The Program (The Program #1)(8)
Author: Suzanne Young

“Better?” he asks softly.

I nod and start to straighten, my face feeling swollen. When I’m sitting up, he pulls his T-shirt over his head, then clenches it in his hand to wipe my tears and runny nose. His blue eyes look me over as he fixes my hair and makes sure there’s no smeared mascara. He puts me back together just like he always has.

When he’s done, he tosses his T-shirt into the backseat. He glances down at the steering wheel and takes a deep breath. I take one too.

“It’s going to be okay, Sloane.”

I nod.

“Say it.”

“It’s going to be okay,” I repeat, staring back at him. He smiles, reaching out to take my hand before kissing it.

“We will get through this,” he adds, but he’s turned back to the road, and it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself than me.

When we’re driving again, I check my reflection to see how bad the damage is. My eyes are red-rimmed, but not terrible. We’ll need to drive around for a little longer, at least until the blotchiness fades. I can’t let my parents see me cry.

“James Murphy,” I say, watching the sun fade below the horizon. “I love you madly.”

“I know you do,” he answers seriously. “And that’s why I won’t let anything happen to you. It’s me and you, Sloane. Just us. Forever just us.”

• • •

My mother is waiting on the front porch when James pulls his father’s car to the curb. She exhales, her hand on her chest as if she thought I was dead because I’m over two hours late and I didn’t call. I don’t want to get out and face her.

“You’ve got this,” James says, sounding light. “Tell her that I tried to teach you to swim at the river today. She’ll appreciate that.”

“Yeah? Can I tell her how you tried to get me naked in the backseat of this car before leaving, too?”

He shrugs. “If she’s that curious.”

I laugh and then lean over to kiss him quickly on the lips. I’ve never learned how to swim. It’s not because of my crushing fear—which I have now—but because when we were younger my brother took lessons while I studied ballet. And the more time passed, the more afraid I became of ever getting in the water. Now I wish I’d learned with Brady. I might have saved him.

I pull back from James, sadness settling on my skin as he looks me over. “Good night, Sloane,” he whispers.

I nod, missing him already, and then climb out of the car.

“Why doesn’t James have a shirt on?” is the first thing out of my mother’s mouth. I hold back my smile.

“He was teaching me how to swim,” I say as I step up onto the porch, keeping my face down.

“Oh, that’s good, I guess,” she says, as if conceding. “But I was worried, honey. The school called and said you left early for therapy, but then when you didn’t get home on time . . .”

I want to tell her to stop worrying about me because The Program already watches us closely enough. I want to tell her that this pressure is going to kill me. But lashing out will only make things worse, so instead I smile brightly.

“Sorry I didn’t call,” I say. “When James picked me up from therapy we decided to go to the river. It’s such a beautiful day.”

My mother glances up at the sky as if confirming this, and then she touches protectively at my arm. “You’re right,” she says. “And I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, Sloane. It’s nice to be happy.” Her expression darkens. “It’s just that after your brother . . . What if you—” She pauses, choking on her own words.

“Everything will be okay, Mom,” I answer, the words robotic in my mouth from the number of times I’ve said them to her. The number of times James has told them to me. “Everything will be just fine.” And then I open the door and go inside.

CHAPTER FOUR

“SO HOW WAS SCHOOL?” MY FATHER ASKS AS I STAB my pork chop while we sit at the dinner table. I look up, used to this conversation. My parents’ expressions are so worn, and yet they stare at me like I’m their last hope for survival.

“Good.”

My mother smiles, giving my father a reassured side-glance. Normally, from here our topic would switch to the latest news: how the Northwest has the highest suicide rate in the nation. Could it be because of the rain? That the incidence of suicide is spreading to other developed countries and they’re paying close attention to The Program, hoping to adopt one of their own. And my favorite, how a scientist or doctor has claimed to have found a cure—propaganda by the drug companies who have lost revenue from the banning of antidepressants.

But tonight I’m too lonely to hold up my part of the conversation. The way Lacey returned, washed out like that—it makes me hate life. And it makes me miss her even more.

Before she was dating Miller, Lacey used to go out with jerkoffs. She said bad boy was her favorite flavor. They were always older, too old to go to The Program. I can remember a guy in particular, Drake. He was twenty and drove a Camaro. We were sixteen. Lacey showed up at my house one night wearing sunglasses, and I knew something was wrong. We went quickly to my room before my mom could see her. When she took off the glasses, I saw she had a black eye, cuts up and down her arm. She said Drake had pushed her out of the passenger door—while the car was still moving.

Looking back now, seeing how she cried because she didn’t want her parents to find out, I wonder what else Lacey hid from people. How much I really knew her. We decided that she couldn’t cover the marks so we staged her falling off my front porch, calling my parents out to see her injured, setting up the alibi. She never told anyone else about Drake—although I told James and he beat the hell out of him.

I lied for Lacey then, just as I lied to myself as she got infected. Maybe if I were a better friend I could have kept her out of The Program. Maybe we’re all sick.

“You’re not eating,” my mother says, interrupting my thoughts. “Everything all right?”

I look up, startled. “Lacey came back today,” I say, my voice wavering. My father’s eyes flash with worry, and for a second I think that they understand. That I can tell them the truth about The Program—how it brings us back empty.

“Really?” My mother sounds nothing short of gleeful. “Well now, see. That wasn’t very long.”

I have a gut check and look back down at my plate, the pork chop slaughtered around the bone, the applesauce bleeding into everything. “It was six weeks,” I murmur.