The Program (3 page)

“Is there even a real plan?” I ask. “James wouldn’t tell me anything.”

Miller doesn’t seem to hear me as he gazes out the windshield. “Did you know that Lacey was a natural blond?” he asks, sounding far away. “She always had that red dye in her hair and I figured it was brown underneath, but it wasn’t. I saw it in an old picture of her once. I’m a jerk for not knowing, right? I should have known.”

I’ve been friends with Lacey since elementary school, so I can remember when she had yellow pigtails. It’s such a small
thing for Miller to feel bad about, but I can tell that he does. As if knowing this detail could have saved her from The Program.

“She loved you,” I whisper, even though it’s almost cruel to say now. “It was all real.”

Miller smiles to himself, but it’s pained. “If you can’t remember, it didn’t happen. And since she won’t . . .” He trails off, staring once again at the large building.

I think about the Lacey we knew before she was taken. Her bright, bloodred hair and black, tight dresses. She was a force of nature. She was a presence. Leading up to The Program she’d been acting differently, and yet, none of us said anything about it—maybe hoping it would go away. We all failed her.

The handlers had been waiting at Lacey’s house the night they came to take her to The Program. We were dropping her off, and I can still remember James joking about the unfamiliar car in her driveway, saying that it was pretty late for her parents to have friends over—maybe they were swingers. Lacey smiled but didn’t laugh. I just thought she was tired. I should have asked if she was okay.

But I didn’t. She gave Miller a quick kiss and climbed out, walking to her house. She’d barely gotten inside when we heard her scream. We all rushed to get out of the car, when her front door opened.

It’s a sight I’ll never get out of my head. On either side of her were the men in white coats holding her as she thrashed around, screaming that she’d kill them. She managed to get
loose and tried crawling back into the house, calling for her mother as the handlers dragged her out. Tears streaked mascara down her cheeks, and she begged for them to let her go.

Miller started toward the house, but James grabbed him, wrapping his arm around his neck to hold him. “It’s too late,” James whispered. I looked back at him fiercely then, but I saw the devastation on his face. The fear. James met my eyes only to tell me to get in the car.

James pushed Miller and me into the backseat and then got behind the wheel, pulling away quickly. Miller was clutching my shirt, ripping it at the collar as we drove past. And the last thing we saw was Lacey getting Tasered by a handler, flopping to the floor like a dying fish.

I reach now for Miller, trying to pry his fingers off the steering wheel. When I finally do, he turns to me. “Do you think there’s a chance, Sloane?” he asks almost desperately. “Do you think there’s any chance she remembers me?”

The question chokes me, and I press my lips together to keep myself from crying. There is no chance—The Program is thorough. The Program works. But I can’t bear to tell him that, so I shrug. “You never know,” I say, fighting the feeling of loss. “And if not, you can always reintroduce yourself when her aftercare is over. Start again.”

Once she’s healed, Lacey’s allowed to carry on with her life without interference—at least that’s what The Program brochures have told us. But I’ve never seen a returner go back to their old life. Or even want to. Whole sections of their lives
have been erased; past relationships mean nothing to them. In fact, I think the past might even scare them.

Miller sneers at the thought of this new Lacey, the hollowed-out one. He wants her to remember him, what they built together. Both Miller and James think The Program is a fate worse than death.

Lacey had thought the same. The reason her own parents turned her in was that they found a bottle of QuikDeath in her room. She’d been planning to kill herself and had bought the drug from some burnout after school. Miller hated himself for not knowing. James and I often wondered if he would have killed himself with her.

When Lacey was sent away, Miller broke into her bedroom because he knew he’d be erased from her life—that we all would be. But when he got there, her pictures were gone, and so was her clothing and personal items. The Program had wiped the space clean. All Miller had was a notepad that Lacey had left behind in his truck. He kept it, hoping it held some small piece of her.

We sat by the river one afternoon and looked through Lacey’s handwriting, laughing where she drew pictures of our teachers in the margins. But soon, the notepad changed. The math problems dissolved into black spirals scratched into the paper with pen. Her mind was infected, and it was apparent through the pages how quickly the depression had taken hold. It’d only been about two weeks.

