The Program

by Suzanne Young

  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.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN<
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  I’M CHEWING ON MY LIP AS I DRIVE, TEARING AT THE flesh, wincing when it burns. My lips are chapped from crying in my car day after day, but I don’t care. My hair is knotted and uncombed, and again, I don’t give a goddamn.

  It’s been four days since James came home. I sit through school but don’t speak. Don’t look up. My parents ask me questions that I answer vaguely. They’re worried, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Nothing ever did.

  I drive by James’s house sometimes. Once, I saw him through his living room window, staring out at nothing. I nearly went to the door, but I didn’t know what to say. How do you tell someone that you’re the love of their life if they don’t know you? How could I survive his nonreaction?

  When I pull up to my house after another bout of crying, I think about finally ending it. Stopping the fear and pain. I’m angry—angrier than I ever felt, but under that is a sadness I can barely comprehend.

  I shut off the ignition and climb out of the car, walking lethargically up to the house. My hair is matted to my forehead, hanging partly in my eyes. I don’t brush it back. I like it there because it helps me feel hidden. Like I could disappear.

  I open the front door but the house is quiet. “I’m home,” I say, but don’t bother waiting for an answer. I start up the stairs toward my bedroom when I hear rustling.

  “Sloane?” my mother calls, her voice sounding choked. I pause and turn to look at her. Her cardigan is wrapped tightly around her as she hugs herself, her brown eyes large and worried. For a minute I want to tell her that I’m okay, but I don’t want to lie to her.

  “I’m home,” I repeat. I’m about to start up the stairs again, when my father emerges from the living room. His nose is red as if he’s been crying.

  “Honey,” he says to me. “Come downstairs.” His voice is soft, but different. Is that . . . Is that guilt?

  My first thought is that James has killed himself. It’s a mixture of devastation and relief. But then behind my father, the door opens. Two men, white coats, walk inside the entryway. My chest seizes.

  “What are they doing here?” I ask, fear creeping over my skin. The handler with the dark hair is in my house. He’s here for me.

  My mother’s lips quiver. “We were just so worried, Sloane. Since James came back, you haven’t been the same. And after Brady, we couldn’t take the chance. If you’d just—”

  “What have you done?” I whisper.

  My dad squeezes his eyes shut, and I can tell that he didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to hand me over. I look at my mother again, hoping she can still stop it.

  “What have you done, Mom?” But I’m so terrified that I can’t breathe. The handlers walk through the entryway, stomping purposely toward the steps, toward me. With one last betrayed look to my parents, I tear up the stairs.

  They can’t take me. They can’t take me.

  I burst through my bedroom door and then slam it shut, locking it. I glance toward my window but worry I’d be too injured in the fall to get away. I look frantically around my room, at all the memories: the pictures of me and my brother. Of James. The handlers will take it all. They’ll take everything.

  Behind me someone jiggles the handle and then knocks. Bangs. I can’t escape. And I can’t bear the thought of losing everything. I can’t let them have it.

  I grab the picture of Brady and James off my mirror. In it, James is shirtless as usual and grinning widely, his arm over Brady’s shoulders, the river behind them. My brother is midlaugh, as if James just said something really funny. I can’t remember what it was.

  The banging on my door gets louder and I hear my mother’s voice, pleading with me to open it. To not hurt myself.

  I slip off my chipped purple ring, kissing it hard. I love you, James, I think. Us forever, like you promised.

  I lift up my mattress, searching for the slit I’d made years ago when I was trying to hide notes from James. On the other side of the door, my mother announces to them that she’s got the key. Just then I find the tear and slip the picture and the ring into it. Then I drop my mattress and cover it with the sheet. Once I’m gone, they’ll sanitize my room, but they won’t look there. I don’t think they’ll look there.

  When I come back from The Program, I’ll find it. And I’ll find James and ask him about it. Maybe then we’ll remember who we are. What we meant to each other.

  I spy a pair of scissors on my dresser, surprised that I didn’t notice them before. I consider fighting my way out. Stabbing the handlers—especially the one who has been after me from the beginning—and pushing past my parents. Refusing to let them take my life from me.

  I grab the shears, clutching them in my fist.

  There’s a clicking sound and then the door swings open. My mother swallows hard when she sees the scissors in my hand. My father calls to me, sounding terrified.

  I back toward the window. My face is hot and my mouth is wet. I think I’m drooling, overwhelmed with rage as I growl at them.

  “Miss Barstow,” the dark-haired handler says calmly as he enters. “Put the scissors down.” He shoots a look to the other handler and they separate, each taking one side of the room to surround me.

