The Program

by Suzanne Young

“That you’re happy that he’s going to get better. That you’re happy he won’t harm himself.”

  “They took him,” I snap. “They came into class and they dragged him out. There is nothing happy about this.”

  “Sloane,” my mother says, sounding startled. “Did you know he was sick? You didn’t try to conceal it, did you? He could have . . .” She stops, looking horrified.

  I can’t believe they don’t understand. I wonder if it’s because adults would rather forget about their problems, the thought that ignorance is bliss. But The Program steals our memories. They reset our emotions so that we’re brand-new, never having been hurt or heartbroken. But who are we without our pasts?

  “James would have rather died than gone to The Program,” I say, picking up my fork. “And now I know why.”

  My mother tosses her napkin onto the table. “He’s going to get help, Sloane. Isn’t that what matters? I wish we would have gotten to Brady in time.”

  I cry out, the rage inside me too much to contain. “Are you really that stupid?” I shout at her. “Do you really think Brady would have wanted his memory erased? Nobody wants this, Mom. No one wants to be numb. They’re killing us!”

  “No!” she yells back. “You’re killing yourselves. They’re saving you.”

  “By taking away everything that made my life worth living?”

  “Is this just about James? Honey, I’m sure when he comes back—”

  I throw my fork across the room, banging it off the wall. “It’s not just James! They’ll take out parts of me. Parts of Brady. I won’t even know my friends. I won’t remember why I love going to the river. . . . It’s because that’s where James first kissed me. Did you know that? That’s where he first told me he loved me. And now they’ll take that from him and he won’t remember. He won’t even know who he is.”

  “If it’s meant to be, you’ll find each other again.”

  I scoff. “I hate you,” I say, tears streaming from my eyes.

  I told my mother that once before, after my brother died. She threatened to send me to The Program and I never said it again. Now I stare at her, all my emotions spinning into a dark spiral.

  “Actually, I take it back,” I say to her, smiling sadly. “I hate myself more.” And then I run for my mother’s car in the garage, needing to get away. From her. And from everything.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  I DRIVE THROUGH THE COUNTRY, THE LONG ROUTE that James and I used to take. I don’t turn on the radio; I don’t turn down the blasting heater. Instead I let sweat race down my back. It’s suffocating and thick in here, but I don’t care. I slow down when I get to the stretch of farm where there is nothing but cows. Them and me.

  When I’m on the side of the road, I put the car in park and stare down at my hand. At the purple ring that James gave me. It doesn’t take long for me to dissolve into tears, screaming until my voice breaks completely. I’m practically hyperventilating when the thought hits me. When the clarity of it is too much to resist. It’s like a sudden calm, erasing my pain. It’s peacefulness. I wipe absently at my face and sit up straighter, shifting the car into gear.

  I know what to do. What James would have done if I’d let him. There’s no way I can hide my despair. They’ll come for me soon enough, if they’re not planning to already. They’ll take me away, mess with my mind, clear away my memories of James, Miller, and possibly even Brady. They’ll take away everything that makes me me, and send me back clean. Empty.

  I almost smile as I swing onto the road, driving too fast. Not caring if I crash. Almost hoping I do. But if I don’t, it’ll be okay.

  Because I’m going to the river. I’m going for a swim.

  • • •

  I don’t go to our usual spot. I go to where my brother died, and stand on the edge of the cliff, looking down at the rushing river water. It’s barely after five, the sun’s high above me, and I’m still in my perfectly normal clothes. In a way, I wish I’d worn something that meant more to me, like one of James’s old sweaters, or Brady’s T-shirts that we never got rid of.

  I lift up my hand and look again at the purple heart ring. It seems like a lifetime ago that he gave it to me, and I realize it was. It was Miller’s lifetime ago. I start to cry.

  Bringing the ring to my lips, I kiss it, thinking of where James could be. We know nothing of The Program, what it really does to people. On the news a few months back, they did an investigative report, but the story was overshadowed by the rising number of deaths. Any small violations they found—overuse of pills, patients being tied down—were pushed aside and the focus was on the results. No one in The Program died. They all went on to graduate, turn eighteen, disappear off the government radar.

