The Adjustment

by Suzanne Young

  “And I think Vanessa figured it out,” he continues. “The day Wes came back, I sat with her at lunch, you remember?” I nod that I do. “Well, she was acting kind of strange. I assumed that was just her way, but she would have these moments where she’d ask me a question and then study my face, as if she was trying to tell if I was lying. As if she could tell. She was paranoid for sure, but . . . there was something else, too. I couldn’t put my finger on it.

  “And then, after Seb died,” he says, “I got a message—a text. Arturo told me Vanessa thought she was being watched. He sort of laughed it off in a sad way, but it occurred to me . . . what if she was right? What if there really are still handlers?”

  I stare at him, my heart thudding loudly. I’m speechless, too terrified to believe it. “The Program’s over,” I whisper to Foster. “And the handlers are gone. At least . . . they’re gone from school. I think they’ll live on in our nightmares for a while.”

  “It’s just a theory,” he allows. “I mean . . . clearly Vanessa has much bigger problems. And I didn’t bring it up to Nathan because I didn’t want it getting back to Jana. I don’t think she can keep a secret.”

  “Nathan doesn’t think you like Jana,” I say.

  “I don’t,” he says simply, shocking me.

  “Okay, everyone,” the teacher announces suddenly from the front of the room, gathering our attention. “Hand in your reports, and then open to lesson four point one. Top of the page.”

  “Let’s keep this between us for now,” Foster says, stooping down to match my eye level. I tell him that I will, and he leaves to hand in my paper.

  While he’s gone, my pulse starts to return to normal, or at least a steadier version. It was just a wild theory, and yet, I find myself drawn to the girl in the corner.

  But I’m surprised when I look over and find her gone.

  • • •

  Foster and I make our way to lunch, neither of us mentioning our earlier conversation, almost like it didn’t happen. Nathan is waiting in our usual spot. He’s pale, and he eats without speaking. The entire school has gone quiet, fallen into a hush.

  Nathan gets to his feet and grabs Foster by the arm to pull him into a hug. “I’m so sorry, man,” he says quietly. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

  It’s the first time he’s seen Foster since his brother’s death, and the two of them exchange a few grief-soaked words. I give them some space. Eventually Foster thanks him, and the two of them sit down, talking quietly.

  The conversation is somber, and I sit on the other side of Nathan, my feet dangling off the half wall. I listen to Foster tell him about the funeral and, again, how glad he is that we didn’t have to witness any of it.

  Once they’re caught up, Nathan takes a deep breath and leans back. The wind tries to blow away his chip bag, but I slap it down and hand it back to him. He stares down at the crumpled paper.

  “So I got an update on Vanessa,” Nathan says. “She managed to crack her skull—at least that’s what one of the paramedics said when he was wheeling her out. They’re not sure she’s going to wake up,” he adds, looking over at me. “Jana texted. She’s pretty wrecked right now.”

  “It’s awful,” I say, feeling guilty. “I should have told you something was wrong with Vanessa the minute I talked to her at my locker.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered,” Nathan replies. “Vanessa’s been . . . she’s been a mess for a while.” On the other side of him, Foster nods along as if confirming it.

  “I mean,” Nathan continues, “we can pretend otherwise. But in a way, she was right. We are all liars. We’ve seen the people getting sick, saw it during the epidemic. We chose to turn a blind eye. We’re still fucking doing it. And where were the teachers? Her parents? Her goddamn doctor? We saw her at school every day. No one helped her. We let this happen.”

  “It’s like the people at the funeral,” Foster adds quietly. “Pretending like there wasn’t a dead nineteen-year-old in the casket. All we do is pretend . . .” He stops and shakes his head.

  “So what should we do?” I ask them both. “How do we help the other returners?”

  Nathan looks over, studying me. “Not the Adjustment, if that’s what you’re going to suggest. Because no matter what Jana says, it’s partly to blame. You don’t get to just mess with people’s heads and not expect consequences.”

  I know that Nathan would be upset if he found out that Wes and I went to the Adjustment. But I don’t agree, not after talking to Wes. He’s getting better. The Adjustment is saving him. It’s not the cause of this.

