Scripted (14 page)

• • •

My bike ride to school feels like flight. I barely have to push the pedals. The sky is cloudless. Must be natural, not scripted, since I didn't hear the helicopters last night, and I was up past midnight, thoughts racing. I had received the Missive confirming my conversation with Callen in the garden counted toward fulfilling the suggestion, then I got a second Missive inviting me to a Makeup Session at the Center on Thursday.

I'm unstoppable,
I think as I breeze into Bliss High, grinning all through my morning chat with Lia and Selwyn at our lockers.

“What's gotten into you?” Lia asks. She's brushing her hair in front of her locker mirror. Selwyn starts humming again.

“Nothing,” I sing. I squeeze my face next to hers, trying to get a closer look at my own hair, which I'd braided this morning.

“There's not really room for two,” she says, closing the locker.

“Okay,” I reply, not wanting to start an argument. I do a quick scan of the hall, searching for Callen. I walked away out of guilt yesterday, but I'm ready to continue our conversation now. I want to tell him that I'm shy, not mysterious. The bell rings, though, before I find him.

The day zooms by, and soon it's nearly lunchtime and I'm back at the lockers with Selwyn, who's been in a bad mood all day.

“I wish I had a crush. That's so sweet, Callen helping his mother with her garden and you joining in,” she says, pulling at the collar of her black turtleneck. It's too hot for it, but I guess she wanted to stick with
voxless,
and it was the only black she had. “I'll never have anything like that.”

I guess she and Garrick didn't rekindle anything. “It was nice,” I allow, not wanting to encourage her self-pity. Over her shoulder, a cricket with a camera approaches us. I recognize her from the aquarium.

“We'd like a reenactment,” she says. This time I understand her right away. “Starting with ‘I wish I had a crush.'”

Selwyn nods, repeating the line to me. We do the scene over and over again, and I'm happy to do it, sunnily delivering my lines.

When it's over and the crickets have left, Selwyn and I finish putting our book bags in our locker, and I notice a note, folded into a triangle, at the bottom of my locker. Someone must have slipped it through the grate.

“Just a minute,” I say, kneeling. I unfold the note and squint in the locker's darkness. My body shelters it from the cameras behind me and the one inside the locker can't crane down. Scoop's handwriting.
I think you're right. Come to the Sandcastle with me?

I do want to know what's in that stone building, but getting in is a whole other level of dangerous. I stare at the note for a second, all the shock of his aunt Dana's theory returning, pummeled by images of Revere and Belle, and even the father I don't remember, chained to hospital beds.
But Ms. Cannery
did
have an active imagination.
I crumple up the note and put it in my pocket. I've already done a lot for Scoop.

“Okay, let's go.” I stand, and we head to the cafeteria.

Selwyn stares listlessly at the food, not even noticing the pileup of Characters behind her as she stops the line. I grab her plate and put a hamburger on it.

“Selwyn, it'll work out,” I assure her, looking over at our table in the distance. Scoop is there. Ordinarily I'd think he was a better addition than Martin, but I sigh, knowing he's going to ask me about the note.

I straighten my shoulders as I approach the table, determined to appear unfazed by his presence. Scoop flashes me an easy grin as I sit, and continues his debate on the pros and cons of the newest model Harrow, the fancy car the Herrons recently bought, with Lincoln. Martin keeps trying to insert himself, but they deftly divert the conversation away from him.

“Henna and I are finalizing the Double A program this week,” Lia informs me. Henna sits on her other side, a silk purple scarf wrapped around her head, nodding along. “We're thinking a star by each name in the listings and then on the cover, like, a starscape, with planets and meteors. What do you think, Nettie?”

“That's like when we had to draw the solar system in third grade,” I say without thinking.

“You think it's childish.” Henna's lip curls upward.

“Yeah, thanks, Nettie,” Lia says sarcastically. “Can always trust you to speak your mind.”

“I think it's perfect for the Double A. It's important. Of cosmic significance,” Scoop says from across the table.

