CHAPTER TWO
I FEED INTO THE CURRENT of students filing out of their classes and smile when people say hi to me. I keep my eyes downcast, but I can’t help wondering who else knows. Do any of these people know I was in The Program? Are they keeping it from me too?
I wrap my arms around myself, feeling exposed. Vulnerable. I want to go home and confront my grandparents—they betrayed me by keeping this secret. But first, I need to make sure Wes is okay.
It’s not lost on me that going to find him, seeking him out, is exactly the sort of behavior Dr. McKee warned me about. He told me to stay away from Wes to prevent another breakdown. My and Wes’s shared past is a mixture of love, betrayal, and heartache. And the sick part is . . . I want to do it all again, over and over. Even if it hurts him. Even if it hurts me.
But I can’t go back to the past. I’m not the same person anymore. So, once I figure out what Wes remembers—if he remembers—I’ll let him live his life: one where we’re not together. Because that’s love—not hurting each other. For once we can all finally decide to be better people.
I take a deep breath, telling myself that it’s not safe to think right now. One moment of letting my guard down could result in a flood of emotions, and I can’t let that happen. Not here.
The bell rings, but I don’t rush toward the office. As I pass the science hallway, I glance over absently, surprised to find a dark-haired guy watching me from where he’s leaning against his locker. It’s Derek, another returner. A few months ago, I noticed him staring at me while I was talking with Jana Simms, Nathan’s girlfriend. He made me uncomfortable then, and nothing about the look he gives me now does anything to make me rethink my original assessment. He’s creepy.
Out of some sense of politeness, though, I smile a hello to him. He doesn’t return it. His dark eyes are in shadows, his lips curved, like there’s a joke I don’t see. His gaze is cold fingers tracing up my spine, wrapping around my neck. The look is familiar and predatory. I shiver and walk faster, holding my breath until I’m past the hallway and he’s out of sight. I nearly run into a freshman, who skirts around me to get to class.
I’m suddenly afraid to be in the hallway alone. It’s impossibly quiet. I hurry toward the office and rush inside the lobby. Dr. Wyatt and Wes are nowhere in sight, and the attendance clerk is talking to another student. I take a seat, my heart racing, and remember something Foster mentioned a few weeks ago: embedded handlers.
Foster Linn has been one of my best friends since junior high, and sadly, horrifically, his brother died from complications of Program crashbacks—something that’s been happening to returners at an increasingly alarming rate.
Shortly after Sebastian’s death, Foster began to tell me and Nathan that there were handlers still watching us, even though The Program was gone. I doubted his theory, attributing it to his grief. Maybe I didn’t want to admit that it was possible. But I should have known that in this world, anything is possible.
With that on my mind, I think about the way Derek looked at me. It was like he knew me. Knew about me. The idea that he actually might terrifies me.
I take out my phone and text Foster, my thumbs shaking as they pass over the keys.
Foster won’t be happy to hear from me right now; he has the flu, leaving him paler than usual. But I’m glad he isn’t here today, because Foster has the ability to see through all of my bullshit—through anyone’s bullshit. He would have figured out what Nathan told me, and then he would have figured out that I didn’t remember The Program. Who knows what would have happened after that.
Hell, I might have to avoid him until I figure out how to cope better. Or at least become a better liar like the rest of them. Luckily, I can be more evasive over text.
You awake? I write.
No, Foster texts back, and I smile. I check to make sure the clerk is still distracted and respond.
You seem better. Actually, what do you know about Derek Thompson? I ask.
Uh . . . not much, Foster responds. He used to be in The Program. Why?
I can still feel Derek’s eyes on me as I start to tell Foster what happened. Just saw him in the hall, I text, and he was staring at me.
Wow, super ego. I’m assuming it’s more than that for you to text me on my deathbed, Foster writes.
It was the WAY he stared at me, I clarify. Is it possible . . . My thumbs pause on the keys, and I’m not sure I want to continue with the question. I push forward. Is it possible Derek is a handler? I ask.
