He promised.
“YOU’RE WEARING FAR TOO MANY CLOTHES,” JAMES
calls from the river as he swims toward me. I’m sitting in the grass, the glittering sun making James’s eyes that clear blue. They stop me from saying something smartass back. They’re gorgeous and arresting, and I love the way he looks at me.
As if reading my thoughts he stands up in the water, shaking out his hair. “You should come in,” he tells me. He’s not naked. Completely. He’s wearing black boxer briefs that hang low. I grin, watching the water drip down his skin as he walks my way.
“Dude, put on some clothes,” Miller says as he appears over the hill. He’s wearing his swimsuit, two towels over his shoulder. He throws one at James.
James shoots me another glance and winks, as if telling
me I missed out on a great opportunity. He’s probably right. Not that I would have gone swimming. I don’t even know how.
James wipes his hair with the blue-striped towel. “Sorry if my physique is intimidating you,” he says to Miller. “I didn’t have time to go to my house.”
“Or you’re avoiding it because you stole your dad’s car,” Miller adds.
James smiles. “Something like that.”
“Does anybody have food?” I ask, leaning back on my elbows. I squint my eyes against the sun as I look over my shoulder at Miller. His face is still pale, and I know he must be thinking of Lacey. She used to come swimming with us too. She used to be one of us.
“Energy bar?” He fishes in his pocket and then tosses one to me. I look down at it and groan.
“I hate peanut butter.”
Miller shakes his head. “Sorry I didn’t have time to bake you a lasagna, princess. Next time I’ll be more considerate.”
“Good to hear.”
James lays his towel on the grass next to me and then stretches out on his stomach, watching me open the wrapper. “I like peanut butter,” he says nonchalantly. I laugh and hand the PowerBar over to him. Before he bites into it, he narrows his eyes and nods his chin to me.
“What?” I ask.
“Give me a kiss,” he whispers.
“No.” Just a few feet away Miller is stretching and putting down his own towel, getting ready for a swim.
Yes,
James mouths.
I shake my head, not wanting to make Miller uncomfortable. Before it wouldn’t have mattered. He and Lacey sometimes spent the first half of our swim dates back at the car. But now it seems wrong to kiss in front of him. Salt in an open wound.
James’s eyebrows knit together as he seems to realize it too. He lays his cheek on his folded arms and watches me solemnly. I reach to stroke my fingers down his shoulder, over the names on his arm: Brady. Hannah. Andrew. Bethany. Trish.
And they’re just the ones who died. The list doesn’t include the ones who were taken away by The Program. It doesn’t even include Lacey.
“Is the water cold?” Miller asks, staring at the river.
“Hell yeah,” James responds, not looking away from my eyes. “Feels good though.”
Miller nods, then walks to the water. Once he’s wading out, I lower myself down to rest my cheek on James’s arm, my face close to his. My heart is aching. My confidence is worn thin.
“Tell me it will be okay,” I say seriously.
He doesn’t hesitate. “Everything will be okay, Sloane. Everything will be fine.” He puts no emotion behind his words, but I can believe him. He’s never given up on me.
So I lean in and kiss him.
There is a splash behind us, and we both look at the water. I hold my breath as the river seems to swallow the ripple, smoothing it down with the slow current. James sits up next to me, staring at the water. And it isn’t until Miller breaks the surface again, yelling about how cold it is, that we ease back down. Grateful that he came up for air at all.
• • •
When we leave, I drive home with James, my head resting against the window as I watch the road. He’s taking the long way, the route that winds through the farms and hills. It’s beautiful and peaceful, and for a minute you can almost believe we live in a beautiful and peaceful world.
“Do you think Lacey will come back to us eventually?” I ask.
“Yes.” James reaches to turn on the radio, flipping through the stations until he finds some horrible pop song with a catchy hook. “Want to go somewhere this weekend?” he asks, pretending that I never mentioned our friend. “I’m thinking of camping on the coast.”
I look sideways at him. “Don’t do that,” I say. “Don’t change the subject.”
James doesn’t turn to me, but his jaw tightens. “You know I have to,” he murmurs.
“I
want
to talk about it.”
