“No,” I say, and Nathan agrees. “I haven’t seen Derek.” I pause. “You really think he’s a handler?” I ask.
“Anyone can be,” Foster says, examining the cookie I gave him. “Even those close to us.”
“I don’t know if I’d sayanyone,” Nathan argues. His voice has a hitch in it, and Foster smiles, shaking off the moment.
“Right,” he says. “Only the really creepy people.”
“Well,” I say. “Nathan and I are going to the Adjustment office later today. We’re going to confront Dr. McKee in person. He’ll probably lie, but at least he’ll have to do it to my face. And I’ll be able to tell.”
Nathan scrunches up his nose and looks sideways at me. “Really, though?” he says. “You’re not the best judge of character.”
“What?” I say. “I’m a great judge.”
“I agree with Tatum,” Foster says. “I mean... she is here with us.”
Nathan smiles to himself, and then he picks up a can of soda, pops the top, and hands it to me. “She’s making better decisions every day.”
CHAPTER TWO
I SORT OF FLOAT THROUGHthe rest of the day, nervous about going to the Adjustment office after school, but comforted by my low-stress lunch. Having friends is powerful—knowing you have people to watch out for you. In the days of The Program, it was the best defense a person could have. Obviously, it didn’t always work (I’m the perfect example of that), but it kept the dark hours at bay. I’m lucky that I have both Nathan and Foster. Right now, it makes me feel a little invincible.
When I get to my last class of the day, the teacher tells us we’re going to the library. A few people boo, not wanting to do any research, but I don’t mind. I grab my stuff and head over there.
The library is quiet today, even with my entire class there. The librarian is hanging in her office, occasionally looking out at us. She seems worried, and I wonder if she’s having personal problems.
I take a spot at the table and run my gaze down the assignment sheet. We’re supposed to collect firsthand stories throughout history and write a paper about how historical events were viewed from different perspectives. It’s interesting—and, dare I say, educational.
I leave my backpack at my chair and walk into the stacks, trying to find a nonfiction book from World War II. I locate the section, and when I pull the book off the shelf, I notice someone in the row with me. I look up, surprised when I find it’s Wes.
“Hey,” I say, swallowing hard. “What are you doing here?”
“Apparently, I have four term papers to make up, so they gave me a pass out of my last class to work in here. You?”
“Research report.”
Wes comes to stand next to me, examining the section of books that I’m picking through. “Look at us,” he says. “A couple of smarties.” He glances over and smiles, his dimples flashing adorably.
“Ha. Yeah, I guess.” I put back the first book I grabbed and select another. Wes shifts, and his arm grazes mine.
“What was up with the cryptic good-bye text?” he mentions casually, and runs his finger down the spine of a book on the shelf. “You could have woken me up when you left.”
My heartbeat quickens. “You looked tired,” I say. We’re quiet for a moment, and I’m afraid to turn to him. The silence between us feels intimate, much like it did last night.
“I was worried,” he says, taking a book and flipping through the pages to examine the pictures, fidgeting. “Thought maybe I came on too strong.”
“No,” I say. “It’s not that.”
He clears his throat and puts the book back on the shelf. He moves down a little bit, and the sudden absence of his body heat sends a chill over my arm. “You meant what you said about being friends,” he murmurs. “Is that it?”
Of course that’s not it, but it’s the way it has to be. Anything more is cruel to both of us.
Be better,I tell myself.
“Last night was a mistake,” I say, clutching the book I was holding to my chest. “Friends don’t really... share a bed.”
“They probably shouldn’t,” he agrees.
I start to explain that I still think he’s great (not the best answer), when Wes cuts me off, sounding unbothered.
