The Adjustment

by Suzanne Young

  “Who’s that guy?” I asked.

  Nathan looked over with a bored expression and then lifted one eyebrow when he turned back to me. “You mean James Dean over there?”

  “Sure,” I responded flatly, to let him know he could keep the jokes—they weren’t funny.

  “That’s Weston Ambrose,” Foster said, taking a sip from his coffee. “He’s cute, right?” he added. “I think he’s dangerously cute.”

  “Do you know him?” I asked, taking Nathan’s coffee from his hand and drinking from it. He scoffed and grabbed it back from me.

  “Sadly, no,” Foster said. He nodded at the river. “But that was his sister.”

  “He’s Cheyenne’s brother?” Nathan asked, his expression growing serious.

  “Cheyenne?” I repeated with a sinking feeling in my stomach. “The girl who died?”

  “Yep,” Foster said. “She was Mackey’s girlfriend. It was some fucked-up shit too.” He shook his head, glancing over to where Weston was sitting. “Mackey and Cheyenne drove right off the bridge. Heard they planned it.”

  “Damn,” Nathan said, sounding more sympathetic now. “Didn’t realize that was him.” We were quiet for a moment, feeling sorry for Weston. Then Nathan added, “I heard he’s starting at our school. Maybe he already did.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “What can I say, Tatum? I know what all the good-looking guys are doing.” He nodded at Foster, and Foster beamed back like he was proud to be his source of information.

  “Well, I haven’t seen him,” I said. And I would have noticed someone like him—someone so unlike the others who had fallen into line. I liked that he was different.

  “Definitely intriguing,” Foster said, still gazing in Wes’s direction. He exhaled. “But probably a bad idea,” he added. “I mean, he just looks like trouble.” He offered me a small smile as if telling me I should find out more about him anyway.

  “Don’t listen to anything Foster says,” Nathan announced as he looked sideways at the woods, where a few people had disappeared to have a drink or two. “He’s a terrible influence.”

  “It’s literally why I exist,” Foster said, holding up his coffee in cheers. I grabbed Nathan’s coffee to tap his cup, and we both laughed before Nathan snatched it back from my hand.

  Nathan took one last look at the river, and then motioned toward the woods. “I’m going to get something else to drink,” he said. “You coming?” he asked me.

  “Nah,” I said. “I’ll stay here a little longer.”

  He watched me for a moment before nodding. “Fine. I’ll let you know when we’re ready to leave,” he said. And then he and Foster headed to meet up with the others, leaving me alone by the river.

  It was the wind—a quiet howl of wind that made me look over at Wes again. The sound was like a long cry—like mourning. Misery. I didn’t have any siblings; I couldn’t imagine what that loss would feel like. I’d lost friends in the epidemic. Classmates. But not a sister.

  Weston stared down at the burning end of his cigarette, as if questioning why he was smoking it. He put it out on the bottom of his boot, and slipped it back into the pack. He looked like the saddest person I’d ever seen. It wasn’t even his face; his eyes were shaded by his hood and his hair was poking out near his neck. It was more his clothes, his slumped posture. He looked devastated.

  Maybe I was curious, or maybe I wanted to help. But I found myself walking along the edge of the river in his direction. I got all the way to the boulder and he never lifted his head. Not even when I sat next to him, both of us facing the water.

  I expected to smell smoke, but this close to the river, all I could smell was wet earth. Wes didn’t look at me, although he must have thought it strange that I was there.

  “I’m sorry about your sister,” I said, a bit of pity in my voice. He didn’t seem to like it, and he sucked at his teeth.

  “You from the counseling office?” he asked. “Did they send you over?”

  “No,” I said. “I was here for the memorial. I sort of knew Malcolm.”

  Wes turned suddenly, and I expected his face to be hard and unapproachable. But instead I found his dark-brown eyes bloodshot and red rimmed, like he’d cried so much, there would never be any more tears. I had a deep ache in my heart for him, and it felt as if I would do anything to take away his pain. Even if he was a stranger.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered, trapped in his gaze. He watched me for a long moment, never diverting his eyes. He licked his lips before he spoke again.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Tatum,” I said. He smiled, small and private. Like he’d never forget.

