The Adjustment

by Suzanne Young

  I don’t answer immediately. Around us, the courtyard is buzzing—other students gossiping and laughing. No one is watching us. Wes and I are completely alone in a sea of people.

  “We, um . . .” How do I say this without sounding desperate? “We used to date,” I say, immediately thinking I’ve made too light of it.

  He looks me over, his lips flinching with an amused smile. “Yeah?” he asks. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you could do better.”

  I laugh, a blush rushing to my cheeks, and I look down at my lap. That’s exactly something Wes would have said, and it’s amazing because it makes me think that no matter what happens, there’s still a piece of him in there. The Program couldn’t take that away.

  I hear my name, and turn to find Nathan staring at us. Foster has the decency to look embarrassed, but Nathan waves me over. I hold up my finger to tell him to give me a minute, but I seriously might kill him. Why would he interrupt?

  “And who’s that?” Wes asks curiously, looking over my shoulder. “Your boyfriend?”

  “What? God, no. That’s Nathan. He’s my best friend.”

  “Am I friends with him?”

  “Not really,” I say. “You’re both very civilized about it, though.”

  “Huh,” he says, like that’s no big deal. “And the other guy—the redhead?”

  “That’s Foster.”

  “What did he think of me?”

  “He thought you were cute.”

  Wes glances across the courtyard at Foster and then to me. “I must have liked him, then.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, the two of you got along pretty well.”

  Wes settles against the wall, pulling his knees up in front of him. He seems to enjoy talking to me, and I feel myself lean in closer.

  “And you and me?” Wes asks, motioning between us. “We had a thing?”

  I nod, unsure of how to even explain.

  “So . . . how was I?” Wes asks. “As a person, I mean.” He flashes me a small smile to let me know he’s totally flirting.

  “You were great,” I say.

  He grins wider. “And how about us?” he asks. “How were we together?”

  I should play along, casually flirt back with him. But . . . the fact that he doesn’t remember me hurts. The fact that he doesn’t remember us.

  “We were everything,” I say seriously.

  Whether it’s my tone or my expression, Wes’s smile fades as he watches me—like I’ve given him an answer he isn’t quite ready for. He swallows hard and lowers his eyes.

  “Oh,” he responds simply. “It was serious.”

  “Two years,” I say.

  He flinches, his brows pulled together. He’s quiet for a moment, and then murmurs, “Good to know.” Without looking at me, he reaches for his book. “It was nice to meet you . . .” He pauses.

  “Tatum,” I say, devastated.

  Wes nods uncomfortably, and then folds back the cover of his book to start reading again as if I’m not even here. He shuts me out completely.

  Pinpricks race over my cheeks and I’m about to cry, but instead I pack up my lunch. I knew this was a bad idea—what did I think would happen? What if a stranger walked up to me and professed that we were a serious couple? I’d feel violated. I’d feel vulnerable.

  I grab my things and stand. “Enjoy your lunch,” I say with a hint of apology in my voice.

  He winces at the tone, and turns to me. But instead of asking me to stay, he holds up his hand in a half wave and goes back to his book.

  I wait only a moment, and then I leave. On my way over, I see Nathan murmur to Foster, both of them watching me sympathetically. When I get to them and sit down with my lunch, Nathan sighs.

  “I was going to say,” he starts kindly, “maybe don’t bring up your relationship yet. It might scare him.”

  “It did,” I say, and take a bite of food. I feel like a fool. Tears begin to gather and I sniffle and try to fight them back.

  Nathan scoots over and puts his arms around me, breathing into my hair that I’m going to be okay. Foster nods, and together the three of us feel sorry for me. Because I don’t know how to make this right.

  And the cold realization hits us all that it might never be right again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  JUST BEFORE THE BELL RINGS, Foster takes off for his next class. Nathan asks me to hang back a moment, and we wait, watching the others go inside and the flood of new lunchgoers come out. I don’t see Weston, and I wonder if he left earlier. If I was the reason.

