The Program (The Program #1)(38)
Author: Suzanne Young

“Before we start . . .” She slides the cup with the red pill toward me, but I shake my head.

“I don’t need it. Thank you.”

She smiles. “You will take the pill, Sloane. We’ve already been over this.”

I know from what Roger told me that the pill helps isolate memories, highlights them to be taken later. I don’t want to put it in my mouth. I want to crush it under my socked heel.

“Have we?” I say. “Maybe I don’t remember.”

Dr. Warren’s jaw tightens. “Follow procedures if you want to be released.”

“I’m not taking it,” I shoot back. What should be doctorly advice from her feels more like a threat. My anger starts to bubble over.

“Last chance,” she says, leveling her gaze on mine.

I lean toward her. “I’m not taking the f**king pill, okay?”

Dr. Warren doesn’t even flinch. She sits back calmly in her leather chair. “Marilyn,” she calls behind me. A large woman in a white nurse’s uniform stalks in, a needle poised in her hand. I barely have time to register what’s going on before I feel it pierce the skin on my upper arm.

“What is this?” I yell, jumping up from the chair.

“Calm down,” Dr. Warren soothes, not even looking a little sorry. “It’s the same dose. But I told you, you will take the medication one way or another. Voluntarily is just the least painful.” Dr. Warren looks at the nurse. “Get the other needle ready for after the session.”

I stand there, clutching my arm and feeling helpless. I’m so violated, so angry, that I think I might completely lose it right now.

“Today,” Dr. Warren says, ignoring my obvious fury, “I want to talk about you and James after your brother’s death. How you became so codependent.”

“We’re not codependent, you bitch. We love each other.”

She looks me over thoughtfully, content to wait until I’m fully compliant. Already I can feel the drug coursing through my veins, and I sway on my feet, knowing it won’t be long until I’m at its mercy. Telling her all of my secrets.

When I collapse back into the chair, my limbs light and my head hazy, I start talking.

“James and I dated secretly for two months,” I say, my temple resting against the fabric. “It was tough keeping it from Brady. James slept over all the time, and each night he’d slip out of Brady’s room at three in the morning and climb into my bed. We’d kiss and whisper, James always making me laugh. I didn’t want to hide how I felt about him, but I knew it wouldn’t go over well. Not with Brady. Not with our parents. So we spent time like that, lying in each other’s arms and talking about leaving Oregon.”

“Were you having sex?” Dr. Warren asks, making notes in her file.

“No. I mean, we could have, I guess. But we didn’t.” I smile to myself. “We just made out a whole lot.”

I let my eyes close, feeling distant. “After Brady died, James was torn up with guilt. I was worse. If I’d known how to swim, maybe I could have saved him. He was my brother and I didn’t even see the signs. I wondered if it was because I was too involved with James. If he was too involved with me. For that first week, James and I stayed far away from each other. I couldn’t even look at him.”

“What changed?”

“After my brother was buried and my house was filled with my mother’s sobs and my father’s drinking, my parents turned their attention to me. They were worried I was depressed too, but they couldn’t see it was just grief. My brother was my best friend and I wanted him back”—I pause then, swallowing hard—“but he was never going to come back. He was never going to take me to the top of the Ferris wheel again. He would never teach me how to swim.”

Dr. Warren hands me a tissue, and I wipe my eyes even though I’m not sure if I’m crying. I can’t feel anything on my cheeks. I’m numb.

“And then one afternoon,” I start again, “I found my mother in Brady’s room, trying to pack up his clothes, and I lost it. I couldn’t stand the thought of his things in a box—in a box like he was in. I told her I hated her.” I lower my head. “I’m not proud of it, but I’d been caught up in my parents’ emotional wake, and I needed my own time to grieve. They wouldn’t let me grieve! The next day I found a pamphlet for The Program near the phone. And I knew I couldn’t ever let them see me cry again. And I knew I had to talk to James because Brady told us to take care of each other.

“At school I was overwhelmed with the interviews, the therapy, the monitoring. I felt so alone I thought that maybe I was becoming ill. But later that week, I walked out of class to find James standing at the lockers—as if he’d been waiting there all along. And I realized how much I’d missed him. He didn’t hesitate when he saw me. He stomped right across the floor and picked me up in a hug, smashing me to him. I wanted to cry—but I couldn’t.”

“There are healthy forms of showing emotion,” Dr. Warren says. “You could have talked to the counselors.”

I stare at her, wondering if she’s serious, if she doesn’t know the extremes the outside world has gone to in order to try to “protect” us. “Believe what you want,” I tell her. “But the handlers were looking for any excuse to flag us. All we could feel was the pressure of it.”

I turn away, thinking again about how relieved I was to see that James was okay. “That day he gave me a ride home. And then the next. It started to feel like the only time we were normal was when we were together. We would tuck ourselves away where we could cry and no one else could see us. As the weeks passed, we started to talk about other things. About leaving town again, just me and him. About being together forever.”

My chest swells as I remember our first time, how scared I was. We were camping, snuggling on a blanket next to the warm fire. I was so in love with him.

I close my eyes now and think about how James kissed my neck, his mouth hot. His hands gentle on my skin. Soon he was kissing me passionately, seeming to want me more than ever before.

His knee moved between my legs, and I pulled his shirt over his head when he stopped, gasping for breath. “Wait,” he said. “We shouldn’t.”

His blue eyes were heavy lidded, filled with desire. Lust. I pulled him down and kissed him again, working at his belt, even when he told me again that we didn’t have to. He’d brought protection, which showed me he’d at least considered it could happen. And we used it, just like we always would after.