  “Thank you for coming over, Tatum,” he said. “You’re a really nice person.”

  I laughed softly. “Not always this nice.”

  “Ah, I bet you are,” he said, and turned back to the river. “And you didn’t know Cheyenne?”

  “No.”

  “Too bad,” he said, more solemnly. “She would’ve liked your hair.”

  Absently I reached to run my fingers through my short hair, shaved on one side. Wes picked up the pack of cigarettes and shoved them into the pocket of his hoodie, standing up from the boulder.

  “Do you smoke?” I asked.

  He laughed. “No,” he said. “They belonged to my sister. Sort of thought . . .” He shook his head. “Never mind. It was dumb.”

  There was a wave of sadness when I realized he thought it would make him feel closer to her. I understood. And I liked the vulnerability in it.

  “Tatum!” Nathan called. I looked over to see him and Foster waiting by the river like they wanted to leave. I turned back to Wes.

  “I’d better get going too,” he said, as if giving me an out from our conversation. But then he tilted his head to the side, smiling adorably. “I’ll see you around, Tate,” he said. And damn if that nickname didn’t make me fall for him right then.

  “Yeah, maybe,” I said, trying to play it cool, although I was sure my blush had already given me away. I held up my hand in a wave and started toward Nathan and Foster.

  As I walked away, I thought I wanted to know more about Weston Ambrose. I wanted to know how to fix his broken heart. I wanted to be the reason it could be fixed.

  He showed up at school the next week, and maybe it was because I was the only person he knew there, but we became close. For nearly two years we were inseparable. He wasn’t flagged in all that time. And then, for some reason, he changed. And then that Wes, the one I loved, was gone forever.

  CHAPTER NINE

  WHEN I STOP TALKING AND open my eyes in the treatment room, I realize how dry my lips have grown. I don’t even know what I was saying—the words tumbling out as I lost myself in the memory. There’s a soft touch on my arm, and I glance over and find Marie watching me with a mixture of sympathy and pity. I know the difference between the two. Sympathy is what people gave after my friends died. Pity is what they offered when Wes was taken away and I was trying to keep my head above water. I look beyond Marie to Wes, and find his eyes closed, his chest rising slow and steady like he’s asleep.

  “That will do for today,” Dr. McKee says on the other side of me. I turn just as he types a few lines on the computer. He does it so fast that I don’t know how the words could possibly make sense.

  I sit up, the wires still attached to my body. I don’t want to stop the session. I want to stay lost in the memories.

  “You’ve done a great job, Tatum,” Dr. McKee says, closing the laptop. “Very detailed. Your recall is . . .” He glances at Marie, and then back to me. “It’s all we could have hoped for, really. Now, we’ve mapped out the sequence, and the next step is implantation. After that, we’ll monitor Weston. If everything goes well, we’ll bring you back for the next session.”

  “Do you think something will go wrong?” I ask. “You said—”

  The doctor holds up his palm to stop me. The alarms on the heart monitor go off—the bea
ting too fast—and Dr. McKee motions for Marie to assist. She puts her hand soothingly on my arm before beginning to remove the sticky tabs and wires. I wince each time one is plucked from my skin.

  Weston makes a breathy sound, and I turn to him, concerned. I want to wake him up and make sure he’s okay. But Dr. McKee must sense that.

  “The memories haven’t been implanted yet,” he says. “We need to modify the pattern to fill in some of the larger blanks. Then we’ll let his brain do the rest. He’ll be here another few hours, and we’ll call you with an update when we have one. Weston has you down as his emergency contact.”

  After the wires are cleared, Marie helps me to stand, holding my arm like I might fall over at any moment. There is a quick second of disorientation, but it passes. She tells me that the medication should wear off at any moment.

  I glance at Wes longingly, wishing he was awake already. It’s strange to leave him here. I look at the doctor.

  “I could just wait,” I offer.