A response bubble pops up immediately and then disappears. It does that several more times, no actual words appearing. I glance up and notice the clerk watching me, the student who was there before me now gone.
“May I help you?” she asks.
I quickly stash my phone in my backpack and cross to the desk. The attendance clerk waits for me to speak with a bored expression. I want to come right out and ask if she’s seen Weston Ambrose, but before I can, the inner office door opens, and Dr. Wyatt steps out.
I put my hand on my cheek in an attempt to shield my face, but it doesn’t work.
“Miss Masterson,” Dr. Wyatt calls suspiciously. “I was just coming to look for you.”
Her comment shocks me, and I have to gather myself before turning to her. “I’m not feeling well,” I say, trying to add exhaustion into my voice. “I came in to call my pop.”
Dr. Wyatt watches me carefully and then takes a step closer. Examining me. “Headache?” she asks. And the question is loaded with assumptions, the beginning of a cross-examination.
She must know that returners suffer from headaches. Being a monitor, she probably knows more about aftereffects than I do.
“No,” I say, and place my hand over my stomach. “Cramps.”
She smiles, but I get the feeling that she can see straight through my lie. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, pushing open her office door. “This won’t take long.”
My lips part, and I see Wes sitting on the chair in front her desk, seeming deeply annoyed. I’m about to make an excuse, but the expression on Dr. Wyatt’s face leaves no room for argument. I walk toward her office.
The phone on the clerk’s desk rings, and after she answers it, she calls to Dr. Wyatt. Irritated, the monitor tells me to have a seat in her office. I go inside, and when he sees me, Wes smiles broadly like we’re old friends. It’s an arrow into my heart, throwing off my balance. Although I came looking for Wes, now that he’s here, I can’t find the right words. I don’t know if there are any.
“This Dr. Wyatt is really infringing on my education,” Wes says. “I hope she’s going to provide private tutoring.” He acts like this is all a big joke, but the expression on my face must alarm him, because his smile fades.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “They can’t expel us for sitting in English class.”
I’m reminded that he has no idea the gravity of this world, how quickly things can go very wrong. I can’t believe he’s talking to me; I can’t believe I have to act like I don’t know him. It’s unnatural. And it’s painful.
I don’t respond as I take a seat in the chair next to him, awkward and silent. I keep my eyes on Dr. Wyatt’s impeccably neat desk, afraid to look at Wes. Afraid I’ll blurt out our entire past with another flash of his dimples and easy smile. My phone buzzes, and I check the open doorway to make sure Dr. Wyatt’s still occupied.
It all hits me: The Program, the handlers, it’s like being submerged in ice water—the fact that my life is no longer my own. Someone has tampered with my past. Heartbreak and fear combine to make my head spin. Again.
I take out my phone and see that Foster sent me a response to my question about Derek being an embedded handler. The reply is only one word, and my stomach sinks as I read it.
Yes.
“Thank you for waiting,” Dr. Wyatt announces, making me jump. I quickly shove my phone into my pocket, blinking away my shock at Foster’s answer, what it means.
Yes, there are embedded handlers. Yes, they could be watching me.
Dr. Wyatt closes the door, but she doesn’t go to her desk. Instead, she comes to stand directly behind our chairs. I look over my shoulder at her, lip curled and brows pulled together.
“What’s this about?” I ask, finally finding my voice. “You can’t just . . .” I look at Wes, who’s waiting to hear what I have to say. I temper my annoyance. “You can’t just make me miss class,” I tell her. “I didn’t do anything.”
Truth is, I’m sure Dr. Wyatt has noticed the change in Wes. Notices that he’s different than he was a few weeks ago. I don’t even know what excuse his family gave as to why he was gone this time. Dr. Wyatt has no real idea about the Adjustment. She doesn’t know what it does or who runs it. I’m no longer protecting Dr. McKee and Marie, but I also don’t want Wes, or possibly me, to become lab rats for Dr. Wyatt and whoever she’s working for.
