Scripted (11 page)

“Seems like it was best for both of you.” The closer my hand gets to his, the more still and fixed the rest of my body becomes. Focused.

“The thing with Lia was that she wanted me to be someone I wasn't,” he says, staring straight ahead at the street. “Someone who loves baseball. Someone who talks more.”

“She means well,” I say, thinking of Lia charging into my room, the Diary of Destiny swinging in her hand, full of ideas about what's best for me. I need her around, being her pushy self. Without her ideas, my mark would be way lower than 168. But Callen doesn't need her in that way.

“I know,” Callen says. “I hope she's not too hurt.” I make my hand close those last couple of inches. Our pinky fingers are touching, and he turns and looks directly at me, finally.

“I think there's spray paint in your hair,” he says. He reaches over and touches a strand lying against my cheek. His fingers graze my skin and stay there. My heart slows, and the world around me—the cars and cobblestones of Poplar Street, the rich earthy smell of the wet grass, the flowers dipping under the weight of the water—sharpens, becoming ultravivid and alive.

The screen door hits the wall, and the porch quakes. I pull back, and Callen's hand drops to his side. His father strides out of the house, holding his leather medical bag. He pauses next to the swing, to my left. I straighten up.

“Hello, Nettie.” He nods at me before addressing Callen. “Possible appendicitis,” he says. “I should be back in an hour and a half. Let your mother know.”

“Got it.” Callen lifts his index finger in acknowledgment. We watch his father go down the four steps and stroll over to the gleaming silver Harrow in the driveway, the envy of all our neighbors. My hands are in my lap now, knotting around one another, restless. The car starts up, its engine purring. I can't look at Callen. I think I've done enough, so I should just leave.

I stand. “You're right, um, this paint in my hair—I better go wash it out.”

• • •

For the first time in weeks, there's a Missive I'm happy to see.

Congratulations, Nettie Starling. You have fulfilled your suggestion for the Initiative.

You will soon receive your reward.

I wake up
at dawn, and can't go back to sleep, so I lie in bed and relive last night. Callen had touched my
face.
What would have happened if his father hadn't interrupted us? Should I have stayed?

I think I'll like being a math teacher. Eventually, Lia and I will live in that apartment downtown, and I'll walk to work every day, just like she said.

I float over to my desk to listen to the radio. I've checked it almost every day since I stumbled on the Media1 walkie-talkie channel, but all I've been able to pick up is static. I usually try at night, though, so maybe giving it a shot in the morning will help. I sit on my chair and pull my legs up, resting my chin on my knees. I pick up the receiver and tap one of the wires with the metal stick, tweaking the frequency. I think about how the same hand working on the radio touched Callen's.

I haven't kissed anyone since Witson. Callen must be a better kisser than Witson. Witson had thin lips; his upper lip was practically nonexistent.

Static roar. Nelly and George, again. I tap a new spot, then another and another. Static. I'm about to give up when I hear a more solid sound underneath the static. I press the receiver closer to my ear and hear Reals again. I strain, trying to understand them.

“They delayed my sabbatical,
again,
” a man says.

A woman responds. “Well, they say this batch needs a lot more hours, but don't worry, after they move them”—
garble, garble
—“but—”

The radio cuts out, then comes back on with the man saying, “When are they moving Stork, Cademia”—
garble, garble
—“Cannery?”

A chill runs down my spine. Those are the last names of the recent Patriots.

“Saturday, April twentieth. Then out of the Sandcastle”—
garble
—“off to the caves in the”—
garble, garble
—“survive”—
garble, garble
—“Drowned Lands.”

Static sears my ears. I set the receiver down with a clunk. The fairy-tale word again:
Sandcastle.
Loud and clear this time. Scoop was right. It's a place, and they're in there, but they don't stay there.

Out of the Sandcastle, off to the caves. Almost three weeks. April 20. The day of the Double A. I know the transmission was garbled, but it sounded like Media1 is moving the Patriots to the Drowned Lands, not to an office in Zenta. Specifically
caves
in the Drowned Lands. The place Luz said was getting more dangerous by the day.

