Mr. Rocco only glances at the pass before motioning me toward the back. It’s the fifth time I’ve been late this month, but luckily no one ever questions me. I’ve learned how to appear well. And in their eyes, talking to a professional is a sign that I’m trying to stay healthy.
“Hey, gorgeous,” Miller says when I sit down. “You and James have a good therapy session?” He’s sitting in the desk next to mine, staring into his lap as the teacher turns to write on the dry-erase board.
Miller and I have been friends since the beginning of last year, sharing most of our classes together. He’s tall and wide, and I imagine if our high school had a football team, he’d be their star athlete.
“Yep,” I respond. “Think we really had a breakthrough this time.”
“I bet.”
He smiles but doesn’t look over. Instead he continues to doodle in a notepad that he’s got stashed under the desk. My heart thuds in my chest at what I have to say next.
“Lacey’s back,” I say quietly.
Miller scratches his pen harder into the paper. “Where’d you hear that?” I try not to react as the color drains from his face.
“Kendra Phillips told me before they came and . . .” I lower my voice. “Took her.”
Miller finally looks sideways at me, obviously hearing about Kendra for the first time. His brown eyes narrow, maybe deciding if he truly believes that Lacey could be home. But then he just nods and goes back to his notepad. Never saying a word.
His silence nearly breaks me, and I spread my fingers out on the cool desktop, trying to keep my emotions in check. I stare down at my fingers, at the plastic heart-shaped ring there. James had given it to me the first time he kissed me—a few months before my brother died. Lacey and Miller always joked that this ring was the closest I’d ever come to getting a real diamond from him. Then James would laugh, saying that he knew what I really wanted and it didn’t sparkle.
It was a different time then—a time when we all thought we’d make it. I close my eyes to keep from crying.
“I think . . .” Miller pauses, like he’s not sure he wants to say it. When I turn to him he bites on his lip. “I think I’m going to go to Sumpter to see her.”
“Miller—” I start, but he waves me away.
“I have to know if she remembers me, Sloane. I won’t be able to think of anything else until I know.”
I watch him for a long moment, see the pain behind his eyes. There’s nothing I can say that will change his mind. Not when he loves her so much. “Be careful” is all I can utter.
“I will.”
My fear is strong enough to choke me. I worry that Miller will get caught at the alternative school and be flagged in the process. We’re expected to keep our distance from the returners unless the time is monitored at the Wellness Center, at least for a while. If we’re caught interfering with their recovery, we can get flagged or even arrested. And none of us wants to be sent away to become comfortably numb.
Miller is quiet through the rest of class, but when the bell rings, he gives me a nod. It might be dangerous for him to approach Lacey at this point, but if she was herself she’d want him to try. “See you at lunch,” he says, touching my shoulder before walking toward the door.
“See you then,” I respond, and quickly pull out my phone. I text James. MILLER’S GOT A STUPID PLAN.
I wait, still in my seat as the classroom filters out around me. When a message pops up on the screen, I feel my chest tighten.
SO DO I.
PLEASE DON’T, I type. I’m terrified that my boyfriend and my best friend will get flagged, and I’ll be left all alone in this barren place. This barren world.
But all I get back is: I LOVE YOU, SLOANE.
• • •
James and I watch as Miller waits in the lunch line, his movements slow and lethargic. He hasn’t been the same since I told him about Lacey, and I hate myself for it. I should have let James break the news.
At the start of lunch, James and Miller decide that after classes we’ll go to Sumpter High—the school for returners—and wait for Lacey to walk out. There’s no way Miller would get more than a few words in at the Wellness Center, not when handlers will be guarding Lacey for three more weeks. Miller is hoping that, in the parking lot of Sumpter (with the proper diversion), he can get Lacey alone long enough to remind her of who he is. He thinks he can get her back.
James is next to me with his head on his folded arms as they rest on the lunch table. He’s trying to look casual, but his eyes are trained on Miller. “At Sumpter, you and I are going to create a distraction,” James says in my direction.
“And if it doesn’t work?”
His mouth turns up, his eyes flicking from the line to mine. “I can be distracting, don’t you think?”
“James, I miss her too. But I don’t want anything to—”
He reaches out his hand to clasp mine. “I know the risk, but what if she’s still in there somehow? Miller has to try, Sloane. I would do it for you.”
“And I would for you,” I answer automatically. But James’s face clouds over.
“Don’t say that,” he snaps. “Don’t even think it.” He lets go of my hand. “I’ll kill myself before they ever take me into The Program.”
Tears burn my eyes because I know it’s not an idle threat. It’s a real possibility. James doesn’t try to console me this time, there’s no point. He can’t promise me he won’t kill himself. No one can.
Six weeks ago, after they took Lacey, I had to fight hard to keep from slipping into the depression that seems to be always waiting. The depression that tells me I’ll never make it. That it’d be easier to just let go. James convinced me and Miller that Lacey was gone forever, as if she was dead, and told us to mourn—privately. But now she’s back and I’m not sure how to feel anymore.
