The Program

CHAPTER ELEVEN




IT’S BEEN TWO WEEKS AND TWO DAYS SINCE MILLER died, but James is still not himself. I’m exhausted, keeping up our front, pretending to be okay. I do James’s homework, ripping out his pages of black spirals and instead writing in math logarithms. I walk him to his classes, making sure he doesn’t try to buy QuikDeath, always watching if anyone notices his change.

It’s clear they do. Other students avert their eyes when we pass, not wanting to be associated with us for the risk of getting flagged. I know time is running out, and so I overcompensate even more. I get louder with my laughter. Kiss James passionately in the hallway—even though he doesn’t respond. I’m starting to forget what he was like before. I’m starting to forget what we were like before.

Nearly a month after Miller’s death, our classes change for the semester. James ends up in my math class by some miracle—or maybe it’s the fact that our student population continues to dwindle. There have been two suicides since Miller. I notice an increase in handlers, including the one who watches me.

And he’s here now, standing at the door of our class with another handler, staring in. Next to me James sits, looking down at his desk. He hasn’t taken out his notebook. He doesn’t move.

“James,” I whisper, hoping to not draw attention to us. “Please.” But he doesn’t respond.

There is a shuffling of feet, and I know it before I even look up, know it by the sound of gasps in the room. My eyes start to water, but I hold back the tears and watch my boyfriend. I know what’s coming next.

“I love you,” I murmur to James. “You’ll come back to me.” My words are barely a breath when the white coats come into my vision. Surrounding him. Grabbing him from his chair.

I almost vomit, but I grip my desktop and keep back my tears. Around me, the other students drop their heads, not wanting to betray their emotions. My James. My James.

The handlers are pulling him to the door, but James suddenly looks back at me, his blue eyes wide. He starts to fight, tearing from their grip. My face nearly breaks with a cry.

“Sloane!” he yells, falling to his knees as they hold him. “Wait,” he says fiercely to them. But they’re not listening. They’re pulling him back, the one handler shooting me a glare, warning me to not respond.

I try to smile, anything to let James know that he’ll survive this. And that I’ll be here when he gets back. I kiss my fingers and hold them up in a wave. He stops, letting the handlers get ahold of him.

Then James closes his eyes, and lets them drag him to his feet and out the door.

When he’s gone, several people look back at me. The teacher stares at me. Everyone is waiting to see my reaction, if I’ll be next. If they’ll come rushing in here any second. But I do nothing. Inside I’m dying, ripping apart and bleeding. I’m so far gone I’m not sure I can get back, but I open my notebook and poise my pencil over it, as if ready to write.

I keep my breaths measured, waiting. And then the teacher starts talking again, going on about the latest math concept. I hear the chairs squeak as the other students give her their attention.

I don’t wipe my face as one tear, one I just couldn’t hold back, hits my notebook with a quiet tap. I close my eyes.

• • •

James has always been terrible at math. Brady used to try to teach him, but it was no use. My boyfriend was completely helpless.

I remember once while they were doing homework, Brady called me into the kitchen. He and James were at the table, books spread out in front of them. It’d been a month since that first camping trip when James caught me staring. I’d spent every moment since then avoiding him. I tried to pretend that nothing had changed, even though I’d see him looking at me strangely, as if trying to figure out if he should talk to me or not. He did still talk, but I never met his eyes. I already felt stupid enough.

“Sloane,” Brady called. “Check this out.”

I walked into the kitchen, taking an uneasy glance at James as he sipped his soda, not acknowledging me. “What’s up?” I asked my brother, nervousness in the pit of my stomach.

Brady pointed his finger to a problem on the page, a math formula with an example. “What’s the answer?” Brady asked, grinning widely and looking over at James—who was continuing to not notice me.

I swallowed hard and then narrowed my eyes, computing the problem in my head. “X equals eight,” I said. “Why?”

Brady laughed and James shook his head, a smile on his lips. James reached in his pocket and pulled out a five-dollar bill, slapping it on my brother’s open book.

Brady picked up the money triumphantly. “Told you she was smarter than you.”

“I never said she wasn’t,” James answered, finally darting a glance at me. “I already know your sister is smarter. She’s prettier than me too, but I didn’t bet on that. I just wanted you to call her in here so she’d look at me again. It was worth the five bucks.”