  Nathan turns and looks down at me. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you—Jana’s not here today, but I’ll go by her house after school, okay? I just . . . I didn’t want to bring it up in front of Foster.”

  I furrow my brow. “Why not?”

  Nathan shrugs. “He doesn’t like her.”

  This surprises me. “What? Since when? I’ve never heard him say anything bad about her.”

  “No, you’re right,” Nathan agrees. “He’s never said it out loud. But I can tell.”

  “Maybe you’re projecting and you don’t like her,” I say, studying his expression. He laughs.

  “Nice try, detective. But as I said, there’s nothing going on between me and Jana Simms. Leave it at that.”

  “Foster probably knows you’re full of shit,” I say. “He could be mad about that.”

  “Do you still want me to do you a favor, or . . . ?” Nathan asks, pretending to be confused.

  “Yes, please,” I say. “And for the record, I seriously doubt Foster has a problem with Jana, but if you think he does, you might want to ask him about it.”

  “No, thanks,” Nathan says quickly, and starts toward the school. “I’ll call you later.”

  I wave him ahead, giving myself a moment to think as I slowly walk to class. Although I vowed only a few hours ago to pull myself together before pursuing Wes, now I’m determined to fix us—to make it real again. He was right there in front of me. I still feel the same way, and I know once he remembers, he will too. The Adjustment might be the key to that.

  In sixth period, the teacher announces that we’re going to the computer lab to work on our research reports. I don’t really have any friends in this class, so when we get there, I take a seat near the end of the row in the back. Above me, the fluorescent light flickers, annoying me.

  I haven’t even picked a subject yet for my report (something about a turning point in American history), but I take a quick glance around the media room to make sure no one is watching me. When it’s clear, I lean closer to my computer screen.

  I quickly type “The Adjustment” into the search bar and click enter. An entire page of chiropractic recommendations pops up. Well, I’m pretty sure Wes would need more than a muscular-skeletal shift to fall back in love with me. I go to the search bar and add on “The Program.”

  The screen seems to glitch for a moment, but then the results begin to list. There is no longer any official site for The Program—not since the government shut it down. The actual web address is “under construction,” which I assume is to stop other people from buying the address and turning it into a real shit show or propaganda.

  But there are a dozen sites dedicated to the horror stories from The Program. Even a few fan sites and blogs; not everyone hated it. There are conspiracy theories that claim it never happened, and sites devoted to the stories of Sloane Barstow and James Murphy, the couple who ran away and blew up the entire project.

  It’s a self-help forum that catches my interest. I get lost reading sob stories from people who survived The Program, stories about those who didn’t. The saddest parts of all are the posts about how we knew—as a society, we knew the devastating effects of The Program. Even if we weren’t clear on the methods, we accepted the results.

  There is post after post of people asking for help. Begging for their memories back. They say they’re not whole without them. My eyes well up as I read through their desperate pleas. I feel it in my he
art: their pain. Their ache.

  But then one small ad pops up in the sidebar like spam. The background color is Program yellow—like the awful hospital scrubs they used to make the patients wear. Probably meant to catch the attention of returners.

  I click the ad and the page lights up as yellow fills the monitor. I self-consciously look around the room and quickly minimize the page. The color fades, replaced with an empty white space. Written in black is the phrase: “Prepare for your Adjustment.”

  The words send a chill over my spine, and soon a phone number appears, followed by a link. I click it and a new page opens, the fine print, I guess. It’s a series of paragraphs, like a magazine ad for side effects you’d see for medication. I look it over, but I’m just not getting it. What does the Adjustment do? I think maybe they’re being purposely vague. But it’s the bottom of the page that raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

  Side effects may include:

  Confusion

  Blurred vision

  Flashbacks

  Depression

  Insomnia

  Stroke

  Death

  Death? Really, death is an acceptable side effect? I glance around the room as if someone might pop up to agree with me. There’s no way I’d want Wes to risk this. I can’t believe anyone would have let Vanessa take this chance. I’m worried about her now—has she been experiencing any of this? She seemed off. Has anyone even noticed?

