Scripted (17 page)

He hops off the log. “Really?” He takes my hand in his again, and we start walking downhill along the trail toward the Brambles lake, a perfect circle with a camera-horror spigot coughing up water in the center. Not a shining moment for the crickets—it makes it obvious the lake is fake. “How'd she take it?”

“Like you'd expect. Angry, but then she calmed down, and I think she might end up, just, okay with it,” I say.

“I hope so,” Callen says, tugging me off the path and onto the grass. “Let's get closer to the water.”

We walk up to the water's edge, where pondweed and cattails burst out from under the surface. Callen points out tiny frogs hopping around, then starts to identify scores of flowers and plants.

“Wow, you know this stuff pretty well.”

“I picked it up from Mom,” he says, sitting on the grass and tugging me down next to him. “Those are called popcorn flowers.” He points to the tiny white and yellow flowers crowding around a tree trunk.

“Plus ten,” I say, and the flowers are nice, but I'm more interested in how much he likes them. “Can't you apply for an apprenticeship that's environment related? Like your mom? Hey, wait”—I get excited—“isn't there a park ranger slot?”

He shrugs. “Dad wants me to do baseball.”

I picture Mr. Herron in the brand-new Harrow that they must have gotten off of the baseball ratings boost.

Callen takes off his Pigeons cap and lies on his back. Feeling bold, I straddle him, bracing my hands on the grass on either side of his head and dropping down to kiss him greedily. His breaths are shallow and fast; his arms around me grow tight.

“This is so much better than the Flower Festival,” I whisper. He laughs, and I move off him, flopping onto my back, letting the sun dazzle my eyes.

He reaches into his back pocket and takes out his cigarettes. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Noooooo.” I stretch languorously, then turn on my side and watch him light up. His lips pucker when he inhales, then part. The smoke floats up into the air, and I remember how he said he used to set off the alarms in their house.
Smoke.
The smoke from the burning toaster that sent all the Reals racing out of Character Relations.

I know how I can get the jumpsuit for Scoop.

“Could I try a cigarette?”

“Really?” he says, but he's already fishing one out. I put it in my mouth, lean forward, and he lights it for me. I puff delicately and manage not to cough.

“Not bad,” I force out.

It does make me feel light-headed and giggly. Between the nicotine and the natural high of being with Callen, I feel charged, and all I can think about is getting closer. And not just physical closeness. When the cigarette's finished, we're lying facing each other, and I fling my arm over him, pulling his head toward mine, concealing both our faces from the cameras. “Do you ever think about the Patriots?” I mouth.

“Sometimes. More since Belle and Revere. But not a lot.” His eyes soften. “I know you must, because of your dad.”

“And because I've been on the E.L.,” I add. Some shame steals in, but I want to share everything with him—including our ratings. “Have you ever been on?”

He shakes his head. “Not with baseball.”

It's so silly, but something about how he says it makes me want to leap on top of him again. Short. Simple. Direct. I trace his cheekbone, then his nose, then his jaw, marveling that I'm here, we're here. That there
is
a we. I slide closer.

“I saw them yesterday, Callen. I saw the Patriots.” I tell him what I saw in the courtyard and what I overheard on the radio about the caves in the Drowned Lands. “And—” I hesitate, uncertain about whether I should bring Scoop into this. I decide not to. “Someone told me that they use them for medical experiments. Then I thought—what if they're in the army?”

Callen listens intently, stroking my arm the whole time. He nods and asks what they were wearing, which names I heard on the radio, and so on. But when I'm done relaying the facts, the questions stop. I like how cautious he is with words, and how steady and comforting he can remain when hearing all this. His calm balances everything inside me.

“I've never trusted Media1,” he mouths finally. I'm tempted to tell him all of it, my mind running through wild scenarios where he helps Scoop and me, but a cloud moves, unveiling the sun, and light fills his blue eyes again. Mesmerized, I realize the last thing I want to do is risk him in any way.

“Let's not talk about it anymore,” I mouth. He raises his eyebrows, surprised, so I go in for another kiss to distract him. In between lip-locks, I catch sight of the cigarette pack lying on the rocks near us.

