The Program (8 page)

My screams ripped through the afternoon air, and I looked back to see that James was still too far away. I didn’t know how to swim, but I ran full force and dove in after him. The minute I smacked the water, cold rushed up my nose and I choked, flailing wildly. “Brady!” I tried to yell, but gulps of water kept entering my mouth.

There was another loud splash behind me, and I knew it was James. I don’t even think he saw me as he swam past, just as good of a swimmer as Brady. A log was jutting out from the bank and I grabbed onto it, watching.

The current was so fast it was pulling my legs downriver
as my body clung to the wood. And then I saw Brady—he was floating, facedown. He wasn’t swimming. I screamed again, pointing toward him as I watched his body slam into a rock, and then another. James’s arms were furiously lapping over and over, but Brady was too far ahead.

I started to cry, sobs curling my body around the branch. When Brady’s body slammed against another rock, it stayed there long enough for James to reach him. James banged against the boulder, crying out as he did, but he pulled Brady to shore and started giving him CPR.

He was frantic, pounding on his chest, breathing into his lungs. But I could see from where I was that even if Brady wasn’t full of water, his neck was broken. His head hung oddly to the side; his eyes stared out at nothing.

My brother—my best friend—was dead.

Comforting numbness seemed to stretch over me then. James was crying, screaming for help. He stood up, his hand shielding the sun as he looked for me. And I let go of the branch, letting the icy water pull me under.

I tried to drown, and really, it wouldn’t have been that hard. The current was strong enough to keep me under, and I hoped I would pass out, blocking the images of my dead brother’s last stare. I knew I couldn’t go on. I couldn’t face my parents. My life.

But then James had his forearm around my neck, pulling me to the bank to lay me on my back. I was choking, vomiting even then. My ears were plugged but I could see James above me, tapping
my cheeks to keep me awake. When I could keep my eyes open, he left, running to his towel where his phone was.

James saved me. But he couldn’t save Brady—neither of us could. In the end we did just as my brother asked—we took care of one another. Sometimes the survivor’s guilt was more than we could bear, a secret between us that we never let show. But we were all we had left.

•  •  •

As I sit in James’s house Monday morning, watching as he slowly pushes his bandaged arm through a shirt I picked out, I think that it’s always been him doing the work. James has been the constant. Now that part of him is broken, finally infected. And just like that day at the river, I want to let go and go under.

“I brought Pop-Tarts,” I say, brushing his hair aside as he sits and stares out the window.

“When’s the funeral?” he asks, his voice so low I can barely hear it.

I swallow hard. After I left James Saturday night, I pushed down every feeling I had, let myself become a machine, doing whatever’s necessary to keep us alive. Together. When I got home, my parents told me that Miller’s mom had called and spoken with them.

“They’re not having a funeral,” I say. “The Program thinks it might instigate more suicide, so just his mom is allowed to bury him.” Miller’s face, his smile, pops into my head, but I quickly lock it away. There is no time to mourn.

James presses his lips tight together as his eyes well up. “It
was my fault,” he says. “Just like Brady. I was too late. I should have never left him behind.”

I wrap my arms around James. “Miller was sick, James. There was nothing we could do.” He turns in my arms.

“And Brady? I was there and I couldn’t save him.”

My heart aches, but I can’t let myself think about Brady today, not when we have to go to school. “I couldn’t either. And what’s done is done. You need to pull yourself together.”

James reaches up to put his palm on my cheek, and I turn my face into it. “I can’t,” he murmurs.

I stare into his blue eyes, panicking, but I press my forehead against his. “I will save you this time,” I whisper. “I will save us both.”

James pulls me into a hug, burying his face in my neck, and I run my fingers down his back, trying to calm him. I’ve never felt strong, not when so many things in this world are out of my control. But now I have to be. Because I’m all we have.

In the past day have you felt lonely or overwhelmed?

NO.

Have there been any changes in your sleeping patterns?

NO.
I haven’t slept since Miller died.

Has anyone close to you ever committed suicide?

