The Adjustment

by Suzanne Young

  It’s a little dark as I leave the house and get behind the wheel of my Jeep, an old model with a rebuilt engine and rusting red paint. I glance at the clock and see it’s too early to go to school, so I decide to stop for a coffee. Next door, Nathan’s bedroom light is on, and I guess that he’s probably just getting up now. I text him and ask if he wants a coffee.

  Plain black coffee, he writes.

  Okay . . .

  Kidding. Who am I, John Wayne? Get me a hazelnut latte. Extra hot.

  I text that I will, and set my phone in the cup holder. I shift gears and drive down the street, my tires rolling through the fog. I love this time of day, the way the fog clings to the road and races over the fields. It’s not dangerous, just atmospheric. The air has bite. The day has possibility.

  I try not to think about the past—a constant battle. I try not to think about Wes’s face when I asked him if he remembered me. Instead I lower my window slightly and let the cold air chill me. Remind me that I’m alive. Present.

  The coffee shop is a few blocks west of the school—a small local place that’s overpriced but worth it. The woman who owns it employs all her kids, all their spouses, and even a few grandkids. It’s the epitome of a family-run business.

  I park near the front, glad to see it isn’t too busy. Sometimes the wait is so long, I have to go to Starbucks like a traitor. But not today. I walk inside and get in the short line at the counter, comforted by the sweet scent of vanilla and coffee beans. After a moment, I move forward a step.

  There’s a scuff of shoes on tile as someone comes to stand behind me in line. I look back politely and feel a jolt when I recognize Vanessa, Jana’s friend who has gone through The Program. I turn back around before she notices me, but my heartbeat has sped up.

  It’s disconcerting to be this close to a returner. Of course, that would apply to Wes, but with him, I’m sure I’ll get over it.

  Another customer gets coffee and I move up a spot. I’m hyperaware of Vanessa behind me, can smell her cotton-candy perfume. I have a wild craving to stare at her, check her over and evaluate her condition.

  I’m reminded of what Nathan told me about Vanessa starting a new therapy, and how Jana said it made her better. What sort of therapy could be a counteractive to The Program?

  I glance back over my shoulder, and just then Vanessa notices me staring. I quickly smile.

  “Hi,” I say. “How’s it going?”

  Vanessa watches me for a moment before answering, studying me—the same way most returners do when they meet people. She’s probably trying to place me, figure out if we know each other. Up close, she’s much different from whom I thought she was from afar. She doesn’t look as steady as I thought.

  Despite having been back from The Program for months, Vanessa has a fragility about her—like someone who is still shaken after losing her balance. Still tender in spots from the fall. Her shoulder bones protrude through her T-shirt, the hollows at the base of her neck are deep, the edges around them sharp and exaggerated. She wears makeup, well placed and contoured, but she’s a fun-house reflection of the sad girl underneath. I think Jana and I have different opinions on what “better” means.

  “Hey,” Vanessa says. “Tatum, right?”

  I’m taken aback. “That’s me,” I say. “Sorry.” I wave off my hesitated response. “I wasn’t sure you’d . . .” I let the statement end, not wanting to bring it up.

  “Remember you?” she finishes anyway. “Sure I do,” she says. “It’s only the important people they make you forget.”

  She motions over my shoulder to the line, and I see a gap to the counter has opened. I apologize to the barista and scoot forward to place my order. I still want to talk to Vanessa, but I’m also a little rattled that she remembered me. I shouldn’t be, but it’s a bit scary, like a stranger calling you by name.

  I pay for my coffees and go to the end of the counter to wait for them. I keep my eyes on the floor, listening as Vanessa orders two drinks. When I sense her coming over, I press my lips into a smile and look up.

  She stops at the end of the counter, picking through the selection of creamers and sugar packets. “So,” she says conversationally. “I heard your boyfriend came back.”

  “He did,” I say. “Did . . . did you know him?” They weren’t in The Program at the same time, so I’m not exactly sure why I ask this. I guess because I assume there’s a bond there. They both went through something horrible.

