The Program (The Program #1)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

I WAIT. THE DAYS TICK BY AND I SIT ALONE AT LUNCH, watching the door, avoiding the gaze of the dark-haired handler. My arm is still in a cast, and I tell everyone it was an accident. They accept it with suspicious looks, but nothing more. After all, I’m smiling and looking pulled together. If I were sick, I couldn’t do that. I’m fooling them.

I spend more time with my parents, nodding numbly when they talk about The Program or comment on the latest news story. Suicide has had a surge in London, and they’ve implemented their own version of The Program. So far it’s been wildly successful, proving that America seems to have developed a treatment.

It makes me wonder about the future—the sort of people who will be walking around in twenty years. People who never experienced their teens because those memories were erased. Will they be naive? Empty?

I remind myself that James will be okay. He’ll come back and be the same. I have to believe that.

After school, I decide to go to the Wellness Center to gain credits, prove a point. Being seen there will show how healthy I am. How involved I am in my own stability. But really, I’ll be waiting for James, knowing he’ll show up sooner or later.

The building is located within the middle of the city, a former YMCA. It’s brick and old-looking, but the welcome sign is brightly colored, hinting at what’s inside. The Program is proud of their returners, of their system that is starting to see increases in voluntary admittance. The Wellness Center is the perfect front.

Come see the results, come see how shiny and new you can become.

I stand out front, reluctant to go in. I’m afraid all these healthy people will see right through me, but I don’t have anywhere else to go. I have to be strong.

“You need to sign in,” the woman behind the desk tells me as I pause in the entry. Around her, the large open room is buzzing with activity, as if there’s nothing outside these walls that could harm us. And the walls themselves are bright blue and green—loud and full of energy. I almost smile for real.

“Miss?” the lady asks, motioning toward the clipboard and the pen attached with yarn. “Sign in for credit.”

I sign my name and address on the paper and then scan the room. I recognize several faces—both returners and normal people. I don’t know any of them that well, or at least, I don’t until I see Lacey. She’s on the couch playing video games with Evan Freeman. There is a handler in the corner, but he’s not the dark-haired one I’m afraid of. He’s blond, just standing there and watching Lacey silently.

I think about going over there, introducing myself, but something holds me back. In my head, I know that Lacey doesn’t remember me, and yet, I hope that James will. So if I confirm that Lacey doesn’t know me . . . what does that mean? I’m clinging to an unlikely expectation, but it’s the only thing keeping me going. Every day I feel myself slip more and more, but I’m holding on. I’m holding on for James.

I wonder if Lacey even knows Miller is dead, if somewhere inside she misses him. Misses all of us. Can The Program take away our emotions, or do they always remain—only without a source?

On the other side of the room, a group of girls—including Kendra Phillips—are giggling and drinking Diet Cokes while sitting at a round table. I make my way over, casting another glance at the handler who seems to have noticed me, before sitting down with the girls.

They smile kindly, none of them remembering me as they keep talking, gossiping about boys, clothes, stuff that I can’t even fathom caring about. But I’ve become a pretty good actress, so I laugh at the right moments, roll my eyes when it’s needed. Inside, my heart hurts, but I cry only when I’m alone, on a long drive out in the country after leaving the center. No one is there to wipe my tears and tell me it’ll be okay.

For three weeks I follow this pattern: Laugh, cry, laugh, cry. I’ve become numb, uncomfortably so. But it’s the only way I can survive the time. When I finally get my cast off, I’m relieved as I stare down at my pale arm. James would have been so concerned if he’d seen me bandaged up the minute he got back. I hope he hurries.

The days tick slowly by.

? ? ?

I’m sitting at the table, painting my nails a horrid shade of pink as the girls talk about Evan Freeman—how he and Lacey are a thing. I don’t react, pretending I don’t know either of them. The door of the center opens, a soft jingle from the bells attached at the top.

