The Complication

by Suzanne Young

  I take out my phone and text Foster, my thumbs shaking as they pass over the keys.

  Foster won’t be happy to hear from me right now; he has the flu, leaving him paler than usual. But I’m glad he isn’t here today, because Foster has the ability to see through all of my bullshit—through anyone’s bullshit. He would have figured out what Nathan told me, and then he would have figured out that I didn’t remember The Program. Who knows what would have happened after that.

  Hell, I might have to avoid him until I figure out how to cope better. Or at least become a better liar like the rest of them. Luckily, I can be more evasive over text.

  You awake? I write.

  No, Foster texts back, and I smile. I check to make sure the clerk is still distracted and respond.

  You seem better. Actually, what do you know about Derek Thompson? I ask.

  Uh . . . not much, Foster responds. He used to be in The Program. Why?

  I can still feel Derek’s eyes on me as I start to tell Foster what happened. Just saw him in the hall, I text, and he was staring at me.

  Wow, super ego. I’m assuming it’s more than that for you to text me on my deathbed, Foster writes.

  It was the WAY he stared at me, I clarify. Is it possible . . . My thumbs pause on the keys, and I’m not sure I want to continue with the question. I push forward. Is it possible Derek is a handler? I ask.

  A response bubble pops up immediately and then disappears. It does that several more times, no actual words appearing. I glance up and notice the clerk watching me, the student who was there before me now gone.

  “May I help you?” she asks.

  I quickly stash my phone in my backpack and cross to the desk. The attendance clerk waits for me to speak with a bored expression. I want to come right out and ask if she’s seen Weston Ambrose, but before I can, the inner office door opens, and Dr. Wyatt steps out.

  I put my hand on my cheek in an attempt to shield my face, but it doesn’t work.

  “Miss Masterson,” Dr. Wyatt calls suspiciously. “I was just coming to look for you.”

  Her comment shocks me, and I have to gather myself before turning to her. “I’m not feeling well,” I say, trying to add exhaustion into my voice. “I came in to call my pop.”

  Dr. Wyatt watches me carefully and then takes a step closer. Examining me. “Headache?” she asks. And the question is loaded with assumptions, the beginning of a cross-examination.

  She must know that returners suffer from headaches. Being a monitor, she probably knows more about aftereffects than I do.

  “No,” I say, and place my hand over my stomach. “Cramps.”

  She smiles, but I get the feeling that she can see straight through my lie. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, pushing open her office door. “This won’t take long.”

  My lips part, and I see Wes sitting on the chair in front her desk, seeming deeply annoyed. I’m about to make an excuse, but the expression on Dr. Wyatt’s face leaves no room for argument. I walk toward her office.

  The phone on the clerk’s desk rings, and after she answers it, she calls to Dr. Wyatt. Irritated, the monitor tells me to have a seat in her office. I go inside, and when he sees me, Wes smiles broadly like we’re old friends. It’s an arrow into my heart, throwing off my balance. Although I came looking for Wes, now that he’s here, I can’t find the right words. I don’t know if there are any.

  “This Dr. Wyatt is really infringing on my education,” Wes says. “I hope she’s going to provide private tutoring.” He acts like this is all a big joke, but the expression on my face must alarm him, because his smile fades.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “They can’t expel us for sitting in English class.”

  I’m reminded that he has no idea the gravity of this world, how quickly things can go very wrong. I can’t believe he’s talking to me; I can’t believe I have to act like I don’t know him. It’s unnatural. And it’s painful.

  I don’t respond as I take a seat in the chair next to him, awkward and silent. I keep my eyes on Dr. Wyatt’s impeccably neat desk, afraid to look at Wes. Afraid I’ll blurt out our entire past with another flash of his dimples and easy smile. My phone buzzes, and I check the open doorway to make sure Dr. Wyatt’s still occupied.

  It all hits me: The Program, the handlers, it’s like being submerged in ice water—the fact that my life is no longer my own. Someone has tampered with my past. Heartbreak and fear combine to make my head spin. Again.

  I take out my phone and see that Foster sent me a response to my question about Derek being an embedded handler. The reply is only one word, and my stomach sinks as I read it.

