The Program (The Program #1)

CHAPTER TWO

WHEN MY HANDLER DROPS ME OFF AT HOME, SAYING he’ll be back at six thirty, I immediately start on my homework. Although I feel as if I know the answers, some of the questions get muddled in my head. Especially when it comes to math. It’s as if certain rules were erased, leaving me with partial answers. Eventually I get frustrated and slam my book shut before turning on the television.

I’m not surprised to see a Dateline special about The Program—it seems to dominate every channel. Even on MTV, what used to be ruled by trashy reality shows is now filled with inspirational stories of teens being saved by The Program. I half wonder if The Program is sponsoring the network now.

Just then the interviewer from Dateline walks into the facility, the same facility that I was in. I sit up straighter, my heart pounding. I think I see Nurse Kell dash out of the corner of the screen and then the view is filled with security guards.

“You can’t be here,” the security guard says, pushing the camera away with his hand. “You have to leave.”

The interviewer continues arguing until the sound is promptly shut off. The screen is black and I wait, wondering what happened. Instead the interviewer is behind a desk, shaking his head. “When asked to comment, the president of The Program, Arthur Pritchard, released this statement: ‘The effectiveness of the treatment—which is still at one hundred percent—is dependent on the privacy of our patients. Any interference could jeopardize the life of the minors, and therefore we cannot comment on the treatment or allow common access to our facilities at this time.’”

I click off the television, wondering what it was like when those reporters tried to get into The Program. Were Shep and Derek around? It had seemed so isolated when I was there. Maybe things are changing.

And for a second I’m afraid. If they stop The Program, leaving us as the only ones changed, what will happen? Will we be discriminated against forever? Does that mean there’s something wrong with us? I start to panic when, all of a sudden, the warm water is splashed over me again, and I take a deep breath. The fear is gone, and instead I just close my eyes and lean my head back against the couch cushion.

Something about sitting here in my familiar living room is comforting, and yet I can’t help but think I should be doing something different. As if this is real, and at the same time . . . not. I’m relieved when my mom gets home with groceries, and I help her unpack them, thankful for the distraction.

? ? ?

“So how was the first day back?” my father asks from across the dinner table. His eyes are bright, and he’s smiling as he takes a bite of steak. The way my parents watch me is like I’m a miracle returned from the grave. They hang on my every word.

“It was good,” I tell him. “A little scary at first, but I made a friend.”

My mother beams, and she sets down her silverware. “You made a friend already?” She and my father exchange an eager glance. It makes me feel like a huge loser that my parents could be so happy about me making one friend.

“Her name is Lacey,” I say. “She sat with me at lunch.”

My mother pauses, then puts a large cut of steak into her mouth. I wait for her to ask questions, but she doesn’t. I stare down at my plate, and near my glass is another white pill. I decide that I don’t like this fog anymore. I decide I’m not going to take it.

“I’m meeting Lacey tonight at the Wellness Center,” I add quietly, taking a sip from my water. “The handler said it was healthy for me to socialize.”

“I agree,” my father says, sounding a little too upbeat. I’m struck with a sensation, an . . . outsideness. My parents are acting weird. Or maybe I’m the one who’s weird now.

I want to excuse myself to my room, but my mother starts talking about The Program again. She tells me that in the UK, they had their first class of patients released. She seems so proud of that fact—as if returners are elite somehow. I nod along, my mind racing. I try to remember my life just before The Program, but all I get are repeats of old memories: my father taking me and Brady for ice cream. My mother sewing a Halloween costume. The repeating starts to make my temples pulse, and I stop trying to think back, worried I might be doing damage.

Dr. Warren had been adamant about maintaining. She warned me that too much stimulus could affect the reconstruction they’d done on my mind. She said it could result in a break in reality, cause permanent psychosis.

But what if she was lying.

“Sloane.” My mother interrupts my train of thought. “You haven’t touched your food.”

I meet her concerned stare and then apologize, cutting a piece of meat. I can barely choke it down, especially when I notice a chalky aftertaste. Something Lacey said pops in my head—I think they put sedatives in the food.

When my mother starts talking again, I wipe my mouth with my napkin, careful to spit out the food. Maybe I’m being paranoid. Maybe I’m losing it altogether. But instead of mentioning it, I ask if I can be excused to get ready for tonight.

