“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.
I look around the kitchen and my gaze rests on the gas stove. Walking over, I turn it on—the flames catching life in shades of blue and orange. I’m going to die if I don’t cry right now. The sorrow is going to rip through my chest and kill me.
But instead, I turn over my arm, the tender part exposed, and stick it into the fire. The burn is immediate and I scream out in pain, backing away as I cover the area automatically with my hand. My entire body reacts, as if all of me is on fire.
I decide that I like it. I like the pain and distraction.
Tears stream down my face even though the emotional release feels good, and I drop onto the tile floor. My parents rush in, and the minute they do I hold up my arm, the blistered area bright red against my skin. “I got burned,” I sob. “I leaned against the stove to grab the pan and the burner must have turned on.”
My mother gasps and runs to turn off the burner. “Donald,” she says. “I told you to put the pots in the sink.”
He apologizes and kneels down next to me. “Let me see, sweetheart.” And they fuss, letting me cry as long as I want because they think I was accidentally injured. They have no idea that I’m really crying for Lacey. For Brady. And most of all, for myself.
• • •
James sighs. “You shouldn’t have started in the car.” His voice is concerned on the other end of the phone as I hold it to my ear. I’m curled up in bed, my arm bandaged and Tylenol PM making me sleepy. “That’s the problem, Sloane. Once you start, you might not be able to stop.” He pauses. “I shouldn’t have let you cry.”
“I just had to mourn a little,” I say. “Not all of us can get tattoos.”
“This isn’t about me. Now how bad is the burn?” he asks.
“Blistered.”
“Goddamn it.” There’s a rustling, and I imagine him roughly rubbing his face. “I’m coming over.”
“No,” I say. “It’s late. I’m going to fall asleep soon anyway. You can be sweet to me tomorrow.”
“I’m going to kick your ass tomorrow.”
I smile. “Really? You really think so?”
“Go to bed, Sloane.” He doesn’t sound nearly as amused as he normally would. “I’ll be there early to pick you up. And please,” James says, “don’t do anything else stupid tonight.”
I swallow hard, too exhausted to cry anymore, and agree. After I hang up, I pull the comforter over my head. I think about my brother in my last moments of consciousness—guilt heavy in my chest. Sometimes it hurts so much that I pretend he never existed at all, as if that can make me okay. But then I remember his smile, his jokes, his . . . life. And I understand what my parents have lost and why they’re so concerned about me. I ask myself if I’d be different if I were them, but I don’t know the answer.
• • •
I feel a light touch on my cheek, and my eyes flutter open. James looks down at me as he stands next to my bed, his face worried. “We’re going to be late for school,” he says. “Your mom finally sent me up here to get you.”
I feel confused and glance at the clock, seeing that it’s past eight. I get up on my elbows and look around the room, disoriented. When I do, James moves to sit on the edge of my bed. “Let me see your arm,” he says, taking it before I can agree.
He peels back the bandage and I wince. “I’m really unhappy with you right now,” he says, not looking at me, just examining my burn. “I like your skin better without the scars.” His eyes meet mine, and then he leans down to kiss just above the tender spot on my arm. He climbs onto the bed and gets under the sheets next to me, not caring that my parents are downstairs and could come up at any second.
“I know it’s not easy,” he whispers, his breath warm as his lips touch my ear. “But we have to push through.” He picks up one of my curls and twists it around his finger, wrapping and unwrapping. “Every morning I think this will be it, the day I get sick. The day the handlers will flag me, take me. And I don’t want to get out of bed. But I do. Because I can’t leave you here alone.”
At the thought of losing him, I reach out to take his hand, squeezing my fingers between his.
“We have to fake it to make it,” he says, sounding bitter. “And I don’t make it without you, baby. Brady told us to take care of each other, and I’m not going to let him down again.”
“I’m tired of faking it.”
“So am I.” He breathes. “So am I.”