  “What else did Jana say?” Foster asks, looking over. His expression doesn’t give away his earlier confession to me.

  Nathan blinks quickly, like he’s trying to recall her exact words. “She claimed it was ‘faulty wiring,’ ” he says. “Those were her actual words. She said The Program put Vanessa back together wrong in the first place and that the assessment this morning triggered her meltdown. She says she doesn’t think it has anything to do with the Adjustment.”

  “The Program has been known to cut corners,” Foster agrees. “It’s too bad no one was watching out for her.”

  “Any idea what Vanessa and Jana were even fighting about in the hallway?” I ask.

  Nathan shakes his head. “All I saw was Vanessa punch Jana in the face and throw her against the locker. They struggled for a bit until I pulled them apart.” He pauses. “But Vanessa . . . she was like an animal, completely feral.”

  “I’m glad you were there,” I say. I’m proud of how he stands up for others.

  “Yeah,” Nathan says. “It’s just, with everything going on . . . I’m worried it’s happening again. I’m worried The Program’s coming back.” His eyes weaken. “I’m scared for the returners.”

  I have to fight to keep my expression clear. “That will never happen,” I say.

  But I want to run off and find Weston right now, get on his motorcycle and escape before things get worse. That’s not exactly rational; it’s another outburst. And I can’t imagine how the school board would react to that.

  I pull my legs up to wrap my arms around my knees, hugging them to my chest. I look over my shoulder to where Wes usually sits during lunch. He’s not there. His absence is a gaping hole in the courtyard.

  “Have you seen Wes?” I ask.

  “Unfortunately, no,” Foster replies, taking an apple out of his lunch bag and biting into it. “It’s disappointing.”

  “I haven’t seen him either,” Nathan adds. “Not since English.”

  I stand, and look around again, as if I just missed him. But each second that passes makes me worry more. Why isn’t he here?

  I take a few steps forward, and then check my phone to make sure I haven’t missed a text from him. When I see that I haven’t, I type out a message.

  Where are you? I write.

  I wait, but as the seconds tick by without a response, my panic grows.

  “What’s wrong?” Nathan asks.

  “It’s Wes,” I say. “He’s not at lunch.”

  Nathan comes to stand next to me and glances around. “He might be staying after class,” he offers. But when I don’t agree with that excuse, he lightly bumps me with his elbow. “You should go look for him,” he says. “Foster’s here to be my friend.” He smiles, as if that’ll help calm my worry.

  Foster takes another loud bite of his apple. “Yes, I’ll keep Nathan out of trouble. But bring your boyfriend back here when you find him. I haven’t even said hi to him since he returned.”

  Foster and Wes really do get along well—and not even just to annoy Nathan.

  “I will.”

  I tell them both I’ll catch up with them later, and I gather my stuff and escape into the courtyard. A teacher watches me as I walk back into the building, and I can’t help feel a bit vulnerable under her gaze. Feel watched. I swallow hard, and take out my phone again.

  Seriously, I text Wes. I need to talk to you.

  Still no an
swer. Nervously, I start toward his locker. As I pass others in the hallway, all of them keep their eyes downturned—trying to hide in plain sight. The subtle ways of not being noticed.

  When I turn down the hallway, I see Wes isn’t at his locker. I go there anyway, resting my shoulder against it. I’m not sure where to look for him right now. He might be in class. He could have left for the day. But there’s a greater fear under my skin.

  The Program isn’t coming back, I tell myself. We wouldn’t let that happen. We have to figure out how to stop the returners from falling apart and maybe all the rest of this will go away. The Adjustment might be our only shot at that.

  I glance up to check for Wes again, but instead I see Kyle Mahoney walking in my direction. She doesn’t see me at first, but then she looks toward Wes’s locker. Her jaw tightens when she notices me.

  I straighten, expecting her to come over, but she continues down the hall, her shoes clacking on the linoleum floor. I watch her pass, and I’m not sure what comes over me. I feel a sense that I’m not part of a bigger conversation that’s happening around me.