  I lower my arm and watch the strong current below me. The drop is nearly twenty feet. The river is deep enough here that I won’t smack the bottom, but I will get pulled under. I will be swept away, just like Brady was that day. And like him, I won’t fight it. I’ll let the darkness take me.

  Closing my eyes I silently apologize to my parents, to everyone I’ve let down. And then . . . I fall forward.

  The wind rushes over my face and the feeling of dropping flutters my stomach and makes me gasp in a breath just as I hit the water. Sharp coldness envelops me and fills my mouth, and I swing out my arms as I’m plunged deeper, pushed forward. It’s dark and icy and all at once I’m terrified—lashing out for something to grab onto. I fight to breathe, but take in a mouthful of water instead, gagging as my body convulses. Oh, God. I’m drowning! The pressure closes in on my chest, and I realize that I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die here!

  Just then my body slams against a rock, hoisting me halfway out of the water. I hold on to it, vomiting up river until I’m sure I’ll pass out and die anyway. My throat burns, my lungs ache. My arm is numb and I think it may be broken. I’m focused on trying to breathe, even though my throat feels too tight. My adrenaline is keeping me conscious, but beyond that is a fear I’ve never known. Vulnerability I’ve never felt—and never want to feel again. I start to whimper.

  The river rushes by, my legs pulled downstream, but I hang on, listening to the sound of my shallow breaths. My eyes feel swollen and raw, and I blink as I see the world around me. The green of the leaves, the gray of the rock, the glistening of the setting sun on the water.

  I lay my head on my broken arm, my clothes stuck to me as I stare at my ring. I couldn’t kill myself, couldn’t let go like so many others had. I wonder if in their last moments they’d changed their minds, but there was no boulder to grab on to. I start to sob as I think about Brady and about how I should have gotten to him in the water sooner. Maybe he wanted to live. Maybe it’s my fault that he didn’t.

  I cling to the rock, crying until the thoughts fade and my body’s spent. When I feel empty, I gather my strength and climb across the boulder, dragging myself to the shore. My legs are so numb from the cold that I can barely feel them touch the ground. My arm starts to throb at my side, and one of my shoes is lost in the river. It’s dark when I finally make it back to the car. I’d left my key in the ignition, and when I turn it, I crank the heat to slowly thaw underneath the warm air.

  I stare through the windshield and think about how James will return from The Program. They might not let me near him for a while, but they will eventually. And James isn’t like other people. He’s smart. Resourceful. What if he doesn’t get hollowed out? What if he comes back and remembers me? If it were me, if I’d been sent to The Program, I’d do everything I could to remember him. I’d find a way. I have to believe that James will too. I have to believe in him.

  • • •

  My father is sitting on the porch stairs when I pull the car into the driveway. He jumps up immediately, rushing toward me. I shut off the engine and wait until he wrenches open the door.

  “Sloane!” he calls, and then stops when he sees me. “What happened?”

  I slowly drag my eyes over to his. “I was trying to learn to swim,”
I say, and shrug. But when I do a sharp pain tears through my arm. I wince and look down at it.

  “Are you hurt?” He leans in to touch me but I shrink away.

  “Don’t touch it,” I say. “I think it’s broken. The current was too strong and it—”

  “Helen!” my father yells over his shoulder, calling to my mother. “Come on, sweetheart,” he says to me, gently taking my uninjured elbow to help me out.

  “Where were you?” My mother’s voice is frantic as she jogs from the house, her skin pale in the light of the front porch. Her hands search me, brushing back my wet hair, looking at the cuts on my cheek.

  “I was trying to swim,” I say, and meet her tired eyes. “I know I’ve been horrible to you lately, and I thought maybe this could make up for it.” My mother has always wanted me to learn how to swim, even though I was scared of the water. Once my brother was gone, I vowed never to learn. But I hope this lie makes her feel better. “I’m sorry,” I add, lowering my head.