Lia laughs and kicks me under the table. “Talk to him,” she whispers when I look over.

I shake my head. “We're math friends,” I say to her, lowering my voice. “That's
it.
”

“Math friends. I need one of those. Oh, Nettie, guess what?” Lia says. “Lincoln's having a party Thursday night, since we have Friday off for the Flower Festival. He's calling it the Antithesis,” she explains, eyes sparkling. “So we're all going to dress the opposite of how we normally would.”

“Nettie, that dress we got on Sunday would be perfect,” Selwyn pipes up, speaking for the first time since we got to the cafeteria. I'd almost forgotten she was here.

“True,” I agree. I notice she's cut her hamburger up, but hasn't had a bite. Her hands are in her lap. “Are you okay?” I ask. “Is this about the cello?” Her eyes are shimmering—is she crying?—and she just looks at me, her lower lip quivering again. She moves her hand to her collar. “Is something wrong with your neck?” I guess. “Do you need to see a doctor?”

She starts to speak, but Scoop interrupts us. “Nettie, did you have time to take a look at that problem set I left in your locker?”

Caught. “So, Scoop,” I say, turning to him. “I can't help you with that stuff anymore. I have too much of my own homework.”

He doesn't miss a beat, just nods and bites into an apple.

Lia latches on to the conversation. “It's true. Nettie doesn't have time for private tutoring anymore now that she'll be assisting Mr. Black.”

“I understand,” Scoop says, picking up his tray and angling his head toward Terra's table. “I'm going to finish up over there. See you.”

Part of me wants to call him back and apologize.

Lia watches him, smirking. “Nettie, poor Scoop is hurt because you don't want to talk to him. I can think of some ways to make him feel better. Why don't you—”

“He'll be fine.” I pick up my burger again, but now I've lost my appetite.

The conversation takes off again as Lia discusses paper stock with Henna, and Martin and Lincoln trade Antithesis ideas. I sneak a glance at Scoop's table, long enough to see he's already immersed in conversation there. I'm not sure he can pull off getting into the Center alone. What if he gets caught? I'll feel responsible.

“Since it's the Antithesis, how about fruit juice instead of alcohol?” Martin suggests.

“Don't go overboard,” Lincoln scoffs. “It's still gotta live up to the standards of past Grayson parties, and that means booze.”

Lia chuckles, and Henna smirks. Only Selwyn doesn't react, and the food on her plate is still untouched.

“Are you upset about Garrick? What happened when you saw him?” I hiss, furious. He's done it again. This is exactly how it used to be: she'd see him, then be depressed for days.

“Not him—it's nothing,” she says, casting her eyes down to her tray.

I don't believe her. “I can't stand him,” I declare, amped up. “He's such a loser. He thinks he's so cool, that's what
makes
him such a loser. I can't believe Callen was ever friends with him.”

Lia turns from her conversation with Henna. “What about Callen? Have you been talking to him?” she interjects. Selwyn picks up her fork and stabs into her hamburger, relieved the attention's off her.

“I saw him last night while I was helping out in his mom's garden,” I say. I need to get out of this. “By the way, I think you should go with the high-quality paper. The programs are meant to be saved.”

“I agree.” Henna tucks an errant lock of hair back underneath her turban in one swift motion. “It's just a matter of persuading the rest of the committee.”

“Of course.” Lia nods, but her eyes wander back to me, and I know she's dying to ask me more about my conversation with Callen.

I stand abruptly, nearly knocking my chair down, and mumble something about needing fruit.

At the counter, I grab an orange and roll it in my hands, watching the cafeteria. I'm not ready to go back to the table and face Lia. Does she even have to be involved?
She's
not dating him anymore.

“Nettie, hey.” Callen comes up to me. Only a few inches separate us, and I can smell that soap he uses, with woodsy undertones. “I took a look at that book you gave me.”

“
Blissful Nature
? What'd you think?” The words come out smoothly enough. I feel less nervous here than at his house.

