The Adjustment

  Wes and I spend Sunday texting, but we don’t see each other. It’s strange how quickly we fall in together—whether it’s the memories or the secret keeping, something is bonding us. I don’t want anything to ruin that.

  I spend the day with my grandparents, although my grandmother leaves for a little while to drop off food to the Linns. Nathan and I decide to honor their wishes and stay away from the funeral. I send my love to Foster, but he still doesn’t answer. Nathan said he talked to him briefly and that Foster would be at school tomorrow, so I know he’s all right at least.

  Nathan goes to his father’s for the afternoon, saying he needs to get away. He doesn’t mention Jana, and I wonder if he told her about Vanessa’s behavior at school. I hope so.

  While it’s sunny, I help my grandfather in the garden. He doesn’t talk about his research and I don’t bring it up. At this point, any talk of the Adjustment would be unwelcome—for either of us.

  And so we all play our parts, keeping our thoughts to ourselves.

  • • •

  On Monday morning I meet Nathan on the front steps of the school with coffees per usual. He takes a sip and looks sideways at me. The day is windy, and his jacket flaps against his chest.

  “Anything new?” Nathan asks. I have a quick fear that he knows about the Adjustment, but when I turn to him, I see he’s just making small talk.

  “Not much,” I say. “You?”

  “Eerily quiet,” he responds. “I told Jana about Vanessa’s bloody nose, and all she said was, ‘Thank you for the information. I’ll let her doctor know.’ And then I didn’t hear back from her again.”

  My heart speeds up. I wonder if Jana was talking about Dr. McKee. It occurs to me that Vanessa might be the patient that the doctor had gone to see when Wes had his second Adjustment. “Hopefully he can help her,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

  Nathan hums out his discontent. “We’ll see. Life has been better, which can only mean it’s about to get much worse. No ups without downs, right?”

  Although he might be making a sober observation, it sounds oddly prophetic.

  “Have you seen Foster?” I ask.

  “No, but my mom went by the house yesterday.” Nathan lowers his eyes. “Said the place was draped in black, whatever that means. Only adults except for the Linn kids.” He takes a sip of his drink and looks at me. “That’s weird, right? That it was all adults?”

  “I don’t know what’s weird anymore,” I say. I’m reminded of Alecia and how she said that maybe the returners were the sane ones. She’s partly right, I think now. The rest of the population still clings to their denial and fear, while returners want to get back to their lives. Which of us is living in the altered reality?

  I take a fast gulp from my coffee, wincing when I burn my throat. I cough, and Nathan dramatically pats me on the back.

  “You all right there?” he asks. “We usually try not to pound extra-hot lattes at eight in the morning.”

  I laugh, pushing his arm away. The bell rings behind us in the school, and we both groan and reluctantly grab our stuff and head inside.

  My phone buzzes on the way to class, but I don’t check it in case it’s Wes. I wouldn’t want Nathan to accidentally see a text about the Adjustment. I have to play it cool. And yet . . . when I get to English class, it’s hard for me to see Wes and not react.

  Wes is at his desk, his phone out. When I walk in, he lowers it, nodding politely when I pass but saying nothing. The weight of our secret is heavy, but there’s also the pull, the need to be together.

  Last night Wes and I talked when I could find some time alone. He didn’t suddenly remember everything like I’d hoped, but the memories I donated have stuck. He’s able to make sense of them, even expand on them a little. They are almost exactly the same with the exception of a few tiny details: hair color here, time of day there. But Wes is convinced that the memories are building out—that he is slowly remembering on his own. I’m not sure, but I know he wants to believe it, so I’ll believe it too.

  I get to my seat and my phone buzzes again. I wait until Nathan is settled, notebook open on his desk, and peek at the message under my desk. There are a few missed messages asking if I’m coming to school, and a new one from after I got to class.

  This is torture, Wes writes.

  What is? I ask.

  Pretending that I don’t want to drop everything and be with you. We could skip. Go to the coast.

  I look up at the back of his head in the front of the room, and put my fingers over my lips to try to hide my smile.