I’m concentrating on painting the nail of my ring finger, gazing at the purple heart there. I’m about to move on to the next nail when I realize that the room has gone quiet. Finally. They’ve finally come for me.

Exhausted, I glance up, sure it’s a handler to take me to The Program. But instead, the floor feels like it’s dropped out from underneath me. There are handlers in their stiff white coats, but they’re not alone. In between them, with a newly shaved head, is James. He’s wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt, and I can see, even from here, the white marks on his arm. The tattoos have been removed, Miller’s name stitched up.

James’s eyes scan the room, curious but not intense. Not the way he usually looks at things. They don’t even pause on me.

He’s back. My James is back. This is the only reason I didn’t die. This is the moment that kept me going.

James.

They walk him to a chair near the vending machines where a couple of guys sit, playing a game of cards. The handlers are letting James have his first bit of social interaction here at the Wellness Center where it can be monitored. He sits, not saying a word to the people at the table.

The handlers don’t look at me, seemingly unaware of my and James’s past. I wonder if that’s true, or if they’re trying not to draw his attention to me. Either way, I’m thankful that the dark-haired handler isn’t here.

I run my eyes over my boyfriend’s clothes. He looks smaller, as if he’s lost weight while he was gone. I don’t like that they took away his beautiful golden hair, but it’ll grow back.

I ache to touch him.

I watch his slow movements, my heart pounding, adrenaline racing through my veins. The girls around me start talking again, but it’s quieter, as if they can sense my change. I wait for the right moment to approach James. I won’t let anyone keep him from me. I have to get close and make him see me. He’ll be fine. He survived and now he’s back. It’s me and him forever.

Just then James pushes the cards away and stands, murmuring something to the handlers like he wants to leave. Panic explodes in my chest. He can’t leave yet.

I jump up, nearly knocking over my soda as James turns to leave. He’s flanked on either side by handlers as they head to the door, but I have to find a way to get his attention. If he can just see me, I know he’ll remember. He’ll ask if I’m checking him out. He’ll laugh. He’ll remember, I know it.

I think about what he would do if he were me. He’d be reckless. Sort of smartassish. I slide off my plastic purple ring and take aim. I wind up and shoot it, pegging James in the back of his shaved head. He stops, rubbing the spot. The handlers keep going, walking out the front door as the ring ricochets across the room, landing near the desk.

Slowly, James turns around, looking for whoever hit him. I’m in the middle of the room, not trying to hide the fact that it was me. His blue eyes glide over me, and I feel like he knows. I kiss my fingers and hold them up in a wave. Waiting.

James stares for a second and then rubs at his head again, as if it still stings. Then without smiling, without reacting at all, he turns and leaves the Wellness Center.

There’s a knot in my stomach, one that’s tightening. I hope that James will rush back in and acknowledge me, but when he doesn’t, it’s like my heart stops beating. Emptiness, deep and dark, swallows me whole. A tear slides down my cheek, but I don’t bother wiping it. Why should I? Why should I even care?

When I take in a breath, it’s a wheeze so filled with pain that the room goes silent. People turn to watch me as I stumble over to pick up my ring from the floor, so bright and hopeful on the linoleum tiles. The corner of the heart is chipped.

“Honey?” the woman behind the desk asks, the worry thick in her voice. I know I should pull myself together and answer. That I have to. But instead I walk out the door, wishing for the day to end.

? ? ?

The first time James kissed me we were at the river after my brother had bailed on us to go meet his girlfriend, Dana. James asked me to go with him anyway, and although I was nervous, I went. It’d been nearly three months since my feelings for him changed, since I’d noticed him.

I sat on a towel, skipping stones as James swam out to the small boat dock and did backflips into the water, the sun glistening off his skin. When he came back over to me, he was shivering. “Warm me up, Sloane,” he said playfully, and got down on my towel, his dripping body cold.

“You’re all wet.” I laughed, trying to push him off as he tackled me.