“I liked it,” he says. His hands are empty, I realize. He doesn't seem to be here to do anything but talk to me. I'm not going to run away from him like I did last night. I can't stay worried about Lia forever. “It inspired me. I'm going to skip the Flower Festival and spend the day in the Brambles instead. Some nature might be nice after the party.”

“You mean the Antithesis? You're going?” I say, glancing back at my table. Lia locks eyes with me. I hesitate, the guilt rising again. My hand rises, about to scratch behind my ear, but I resist the urge. Callen knows about the signal now.

“For sure. You are too, right?”

“Definitely.” I toss the orange from hand to hand, and he steals it in a flash, smiling. I try to snatch the orange back, but he steps out of my reach, smile growing wider. Rawls's voice calls him back from across the cafeteria.

“Here,” he says, handing me the orange before he goes. I watch him walk back, waiting to calm down before going to my own table.

I sit down and dig my Temptress Tin nails into the tough orange skin. Selwyn's knee bumps into mine under the table. “I saw you two up there,” she whispers, the most lively she's been all lunch. “He likes you.” I put my fingers to my lips warningly.

Lia watches me peel the orange. “What were you guys talking about?”

“Nothing, just, um, I lent him this book.”

“That so?” Her eyes are hard and flinty.

“He's coming to the Antithesis,” I add. I can't tell if she's digging because she's suspicious or because she thinks it's what the Audience wants. She chose Callen to be her boyfriend for ratings, and she'll make the most of him being her ex-boyfriend for the same reason.

“Of course he is,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Callen pretends he's above it all, but he loves being surrounded by trac groupies at parties.” My heart falls. Like all of Lia's bitchy comments, the sting comes in there being an iota of truth. But I let it go. I'll let him show me what he's there for instead of having her tell me.

I've never been
at the Center this late. In the darkness, I keep stepping right into the litter that I'm always so careful to avoid during my daytime trips for Character Reports. Dozens of the Authority pass by for what I guess must be a shift change, marching into a concrete barracks. I duck across the road and out of their way.

I pass the apartment buildings on my way to the Character Relations offices and smell roasting meat. Smoke eddies up into night sky, and out by the pool I see a grill glowing and the dark forms of Reals doubled over with laughter. Bottles clink amid carefree howls and exuberant conversation. A splash as a flabby Real cannonballs into the pool.

Their frivolity sounds menacing to me, as if they're just minutes from rioting. I cross the road and climb the stairs to the fourth floor of the Character Relations Building. Dr. Kanavan is at the head of the stairs, her blond curls drawn in her usual loose bun.

“Welcome, Nettie. I won't be leading this Session, but I design the curriculum, and it will take place in my office.” She guides me down the dimly lit hall, white lab coat swishing as she leads me into her office and has me sit on a stainless-steel table.

“Your skin has improved,” she observes, her finger at her chin.

“Thanks, I've been better about the Skin Sequence,” I say proudly.

“Yes, yes, it's about time. I'll let Til know you're here.” She leaves, and, alone, I examine my surroundings. The shining scale. The calendar and the X's counting down to her next furlough. Zenta. Where the Patriots aren't.

A white shade lifts in the breeze at the far corner of the room.

I can't pass up the opportunity. I know I'll get a better view of the Sandcastle from up here than from the second-floor producers' offices. I dash over to the window and poke my head around the shade, heart beating fast.

Since the Sandcastle is set farther down the hill leading to the beach, I can see directly into what appears to be a well-lit courtyard.

Swirling shadows punctuated by beams of high-intensity spotlights reveal sweaty, bedraggled faces. Faces I recognize.

Patriots.

They're running laps around the courtyard. It's some kind of obstacle course laid out around the central square of grass. A few Authority are in the middle of the square, watching. What had Scoop's aunt said?
Fitness results.
Vaulting over hurdles, crawling through a mud pit, swinging on monkey bars. They pass directly under a glaring light, and one by one, I recognize them.