Dr. Wyatt walks around to lean on her desk, leveling her gaze at me. “I can pull you out of class if I deem you to be dangerous,” she says simply.
“I thought this was all because I said ‘fuck,’ ” Wes says to me conversationally. “But now I’m really starting to wonder.” He turns back to Dr. Wyatt. “Is it because we were reading a book in class? Are you . . . are you afraid of original thought? Creativity?” He tilts his head like he’s trying to decide which it is. Dr. Wyatt takes his attitude in stride, letting him continue.
“Definitely autonomy,” Wes continues. “Look at us, making our own decisions. Thinking for ourselves. That must burn you up.”
As I watch him, I realize Wes’s natural state is defiance. No amount of memory manipulation can erase that part of him.
“Don’t play games with me, Weston,” Dr. Wyatt says. “You’re not clever. You—”
“Well . . .” He holds up his finger, scrunching his nose like he hates to argue the point. “I am in the gifted program. But if your measure of intelligence is test scores, then . . . no, wait,” he says, as if confused. “Those say I’m a genius too.”
Dr. Wyatt looks at me accusingly. I shrug, emboldened by Wes’s jokes, and it’s then, in a sudden movement, that Dr. Wyatt jumps forward. She gets right up in Wes’s face—a drill sergeant shouting commands. It’s unexpected, and it throws both me and Wes off balance.
“I want answers,” she calls out sharply, her hands on the armrests of his chair as she faces him. “You were in The Program, Mr. Ambrose. I saw you there myself.”
Wes flinches away from Dr. Wyatt, blinking quickly.
“Stop it,” I tell her immediately. She doesn’t know that he’s been reset. She doesn’t know that she can cause a meltdown by bringing up his past.
Dr. Wyatt ignores me and continues her interrogation.
“You were in The Program, and they erased your memory,” she says. “You came back, but whatever has happened to you since . . . this isn’t The Program.”
She reaches to tap his temple, and Wes lifts his face to stare at her, his eyes wide. His skin pale.
“What have you done?” she demands.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he replies, teeth clenched.
“Yes, you do,” she says. “Who did this to you, Weston?” Dr. Wyatt is beginning to lose her cool, and I’m half out of my chair, ready to push her away from him if I have to.
“They tampered with your memories,” she continues. “Erased them. It’s against the law to manipulate memories. Why did they do it? What do you know?”
“I said I have no fucking idea what you’re talking about,” Wes snaps at her.
“Tell me,” she growls, leaning down. Her behavior is erratic, alarming.
“Leave him alone,” I say, taking her by the elbow to pull her back. “He doesn’t remember.”
Dr. Wyatt turns on me fiercely. “Do you?” she demands. “Are you the reason—”
“No,” I say quickly. “We don’t know anything!” The words echo around the room, and I lower my hand from her elbow, wrapping my arms around myself. I’m scared, and I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how far this will go.
“Can we please leave?” I ask, trying to sound brave.
Dr. Wyatt stares me down, and for a second I’m afraid she’ll say no. That she’ll imprison us in her office for life. Instead, she takes a step closer to me.
“I’m trying to save him,” she says in a low voice. Pleading.
“Then I guess you should have saved him from The Program in the first place,” I reply coldly. “Because right now he wants you to leave him alone.” I turn back to Wes, willing him to get up. “Come on,” I say to him, hoping he’s all right.
For his part, Wes looks confused, his easygoing attitude troubled. I watch the clouds gather on his face. I say his name, and he stands up, avoiding my eyes. Avoiding Dr. Wyatt’s glare.
He walks to open the door and leaves without even a backward glance. When I go to follow him, Dr. Wyatt calls my name.
“I hope you feel better,” she says disingenuously, knowing I was lying in the first place. I narrow my eyes and turn around.
“I already do,” I respond. “But thanks for your concern.”
She smiles, motioning that I can leave. I walk out hurriedly, but when I get into the main hall, Wes is already gone.