The Remedy (The Program 0.5)(56)

“You know Deacon dates other girls, right?” I ask, maybe sounding a little jealous myself.

“I know Deacon pretends to date other girls,” he corrects. “He hasn’t hooked up with any of them. And believe me, he’d tell me.”

I scoff. “What, then?” I ask. “Are they off playing Scrabble all night?”

“Doubtful,” he says with a laugh. “But he likes their attention; he likes your attention to their attention. Then he drives them away, long before his tongue ever touches theirs.”

“Gross.”

“But accurate,” he says. “So rationalize all you want, little closer, but your not-so-ex-boyfriend is saving himself for you, even if he doesn’t tell you. But I think you already know. And I think that’s why you feel so guilty for playing house with Isaac Perez.”

“Oh, shut up,” I say. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“I saw you with him. We’ve been at this a long time. I’m just worried what you’ll take away from this assignment, life klepto. I hope it’s not his virginity.”

“I doubt that’s still intact, but I assure you I won’t find out.” We get quiet for a moment, the reality of our situations sinking in. “I do think about it sometimes, though,” I say quietly. “What it would be like to live like this—to have a family. Regular life.”

“Isn’t that the biggest danger?” Aaron asks. “The fact that we get to see what normal is like. Only to realize it’s not normal at all. These people hired us to fill in their grief. Never forget the truth, Quinn. They don’t love you. They love who you used to be.”

“I remember,” I say, glancing down at the pages lying on the bed. From beyond the door I hear my mother say my name. “I should go,” I tell Aaron, sitting up. “Call me when you find out more about Virginia.”

“I will,” he says. “And, Quinn . . . stay safe.”

I thank him just as my mother opens the door. I quickly pull the phone from my ear, and covertly slide the pages under my pillow. I smile politely and see my mother’s eyes flash with curiosity.

“Isaac,” I lie, motioning to the phone. “How’s Angie?” I attempt to distract her, relieved when I see that it works.

“She’s good.” My mother smiles. “In fact, I was coming to see if you wanted a sandwich. Maybe help me cut some vegetables for dinner? Your sister’s going to join us.”

My stomach turns abruptly. “Oh . . . that’s great.” Although I’m not sure if I’m ready for the emotional abuse Angie will want to hurl in my direction. “Yes,” I continue with fake enthusiasm. “I’d love to help.”

I climb up from the bed, checking back once to make sure the pages are safely hidden, and follow my mother from the room to assist with dinner. I’ve already lost my appetite.

* * *

My sister sits across from me at the table, her thin arms crossed over her chest. She glares at me, disturbed by my presence. No one has said a word since we sat down. My mother sets a plate of pork chops in the center of the table, the sweet scent of apples wafting up from the glaze that I helped her make. My father tells her it looks great, and stabs one with his fork to plop it onto his plate. Angie doesn’t make a move for the food. Neither do I.

Finally my sister groans and looks at my father. “You’re seriously going to let her stay?” she demands. My composure cracks, but I see my mother’s face twist with agony and pull it back. The last thing my mother wants is a reminder of how not happy our family really is.

My father doesn’t react so abruptly, though. He folds his hand in front of him, looking kindly at my sister. “Angie,” he starts, but she’s already scoffing.

“You always liked her better,” she says bitterly, tossing her napkin onto the table. “You even like her impostor better.”

“Angela!” he snaps, his booming voice sucking the air of the room. My sister wilts under his authority, and even my pulse has skyrocketed. A moment passes, and my father unfolds his hands, seeming to know the effect of his tone. “This is part of the process,” he says in a quieter voice. “You haven’t been here.” He meets her eyes, and I observe their interaction, tense but ultimately concerned for each other. “We’re suffering,” he says, cracking over the words. “And having . . . your sister here is helping.”

Angie flinches as if he’s slapped her. She leans in to the table, her eyes wild. “That is not my sister,” she says. “She’s a counselor, or an actor, or God knows what. You bought her,” she says, shooting me a hateful glare. “And if you and Mom don’t realize how twisted that is, then you really do need to be in therapy.”

“Angela,” my mother scolds. “How dare . . .” But she can’t finish her sentence. She dissolves into tears and covers her face with her hands. I immediately reach for her and my sister jumps up so quickly, I think she might attack me.

“Stay away from her!” she shouts, rounding the table to stand next to my mother. She puts her arm around her and my mother turns her face in to Angie’s side, sobbing. My father is quiet, staring down at his food.

But I’m hurting too. I feel my own body weaken with the rejection and hatred. There’s a flicker of recognition in Angie’s eyes when she looks over at me, like maybe she’s almost sorry. I’m numb as I stand from my spot at the table.