  Dr. McKee shakes his head. “I’d rather you didn’t,” he says, not unkindly. “It’s better to go about your day, take care of yourself. Being here will only rattle you, skew your memory for next time.”

  “But you’ll call me as soon as he’s awake?”

  “Yes,” he responds. “I promise.”

  I rub roughly at my face, trying to clear the last bit of fogginess. I walk out of the room, a bit drained, a bit dreamy.

  And it’s like I can still feel the cool wind from the river in my hair. Like I really was there. It reminds me of how powerful memories can be. And how sad it is that Wes lost his. I quickly call up the moments again to make sure they’re still there, a concern I hadn’t thought of before. They are, all the same details. Paranoia goes hand in hand with memory manipulation, I guess.

  I’m acutely aware of how real it all seemed, like that moment still existed, replaying again and again in time. I understand what Vanessa might have meant when she said it’s hard to tell the difference between lies and memories. Because part of me wants to deny the difference between memories and reality.

  When I get out into the lobby, the receptionist smiles warmly and offers me a Jolly Rancher candy. A wave of reality crashes over me as the medication fades, and I murmur, “No, thank you.”

  I rush outside, and once there, I swallow down the metallic taste in my mouth. I should have grabbed the candy, I think as I lean against the exterior of the building. There is a small bench near the door, and I sit down, the edges of my mind still a little fuzzy. I take out my phone and click on Nathan’s last message—nothing new from him.

  He doesn’t know where I am; he doesn’t know what I’ve done. What Wes and I have started. I know I should tell him.

  My fingers hover over the buttons, ready to type out the words, but in the end, I click out of his messages. I write to Foster instead.

  Thinking of you, I text. Part of me hopes he’ll invite me to the funeral so I can see him. But at the same time . . . there have been enough funerals and memorials over the past few years. I’m not sure I could even sit through another one.

  My phone buzzes. We need to talk, Foster responds.

  I quickly look up and dart my eyes around, paranoid that he knows about the Adjustment. I swallow hard. About what? I ask.

  Just between us, he writes. But can’t talk right now. Will call you later.

  I wait to see if he’ll say more, but minutes pass without another response. Could Foster possibly know about the Adjustment? Or did something else happen?

  I almost text Nathan to ask what it’s about, but Foster said it was just between us. I’m not sure what that could mean, but I can’t betray his trust if it’s something he doesn’t want Nathan to know. At the same time, I can’t imagine him keeping a secret from Nathan.

  Yet, here I am, keeping a secret from Nathan. I’m keeping the Adjustment a secret.

  And with that thought, I click off the phone and slip it back into my pocket.

  • • •

  I’m a nervous wreck by the time I get home twenty minutes later. I wait nervously for an update on Wes, even though I know it’ll be hours before I hear anything from the doctor. My grandparents are at the farmers’ market, so for distraction, I clean my room, organize my closet, and then look through old photos. It’s nearly one in the afternoon when my phone buzzes. I practically jump out of my skin to grab it.

  Saw you get home while ago, Nathan writes. You haven’t left since. Haven’t texted. Are we fighting?

  I sit on the edge of my bed, letting my heart calm. Nope. Just cleaning my room.

  That’s weird. Are you grounded?

  I have to tell him about the Adjustment. He’s my best friend—I know I shouldn’t keep this from him. I swallow hard, trying to build up my bravery. Want to come over? I ask.

  Sure. Be there in a few.

  Before going downstairs, I check once again to make sure I didn’t miss any calls, even though I’ve had the phone with me the entire time. But there’s no word from the doctor; nothing new from Foster. I hear the kitchen door open, and I put my phone in my pocket and head downstairs.

  Nathan is already on the couch, the game turned on and the second controller waiting on the coffee table. He glances over his shoulder at me when I get to the bottom of the stairs and I freeze. I should tell him everything. He’d tell me.

  “You all right?” he asks. “Where is everybody?”

  “Uh . . .” I head over to the couch. “Farmers’ market.” I take a spot next to him and join the game without a second thought.