“Hey.” I quickly switch to on-mic, before he can mouth anything else about the Patriots. “Is it okay if I take a few more cigarettes? I kind of liked it.”

“First the graffiti, now the smoking? You're really going wild.” He smiles and passes me three. I tuck them into my mom's purse, then lay my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, trying to sink back into the moment, but I can't. In my head, I'm working out how I'll secure the jumpsuit. First, I have to remember to grab the lighter at the bottom of the kitchen junk drawer on my way to the Report tomorrow.

Callen seems to sense my distraction. “Up here,” he coaxes, pulling me up to kiss him, and as I do, for a second, I think,
This is all I need.
And it should be enough. If I could make it be enough, if I could banish all the worries I have about the Patriots, I would.

But I can't, and it's not.

Ratings mark: 392.
My target was 321. The Audience is on my side this week. Media1 is compensating me accordingly. I keep my eyes trained on the contents of the envelope, an infinitely less distressing view than the human being in front of me, whom I should never have trusted. The money is even more impressive than the mark—800 ceteks. Enough to do another
voxless
wardrobe spruce-up. I never did buy a dress for the Double A. I finally look up, and Luz is watching me, waiting for me to thank him or crow over my victory or at least smile. That last I can manage. I smile mechanically.

“Excellent job. Violet Starling will never receive a fine for fralling again.” Luz takes a long swig of coffee. His beard has grown unkempt, and his hair is in need of a trim. Totally disheveled.

I pat my back pocket for the hundredth time, making sure the cigarettes are still there. The window behind him is open, and I listen carefully, but all I can hear is the foghorn of an arriving ship and the shrieks of hungry seagulls.

“You deserve it,” Luz continues as I slide the ratings card and the money back into the envelope. “The Audience is eating this loveplot up. We haven't broadcast the Brambles scene yet, but they've already nicknamed you two. Callettie.”

Callettie.
It's very . . . long. Sounds like a pastry. I shove the envelope into my back pocket, next to the three cigarettes, and check the wall behind him as discreetly as I can. I have to distract him.

“Is this what you wanted all along? For me and Callen to be together? Why didn't you just suggest that we date?”

I finally locate the smoke alarm: it's almost directly above me, a metal splotch on the bright white ceiling.

“No, I couldn't suggest outright romance.” Luz's hands form a steeple on the desk, and I can tell he's pleased to have the chance to explain his work. “I didn't want the scene to lose its authenticity.”

I roll my eyes. With all the manipulation the Initiative has done, I can't believe he's bringing up
authenticity.
“Can I have a cigarette?”

“Ah, the Callen influence. Go ahead.” Luz pulls a lighter out of his drawer. I fumble at first but succeed soon enough and concentrate on keeping my fingers steady.

Luz watches, pushing an empty mug forward on his desk for me to ash in. “You don't seem happy, Nettie. Don't you have what you want now?”

“Does what I want really matter?” I retort, brushing my hair out of my face. I know it's safer to play along, but I can't stop myself from frowning. Luz said the Initiative was supposed to make my big, unsaid dreams come true, but that's only as long as they coincide with ratings. I'm lucky they have. Selwyn didn't really want to do the graffiti. Lia didn't really want to make her mom's issues a plotline. And then there are the things the Initiative will never get for me: the chance to know my father and protect the Patriots.

“Of course it does,” he sighs.

“No,
you
tell me what I want.” I mean to sound sarcastic and rude like Lincoln, but instead my voice is raw and plaintive. “What do I want today?” Weak. My voice is weak.

Luz opens and shuts his mouth a few times, then drops his eyes to his desk.

“Are you okay?” I ask warily, the smoke creating a thin haze between us.

He fidgets with papers on his desk. “You should know we're tweaking the system. No more rewards. You'll still get higher ratings, of course, and bonuses.”

“No more rewards?” I repeat. My eyes float up to the alarm, exasperated by its enduring silence.

“No rewards. The Initiative's success green-lights us to go ahead and integrate it more fully into Characters' lives. Following it is not a favor to us; it's compulsory. To hammer this home, we've amended the Contract. If a Character doesn't comply with the Initiative, they'll qualify as a Show Risk, to be cut at our discretion.”

