The Program

CHAPTER FOUR




“SO HOW WAS SCHOOL?” MY FATHER ASKS AS I STAB my pork chop while we sit at the dinner table. I look up, used to this conversation. My parents’ expressions are so worn, and yet they stare at me like I’m their last hope for survival.

“Good.”

My mother smiles, giving my father a reassured side-glance. Normally, from here our topic would switch to the latest news: how the Northwest has the highest suicide rate in the nation. Could it be because of the rain? That the incidence of suicide is spreading to other developed countries and they’re paying close attention to The Program, hoping to adopt one of their own. And my favorite, how a scientist or doctor has claimed to have found a cure—propaganda by the drug companies who have lost revenue from the banning of antidepressants.

But tonight I’m too lonely to hold up my part of the conversation. The way Lacey returned, washed out like that—it makes me hate life. And it makes me miss her even more.

Before she was dating Miller, Lacey used to go out with jerkoffs. She said bad boy was her favorite flavor. They were always older, too old to go to The Program. I can remember a guy in particular, Drake. He was twenty and drove a Camaro. We were sixteen. Lacey showed up at my house one night wearing sunglasses, and I knew something was wrong. We went quickly to my room before my mom could see her. When she took off the glasses, I saw she had a black eye, cuts up and down her arm. She said Drake had pushed her out of the passenger door—while the car was still moving.

Looking back now, seeing how she cried because she didn’t want her parents to find out, I wonder what else Lacey hid from people. How much I really knew her. We decided that she couldn’t cover the marks so we staged her falling off my front porch, calling my parents out to see her injured, setting up the alibi. She never told anyone else about Drake—although I told James and he beat the hell out of him.

I lied for Lacey then, just as I lied to myself as she got infected. Maybe if I were a better friend I could have kept her out of The Program. Maybe we’re all sick.

“You’re not eating,” my mother says, interrupting my thoughts. “Everything all right?”

I look up, startled. “Lacey came back today,” I say, my voice wavering. My father’s eyes flash with worry, and for a second I think that they understand. That I can tell them the truth about The Program—how it brings us back empty.

“Really?” My mother sounds nothing short of gleeful. “Well now, see. That wasn’t very long.”

I have a gut check and look back down at my plate, the pork chop slaughtered around the bone, the applesauce bleeding into everything. “It was six weeks,” I murmur.

“Exactly,” my mother answers. “Went by faster than you thought.”

I remind myself of the parental outreach The Program uses—weekly support groups for parents of dead teens, access to the latest advances in their methods. It’s like The Program learned to get to us through our home lives. I think they can get to us anywhere.

“And how did she look?” my mother asks. “Did you see her at the Wellness Center?”

My fingernails are digging into my jeans, into the skin underneath. “Yes,” I lie. “And she’s blond again. She’s . . . completely different.”

“I bet she looks beautiful,” my mother says. “The returners always look so healthy, don’t they, Don?”

My father doesn’t respond, but I feel him watching me. I wonder if he’s gauging my reaction, mentally going through the “Is your child depressed?” checklist The Program provided them. I’m not sure I have the strength to put on the mask, but I look up anyway. And smile.

“She does look great,” I reply. “Hopefully she’ll be able to hang out again soon.”

“Just give her time to heal,” my mother says, grinning at me like she’s proud. “Thank God for The Program. It’s saving so many lives.”

My stomach lurches and I stand up quickly, not wanting to cry when I’ve made it this far into the conversation. “I’ll do the dishes tonight,” I say, grabbing my plate. “After that I’ve got a ton of homework.”

I rush from the room, getting into the kitchen just as the tears start to sting my eyes. I need to do something before I break into sobs in front of them. There is a pamphlet for The Program sitting next to our phone in the living room—something every parent received when our high school became part of the experiment. But to me that paper is like a threat, always reminding me of the next step if I slip up. So I don’t slip up. Ever.

I look around the kitchen and my gaze rests on the gas stove. Walking over, I turn it on—the flames catching life in shades of blue and orange. I’m going to die if I don’t cry right now. The sorrow is going to rip through my chest and kill me.

But instead, I turn over my arm, the tender part exposed, and stick it into the fire. The burn is immediate and I scream out in pain, backing away as I cover the area automatically with my hand. My entire body reacts, as if all of me is on fire.