• • •

As soon as I step inside the math classroom, Terra Chiven raises her head in triumph. She's taken my chair next to Scoop, who's bent over some papers. Actually, technically my place—the chair and desk are different. The square wooden desks and spindly chairs have been replaced with metal oblongish ones with glossy black chairs attached to them.
Voxless.
The new motif. I saw the Missive about it right before I left for school.

The motif for the seventy-third season of
Blissful Days
is
voxless
! What is
voxless
?
Voxless
is the future.
Voxless
is fragile.
Voxless
is delicate yet strong.
Voxless
clothing is sleek and glimmering.
Voxless
music is electronic and soothing.
Voxless
art relies on straight lines and dark colors.

I tied up my hair with a black bow and left it at that. Other Characters have done more—Terra's all in black; she even dug up a necklace with a piece of obsidian at the end from somewhere. I pause in the doorway, contemplating her. Normally I wouldn't care that she stole my place, but I want to talk to Scoop.

While I deliberate, Scoop looks up and sees me. “Nettie, you're out of luck,” he teases. Terra scowls. I take a deep breath and stride up to them. Terra pretends not to see me.

“Terra, actually, do you mind if I sit here today?” I keep my eyes trained on the top of her head.

She deigns to look up. “Sorry, Nettie,” she says, tossing her pigtails over her shoulder. “Scoop and I need to talk about the senior class Flower Festival float.”

“Terra, I need Nettie to help me finish last night's problem set. We'll catch up about the float after school.” Scoop flashes her a winning smile. Terra's mouth moves like she's chewing a pound of gum, but eventually she gathers her books and returns to her regular seat next to Mollie.

“The last one, seven.” He shows me his problem set, holding it up by one corner, like it's trash. “You can see I tried. I derive no pleasure from derivatives.”

I snatch the paper from him, ignoring the wordplay. I only have a few more minutes before Mr. Black gets here. “Okay. I can take you from an F to a D.”

“Whatever you can do,” Scoop says affably. I write on his paper along the x-axis, tiny letters marching like ants.
We need to talk—I heard something about the Patriots.
I pass the paper back to him, pointing with my pencil tip at my writing. He peers down closely, then writes down the y-axis:
Janitor's closet before lunch?

I read it and nod—the janitor's closet in the basement is a popular place to frall, since Media1 never fixed the sole broken camera there, and it's right next to the boiler room, excusing problems with mics.

“Plus ten,” Scoop says on-mic as I pass the problem set back to him. Then Mr. Black comes, and I forget all about the Patriots as we're whisked into the world of logarithmic functions. Eventually I get bored and start writing NETTIE + CALLEN, in bigger letters than usual in my notebook margins, heat sweeping over me as I think about what happened on the porch. The bell rings, and I leap up, slamming my notebook closed, ready to talk to Scoop.

“Nettie, can you chat for a moment?” Mr. Black calls out from his desk.

“Yes, Mr. Black?” I didn't think it would happen so soon. I straighten my tank top and walk over. Glad I did the Skin Sequence today. Obviously this scene will be broadcast.

“Nettie, I want to encourage you to apply for the math teacher apprenticeship. As we've discussed, there's a slot available, and we'd like to consider you.” He grimaces and pulls at his tie, checkered today, avoiding my eyes.

“Oh. Wow.” I clasp my hands, overwhelmed with relief. I knew it was coming, but hearing the words brings me to a whole new level of joy.

He plays with an eraser and when he speaks, his tone is solemn. “Yes. Would you like to help with my freshman geometry class next week? They'll be working on a golden ratio project.”

“Okay,” I say. He's still not looking at me.

“Plus ten,” Mr. Black says, wiping his sweaty brow with his sleeve. “Glad you'll apply, Nettie.” He sounds tired, and his chair groans as he settles back into it and begins shuffling through problem sets.

