The Program (The Program #1)(19)
Author: Suzanne Young

James swallows hard and his arms loosen from around me. “I’m not well, Sloane,” James says. I turn and face him. His eyes are bloodshot, his chin growing stubbly.

“Don’t say that,” I tell him.

“I’m going to kill myself.”

My entire chest seizes up, and I grab James hard, pulling him toward me. “Don’t you dare!” I cry out. “I swear to God, James!” But I’m shaking so hard I’m not even sure he can understand my words. “Don’t leave me,” I sob. “Please don’t leave me here alone. Please.”

Slowly James puts his arms around me and guides me against his chest, brushing back my hair. “Sloane,” he says. “I can’t go into The Program. I don’t want to forget you, forget Brady.”

I pull back and look at him. “Do you think you’ll remember if you’re dead? You promised me, James. You promised forever.” Tears roll down my cheeks, and I expect him to wipe them and tell me it’s going to be okay.

Instead he tightens his arms, clinging to me silently as I rest beside him. But he didn’t agree to not kill himself.

“Please hold on,” I whisper. “Tell me you’ll hold on.”

His breath is warm against my skin. “I’ll try.”

We lie around in the tent until it’s dark, leaving only to get energy bars and water, and then later to use the bathroom. I don’t sleep all night, worried about what tomorrow will bring. Wondering if the old James will ever come back.

And when the sun rises again, I look over at him hopefully. He’s on his back, staring into nothing, and I know that he’s lost. And so am I.

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.”