  It’s The Program all over again.

  “We’ve got about five minutes left in class,” the teacher announces from the front of the room. “Don’t forget to cite your sources, and then go ahead and turn off your monitors.”

  I shut everything down and push back in the chair, waiting there while the others finish up their work. I’m overcome with disappointment. Even though I only heard about the Adjustment this morning, I let it fill me with hope. I wanted it to give me Wes back. But it seems no better than The Program.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket. Since the bell hasn’t rung yet, I covertly slide it out and check the message. It’s from Nathan.

  You doing okay? he writes, as if he can sense my anguish from across the school.

  Mostly.

  Yeah, right, he replies. Betty Rasta just texted me that you’re crying in computer lab.

  I quickly glance up and see Betty watching me from across the room. She diverts her eyes. I sigh.

  I’m surrounded by spies, I write.

  Or, he writes, people care about your well-being. Feel free to expect the worst, though.

  I can’t help it, I smile. Why are you harassing me? I ask. Don’t you have science to fucking worry about?

  You know I aced this class on the first day. I wanted to tell you, I just heard Courtney Dane dropped out of school.

  My smile fades. Really? Because of her meltdown?

  I guess. Sad, right?

  Tragic. And it really is. Whatever happened yesterday, it wasn’t her fault. I just hope she’ll get the help she needs now.

  Bell’s gonna ring, Nathan texts. But stop freaking out. I still plan to talk to Jana later.

  Don’t bother, I respond. Just looked up the Adjustment online. It sounds like a bad idea.

  Oh, sure. Because we know how reliable the Internet is. Are you new here?

  I laugh and glance up to make sure the teacher hasn’t noticed me texting under the table. If she sees me on the phone, she’ll confiscate it. Once it’s clear, I look down at the screen.

  Also, Nathan writes, can you give me a ride home? My mom had to borrow my car. She dropped me off.

  Yep. Meet me at the Jeep after the bell. I turn off the screen and stash my phone. I can’t decide if I still want Nathan to talk to Jana or not. I know the Adjustment is dangerous—they pretty much said so themselves on their site. But despite all my rational thoughts, my hopes climb once again.

  But this time, I prepare for them to crash back down around me.

  • • •

  The entire sky has clouded over, cold and gray from here until eternity. My mood shifts without sunshine, the feeling of possibility I woke up with is gone as I head out to my car. My backpack is heavy, and I switch it to my other shoulder to take turns balancing the weight.

  Nathan is resting against the passenger door of my Jeep as I walk up. He nods hello, and then takes my backpack and tosses it into the backseat. We climb inside, and I pull out of the parking space, both of us quiet. When we’re on the street, Nathan reclines the seat and turns to me.

  “So I know you like to bottle up your feelings until you explode,” he starts. “But since you were crying in class, I feel I have to ask: What happened with Wes at lunch?”

  “Why does it matter?” I ask.

  “Just does.” I turn sideways, and Nathan shrugs like it makes his point. Although I don’t feel like reliving my humiliation, I tell Nathan the entire conversation. Even the parts that embarrass me.

  My brakes hiss as I slow to a stop at a red light. The radio isn’t on, but my engine is loud enough to fill the silence. When the light turns green, Nathan chuckles.

  “He had the presence of mind to flirt with you?” he asks, as if that’s the larger point. “That’s so Wes.”

  “I mean, at first,” I say. “But when I mentioned that we’d dated for a while, he sort of . . .”

  “Lost that loving feeling?” Nathan offers.

  “Yeah,” I say, feeling pathetic. “He was probably grossed out.”

  Nathan laughs. “If a girl came up to me and said we’d been ‘everything’ to each other, I’d immediately think of sex and be pretty proud. Confused, sure. But not grossed out. Secondly, you actually did have a relationship with him—it’s not like you were lying.”