  “You’re grinning like an idiot,” Nathan says in a low voice from just behind my shoulder. “Are you sexting?”

  “Ew,” I say, and laugh. I turn around and push him backward by the face. “And no, I’m not.”

  Nathan glances from me to Wes, and then smiles despite himself. “Things are going well with Weston, then?” he asks.

  I smile. “Yeah. Pretty well.”

  “I’m glad you’re happy,” Nathan says. “I was getting tired of watching you be miserable.”

  “Oh, thank you.” I turn and Wes must have heard my voice because he looks back curiously. When he sees me talking to Nathan, he lifts his eyebrows questioningly and turns around.

  “He must be getting back to his old self again,” Nathan says. “Maybe he remembers how much I don’t like him.”

  “Oh, stop.”

  “Okay, so maybe I don’t hate him,” Nathan allows, “but he’s certainly not my favorite person.”

  “Do you even know why?” I ask.

  “Easy,” he says. “You. No boyfriend wants his girl to have a smokin’ hot friend like me. Too bad you’re your own person with feelings and brain cells. I bet that really burns him up.”

  “Oh my God, don’t,” I say, and laugh. “You know he’s not like that.”

  “Maybe sometimes,” he reasons.

  “And sometimes you’re an asshole. So I guess we’re all equal.”

  “Point goes to you, Tatum.”

  Just then the teacher walks in with a bundle of copy paper pressed to her chest. She puts the stack on her desk, and then before speaking to us, Miss Soto begins to pass out the papers from the front of the room. Nathan and I exchange a confused look, and then the person in front of me spins and holds out a paper to me. I read it as I pass it back.

  Are you feeling lonely or overwhelmed?

  “It’s an assessment,” I say. Dread curls in my stomach. We haven’t had this type of questionnaire since The Program ended.

  “What the hell is this about?” Douglas Miami asks from the front of the room. He pushes the paper to the side of his desk, his posture rigid, fear tightening his voice. “This is some Program shit right here.”

  Several people in the class shift uneasily. The girl next to me drops her pen on the floor but makes no motion to pick it up; another kid crumples up his page like he’s already decided he wants no part of it.

  “Watch your language, Mr. Miami,” the teacher says to Douglas in a warning voice. “This isn’t about The Program. The school board is . . .” Her careful words falter slightly. “They are concerned. Seems several members are worried about another outbreak. A parent brought it to their attention.”

  Douglas laughs bitterly. “That’s every week,” he says. “What’s changed?”

  Miss Soto crosses her thin arms over her chest. “This is fact-finding. They’re only conducting a survey to gather information about—”

  “A survey, huh?” Douglas asks. “Yeah, we’ve all heard that before.”

  “It’s about the returners,” the teacher adds, and the class falls silent.

  Wes sits rigidly at his desk, but rather than turn to me, he takes out his phone. My phone buzzes; I covertly read the message under my desk.

  Not good, he writes.

  I chew on my lower lip, worried this has to do with the Adjustment. But it’s more likely they’ve noticed the outbursts too. The way the returners have been b
reaking down. Dying. But there are larger implications to this, ones that become glaringly obvious.

  “Returners?” Douglas repeats. “Then why not tag them instead? Why all of us?”

  I see a few others nod their heads, and I worry about the fears getting stoked. Returners are already outcasts. Our teacher shouldn’t have said anything. I think she realizes it too.

  “Because this is about all of you,” Miss Soto says. “All of your well-being. In case you forget, the epidemic affected everyone. We still don’t know why.”

  “If you ask me,” Douglas continues, sweeping the paper off his desk and leaning way back in his chair, “it looks like The Program is still trying to control us.” Several other students agree. Douglas isn’t a returner, but like most of us, he feels cheated by what The Program took. Our ability to feel, to talk about feeling. They made us dead in our skin, all under the guise of saving us.

  Miss Soto tightens her jaw, but I realize it’s not because she thinks Douglas is wrong; she thinks he may be right. If The Program taught us anything, it’s not to be complacent. We can’t wait to be saved. We have to save ourselves.

