“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.”
CHAPTER FOUR
“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.