My parents look disappointed, but then my mother reminds me to clear my place. “And don’t forget your pill,” she adds when I start toward the kitchen. I grab it quickly and toss it into my mouth.

But the minute I get into the kitchen, I spit it in the sink and scrape my food into the disposal. And then I grind it all to bits.

? ? ?

I pose in front of the mirror, turning from side to side to evaluate myself. My closet had been emptied and replaced with new clothing, the tags still on them. It seems strange to me that they’d get rid of all of my things, my entire wardrobe. Did they think an old T-shirt could send me into an emotional tailspin? Did I dress in all black and overline my eyes? I don’t remember. So right now I’m wearing a pink button down shirt that feels too stiff, paired with a khaki skirt. I look . . . painfully average.

Taking the brush from my dresser, I run it through my hair, sliding one side behind my ears when I’m done. It’s nearly six thirty, and Kevin will be here soon to take me to the Wellness Center, but worry has started to work its way into my consciousness. What goes on at the Wellness Center? And what will the people who haven’t gone through The Program think of me?

I’m different than them.

I take a deep breath and sit on the edge of my bed, trying to calm myself. I think that I should have taken the pill because right now an inhibitor would come in handy. But then I remind myself that I want to know what’s going on around me. And I’m not sure I can do that if I’m medicated to the point of numbness all the time.

Downstairs, the doorbell rings, and I cast one more glance at my reflection. “Who are you?” I murmur, waiting a minute for my mind to answer. But it doesn’t.

? ? ?

I don’t know what I expected from the Wellness Center, but I certainly didn’t expect this. I thought it would be more like The Program facility—sterile and cold. But this place is crowded, people chatting and laughing. I try to relax into it, but I don’t see Lacey right away. My anxiety spikes, but I try not to react. I don’t want Kevin to know I didn’t take my pill tonight.

“So where do you want to start?” he asks, motioning ahead. “There might be some seats near the foosball table.”

“Sure,” I say, lowering my eyes. Some of the people in the room have noticed me, and it makes me incredibly self-conscious. I’m not sure I’m ready for this.

We start zigzagging our way through the crowd, Kevin’s hand protectively on my arm. A few people say hi. When we get close to the table, I hear a loud laugh and look over to the couch, catching the back of a blond ponytail.

“I should be okay,” I tell Kevin then, gently tugging my arm free. “I’m heading that way.” I point toward the couch, and he nods. To my relief, he goes to lean against the wall near another handler, giving me a little privacy.

“There you are!” Lacey calls out, standing up to meet me as I cross to her. On the couch are two guys—strangers—and I nod politely at them. God, why am I so nervous?

“Hey,” I say as Lacey pauses to look me over. She immediately undoes the second button on my shirt before she smiles.

“Sloane, this is Evan,” she points to a dark-haired guy, “And this is Liam. Actually,” she says, leaning close to whisper to me, “Liam isn’t even a returner. But he’s not depressed so no worries.”

I glance at Liam then, taking in his reddish-blond hair, his dark brown eyes. He’s watching me with a smirk on his lips, something about it a little unsettling. “Come and sit down, Sloane,” he says, patting the spot next to him. “It’s so great to . . . meet you.”

I dart a glance at Lacey, but she’s already back on Evan’s lap, chatting away as if this is completely normal and we’ve all hung out before. I turn and look back over the room.

The Wellness Center is small, although lively. Bright colors, spirited games with laughing. Most of the people here are dressed like me—preppy and stiff. Then there are a few others, some with wide eyes as they search the room. By their comfortable clothes I think that they’re not returners. When my gaze lands on Kevin, he nods to me, as if saying it’s okay to be confused. It actually makes me feel a little better.

I sit on the couch, but flinch as Liam’s thigh touches mine. My mind swirls through different memories, repeating some and reverberating them back to me. I remember camping with my brother, just the two of us. I can feel there’s something else, but I don’t have time to think about it when Liam leans his shoulder into mine.

“So how long were you in The Program?” he asks.

I’m almost offended by the question, as if it’s too personal for someone I just met to ask me. But I’m probably being overly sensitive. “Six weeks.”

“And they did something to you, right? Like messed with your head or something?”

