The Complication

by Suzanne Young

  I examine the date on the box again, a few months off from my own birthday.

  That means I’m already eighteen. It’s strange to imagine your birthday isn’t really your birthday. Maybe I’ll celebrate twice next year. The idea makes me smile but is immediately replaced with sadness. I wonder if I ever felt it growing up. On the day of my actual birth, was there a part of me that knew?

  I take off the lid and set it aside. The stuffed dog is on top, and I examine it again. I don’t feel any pull, any significance. It’s dirty—the kind of dirt that means it was well-loved. I put it next to the box and dig through some clothes, a dress that’s yellowed over time. At the very bottom of the box, I feel an object. I hold the fabric to the side and pull out a charm attached to a silver bracelet—a piece of child’s jewelry. It’s nothing fancy, but it’s sweet.

  I examine the charm, running my finger over it. It’s a heart with a C carved onto it. There’s a twist in my stomach, and my eyes begin to tear up. Could that have been the first letter of my old name? I turn the charm over, and my breath catches when I see it’s engraved in tiny letters:

  XOXO

  —Mommy

  “I had a mother,” I whisper, and the words, once out of my mouth, are a sudden wrecking ball to my heart. “I had a mother,” I repeat a little louder.

  She must have loved me once, but something happened to her. Was she alive still? Did she give me away, or did they take me? Does she still wonder where I am?

  You’re not the only replacement, Marie had told Nicole. Marie and Dr. McKee have destroyed lives. Changed them. Rewritten them.

  I’m the replacement for a girl who died, and in that moment, I died too—whoever C was. My family was gone. Now I have this new life, still battling my past. And it hurts to feel like an imposter.

  I take the stuffed dog, and I curl up on my bed and cry. And after a while, my thoughts turn to Wes, and how he said the past has the power to destroy us. I think he could be right, but only if we give it power. Only if we let it.

  So I sit up, clearing the tears from my cheeks. I neatly fold the dress and place it back in the box, breaking down a few times. I lay my stuffed dog on top. I stand and bring the tiny bracelet—too small to wear—and set it on my dresser. I gaze at it an extra second, wishing I knew my mother. I put the lid on the box and place it on the floor of my closet.

  I don’t want any more lies. I don’t want to pretend for another second about anything. Being honest with my grandparents, and having them be honest in return, has lightened my soul. Keeping secrets is a heavy burden, and I’m ready to let it all go.

  It’s time I find Wes and tell him about our past. No matter what, he needs to know. I can’t be the one keeping it from him. And maybe he’ll say that he loves me again. That he always knew that we’d find our way back together. It’s a naïve viewpoint, I know. But I can’t help imagining the best-case scenario.

  I can’t help but allow in just a little bit of hope.

  PART III

  LOVE HIM MADLY

  CHAPTER ONE

  I TELL MY GRANDPARENTS THAT I’m going to school to find Wes. They seem a bit stunned by the comment but don’t argue. Just like they promised, they stand by my decision. Pop tells me to call if I need him.

  I text Nathan before I pull out of the driveway, and he asks if he should come with me, but this is something I have to do on my own. He says he’ll be home when I get back.

  It’s almost last hour, and I wonder if Wes will be in the library, catching up on his assignments. I consider texting him to ask where he is, but I don’t have the nerve. This way, if he’s not in the library, I’ll have time to rethink and regroup. It’s not brave, but I’m driving to school on a whim. Racing ahead without too much thought to slow me down. I know I’ll find Wes eventually; I won’t give up until I do. But it’s also good to have some options.

  The bell for seventh hour rings as I stand in the office, signing the student book. When the attendance clerk asks where I’m heading, I tell her the library, and she writes out the pass.

  I glance at Dr. Wyatt’s office door, thankful that it’s closed. I wonder if she’s out in the classrooms or talking with a student. Interrogating them, like she did with Wes. I’m relieved that she doesn’t seem to be part of The Program, but I still don’t trust her. And I still don’t want anything to do with her brand of sanctimonious bullying.