  “No,” she says, shaking her head. “I had a few classes with him before, but we’ve never talked or anything. Does he remember you?”

  The bluntness of her question catches me off guard, stinging like a slap. “No,” I say, feeling exposed to the word, like it signifies that Wes and I weren’t close. Of course, that’s not true; everyone knows the effect of The Program. But I guess we all hope we’ll be different. That we’ll be the ones remembered.

  The coffee shop is picking up, and the line grows. Vanessa watches the people curiously, but her question has spurred on my bravery.

  “What about you?” I ask her. “Did you remember when you came back?”

  She laughs, and turns to me. “No way,” she says. “The Program wouldn’t have let that happen. I was in for the duration: six weeks of constant therapy and harassment, I’m sure. They took everything important.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  She smiles sadly at my apology. “You know, when the government shut down the facilities,” she continues, “the public was told that all the patients would be set free without further interference. Didn’t happen. I heard they were given the black pill anyway—without the targeted memories. Some things disappeared, others didn’t—past and present grinding together, making memory soup. It made their testimonies inadmissible in court. Guess The Program didn’t want their patients to be able to testify against them.” She turns away. “So count yourself lucky,” she adds. “Your boyfriend isn’t dead.”

  He’s not dead. She’s right—I am lucky for that. Too many people were lost during the epidemic, more gone from The Program. But that doesn’t mean that I have to accept things the way they are.

  “Tatum?” the barista calls as she sets two drinks on the counter. I walk over and place the cardboard sleeves on the cups. When I have them in hand, I turn back to Vanessa.

  “How did you get them back?” I ask her. “Your relationships with people?”

  A dark shadow crosses Vanessa’s features. “Thank God for the Adjustment, right?” she says evenly. I furrow my brow.

  “Adjustment?” I ask.

  Before she can respond, the barista calls her name, and Vanessa reaches past me to get her drinks. Her jaw is held tight and she doesn’t bother with the sleeves on her hot cups.

  “Look, I have to go,” she says, not meeting my eyes. “Maybe I’ll see you around.” At the last second, she lifts her gaze to mine, and I can read that she wants to tell me something.

  But she turns away instead. Vanessa walks out of the coffee shop, leaving me standing at the counter with an uneasy feeling and a lot more questions.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  NATHAN IS WAITING FOR ME on the concrete steps of the school. When he sees me, he zips up his jacket and stands, brushing off the back of his black jeans. He looks bored.

  “I started to worry,” he says, when I come to stand next to him. We stay shoulder to shoulder, staring out over the front lawn of the school as students get dropped off at the curb. I pass Nathan his coffee and he takes a sip, quiet and thoughtful.

  “Have you ever heard of an Adjustment?” I ask him. A cool breeze blows over us, whipping his hair against his forehead. He takes another sip.

  “Like a chiropractor?” he asks.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “It might be that therapy you mentioned to me once.”

  He narrows his eyes like he’s trying to think back, but then shakes his head. “I literally have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says.

  “Vanessa Ortiz,
” I say. “You told me that Jana said she was undergoing a new therapy. Something that was going to combat The Program. It worked, right? She thought it was working?”

  “Oh, that,” Nathan says. “I don’t think it’s as big of a deal as you’re making it. I was out with Jana one night, we were drinking, and she said some things I half remember. Something about Vanessa not dealing well with being a returner, but after her therapy she’s been good. Or good-ish, I guess. She didn’t go into specifics. I’m sure being a returner sucks. Probably worse for the people they forget, though.”

  “Yeah. It’s not awesome.”

  Nathan looks over. “Sorry,” he says. “And I’m sorry I don’t have more details. I didn’t ask and Jana hasn’t told me. All I know is that they’ve got a serious bond. They’re always whispering—like they’re sharing some big secret.”

  “Interesting,” I say. “I just bumped into Vanessa at the coffee shop. She said the Adjustment helped her. Maybe she thinks it can help Wes, too.”

  “Maybe,” Nathan replies, and takes a sip from his drink.

