The Adjustment

by Suzanne Young

  He lowers his paper, thinking it over. “What sort of memory?”

  “The night she tried to kill herself. She thought she was drowning again.”

  “That’s terrible,” he says. “That’s the second crashback this month, right?”

  I tell him it is, and Pop shakes his head, his expression gravely serious. “I guess we’ll be seeing this sort of thing for years,” he says. “It’s still too early to know the lasting effects of The Program.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It was just . . . sadder. I’ve seen crashbacks before, but people don’t typically get lost in a memory like that.”

  Pop exhales, folding the paper. “Let’s hope it’s not something new, then. And let’s hope it doesn’t happen to all returners.”

  We let that thought settle between us, unwilling to make it possible by further discussion. And unwilling to apply it out loud to Weston. I turn and walk to the stairs, pausing before I put my hand on the railing.

  “By the way,” I say to my grandfather. “Thanks for calling the school for me today. I needed the break.”

  “Of course,” he says. “I’d rather you tell me than cut and disappear. But try to keep it to once a semester.”

  “Noted,” I reply, putting my hand on the railing. “Oh, and if Nathan comes by, let him know I’m folding Mount Laundry in my bedroom.”

  He says that he will, and I grab my backpack from the bottom stair and head up to my room.

  • • •

  My bedroom is a shrine to the past. My gram asked the therapist a few weeks back if it was healthy for me to have so many pictures and mementos surrounding me. Gram worried it was keeping me low. But the therapist told her it might actually be healthy. “It helps her feel connected to the past,” I heard her say in a hushed tone. I hate that my grandparents have to worry about me. I hate that The Program made the fear real. But, luckily, my therapist has been a huge help. I like her.

  Therapists nowadays aren’t nearly as scared of feelings. Not anymore.

  I walk over to my mirror and gaze at the pictures tucked in the frame. After a moment I open the top drawer to the pictures I keep tucked away—the ones that hurt the most. I grab my favorite, letting it tear me open as I stare down at it.

  There hadn’t been a junior prom at my school—things like that don’t exist in the middle of a suicide epidemic. But Wes and I had wanted to do something, have something of our own. We’d seen too many old high-school movies, I guess.

  So we put on formal clothes and danced in my backyard near the fire pit. Lights hung from the low-hanging tree branches; soft music played from Wes’s phone. My grandparents were out of town, and Wes slept over. The entire night was impossibly romantic.

  I look down at the picture we took together that night. It’s perfect: the two of us lying on my bed, still in our fancy clothes. Wes is turned, kissing the side of my mouth while I held the camera above us. I’m curved against him, and my smile is pure—wide and goofy just like he described.

  This photo is less than a year old, but we look so much younger. We still had possibilities.

  I run my finger over Wes’s face in the picture, feeling the ache build in my chest. And the terrible part is that I want to wallow in that pain. Somehow, the way it hurts also feels a little good. But then I worry that that sort of thinking led to the epidemic, and I lower my arm. I drop the picture inside the drawer and slam it shut. Then I go to the laundry room and grab the basket of clean clothes.

  • • •

  It’s after dinner, and my grandparents are in the kitchen talking politics while I sit on the couch, my statistics book open on my lap. I haven’t answered any of the homework questions yet, staring blankly at the page instead.

  There’s a quick knock on the back door and then the creak of the hinges opening. My gram immediately asks Nathan if he’s hungry for leftover pot roast. He says yes; his mother is an awful cook. Gram tells him that she knows.

  I look up just as Nathan appears in the hall between the kitchen and the living room. He stares at me a moment to see if we’re still in a fight, but I wave him in and he smiles. My grandmother walks in with a plate of meat, potatoes, and a dinner roll.

  “Yum, Grams,” he tells her in his most kiss-up voice. “My favorite.” He dramatically leans in to smell the food and then takes the plate from her hand, beaming at her like a cartoon character. She laughs before returning to the kitchen.