  “Oh, Sloane,” she says, hugging me. “You can’t do things like this. I was so worried, I almost called the police to look for you.”

  I stiffen. “Did you?” I’m suddenly terrified that she used the number on the pamphlet next to the phone. That my own mother would turn me in.

  “No,” she says. “Your father said you’d be back. That you were just . . . venting.” She pronounces the word as if she can’t remember what it means. I shoot a look at my father, but he keeps his eyes downcast. I wonder exactly how much he knows about where I’ve been.

  “It was an accident,” I say to my mother, trying to sound as peaceful as possible. “I thought it’d be great to learn, something to surprise James with when he comes back. But then I got pulled downstream. I’ll be more careful next time.”

  “We should probably get you to the emergency room for that arm,” my father cuts in. My mother gives him an alarmed look, as if he’s stealing me from her.

  “It’s okay,” I tell her. “I know how much you hate hospitals.” I smile then, trying to make her feel better. Or maybe I’m putting up the facade again: I’m healthy, Mom. See? The guilt from my outburst at dinner nags at me, the promise of James coming back strengthens me. I can make it through six weeks. James will be here and we’ll be together. We’ll beat The Program.

  My mother hugs me again, and I wince at the pressure on my aching arm. “Sorry,” she says. “I’m just so happy you’re okay. I can’t . . . I can’t lose you, too.”

  Her words strike my heart and remind me of Brady, how she cried for weeks after he died. How my father would drink too much, and then they’d scream at each other. I’d tried to comfort my mother, until my own grief got the best of me. And then James became the only person I could trust to see that side of me.

  “I’m okay, Mom,” I say, sounding light, surprised how easily the lie comes out. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

  She nods, clearly relieved, and I walk around the car as my father gets in the driver’s seat. I raise my good arm and wave good-bye. Then I climb in and pull my seat belt tight. My father starts the car and backs us out of the driveway, smiling at my mother reassuringly as we pass her. But once we’re in the street, he looks sideways at me.

  “Sloane,” he says, his voice low, “I know you weren’t trying to swim. But what I need to know right now is if you’re going to do it. If I have to call The Program to make sure your mother’s last living child doesn’t die.”

  “Dad—”

  “Don’t lie to me,” he says, not angry. Just tired. “I just need the truth now. I don’t think I can bear anything else.”

  “I won’t hurt myself, Dad. I . . . couldn’t.”

  He stares out at the road as we head toward the hospital. “Thank you.”

  And I watch my father, remembering how funny he used to be when Brady and I were kids. How he’d take my brother to R-rated films when he was in middle school, and me out for ice cream when I felt excluded. Now he looks older, wilted. The loss of my brother was too much for him, and sometimes I feel like he barely notices me at all anymore—except to make sure I’m still breathing.

  When we get to the emergency room, I tell them the trying-to-swim story, staying mostly believable. I have a small, clean break, and they tell me I’m lucky. Lucky.

  Once my cast is set, we leave the hospital to go back home, and my father is silent the entire way. I worry that he’ll never speak to me again.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I WAIT. THE DAYS TICK BY AND I SIT ALONE AT LUNCH, watching the door, avoiding the gaze of the dark-haired handler. My arm is still in a cast, and I tell everyone it was an accident. They accept it with suspicious looks, but nothing more. After all, I’m smiling and looking pulled together. If I were sick, I couldn’t do that. I’m fooling them.

  I spend more time with my parents, nodding numbly when they talk about The Program or comment on the latest news story. Suicide has had a surge in London, and they’ve implemented their own version of The Program. So far it’s been wildly successful, proving that America seems to have developed a treatment.

  It makes me wonder about the future—the sort of people who will be walking around in twenty years. People who never experienced their teens because those memories were erased. Will they be naive? Empty?

  I remind myself that James will be okay. He’ll come back and be the same. I have to believe that.

