The Program (The Program #1)(24)
Author: Suzanne Young

I smiled. “The rest of our lives is a long time, James. I’m sure there will be other lips.” The minute I said it, I hated the words. But James just slowly shook his head.

“Naw,” he said, rolling to lean over me once again. “These are the only ones I’ll ever want.” And he kissed me again.

Maybe that’s why I find myself at the river now, sitting on the bank watching the water. James had meant what he said, but that part of his life is over. Now he’s someone else. Now my lips aren’t his anymore.

He captured me that day. I’d liked him before, but after that, I couldn’t go back to avoiding him. We spent every second we could together, even if no one knew. I wonder if things would have turned out differently if we’d told Brady. But then I wonder if my brother hung on as long as he did for us, to make sure we were okay.

It was two weeks after my brother died when James told me that he loved me. That he’d never leave me. That he would save us both. He promised.

He promised.

• • •

My parents ask about James, and I tell them he looks great. I smile. I joke that maybe he’ll be good at math now. It’s so fake that I see my mom and dad exchange a frightened glance, and then I excuse myself to my room. While I lie on my bed, I consider never leaving it again. But what good would that do? The handlers would just come and take me.

When I get up in the morning, I slip into a pair of jeans and a mismatched pair of socks. I don’t bother brushing my teeth or combing my hair. I stare at the cereal in my bowl, not wanting to eat. Not wanting to feed this body. The idea of wasting away sounds so good that when my mother isn’t looking I dump the food into the sink and leave the house.

I skip school. I can’t even think about meeting with the therapist. Listen to the “good side” of The Program. Lie about how I feel about James being back. I won’t go back to the Wellness Center again. I don’t want to see James washed out. In a few weeks, he’ll start talking, maybe even smile at someone. I wonder what I’ll do if he gives another girl a plastic heart ring.

James doesn’t know me, not even a flicker of recognition. It’s like I never existed. We had so many secrets together and now they’re just mine. The weight of them is too heavy for me to carry.

I park outside of a farm and take out a notebook, writing down my feelings. I have no one to tell anymore—not one person I can trust. I’m so alone it’s like being dead but still conscious. In forty-five minutes, I’ve scribbled down so many words that they start to lose meaning.

Kiss, death, love, loss . . . the words are crashing into each other, and my tears soak the page. Then I give into the urge to cross off the words, pressing harder with each pass, making large circles. Soon I’ve gone through all the pages and I’m digging into the cardboard cover. I press so hard it’s going through to my lap, scraping against my jeans. My skin. I press as hard as I can, and I whimper because it hurts. But I don’t care. I can’t care anymore.

I wish I were dead.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

I’M CHEWING ON MY LIP AS I DRIVE, TEARING AT THE flesh, wincing when it burns. My lips are chapped from crying in my car day after day, but I don’t care. My hair is knotted and uncombed, and again, I don’t give a goddamn.

It’s been four days since James came home. I sit through school but don’t speak. Don’t look up. My parents ask me questions that I answer vaguely. They’re worried, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters. Nothing ever did.

I drive by James’s house sometimes. Once, I saw him through his living room window, staring out at nothing. I nearly went to the door, but I didn’t know what to say. How do you tell someone that you’re the love of their life if they don’t know you? How could I survive his nonreaction?

When I pull up to my house after another bout of crying, I think about finally ending it. Stopping the fear and pain. I’m angry—angrier than I ever felt, but under that is a sadness I can barely comprehend.

I shut off the ignition and climb out of the car, walking lethargically up to the house. My hair is matted to my forehead, hanging partly in my eyes. I don’t brush it back. I like it there because it helps me feel hidden. Like I could disappear.

I open the front door but the house is quiet. “I’m home,” I say, but don’t bother waiting for an answer. I start up the stairs toward my bedroom when I hear rustling.

“Sloane?” my mother calls, her voice sounding choked. I pause and turn to look at her. Her cardigan is wrapped tightly around her as she hugs herself, her brown eyes large and worried. For a minute I want to tell her that I’m okay, but I don’t want to lie to her.

“I’m home,” I repeat. I’m about to start up the stairs again, when my father emerges from the living room. His nose is red as if he’s been crying.

“Honey,” he says to me. “Come downstairs.” His voice is soft, but different. Is that . . . Is that guilt?

My first thought is that James has killed himself. It’s a mixture of devastation and relief. But then behind my father, the door opens. Two men, white coats, walk inside the entryway. My chest seizes.

“What are they doing here?” I ask, fear creeping over my skin. The handler with the dark hair is in my house. He’s here for me.

My mother’s lips quiver. “We were just so worried, Sloane. Since James came back, you haven’t been the same. And after Brady, we couldn’t take the chance. If you’d just—”

“What have you done?” I whisper.

My dad squeezes his eyes shut, and I can tell that he didn’t want to do this. He didn’t want to hand me over. I look at my mother again, hoping she can still stop it.

“What have you done, Mom?” But I’m so terrified that I can’t breathe. The handlers walk through the entryway, stomping purposely toward the steps, toward me. With one last betrayed look to my parents, I tear up the stairs.

They can’t take me. They can’t take me.

I burst through my bedroom door and then slam it shut, locking it. I glance toward my window but worry I’d be too injured in the fall to get away. I look frantically around my room, at all the memories: the pictures of me and my brother. Of James. The handlers will take it all. They’ll take everything.

Behind me someone jiggles the handle and then knocks. Bangs. I can’t escape. And I can’t bear the thought of losing everything. I can’t let them have it.