  “I hope Gram gets that salmon dip again. That shit was gooood,” he says, and at the same time blasts my character across the screen. I slap his shoulder and immediately recover my stance in the game.

  “So where were you this morning?” he asks. “I was surprised your Jeep was gone when I came out to get the paper for my mom.”

  I hold off a second, trying to guess the intention of his question. But it seems completely innocent and without suspicion. And although this could be the perfect moment, I chicken out.

  “I went to the coffee shop,” I lie. “Craving a scone.”

  “Understandable. Well, last night got a little wild for me,” he says, clicking buttons and not looking at me while he talks.

  “How so?” I ask.

  “Met up with Jana.”

  “Gross, Nathan.” I push him over. “The last thing I want to think about is you and Jana getting ‘wild,’ ” I say, setting down my controller.

  “Hey, hey,” he says, looking sideways. “Relax over there. Not the kind of wild I’m talking about.” He pauses the game and sets aside his controller. “I ended up drinking a beer in my garage because I was so stressed.”

  “Why didn’t you call me?” I ask, my concern spiking.

  Nathan looks down in his lap, his brows knitting together. “I wanted to think about it first. Jana told me something.”

  “What did she say?” I ask.

  “She wanted to talk about Vanessa. But not in a normal way, you know, like a normal person. We were sitting at her house, and she just looked over at me and said, ‘Do you think Vanessa’s going to kill herself?’ ”

  Sickness crawls up my throat. “What else did she say?”

  “She started rambling, and was all, ‘She was my responsibility. I should have watched her more closely.’ And I’m thinking, what are you talking about? I’m telling you, Tatum—she’s been really off lately.”

  “Maybe not as much as you think,” I say. “Vanessa was at my locker yesterday. She said she had a tremor.” I go on to tell him about the incident with her, the cryptic words, the nosebleed. When I’m done, Nathan leans forward, his elbows on his knees.

  “Shit,” he says. “Jana was right.”

  “It’s definitely not good,” I agree. “What was her plan for Vanessa? Was she going to tell her parents or anything?”

  “I don’t know. She mentioned that doctor, but it got me thinking . . . mayb
e it was the Adjustment.”

  My stomach drops. “What do you mean?”

  “Vanessa got the Adjustment, right? She has all of those negative memories back. But maybe they’re skewed too dark, or too many at once. Hell, they’re not even real. We have no idea what they put inside her head. What if the Adjustment isn’t a cure at all?”

  “I understand your distrust,” I say, careful not to get too defensive and give away that Wes and I had started down that path. “But I think there’s something to the doctor’s theory on the returners. Even Pop said we don’t know the long-term effects of The Program; what if this is it?”

  Nathan’s expression clouds over with concern, and he stares at me. “Why do you say that? Have you . . . Has something happened?”

  I look away from the intensity of his gaze. “All I’m saying is that there have been a lot of returners getting sick lately. I don’t think we can blame this on the Adjustment. Sebastian didn’t have an Adjustment.”

  Nathan grows quiet, and I regret bringing up Foster’s brother. It’s a few moments later before Nathan talks again, more subdued. “So do you think I should tell her?” he asks.

  “Who?”

  “Jana,” he says. “Should I tell her about Vanessa acting strange yesterday?”

  “Probably,” I say. “If she’s really in danger, someone has to help her. Foster . . .” I stop myself from telling him about the text messages. “Foster would agree,” I say instead.

  “Yeah, he would,” Nathan says, resting back against the cushions. “He’d Jiminy Cricket that shit. Always let your conscience be your guide and all.”

  I laugh. “Tell Jana,” I say. “It might be good for her and Vanessa to get on the same page.”

  “I should go over there right now, huh?” he asks, and I can see that he’s still worried. Something about what I said hit him harder than I expected.

  “It’s up to you,” I say. “But, yeah. You should.”

  Nathan stands, clicking off the game system. “She did mention you again, by the way,” he adds before heading to the door. “Jana said you and Wes would be great publicity for the Adjustment. I told her you weren’t looking to be famous.”