Okay, now I am offended. Liam must notice because he quickly apologizes and shoots a cautious glance at my handler.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he says. “It’s just that I’m friends with Evan, but I didn’t know him before The Program. I’m just curious as to how it changes people. How it changed you.”

“I wouldn’t really know, now would I, Liam?” I ask. The fact that he’s curious about me makes me feel like a zoo exhibit. I stand up and back away.

“Wait,” Lacey says. “Where are you going?”

I don’t have anywhere to go. I’m overwhelmed and confused. I shoot a glance in Kevin’s direction and see him chatting with another handler. I take it as my cue.

“It’s hot in here,” I say. “I’m going to get some air.” And then before she can argue, I walk away, careful to blend into the crowd so that Kevin won’t try to stop me. I don’t want him to see me this frazzled—he’ll be able to tell I’m not medicated. I want a second to gather myself, and then I’ll have Kevin take me home. I just want to think.

I slip out the back door and onto the wooden patio. When I don’t see anyone, I walk to the railing and exhale, closing my eyes. For the first time since arriving home, my emotions threaten to drown me. Dr. Warren had warned me about this—I’m overstimulated. It’s like my body is revolting against me, and I press the heel of my palm to my forehead, willing myself to calm down. There is no threat. My feelings are just screwed up—resetting. I should have taken that white pill.

Just then I hear the sound of the door and I spin around, expecting Kevin. But I still when I see that it’s Liam.

“I’m sorry,” he says, shrugging. “Lacey said you were mad and that I needed to come out and apologize.”

I stare back at him, wondering if he knows that admitting someone made you apologize takes the sincerity out of it. “It’s fine,” I say, more out of politeness that really meaning it.

A crooked smile crosses his lips. “You know, I was worried you’d come back as some kind of zombie.”

My stomach lurches, and I steady myself on the porch railing. “What do you mean by that?” I ask. Did Liam know me? Had we been friends before and now I’m standing here, like an idiot, not remembering?

Liam shakes his head. “Don’t get upset,” he says. “You’re going to get me in trouble.” He looks around before stepping back from me. A tear streaks down my cheek.

“Stop it,” he says, pointing at me. “What the hell is wrong with you? If they see you like this, they’ll send us both to The Program.”

“But I don’t understand,” I say, wiping hard at my face. “Do you know me?”

“No, you freak!” he snaps, backing toward the doorway. “And don’t tell anyone that I do. Just stay away from me. I told Evan I didn’t want to come here again.”

My chest heaves with the start of a cry when someone walks over from the farside of the patio. I hadn’t seen him sitting there. He leans his shoulder against the wall, not far from the door. “I’m sure you don’t mean to be so rude,” he tells Liam, looking him over. “Unless, of course, you’re depressed or something.”

“Stay out of this, James,” Liam says, looking unsure of his path to the door now that the other guy is so close.

The guy raises his eyebrow at the mention of his name but doesn’t say anything about it. Instead he takes out his phone, scrolling through it. “I could send an anonymous note,” he says. “Alerting them to your condition.”

Liam’s face pales. “Don’t do that, man. I’m not sick. You can’t—”

“I can’t what?” James asks with a smile. “I’m pretty sure I can.”

“Look,” Liam says, sounding authentically sorry for the first time. “I don’t want to do this again with you. And I don’t want any trouble. She’s all yours.” Liam holds out his hands as if he’s offering me to this stranger.

I scoff, letting him know that I’m not his to give.

“I didn’t say I wanted her,” James says from the wall. “I was just making an observation.”

Liam studies him for a second, as if checking to see if he’s telling the truth, but then he slowly turns his head from side to side. “That’s right,” he says mostly to himself. “You don’t remember either.” Liam looks alarmed and darts for the door.

James swallows hard, but doesn’t outwardly seem thrown off by Liam’s words. And then before another threat can be given, Liam hurries inside, not even looking back at us.

My heart is still racing in my chest, and when I turn to thank James for sticking up for me, he pushes off the wall and heads for the door.

“Thank you,” I call after him. He pauses for a second, his hand on the doorknob. But he doesn’t turn to me.

“You shouldn’t let yourself cry,” he murmurs quietly. “Once you start . . .” He doesn’t finish his words and instead sighs heavily. And then he goes back inside, leaving me alone in the darkening night.