  We’re quiet, and I turn to him. “So when were you out drinking with Jana?” I ask. A blush rises on his cheeks and he shrugs like he doesn’t remember. I knew there was more to him and Jana than he admitted. “You’re such a liar,” I say.

  “Hey.” He holds up one finger. “Keeping a secret isn’t the same as being a liar.”

  “You’re right. It’s worse.”

  He reaches out to push my shoulder, and I laugh. I don’t care if he sees Jana. I just don’t really like him not telling me. Then again, maybe it isn’t serious. Which would explain why he didn’t tell me.

  “Wait,” I say. “Does Foster know?”

  “Nope,” he replies easily. I stare at him, and he looks over. “For real, I haven’t told him anything either.”

  “You’d better not have. I won best friend privileges, remember?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Nathan says. “I remember.” He smiles to himself before taking another sip of his coffee.

  Back in middle school, Nathan and I got in a terrible fight and didn’t speak for weeks—the longest I’ve ever gone in my entire life without talking to him. It was torture.

  So one day my grandparents invited him over, forcing us to discuss it at the kitchen table. Truth was, I was jealous of his friendship with Foster. I’m only human. But Nathan swore I’d be his best friend until the day we die and possibly even after that.

  “Our ghosts will haunt the shit out of this place together,” he whispered.

  He bet me a million dollars, and we shook on it.

  The bell rings in the building, warning us that classes will start in five minutes. I throw a glance back at the big double doors as other students head that way. I hike my backpack up on my shoulder, reluctant to go inside.

  Still, my conversation with Vanessa is bugging me—what she said. Or more, the way she said it. Thank God for the Adjustment, right? The words weren’t joyous or happy. They were indifferent.

  “Look,” Nathan says, touching my forearm to get my attention. “I can ask Jana about Vanessa if you want. I can’t guarantee she’ll talk to me about it, but I can check. At least figure out what this Adjustment is.”

  “I’ll owe you,” I say, and he nods his agreement.

  In truth, I doubt Jana will confide in him. Another side effect of The Program: difficulty talking about anything remotely personal with people. Then again, if they go out drinking together, I have no idea how personal they get.

  I link my arm through Nathan’s and together we climb the stairs toward the school. There was a time when I would do this, hold on to him, so that I wouldn’t fall apart. So that I could hide how sad I was. My shaky legs would have given me away to handlers in a second. Those of us who avoided detection learned ways to hide in plain sight. But now it’s habit.

  When we get inside, my eyes adjust to the artificial lighting. Nathan and I start toward English class, and I’m not unaware that several people watch me. They’re probably surprised that I’m not arm in arm with Wes. Even though they know that no one’s memories survived The Program—at least no one we know. Somehow Wes and I were supposed to be different.

  “Guess we’re not,” I mumble.

  “What’s that?” Nathan asks. I shake my head and tell him it’s nothing.

  We part as we cross into the room. I immediately look at Weston’s desk and find him there, staring down at his composition notebook. And just like that, my legs are weak again. Nathan puts his hand on my back and guides me to my seat.

  “At least try to be normal,” he says once we’re at my desk. I look up, ready to be offended, but he smiles, letting me know he was just trying to get a reaction.

  Nathan sits behind me, scooting his desk up so it’s at the back of my chair, same as he does every day. I stare intently at Wes, willing him to see me. But this time he doesn’t turn around. And I try to control my disappointment as the teacher walks in to start class.

  • • •

  I’m tempted to follow Wes out of the room when the bell rings fifty minutes later. But, ultimately, I know I have to chill. No matter how I feel, I have to play it smarter. I should be observing, not obsessing.

  I tell Nathan I’ll catch up with him at lunch and head to my locker to grab my books for my next few classes. My stomach growls and I realize that I haven’t eaten anything this morning. I was too distracted to order a muffin at the coffee shop. The hunger brings with it a swirl of sickness, and I scrunch my nose and slam my locker door.