  “For real, though,” Nathan says as he comes over to the coffee table, “I fucking love your grandmother’s roast beast.” He sets his plate on the table and kneels in front of it. Using the knife, he saws off a piece of meat and delicately places it between his teeth. As he chews, he turns to me. “So good,” he says around his food.

  “What did your mom make for dinner?” I ask.

  “Fake chicken, I think,” he says, cutting a new piece. “I couldn’t tell. I tried to fill up on chickpeas.”

  “Gross.”

  “Yeah,” Nathan says, taking another bite. We’re quiet for a few moments, at least until he finishes the bulk of his meal, and then he puts the knife and fork on the side of his plate. He comes to sit next to me on the couch, and the cushion tilts under his weight, swaying me slightly. I close my book and set it aside.

  “Foster says I need to apologize again,” he starts.

  I look sideways at him. “Does your conscience think you need to apologize again?” I ask.

  Nathan grins. “You first.”

  I wait a beat, but I actually do feel bad. I was taking out my disappointment on him. “I’m sorry I called you an idiot,” I say.

  Nathan grabs the roll off his plate and then sits back and takes a bite, propping up his foot on the coffee table. “Forgiven,” he says. “And I’m sorry I was being an insensitive prick at lunch. I should have forced my compassion on you.”

  I laugh—he’s kidding about the compassion, of course. But I’m sure he feels bad for walking away from me. “It’s okay,” I say. “You were right. I did need some space.”

  He lifts one shoulder as if he’s not sure he totally agrees with that statement, and he rests against the couch cushion, folding his hands behind his neck. “And since we’re apologizing already,” he says. “Let me add—and don’t take this the wrong way—but you look like shit.”

  “How could I ever take that the wrong way?” I ask.

  “Remember in fifth grade when Mrs. Aberdeen told you that your bad decisions reflect themselves on your face?” he asks. “It’s one of those moments. I heard you talked to Wes.”

  “Wow, news travels fast.”

  “Eh, well, it’s kind of a big deal, Tatum. People want to know if he remembers.”

  “He doesn’t,” I say.

  Nathan’s throat clicks as he swallows, like the idea is hard to get down. “Did he tell you that?” he asks.

  “Pretty much. He doesn’t know me.” The words are a dig into my soul, and I flinch uncomfortably next to him.

  “Knowing Wes,” Nathan says, “if he’s forgotten you, he’s forgotten everything. You were his world.”

  “He was mine,” I murmur, and reach to grab my book for distraction. I open it to where my piece of paper sticks out from the pages. “And, yes,” I continue. “I know I’m feeling sorry for myself, but I get to do that now. I can feel sad. I can be pissed. I can be hopeless—”

  “Not hopeless,” Nathan says, and I turn to him.

  “At least temporarily,” I say. “I can feel, Nathan. I have to. And once I wallow in it just a bit”—I pinch my fingers together—“I’ll figure out what to do next. Deal?”

  He watches me, thinking it over. Nathan and I have always made deals and bets, ever since we were kids. And when he nods, he agrees to take this deal now. We decide that I’m allowed to be miserable for at least twenty-four hours—I deserve it. I’ve been strong for months. He knows any judgment he passes on me now would be unfair. After all, I’m only human. I can only take so much emotional fallout before I crack.

/>   We’re quiet for a few minutes, and then he motions toward the game system connected to the television. “Want to play?” he asks.

  “Not really.”

  “I’ll let you win this time,” he offers.

  I laugh, and turn to him. “Let me? Dude, I murder you on this game.”

  “Prove it.” He gets up and goes over to turn on the system, unplugging the controllers to bring them over to the couch. I abandon my homework and settle in, taking the controller from his hands when he passes it in my direction.

  When he sits next to me again, and we start playing, I murmur a thank-you.

  “Anytime,” he says, eyes glued to the television set.

  And for the moment, I calm and let myself believe that all is okay in the world.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  I LIE IN MY BED, staring at the whirling ceiling fan. The chain ticks against the lightbulb, rhythmic and comforting. Like I’ve done most nights over the past few months, I let my mind drift back to Wes. I used to keep a journal, mostly about us. But it got lost somewhere along the way. There are still a few moments that stick out, though, and I keep them in my head like an emotional scrapbook.