James doesn’t speak again until Miller drops down in the seat, the food on his tray jumping as he does. The room around us buzzes, but it’s quieter than usual. Word of Kendra’s transfer has put everyone on edge.
I notice the dark-haired handler standing by the exit door, not trying to disguise how he’s watching me. I lower my eyes to my half-eaten hamburger. Kendra called to me as she was being dragged out. She made him notice me. I can’t tell James.
Just then James rests his chin on my shoulder as his fingers touch mine. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I’m a dick, and I’m sorry.”
I look sideways at him, his blond hair curling at the ends near his neck, his blue eyes wide as he stares at me. “I don’t want anything to happen to you,” I say quietly, hoping Miller won’t hear me and think of Lacey.
James moves to put his arms around my waist to turn me toward him before pressing his forehead to mine, ignoring the fact that everyone can see us. His breath is warm across my lips. “I don’t want anything to happen to me either. But I’ll keep us safe.”
I close my eyes, letting the heat of his body compensate for the cold fear in my chest. “Promise?”
It takes him so long to answer that I give up and let in the dark thoughts once again. The idea that James can be ripped from me at any moment, or that I can get sent away to be changed forever.
But suddenly James buries his face in my hair as he hugs me to him. I stop worrying about the people around us, or even about Miller. I need to hear it. James knows I need to hear it. So then to my absolute relief his mouth is next to my ear and he whispers, “I promise.”
• • •
Sumpter High looms in front of us, looking more like a hospital that an educational facility. The stone facade is washed in white and the large rectangular windows are most certainly sealed. There’s a circular drop-off area near the front, but Miller and I are sitting in the cab of his truck in the back parking lot, staring ahead in silence.
James plans to meet us here after he puts in an appearance at his last class, but Miller and I had study hall, so we took off early with one of the fake passes. There are only ten more minutes
until Sumpter lets out, and the anxiety at seeing Lacey again is growing, both in me and in Miller. I turn to look sideways at him.
Miller’s hat is pulled low, shading his eyes. Even though the ignition is off, his knuckles are white as they wrap around the steering wheel. All at once I’m scared of what he’ll do and how he’ll keep it under control. We shouldn’t be here.
“Is there even a real plan?” I ask. “James wouldn’t tell me anything.”
Miller doesn’t seem to hear me as he gazes out the windshield. “Did you know that Lacey was a natural blond?” he asks, sounding far away. “She always had that red dye in her hair and I figured it was brown underneath, but it wasn’t. I saw it in an old picture of her once. I’m a jerk for not knowing, right? I should have known.”
I’ve been friends with Lacey since elementary school, so I can remember when she had yellow pigtails. It’s such a small thing for Miller to feel bad about, but I can tell that he does. As if knowing this detail could have saved her from The Program.
“She loved you,” I whisper, even though it’s almost cruel to say now. “It was all real.”
Miller smiles to himself, but it’s pained. “If you can’t remember, it didn’t happen. And since she won’t . . .” He trails off, staring once again at the large building.
I think about the Lacey we knew before she was taken. Her bright, bloodred hair and black, tight dresses. She was a force of nature. She was a presence. Leading up to The Program she’d been acting differently, and yet, none of us said anything about it—maybe hoping it would go away. We all failed her.
The handlers had been waiting at Lacey’s house the night they came to take her to The Program. We were dropping her off, and I can still remember James joking about the unfamiliar car in her driveway, saying that it was pretty late for her parents to have friends over—maybe they were swingers. Lacey smiled but didn’t laugh. I just thought she was tired. I should have asked if she was okay.
But I didn’t. She gave Miller a quick kiss and climbed out, walking to her house. She’d barely gotten inside when we heard her scream. We all rushed to get out of the car, when her front door opened.
It’s a sight I’ll never get out of my head. On either side of her were the men in white coats holding her as she thrashed around, screaming that she’d kill them. She managed to get loose and tried crawling back into the house, calling for her mother as the handlers dragged her out. Tears streaked mascara down her cheeks, and she begged for them to let her go.
Miller started toward the house, but James grabbed him, wrapping his arm around his neck to hold him. “It’s too late,” James whispered. I looked back at him fiercely then, but I saw the devastation on his face. The fear. James met my eyes only to tell me to get in the car.
James pushed Miller and me into the backseat and then got behind the wheel, pulling away quickly. Miller was clutching my shirt, ripping it at the collar as we drove past. And the last thing we saw was Lacey getting Tasered by a handler, flopping to the floor like a dying fish.
I reach now for Miller, trying to pry his fingers off the steering wheel. When I finally do, he turns to me. “Do you think there’s a chance, Sloane?” he asks almost desperately. “Do you think there’s any chance she remembers me?”
The question chokes me, and I press my lips together to keep myself from crying. There is no chance—The Program is thorough. The Program works. But I can’t bear to tell him that, so I shrug. “You never know,” I say, fighting the feeling of loss. “And if not, you can always reintroduce yourself when her aftercare is over. Start again.”
Once she’s healed, Lacey’s allowed to carry on with her life without interference—at least that’s what The Program brochures have told us. But I’ve never seen a returner go back to their old life. Or even want to. Whole sections of their lives have been erased; past relationships mean nothing to them. In fact, I think the past might even scare them.
