The Adjustment

by Suzanne Young

  “Not about you,” he says. “It’s about Foster.”

  “What about him?” I ask, my stomach dropping. “He’s not in school today. Is he okay?”

  Nathan stares down in his lap. “It’s his brother.”

  My blood runs cold and it’s like he doesn’t even need to tell me. I can read it all over his face, feel the shift in the world. “Sebastian,” I murmur.

  Nathan picks up my can of soda and stares at the tab, flicking it with his thumb. “Yeah, so he’s dead,” he says darkly. I cover my mouth, horrified. Nathan stares down at the can, and I watch as his eyes well up and a tear drips onto the thigh of his jeans.

  Sebastian Linn was only seventeen when The Program took him two years ago. We heard it during class, heard the shouts echo down the hallway. Foster was with us in class, and he couldn’t even react for fear they’d take him, too. He had to listen to his brother scream.

  I can still see Foster at his desk, fingers curled around the edges. Nathan was sitting behind him with his hands on his shoulders, holding him there. Giving him strength. Foster’s eyes squeezed shut, the girl next to him weeping at the horror of it all.

  We listened to Sebastian yell for help, and then he was silent. Then he was gone.

  Nathan brought Foster back to my house, and along with my grandparents, we stayed with him, comforting him. My grandfather promised to use his connections at the paper to check on Sebastian’s condition. It turned out . . . it wasn’t good. Sebastian had bought a bottle of QuikDeath, one they recovered from his house. He nearly died.

  So although we never wanted anyone to go The Program, we hoped it could help him.

  But now he’s dead anyway. What was the point if he’s dead anyway?

  “Oh my God,” I say. “Foster. Have you talked to him?”

  Nathan quickly wipes under his eyes and sets the soda can aside. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s how I found out. He called me before physics; could barely understand him. He thinks . . . Sebastian was having a tough time with his lost memories. Angry, I guess.” Nathan looks at me and I know that Foster is wrecked—the pain, the deeper way it hits when you know it was self-inflicted. The guilt.

  And all I can think is: We’ve lost another one. I grab Nathan’s arm and pull him into a hug. He doesn’t hug me back; he just leans against me for support. Sebastian wouldn’t be the first person to commit suicide after The Program. Although the epidemic is over, there are still too many deaths.

  Nathan sniffles again, and straightens, grabbing his lunch bag like he’s ready to carry on. But it’s obvious that he’s not okay. “Foster won’t be in school the rest of the week,” he says. “Maybe longer.”

  He takes out his sandwich and bites off a piece, chewing it like it’s a piece of cardboard. “I just . . .” He pauses. “I just saw Sebastian last week. He helped me change the oil in my mother’s car. He . . .” Nathan stops, closing his eyes, his face scrunched up. After a moment, he takes a breath and exhales heavily. “So much for a cure,” he murmurs.

  I feel sick. I can’t even pretend to eat, thinking about Sebastian. About Foster. And worst of all, thinking about the damage The Program has done. The lives it continues to take.

  I look over to where Weston is sitting, holding a book in one hand, a cookie in the other. He seems content and peaceful for the moment. But Sebastian might have been like that too. They don’t all have an obvious twitch.

  Maybe Jana is right: Eventually all the returners will want to know. I think about Courtney, about her meltdown in the courtyard. Was it because she didn’t have her memories back fully? And Sebastian . . . I wince, pricked by the grief. I can’t help but wonder if he could have been saved by the Adjustment. What if there was a chance?

  I look back at Nathan, finding him shattered. I lean my head on his shoulder, and he reaches to put his hand over mine. We’ve lost today. But I won’t lose tomorrow.

  I think it’s time to find out a little more about the Adjustment.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  I’M ONLY GOING THROUGH THE motions of school, set apart by worry for Foster. I text him how sorry I am, and he thanks me—short and to the point. Even now, we try to hide our grief. Even now, The Program has robbed us of that.