  “No.” But my voice is like an animal’s. My father starts to cry again and even though I’m angry, I can’t hate him. Brady broke him. He can’t go through it again.

  “Miss Barstow,” the handler repeats as he grabs for something at his waist. I suddenly realize he must have a Taser.

  And I know it’s over. This life, it’s over. I meet my mother’s eyes and force a bitter smile. “I’ll never forgive you,” I murmur. Then, just because this is my last moment of having a real emotion, I tighten my grip on my scissors. And I slash my wrist.

  I fall back against the wall, the pain more immediate than I thought it would be. I close my eyes and feel hands grip me hard on my upper arms. A needle pierces my skin, and within seconds a wave rushes over me, crashing above my head and drowning me in sleep.

  • • •

  “Hello?”

  I hear a voice, but I’m too tired to open my eyes all the way. I try again and fail. The voice laughs softly.

  “Is there anybody in there?”

  I feel a touch, a pinch in my arm, and then there’s a rush of adrenaline. My eyes fly open and I take in a sudden breath. My arms are tight at my sides, as if tied down.

  “Ah, there you are,” the voice says. “Welcome to The Program.”

  PART II

  THE PROGRAM

  CHAPTER ONE

  I SLOWLY LOOK TO MY SIDE, MY VISION A BIT BLURRY as I wake. Next to me, close, is the dark-haired handler. He smiles. “Worried I’d given you too much Thorazine. You’ve been out for hours.” He reaches to brush my hair away from my face. I jump, turning my head violently away, repulsed.

  “Don’t touch me,” I hiss. “Don’t you dare touch me.”

  He laughs. “Miss Barstow, I know you’re upset. I know you’re unwell.” He leans close, his voice a whisper in my ear. “But it’s no excuse for bad manners.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, thinking that maybe I should feel frightened, sad. But all I can feel is rage. They changed James. Lacey. They’re going to change me.

  “Now,” the handler says, “I’m going to tell the doctor you’re awake.” He touches my hair again. “I’ll be seeing you around, Sloane.”

  My stomach twists when he says my name. I try to turn my body away, but my hands are tied down with leather straps, buckled to the bed. As I move, my wrist hurts, and I remember how I cut myself in my room before they took me.

  I clench my jaw tighter, listening to the sound of the handler’s feet shuffling across the floor. When I hear the door close, I open my eyes and look around.

  The room is white, just white. The walls are smooth and unmarked, and there is a chair next to my bed. Everything is clean and smells like rubbing alcohol. My heart pounds as I wait. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me. If it’ll hurt when they get insi
de my head.

  I lie back against the pillow, letting the sorrow seep in for a second. My parents betrayed me. I hate them, even though I know I shouldn’t. They thought they were saving me, but instead they’ve condemned me to a half-lived life. I’m losing everything.

  A tear tickles my cheek as it runs down, and I curse myself for not holding it in. I turn my head into my pillow to wipe it and then sniffle, staring at the ceiling. It’s quiet—so quiet that the only sound is my breathing. I wonder if the silence alone can drive me mad.

  The door opens with a quiet click. I freeze, not sure I want to look.

  “Good evening,” a deep voice says. It has the slightest hint of a British accent and it’s calm. Almost inviting. I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m Dr. Francis,” he says, and I hear chair wheels squeak as he sits down.

  I’m afraid to move, but when his warm hands touch my arm, I flinch. Then I realize he’s undoing my wrist straps. I look suddenly to my side, where his fingers work to release me.

  “I am sorry about this,” he says as he unbuckles. “It’s a precaution we have to take for all incoming patients.”

  “I don’t want to be a patient,” I reply.

  Dr. Francis pauses, his green eyes searching my face as he studies me. His brown hair is clipped short and he’s clean shaven. “Sloane,” he says kindly. “I know you’re scared, but we really only want to help. You don’t see it, but you’re sick. You even attempted suicide.”

  “No, I didn’t. I just didn’t want them to take me.” I don’t mention how I tried to drown in the river.

  “We’re not going to hurt you.” He stands and walks around the bed, pausing at my other strap to undo it. “We’re going to remove the sickness, Sloane. That’s it.”

  “I’ve seen the returners,” I tell him, narrowing my eyes. “I see exactly what you take.”

  When my hands are free, I sit up and rub my wrists, amazed at how much less vulnerable I feel now. But I’m in hospital scrubs, and I shiver, thinking that the dark-haired handler might have undressed me.