  Yes.

  “Thank you for waiting,” Dr. Wyatt announces, making me jump. I quickly shove my phone into my pocket, blinking away my shock at Foster’s answer, what it means.

  Yes, there are embedded handlers. Yes, they could be watching me.

  Dr. Wyatt closes the door, but she doesn’t go to her desk. Instead, she comes to stand directly behind our chairs. I look over my shoulder at her, lip curled and brows pulled together.

  “What’s this about?” I ask, finally finding my voice. “You can’t just . . .” I look at Wes, who’s waiting to hear what I have to say. I temper my annoyance. “You can’t just make me miss class,” I tell her. “I didn’t do anything.”

  Truth is, I’m sure Dr. Wyatt has noticed the change in Wes. Notices that he’s different than he was a few weeks ago. I don’t even know what excuse his family gave as to why he was gone this time. Dr. Wyatt has no real idea about the Adjustment. She doesn’t know what it does or who runs it. I’m no longer protecting Dr. McKee and Marie, but I also don’t want Wes, or possibly me, to become lab rats for Dr. Wyatt and whoever she’s working for.

  Dr. Wyatt walks around to lean on her desk, leveling her gaze at me. “I can pull you out of class if I deem you to be dangerous,” she says simply.

  “I thought this was all because I said ‘fuck,’ ” Wes says to me conversationally. “But now I’m really starting to wonder.” He turns back to Dr. Wyatt. “Is it because we were reading a book in class? Are you . . . are you afraid of original thought? Creativity?” He tilts his head like he’s trying to decide which it is. Dr. Wyatt takes his attitude in stride, letting him continue.

  “Definitely autonomy,” Wes continues. “Look at us, making our own decisions. Thinking for ourselves. That must burn you up.”

  As I watch him, I realize Wes’s natural state is defiance. No amount of memory manipulation can erase that part of him.

  “Don’t play games with me, Weston,” Dr. Wyatt says. “You’re not clever. You—”

  “Well . . .” He holds up his finger, scrunching his nose like he hates to argue the point. “I am in the gifted program. But if your measure of intelligence is test scores, then . . . no, wait,” he says, as if confused. “Those say I’m a genius too.”

  Dr. Wyatt looks at me accusingly. I shrug, emboldened by Wes’s jokes, and it’s then, in a sudden movement, that Dr. Wyatt jumps forward. She gets right up in Wes’s face—a drill sergeant shouting commands. It’s unexpected, and it throws both me and Wes off balance.

  “I want answers,” she calls out sharply, her hands on the armrests of his chair as she faces him. “You were in The Program, Mr. Ambrose. I saw you there myself.”

  Wes flinches away from Dr. Wyatt, blinking quickly.

  “Stop it,” I tell her immediately. She doesn’t know that he’s been reset. She doesn’t know that she can cause a meltdown by bringing up his past.

  Dr. Wyatt ignores me and continues her interrogation.

  “You were in The Program, and they erased your memory,” she says. “You came back, but whatever has happened to you since . . . this isn’t The Program.”

  She reaches to tap his temple, and Wes lifts his face to stare at her, his eyes wide. His skin pale.

  “What have you done?” she demands.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he rep
lies, teeth clenched.

  “Yes, you do,” she says. “Who did this to you, Weston?” Dr. Wyatt is beginning to lose her cool, and I’m half out of my chair, ready to push her away from him if I have to.

  “They tampered with your memories,” she continues. “Erased them. It’s against the law to manipulate memories. Why did they do it? What do you know?”

  “I said I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” Wes snaps at her.

  “Tell me,” she growls, leaning down. Her behavior is erratic, alarming.

  “Leave him alone,” I say, taking her by the elbow to pull her back. “He doesn’t remember.”

  Dr. Wyatt turns on me fiercely. “Do you?” she demands. “Are you the reason—”

  “No,” I say quickly. “We don’t know anything!” The words echo around the room, and I lower my hand from her elbow, wrapping my arms around myself. I’m scared, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how far this will go.

  “Can we please leave?” I ask, trying to sound brave.