Before I could even understand what he’d said, James was flipping though his book, the corner of his mouth turned up in a half grin. Brady handed me the five.

“You deserve this,” he said, “for always putting up with his shit.” Brady laughed it away as if James was just teasing me, and my face burned with embarrassment. Humiliation.

I crumpled up the money and tossed it at James, bouncing it off his cheek. He looked up, surprised, and Brady chuckled. “I don’t want your money,” I said, and turned to go up the stairs toward my room.

“Then what do you want, Sloane?” James called after me, sounding amused, as if daring me to answer. I paused at the stairs, but didn’t turn around. And then I went to my room.

I know James won’t come looking for me this time. Not like he did that day, apologizing. James is in The Program now. The James I know is gone.

• • •

“Sloane, honey?” I hear my mother say on the other side of my bedroom door. I lay listlessly on my bed, willing myself to answer her.

“Yeah?”

“It’s time for dinner. Can you please come down? I’ve called three times already.”

Had she? “Sure. Okay.” I slowly stand, looking down at my clothes. I wish that there were bloodstains or tears, something to outwardly show how hurt I am. But instead it’s just a pair of jeans and a pink T-shirt. Something so painfully average that it makes me hate myself. I head downstairs.

My parents sit at the dining room table, pleasant smiles plastered across their faces. I try to return a smile of my own, but I’m not sure I pull it off. My father’s brow creases.

“I made your favorite,” my mother says. “Spaghetti and meatballs.”

I know the homemade sauce took her forever to make, so I say thank you. I take a seat and wonder what sort of pills I can find in the medicine cabinet, wondering if I can find something to help me sleep.

“James’s father called,” my mother says softly. “He told us James was sent to The Program today.”

My stomach twists around her words, and I reach out to sip from my water. The ice cubes rattle in the glass as my hand shakes.

“He’s going to be safe now,” my mother adds. “We’re all so grateful for The Program. We hadn’t even known he was ill.”

I’d known. But now I also know that he’s gone, and when he comes back, I won’t be a part of his life. He’ll be wiped clean.

“Sloane,” my father says in a low tone. “Your mother is talking to you.”

I look up at him, the anger clearly on my face because he straightens in his chair. “What would you like me to say to that?” I ask, my voice barely controlled. “What is the appropriate response?”

“That you’re happy that he’s going to get better. That you’re happy he won’t harm himself.”

“They took him,” I snap. “They came into class and they dragged him out. There is nothing happy about this.”

“Sloane,” my mother says, sounding startled. “Did you know he was sick? You didn’t try to conceal it, did you? He could have . . .” She stops, looking horrified.

I can’t believe they don’t understand. I wonder if it’s because adults would rather forget about their problems, the thought that ignorance is bliss. But The Program steals our memories. They reset our emotions so that we’re brand-new, never having been hurt or heartbroken. But who are we without our pasts?

“James would have rather died than gone to The Program,” I say, picking up my fork. “And now I know why.”

My mother tosses her napkin onto the table. “He’s going to get help, Sloane. Isn’t that what matters? I wish we would have gotten to Brady in time.”

I cry out, the rage inside me too much to contain. “Are you really that stupid?” I shout at her. “Do you really think Brady would have wanted his memory erased? Nobody wants this, Mom. No one wants to be numb. They’re killing us!”

“No!” she yells back. “You’re killing yourselves. They’re saving you.”

“By taking away everything that made my life worth living?”

“Is this just about James? Honey, I’m sure when he comes back—”

I throw my fork across the room, banging it off the wall. “It’s not just James! They’ll take out parts of me. Parts of Brady. I won’t even know my friends. I won’t remember why I love going to the river. . . . It’s because that’s where James first kissed me. Did you know that? That’s where he first told me he loved me. And now they’ll take that from him and he won’t remember. He won’t even know who he is.”

“If it’s meant to be, you’ll find each other again.”

I scoff. “I hate you,” I say, tears streaming from my eyes.

I told my mother that once before, after my brother died. She threatened to send me to The Program and I never said it again. Now I stare at her, all my emotions spinning into a dark spiral.

“Actually, I take it back,” I say to her, smiling sadly. “I hate myself more.” And then I run for my mother’s car in the garage, needing to get away. From her. And from everything.