  “The assessment is voluntary,” Miss Soto says. “You don’t have to take it if it makes you uncomfortable. However, I will have to note the refusal.”

  “Sounds like monitoring to me,” Douglas says.

  Miss Soto walks over to pick up Douglas’s paper from the floor and sets the page on her desk. “Please take five minutes,” she announces to the rest of us, her voice softer, “and I’ll be around to collect them.”

  My phone buzzes again, and I don’t like how ominous Wes’s words are out of context. Or even in context. I turn my paper over, leaving it blank, and set my pen aside.

  Don’t answer any of their questions.

  • • •

  Weston leaves class without me, seeming rattled by this development. I can understand it. I see the blank stares, shock, on the faces of others as Nathan and I walk down the hallway. They must have sent the questionnaire out across the school.

  “Did you fill it out?” Nathan asks. “The assessment.”

  “No,” I say. “You?”

  “Hell no,” Nathan says. He turns his shoulder as we cut through the crowd jammed up at the end of the English hallway. “It just felt too creepy, you know?” he adds. “Same fucking wording and everything.”

  “I noticed,” I say. “It made me feel—”

  There’s a loud metallic bang and I reach to grab Nathan’s arm as he falls back a step. The crowd of students swells, reacting to something, and then they contract inward. There’s another clang, and Nathan gets up on his toes to see over the crowd.

  He pulls out of my grip, pushing into the crowd. He peels them back, and I watch him as he fights toward the middle of the circle.

  There’s a loud screech of a girl’s voice. “Don’t fucking touch me!”

  The other students move back, terrified by an outburst—like we’ll all get flagged for witnessing it. Some fade to the back, and my heart skips when I see who has been yelling. Vanessa stands in the middle of everyone, her hair tangled and clumped near the scalp. Her lips twitch, distorting her features, and her eyes are wild. She’s almost unrecognizable.

  “Nessa,” Jana says, stepping toward her with palms raised. By her frazzled appearance (neck of her T-shirt stretched out, scratch on her cheek), I assume she’s the one Vanessa has been throwing against a locker. Nathan stands next to Jana, as if ready to protect her. Together, they have Vanessa cornered.

  “You did this!” she shouts, pointing a shaky finger at Jana. “You did this to me!” Vanessa’s having a meltdown. Another one.

  “I didn’t do anything,” Jana says, understanding and calm. She puts out her hand toward Vanessa, but her friend slaps it away. The sound cracks through the air, and Jana winces from the pain and pulls her hand to her chest.

  Nathan pushes Jana behind him, like he’s the last line of defense between the two girls. I quickly scan the hall, wondering where the hell all the teachers are. Maybe everyone was too stunned (scared) to go get one.

  “Vanessa,” Nathan says. “What’s going on?” He’s trying to sound supportive, positive, but knowing him as well as I do, I can hear the hint of anger in his words. He’s not going to stand aside and let her kick Jana’s ass.

  “Are you seriously that clueless?” Vanessa asks him venomously. “That dumb?”

  Nathan tilts his head, allowing her insults, although I’m sure his patience is running thin. “We don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, motioning around him like he’s speaking on behalf of the entire crowd.

  An eerie calm falls over the storm of emotion on Vanessa’s face. Her gaze flicks from face to face, pausing when she reaches mine. And when she smiles—strangely, bitterly, it’s like the bottom falls out from underneath me.

  “They’re watching you,” she says. “It’s all a lie.” She turns to look at Jana accusingly. “They’re all fucking liars,” she whispers.

  Jana tightens her lips, as if telling Vanessa to stop. But then Vanessa growls out in anguish. She balls up her fists and runs full speed down the hallway to ram headfirst into the metal lockers, crumpling to the ground in a heap.

  PART III

  A NIGHT LIKE THAT

  CHAPTER ONE

  I’M SICK TO MY STOMACH. Classes go by without a word about the incident, not from teachers, not from other students. Everyone sits there shell-shocked. I think about Vanessa coming to me, and I wish I’d done more. I feel partly to blame.