He pauses, and then begins again quietly. “I’m going to borrow Miller’s tent because it’s nicer, but he said he doesn’t want to come. I don’t know, maybe that’s a good thing. We can be all romantic.” He tries to smile but won’t meet my glare.
“I miss her,” I say, my face stinging with the start of a cry.
James blinks quickly, as if holding back tears. “I’ll even buy that disgusting sausage stuff you like. What’s it called?”
“Kielbasa.”
“Nasty. I’ll grill kielbasa and we’ll roast marshmallows. If you’re good I’ll even bring chocolate and graham crackers.”
“I can’t do this,” I whisper, feeling like I might shatter into a million sharp and jagged pieces. “It hurts too much. I can’t hold it in, James.”
He winces at my words, and then presses on the brake, guiding the car to the side of a deserted stretch of road. I’m already falling apart as he stops and unbuckles his seat belt. He grabs me roughly and pulls me into him, pressing me against his chest as his hand knots in my hair.
“Do it,” he says, his voice cracking.
And so I cry. I sob into his T-shirt, cursing The Program. The world. I yell for Brady and my friends, calling them cowards for leaving us. I don’t understand why they’d do this to us, ruining our lives by taking their own. I scream until the words are no longer recognizable, only sounds choked with emotion. Indescribable loss.
And after twenty minutes of this, I’m so exhausted that I just whimper, still clinging to James’s wet shirt. His arms never falter around me. He never interrupts. When I’m finally quiet, he leans down to kiss the top of my head.
“Better?” he asks softly.
I nod and start to straighten, my face feeling swollen. When
I’m sitting up, he pulls his T-shirt over his head, then clenches it in his hand to wipe my tears and runny nose. His blue eyes look me over as he fixes my hair and makes sure there’s no smeared mascara. He puts me back together just like he always has.
When he’s done, he tosses his T-shirt into the backseat. He glances down at the steering wheel and takes a deep breath. I take one too.
“It’s going to be okay, Sloane.”
I nod.
“Say it.”
“It’s going to be okay,” I repeat, staring back at him. He smiles, reaching out to take my hand before kissing it.
“We will get through this,” he adds, but he’s turned back to the road, and it sounds more like he’s trying to convince himself than me.
When we’re driving again, I check my reflection to see how bad the damage is. My eyes are red-rimmed, but not terrible. We’ll need to drive around for a little longer, at least until the blotchiness fades. I can’t let my parents see me cry.
“James Murphy,” I say, watching the sun fade below the horizon. “I love you madly.”
“I know you do,” he answers seriously. “And that’s why I won’t let anything happen to you. It’s me and you, Sloane. Just us. Forever just us.”
• • •
My mother is waiting on the front porch when James pulls his father’s car to the curb. She exhales, her hand on her chest as if
she thought I was dead because I’m over two hours late and I didn’t call. I don’t want to get out and face her.
“You’ve got this,” James says, sounding light. “Tell her that I tried to teach you to swim at the river today. She’ll appreciate that.”
“Yeah? Can I tell her how you tried to get me naked in the backseat of this car before leaving, too?”
He shrugs. “If she’s that curious.”
I laugh and then lean over to kiss him quickly on the lips. I’ve never learned how to swim. It’s not because of my crushing fear—which I have now—but because when we were younger my brother took lessons while I studied ballet. And the more time passed, the more afraid I became of ever getting in the water. Now I wish I’d learned with Brady. I might have saved him.
I pull back from James, sadness settling on my skin as he looks me over. “Good night, Sloane,” he whispers.
I nod, missing him already, and then climb out of the car.
“Why doesn’t James have a shirt on?” is the first thing out of my mother’s mouth. I hold back my smile.
“He was teaching me how to swim,” I say as I step up onto the porch, keeping my face down.
“Oh, that’s good, I guess,” she says, as if conceding. “But I was worried, honey. The school called and said you left early for therapy, but then when you didn’t get home on time . . .”
I want to tell her to stop worrying about me because The Program already watches us closely enough. I want to tell her
that this pressure is going to kill me. But lashing out will only make things worse, so instead I smile brightly.
“Sorry I didn’t call,” I say. “When James picked me up from therapy we decided to go to the river. It’s such a beautiful day.”