  “Hey,” I call. Kyle stops, but it takes her a second to turn around. When she does, her eyes are narrowed slightly. Now that she’s facing me, I don’t even know what I planned to say to her. My resolve fades.

  “Never mind,” I start to say, but she cuts me off.

  “He’s in the office,” she says. “Weston. I just saw him there, if that’s what you were going to ask.”

  It wasn’t. I don’t know what I wanted to ask her. I just wanted her to acknowledge me, acknowledge that I’m not making up the weirdness between us. But I’m glad she told me where Wes is.

  I mumble a thank-you and hike my backpack up on my shoulders. I rush down the hall. I don’t know why Wes is in the office—it can’t be good. But I’m not going to leave him there alone.

  Kyle doesn’t say anything else, but I feel her eyes on my back as I turn down the other corridor.

  • • •

  The office is crowded when I pull open the glass door and walk inside. Several parents wait in chairs, along with a handful of students. Two uniformed police officers stand near the principal’s door. Whatever is going on looks a lot like panic.

  “Tate.”

  I turn and find Wes in the corner, sitting alone. His backpack is at his feet, and I notice immediately how sickly he looks under the fluorescent lights. Strung out, even though he said he’s been sleeping better. I glance around at some of the other students, and see they’re suffering with much of the same.

  I cross the office toward Wes and crouch down next to his chair, against the wall.

  “I texted you,” I say quietly.

  “Yeah, sorry,” he says. “I didn’t want to scare you.”

  “It scared me more that you didn’t answer.”

  “Now I’m extra sorry.” He tries to offer an apologetic smile, but I don’t return it. His smile fades. “How’d you know I was here?” he asks.

  “Kyle Mahoney.”

  “Really?” he asks. “I didn’t see her.”

  “I don’t want to talk about her right now,” I say. “Are you here . . . voluntarily?” I ask in a hushed voice. Nathan’s comments have made me paranoid.

  “Sort of. I mean, I guess I could have refused when they came to get me out of class.”

  “They came and got you? Why?”

  “I think they’re talking to all returners,” he says. “I thought it might be best to not flip out when they asked, proving them right for being worried.” He exhales heavily. “I heard about Vanessa.”

  “I was there,” I say, and sit cross-legged on the carpet, resting my shoulder against his knee. “And it was bad, Wes,” I whisper, not wanting the others to hear me talking. “She looked right at me.”

  “You? Why?”

  “She said people were watching us,” I whisper. “She said they’re all liars. What does that even mean?” I ask. “Who’s lying?”

  I see his Adam’s apple bob, but he doesn’t offer an opinion right away. Instead he reaches absently to run his hand over the back of my hair.

  “So now Foster,” I say, “is starting to think there are handlers again—something that Vanessa got into his head. And Nathan, well, he’s somewhere between blaming the Adjustment and thinking The Program’s coming back.” I lift my eyes to meet his. “I’m not a fan of any of those opinions. But Nathan doesn’t know about . . .” I glance around to make sure no one’s listening. “He doesn’t know about the Adjustment. I hate keeping it from him.”

  “Then tell him,” Wes says.

  I furrow my brow. “I can’t,” I say. “He’ll be mad. At least when you remember everything, it’ll all make sense why we did it.”

  “Well, if it helps,” Wes says, “I don’t think Vanessa’s outburst had anything to do with the Adjustment. But . . .” He pauses to think it over. “Foster might be on to something.”

  My stomach sinks. “What does that mean?” I ask.

  “I was listening to a girl in my history class last hour,” Wes says. “And she was talking about how she knew Vanessa before The Program. The girl said it was weird, that when Vanessa came back, Jana came with her—like a built-in new best friend. Said Vanessa never talked to her again because Jana wouldn’t allow it.”

  “So . . . what? Jana is possessive and they had a fight? Or . . . are you saying, what—Jana’s a handler?”

  “No,” Wes says, shaking his head. “That’s not what I mean. That girl in my class has been saying this stuff for a while, gossip, really. But for someone who has been in The Program, paranoia is a given, right? A few off moments and all of a sudden . . . you can’t trust anyone. What if Vanessa cracked up and thought Jana was a handler?”

