The Program (The Program #1)(70)

I shake my head, trying to relax the tension that is now squeezing my shoulders. “That’s okay,” I say. “I doubt he’s my type.”

Lacey snorts. “How would you know? I’m sure they’ve wiped out your dating history, too.”

She’s right. I don’t know anything about myself anymore. I don’t even know if I’ve had a boyfriend before.

“Maybe you like dudes on motorcycles.” Lacey grins. “Or supernerdy guys.” She giggles, but it’s deep and throaty. “I’ll tell you one thing, now that I’m free to date, I’m going to try all thirty-one flavors. It’s like I have a clean slate. I’m a born-again virgin.”

“Just remember that some of those thirty-one flavors will be disgusting,” I say. “Like, who would be the pistachio cream?”

Lacey smiles. “Already had him.”

I laugh again, shaking my head. “Have you ever asked anyone about your past? About who you dated before?”

Lacey seems to freeze at this. “I did actually, and my parents nearly died when I brought it up. They wouldn’t tell me a thing. Everyone else ignored the question because they didn’t want to get flagged. You know that, right? If anyone tells you about who you were, what you did before The Program, they can get flagged or arrested for messing with a returner.”

I lower my eyes, the thought troubling me. The fact that The Program has such complete control of what and who we’re exposed to.

Lacey continues. “After all the strained glances between my parents, I finally just went to search my room, looking for anything—a picture, a birthday card. But it’s all gone. Probably a good thing, though. I mean, how healthy could my past relationships have been if I was suicidal?”

She has a valid point. “Still,” I say, “I’d like to know. Just seems weird that other people can know and not tell me.”

Lacey pushes her lunch bag away and levels her stare at me. “It is weird. And trust me, it doesn’t get any less weird. But there are a lot sick people out there. You and me, we’re not like them anymore. Sure, I get a little irritated when I can’t remember something, but I’m not trying to slash my wrists, either. The Program worked. For better or for worse. Truly,” she says, looking down. “I’m not sure which it is.”

The expression that crosses her features is one of regret with a touch of sadness. I glance over at Kevin, hoping he hasn’t noticed Lacey’s change, but he’s watching us. He’s clearly seen.

“I did meet a guy while I was at The Program,” I offer, completely downplaying how complicated my and Realm’s relationship was to make it sound like gossip. With that, Lacey’s lips twitch with a smile.

“Really, now? That is scandalous, Sloane. A boyfriend?”

“No. Just a friend.” Lacey crinkles her nose as if I’ve disappointed her. “But,” I add, “he was the type of friend I’d sometimes kiss.”

The bell rings overhead, and I straighten, glad I snapped her out of whatever she was thinking about. She smiles broadly at me.

“I have to go,” she says, standing. “My chem teacher is giving me a hell of a time about not catching up. Maybe she’ll eventually take the hint that I hate science and have no plans to ever catch up.” She sighs and then waves before turning to leave.

I wait a minute, still taking in what Lacey had told me about being monitored, about nobody telling us who we used to be. I thought being clearheaded would help me figure stuff out, but instead it’s only made it more confusing. Just then Kevin appears at the end of the table.

“Do you monitor me when I don’t know?” I ask quietly.

“Yes.”

Tiny pinpricks of realization slide over my skin, and I nod, acknowledging that I heard him. It’s a helpless feeling.

“But . . . ,” he continues, “I try not to notice when you break the rules—like slipping out of the Wellness Center when you think I’m not looking.”

“Oh.” I feel exposed, but it also affirms to me that Kevin isn’t the bad guy. At least not that I can tell. And if Realm sent him, I should trust that. I should trust Realm.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE MINUTE I GET HOME FROM SCHOOL, I RUN TO my bedroom and begin searching. The place still looks mostly the same as I remember it, except maybe a little cleaner. Although I can tell that things are missing, I have no idea what they could be. I open drawers, push aside the new clothes in my closet, but there are no hints that I ever had a social life. Either I was a nobody, or I had to have the people around me erased.

“Damn it,” I say as I slam the drawer closed. I just wanted something—anything—to give me a clue to what I was like before. I take a minute to look around, see if I missed anything, when I hear my mother call me from downstairs.

“Sloane,” she says. “Dinner.”

I head for the door, disturbed that I didn’t find anything—not even a picture. It’s like someone came in here and swept it all away. What worries me most is the idea that I was ever sick enough to be sent away in the first place. It doesn’t seem possible.

My father is working late, so it’s just my mother and me. I poke at the fried potatoes on my plate. I want to ask her about my past, but I’m afraid that she won’t tell me . . . and that she will. What if knowing really will make me sick again?