  My teacher tells the class to head to the library to continue researching for our reports. I’d hoped to use the computer lab to gather info on the Adjustment, but at least I have my phone. Although service in the library is sometimes spotty.

  The teacher disappears into the stacks to help students pick additional books, but I grab the first one on the cart and find a table near the back of the room. I take a seat at that large wooden table and open the textbook to a page about the Challenger disaster. I take out my notebook and jot down a few notes, just in case the teacher comes by to check. I keep my phone under the table.

  This time I know where to look, and I find the site for the Adjustment fairly quickly. When I search for testimonials, however, the Internet is silent on the matter. How that’s possible, I have no idea.

  I go back to the site and click the contact page, seeing the office is in Portland. I take a deep breath and fill out the appointment form with my first name. They have an opening later today. With my stomach in knots, I accept the time and click out of the page. I have no idea what I’ll say when I get there.

  The chair across from me is pulled out, and Alecia Partridge sits down at my table. My breath catches, and her dark eyes lock on mine.

  “The teacher told me to sit here,” she says, as if I’m about to kick her out.

  “I wasn’t . . .” I stop and glance around. Several people watch us. “It’s fine,” I say. “How are you?” I tack on the end so that I don’t sound like a jerk, but I have to admit I’m rattled to be so close to her. Not just because she’s a returner. Not just because my friend’s brother died. But because she scares me with her instability.

  She smiles, slow and creepy. “I’m good,” she says. “Thanks for asking.”

  I realize then that she’s not trying to be creepy; she’s honestly surprised that I asked her. I wonder if anyone ever asks how she is anymore.

  I give a polite return smile and slip my phone into my pocket, going back to the research.

  “It’s funny, right?” she says, startling me. I lift my head.

  “What is?”

  “How most of you study disasters—as if all of history is death and destruction.” She licks her dry lips, chapped and cracked in the corners.

  “What are you doing your report on?” I ask, truly curious.

  “The Nineteenth Amendment,” she says. “It won some of us the right to vote.”

  I look down at my book, looking at the names of those who died trying to get to space. How easily I selected the topic. How distant it felt. But now, after Sebastian, their deaths feel closer. I shut the book.

  “Can I ask you something?” Alecia says, leaning into the table. Her right eye twitches, and she shakes her head like she can clear the tic.

  “Sure,” I respond, matching her posture.

  “What’s it like to remember?” she whispers.

  The question is horrifically sad, and it’s a blow to my chest. I straighten up, overcome by her situation. Alecia flinches again, and at my nonresponse, she smiles and looks down at the page of her book, running her index finger along the lines until it’s off the table and onto her lap.

  “Time has a way of going backward,” she says quietly. “You’ll see.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Did you ever think that they’re the ones who are crazy?” She nods out to the room. “And the returners are the only ones who are real?”

  Alecia brushes some of her tangled hair behind her ear. She looks down, mumbling something under her breath, but I don’t think she’s talking to me anymore. I wish I could remember what she was like before The Program, but the truth is, most of us were too scared to notice much of anything. Now she’s here, and still . . . no one notices her.

>   “I’m going to get a different book,” I say, grabbing the heavy volume off the table. Alecia keeps her head down as if she doesn’t care if I come back.

  I walk toward the stacks and put the book on an overcrowded cart at the end of the aisle, scanning the spines for something else. I grab an encyclopedia at random, ready to search for a topic, when I feel a prickle of needles across the back of my neck, as if someone is watching me.

  I quickly turn, dart my eyes around the room, and find Kyle Mahoney. My heart jumps. Kyle is sitting alone at a table, a textbook open in front of her. She must have study hall this hour, but despite her book, her eyes are unmistakably trained on me.

  It’s obvious that she needs to ask me something, and now is as good a time as ever. I hold the book to my chest, and start in her direction. My teacher appears at the end of a row and looks at me. I motion as if asking permission to move spots and she nods that I can.

  I cross the room toward Kyle, and she quickly lowers her head and turns the page in her book, like she was studying all along. I sit down at her table, and she waits a beat before closing her book. She looks directly at me, as if her shy act was just that.