Mr. Black seems less than enthusiastic. I back away from the desk, my heart sinking. I'm guessing Media1 sent him a Missive with instructions, and he's irked because he didn't have any say and prefers Revere. The thought of Revere being anyassigned still makes me uncomfortable, especially after he worked so hard for the apprenticeship.

Scoop hovers outside the classroom, waiting for me. He cocks an eyebrow. “Ready for some fun?” he says suggestively, and he starts walking before I can respond. I glare at his back. Sometimes Characters make out in the janitor's closet. Lia says it's a thrill to kiss without the cameras. I don't plan to find out. I follow Scoop down the hall to the stairwell that leads to the basement, keeping a distance between us.

Scoop turns a knob, and we step into the dark closet, carefully navigating obstacles from memory—a row of mops here; the depression where the floor drains there. The boiler room rumbles next door, helping to mash the audiotrack. I safely reach the clear space in the back, and Scoop is right behind me.

“I don't understand any of it,” Scoop says on-mic. He continues with a cover story for Media1. It's better than making out, but not by much. “Next week, while you're taking the test, can you push your paper over a little?”

“Um, I can help you study, but I won't help you cheat,” I grumble into my mic. How bad is it for a future teacher to cheat?

He bends down and whispers, “What'd you hear?”

I stand on my tiptoes to reach his ear and whisper everything that came from the two transmissions I caught on the radio. When I say
Sandcastle,
he inhales sharply, but I keep talking, concluding with, “So I'm not so sure about the Patriots doing publicity in Zenta anymore. What did your aunt tell you? Does it match either story?”

“Not really. One day Aunt Dana was in the Character Relations lobby and overheard a cricket name a woman who'd been cut. He said that ‘this batch is weak' and that ‘they won't survive long.' Then he said that ‘one of them might not even make it out of the Sandcastle,' and another one asked about her ‘fitness results.'”

“That could mean anything,” I whisper.

“My aunt Dana was sick a lot. She said the show doctors went crazy trying to figure out what she had—they were so obsessed with health on the island, she thought maybe they were
experimenting
on the Patriots. Think about it. How else could Media1 figure out which weather chemicals are safe? Or which vaccinations work?”

“Wait, so she thought ‘they won't survive long' meant they would
die.
Because of experiments.” I shudder.

“And that ‘fitness results' was about whether the Patriots were in good enough shape to be used as subjects.”

Goose bumps rise on my arms. I'd never thought that Media1 could
hurt
us. Fine us. Make us pretend about the weather and promote products. Take us off the island. But not hurt us.

“No way. Aren't the Patriots guaranteed lodging and food provisions for their lifetimes? That's what the Contract says.”

“And that's
all
it says. There are no rules, really. My parents trusted Media1, but Belle and I thought Aunt Dana might be right.”

“Yeah, but you were kids. You probably believed in witches and ghosts too. Besides, why would they do experiments in Drowned Lands caves?”

“Maybe keeping Patriot experiments in the Drowned Lands lowers the risk of some kind of medical catastrophe if an experiment goes wrong.”

“Or they could just have more offices there,” I whisper. “I'll talk to my source again. We don't know enough yet.”

Scoop mumbles something on-mic about how he'll fail the test if I don't help him, then whispers, “Forget your source. We need to find out what's going on in the Sandcastle ourselves. You said they're moving everyone on April twentieth?”

“Yes. But we don't even know where the Sandcastle
is.
” I frown in the darkness. “I wish they would just tell us what's going on. I'm sure there are a lot of other Characters who'd like to know.”

“We'll be the first ones to find out,” Scoop whispers.

“You're going to sneak around the Center? You'll get cut if they catch you. Show Risk.”

“I don't have a choice. I have to know what they're doing to Belle, to Revere, to all of them.”

It takes me a second to realize what he just said.

“What do you mean what they're doing to Revere?” Numbness settles over me, like my body is icing over.

“You don't know? They
cut
Revere,” he says slowly, almost apologetically. “I heard the Authority got him on the Tram last night.”

“I can't
believe it,” Selwyn says. I cough in alarm, picking up the napkin next to my glass to stifle the sound.
She's going to get a huge fine.
Talking about Revere on-mic. With crickets only a few feet away, focusing on Terra's table but still within earshot.