Miller sneers at the thought of this new Lacey, the hollowed-out one. He wants her to remember him, what they built together. Both Miller and James think The Program is a fate worse than death.
Lacey had thought the same. The reason her own parents turned her in was that they found a bottle of QuikDeath in her room. She’d been planning to kill herself and had bought the drug from some burnout after school. Miller hated himself for not knowing. James and I often wondered if he would have killed himself with her.
When Lacey was sent away, Miller broke into her bedroom because he knew he’d be erased from her life—that we all would be. But when he got there, her pictures were gone, and so was her clothing and personal items. The Program had wiped the space clean. All Miller had was a notepad that Lacey had left behind in his truck. He kept it, hoping it held some small piece of her.
We sat by the river one afternoon and looked through Lacey’s handwriting, laughing where she drew pictures of our teachers in the margins. But soon, the notepad changed. The math problems dissolved into black spirals scratched into the paper with pen. Her mind was infected, and it was apparent through the pages how quickly the depression had taken hold. It’d only been about two weeks.
I hate The Program and what it does to us, but I also know that I don’t want to die. I don’t want any of us to. Despite everything, our school district has the highest survival rate in the country. So in some sick and twisted way . . . I guess The Program works. Even if the result is a life half lived.
James pulls up beside my window in his father’s beat-up Honda. He smiles when he sees me, but it’s too wide, too normal. He nods at Miller.
“Your boyfriend looks worried,” Miller mumbles as we watch James pull ahead to park. “That’s never a good sign. James never worries about anything.”
I don’t answer because I know it’s not true. But I’m the only one who gets to see that side of James. Otherwise he’s our rock. Our steady.
Miller opens the door and climbs out, leaving me sitting for a moment in the warming sun that’s filtering through the windshield. Outside, a bell rings, signaling the end of the returners’ day, and I swallow hard.
I open the passenger door and walk toward where James and Miller are talking, and I glance over my shoulder at the school as a few students and handlers begin making their way to the parking lot. Sumpter is small, with about two hundred students altogether. But that number grows every week, with five schools filtering kids through The Program. And since doctors claim a fresh returner’s brain is like Swiss cheese, with holes where memories used to be, patients need continued aftercare in a safe environment. Now returners stay here until graduation, which makes me doubt their “life without interference” claim.
Back when the treatments first started, returners were sent into the general population to start over. But after they started having meltdowns—like total brain-function-drooling-on-themselves meltdowns from the overstimulation—they opened Sumpter and assigned them a temporary babysitter with a white coat and a Taser.
Even so, handlers aren’t the only thing to fear. Fresh returners are a threat in themselves. In their confusion, they might inadvertently turn you in for harassing them, getting you sent away. So no one goes near them.
At least, not until now.
The minute I reach the guys, James smiles at me reassuringly. It’s time. Miller lowers his baseball cap and puts his phone to his ear as he wanders away, pretending to talk. My heart pounds in my chest as people walk past us. I used to know some of them.
Other than at Sumpter, returners aren’t seen around town much. Our community opened a Wellness Center a few months ago in order to create a “safe environment” for returners and normals to interact. It’s The Program’s belief that assimilation is the key to a full recovery—only it has to be on their terms, like watching us closely at a rec center that’s really just an extension of treatment. But while all students in the district are forced to complete three credit hours a semester there, most of the returners want to go. Obviously they don’t know any better.
>
James forges passes and skips the Wellness Center, calling it all Program propaganda—a science fair with returners as the main exhibit. Really, I think the Wellness Center was set up to prove that returners aren’t freaks. That they can blend with society post-treatment. But no amount of commercials showing kids with smiling faces playing foosball is going to ease our fears.
I haven’t completed any of my Wellness credits for this semester yet, but from what I’ve heard, returners go to the center with their handlers. That alone highlights how different they are. They’ve been reset—both emotionally and socially.
James must sense my anxiety because his fingers find mine and intertwine for a second before he lets me go. “Whatever happens,” he says, “just play along.”
“Not reassuring.”
“We’re going to pretend to be on a field trip.”
I raise my eyes to his. “Seriously?”
“Well, I’d let you slap me in a jealous rage to get attention, but that sort of hostile behavior is frowned upon.”
“James, I still don’t—”
“What are you two doing here?” a deep voice cuts in. I jump, but James is collected as he turns sideways to the handler glaring at us. Several returners stop, noticing us. Their eyes are wide and curious—innocent expressions that makes me feel sorry for them. Dana Sanders stands in the background, not remembering that she dated my brother for over a year.
I keep my mouth shut and let James do the talking.
“School project,” he says smoothly, reaching into his pocket. “Dr. Ryerson said that we could monitor the parking lot to see how well-adjusted the returners are. He’s really proud of the strides The Program has made in behavior modification.” James takes out a paper, signed by “Dr. Ryerson,” who I’m sure not only doesn’t exist, but is also untraceable.
The handler looks over the note as my pulse continues to pound in my ears. Behind the guy’s shoulder I finally see her, and every one of my muscles tenses.