  Dr. Wyatt stares me down, and for a second I’m afraid she’ll say no. That she’ll imprison us in her office for life. Instead, she takes a step closer to me.

  “I’m trying to save him,” she says in a low voice. Pleading.

  “Then I guess you should have saved him from The Program in the first place,” I reply coldly. “Because right now he wants you to leave him alone.” I turn back to Wes, willing him to get up. “Come on,” I say to him, hoping he’s all right.

  For his part, Wes looks confused, his easygoing attitude troubled. I watch the clouds gather on his face. I say his name, and he stands up, avoiding my eyes. Avoiding Dr. Wyatt’s glare.

  He walks to open the door and leaves without even a backward glance. When I go to follow him, Dr. Wyatt calls my name.

  “I hope you feel better,” she says disingenuously, knowing I was lying in the first place. I narrow my eyes and turn around.

  “I already do,” I respond. “But thanks for your concern.”

  She smiles, motioning that I can leave. I walk out hurriedly, but when I get into the main hall, Wes is already gone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I GO THROUGH THE REST of my morning haunted by the expression on Wes’s face after Dr. Wyatt confronted him. I shouldn’t have gone searching for him—rationally, I know that. But if I hadn’t been there, how far would Dr. Wyatt’s interrogation have gone?

  Unless . . . I made it worse by showing up. Maybe I always make it worse for him.

  When it’s nearly lunch, I walk down the hall as text messages from Nathan blow up my phone. I’m filled with dread. I don’t want to see Nathan right now, but I’ll have to make an excuse to get away from him. And I’ll have to be convincing.

  I take a cautious look around, expecting to find strangers watching me—handlers everywhere. My attempt at normalcy is hanging on by a thread.

  The hall is filled with students rushing for the parking lot. Lunch recently became open campus, despite the best efforts of a handful of overprotective parents. Even though the school has instituted a monitor, all the newspapers have claimed the epidemic is over. A new board member even suggested that keeping us locked in school could cause further damage. The tide seems to be turning in our favor—at least in public.

  But with returners getting sick, I’m not sure how long that good faith will last.

  My stomach knots when I see Nathan waiting at my locker, looking down at his phone. For the past few weeks, we’ve been going to Campus Inn for lunch, but I won’t eat with him today. I’ll have to find a way to convince him it’s not because he destroyed my world this morning—even though that much should be obvious.

  “Hey,” he says when he sees me. He holds up his phone. “I’ve been texting you.”

  “Sorry,” I reply. “What’s up?”

  “What’s up?” he repeats, studying me. “You took off after class. You didn’t answer my texts. I’m assuming you went looking for Wes. Did you find him?”

  “Oh, no. I didn’t,” I lie. “He must have left for the day.” I don’t tell him about Dr. Wyatt, even though Nathan should be the first person I discuss it with. But I don’t trust him; it’s horrible to say. It’s unthinkable. Right now, I don’t trust him, so I don’t tell him that the monitor scared the shit out of me. Or that she might have hurt Wes by bringing up The Program.

  Nathan shakes his head. “Nah, I saw Wes walking to class last hour,” he says. “He didn’t even look at me. He really must not remember anything.”

  His words sting me—part of that “anything” is my long-term relationship with Wes—and I move past Nathan to spin the combination on my locker.

  “I’m sorry,” he says, reaching to touch my forearm in apology. Normally it would be comforting, but after everything it feels more like emotional manipulation.

  “I’m fine,” I say, turning so that his hand falls away. I’m still trying to figure out how to be on my own for lunch, when Nathan sighs.

  “This is really bad timing,” he says. “But would you hate me if missed lunch today? Jana’s not feeling well and asked for a ride home.” He nods down the hall, and I see Jana at her locker, waiting for him.

  I nearly sway with relief but quickly catch myself. “Of course not,” I say. “I hope she feels better.”

  Nathan waits a beat. “That’s it?” he asks. “You’re not going to give me a hard time about ditching you?” He narrows his eyes. “You’re not even going to call me an asshole?”

  “We need something to do later, right?” I say, and try to smile. When he doesn’t buy the act, I shift tactics. “Your girlfriend is sick—I get it. You don’t owe me an explanation. But if it helps, I really do think you’re an asshole.” I smile winningly.