I fill in
NO
. I stare at the darkened oval, willing it to be true. Wishing that I could ever just fill in the goddamn
NO
! I blink back the tears that are starting, and I erase the mark, making sure no traces of it exist. And then, with coldness in my soul, I fill in
YES
.

After an hour of intensive therapy to deal with my “loss,” I find James at my locker and walk him to his classroom, making sure he can pass for normal—at least for fifty minutes. When I get to economics, the first person I see is the handler, the dark-haired one who’s always watching me.

Next to mine, Miller’s desk is empty, and a deep hollow feeling opens in my chest. But in the corner, watching me with a soft smile on his lips—as if he’s been waiting for me—is the handler.

My heart races as I sit, not looking back at him again. I wonder if I’m about to get flagged. Please, God. Don’t let them take me.

When the bell rings, Mr. Rocco walks in and shoots an uneasy glance at Miller’s desk and then at the handler before launching into his lesson. I clasp my hands under my desk, squeezing tightly to keep my composure. It’s torture, trying to pay attention, trying to put up the appearance of wellness. I want my phone to vibrate so that I know James is okay too. But nothing happens.

Sweat has started to gather on my upper lip, and I feel like I can’t take another moment of not knowing how James is when the bell finally rings. I jump and immediately stuff my book into my backpack, standing quickly as I head toward the door. Just then someone grabs my arm.

I swing around, startled, and am face-to-face with the handler. I suck in a breath, nearly falling over. It’s happening. No. No. No. It’s happening.

The handler lets go of my elbow and smiles sympathetically. “Sloane Barstow,” he says, and his gravelly voice is like sandpaper on my soul. “I’m sorry for your loss. I just have a few questions for you if you don’t mind.” His eyes are wide and dark, his skin a deep olive. He’s twenty, maybe younger,
but I see no true compassion on his face. I see something else, something that makes my stomach knot. He
wants
to take me.

“I already had therapy today,” I say, stepping back from him.

He laughs. “This isn’t therapy. Follow me, please.” He walks past me, and I’m struck again by the medicinal smell of the handlers. I wonder if he has drugs on him right now that could put me out, something they occasionally do when apprehending someone for The Program. Or he could use the Taser at his waist.

I feel for my phone in my pocket, but don’t dare text James. I need him to stay calm. But then I wonder if they’ve gotten to him, too. I hope not. He’s in no condition for an interview.

It happens, after a suicide. They send us all to counselors to make sure we’re okay. Sometimes a few extras are sent in to interview those who aren’t taking the loss well. But it’s rarely a handler. It makes me uneasy that this is the same guy who’s been watching me since taking Kendra. But I have no choice so I follow him toward the main office.

When we get there, a small room is ready for us. Two chairs face each other in the dim space. I gulp down my fear as I enter, hating the idea of being alone with this guy. But principals and teachers don’t interfere with The Program. They look the other way when I enter.

“Please sit,” the handler says, closing the door behind us and drawing the blinds. My fear is so strong, but I know I can’t let it show. I take a deep breath and lower myself into the chair.

“This really isn’t necessary,” I say, trying to sound like a normal girl. “I hardly knew Miller.”

The handler smiles at this, coming to sit across from me, the knees of his white pants almost touching mine. I try not to flinch away from him. “Really?” he asks, obviously knowing the answer. “Well, then how about Lacey Klamath? Or perhaps your brother? Were you close with them?”

I must visibly pale when he mentions Brady because he bows his head as if apologizing. “Miss Barstow, it has come to our attention that you are high-risk. You’ve suffered tremendous loss recently, so it’s only my intention to evaluate you.”

He’s lying. He wants to flag me. They don’t care about us, only the appearance that what they do works. I curl my toes hard in my shoes as the handler runs his eyes slowly over me. Goose bumps rise on my skin.

“Let’s start with Miller. You were out of town when he terminated himself, correct?”

I hate him for making it sound clinical. “Yes.”

“And Lacey was your best friend, but you were not aware of her condition before she was sent to The Program? You weren’t trying to hide it from us?”

“No. I had no idea.” And then I can sense what’s coming.

“Are you hiding anything now?”