  “What’s up?” I ask in a hushed library voice. “I see you everywhere. Do you need to talk to me about something?”

  She takes a deep breath, and then leans back in her chair. Pink rises high on her cheeks. “Weston,” she says quietly. “When he came back from The Program, did he remember?”

  “Why do you want to know?” I ask. My boyfriend’s state of mind isn’t really any of her business.

  “Because people have had memory crashbacks—meltdowns or whatever. Some can remember,” she says. “Some can’t. For instance, your friend Alecia over there is a little bit of both, isn’t she?”

  “She’s not my . . .” But I don’t finish the sentence. Again, my life is none of her concern. “So?” I ask.

  “I was . . .” She seems thrown. “I was just curious where Wes fell on that spectrum.”

  “Curious?” I ask. “Are you doing a study on him?”

  She laughs as if my question is ironic. “Let’s say I am,” she states. She turns around her textbook so I can read the title: Memory Manipulation in the Modern Age. “I’d say The Program qualifies as an important moment in history. I’m in Mrs. Klein’s third-hour class.”

  Well, I feel kind of stupid now. I ease back in my chair. “No,” I say. “Weston doesn’t remember anything.”

  Kyle blinks quickly, as if my answer surprises her. “But I saw you two together,” she says. “I thought he remembered.”

  I watch her, trying to figure out exactly what she wants from this. Report or not, she’s not allowed to pry into our business. Part of me wonders if she’s trying to find out information for another returner. “Nope,” I say, pushing back my chair. “He doesn’t remember a thing. Sorry.”

  I stand and Kyle leans forward, her blue eyes suddenly desperate. “If he does remember, though,” she says quickly, not bothering to whisper, “you’ll let me know?”

  I furrow my brow, not sure why she thinks we have any kind of a deal here. “No offense, but it’s not really any of your business, Kyle. This is kind of personal.”

  She looks hurt, but I watch as she tightens her jaw and sits back in her seat. “You’re right,” she says. “Never mind.”

  I look around the room, the other students working and chatting away quietly. I want someone to agree with me that this is a completely bizarre conversation, but I’ll have to settle for texting Nathan about it instead.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” I add before walking away. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  Kyle stares down at the closed book but doesn’t answer me. I tell her to have a nice day, and then I walk back to my table.

  Alecia looks at me, seeming surprised that I returned to sit with her. We don’t say anything, though, and after a moment, I open up the encyclopedia and flip through the pages. I don’t want to write about death and tragedy. In a life where we’re completely immersed in it . . . I just can’t.

  The image of Foster, crying on my sofa—wondering if his brother will ever come back from The Program—plays across my mind. We promised he would. We promised it’d be okay.

  But we were liars.

  I sniffle, and Alecia shifts in her seat, as if drawn to my sadness. But I don’t want to break down, so I look at the book again and find the history of the moon landing. I opt to focus on something positive for a while. Just long enough to dull the sharp end of my pain.

  • • •

  I don’t see Wes the entire rest of the day, and when the final bell rings, I jog to Nathan’s locker just before he slams it shut and turns around.

  “Have you talked to him again?” I ask, wondering about Foster.

  “No,” Nathan says. “He texted me to say he was with his family, and that he’s not ready to talk about it.”

  I rest against the locker next to him, and look sideways. “Well, do you want to talk about it?” I ask.

  “Not really,” he says. “Not right now, at least.”

  “Okay,” I say. “But if you change your mind—”

  “Yeah, I know, Tatum,” he interrupts. He pauses and tries to force a smile. “Can we change the subject?” I nod that I will, and we start toward the exit.

  “Are you working tonight?” I ask. Nathan works a few nights a week at an office as part of the janitorial staff. It’s not terrible and the money and hours are amazing. My grandparents don’t want me to get a job until after graduation because they’re concerned it’ll affect my grades. Nathan is brilliant, so he doesn’t have to worry about that. I, on the other hand, actually have to study.

