The Program

CHAPTER TEN




WE’RE HALFWAY BACK TO TOWN, PASSING DARKENED fields, when James looks sideways at me. “That was some kiss,” he says.

A blush rises on my cheeks. “I was saying good-bye.”

“With your tongue.”

“What do you care?” I ask, ashamed that he saw, even though I’m not entirely sure why. “You couldn’t even stand to hug me in my room that day.”

“I took that hug like a trooper,” he says with a smirk. “And I don’t care who you make out with. I just think he’s hiding something, so I’m surprised you’d be so naive. Thought you were smarter than that.”

“And I thought you weren’t going to be obnoxious.”

“Never said I wouldn’t be obnoxious,” James says. “I try not to make promises I can’t keep.”

We’re silent for a few miles, and I start thinking again about my brother. Brady had an accident—that’s what my mother told me. She said he’d been rafting, but she never said I was there. She never said he killed himself.

I sniffle, and it’s then that I realize I’m crying. “Hey,” James says softly. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be—”

“It’s not you,” I say, waving off his concern. James glides the car to the side of the road and parks. “I’m thinking about my brother,” I tell him. “I don’t remember him dying. But we were there, James. Me and you. What if we helped him kill himself ?”

“Maybe we did.” His voice is empty. Sad. He looks away, as if he’s searching his own memories. When he lowers his head, I know he’s found nothing. We have nothing.

“What if he said good-bye?” I whisper. “What if he said good-bye and I don’t remember it?” Something inside of me breaks then, and I start to sob, picturing Brady’s smile, hearing his laugh. We were so close. How long had he been sick? And how could I not have noticed?

James puts his hand on my shoulder, and I lean into him. He’s stiff at first but then rearranges himself in the seat to let me rest against his chest.

“You know,” he says softly, brushing back my hair as he talks, “I can’t remember what happened to my mother. I know that one day she was there, and then she was gone. I don’t know if my parents fought, if she had a reason for leaving. When I asked my father, he told me that she had moved away for a job and then decided to stay. But that we were fine on our own.” He pauses. “Ten bucks says his hand is bullshit.”

I stop and wipe at my face, sitting up, but staying close to him. He looks at me wide-eyed. “What?” he asks.

“We played Bullshit in The Program. Did you?”

He laughs. “Uh, no. I was in isolation most of the time, or at least, that’s what they told me. Seriously? You got to play cards?”

“James,” I say. “I used to play Bullshit all the time with my brother.”

His face clouds over, and he reaches absently, tugging at a string hanging down from the bottom of my collared shirt. “Really?”

I nod. “I bet . . . I bet you played with us.”

James doesn’t meet my eyes, but pulls slowly on the string, unraveling the hem as if he’s lost in a thought. “I can’t remember who taught me,” he says.

“My brother did.”

“Possibly.”

When the string finally breaks, James seems startled by the now uneven hem of my shirt. “Damn, I’m sorry.” But when he looks up, I don’t respond. I can feel the puffiness of my face, and I’m sure that, up close, still half-leaning on him, I don’t look great. But I’m trying to find something in his eyes—a feeling that I can identify. There are so many emotions raging inside of me: guilt, sadness, attraction.

“Why are you staring at me again?” he asks, although this time he doesn’t sound like he’s teasing me.

“Realm said something to me before I left.”

James rolls his eyes. “Oh, yeah? What was that?”

“He said . . .” I pause, not sure I should even tell him. But it seems wrong to keep it from him. To keep anything from him. “He said that he loved me,” I say.

James lowers his head, twirling the piece of string around his finger. “And how do you feel?” he asks.

“Not the same.”

“Probably shouldn’t lead him on by kissing him then, huh?” His tone is harsh, judgmental. I’m frozen for a second. I’d confided in him only to have him throw it back in my face.

I move away from James then, pulling my seat belt on and making it lock a few times in the process. “Just forget it,” I say. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“You’re right.” He switches the car into gear. “I don’t understand. And you don’t owe me an explanation.”

“Thanks,” I say bitterly. “Glad you cleared that up.” We don’t speak again, and I wonder how James can confess to me about his mother, only to turn cold in the next second. I wonder if he used to do this to Brady when they were friends. To me.

I wonder if it was always this difficult to be around him.

• • •

When I get home, I slip through the back door, hoping my parents didn’t notice that I was gone for the last hour. I can hear the sound of the TV in the living room as I climb the stairs, pausing at Brady’s room.

I go inside and lie across my brother’s bed, staring up at the ceiling and hoping it will reveal secrets. Stolen memories.

“What happened to you?” I ask, meaning it for both my brother and for myself. I’d searched my room, hoping to find something else, but there was nothing there. Hardly any pictures outside of family ones. There was no obituary for Brady, cut out and laminated with a prayer on the back. No newspaper article immortalized in a scrapbook.