I hate The Program and what it does to us, but I also know
that I don’t want to die. I don’t want any of us to. Despite everything, our school district has the highest survival rate in the country. So in some sick and twisted way . . . I guess The Program works. Even if the result is a life half lived.

James pulls up beside my window in his father’s beat-up Honda. He smiles when he sees me, but it’s too wide, too normal. He nods at Miller.

“Your boyfriend looks worried,” Miller mumbles as we watch James pull ahead to park. “That’s never a good sign. James never worries about anything.”

I don’t answer because I know it’s not true. But I’m the only one who gets to see that side of James. Otherwise he’s our rock. Our steady.

Miller opens the door and climbs out, leaving me sitting for a moment in the warming sun that’s filtering through the windshield. Outside, a bell rings, signaling the end of the returners’ day, and I swallow hard.

I open the passenger door and walk toward where James and Miller are talking, and I glance over my shoulder at the school as a few students and handlers begin making their way to the parking lot. Sumpter is small, with about two hundred students altogether. But that number grows every week, with five schools filtering kids through The Program. And since doctors claim a fresh returner’s brain is like Swiss cheese, with holes where memories used to be, patients need continued aftercare in a safe environment. Now returners stay here until graduation, which makes me doubt their “life without interference” claim.

Back when the treatments first started, returners were sent into the general population to start over. But after they started having meltdowns—like total brain-function-drooling-on-themselves meltdowns from the overstimulation—they opened Sumpter and assigned them a temporary babysitter with a white coat and a Taser.

Even so, handlers aren’t the only thing to fear. Fresh returners are a threat in themselves. In their confusion, they might inadvertently turn you in for harassing them, getting you sent away. So no one goes near them.

At least, not until now.

The minute I reach the guys, James smiles at me reassuringly. It’s time. Miller lowers his baseball cap and puts his phone to his ear as he wanders away, pretending to talk. My heart pounds in my chest as people walk past us. I used to know some of them.

Other than at Sumpter, returners aren’t seen around town much. Our community opened a Wellness Center a few months ago in order to create a “safe environment” for returners and normals to interact. It’s The Program’s belief that assimilation is the key to a full recovery—only it has to be on their terms, like watching us closely at a rec center that’s really just an extension of treatment. But while all students in the district are forced to complete three credit hours a semester there, most of the returners
want
to go. Obviously they don’t know any better.

James forges passes and skips the Wellness Center, calling it all Program propaganda—a science fair with returners as the
main exhibit. Really, I think the Wellness Center was set up to prove that returners aren’t freaks. That they can blend with society post-treatment. But no amount of commercials showing kids with smiling faces playing foosball is going to ease our fears.

I haven’t completed any of my Wellness credits for this semester yet, but from what I’ve heard, returners go to the center with their handlers. That alone highlights how different they are. They’ve been reset—both emotionally and socially.

James must sense my anxiety because his fingers find mine and intertwine for a second before he lets me go. “Whatever happens,” he says, “just play along.”

“Not reassuring.”

“We’re going to pretend to be on a field trip.”

I raise my eyes to his. “Seriously?”

“Well, I’d let you slap me in a jealous rage to get attention, but that sort of hostile behavior is frowned upon.”

“James, I still don’t—”

“What are you two doing here?” a deep voice cuts in. I jump, but James is collected as he turns sideways to the handler glaring at us. Several returners stop, noticing us. Their eyes are wide and curious—innocent expressions that makes me feel sorry for them. Dana Sanders stands in the background, not remembering that she dated my brother for over a year.

I keep my mouth shut and let James do the talking.

“School project,” he says smoothly, reaching into his pocket. “Dr. Ryerson said that we could monitor the parking
lot to see how well-adjusted the returners are. He’s really proud of the strides The Program has made in behavior modification.” James takes out a paper, signed by “Dr. Ryerson,” who I’m sure not only doesn’t exist, but is also untraceable.

The handler looks over the note as my pulse continues to pound in my ears. Behind the guy’s shoulder I finally see her, and every one of my muscles tenses.

