home, and my father is silent the entire way. I worry that he’ll never speak to me again.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I WAIT. THE DAYS TICK BY AND I SIT ALONE AT LUNCH , watching the door, avoiding the gaze of the dark-haired handler. My arm is still in a cast, and I tell everyone it was an accident. They accept it with suspicious looks, but nothing more. After all, I’m smiling and looking pulled together. If I were sick, I couldn’t do that. I’m fooling them.
I spend more time with my parents, nodding numbly when they talk about The Program or comment on the latest news story. Suicide has had a surge in London, and they’ve implemented their own version of The Program. So far it’s been wildly successful, proving that America seems to have developed a treatment.
It makes me wonder about the future—the sort of people who will be walking around in twenty years. People who neverexperienced their teens because those memories were erased. Will they be naive? Empty?
I remind myself that James will be okay. He’ll come back and be the same. I have to believe that.
After school, I decide to go to the Wellness Center to gain credits, prove a point. Being seen there will show how healthy I am. How involved I am in my own stability. But really, I’ll be waiting for James, knowing he’ll show up sooner or later.
The building is located within the middle of the city, a former YMCA. It’s brick and old-looking, but the welcome sign is brightly colored, hinting at what’s inside. The Program is proud of their returners, of their system that is starting to see increases in voluntary admittance. The Wellness Center is the perfect front.
Come see the results, come see how shiny and new you can become.
I stand out front, reluctant to go in. I’m afraid all these healthy people will see right through me, but I don’t have anywhere else to go. I have to be strong.
“You need to sign in,” the woman behind the desk tells me as I pause in the entry. Around her, the large open room is buzzing with activity, as if there’s nothing outside these walls that could harm us. And the walls themselves are bright blue and green—loud and full of energy. I almost smile for real.
“Miss?” the lady asks, motioning toward the clipboard and the pen attached with yarn. “Sign in for credit.”
I sign my name and address on the paper and then scanthe room. I recognize several faces—both returners and normal people. I don’t know any of them that well, or at least, I don’t until I see Lacey. She’s on the couch playing video games with Evan Freeman. There is a handler in the corner, but he’s not the dark-haired one I’m afraid of. He’s blond, just standing there and watching Lacey silently.
I think about going over there, introducing myself, but something holds me back. In my head, I know that Lacey doesn’t remember me, and yet, I hope that James will. So if I confirm that Lacey doesn’t know me . . . what does that mean? I’m clinging to an unlikely expectation, but it’s the only thing keeping me going. Every day I feel myself slip more and more, but I’m holding on. I’m holding on for James.
I wonder if Lacey even knows Miller is dead, if somewhere inside she misses him. Misses all of us. Can The Program take away our emotions, or do they always remain—only without a source?
On the other side of the room, a group of girls—including Kendra Phillips—are giggling and drinking Diet Cokes while sitting at a round table. I make my way over, casting another glance at the handler who seems to have noticed me, before sitting down with the girls.
They smile kindly, none of them remembering me as they keep talking, gossiping about boys, clothes, stuff that I can’t even fathom caring about. But I’ve become a pretty good actress, so I laugh at the right moments, roll my eyes when it’s needed. Inside, my heart hurts, but I cry only when I’m alone,on a long drive out in the country after leaving the center. No
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I WAIT. THE DAYS TICK BY AND I SIT ALONE AT LUNCH , watching the door, avoiding the gaze of the dark-haired handler. My arm is still in a cast, and I tell everyone it was an accident. They accept it with suspicious looks, but nothing more. After all, I’m smiling and looking pulled together. If I were sick, I couldn’t do that. I’m fooling them.
I spend more time with my parents, nodding numbly when they talk about The Program or comment on the latest news story. Suicide has had a surge in London, and they’ve implemented their own version of The Program. So far it’s been wildly successful, proving that America seems to have developed a treatment.
It makes me wonder about the future—the sort of people who will be walking around in twenty years. People who neverexperienced their teens because those memories were erased. Will they be naive? Empty?
I remind myself that James will be okay. He’ll come back and be the same. I have to believe that.
After school, I decide to go to the Wellness Center to gain credits, prove a point. Being seen there will show how healthy I am. How involved I am in my own stability. But really, I’ll be waiting for James, knowing he’ll show up sooner or later.
The building is located within the middle of the city, a former YMCA. It’s brick and old-looking, but the welcome sign is brightly colored, hinting at what’s inside. The Program is proud of their returners, of their system that is starting to see increases in voluntary admittance. The Wellness Center is the perfect front.
Come see the results, come see how shiny and new you can become.
I stand out front, reluctant to go in. I’m afraid all these healthy people will see right through me, but I don’t have anywhere else to go. I have to be strong.
“You need to sign in,” the woman behind the desk tells me as I pause in the entry. Around her, the large open room is buzzing with activity, as if there’s nothing outside these walls that could harm us. And the walls themselves are bright blue and green—loud and full of energy. I almost smile for real.
“Miss?” the lady asks, motioning toward the clipboard and the pen attached with yarn. “Sign in for credit.”
I sign my name and address on the paper and then scanthe room. I recognize several faces—both returners and normal people. I don’t know any of them that well, or at least, I don’t until I see Lacey. She’s on the couch playing video games with Evan Freeman. There is a handler in the corner, but he’s not the dark-haired one I’m afraid of. He’s blond, just standing there and watching Lacey silently.
I think about going over there, introducing myself, but something holds me back. In my head, I know that Lacey doesn’t remember me, and yet, I hope that James will. So if I confirm that Lacey doesn’t know me . . . what does that mean? I’m clinging to an unlikely expectation, but it’s the only thing keeping me going. Every day I feel myself slip more and more, but I’m holding on. I’m holding on for James.
I wonder if Lacey even knows Miller is dead, if somewhere inside she misses him. Misses all of us. Can The Program take away our emotions, or do they always remain—only without a source?
On the other side of the room, a group of girls—including Kendra Phillips—are giggling and drinking Diet Cokes while sitting at a round table. I make my way over, casting another glance at the handler who seems to have noticed me, before sitting down with the girls.
They smile kindly, none of them remembering me as they keep talking, gossiping about boys, clothes, stuff that I can’t even fathom caring about. But I’ve become a pretty good actress, so I laugh at the right moments, roll my eyes when it’s needed. Inside, my heart hurts, but I cry only when I’m alone,on a long drive out in the country after leaving the center. No
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