  “Not until tomorrow,” he says. “Why?” he asks, looking at me suspiciously.

  “I thought we might do that investigating after all,” I say. The halls are packed with everyone trying to get out for the day, but I notice Jana and Vanessa hanging by the exit doors.

  “I’ll have to get the Mystery Machine first,” Nathan says. And when I don’t laugh, he elbows me in the side. “Hey, I thought we were trying to feel better?”

  “Sorry,” I say, distracted. I watch Jana and Vanessa talk . . . more like arguing, I guess. Jana’s expression is sour as Vanessa stares right back at her, stoically. Like she doesn’t give a shit what she thinks.

  I’m about to point them out to Nathan, but together they must agree on something before Vanessa finally smiles and they walk out together. That was weird.

  “Well, don’t keep me in suspense,” Nathan says. “What’s the plan?”

  “Oh,” I say, looking over. “Remember how we were going to find out more about the Adjustment?”

  “Clearly.”

  “You still down for that?”

  He pauses, and I watch grief cross his expression before he buries it. Sebastian Linn could have been a candidate for the Adjustment. What if it could have saved him?

  “Okay,” he says simply, holding my gaze. I smile sadly, wishing we didn’t have to do any of this, and loop my arm through his.

  “Well, good,” I say. “Because I already made us an appointment.”

  • • •

  The Adjustment office is in a small strip mall without any advertising. The building itself is unremarkable, with nothing architecturally interesting about it: flat roofed with gray-paneled siding. The only reason I know this is the right address is because the sign with the suite number painted on it is lemon yellow.

  I’ve seen pictures of The Program facilities online and on TV before they shut them down. They were large and hospital-like, some with expansive green lawns and iron fencing. This unassuming office is less intimidating. But as I park my Jeep in front of the frosted-glass door, I note that the parking lot is deserted. The other storefronts are all closed down, some even boarded up. I turn off the ignition and look at Nathan.

  “Uh . . . ,” he starts, “this is a little spooky.”

  “That’s why we’re che
cking it out, right? Also, keep in mind that The Program had nice facilities and it sucked, so don’t judge an experimental, mind-altering business by its storefront.”

  “Funny,” he says, like it’s not funny at all.

  “Come on,” I say, and we both climb out. I glance up at the gray clouds wearily, and walk to the door. Nathan grabs my arm before I pull it open.

  “Just to be clear,” he says. “This is only a fact-finding mission, right? You’re not committing me to something that will steal my identity.”

  “Your memory is safe,” I say. “I just need to know the details. Seems no one wants to talk about it, so we have to go to the source. Plus, I’m pretty sure they only adjust returners.”

  “Never assume anything, Tatum. So when I say leave, we leave. Got it?”

  “Deal.”

  I pull on the door handle and find it locked. I furrow my brow and look around until I see a small buzzer next to the door. I guess it’s for security, and I ring it and look up to the small black camera set above the doorway. There’s a buzzing noise, and the click of locks opening. Nathan sighs like this annoys him more than anything else, and then he pulls open the door and we walk inside.

  The waiting room is brighter than I imagined, white and clean. The chairs are all yellow. There is a pretty girl with long dark hair behind a receptionist’s desk, and she smiles as we enter. A candle burns on her desk, filling the room with a soft scent of sage. I glance around and there is nothing on the walls but one framed picture of a man I’ve never seen. He’s older, and I assume by the serious style of the frame that he’s either dead or the creator of the Adjustment.

  “Can I help you?” the girl asks without losing her perfectly straightened smile.

  “I have an appointment,” I say, my voice hitching higher. It’s cold in the room, and I wrap my arms around myself. “I . . . um . . . I scheduled it online.”

  “Your name?” she asks. She opens a file on her desk, glances down, and then back to me.

  “Tatum,” I say. She stares at me, and I’m not sure if she’s waiting for my last name, but I didn’t use it for the appointment, and I don’t give it now. After a second of awkward silence, she closes the file.