. I kiss my fingers and hold them up in a wave. He stops, letting the handlers get ahold of him.
Then James closes his eyes, and lets them drag him to his feet and out the door.
When he’s gone, several people look back at me. The teacher stares at me. Everyone is waiting to see my reaction, if I’ll be next. If they’ll come rushing in here any second. But I do nothing. Inside I’m dying, ripping apart and bleeding. I’m so far gone I’m not sure I can get back, but I open my notebook and poise my pencil over it, as if ready to write.
I keep my breaths measured, waiting. And then the teacher starts talking again, going on about the latest math concept. I hear the chairs squeak as the other students give her their attention.
I don’t wipe my face as one tear, one I just couldn’t hold back, hits my notebook with a quiet tap. I close my eyes.
• • •
James has always been terrible at math. Brady used to try to teach him, but it was no use. My boyfriend was completely helpless.
I remember once while they were doing homework, Brady called me into the kitchen. He and James were at the table, books spread out in front of them. It’d been a month since that first camping trip when James caught me staring. I’d spent every moment since then avoiding him. I tried to pretend that nothing had changed, even though I’d see him looking at me strangely, as if trying to figure out if he should talk to me or not. He did still talk, but I never met his eyes. I already felt stupid enough.
“Sloane,” Brady called. “Check this out.”
I walked into the kitchen, taking an uneasy glance at James as he sipped his soda, not acknowledging me. “What’s up?” I asked my brother, nervousness in the pit of my stomach.
Brady pointed his finger to a problem on the page, a math formula with an example. “What’s the answer?” Brady asked, grinning widely and looking over at James—who was continuing to not notice me.
I swallowed hard and then narrowed my eyes, computing the problem in my head. “X equals eight,” I said. “Why?”
Brady laughed and James shook his head, a smile on his lips. James reached in his pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill, slapping it on my brother’s open book.
Brady picked up the money triumphantly. “Told you she was smarter than you.”
“I never said she wasn’t,” James answered, finally darting a glance at me. “I already know your sister is smarter. She’s prettier than me too, but I didn’t bet on that. I just wanted you to call her in here so she’d look at me again. It was worth the five bucks.”
Before I could even understand what he’d said, James was flipping though his book, the corner of his mouth turned up in a half grin. Brady handed me the five.
“You deserve this,” he said, “for always putting up with his shit.” Brady laughed it away as if James was just teasing me, and my face burned with embarrassment. Humiliation.
I crumpled up the money and tossed it at James, bouncing it off his cheek. He looked up, surprised, and Brady chuckled. “I don’t want your money,” I said, and turned to go up the stairs toward my room.
“Then what do you want, Sloane?” James called after me, sounding amused, as if daring me to answer. I
paused at the stairs, but didn’t turn around. And then I went to my room.
I know James won’t come looking for me this time. Not like he did that day, apologizing. James is in The Program now. The James I know is gone.
• • •
“Sloane, honey?” I hear my mother say on the other side of my bedroom door. I lay listlessly on my bed, willing myself to answer her.
“Yeah?”
“It’s time for dinner. Can you please come down? I’ve called three times already.”
Had she? “Sure. Okay.” I slowly stand, looking down at my clothes. I wish that there were bloodstains or tears, something to outwardly show how hurt I am. But instead it’s just a pair of jeans and a pink T-shirt. Something so painfully average that it makes me hate myself. I head downstairs.
My parents sit at the dining room table, pleasant smiles plastered across their faces. I try to return a smile of my own, but I’m not sure I pull it off. My father’s brow creases.
“I made your favorite,” my mother says. “Spaghetti and meatballs.”
I know the homemade sauce took her forever to make, so I say thank you. I take a seat and wonder what sort of pills I can find in the medicine cabinet, wondering if I can find something to help me sleep.
“James’s father called,” my mother says softly. “He told us James was sent to The Program today.”
My stomach twists around her words, and I reach out to sip from my water. The ice cubes rattle in the glass as my hand shakes.
“He’s going to be safe now,” my mother adds. “We’re all so grateful for The Program. We hadn’t even known he was ill.”
I’d known. But now I also know that he’s gone, and when he comes back, I won’t be a part of his life. He’ll be wiped clean.
“Sloane,” my father says in a low tone. “Your mother is talking to you.”
I look up at him, the anger clearly on my face because he straightens in his chair. “What would you like me to say to that?” I ask, my voice barely controlled. “What is the appropriate response?”
The Program Page 7