  “There it is,” he says. “But if you need me, I’ll stay. Today has been . . .” He pauses. “It’s been a weird day for you. I don’t want to just—”

  “Nathan,” I say, putting my palm on his chest and pushing him back a step toward Jana. “I’ll be fine. Between Wes, The Program, and those damn assessments . . . I might just lose my mind. I’m tired of talking about it, thinking about it. So I’m going to work on my and Foster’s missing labs this hour. It’ll be a nice distraction. Just call me when you get back, okay?”

  Nathan waits a moment, trying to discern my behavior. But at the same time, he must accept my explanation, because he gives me a quick hug. “I’ll check in soon,” he says before heading in Jana’s direction.

  I look past him to where Jana is standing, watching us curiously. I wave politely, and she smiles—quick and impersonal.

  As they walk away, the tension in my body lessens, but it also leaves more room for my fear, my misery. I dart my eyes around the hall, feeling like I’m being watched.

  It’s a fact that everyone I love betrayed me. How can I square that? How can I feel okay when there’s no one left to trust? When I’m so fucking alone? When I’m forgotten?

  I slam my locker shut and rush for the back exit, desperate to escape the confines of the school. To breathe. I can’t stay here anymore. I have to figure out what the hell is going on.

  The moment I exit the double doors to the parking lot, I take a big gulp of air. The sun shines brightly, blurring everything in a haze of yellow. I take another breath, but the panic floods in, overwhelming me like an ocean wave crashing over my head. My chest constricts and I’m drowning.

  My life is a lie.

  I walk faster, my heart beating rapidly, pins and needles prickling over my skin. I need to get to my Jeep. Several people are hanging around, laughing, and making plans for lunch, but my singular mission is to get to my Jeep without collapsing.

  I’ve made a mistake; I’ve let myself think—feel—too much. I should have gone home with fake cramps hours ago. Now I’m walking devastation.

  My Jeep comes into focus, and the relief is immediate. I pull my backpack off my shoulders and jog to the door, opening it and tossing my bag across to the passenger se
at. My hands shake as I climb in and grip the steering wheel.

  I turn the ignition, but instead of starting, my Jeep revs, never catching. I turn it again, slamming my foot on the gas, but the engine only sputters, and I let it die.

  It’s a karmic pile-on, and I can no longer hold back. The quiet in my Jeep is deafening, the air warm and thick. I scream, the shriek cutting through the small space, and I smack the heel of my palm against the steering wheel. It hurts, but I do it again, harder—letting the anger take over.

  The image of my grandparents, trying to pull me away from the handlers—crying and helpless. They didn’t save me. They couldn’t. No matter fault, they still failed me.

  And then, even more unforgivable, my grandparents lied to me—both indirectly and to my face. Those pills they gave me . . . I realize now they were probably to keep me well-behaved. Keep me in line. What else have they done to cover this up? I don’t know how deep this all goes, but I know that life as I know it is over.

  I choke on the start of a sob and use my other hand to slap the steering wheel, accidently blasting the horn. I’m losing it right now, dissolving into ashes and ready to blow away. People may be watching. Gossiping. But I don’t care.

  I’m about to hit the wheel again when there’s a sharp knock on my driver’s-side window. Startled, I spin to look, and my entire body freezes.

  “Hey,” Wes says, his voice muffled behind the glass. My lips part; my heart registers shock. When I don’t move, he mimes rolling down the window, exaggerated and funny.

  I’ve barely caught my breath when I lower the window, and I quickly wipe away the tears on my cheeks. For his part, Wes is disheveled, as if his first day back to school was more traumatic than he thought it would be. I search his expression to see if our meeting with Dr. Wyatt has hurt him. But there’s no bloody nose, no flinching. He just looks tired.

  “What are you doing?” I ask, still half in my head. This is the second time he’s seen me cry today.

  Wes smiles sheepishly, like he’s wondering if he should leave. But he must overrule his instincts. “I saw you trying to start the Jeep. You know, before you started beating the shit out of it. I’m pretty good with engines—want me to take a look?”