  When I spin around, I jump, startled, coming nearly nose to nose with Kyle Mahoney. I gasp and fall back a step to keep from running into her. “Sorry,” I say quickly, shifting my books to my other arm.

  But rather than apologize, she stares at me. Her bright blue eyes are blazing and her blond hair looks nearly white against her tan skin. She opens her mouth like she’s about to talk, but then promptly snaps it shut.

  I’m motionless, trying to figure out what the hell she wants. But then, without an actual spoken word, she turns on her heels and walks away.

  “Uh, okay . . . ,” I call after her. What was that about? I don’t even know her. She doesn’t know me. Then again, maybe she’s curious about Weston, wants to know if he remembers anything. She might have lost someone to The Program. So many of us have.

  Despite the fact that she weirded me out slightly, I feel bad that I wasn’t friendlier. She probably could have used my support.

  I stand there, watching the students walk by and realize that I’m the one unbalanced here; I’m the one spiraling out of control. This isn’t me. It can’t be me. I wrap my arms around my books and head to my next class.

  I go through the morning, actually paying attention in class. I try not to think about Wes, but it’s not easy. In science, Foster stops by my lab table to tell me I look pale and pinches my cheeks for color. I slap his hand away and threaten to douse him with chemicals. Then we both laugh until the teacher tells us to get to work.

  I appreciate the reminder of normalcy, though—how easy the day can be with it. Because if I plan to be of any help to Wes, I’ll need to be all right myself. And so I thank Foster for being annoying and he tells me I’m welcome.

  At lunch, I walk out of math and go to the courtyard to meet Nathan and Foster. The sunshine is bright today, and I wish I had sunglasses—my eyes aren’t ready for the change in weather yet. It’s almost spring, but sometimes spring in Oregon doesn’t really mean shit for sunlight. Today it does.

  I’m only halfway across the grass when I see him. Wes is sitting all alone on the concrete walkway, his back resting against the brick wall as he reads a book. The way he does this, the book folded in half without any care for the condition of the spine, used to drive me crazy. But I also secretly liked it. As if he were on a stage, about to read from it. Something about it was so very Dead Poets Society, and I feel that flash of attraction again. I love that my guy is smart.

  Neither Nathan n
or Foster has noticed me yet, and I take that moment to step out of their line of view. I know Nathan wouldn’t approve of what I’m about to do. Hell—I probably wouldn’t approve, but I’m not thinking clearly when I make a beeline straight for Weston.

  I try to be subtle, taking a seat against the wall a few feet down from him. He’s absorbed in his book, and because the pages are folded back, I can’t see the cover. I wonder if it’s one he’s read before but doesn’t remember. There’s a twist in my gut at that idea, how tragic it seems. Being stripped of even the simplest things.

  I open my snack bag of chips and casually pop one into my mouth. I chew slowly, trying to build up my courage. After a sip from my Sprite, I turn to look at Wes.

  “Hey,” I call. He glances over, not appearing startled to see me, and nods hello before going back to his book and turning the page. I feel a little slighted but remind myself that he doesn’t know me. At least he didn’t get up and walk away.

  I almost ask if he’s reading a good book, but I realize what an annoying question that would be. And as the seconds tick by, my courage fades. I’m about to gather my lunch and walk over to my friends when Wes closes his book and sets it aside on the ground.

  He exhales heavily, resting back against the wall, and then rolls his head to look at me.

  “Yesterday,” he says. “You were the girl at my locker?”

  I’m startled that he talked to me, and I have to stop the words from falling out of my mouth incoherently. “Yeah,” I say, trying to sound normal. “Sorry if I scared you.”

  “Scared me?” Wes’s dimples deepen as he smiles, and my heart swells. My anxiety evaporates off my skin. “No, not at all,” he says. “I just didn’t want to talk to anyone.”

  “I bet,” I say.

  He stares directly into my eyes, the kind of gaze that makes you feel invincible. It’s the way he’s always looked at me.

  “So what’s up?” he asks. “Why’d you come over here? I’m guessing we know each other.”