The Treatment (4 page)

My stomach is still twisted from thoughts of Roger, and I dump Dallas’s coffee down the sink and rinse out the cup before setting it in the strainer. When I was in The Program, Roger propositioned me. He asked me for a kiss in exchange for a pill that would save one memory. His touch, his taste—I don’t think I’ll ever forget it. I cried the entire time his hands were on me, his mouth on mine. Just thinking of it now, I feel a shiver of helplessness and I wrap my arms around myself. The things he would have done given the chance. But I had Realm. He kept me safe from Roger, breaking his arm and getting him fired. No one saved Dallas.

The bleakness of our situation—on the run with nowhere else to go—is not lost on me. But at least we’re free. There are no handlers tying us down. There are no doctors interfering with our memories. In a way, we’re lucky. As I look around at the small room, our dire straits, I try to remind myself of that. We’re lucky to be alive.

*  *  *

“Why do I smell soap?” James murmurs from the bed when I enter the room. He turns and looks over at me, blinking heavily with the drowsiness of sleep. “And coffee?” he asks. “Dear God, Sloane. Do you have coffee?”

I grin. “Are you going to be sweet to me?”

“Are you kidding? I’ll kiss you right now if you have coffee. And, baby, if you have a cheeseburger, I’ll get down on one knee.”

I laugh and hold out a cup to him. James climbs out of bed, yawning loudly. He reaches to take a strand of my still-damp hair. “It’s curly,” he says, raveling it around his finger. “And clean. How’d you manage that?”

“I showered,” I say like it’s a huge achievement.

“Fancy.”

“Next time I might try to get my hands on some styling products.” Without a blowdryer and straightener, my hair has been getting curlier by the day. Makes sense considering there are old photos hanging on my parents’ living room wall of me with ringlets.

“Okay, cover girl.” James sips and then makes a face before setting his cup on the dresser. “Horrible coffee.”

“Yeah, and I couldn’t find any creamer.”

James stretches as he takes in the room. “So we’re really here. Find out anything interesting while you were out getting pretty and ruining coffee?”

“I had a long talk with Dallas,” I say, feeling like I’m betraying
her for even mentioning it. James crosses the room and starts sorting through the bag of clothes.

“Any hair-pulling?”

“Not yet,” I say. “I think I’m starting to understand her. I also think she may have a tiny crush on you.” James shrugs apologetically, and I go to wrap my arms around him from behind, resting my chin on his shoulder. “No idea what she sees in you,” I whisper.

“Me either.” James spins me, and then I’m pinned against the concrete wall. “I thought you were the only one delusional enough to be with me.”

“Oh, I am,” I say, licking my lips. “So I wouldn’t bother with those other girls. Out of your league.”

“Mm . . . hmm.” James kisses me, and my pulse climbs as his hand glides up my back toward my bra clasp.

There’s a soft knock at the door, and I groan. “Don’t answer it,” James says, kissing my jaw, then over to a spot near my ear. I smile, letting him get in a few more kisses before I finally push him back.

“It’s not like they don’t know we’re in here.”

“We’re busy,” he calls out, and then tries to kiss me again.

“I need to talk to you guys,” Lacey calls from the other side of the door.

James stops, concern crossing his features when he glances at the entrance. Then to cover it, he looks me up and down, false confidence filling in his worry. “We’re not done with this, Barstow,” he says, then heads for the door. I pick up his coffee
and take a sip, scrunching my nose at the bitter taste. James lets Lacey in, and the minute I see her, my stomach drops.

“What’s wrong?” I ask. She doesn’t answer right away. She goes to sit on the bed, resting her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. Her red hair is slicked back and wet, and as I watch her, I can see from here how she trembles. James must notice too, because he closes the door and then comes to stand next to me, crossing his arms over his chest.

Lacey looks up suddenly. “Something’s wrong with me,” she whispers. “Can you see it?”

Her question catches me off guard, and I immediately try to normalize it. “Is it a migraine?” I ask. “Maybe we can—”

“My mother would get migraines,” she interrupts, her voice taking on a distant quality. “One time—during a really bad episode—she sat me down and told me she was going to ask my dad for a divorce. She cried until she choked on her own tears, and I kept telling her to stop before she made my father mad. Her headaches were always worse when he was angry.”