I know better than to ask my mother, her lies seeming to mount. I’m not sure what happened to me and her, but I don’t trust her anymore. She called Kevin to report me. I bet she had something to do with me getting sent to The Program in the first place.

In my pocket, my cell phone vibrates, and I quickly take it out, hoping it’s Realm, even though we didn’t exchange numbers. I pause when I see James’s name flashing on the screen.

I click it off and put the phone back in my pocket. Being around him is so confusing. We share a past, but every time we get closer to finding out what it is, he backs away. He hurts me. I don’t think I can take any more hurt right now.

I curl up on my side, thinking things over, when a knock on the door startles me. I look up to see my father. “Hey, honey,” he says. “I was just coming up to say good night, but you weren’t in your room. What are you doing in here?”

Blinking quickly, I sit up. “I miss Brady,” I say, trying to gauge his reaction. His face falters, his brown eyes weary as he rubs at them.

“Me too,” he answers. His khakis are wrinkled, and the faint smell of alcohol clings to him. I wonder when he started drinking.

We’re quiet for a long moment, and I bite my lip, trying to decide if I should ask. “Dad,” I start, “did Brady commit suicide?”

My father takes in a harsh breath. He doesn’t respond right away as he lowers himself onto the bed next to me. And then, to my absolute horror, he covers his eyes with his hand; his shoulders are shaking.

“Yes,” he chokes out. “Brady killed himself.”

My body stills as my emotions click together, even though there are no memories attached. But it’s like my feelings—my grief—finally make sense. As my father tries to pull himself together, I try not to fall apart. Realm told me the truth. What else does he know?

“And what about us?” I ask my father. “Were we okay after? Me, you, and Mom?”

My dad looks at me, his dark eyes unfocused and red-rimmed. “No, sweetheart,” he whispers. “We really weren’t.”

I nod, knowing somewhere inside that it’s true. That this idea of our family moving on so easily after losing Brady was absurd. “I hate that I can’t remember what happened to him,” I say.

“Why?” he asks seriously. “It’s a gift. I would give anything to take away the pain. The time when he was sick . . . that wasn’t the real Brady. Not the real us. We’ve gotten the chance to reset, Sloane. We’ve gotten the chance to be happy again.”

“Dad,” I say softly, tears beginning to stream from my eyes. “None of us are happy.”

He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t even try to pretend that our family is pulling through. Instead, he stands up, touching the top of my head as he leaves the room.

When he’s gone, I curl up on the bed with my misery, alone and heartbroken. I want to know what happened to my brother, and I want to know what I used to be like. But most of all, I just want to be happy. After a short pity party, I go back to my room and find Lacey’s number where she scribbled it into my notebook. A headache has begun pulsing in my head, so I take a large dose of Advil before picking up my phone.

• • •

Lacey is grinning from ear to ear when she pulls up to the corner at nine. “You’re becoming such a rebel,” she says, as I climb into her neon-green Bug. Fast-food bags are crumpled at my feet, all of the drink holders full. Lacey’s wearing a plain, yellow blouse, but her makeup is dramatic—very nonreturner-like. It’s awesome.

“Are you sure you want to go to the Wellness Center?” she asks. “I thought you hated that place.”

“I do,” I say. “But my handler is gone, and no one’s watching me anymore. Maybe I’ll enjoy the experience this time.”

“Sloane,” Lacey says in low voice. “They’re always watching. Never forget that.”

After a long pause, Lacey turns on the radio, filling the car with a pop song about love, its lyrics sickeningly sweet. I have to clasp my hands in front of me to stop from shutting it off and telling her all about James, about my brother. But I don’t want to depress her.

In my pocket, my phone buzzes with another text message, but I reach to turn up the volume of the radio instead of checking it.

The Wellness Center is crowded when we walk in. With the popularity of The Program growing worldwide, there has been a new push for assimilation—I saw it on MTV. Handlers line the walls, but between them, people are laughing, playing games. There’s a new section with computer stations; a group of guys are crowded around one of them. They’re all dressed in preppy clothes, and I glance down at myself and see that we match. It’s like the uniform of the returners. I unbutton my shirt to the line of my bra, and then follow behind Lacey as she makes her way to the couch.

I can’t believe I came back here, especially after vowing not to. But I needed to get out of my house, and this is the only place where people my age hang out anymore. At least, the only place where people like me, who have no other friends, hang out. Lacey collapses into the cushions, scanning the room as if looking for someone.

“Who is he?” I ask, nudging her with my elbow.

She widens her eyes innocently. “No idea what you mean. I swear I’m not searching for the guy who promised he’d be here tonight.”

“Oh,” I say, smiling. “So I finally get to meet your mystery boyfriend?”