  “But he doesn’t know that. He doesn’t feel that. So to him, what’s real? Certainly not us.”

  I turn on Walker Road, and Nathan points out the passenger window. “Take a right,” he says. “Let me buy you a slice of pizza; turn that frown upside down.”

  I smile, appreciating Nathan’s attempt to cheer me up. I pull into the strip mall with our favorite place tucked away in the corner. It’s completely unassuming and a little dingy, but Rockstar Pizza has the best slices in the Portland area—even better than downtown.

  We walk in and the girl behind the counter pops her gum, glancing up at us with a bored expression. Nathan and I grab two menus and head to the back to seat ourselves. The tables are covered in graffiti and Magic Marker. The walls have limericks and love notes written by customers. A few crude drawings. The air is thick with the smell of wood-fired crust and spicy wing sauce. I’m suddenly starving.

  The girl comes to our table to take our order, and after she returns with two Cokes, I lean my elbows on the table and exhale. Nathan makes an exaggerated pout for my benefit and then matches my posture on the table.

  “So . . . ,” he starts, tilting his head. “Jana ended up coming to school today after all. I talked to her.”

  I immediately straighten. “Wait, what? Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

  “Because I wanted to hear about your day first,” he says. “Now, I don’t know what you read on the Internet, that amazing bedrock of misinformation, but Jana had some good things to say about the Adjustment.”

  “She did?” I ask, surprised. I assumed it would be an awful review, considering the side effects and the general secretiveness of the therapy. And the fact Vanessa didn’t seem all that enthusiastic, unless, of course, I misread her.

  “From her point of view,” Nathan says, “Vanessa was in a dark place after returning. But after the Adjustment, she was enjoying life again. Said she was better able to process her feelings and her past. Don’t know what exactly that means, but she said it was good.”

  My lips part, and there’s an inflation in my chest—happiness and hope. “Does she think it would work for Wes?” I ask.

  “We didn’t get that far into the conversation.”

  The server appears again, holding two plates
and sets them in front of us. The tip of my slice is too big for the plate and touches the table. “Anything else?” she asks.

  “Nope,” Nathan says, reaching past me to grab the red pepper shaker on my side of the table. The server leaves, and I let my slice cool a minute. Nathan folds his in half, takes a bite, and then fans his mouth. Hot, he mouths around the pizza.

  “Was that all Jana said?” I ask.

  Nathan takes a sip of his Coke. “She said she heard about it online, told Vanessa, and the two went to check it out—it’s in Portland. Vanessa signed up. Now they’re best friends forever and life is good.”

  I think about that. “Vanessa didn’t seem all that good when I saw her,” I say. “She seemed . . . off.”

  “Well, she is a returner,” Nathan says. “She’s going to be.”

  I want to tell him that he’s being unfair, but I have yet to see a returner who isn’t at least a little traumatized from his or her experience in The Program. So he’s mostly right. And yet I still don’t apply that same logic to Wes. He’ll overcome this. He’s gotten over every other terrible thing that’s happened to him, all without help. Without interference. He’ll beat this, too.

  Nathan sets down his slice and grabs a napkin from the dispenser. He wipes his fingers and then smiles mischievously. “I also got an address and the afternoon off from work. In case you want to check it out.”

  I’m suddenly scared of opening this can of worms. Opening myself up to the pressure of doctors, the lies they might tell if they’re anything like The Program. I’m not ready. “Although I appreciate your curiosity,” I say, “I’m still not convinced. With the risk of death, how could it possibly be worth it? I’d rather do more research before marching down there.”

  “Uh, fine by me,” he says. “I’d rather not kill people today. Jesus.”

  “I probably should have led with that.”

  “Always lead with the death warning,” he responds.

  “Besides,” I add in a lighter tone, “I promised Gram I’d make dinner tonight.”

  “What are we having?” Nathan asks.

  “Spaghetti.”