The cigarette falls from my fingers and into the mug. “You would cut someone for not taking the suggestions? I don't believe it.” I fish a second cigarette out of my pocket and light it with shaking fingers. But I
do
believe it. After seeing the Patriots in the courtyard, I know Media1 is capable of anything.

“The legal department cleared it,” Luz says, straightening his collar, unable to meet my eyes.

I inhale deeply, smoke scratching my throat. Tears come to my eyes as I struggle not to cough. “The Originals wouldn't have agreed to that.”

“The Originals are gone. The show has changed because the world has changed, and you have to change too,” he says quietly, voice tight. “On to today's suggestion. Media1 would like you to close up with Callen.”

I'm horrified and embarrassed at once. How could he even say this to me?

“Is this a joke?” I cry, pounding my fist on the desk. “He's not even my boyfriend. Is this some kind of perverted producer fantasy? Last week, all I had to do was talk to him.”

“It wasn't my idea.” Luz jots down notes, avoiding my glare. At least he's blushing. “But that's not important. I stand behind it as being firmly in the spirit of the Initiative. Also, before I forget, we're moving your Report to Sunday, just for this week, since the ceremony is on Saturday. This week is a big one for you, Nettie. You close up, and you attend the Double A. You'll capture the whole teen Audience.”

“You're disgusting. How can you live with yourself?” The cigarette is almost done. I might have to do the third. Luz is still too scared to look at me, and I press the stub of the cigarette into the underside of his nice new desk, drop it in the mug, and light up a new one. My lungs are scorched and it's so gross, but I have to.

He stares into his own coffee mug. “Nettie, it's not your place to decide what's best for the Audience. Media1
knows
a close-up with Callen will be a ratings bonanza. Further, I must tell you that the company is well aware of all the breaking of the fourth wall, or fralling, that goes on, and in this case, it will absolutely not be permitted. If you share the content of your suggestion with anyone, you will both be cut, as Show Risks. We're serious about protecting the Initiative.”

“That's not—” The smoke alarm shatters the air, cutting me off. I wince as the sound pierces my eardrums.

“Oh, no, not again.” Luz scrambles to his feet. Outside I can hear doors swinging open up and down and the corridor.

“Oops, I didn't mean to!” I squeal, stubbing out the cigarette hastily on the desk again.

“Last time it took forever for them to turn it off,” he shouts, moving out from behind his desk. I hear employees filing out into the hall. “Let's go.” We rush out of the office, eager to escape the noise, and merge into the green and purple sea of Reals filing out of the building. I stick close to Luz, palms sweaty, trying to drum up the courage to execute the plan.

“Oh! I forgot my book bag in your office,” I say, sighing.

“Well, hurry,” Luz says, but he doesn't wait for me. I dash back down the now-empty hall toward his office, where I pull Scoop's sweater out of my bag. I pick up a handful of jumpsuits from the pile in the corner, stuff them inside the sweater, then rush back out, joining the last of the Reals exiting the building in the lobby.

A heavy hand clamps down on my shoulder as I step outside. Luz. He steers me off to the side of the building, away from the other Reals, near the Contract display.

“Nettie,” he says, looking around him and lowering his head, trying to make sure we're not overheard. “You don't want to be cut. Trust me. Take the suggestion.”

• • •

Just beyond the Center gates, I see Scoop pacing in a small circle, book bag on his shoulders. I called him last night after the Festival and asked him to meet me here so I could return his sweater.

The sweater conceals the jumpsuits well, and I chose this place because of the spotty camera coverage, so we're doubly protected. “Here.” I balance my bike on my leg and take the ball of material out of my bag. “Success, and I got backups too,” I mouth, adding on-mic, “Here's your sweater.”

“Thanks,” he says, putting it in his book bag. When he's finished, he mouths, “Are you okay? You look upset.”

I don't reply right away. Scoop's got the backpack hoisted over both shoulders, tugging the straps, and he's wearing a concerned frown. Even so, he exudes charisma and cool sexiness, his hazel eyes dancing, his tall, lean frame. Scoop doesn't have a girlfriend, but there are always girls around him. He's probably closed up before.