  “Thanks,” I tell the clerk, and then head toward the library. I didn’t even bring my backpack with me, and I realize that should have seemed strange. Then again, I did show up only for seventh hour—that alone was weird.

  There aren’t many students in the library when I walk in. Just a few people scattered around the tables. The librarian says hello to me, and I walk over and hand her my pass to let her know it’s okay that I’m here. She glances at it and then goes back to checking in a stack of books.

  Maybe Wes isn’t here. Part of me hopes he’s not because it will give me time to think of just the right words—formulate an argument for why he needs to know everything. I’m currently a storm of emotions, wild and unruly.

  And it’s then, of course, that I see Wes sitting at a table in the back of the library, reading a novel. I can’t help it—I smile and even sigh a little. The vision of him reading is something I’ve always enjoyed. Have always been drawn to.

  I slowly make my way toward him, studying him as I do. My nerves buzz over my skin. I’m scared. I’m excited. I’m a mess.

  When I get to his table, he looks up with a sharp intake of breath. “Tate,” he says. “I didn’t think you were at school today.” He looks me over, taking stock of my condition, but doesn’t ask how I am.

  “Mind if I sit with you?” I ask.

  He glances around, not immediately welcoming me, and my heart dips. I almost say never mind, but I won’t back down this time.

  Wes motions to the chair next to him and tells me to go ahead.

  I sit down, and he studies me for a moment. I’m sure he noticed I don’t have any books with me—it’s obvious that I’m here for him—but rather than ask about it, he sits back in his chair, relaxed, and opens his novel to continue reading.

  I can’t see the title because he folds the spine. He seems relaxed with me next to him, even though we’re not talking. Even though we have stuff we absolutely need to talk about. We belong by each other’s side, even though we’re not together.

  “Wes,” I say, and swallow hard.

  “Hm?” he hums out, flipping the next page of his book. I watch him, the way he creases the binding, causing deep lines; when he licks his thumb to turn the page back like he might have missed an important plot point.

  “The other night, you asked how I felt about you,” I say. Wes stills but doesn’t turn to me right away. His Adam’s apple bobs, and then he closes his book. “I want to answer,” I add.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, turning to me. He says it like he’s worried I’m going to hurt him. And to be honest, I might. That’s the thing about us, we might hurt each other. But I can’t keep the past from him anymore. I need him to know.

  “I want to answer,” I repeat.

  Wes’s jaw tightens like he’s getting ready to take a punch. His dimples are deeply set, and his eyes flash with vulnerability.

  “I love you,” I say in a rush. “Wes, I love you so much. Always have. We were together from the first day we met, together for years. Not just friends. And things have tried to come between us: the epidemic, the doctors, your mother . . . me—but we find our way back. Our hearts remember, even when we don’t.” I pause when my voice begins to shake, and take a steadying breath.

  Wes blinks slowly, his eyes glassy. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t say he loves me, too.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner,” I continue. “And I’m sorry that I lied and said we were just friends—it was stupid. I thought I was protecting you, but . . . I won’t lie to you anymore. I needed you to know the truth about us.”

&nb
sp; He still doesn’t speak and lowers his eyes to his lap, his chest rising and falling quickly. Despite his subdued reaction, I feel lighter. The heaviness of carrying the secret gone, just like earlier. It gives me clarity, and I’m grateful for the open space I suddenly feel. I wish I’d told the truth all along.

  “Anyway,” I say, not sure if he needs time to digest what I just told him. “I didn’t mean to interrupt your reading, I just had to get that off my chest.”

  “And put it on mine?” he asks, lifting his eyes.

  My lips part, surprised by the intensity in his words. “I didn’t mean to. I—”

  “You didn’t mean to? You sure?” he asks. “Because I’m wondering why you would tell me all this if you didn’t want a reaction. If you didn’t want to ruin my day.”

  “Wes, that is not what’s happening.”