James shifts, and drops his arms. “That’s horrible. Why didn’t The Program take that memory?”

He’s right. The Program should have erased that tragic thought. Could they make mistakes like that?

Lacey continues like she didn’t hear him. “My dad came home with roses,” she says. “He took one look at my mother’s puffy face, and promptly grabbed her arm and walked out of the room. My mother never mentioned divorce again. She never smiled again either. But she had a migraine almost every day.”

A small trickle of blood begins to leak from Lacey’s nose, trailing red down over her lips before dripping onto her lap. I call her name and she reaches to touch the blood with her fingers. Her eyes begin to stream tears when she sees the crimson streaked across her hand. “Fuck,” she says, blood sputtering from between her lips.

James moves quickly, sitting next to her on the bed. “Here,” he says. “Press here.” He puts his fingers on the bridge of her nose and then guides her shaky hand to the right spot. When she’s pinching, he has her rest back against the headboard. Lacey meets his eyes with a helpless look, but James only smiles at her, smoothing her hair. “It’s just a nosebleed,” he says. “You’re going to be just fine.”

“You’re such a liar,” she whispers.

His expression doesn’t falter, doesn’t even show one crack. “Shut up. You’re fine. Say it.”

“Shut up?”

“You’re fine, Lacey.”

She closes her eyes, resigned to trusting James. “I’m fine,” she repeats.

And when James relaxes next to her, putting his arm over her shoulders so she can rest her head against him, I realize he’s the biggest liar I’ve ever known. But he does it with the best of intentions.

*  *  *

When Lacey’s nosebleed stops, she goes to wash up, not mentioning the memory that surfaced even though it shouldn’t
have. She didn’t know Roger. This is an actual memory; it’s recall. In The Program they told us too much stimulus could lead to a brain-function meltdown. Dallas mentioned it as a side effect too. I don’t want to believe anything of the sort, but at the same time, I’m terrified it might be true—our memories might kill us.

“Hey,” Cas says from the doorway, pulling me from my daze. His long hair is tucked behind his ears, and he’s wearing different clothes from earlier. “It’s four. We’re meeting up in the living room. You coming?”

“Oh . . .” I look to where James still sits on the bed, and he gives me a quick nod. “Yeah,” I say. “We’ll be right there.”

Cas glances from James to me, and his sharp jaw hardens. “Something wrong?” he asks. His voice drops a tone, and the hint of seriousness in it sounds more authentic than the let’s-all-be-best-friends guy I met this morning.

“No,” I answer quickly. “Still a little tired, I guess.”

There’s a slight pause as Cas studies our appearances, but then he smiles broadly and I can’t help thinking it’s false. “Well, you’d better hurry,” he says, casting a glance around the room. “One of the guys brought back pizza, and that kind of luxury never lasts around here.”

James crosses his arms over his chest. “Like she said,” he begins, “we’ll be out in a few minutes.”

Cas’s smile fades. “I’ll see you in a bit, then.” He starts for the door, but I see the way he takes in every aspect of our room, every object placement, as if trying to determine what’s
off about us. I don’t like how observant he is. I don’t like that he doesn’t trust us, even though we certainly don’t trust him.

What’s changed is Lacey. Something’s wrong with her, but we can’t tell the rebels until we figure out what it is. They might want to kick her out if they think she’s become infected again, or if she’s a liability. We have to protect Lacey, because in this world, you can’t know who to trust. All we have is each other.

When James and I finally get up the nerve, we go to find the others. Everyone is gathered in the main room, even a few I hadn’t seen before. But it’s how they’re dressed that really alarms me. The rebels are no longer in T-shirts or tank tops. They’re wearing black—a color rarely worn in public anymore—and their makeup is dark and dramatic, even the guys. The entire scene is so stereotypically emo that I’m utterly confused.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

Dallas smiles broadly from the other end of the table. Her dreads are pulled back behind a black headband, and she’s wearing a leather corset with red ribbons laced through the shoulders. “It’s a special night,” she says, lifting her plastic cup in cheers. “The Suicide Club just reopened.”

“THE SUICIDE CLUB?” I ASK,
glancing around the room. The others look downright gleeful, smiling and laughing, but I have a horrible feeling I’ve crossed into some hideous version of reality. “I don’t understand.”

