The Adjustment

  Thank you for downloading this Simon & Schuster ebook.

  * * *

  Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox.

  For Mandy and Bethany, who always let me set the air-conditioning to below freezing

  And in loving memory of my grandmother Josephine Parzych

  ENTER THE WORLD OF THE PROGRAM

  PART I

  TO WISH POSSIBLE THINGS

  CHAPTER ONE

  I CAN’T REMEMBER THE LAST time I cried.

  It’s an odd thought to have in the middle of English class, but for years the threat of being taken, against our will, to a facility for memory manipulation had terrified all of us. Any moment of weakness, one show of emotion, and we could have been flagged as unstable. Once flagged, we would have been handed over to The Program, where the doctors would steal our memories, our experiences, and our lives—all in the name of their false cure. I barely escaped that fate.

  But it turns out that although The Program no longer exists, its effect is long lasting.

  I stare ahead in class at the whiteboard, the words there blurring together. Around me, pencils scratch against notebook pages and the movement of other bodies mimics learning. I sit still and apart from all of them.

  I’d gotten used to small classes, some with as few as twelve students. But now we’re pushing thirty in here. Former patients of The Program have been flooding in—wide eyed and confused. I mostly feel bad for them. They’ve been erased, some only partially.

  Months ago, when The Program was shut down, there was no follow-up therapy offered to its patients. Many were sent uncompleted, uncured, to Sumpter High, a private school just for those who were treated: a school filled with broken people. Returners were left to their own devices, and some didn’t make it. Some didn’t want to.

  But as the criminal trials carried on in the media, The Program decimated and supporting politicians questioned and shamed, Sumpter was shut down. One senator filed an injunction to ban returners from our district, citing the possibility of another suicide outbreak. As a result, students were left for weeks with nowhere to go—abandoned by their government. But that asshole politician got voted out of office, so returners have come back to the lives they had before The Program. Now that their lives have been thoroughly ruined by The Program.

  Even now, former patients still occasionally freak out. Break down. Crack up. To them, The Program is forever.

  I glance around at the other students in my class, some dressed in black, dark and dramatic. Others even wear Program yellow ironically. Some say their emotions are heightened now that we’re suddenly allowed to “feel” again—built-up angst and anger getting release. Lust and love intertwining so that no one knows the difference anymore. Everything is about now. Everything is about living.

  But not me. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to feel—always set to numb. I wonder how many others are just mimicking what they think is sadness. What they think is joy. What if The Program took away our ability to feel by making us hide it for so long? What if none of us is real?

  I shouldn’t sit here feeling sorry for myself, though. Not when there are those worse off. I look sideways at Alecia Partridge, watch as she flinches—a post-Program twitch she hasn’t lost. She occasionally murmurs to herself during class, but the rest of us pretend not to notice. Alecia talks to the ghosts of her past—a friend who died during the epidemic. A friend who was only partially erased from her memory and is, therefore, familiar enough to still be in her present.

  Alecia laughs under her breath, brushing her knotted brown hair behind her ear. “Yes,” she whispers to no one. “Yes, I know.” She looks back down at her notebook and continues to work. She does this at least once a week. This is her normal—and by extension, ours.

  I swallow hard and turn away, reminded that returners are still considered unstable, even if the purpose of sending them to The Program in the first place was to make them stable.

  “I’d ask to copy your notes,” Nathan says in his scratchy voice from the desk behind me, “but you’re obviously going to fail this test.”

  I turn my face toward him, keeping my eyes on the floor so as not to draw attention from our teacher. “Bet my F will be higher than your F,” I say.

  Nathan laughs, low in his throat. “No fucking way,” he says. “I’ll take that bet.”

  “Done,” I say, and look toward the front. I’m almost ready to write down a line or two from Shakespeare’s Sonnet 30. I get as far as picking up my pencil before the classroom door opens.

  There’s a flash of white fabric, and I immediately imagine crisp white jackets and blank expressions. I imagine silence and dripping fear. Although handlers have been out of our lives for months, I still have nightmares about them. And so I hold my breath until my eyes can adjust.

  A guy steps into class wearing the same stupid clothing most of the returners do: a stiff button-down shirt, khaki pants, belt—like he’s on his way to become our new math teacher. Most returners have had their clothing replaced, and it takes a while for them to figure out their style again.

  And maybe it’s because of that, or maybe I don’t recognize his newly buzzed hair, but Nathan reacts to his presence before I do.

  “He’s back,” Nathan murmurs, putting his hand on my shoulder. But I feel a million miles outside of my body, and his touch is just a breeze past my soul. My pencil falls from between my fingers and drops on the floor, before rolling under my desk.

  I stare at the guy in the front of the classroom, my mouth agape, my heart racing. Guilt smacks me, scolding me for not recognizing him immediately. Several students look in my direction, anticipating a reaction. They’re curious, maybe. Horrified?

  “Wonderful,” the teacher says, barely hiding her annoyance. “I see they still aren’t worried about class size.” She pauses. “Welcome back, Weston,” she adds, softening her voice. “There’s one last seat.” Miss Soto motions toward an empty desk near the front.