But I can't say anything to him. A fine is one thing; being responsible for someone getting cut is something else.

“I'm fine,” I assure him.

“All right,” he says, skeptical. He mouths, “Last night, I thought up a way to let everyone know about what I find in the Sandcastle, but I need your help. It involves someone else.”

“Really?” At least one good thing has happened today. “Tell me.” He jerks his thumb behind us, toward the Center, and we move a few steps back, only a foot away from the entrance booth where a helmeted Authority sits.

“Okay, here goes,” Scoop mouths and bends down to whisper his plan in my ear.

• • •

I dump my empty book bag on the floor and fling myself into the chair across from Violet. Thoughts about the close-up dogged me all the way here. It's not only the close-up—although it's definitely too soon for that—it's that Media1 thinks it's okay to invade my life like this. Besides, would Callen even want to? I recall the awkwardness of Lia trying to lure Callen into bed.

“Ugh,” I groan, burying my head in my hands.

“Nettie, you sound like a dying animal,” Violet clucks. “Would a walk raise your spirits?”

“Okay,” I say, standing again. “You want to go to the gazebo?”

“Yes, that sounds nice,” she says.

I help her slip into a light coat. “No one has, um, been bothering you lately, have they?”

“Hmm? There is a new aide who hums a lot.” She bangs on the window with the end of her cane. “And these squirrels who have discovered the feeder. Go away.
Scat.
”

“Good. I mean, not good, but good that everything is basically okay.” We walk out to the hall together and through the door that leads to the manicured grounds between the Brambles and Hidehall, following the tulip-lined path to the wooden gazebo next to the lake.

“But
you
seem bothered,” she says, sitting on the bench and propping the cane up next to her.

“Do you remember Callen Herron?” I nibble at my nails, trying to figure out how to put this.

“Your next-door neighbor? I knew Dahlia Herron quite well.”

“His grandmother?” I pace the gazebo.

“Yes. She did a funny thing with numbers—if she didn't concentrate, she'd write them mirror-image by mistake.” Her eyes crinkle at the memory. “And what hair she had!”

“Very blond,” I guess, finally sitting down next to her.

“Yes! Like snow. What about this grandson?”

“Well, he and I sort of started seeing each other last week. But—there's a problem.”

Violet snorts. “A problem already?”

“Yeah, but it's not him—or me. It's not either of us,” I say, scanning the lawn for crickets, then taking in all the cameras pointing at us from the rafters, and I know what I'm doing is risky, but I can't keep it inside anymore. “Violet, do you ever feel as if—like, say, someone is trying to help you? But maybe they start
interfering
with your life too much?”

Of course she doesn't get it. “You'll have to be more specific,” she says.

“I—I can't be,” I stammer.

Violet picks up her cane and bangs it on the floor. “Snap out of it,” she says. “Goodness, no one should be so glum at the start of a romance.”

I turn and face her. “I just don't think it's fair that some people on Bliss Island control other people.” I meant Media1, but when I hear the words spoken aloud, I realize I'm thinking about Lia too.

“Oh, Nettie,” Violet says, smiling sadly. Then she sighs, a typical, extravagant Violet sigh. Her emotions are so oversized. “Rebellion's in your
heart,
dearest.” She pauses significantly.

Rebellion's in your heart.

Her face is blank, only the faintest hint of a smile. Am I crazy to think she's telling me about my father? Heart. Hart. This is the first time she's mentioned my father while lucid.

She speaks again. “The desire to reject authority,” she continues, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “You're tough, sweetie.”

Funny, tough, and smart.

“I don't feel that tough.” I walk over to her, kneel, and say into my mic, “I like your earrings,” and they are nice, large wire hoops with red coral beads. I touch the earrings and whisper into her ear, “Are you talking about my father?”

Her eyes seem crystal clear, but she doesn't move a muscle, and it's as if she doesn't hear me. I wait, the only sound our breathing, and a few seconds later her hand tightens around mine, and she pulls me back to whisper in my ear, “Yes. He was tough, and he got in trouble. Be careful.”