“How could they choose Conor over Lissa to write the Double A poem?”

I put my napkin down, feeling stupid. “It'll be fine.”

“I hope so, but Conor's poems are such downers.” Selwyn pouts. “I want to be happy during the Double A.”

“If Conor does the poem, it'll probably be about all our
doomed
hopes and dreams,” Lia says. “Honestly, I didn't want him, but Henna pushed hard because they're friends, and the committee folded. She's actually quite charming when she needs to be.”

I steal a glance behind me at the misfit table before I sit. Henna, in zebra leggings again, is balancing toothpicks and forks on a saltshaker. “It won't matter. No one listens to the poem anyway.”

The last part of my conversation with Scoop is running through my head. I'd just told him all about how me and Selwyn and Lia are in the Initiative, what the suggestions and rewards have been so far, and how Mr. Black had just offered me the apprenticeship. Offered it to me only hours after the Missive about Revere. The Missive I'd missed because I'd woken up early, obsessing about Callen, and ended up heading to school before Media1 sent it.

He agreed that it couldn't be a coincidence.

“True,” Lia agrees. She's holding her head higher than usual, showing off the silver necklace on her swan's neck. How do she and Terra make the motif switch so quickly? She fusses with her tight bun, then asserts, “I wish I had a say. I think the adults trust Henna more for this stuff because she's artsy. They asked me to make the schedule, which I did, and photocopy the programs, which I don't even have to do until the night before. I want to help with the design and content of the program too, but they don't want my input. I think I should get closer to Henna if I really want my opinion to matter. I didn't sign up for this position so I could be ignored.”

No, she didn't. She was worried that there wasn't enough suspense around her apprenticeship, so she joined the committee to make sure the Audience kept watching her.

She edges over to me. “It's not your fault,” she whispers. I nod, feeling queasy.

“Guess what? An orchestra member came to our practice, and I'm sure I did better than Thora.” Selwyn smiles broadly. She sees me watching and folds her lip over her fixed tooth instinctively, then remembers the chip is gone and smiles again, brighter and broader than before, until abruptly, the smile vanishes.

Lincoln's here.

“Sit, Lincoln,” Lia chirps. “What's up?”

His shirt is buttoned wrong. His curly hair is matted, like he didn't wash it. His eyes are dull. “The ceiling,” he says, taking his seat, his movements laborious. Selwyn laughs and then becomes absorbed in cutting up her sandwich. Lincoln picks at a piece of bread. Something about his tray is different. It takes me a moment to place it. No cards. And one less seat at the table. Media1 removed it.

I stare at my plate, wondering how we're going to survive this lunch. Revere's gone, and so is the easygoing energy he brought with him. But Lia is unfazed. She gulps down Kofasip and murmurs something into her mic about how tasty it is—we got a Missive last night ordering us to do some propro for them. Selwyn follows Lia's lead, praising Kofasip like it's from heaven, but with less confidence, eyes flicking back and forth to Lincoln. I meant to ask Lia about Bek and the Sandcastle, but I feel immobilized in the face of his despair. Why are such young Characters being cut?

The situation is so tense that I'm actually relieved when Lia's ex-boyfriend, motormouth and senior class president Martin Fennel, comes over.

“Is there room for me?” he asks, sitting in Callen's old seat next to Lia without waiting for an answer. Martin is cherubic with his fat cheeks and bright eyes behind rimless spectacles. “Glad to have the chance to catch up with my favorite juniors. How's life?”

“Plus ten, Martin,” Lia answers smoothly. “We're talking about the Double A. I'm on the planning committee.”

“Ah, the good old days. I was on my year's planning committee, remember?” Martin intones. A born politician, he's careful to look at each of us in turn, but his gaze lingers on Lia. “When you're a junior, all you think about is the Double A. Now that I'm senior class president, I have to juggle a million responsibilities. I'm chairing the committee for the senior Flower Festival float, I'm on all the dance committees, and I meet with the principal once a week.”