  I think back to this one time when Wes and I headed downtown to see his favorite local band play. The all-ages show was on the back patio of a bar; the night was clear and full of stars.

  Wes had found a way to get served, and he came back to the table with a beer and a bowl of pretzels. I looked from him to the food.

  “You’re not seriously going to eat those, are you?” I asked.

  As if answering, he gathered up a handful and shoved them into his mouth. I shook my head and turned toward the stage, watching the band set up. Wes didn’t normally drink, but the day before, another one of our friends had been taken. Cole was sitting in McDonald’s, staring at his french fries, when two handlers walked in to collect him.

  Things around here had been difficult. With the news focused on Sloane Barstow and James Murphy running away, Amber Alerts, and propaganda about the spreading epidemic, the handlers were out in full force. They were everywhere. They were hunting.

  I didn’t know Sloane or James—they were at a different school in the district. But the news had picked apart their lives, put their parents on TV. Part of me wanted them to make it. But another part of me wanted them to get caught so The Program would stop being hysterical. It was selfish—but we were scared.

  So when Weston downed his beer and left to get another, I worried. The week before, he had been totally fine, at least as fine as a person living in of the shadow of The Program could be. His appointed school therapist recommended him for extended therapy, and he went a few times. And then . . . suddenly he was quiet for longer. Like he was lost in his own head.

  I was scared of what they were doing to him.

  Weston came back to the table and sat across from me. He darted his eyes away when he noticed me looking at him. Behind us, a guitar strummed as the band tested their equipment. The patio grew busier, but the older crowd was a nice change from the people we were normally around. These people were over eighteen—the fear wasn’t the same in them.

  When the band started to play, I looked again at Wes. He was staring down at the bowl of pretzels like maybe they hadn’t tasted all that good after all. His expression was lost; he was all alone at sea.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked him, having to talk loud enough to be heard over the music.

  Weston lifted his eyes to meet mine, and smiled. But it was only halfhearted. “Just don’t feel good right now,” he said.

  “Physically?” I asked.

  He didn’t have to answer. I could tell he meant emotionally. He felt emotionally ill. And with the world falling apart, it should have been a giant neon warning sign.

  Wes watched the band, his gaze far away. A tingling began to crawl up my arms, and I was scared. Too scared to press the issue with him. I was losing him.

  And then, suddenly, Wes turned to me as if I had called out to him. Despair painted in his expression. “Oh, baby,” he murmured sadly, and outstretched his hand across the table.

  I flinch, here at home in my bed, pulled from the past just like every time—always at the exact spot in this memory. Pained by Weston’s anguish. But I dig back into the memory, unwilling to leave him in the past.

  “What?” I asked, looking down at Wes’s hand on the table.

  He cursed, and got up to come over to my side. He held out his hand again. “Dance with me, Tate,” he said, barely audible over the sound of the guitar.

  The bluesy music wasn’t really for dancing, and I told him just that.

  He watched me for a long moment, and then smiled. “So?” he asked. “We can do anything we want. And I want to dance with you.”

  I couldn’t resist—I never could. So I slipped my hand in his. We walked over to the center of the patio, where absolutely no one else was dancing. Wes pulled me close, his body against mine. I loved the smell of him—like his own brand of cologne, leather mixed with the sweet smell of his shampoo. I loved everything. Especially when he leaned down and kissed me softly right there. How his palm glided over my neck to rest under my short hair. How it didn’t matter if anyone was watching us.

  But of course . . . they were. The handlers were always watching. And soon, school was out for summer. One day, I called Wes, but he didn’t answer. I called him the next day. And again until I finally called his house and spoke to his mother. She sounded horrified to hear from me.

  When I asked about Wes, she told me he’d run away. Disappeared. The police organized a search; a high-risk case going off the grid was more than a little concerning to them. I searched night and day, and Nathan showed up to help, seeming more concerned about me than Wes. Foster was away for the summer with his family in Wyoming, but he called to check on me.

