The Complication (The Program #6)(4)

Out of some sense of politeness, though, I smile a hello to him. He doesn’t return it. His dark eyes are in shadows, his lips curved, like there’s a joke I don’t see. His gaze is cold fingers tracing up my spine, wrapping around my neck. The look is familiar and predatory. I shiver and walk faster, holding my breath until I’m past the hallway and he’s out of sight. I nearly run into a freshman, who skirts around me to get to class.

I’m suddenly afraid to be in the hallway alone. It’s impossibly quiet. I hurry toward the office and rush inside the lobby. Dr. Wyatt and Wes are nowhere in sight, and the attendance clerk is talking to another student. I take a seat, my heart racing, and remember something Foster mentioned a few weeks ago: embedded handlers.

Foster Linn has been one of my best friends since junior high, and sadly, horrifically, his brother died from complications of Program crashbacks—something that’s been happening to returners at an increasingly alarming rate.

Shortly after Sebastian’s death, Foster began to tell me and Nathan that there were handlers still watching us, even though The Program was gone. I doubted his theory, attributing it to his grief. Maybe I didn’t want to admit that it was possible. But I should have known that in this world, anything is possible.

With that on my mind, I think about the way Derek looked at me. It was like he knew me. Knew about me. The idea that he actually might terrifies me.

I take out my phone and text Foster, my thumbs shaking as they pass over the keys.

Foster won’t be happy to hear from me right now; he has the flu, leaving him paler than usual. But I’m glad he isn’t here today, because Foster has the ability to see through all of my bullshit—through anyone’s bullshit. He would have figured out what Nathan told me, and then he would have figured out that I didn’t remember The Program. Who knows what would have happened after that.

Hell, I might have to avoid him until I figure out how to cope better. Or at least become a better liar like the rest of them. Luckily, I can be more evasive over text.

You awake? I write.

No, Foster texts back, and I smile. I check to make sure the clerk is still distracted and respond.

You seem better. Actually, what do you know about Derek Thompson? I ask.

Uh . . . not much, Foster responds. He used to be in The Program. Why?

I can still feel Derek’s eyes on me as I start to tell Foster what happened. Just saw him in the hall, I text, and he was staring at me.

Wow, super ego. I’m assuming it’s more than that for you to text me on my deathbed, Foster writes.

It was the WAY he stared at me, I clarify. Is it possible . . . My thumbs pause on the keys, and I’m not sure I want to continue with the question. I push forward. Is it possible Derek is a handler? I ask.

A response bubble pops up immediately and then disappears. It does that several more times, no actual words appearing. I glance up and notice the clerk watching me, the student who was there before me now gone.

“May I help you?” she asks.

I quickly stash my phone in my backpack and cross to the desk. The attendance clerk waits for me to speak with a bored expression. I want to come right out and ask if she’s seen Weston Ambrose, but before I can, the inner office door opens, and Dr. Wyatt steps out.

I put my hand on my cheek in an attempt to shield my face, but it doesn’t work.

“Miss Masterson,” Dr. Wyatt calls suspiciously. “I was just coming to look for you.”

Her comment shocks me, and I have to gather myself before turning to her. “I’m not feeling well,” I say, trying to add exhaustion into my voice. “I came in to call my pop.”

Dr. Wyatt watches me carefully and then takes a step closer. Examining me. “Headache?” she asks. And the question is loaded with assumptions, the beginning of a cross-examination.

She must know that returners suffer from headaches. Being a monitor, she probably knows more about aftereffects than I do.

“No,” I say, and place my hand over my stomach. “Cramps.”

She smiles, but I get the feeling that she can see straight through my lie. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, pushing open her office door. “This won’t take long.”

My lips part, and I see Wes sitting on the chair in front her desk, seeming deeply annoyed. I’m about to make an excuse, but the expression on Dr. Wyatt’s face leaves no room for argument. I walk toward her office.

The phone on the clerk’s desk rings, and after she answers it, she calls to Dr. Wyatt. Irritated, the monitor tells me to have a seat in her office. I go inside, and when he sees me, Wes smiles broadly like we’re old friends. It’s an arrow into my heart, throwing off my balance. Although I came looking for Wes, now that he’s here, I can’t find the right words. I don’t know if there are any.

“This Dr. Wyatt is really infringing on my education,” Wes says. “I hope she’s going to provide private tutoring.” He acts like this is all a big joke, but the expression on my face must alarm him, because his smile fades.

“Don’t worry,” he says. “They can’t expel us for sitting in English class.”

I’m reminded that he has no idea the gravity of this world, how quickly things can go very wrong. I can’t believe he’s talking to me; I can’t believe I have to act like I don’t know him. It’s unnatural. And it’s painful.