“Wow, that is a lot,” Selwyn chimes in. “I think—”

Martin steamrolls over her. “And on top of all that, I have my apprenticeship in the mayor's office.” Martin removes his glasses, blows on them, and wipes them off with the bottom of his shirt. “It's tough holding down an apprenticeship while you're in school, keeping up with your friends, and in my case, being president of the senior class—”

“Martin, we
know
you're the president of the senior class,” Lincoln says flatly. He's expressionless, his usual sneer absent. There's a brief silence, which Martin fills with nervous giggles. Selwyn saws at her sandwich again, knife squeaking loudly against the plate. I glance at Lia, panicked. It's obvious something's off at the table, and we need to fix it before Media1 notices.

Lia jumps in and starts explaining her vision for the play. Lincoln, at least, has raised his head and seems to be listening.

I try, but my attention wanders. I count three crickets roaming the floor. I watch Characters line up to get Kofasip out of the soda machine. I look over at Callen's table and think about sitting with him on the porch yesterday.

Martin brings the conversation back to himself, so Lia turns to me while he talks to the others. “We didn't do the Diary this weekend because of the game,” she says, popping a grape into her mouth. “Bummer.”

“Yeah, too bad,” I agree, though I didn't miss doing the Diary at all. I should. It's probably good for ratings.

“It's all about word choice,” Martin proclaims. “They have to sound natural, like words Mayor Cardinal would say, but also strike the right chord with the crowd,” he continues. Lincoln's returned to a catatonic state, his hand resting on his sandwich, like he's forgotten how to pick it up and eat it.

“So, you did it, you took the suggestion?” Lia whispers, leaning close to me.

I nod. “And Mr. Black basically said the apprenticeship is mine. You're wrong. It is my fault. I think they cut Revere so I could have it.”

“The Missive said Revere was cut because of low ratings, like anyone else,” she mouths. “Anyway, you got out of Fincher's, which is amazing,” she adds, but there's a stiffness to her mouth as she speaks, and the words that come out next seem practiced. “So how was the flirting?”

I glance pointedly in the direction of the crickets, hoping Lia will take the hint and finish this conversation later. She doesn't budge, her eyes drilling into mine.

“We just talked on his porch, and I smiled a lot,” I finally whisper.

“That's all? Did he seem into it?”

“I don't know,” I mouth, uncomfortable. “I was so—so—focused on myself. It was really a nothing conversation. I was surprised it was enough.” I bump her elbow so she's aware of the crickets edging closer to our table.

“Okay,” Lia mouths. To my dismay, the crickets are now zooming in on Henna's impromptu sculpture, giving Lia another chance to frall in the clear. She slams down the rest of her Kofasip and turns back to me. “Don't talk to him anymore, okay?”

“Whoa, you're giving out suggestions now too?” I whisper, annoyed. Her lip curls back. I wasn't planning on talking to him, but her thinking she can just order me around bothers me. Our heads are right up against each other, side by side, both of us holding our hands flat against our mics. The picture of unity, but it doesn't feel that way. She stays in place, her eyes insistent. “The suggestion's over,” I say, choosing my words carefully. I haven't said I won't talk to him again.

“Plus ten,” she mouths. “Let me know when you find out what your next suggestion is. I'm sure after your scene bombs with the Audience, Media1 will change their mind about any loveplot between you and Callen. Bek actually doesn't have much faith in the Initiative.”

Bek. “Lia, about Bek—” A camera hums right behind me. The crickets are here. Filming our Revereless table. I shut up.

• • •

Anger builds in me all day. Aimed at the audience. I blame them for not watching me in the first place, which led to this mess with Revere. I don't care what everyone says—there's no way the timing of his cut was a coincidence.

When I leave school, a light rain is falling, and the anger is still with me, so I pass the bike rack and march to the theater. I need to know exactly what Bek said to Lia.

I rush into the auditorium, hoist myself onto the empty stage, push behind the velvet curtains, and emerge into the dimly lit backstage where Characters are perching on stools, chairs, and costume and prop trunks. Lia is the ringmaster at the center of their circle.