Lacey Klamath—my best friend other than James and Miller—is walking across the parking lot with textbooks pressed to her chest. Her hair is now pale blond and tied up in a high ponytail. She wears jeans and ballet flats with a short-sleeved cardigan buttoned at the waist. She looks so completely different that I’m ready to scream. That’s . . . that’s not my friend.

“We only need a few minutes,” James says. “Maybe a few interviews?”

I feel a touch on my arm and swing my gaze to James as he smiles at me, as if I’m part of this conversation. “So,” he continues to the handler, “do you mind if we hang around for a bit?” James sounds like the most stable person in the world, but his fingernails are digging into the underside of my arm, and I know he’s seen Lacey too.

“No,” the handler says, shaking his head. “You can speak with them at the Wellness Center. This is a private school, and any official statements should come from—”

I glance past him again and see Miller. He’s walking directly toward Lacey, and when he stops in front of her, I hold my breath. Her head snaps up as he says something.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” the handler says to James and me. “Now.” He then takes out his radio, and calls in a code I don’t understand.

“What if we don’t talk to them?” I ask quickly, trying to buy us another minute. A second handler crosses the lot, and I’m afraid he’s going for Lacey and Miller, but instead he notices us and changes direction. We’re out of place here, and I think suddenly that this risk is too big.

“No,” the handler says. “And I’m not going to ask you to leave again.”

Fear spikes through me because I don’t know what to do next. Just then Miller pushes through the crowd, his face downturned. “Let’s go,” he says to me and James as he continues his path toward his truck.

“Who is that?” the handler calls, pointing toward Miller’s back.

“He’s our ride,” James says, and takes my hand. “Well, thanks for your help.” He backs us away, nodding to the handlers. We turn, our steps fast but not too fast. When we’re almost to the truck, James tilts his head toward mine. “Don’t look back at them,” he says. “Never look back.”

Miller’s waiting at his truck, his hat pulled low to protect his face. He doesn’t want to be recognized as Lacey’s ex-boyfriend. We’re not sure if the handlers guarding the returners are privy to that sort of information, and it’s best not to take the chance. I hope they don’t know who we are.

The parking lot starts to empty, and the handler that was
talking to us is gone, but I see the other one with Lacey. He holds the door as she climbs into the passenger seat of a car, then he slams it shut and eyes us suspiciously as he walks around.

Behind the window, Lacey’s eyes find us, staring blankly. The handler asks her something when he gets in the car, and she pauses for a minute before shaking her head.

I look away then, feeling broken. Lacey doesn’t know us. Not even me.

None of us speak as her car pulls away, the new Lacey leaving us behind on the asphalt. When she’s gone, Miller leans against the hood of his truck with an unreadable expression.

“Well?” James asks.

Miller lifts his head, his brown eyes glassy. “Nothing,” he answers. “She remembers absolutely nothing.”

James swallows hard. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I thought that maybe—”

Miller exhales. “You know what, man, I really don’t want to talk about it right now.”

James nods as they stand there impassively, but I can’t take the quiet and step between them. I don’t want to give up on Lacey, but I feel lost. Lost and helpless. “And now?” I ask Miller.

“Now,” he says, leveling his stare on me. “Now we go swimming and pretend that today never happened.”

“I don’t think—”

“I’m going to run home and get my trunks,” Miller interrupts, turning away. “I’ll see you guys at the river.”

James darts a panicked look in my direction as if telling me
not to leave Miller alone. I’m not sure I can handle anymore today, but as Miller rounds the truck, I call to him. “Wait,” I say. “I’ll keep you company, and James can meet us there.”

“More time for me to undress,” James says, taunting us. “Maybe I’ll even find someone else to rub lotion on my back.”

“Good luck with that.” Miller laughs and climbs into the driver’s seat. I look back at James one last time, and he gives me his signature smile, wide and cocky. But it’s not real. Sometimes I think it’s never real.

James is the best at hiding the pain, disguising the feelings. He knows what it takes to stay out of The Program. He’ll keep us safe.