“No.” I keep my face as calm as possible, meeting his eyes. I imagine that I’m a robot, void of feelings. Void of life.

“Do you have a boyfriend, Sloane?” The corner of his
mouth curves up when he asks, as if he’s some guy I just met who’s trying to flirt.

“Yes.”

“James Murphy?”

Oh, God.
“Mm-hmm.”

“And how is he doing?”

“James is fine. He’s strong.”

“Are you strong?” he asks, tilting his head as he looks at me.

“Yes.”

The handler nods then. “It’s only our hope to keep you well, Sloane. You know that right?”

I don’t respond, wondering what James will say under these questions. If they’ll know from one look that he’s sick.

“There is voluntary admittance into The Program if you start to feel overwhelmed. Or if you just need someone to talk to.” He reaches out then and pats my thigh, a move that catches me off guard, and I jump.

The handler stands up and walks around my chair as if he’s leaving. Instead he stops behind me, putting his hand on my shoulder. His fingers tighten on the muscle. “Have a good day, Sloane. Something tells me I’ll be seeing you again soon.”

And then he drops his arm and walks out, leaving me alone in the darkened room.

•  •  •

I practically run to lunch, terrified that James won’t be there. I stop, swaying on my feet when I see him at our table, drinking from a carton of orange juice.

“You’re okay,” I say when I reach him, practically collapsing onto his lap as I hug myself to him. He doesn’t hug me back, but he doesn’t push me off, either. I press my face to his neck.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I’m okay.”

I pull back and look at his face, trying to gauge how damaged he is. His skin is pale and his mouth is sagging, like he’s forgotten how to smile. I run my fingers over his cheek, and he closes his eyes when I do. “I was so worried,” I whisper.

He doesn’t move, and I hug him again, holding him tight like I want him to do for me, but he doesn’t. After a while I let him go, and he starts to eat, taking small bites of his food. He stares across the cafeteria, but at no particular point. Just away.

“Has anyone interviewed you?” I ask.

He shakes his head no.

“They pulled me from class,” I say.

James looks over at me. “What happened?”

“They asked about Miller. About you. . . .”

He doesn’t react; instead he just turns back to his food. I miss him so much, even though he’s right in front me. He’s not the same. “No one’s spoken to me,” he says. “I haven’t even seen any handlers today.”

And although that should make me feel better, his statement only makes me more uneasy. Why did they pull me? Either I was the one being evaluated or they were collecting evidence on James. I’m not sure which it was.

“I want to get out of town,” I say. “Do you think you can get away? I want to go camping again.”

James chews slowly. “I can try.”

The emptiness in his voice is killing me, and I’m not sure I can keep this up much longer. “Don’t you want to go with me?” I ask, my voice small.

He nods. “Of course I do, baby.”

I exhale, leaning to put my head on James’s shoulder. Under the table, his hand finds mine and I feel better, like this small show of life can mean something. Movement in the corner catches my attention, and I dart my eyes over there, finding the handler watching me with a smile on his lips.

THE REST OF THE WEEK IS MORE OF THE SAME. I
try to keep up the appearance of normal, especially when I feel
him
watching us. The handler is in my classes, the cafeteria, always staring. Always a smirk on his face. It’s like he’s willing me to mess up.

They don’t pull James aside for an interview, and I wonder what it means. Did I seem more depressed to the handler? Have they already decided to take James?

When Friday comes, I practically drag James from the building, so relieved that I won’t have to fake it through another day. But oddly enough, I don’t think I want to cry either. I’ve almost convinced myself that Miller really wasn’t our best friend. It’s the only way I can deal.

I prepacked the car so we can head directly to the campsite.
James is silent in the passenger seat, staring out the window. My parents seemed a little wary about us going so soon after Miller, maybe even a little suspicious. They asked why James hasn’t been by the house, and I told them he was studying—which is probably why they were suspicious in the first place. At James’s house I’ve been a permanent fixture, whispering to him and pretending like we’re being playful when his dad is around. Really I’m just telling him to hang on. I put him in his bed at night and tell him that I love him and that I won’t let anything happen to him. He doesn’t say it back. I’m scared that he never will again.