  And after the first few days, I started to think that Weston was dead. That he’d killed himself and I had ignored all the signs. The guilt was enough to destroy me. But then six and a half days later, Wes appeared on my doorstep. He was dirty, mud caking the ankles of his jeans like he’d been riding nonstop. His beard had grown rough and scratchy; his hair was matted down.

  He stared at me from the porch, his eyes red rimmed. He didn’t say anything.

  I stepped up and hugged him, crying out for my grandparents. They darted into the room, alarmed, but relieved by his presence. My grandmother checked him over to make sure he wasn’t injured.

  When my grandparents left the room to call his parents, I held tightly to Wes’s arm, feeling how rigid his posture was. Seeing the lost expression in his eyes.

  “Where were you?” I asked, leading him to sit on the couch.

  He gazed out the window toward his bike, like he might just leave again, before turning to me. “You know me?” he asked. I nearly broke down right there. Wes seemed too weary, too fucking sad. He was broken—I knew that much.

  “Yes,” I said, and leaned in to kiss the side of his mouth, my palm on his cheek as I fought back my tears. “Of course I know you.” He hitched in a breath, and then laid his forehead on my collarbone.

  “I’m so sorry, Tate,” he whispered. “I’ll make it right. I promise.”

  He didn’t have to apologize. I was just happy he was back. He was safe. I offered to drive him home so that his parents wouldn’t have to come get him; I was greedy for more time with him. My grandparents thought it was best because they worried Wes might take off before his parents arrived. Wes didn’t speak a word to my grandparents—not even a thank-you, which was totally out of character.

  On the drive, I asked Wes again where he’d been, but he didn’t answer me. I’d catch him looking at me, though, like he was memorizing me. When we got to his house, a police cruiser was idling at the curb and his parents were waiting on the porch. I didn’t see the white van parked just up the street.

  Wes’s mom led us into the kitchen, tears still wet on her face as she brushed back Weston’s hair, murmuring soo
thing words. His dad stood, jaw clenched, and at the time I thought he was mad—upset that his son made him worry. The police officer came in, notebook out, but he didn’t immediately start asking questions like I thought he would. Everything felt off.

  When Wes’s mom moved to the back door, Wes turned to look at me—an apology in his eyes. Something deep and sorrowful—apologetic. And all I remember thinking in that moment is that he wanted to die. I knew that look. I knew what it meant. My eyes welled up with tears, blurring the scene, and then the kitchen door opened.

  “I’ve always loved you, Tate,” he murmured.

  It all happened so fast. Wes didn’t fight the handlers, at least not as hard as he should have. There was something dark in him. Hopelessness. Misery. But I jumped forward to keep him anyway—terrified of what the handlers were about to do to him. Horrified that I was losing Wes to The Program because that meant he would lose himself.

  “Stop!” I screamed, gripping the collar of his T-shirt in my fist. “Let him go!”

  I felt the brush of Weston’s fingers on my arm—that simple, tender touch. And it was like I was underwater—the world slow and the sounds muffled. I met Wes’s eyes as they pulled him back, tearing his shirt because I still held it.

  Wes was sick—I wasn’t delusional about that. He’d changed. He disappeared and came back different.

  And now, because of The Program, I’ll never know why.

  • • •

  When I wake up for school in the morning, groggy from a night of restless sleep, I take my time getting ready. Although Pop told me to observe Wes before trying to talk to him again, I know that won’t happen. How can you see a person you know so well and not want to tell him? It’s torture otherwise. And, besides, it’s unethical to keep it from him. He should know who I am. He should know who I was to him.

  Gram is at work when I leave, and I get out the door before Pop can ask too many questions about today’s plans. He would disapprove, but I also know that he’ll forgive my mistakes because he loves me. I’ve seen too many people afraid to share things with their parents. It happened all the time with The Program. But I’ve never had to worry about keeping secrets. And it’s probably why I’m still here today.