  Wes watches her for a moment like he’s trying to figure out if he knows her, but then he turns and starts down the aisle. He sits two rows away from me. After a moment of silence, Miss Soto goes back to teaching, and the other students go back to pretending to learn.

  Nathan’s hand is still on my shoulder, attempting comfort, but I lean forward and out of his reach. I stare at the back of Wes’s head, willing him to see me. Begging him to turn around.

  As if he can sense me, Weston puts his chin on his shoulder and covertly turns. When he finds me, when his dark eyes lock on mine, tears I didn’t know had welled up spill onto my cheeks.

  And I smile.

  Weston Ambrose is the love of my life, and I don’t mean “the like,” I don’t mean “the obsession.” We were together for two years, until the day men in white coats showed up at his kitchen door. Although handlers would occasionally take people from school, it was more common for them to come straight to the house. Most patients were turned in by someone they knew. Turned in by their parents.

  Of course, parents didn’t know the truth of what was happening in The Program—the lasting effect it would have. The paranoia that became the curse rather than the cure to an epidemic.

  Wes’s parents turned him in. The handlers arrived and pulled Wes from his home as I fought, holding on to his shirt until it tore at the collar. Until a handler physically removed me from the house.

  And when Wes was gone, stolen
away, his mother came and sat next to me on the curb. It was the first time I cried in public. The only time until now. Mrs. Ambrose held me tightly and let me sob into the shoulder of her blouse, and when I was done, she kissed the top of my head and told me never to come back. Fair or not, she blamed me for her son’s condition.

  She called them. She called The Program on her son. I’ll never forgive her for that.

  I blamed myself, too. I replayed the last few months of us over and over, trying to figure out what I could have done differently. Trying to take responsibility for his actions. Most of that time was a blur, really. But eventually, with therapy, I accepted that it wasn’t my fault.

  My love for Wes is pure, forever. And so I waited for this moment. I waited for him to come back.

  But Wes doesn’t return my smile, and instead he turns around and opens his notebook. He jots down what I assume are notes from the board.

  My skin is on fire, waiting for him to look back. When the bell rings, Weston gets up and walks out without even a backward glimpse.

  I sit still and watch after him. There is a sympathetic glance or two in my direction from other students; even Alecia nods at me like she understands how I feel. Truth is, people have wondered about my stability for a while, and I’m sure that if The Program didn’t end when it did, the handlers would have come for me next.

  “Tatum?” Nathan calls, his voice always set to a quiet hush that gives every word an extra layer of depth, like he’s confiding in you.

  I don’t turn immediately, and I hear his chair scrape against the linoleum floor before he crouches down next to my seat. I turn to him, feeling my bottom lip jut out.

  Nathan’s eyebrows pull together as he looks me over, like I’m the most pathetic creature on all of Earth. He leans in and puts his forehead against my arm and whispers, “I’m sorry.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  HE SHOULDN’T BE SORRY. MY neighbor Nathan Harmon has been my constant companion since Wes was taken away—unwaveringly by my side. I’ve known him since we were kids, and although he and Wes were never friends, Nathan was devastated when he was taken. If for no other reason than because of how it affected me.

  When we heard that Weston had been released from The Program, I begged Nathan to help me find him. He reluctantly agreed, and we went to Wes’s house. But Wes’s mother told us he’d moved to California to live with his uncle, a devastating fact I hadn’t expected. Mrs. Ambrose wouldn’t give us a forwarding number or way to contact him. She told me he needed space.

  I didn’t give up, though. When the district ban was lifted, and students started returning, I’d hoped he’d show. Fantasized about it. But, of course, I was imagining my Weston walking in—wearing his worn, tan leather coat. His dark wavy hair to his shoulders. His busted-up motorcycle parked illegally in the teachers’ lot.

  He’d walk in, wink at the teacher, and then say to me, “Come on, Tate. Let’s get the fuck out of here.” And then we’d be free.

  I’d confided that fantasy to Nathan once, to which he replied, “Sure, that sounds just like Wes. If he were a character from Sons of Anarchy.”

  But no matter how I pictured it, I always imagined Wes would look at me and know me instantly. Know me always. And now all I can hope is that he does, but decided not to show it.

  The rest of the morning passes quickly; I don’t share any more classes with Wes. Nathan is in advanced courses, so I don’t see him, either.

  At lunch, Nathan and our friend Foster are waiting at the usual spot on the half wall near the flowers in the courtyard. There were murmurs at the beginning of the year that students would be able to leave campus for lunch this year, but it hasn’t happened yet. Some terrified parent always speaks up, worried about a car accident. Most of the time, I think the parents in this district will only be happy when we’re all put in individual bubbles, completely protected (and isolated) from the outside world.

  Nathan must be telling Foster what happened this morning, because they both look miserable, conspiring quietly without me. Nathan is first to lift his head as I approach, his hazel eyes squinted against the sun. Foster casually sips from his soda and turns away. Neither of them speaks as I sit on the wall next to them.

  I set my chips aside and try to pull back the cardboard top on my juice carton to open it, but it keeps shredding. My fingers shake. Nathan watches me, and then he takes a bite of his sandwich before putting it on top of his lunch bag.