  When I arrive at science class, I take a seat at my usual lab table. I glance around, waiting for Foster—hoping he’s in school today. I notice that there are several people absent, including my lab partner. Whether the others have left or were never here, I’m not sure.

  I look down at the black tabletop, my hands leaving prints on the dull surface. Proof of my existence. I close my eyes, trying to block out the sight of Vanessa falling to the floor in such an unnatural way. It’s haunting me.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  The sound of Foster’s voice is an absolute godsend, and I lift my head and find him at the end of my table. I immediately jump out of my stool and hug him, and he returns it with the same ferocity. We hug out his loss, our fear, and our joy at seeing one another again. I hear him sniffle, and slowly release him. Tears shine in his eyes.

  “I needed that,” he says, pressing his lips into a sad smile.

  “Yeah, me too,” I say. Because the truth is, I’m unsettled in a peculiar way, down to my core. And it’s not just Vanessa. It’s not just the Adjustment. It’s something about that assessment. It’s wormed its way into my consciousness.

  Foster takes the stool next to mine, and when I look up at the teacher, he doesn’t seem to mind the switch. I’m sure he’s heard about Foster’s brother, so he might be cutting him a little slack today.

  The bell rings, and the teacher tells us all to work on yesterday’s lab project. I’ve finished mine, so instead Foster and I scoot closer to catch up.

  He doesn’t say much at first, staring down at my finished notes. I watch him—the skin under his eyes is puffy, his T-shirt wrinkled. He’s mourning, and I put my hand over his to draw his gaze.

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t there yesterday,” I whisper.

  “Don’t be,” he says. “Hell, I didn’t want to be there. Me, Jake, and Daphne were the only people under thirty,” he says about himself and his siblings. “And of course Sebastian,” he adds quietly.

  Foster squeezes my hand and then lets go. I’m quiet, overwhelmed by his grief. I falter with the right words in my head.

  “I saw your gram, though,” Foster says, forcing a smile. “She makes an awesome salad. Extra croutons like a boss.”

  I laugh. “I told her more cheese, too,” I add.

  “Loved it.”

  We watch each other a long moment, and then Foster rests his elbow on the table. He glances around to make sure no one is watching u
s. “During the funeral,” he says to me, “all those people, do you know what they talked about?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Not about The Program,” he says, as if it’s what they should have been talking about. “They said nothing. Not one relevant conversation. I sat on the sofa, Daphne crying next to me, and some asshole asks her about her grades.” Foster shakes his head. “Who gives a fuck, right? The Program did this to us. Our brother died. He . . .” But Foster clenches his teeth and turns away. “My brother died,” he adds softly, “and no one talked about why.”

  I want to hug him again, but Foster clears his throat and looks back at me. “So, anyway, it was all dreadful and I’m glad you were spared.” His words are abrupt and I know he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.

  “Now,” he says, lowering his voice conspiratorially, “I heard about Vanessa today. Were you there?”

  I tell him what happened at the locker, the horror of it all, and I see the concern grow in his expression. He runs his hand roughly through his red hair.

  “She’s partly why I wanted to call you on Saturday,” he says. “Damn.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  Foster checks the room again, and it’s almost paranoid the way he does it. As if someone really might be watching us. Our teacher sits at his oversize desk, red pen in hand. Other students are filling up beakers with water or measuring solvents.

  But one . . . one small girl in the corner with short black bangs is watching us from her lab table. When we notice her, she quickly diverts her gaze.

  Foster swallows hard and leans in to me. “Handlers,” he whispers. “I think there are handlers.”

  I lift my eyes slowly to his, the blood draining from my face. It’s like an automatic response, the way the fear completely takes over. My fingers begin to tremble; my throat tightens. “Wh—what?” I ask.

  “Those assessments,” he says. “I don’t think they’re the only form of monitoring.”

  I want to check the room again, make sure there aren’t any men in white coats ready to drag me away. Steal me from my family, friends, and society. But I know it can’t be true.