“This play is totally about becoming a whole person and how—”

“Um, Lia, can I talk to you—alone?” I interrupt.

Embarrassed, Lia shifts from foot to foot. The muffled roar of the lawn mowers is the only sound in the place, which gives me an idea.

“Is this important, Nettie, I was right in the middle of the—”

“It'll only take a few minutes,” I insist, ignoring the whispering and the disapproving huffs from Ms. Pepperidge, the Drama Club adviser.

“Okay, okay,” she says, looking around and shrugging, like
What can I do?
I lead her downstairs and out the door, veering over to the lawn. She makes a show of putting her hands over her head, as if the sprinkling of rain is too much for her to handle.

“Where do you want to meet on Sunday, for the Diary?” I improvise, speaking loudly into my mic.

“Your house,” she says, puzzled. “Is that
it
? I have a club to lead.”

“No, that's not all,” I say into my mic, mind scrambling for something better. “I was thinking of visiting your mom. Maybe having company around will help her.” The nearest lawn mower is only a dozen or so feet away and coming closer, and I touch her hand. My eyes are pleading her to understand that I need her to stay in place until they're near enough for us to frall properly.

“A visit probably won't help, but that's sweet of you, Nettie,” she says warily.

The mower comes close enough, and I whisper, “Do you think it's possible Bek lied about the Patriots doing publicity? What exactly did she tell you?”

Lia looks down. Lia, who faces everything straight-on, is cutting off the connection between us. My touch on her hand changes to an iron grip, like I can squeeze the truth out of her, but I don't need to, because I think I get it. Bek didn't lie.

Lia did.

“I'll come over around ten,” she says for the mics and then closes the space between us, whispering into my ear. A cool cucumber scent drifts over the grassy one—a new perfume for
voxless.

“Nettie—I knew you obsessed about your dad, and I thought you'd be able to focus on being a good Character if you had an answer . . . I wanted you to be happy. Does it really matter what the Patriots are doing?”

I drop her wrist. “Yes, it matters,” I mouth angrily. “You
lied
to me. About something really important.”

“Lied to help you,” she says, fingering the band around her neck. “Haven't you been happier? Why are you asking, anyway? Did Scoop put you up to this?” she mouths, glancing back to the theater. She moves her face back to the mic. “Listen, I have to go. But we'll catch up later.”

I shake my head. “Whatever,” I say, turning around.

“Nettie,” she calls as I start to walk away. “Onward through the turmoil?” she calls out, our old in-joke.

The faint desperation in her voice makes me the guilty one suddenly, so I turn back around and yell back, “Tomorrow beckons.” I'm still angry, but it seems like sacrilege to leave the line hanging.

• • •

Click-click-click-click.
My shoulders tighten as I hear the cameras in the ceiling swivel toward me. They were installed while I was at school yesterday. It's lucky they can't see what I'm thinking. Before leaving school, I tracked down Scoop and told him about Lia's lie. The look on his face was sad but not surprised . . .

Even if the Patriots aren't doing publicity, I still don't believe that Media1 is
experimenting
on them.

Ugh, I don't want to think about it.

I finish washing my hands and go downstairs, looking for something sweet before bed. Mom is at the dining room table, steam spiraling above her evening tea. A stack of paper lies by her elbow, and a newly installed 'bile unfurls from under the table and points its lens at her.

“Up late,” she mutters, reading a scrap, placing it at the bottom of the pile, then filling in a line on the grid. She's compiling requests from library customers. Books from the Sectors used to be banned, but island writers can't keep up with the demand, so Media1 decided to let in some books, though they make sure to keep out books that reveal too much about the Sectors.

“Yeah, I am.” I keep thinking about Revere. How cheerful he was. I never would have guessed he was on the E.L. The house reeked of the lavender disinfectant when I got home, but Mom seems calm enough now.

I wonder how Mom would feel about the Patriots if I told her Dana Cannery's theory. Would she be worried about my father?