Lacey turns to me. “I think it’s about time.” Her expression is more serious than I expect, but before I can ask for more details, I catch a black shirt out of the corner of my eye, the color shocking within this room. It’s Liam.

“I’ll be right back,” I say quickly, jumping up.

Liam weaves through the crowd before slipping out the door to the back patio. When I get outside, the night air is crisp around me. Liam’s facing away as he stands at the railing, looking toward the parking lot. We’re alone out here, but I want to ask him about that first night I came back. How he knew me and James.

“Hey,” I say, drawing his attention. When he turns, I’m startled. Dark circles ring his eyes, and his hair is matted. Unwashed. It strikes me then that he’s sick. Oh, God. He’s sick.

“Sloane.” His mouth pulls into a sneer, anger and hatred painting his features. “Did they send you to collect me? Are they recruiting returners now?”

My heart begins to thud in my chest, the idea that Liam’s dangerous backing me slowly toward the door. “No one sent me,” I say. “I just wanted to ask you something, but never mind. It’s not that important.”

Liam lunges, his shoulder banging against the door to stop me from opening it. I gasp and step back.

“I’d love to hear your question,” he says, his eyes wild and unfocused.

“I just want to go inside,” I say softly. “Move and I won’t—”

“Won’t what? Report me? Of course you will.”

He’s right. I will report him the first chance I get. He’s infected. He can infect others. “Let me through, Liam,” I say.

He stares at me, and then leans closer as if whispering a secret. “Do you remember me?” he asks.

“I remember you calling me a freak.”

He smiles. “Before that.”

There’s a twist in my gut. “No.” Just then the handle of the door turns, but Liam keeps his weight on it, preventing it from opening. I think about calling for help, or running, but at the same time, I don’t want to draw that kind of attention to myself.

“We dated,” he says, a bit of satisfaction in his voice. “Nothing serious, but they took that memory anyway. What else did they take? Don’t you see what you are? You’re empty. You’re nothing. And I’d rather be dead than be like you.”

My lip begins to quiver as I’m filled with shame and humiliation, but mostly anger. I reach out to push him, only succeeding in making him stagger a step. He laughs, and then coughs, bringing his hand to his mouth. When he pulls it away, there’s blood smeared across his fingers.

“What’s wrong with you?” I ask, stepping back.

“QuikDeath,” he says. “Because there’s no point. We’ll never be free of The Program, and even when we are, who’s to say they don’t change the rules? That they don’t come after us as adults? My cousin?” Liam says, tears beginning to gather in his eyes. “He killed himself yesterday. He was twenty-one, Sloane. That means the epidemic is evolving.”

“Or maybe he just committed suicide,” I say, my stomach in knots. Fists pound on the other side of the door, shaking it.

Liam coughs again, spitting blood onto the patio. Red streaks his lips. He’s going to die. He’s going to die if I do nothing to stop it. I reach to take out my phone, but Liam slaps it from my hand, sending it across the wooden planks.

His eyes momentarily roll back in his head before he focuses on me again. His body convulses. And then he collapses against the door, sliding to the ground, his eyes locked on mine. “You’re no one,” he whispers before he goes still altogether.

I pause only a second, my breaths coming out in quick gasps like I might hyperventilate. The door shakes again, and I decide that I can’t be here when they find him. I can’t be involved in this. So I run, grabbing my phone on the way, and scramble down the stairs into the parking lot of the Wellness Center. I text Lacey and tell her that I’m at the car. We have to leave. Now.

As I wait there, hiding, people flood the patio. Handlers move people aside, the Wellness staff clearly horrified that someone would commit suicide in such a safe place. I block out all the things that Liam told me. I block out his theories. Because an ache in my forehead is pulsing, worse than it was earlier.

When Lacey reaches me, she looks frazzled. She doesn’t say a word as we speed away, leaving the Wellness Center behind us. When we’re a safe distance away, she finally turns to me.

“Who was it?” she asks. “Who terminated?” Her face is pale with fear.

“Liam.”

Her eyes widen. Then she turns back to the road, pressing her lips together. “Did you see it?”

“Yeah.”

“You were smart to get out of there. Things are getting crazy. You feel it too, right?”

And I do. But I’m not sure I can handle any more talk of the epidemic tonight, not when my head is killing me. “Yes, but I have to get home,” I say. “I don’t want my parents to worry.” But really, I have something else in mind. I need to talk about tonight, both about my dad and about Liam. I need to talk to someone who’ll understand. I need James.

“Your parents?” Lacey sounds surprised. Then she tightens her grip on the steering wheel. “Maybe you’re not as rebellious as I thought.” She pulls up to the corner before my house. “Better get out here,” she says. “Wouldn’t want my car to give you away.”

Her voice is tense, and I think she’s shaken by the suicide. I just hope it’s not enough to make her sick again. To make any of us sick.