My mother glances up at the sky as if confirming this, and then she touches protectively at my arm. “You’re right,” she says. “And I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself, Sloane. It’s nice to be happy.” Her expression darkens. “It’s just that after your brother . . . What if you—” She pauses, choking on her own words.
“Everything will be okay, Mom,” I answer, the words robotic in my mouth from the number of times I’ve said them to her. The number of times James has told them to me. “Everything will be just fine.” And then I open the door and go inside.
“SO HOW WAS SCHOOL?” MY FATHER ASKS AS I STAB
my pork chop while we sit at the dinner table. I look up, used to this conversation. My parents’ expressions are so worn, and yet they stare at me like I’m their last hope for survival.
“Good.”
My mother smiles, giving my father a reassured side-glance. Normally, from here our topic would switch to the latest news: how the Northwest has the highest suicide rate in the nation. Could it be because of the rain? That the incidence of suicide is spreading to other developed countries and they’re paying close attention to The Program, hoping to adopt one of their own. And my favorite, how a scientist or doctor has claimed to have found a cure—propaganda by the drug companies who have lost revenue from the banning of antidepressants.
But tonight I’m too lonely to hold up my part of the conversation. The way Lacey returned, washed out like that—it makes me hate life. And it makes me miss her even more.
Before she was dating Miller, Lacey used to go out with jerkoffs. She said bad boy was her favorite flavor. They were always older, too old to go to The Program. I can remember a guy in particular, Drake. He was twenty and drove a Camaro. We were sixteen. Lacey showed up at my house one night wearing sunglasses, and I knew something was wrong. We went quickly to my room before my mom could see her. When she took off the glasses, I saw she had a black eye, cuts up and down her arm. She said Drake had pushed her out of the passenger door—while the car was still moving.
Looking back now, seeing how she cried because she didn’t want her parents to find out, I wonder what else Lacey hid from people. How much I really knew her. We decided that she couldn’t cover the marks so we staged her falling off my front porch, calling my parents out to see her injured, setting up the alibi. She never told anyone else about Drake—although I told James and he beat the hell out of him.
I lied for Lacey then, just as I lied to myself as she got infected. Maybe if I were a better friend I could have kept her out of The Program. Maybe we’re all sick.
“You’re not eating,” my mother says, interrupting my thoughts. “Everything all right?”
I look up, startled. “Lacey came back today,” I say, my voice wavering. My father’s eyes flash with worry, and for a second
I think that they understand. That I can tell them the truth about The Program—how it brings us back empty.
“Really?” My mother sounds nothing short of gleeful. “Well now, see. That wasn’t very long.”
I have a gut check and look back down at my plate, the pork chop slaughtered around the bone, the applesauce bleeding into everything. “It was six weeks,” I murmur.
“Exactly,” my mother answers. “Went by faster than you thought.”
I remind myself of the parental outreach The Program uses—weekly support groups for parents of dead teens, access to the latest advances in their methods. It’s like The Program learned to get to us through our home lives. I think they can get to us anywhere.
“And how did she look?” my mother asks. “Did you see her at the Wellness Center?”
My fingernails are digging into my jeans, into the skin underneath. “Yes,” I lie. “And she’s blond again. She’s . . . completely different.”
“I bet she looks beautiful,” my mother says. “The returners always look so healthy, don’t they, Don?”
My father doesn’t respond, but I feel him watching me. I wonder if he’s gauging my reaction, mentally going through the “Is your child depressed?” checklist The Program provided them. I’m not sure I have the strength to put on the mask, but I look up anyway. And smile.
“She does look great,” I reply. “Hopefully she’ll be able to hang out again soon.”
“Just give her time to heal,” my mother says, grinning at me like she’s proud. “Thank God for The Program. It’s saving so many lives.”
My stomach lurches and I stand up quickly, not wanting to cry when I’ve made it this far into the conversation. “I’ll do the dishes tonight,” I say, grabbing my plate. “After that I’ve got a ton of homework.”
I rush from the room, getting into the kitchen just as the tears start to sting my eyes. I need to do something before I break into sobs in front of them. There is a pamphlet for The Program sitting next to our phone in the living room—something every parent received when our high school became part of the experiment. But to me that paper is like a threat, always reminding me of the next step if I slip up. So I don’t slip up. Ever.