  “Then what is?” he asks. A girl a few tables away looks over at us curiously. “What is happening, Tate? Because I was pretty clear how I felt about you, and you pushed me away. You made me feel . . . crazy—like I was making up our connection. You gave me just enough affection to keep me around, and then you’d pull it back. Acting like it meant nothing. Ignoring me. And now you walk up and say you love me?”

  “You deserve to know what’s real,” I say, trying to explain.

  “And we’re real?” he asks, motioning between us.

  I pause and lower my voice. “We used to be,” I say. “I didn’t remember everything, not at first. And the doctors, they told me you’d die if I confessed. But now I know that’s not true. Now I have the whole picture. You have no idea what I’ve been through the last few days.”

  “You’re right,” he says. “Because you wouldn’t return my texts. You wouldn’t even have a conversation with me. You’re . . . you’re fucking me up, Tate.”

  My heart aches at his words. This isn’t good for him, this sort of emotional shrapnel. He needs time, and if I’m honest, he probably needs distance. Even when I’m trying to make things better for him, I make it worse. I can’t hold his gaze.

  “Forget I said anything,” I murmur, and stand up from the chair.

  “No,” he snaps. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just throw words out there and then try to take them back. What do you expect me to do with this information? What did you want me to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do. What did you think would happen?”

  I don’t want to admit it because it makes me seem manipulative, but I can’t lie to him again. “I thought you’d tell me you love me too,” I admit.

  Wes stares at me, and I’m at once exposed and hopeful. He licks his lips, his dimples deepening, and then he shakes his head.

  “That’s not how this is going to go, Tatum,” he says coolly. “I’m sorry.”

  It’s like a pile of bricks drops on my chest, but I nod, trying not to look as bowled over as I feel. Wes has every right to reject me, especially now. This is the way it was always supposed to end, with him moving on. I have to let him.

  “I’m sorry,” I say again, and turn to cross through the library.

  The girl who’d been watching us smiles as she texts something into her phone. I can’t help but wonder what she’s saying about us. And then there’s a small voice that says maybe she wasn’t watching for gossip.

  Maybe she was watching us for The Program.

  I go to my locker, fighting back tears. What started as empowering feels more like devastation, and I deserve all of it. I should have been clear from the start or avoided him. Instead, I’ve strung Wes along. Why should he believe me at this point? The only Tatum he knows is a liar.

  I lean my head against the cool metal of my locker. In the quiet hallway, I try to retreat into a happy memory of the two of us. Wes’s arms around me. His lips at my ear, whispering that he would do anything for me. How pure it felt.

  But are any of those memories even real, or have they all been strategically placed by an Adjustment? I squeeze my eyes shut, the idea too disturbing. I just want to go back, go back to before the doctors took it all. The good, the bad. I want to remember. I just want something real.

  There’s an itch, a pinhole of pain in my temple that suddenly and violently expands. I straighten, startled by it, but the hallway begins to tunnel, my vision blurs. I groan and push the heel of my palm against the side of my head.

  The world is smashed like a ceramic plate, and I fall backward . . . and into a memory.

  • • •

  And I was standing in the leisure room of The Program, wearing stiff lemon-yellow scrubs.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “ARE YOU GOING TO PLAY or not?” Michael Realm asked, a pretzel rod bit between his teeth. “It’s your turn.”

  The leisure room swam around me, and I didn’t see how it could be my turn when I wasn’t even playing their game. But the drugs Nurse Kell had given me made everything seem heightened, surreal. Like I was walking through a dream.

  I sat down at the table, and Realm tossed me some cards, which I fanned out. I hadn’t played bullshit since middle school, but I remembered the basic concept.

  “I’ll go,” the guy next to me said.

  “No, Derek,” Realm said, pulling out the pretzel rod to point it at him. “We always let the pretty girls go first.” Realm smiled at me, but I didn’t return it. I kept watching him, sensing something off.

  Derek groaned, and when I turned to him, he peeked at me as if from behind a curtain. I got the sense that he was faking—faking sick or faking well, I couldn’t decide. But his dark eyes scanned me, and I didn’t like their predatory nature. The way they paused where they shouldn’t.