  “Gimme,” he says through a mouthful of food. I hand him the carton without argument, and he refolds the triangle top and opens it easily. When he passes it to me, I murmur a thank-you.

  “So . . . ,” Foster starts carefully, “I heard Weston came back. That’s good news, right?” He presses his freckled lips into a hopeful smile, the kind you give someone as they’re loaded into the back of an ambulance.

  “Seriously, Foster?” Nathan says with a heavy sigh. “I said don’t bring it up.”

  Foster scoffs. “Yeah, I figured you knew I would anyway. Of course I’m going to bring it up—her boyfriend just came back from the dead!”

  “He wasn’t dead,” I say quietly.

  “I know,” Foster whispers, reaching to pat my leg. “I was just trying to make Nathan feel shitty.”

  Foster Linn is cute with bright red hair, freckles, and the sort of personality that makes guys and girls swoon alike. I’ve known him since seventh grade, when he and Nathan were on swim team together. For most of middle school, the three of us were inseparable: video games, pizza, and cliff diving—Foster being the reckless diver. Fearless, always.

  But two years ago, his older brother Sebastian was taken into The Program. None of us realized he’d been suicidal, something that I know haunted Foster afterward. The entire situation was obviously traumatic. When Sebastian finally came home, he was like the other returners: quiet, reserved . . . empty. We stopped talking about him. Ever since, Foster spends his free time with his family, with his two older brothers. They work weekends in their dad’s shop together.

  Foster’s friendship with me and Nathan is mostly lunch oriented now—which is also just the evolution of high school, I guess. We still love each other. I know he understands what I’m going through right now—better than most. And to prove it, he grabs my hand and squeezes it.

  “Wes doesn’t remember,” I tell him, pain welling up in my chest. Foster lowers his eyes, feeling the heaviness of the moment. We all fall silent.

  I’d been waiting for Wes. I’d built the future around the idea of him coming home.

  “What does that mean for you?” Nathan asks, leaning forward. He may not show it the same way, but Nathan knows my devastation too. He tries to carry it for me.

  I take a sip of my juice, the sour taste stinging my tongue. I swallow it down. “I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t know who that was this morning.”

  The real Wes would have asked someone to move so he could sit next to me. He would have made a show of it—completely fine with his affection. A Wes who doesn’t smile at me is something different entirely. And we know what it means: He’s forgotten me.

  Around us, the courtyard is buzzing, other people going about their lunch period, their day seemingly unaltered by the aftermath of The Program. Tears tickle my cheeks, and I wipe them away quickly.

  “Tatum,” Nathan says, “I know this is hard, but you have to pull yourself together. I just . . . I don’t want you to get caught up in it. You were getting better,” he adds, then looks at Foster. “Wasn’t she getting better?”

  Foster opens his mouth to answer, but I’m quick to cut him off. “No, I wasn’t,” I say. “And you both know it.”

  They exchange a look, and Foster widens his eyes and picks up his Tupperware and fork, stabbing his pasta salad.

  “Okay,” Nathan concedes. “Then you were good at pretending. And as the counselors say, that’s part of it. Believing it can get better. I think you started to believe it.”

  “Then you’re an idiot,” I s
ay.

  “And you’re being an asshole,” Nathan replies just as quickly. I’m not offended—I know I’m projecting my frustration, my hurt, onto him.

  As if he can’t stand to listen to us argue, Foster shoves a large bite of food into his mouth and then snaps the lid on his Tupperware to set it aside. “You two are pretty intense for a Tuesday afternoon,” he says. “How about we try some deep breathing?”

  Nathan ignores him and packs up his lunch before standing to face me. His eyes weaken when he looks me over. “I’m sorry I called you an asshole,” he says sincerely. “But I won’t indulge your misery. You forget who had to pick up your pieces last time.”

  Foster comes over to put his hand on Nathan’s chest, leaning in to whisper, “We should really work on those apology skills.”

  But Nathan isn’t in the mood to joke around. He steps out of Foster’s reach. “Digging into the pain isn’t healthy,” Nathan says to me. “It isn’t safe. If you want to be alone right now, fine—clearly you want to be. When you’re ready to have an actual conversation, then come find me.”

  “Nathan,” Foster says, as if he’s still being too harsh, but he doesn’t stop him from walking away. I don’t ask Nathan to wait—not that he paused long enough for me to try.

  Foster turns back to me, caught in the middle. “He’s just worried,” he says.

  “I know,” I reply. “And don’t tell him, but he’s right—I was getting better. Or at least I was trying to.”

  “I hate when he’s right,” Foster mutters.

  I sniff a laugh. “Yeah, me too.”

  Foster reaches into his lunch bag to take out a cookie. He offers it to me, but I wave it off. He takes a bite, and we both watch Nathan cross the grass to go sit with Jana Simms.

  Jana’s new this year, sporty-cool in a way I could never be. From what little we’ve said to each other, she seems nice enough. Nathan swears there’s nothing between him and her, but she’s the first person he runs to whenever he wants to get away from me.