First I pick out a nurse who worked with Selwyn's mother, cut a season ago. But I forget about her when I see a familiar face, now thin and hollowed. Hazel eyes stare out dully from behind her crooked tortoiseshell glasses. Her hair is short, in a buzz cut. Belle. She moves by, shrouded in darkness. In the center, a cricket's drilling them, though I can't hear what he's saying.

One Patriot separates from the rest, stumbling forward and grasping a lamp pole. I gasp—it's Revere, retching. His ponytail is shorn, and he has bristly porcupine hair now, just like Belle. His hands are on his knees as vomit spatters his fatigues. He looks up and squints, his gray eyes widening with surprise.
Does he see me? No, he can't.
But he lifts his hand in a saluting sort of motion that I think is a wave hello, and I lift mine in response. He smiles feebly.

I hear heels coming down the corridor, so I release the shade and hoist myself onto the examination table with shaky hands. The Real who walks in bumps into a cabinet and apologizes profusely in a helium-high voice. She reminds me of the way Witson acted at Fincher's, when he'd skulk around, trying to see me.

“I'm Til,” she says. She's short, her elfin face swallowed by voluminous chestnut hair. She has smooth, cinnamon-colored skin.

“Hi, Til,” I respond, my voice robotic. Why would they get them in shape before medical experiments? That doesn't make sense. What I saw would weaken them, not make them better subjects. Unless being put through those maneuvers is part of the test.

“I'm here to show you how to apply makeup in a way that will make the cameras love you even more,” she warbles.

I picture the Patriots in their camouflage—like they're in the army and they're being trained. How does the Contract put it?
Enlisted in the service of Media1.
Just like you would enlist into an army . . . but why would Media1 have an army? They're a television company.

Til goes over to the corner, regulation purple jumpsuit scratching. She walks back to me, pushing a rolling mirror. She positions the mirror in front of me, then presents me with a white-and-pink cotton bag. “These will be your instruments. The tools to make you beautiful!” She has trouble meeting my gaze straight on.
Is she starstruck?
Lia always complains about the Reals being nervous around her. Is this what it's like?

“I can't wait,” I say, forcing myself to smile. What was the word Scoop's aunt had used?
Batch.
They send them out in batches. The latest batch is outside now? I catch myself looking over at the blocked window again, and I take a deep breath and try to focus on the makeup.

Til pulls out a tube from her teaching kit. “This is your lipstick. Take out the identical one in your bag.”

I've used makeup before, but under Til's tutelage, I learn how to maximize its effectiveness. For instance, I should also be using lip liner and powder when I put on lipstick, to make the color last longer.

Til leads me through tips and tricks with mascara, foundation, blush, and eyeliner. By the end, I can see that my face does look more camperf.

“Love it,” Til squeaks. “Do you like your new face?”

“It looks really nice,” I say. Not a lie. I have more defined cheekbones and my oft-lamented muddy brown eyes have a new depth to them, framed by eyeliner and eye shadow. Wiser. Older. I draw back, wondering if it's the makeup or if what I saw aged me. Is this who the Audience always wanted?

“You're going to wow them at the party tonight.” Til smiles.

The party. Scoop will be there—I can tell him what I saw.

“Are you finished?” Dr. Kanavan asks primly from the doorway. “I need to get out of here,” she says with a yawn, bringing the back of her hand to her mouth demurely. She doesn't wait for us to answer, just walks in and pulls the mirror back into place. Til gathers up her supplies and bounds out of the room. I linger, packing up my new makeup bag slowly.

I watch Dr. Kanavan tidy up errant files on her desk and think about our relationship. I've listened to her brag about her vacations. Tried to please her with my weight and my skin, like an obedient puppy. I've always been eager to prove how stoic I could be with the vaccination sequence. I've spent a lot of time trying to make everyone at Media1 happy.

She reaches for the television, then remembers I'm still here. She turns and faces me, finger poised over the on button. “Don't you have a party to get to?”

“That's right,” I say, jumping off the table and grabbing my book bag off the floor. “Thanks for
everything,
” I mutter as I leave, but the noise from the television masks my sarcastic comment.