I decide that I like it. I like the pain and distraction.

Tears stream down my face even though the emotional release feels good, and I drop onto the tile floor. My parents rush in, and the minute they do I hold up my arm, the blistered area bright red against my skin. “I got burned,” I sob. “I leaned against the stove to grab the pan and the burner must have turned on.”

My mother gasps and runs to turn off the burner. “Donald,” she says. “I told you to put the pots in the sink.”

He apologizes and kneels down next to me. “Let me see, sweetheart.” And they fuss, letting me cry as long as I want because they think I was accidentally injured. They have no idea that I’m really crying for Lacey. For Brady. And most of all, for myself.

• • •

James sighs. “You shouldn’t have started in the car.” His voice is concerned on the other end of the phone as I hold it to my ear. I’m curled up in bed, my arm bandaged and Tylenol PM making me sleepy. “That’s the problem, Sloane. Once you start, you might not be able to stop.” He pauses. “I shouldn’t have let you cry.”

“I just had to mourn a little,” I say. “Not all of us can get tattoos.”

“This isn’t about me. Now how bad is the burn?” he asks.

“Blistered.”

“Goddamn it.” There’s a rustling, and I imagine him roughly rubbing his face. “I’m coming over.”

“No,” I say. “It’s late. I’m going to fall asleep soon anyway. You can be sweet to me tomorrow.”

“I’m going to kick your ass tomorrow.”

I smile. “Really? You really think so?”

“Go to bed, Sloane.” He doesn’t sound nearly as amused as he normally would. “I’ll be there early to pick you up. And please,” James says, “don’t do anything else stupid tonight.”

I swallow hard, too exhausted to cry anymore, and agree. After I hang up, I pull the comforter over my head. I think about my brother in my last moments of consciousness—guilt heavy in my chest. Sometimes it hurts so much that I pretend he never existed at all, as if that can make me okay. But then I remember his smile, his jokes, his . . . life. And I understand what my parents have lost and why they’re so concerned about me. I ask myself if I’d be different if I were them, but I don’t know the answer.

• • •

I feel a light touch on my cheek, and my eyes flutter open. James looks down at me as he stands next to my bed, his face worried. “We’re going to be late for school,” he says. “Your mom finally sent me up here to get you.”

I feel confused and glance at the clock, seeing that it’s past eight. I get up on my elbows and look around the room, disoriented. When I do, James moves to sit on the edge of my bed. “Let me see your arm,” he says, taking it before I can agree.

He peels back the bandage and I wince. “I’m really unhappy with you right now,” he says, not looking at me, just examining my burn. “I like your skin better without the scars.” His eyes meet mine, and then he leans down to kiss just above the tender spot on my arm. He climbs onto the bed and gets under the sheets next to me, not caring that my parents are downstairs and could come up at any second.

“I know it’s not easy,” he whispers, his breath warm as his lips touch my ear. “But we have to push through.” He picks up one of my curls and twists it around his finger, wrapping and unwrapping. “Every morning I think this will be it, the day I get sick. The day the handlers will flag me, take me. And I don’t want to get out of bed. But I do. Because I can’t leave you here alone.”

At the thought of losing him, I reach out to take his hand, squeezing my fingers between his.

“We have to fake it to make it,” he says, sounding bitter. “And I don’t make it without you, baby. Brady told us to take care of each other, and I’m not going to let him down again.”

“I’m tired of faking it.”

“So am I.” He breathes. “So am I.”

He pulls our held hands to his mouth and kisses mine. Then he turns and puts his lips on my neck. “Let’s ditch,” he murmurs between kisses. “We’ll say you have an appointment and go to the river, lie around in the sun all day.”

I smile. “Didn’t we do that yesterday?”

“Yes. But I could use another day off.” He takes my thigh and pulls it over his, leaning in to kiss my collarbone.

“Stop,” I say, but it’s halfhearted. Truth is, I could use the heat that James gives me. But before we get too far, he sighs and pulls away.

“You’re right. I really shouldn’t take advantage of you when you’re injured.” He sits up, pulling back the cover and exposing my pajamas. “Wear a skirt maybe,” he says. “Staring at your legs always puts me in a better mood.” He flashes that broad smile as he stands. He goes to my door and pauses, his facade nearly crumbling. But without looking back, he nods and then goes downstairs.