  “There are no handlers,” I say.

  “I know,” Wes agrees, and lowers his voice. “But it kind of makes sense she’d think that. Look how easily Vanessa’s words made Foster worry about handlers. All of us are living in a perpetual state of panic. What could one murmur do? What if it could cause a meltdown? What if we all could melt down?”

  “That’s dark, Wes.”

  “It’s just one possibility I’m working on.” He leans in to kiss the top of my head as if he’s talking mathematical equations and not the end of civilization.

  “You know,” I say, resting my elbow on his knee. “Nathan’s been sort of dating Jana for the past few months. Do you think he’s heard about any of these possibilities?”

  “Would he tell you if he had?” Wes asks.

  My immediate answer should be yes, but it’s I don’t know. He didn’t tell me about him and Jana in the first place. Just like I’m not telling him about Wes’s Adjustment. It’s a sudden realization that Nathan and I . . . we’re keeping secrets with other people.

  “Then again,” Wes says, sighing and leaning his head back against the wall, “it could have been the Adjustment. I mean . . . what if it worked and she suddenly remembered everything? That would include the bad stuff too.”

  “That’s true,” I say, considering his words. How would this affect Wes if it happened to him—all his anger, loneliness, depression—what if it all hit at once, on one day, at one hour, one moment? Would it break him? I should have thought of that before.

  Wes looks down at me, and he shrugs. “That would mean the Adjustment works, right?” he asks, barely a whisper. He starts to smile when a small woman appears from the guidance counselor’s office. I’ve never seen her before.

  “Weston Ambrose?” she calls, even though she’s looking right at us. I instantly don’t trust her. Her gray wool suit and pinned-back hair. She’s severe.

  “Should I wait here?” I ask Weston as he stands.

  “No,” he says, helping me up from the floor. “Go to class. I’ll text you when I’m done.” He runs his hand over my arm before turning away, and it occurs to me how easily he’s been touching me, no longer flinching away. It must have something to do with the Adjustment.

  I tr
y not to look shocked and watch him walk toward the woman. She lets her gaze linger on me a moment longer, but when Wes gets to her, she motions to the office, and together they walk in and close the door behind them.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I WANT TO WAIT. I almost do. But the inquisitive stares of the office staff and the concern of other parents makes me uncomfortable. I end up a few minutes late for my next class, and everyone is looking around; the room is only half filled. Returners are either gone or being pulled throughout the day. None of them comes back to class.

  I continually check my phone, not worried if a teacher scolds me. They don’t. From the expressions on their faces, I’m starting to believe they’re worried too. They don’t want another Program.

  Nathan is waiting by my Jeep when I get out of school. I thought about texting him to tell him people are blaming Jana for Vanessa’s breakdown; some might even be insinuating that she’s a handler. But I figured I’d tell him in person. They’re only rumors, but still . . . he should know what people are saying.

  “Yes, I heard it’s all Jana’s fault,” Nathan announces just as I arrive at the Jeep. “And, no, I don’t believe it for a second.”

  I stop in front of him, looking him over. His shoulders are slumped, his face worn. It reminds me of how he looked the day he heard that Sebastian died. I hate to see him so torn up.

  We lean against the Jeep for a moment, watching the rest of the students leave school. Nobody looks okay. What are they doing to us?

  “Jana and Vanessa did have an intense friendship,” Nathan says. “And, yeah, I noticed how closely Jana would keep an eye on her. I even mentioned it once.” Nathan turns to me. “She said she was making sure she stayed safe. That’s why she didn’t want her with her old friends. That’s why she asked her to get the Adjustment. She was looking out for her.”

  We’re quiet for a few moments, and then I bump my shoulder into his. “Got time for a slice?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he replies with a heavy sigh. “Sounds great.”

  • • •

  On the way to the pizza place, I tell Nathan that I saw Wes in the office, and we talk about how the returners are all being interviewed. I don’t mention Foster’s concern about handlers, and I definitely don’t mention his feelings about Jana. Nathan and I get to Rockstar Pizza, grab our regular table, and order.