“Now you are too.” He used the bottom of my shirt to wipe his face, and I giggled, pulling it out of his hands. I was on my back and he hung above me, resting on an elbow, grinning down madly. “That’s probably the closest you’ll ever come to swimming,” he said and shook his wet hair out, spraying me with droplets of water.

I held up my hands defensively, but when he stopped, his smile started to fade. He was watching me, almost curiously. I furrowed my brow. “What?” I asked.

“Would you let me kiss you?”

Tingles raced over my body and I felt my cheeks warm. I didn’t know what to say . . . so I just nodded. James grinned, looking nervous. He leaned closer, stopping just when his lips touched mine. I was so scared of what would happen next. My first kiss.

“This is probably a big mistake,” he murmured, and slid his hand into my hair, cupping the back of my neck.

“I know.”

And then his lips pressed against mine, hot and soft. My arms wrapped around him and I pulled him down and he kissed me harder, his tongue touching mine. It was the most amazing feeling in the world, like an out-of-body experience. We kissed forever, or at least until the sun started to set.

When we finally stopped, James collapsed on his back, staring up at the sky. “Well, damn, Sloane.”

I laughed, touching my lips with my finger. They felt swollen, but alive. Tingly. “That was fun,” I managed to say.

James turned and looked over at me. “You know I’m never going to be able to not kiss you again, right?” he said. “For the rest of my life, every time I look at you, I’ll have to kiss you.”

I smiled. “The rest of our lives is a long time, James. I’m sure there will be other lips.” The minute I said it, I hated the words. But James just slowly shook his head.

“Naw,” he said, rolling to lean over me once again. “These are the only ones I’ll ever want.” And he kissed me again.

Maybe that’s why I find myself at the river now, sitting on the bank watching the water. James had meant what he said, but that part of his life is over. Now he’s someone else. Now my lips aren’t his anymore.

He captured me that day. I’d liked him before, but after that, I couldn’t go back to avoiding him. We spent every second we could together, even if no one knew. I wonder if things would have turned out differently if we’d told Brady. But then I wonder if my brother hung on as long as he did for us, to make sure we were okay.

It was two weeks after my brother died when James told me that he loved me. That he’d never leave me. That he would save us both. He promised.

He promised.

? ? ?

My parents ask about James, and I tell them he looks great. I smile. I joke that maybe he’ll be good at math now. It’s so fake that I see my mom and dad exchange a frightened glance, and then I excuse myself to my room. While I lie on my bed, I consider never leaving it again. But what good would that do? The handlers would just come and take me.

When I get up in the morning, I slip into a pair of jeans and a mismatched pair of socks. I don’t bother brushing my teeth or combing my hair. I stare at the cereal in my bowl, not wanting to eat. Not wanting to feed this body. The idea of wasting away sounds so good that when my mother isn’t looking I dump the food into the sink and leave the house.

I skip school. I can’t even think about meeting with the therapist. Listen to the “good side” of The Program. Lie about how I feel about James being back. I won’t go back to the Wellness Center again. I don’t want to see James washed out. In a few weeks, he’ll start talking, maybe even smile at someone. I wonder what I’ll do if he gives another girl a plastic heart ring.

James doesn’t know me, not even a flicker of recognition. It’s like I never existed. We had so many secrets together and now they’re just mine. The weight of them is too heavy for me to carry.

I park outside of a farm and take out a notebook, writing down my feelings. I have no one to tell anymore—not one person I can trust. I’m so alone it’s like being dead but still conscious. In forty-five minutes, I’ve scribbled down so many words that they start to lose meaning.

Kiss, death, love, loss . . . the words are crashing into each other, and my tears soak the page. Then I give into the urge to cross off the words, pressing harder with each pass, making large circles. Soon I’ve gone through all the pages and I’m digging into the cardboard cover. I press so hard it’s going through to my lap, scraping against my jeans. My skin. I press as hard as I can, and I whimper because it hurts. But I don’t care. I can’t care anymore.

I wish I were dead.