Dallas grins, taking a long sip from her cup before answering. “We’re not going to kill ourselves, silly.”

Silly?
I wonder what’s in her plastic cup.

“It means we’re going out. You should be happy to leave this dreary place for a while.” She glances to the side. “Are you happy, James?”

There’s a pinch of jealousy. She’s not just asking if he’s happy about going out, she’s asking if he’s happy with me. James looks her over, trying to gauge the situation.

“Yes,” he answers dismissively. “Now, what exactly is the Suicide Club?”

Dallas’s smile falters slightly under the authority in James’s tone. She turns to me instead, her posture taking on an irritated quality as she sets her drink down. “You remember the Wellness Center?” she asks. “This is the opposite. It’s like a place for those of us who don’t want to wear polo shirts and khakis. For those who want to celebrate choice—the choice to kill ourselves if we damn well please.” She shrugs. “We don’t want to die, but it’s fun to explore our dark sides when the rest of the world is intent on burying it.”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard,” James says. “And it sounds dangerous.”

Dallas shakes her head. “Not even. It’s actually the safest you’ll be from The Program’s influence. You can be yourself, James. When’s the last time you were that?”

“Fuck off,” he mutters, examining a hangnail on his thumb. I can see her words hurt him and it infuriates me. James is always himself. He may not remember his life, but he wasn’t
changed
. He’s still him. That’s what I believe, anyway.

“I think we’ll pass,” I say, reaching to slip my hand in the crook of James’s elbow. “Thanks, though.”

“You’ll go,” Dallas says, then softens her voice. “You should go. It’s a great place to recruit new members. That’s where I met Cas.” She looks over at him. “You were so handsome,” she teases. “Those big brown eyes and long hair, I think I would
have brought you home even if you were depressed.”

“Let’s not share all our secrets now . . .,” Cas replies, fighting back an embarrassed smile. I can’t tell if they’ve had a thing or not, and frankly, I don’t care.

“So we’re on the run from The Program, but we’re going to a club?” James asks, pointing out the obvious flaw in this plan. “Why not just call the handlers ourselves and ask them to meet us there?”

“You’re so funny,” Dallas says with a mock laugh. “Sure, the Suicide Club has risks, but the proprietors are careful. It’s never in the same place twice—completely underground. Only those of us in the know hear about it, and even then only the day of. It’s not like they advertise.” Dallas leans her elbows on the table. “Not everyone wants to be well-behaved all the time, so they go to the Suicide Club to let loose for a while. And when it comes to rebels, this is the best place to find them. We get to see what they’re really like. We just have to pick through the really disturbed to find the fighters. Isn’t that how Realm found you, Sloane? Because of your bad attitude?”

At the mention of Realm, both James and I turn to her defensively. I don’t take Dallas’s bait. Whether her words are meant to hurt me or to come between me and James, I won’t give her any more opportunities than she already tries to take. She does hurt me though, and I try to squash the memory of Michael Realm and how desperately I miss him, worry about him. Dallas watches with a sort of satisfaction—the girl who told me her secrets is hidden behind makeup and whatever
booze is in her cup. She takes our silence as agreement.

“We leave in an hour,” she says. “I’ll get something appropriate for you to wear and I’ll send it to your room, Sloane. They won’t let us in with you looking so bland. James”—she smiles—“you’re fine the way you are.”

James and I stand there like a couple of idiots, staring at her, and Dallas goes back to laughing and drinking with the other rebels as if we don’t exist at all.

*  *  *

James looks me over skeptically. “I’m supposed to be okay with you going out like this?” he asks, rubbing his chin as he circles me. “I think I can see your womb.”

“You can not.” I laugh and turn to follow his slow assessment.

He looks at me doubtfully. “It’s short.”

“Not that short. The boots are kind of hot, though.” I lift my foot, modeling the spiked black leather boots Dallas sent over. They’re a little big, but I’m hoping that will stop them from hurting me too much.

Neither me nor James had been interested in going out, but now that I’m dressed in this short black skirt, ripped T-shirt, and enough makeup to make me unrecognizable to my family, I feel sort of . . . good. Like I can be someone else for tonight.

“With you dressed like this, I’m probably going to end up in a fight,” he says.