  “Fuck off,” I said under my breath. He had a spark of anger, glancing once at Realm before going back to his cards. Realm’s glare was deadly.

  “Oh, shit,” the kid next to Derek said, motioning across the room.

  “What’s up, Shep?” Realm asked reluctantly, putting the pretzel back in his mouth.

  “Here she comes.”

  We all followed his line of vision to a girl scratching her red hair, walking toward our table. She didn’t look healthy, not even remotely, and I watched as Realm’s expression showed concern. His eyes, however, flashed nothing.

  “Hi, Realm,” the girl said brightly. “Can I play this round?” She darted a quick look at me, and then smiled at him pleadingly.

  “No, Tabby,” he said. “Not today.”

  “Why not?” she demanded. “She gets to play!” She pointed in my direction, and I stared back at her blankly. My emotions were off—like Nurse Kell had literally turned down the volume to zero.

  “I said not today,” Realm replied, sounding halfhearted. He turned back to the game, and Tabby stood there, confused, before exchanging a glance with Shep and Derek.

  I looked down at my cards, finding one I’d like to use. I snapped it down on the pile, and when I looked up, Tabby was gone.

  “Bullshit,” Realm said quietly, not even looking at me. I furrowed my brow and watched as he lifted his head, tears in his eyes. Next to me, Derek cursed. “It’s all bullshit, Tatum,” Realm repeated before handlers appeared next to him, pulled him from his chair, and led him from the room.

  • • •

  I gasp and find myself on the hallway floor of the school, fluorescent lights burning above me.

  “Ow,” I murmur, rubbing the back of my head where I smacked it. I blink quickly as the knowledge folds over me.

  I knew Michael Realm in The Program. But not just him—there were others. And . . . they were faking it. Why?

  Still disoriented from the memory, I sit up, and there’s a trickle on my upper lip. I quickly swipe my hand through the blood that’s coming from my nose. I reach into my pocket to see if I have a tissue anywhere, when suddenly there’s one in front of me.

  Startled, I look up and find Derek Thompson standing above me with a white tissue held out in my direction. My stomach seizes, and I slide back from him, bump
ing into the lockers.

  “I know you,” I say, staring up at him. “I remember.”

  I’m in a precarious position as he moves to stand above me, trying to dominate me. He lowers the tissue and puts his hand on my shoulder, fingers squeezing into the muscle, making me recoil.

  “It’s about time,” he says, his mouth hitching up in a sinister smile. “Tatum Masterson, you’ve been flagged. Come with me.”

  I quickly slap his hand away and try to scramble to my feet, but the minute I get a foot under me, he pushes me down again. He can’t do that! We’re at school.

  I open my mouth to scream, and then he’s on top of me, his palm smothering my lips, pressing so hard I can’t open them. A flash of bright panic floods me, and I flail my arms, trying to hit him wherever I can.

  It’s the same feeling I had in my foyer when handlers were dragging me out in front of my grandparents. My body shrieks, fights.

  I try to tell Derek to stop, I even flop on my back to get his hand off my mouth, but he puts me in a headlock; his fingers knot painfully in my hair as he yanks me to my knees.

  Behind my lips, I scream. He’s too strong. And when I see him withdraw a syringe from his pocket, I fight even harder. I won’t let him take me.

  I dig my fingernails into the back of his hand and scratch as hard as I can. His skin tearing away makes my stomach turn, and Derek withdraws, cursing. Before I can yell for help, there is a sudden and blinding hit on the side of my head. The world goes white, getting smaller, and I feel myself tip sideways.

  He punched me, and the reverberation of the hit has left me stunned. Shocked.

  Derek grabs me by my hair and upper arm, dragging me across the hall. I’m kicking out my legs, my shoes slipping on the linoleum, and try to loosen his grip. He elbows the emergency exit door, opening it into the stairwell, and I know I’m almost out of time. The fact that the classrooms are right there, filled with people who can help me, and I haven’t been able to call to them is terrorizing.