The Program Page 0,108
what it is, he backs away. He hurts me. I don’t think I can take any more hurt right now.
I curl up on my side, thinking things over, when a knock on the door startles me. I look up to see my father. “Hey, honey,” he says. “I was just coming up to say good night, but you weren’t in your room. What are you doing in here?”
Blinking quickly, I sit up. “I miss Brady,” I say, trying to gauge his reaction. His face falters, his brown eyes weary as he rubs at them.
“Me too,” he answers. His khakis are wrinkled, and the faint smell of alcohol clings to him. I wonder when he started drinking.
We’re quiet for a long moment, and I bite my lip, trying to decide if I should ask. “Dad,” I start, “did Brady commit suicide?”
My father takes in a harsh breath. He doesn’t respond right away as he lowers himself onto the bed next to me. And then, to my absolute horror, he covers his eyes with his hand; his shoulders are shaking.
“Yes,” he chokes out. “Brady killed himself.”
My body stills as my emotions click together, even though there are no memories attached. But it’s like my feelings—my grief—finally make sense. As my father tries to pull himself together, I try not to fall apart. Realm told me the truth. What else does he know?
“And what about us?” I ask my father. “Were we okay after? Me, you, and Mom?”
My dad looks at me, his dark eyes unfocused and red-rimmed. “No, sweetheart,” he whispers. “We really weren’t.”
I nod, knowing somewhere inside that it’s true. That this idea of our family moving on so easily after losing Brady was absurd. “I hate that I can’t remember what happened to him,” I say.
“Why?” he asks seriously. “It’s a gift. I would give anything to take away the pain. The time when he was sick . . . that wasn’t the real Brady. Not the real us. We’ve gotten the chance to reset, Sloane. We’ve gotten the chance to be happy again.”
“Dad,” I say softly, tears beginning to stream from my eyes. “None of us are happy.”
He doesn’t deny it, doesn’t even try to pretend that our family is pulling through. Instead, he stands up, touching the top of my head as he leaves the room.
When he’s gone, I curl up on the bed with my misery, alone and heartbroken. I want to know what happened to my brother, and I want to know what I used to be like. But most of all, I just want to be happy. After a short pity party, I go back to my room and find Lacey’s number where she scribbled it into my notebook. A headache has begun pulsing in my head, so I take a large dose of Advil before picking up my phone.
• • •
Lacey is grinning from ear to ear when she pulls up to the corner at nine. “You’re becoming such a rebel,” she says, as I climb into her neon-green Bug. Fast-food bags are crumpled at my feet, all of the drink holders full. Lacey’s wearing a plain, yellow blouse, but her makeup is dramatic—very nonreturner-like. It’s awesome.
“Are you sure you want to go to the Wellness Center?” she asks. “I thought you hated that place.”
“I do,” I say. “But my handler is gone, and no one’s watching me anymore. Maybe I’ll enjoy the experience this time.”
“Sloane,” Lacey says in low voice. “They’re always watching. Never forget that.”
After a long pause, Lacey turns on the radio, filling the car with a pop song about love, its lyrics sickeningly sweet. I have to clasp my hands in front of me to stop from shutting it off and telling her all about James, about my brother. But I don’t want to depress her.
In my pocket, my phone buzzes with another text message, but I reach to turn up the volume of the radio instead of checking it.
The Wellness Center is crowded when we walk in. With the popularity of The Program growing worldwide, there has been a new push for assimilation—I saw it on MTV. Handlers line the walls, but between them, people are laughing, playing games. There’s a new section with computer stations; a group of guys are crowded around one of them. They’re all dressed in preppy clothes, and I glance down at myself and see that we match. It’s like the uniform of the returners. I unbutton my shirt to the line of my