  After school, I decide to go to the Wellness Center to gain credits, prove a point. Being seen there will show how healthy I am. How involved I am in my own stability. But really, I’ll be waiting for James, knowing he’ll show up sooner or later.

  The building is located within the middle of the city, a former YMCA. It’s brick and old-looking, but the welcome sign is brightly colored, hinting at what’s inside. The Program is proud of their returners, of their system that is starting to see increases in voluntary admittance. The Wellness Center is the perfect front.

  Come see the results, come see how shiny and new you can become.

  I stand out front, reluctant to go in. I’m afraid all these healthy people will see right through me, but I don’t have anywhere else to go. I have to be strong.

  “You need to sign in,” the woman behind the desk tells me as I pause in the entry. Around her, the large open room is buzzing with activity, as if there’s nothing outside these walls that could harm us. And the walls themselves are bright blue and green—loud and full of energy. I almost smile for real.

  “Miss?” the lady asks, motioning toward the clipboard and the pen attached with yarn. “Sign in for credit.”

  I sign my name and address on the paper and then scan the room. I recognize several faces—both returners and normal people. I don’t know any of them that well, or at least, I don’t until I see Lacey. She’s on the couch playing video games with Evan Freeman. There is a handler in the corner, but he’s not the dark-haired one I’m afraid of. He’s blond, just standing there and watching Lacey silently.

  I think about going over there, introducing myself, but something holds me back. In my head, I know that Lacey doesn’t remember me, and yet, I hope that James will. So if I confirm that Lacey doesn’t know me . . . what does that mean? I’m clinging to an unlikely expectation, but it’s the only thing keeping me going. Every day I feel myself slip more and more, but I’m holding on. I’m holding on for James.

  I wonder if Lacey even knows Miller is dead, if somewhere inside she misses him. Misses all of us. Can The Program take away our emotions, or do they always remain—only without a source?

  On the other side of the room, a group of girls—including Kendra Phillips—are giggling and drinking Diet Cokes while sitting at a round table. I make my way over, casting another glance at the handler who seems to have noticed me, before sitting down with the girls.

  They smile kindly, none of them remembering me as they keep talking, gossiping about boys, clothes, stuff that I can’t even fathom caring about. But I’ve become a pretty good actress,
so I laugh at the right moments, roll my eyes when it’s needed. Inside, my heart hurts, but I cry only when I’m alone, on a long drive out in the country after leaving the center. No one is there to wipe my tears and tell me it’ll be okay.

  For three weeks I follow this pattern: Laugh, cry, laugh, cry. I’ve become numb, uncomfortably so. But it’s the only way I can survive the time. When I finally get my cast off, I’m relieved as I stare down at my pale arm. James would have been so concerned if he’d seen me bandaged up the minute he got back. I hope he hurries.

  The days tick slowly by.

  • • •

  I’m sitting at the table, painting my nails a horrid shade of pink as the girls talk about Evan Freeman—how he and Lacey are a thing. I don’t react, pretending I don’t know either of them. The door of the center opens, a soft jingle from the bells attached at the top.

  I’m concentrating on painting the nail of my ring finger, gazing at the purple heart there. I’m about to move on to the next nail when I realize that the room has gone quiet. Finally. They’ve finally come for me.

  Exhausted, I glance up, sure it’s a handler to take me to The Program. But instead, the floor feels like it’s dropped out from underneath me. There are handlers in their stiff white coats, but they’re not alone. In between them, with a newly shaved head, is James. He’s wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt, and I can see, even from here, the white marks on his arm. The tattoos have been removed, Miller’s name stitched up.

  James’s eyes scan the room, curious but not intense. Not the way he usually looks at things. They don’t even pause on me.

  He’s back. My James is back. This is the only reason I didn’t die. This is the moment that kept me going.

  James.

  They walk him to a chair near the vending machines where a couple of guys sit, playing a game of cards. The handlers are letting James have his first bit of social interaction here at the Wellness Center where it can be monitored. He sits, not saying a word to the people at the table.