Scripted (8 page)

Mr. Black's face contorts like a squeezed balloon. “Well, I don't know, Nettie. Most people started preparing for their apprenticeships a while back,” he says. “It has nothing to do with your talents.”

He keeps going, and I stand and nod, disappointment trickling through me. I know Lia said that even
trying
would pull in the Audience, but nothing about this feels good. Mr. Black is still talking, but I mumble good-bye and flee the classroom.

I'd tried to keep my hopes in check about the apprenticeship, but I can't deny how happy the idea of a future
not
at Fincher's made me. I'm midway to my locker when I feel dampness on my cheeks and realize I'm crying. Startled, I wipe my eyes against my sleeves and take a detour to the bathroom to wash my face.

In between splashes of cold water, I see my blotchy skin and swollen eyes in the mirror, the proof of my distress.

I'm going to be miserable my whole life, like Selwyn's parents, and then I'll be cut and shipped to the Sectors, separated from my friends and family, and forced to endure all the things the Originals wanted to escape. My sadness turns into anger at myself for waiting so long, and I kick a lead pipe curving under the sink.

“Ow,” I say into my mic, reaching down to massage my foot. I hear a familiar buzzing and turn my head up to the ceiling, only to see half a dozen cameras. Aimed away from the stalls, but in the
bathroom.
There are four more: against the walls, on the radiator, near the mirror. I don't like it; I want
some
privacy. And I don't like being forced to do a job I hate because of rules the Originals agreed to almost a hundred seasons ago. I blame Media1; they just control so much in my life, and there's nothing I can do to stop them.

The school is mostly cleared out when I finally leave the bathroom. I turn the corner and frown when I see a lone figure. At
my
locker. Scoop.

“Hi,” I say, opening up my locker and piling books into my bag.

“So I might be wrong about what I said at the aquarium,” he says, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“You probably are.” Glad he's dropping whatever story he's been weaving about the Sandcastle. It's just some beach games.

“You probably stare at a lot of people.” He grins, a dimple showing. He leans against Lia's locker. His light green sweater matches his eyes. “Not just Callen.”

I pause for a second. I fell right into that. Whatever. I don't have time for this. I quickly pack my book bag, zip it up, hoist it over my shoulders, and push past him. “I have to go home.”

“Isn't it all right now, since he and Lia are broken up?” He follows me, matching my stride and waiting for my answer.

I glance over at him, weighing how much I should say.
Who cares? He already knows.

“She doesn't want me to talk to him.” We pass through the double doors and out into the sunshine. Two boys are tossing a football, while a couple of Pastels look over at us with undisguised curiosity. I start up the hill to the parking lot where the bike rack is, and Scoop increases his pace to keep up.

“Why'd you stay after math, anyway?”

“I asked Mr. Black about the math teacher apprenticeship, and he basically said I wouldn't get it.” I surprise myself again with my own bluntness.

“I thought you were set for Fincher's?” Scoop asks, managing to maintain eye contact while walking.

“I am. I just thought maybe I'd be . . . happier teaching math.” His hazel eyes seem bottomless suddenly. Still handsome, but less sexy and more kind and approachable. Who knew he could be such a good listener? “But I'll be fine at the shop.” My voice rises higher at the last part. I don't know if I believe it. I stop at the bike rack.

“Are you sure?” he prods. “It doesn't sound like that's what you want.”

“Does what I want matter?” I bend down to unlock my bike, grab the handlebars, and begin walking it downhill, since Scoop doesn't seem in any hurry to leave.

“It's the only thing that matters,” Scoop counters quickly.

“How'd you get so confident?” I try to keep the bitterness out of my voice. It must be the ratings thing. If what I wanted always coincided with what the Audience wanted, life might seem easy for me too.

“I think it's all the extraordinary fruit we have here on Bliss Island.” He smiles again, his hazel eyes dazzling in the afternoon sun, and I imagine the Audience swooning.

“No, really, how did you?” I insist. I want what he has, what Lia has. That way of going through life at ease. Fearless. Scoop raises his eyebrows, puzzled, like it's something so taken for granted that he can't begin to explain. But he tries to answer my question, voice tentative.

“I guess—I'm not afraid of people, a lot?” His long face tightens, and for once, the smile disappears. “Do you remember my aunt, the fifth-grade history teacher?”

“Yes, of course,” I say, my voice softening at the memory. She passed away a couple of seasons ago. The only funeral I've ever been to.

“Aunt Dana used to question
everything.
She and my dad would get into huge debates. Like which lollipop flavor lasts longest or what the highest point on the island is—or more important things, like how to discipline children. She'd never just let him win. She'd research day and night until she got the answer, to prove she was right.”

“She was pretty plus ten,” I say, averting my eyes, feeling awkward talking about someone who's, well, dead.

“I always wanted to be like her.” His lips twitch as if he's trying to stop himself from saying something. We reach the bottom of the hill and turn right, in the opposite direction from a bunch of kids going downtown to hang out. “Maybe the question is, how did you get so
un
confident?”

Where to begin? Asking about my father on-mic when I was five and having my mother freak out? Never seeming to be able to choose the right things, like friends, or boyfriends, or apprenticeships? Landing on the E.L. as soon as I turned sixteen? It just seems like I do everything wrong.

“Disappointments.” I swerve my bike around a deep crevice in the sidewalk. “I just wish there was more than one slot, so Revere and I could both get the apprenticeship.”

“Yeah, sometimes the rules seem unfair,” Scoop agrees, kicking a pebble down the hill ahead of us. “You can get anyassigned, though, if you really don't want to be at Fincher's.”

“I know.” We quiet down as we pass crickets, their noses and mouths swaddled in surgeon's masks as they douse grass with green paint. When we're a safe distance away, Scoop whispers, “My aunt discovered that the Patriot—”

I knew he wasn't done talking about this.
I don't want to hear it. Whatever her discovery was, his aunt was only a Character, and my information came from a Real, someone who actually knows about the world outside of Bliss Island.

I'm shaking my head and stepping back just as a voice calls out behind us, “Nettie, how'd it go?” I turn around. Lia, sprinting down the hill, her braid bouncing behind her.

“What'd Mr. Black say?” she asks as she catches up with us. “Hi, Scoop,” Lia tosses off, then pivots to me. “What happened? What'd he say?”

Scoop takes one look at her, her eyes practically feverish with excitement, and decides to take off. “I'm going to catch the Tram. See you later.”

“Well? Well?” Lia grabs my arm.

Best to just get it over with, like ripping off a Band-Aid.

“Mr. Black said more or less that it's Revere's.”

Lia's shoulders slump. “That sucks, Nettie,” she says, putting her arm around me and pulling me close. But I don't feel comforted.

“I don't really want to talk about it,” I say, loosening myself from her grip. “How are you? How's life after Callen?”

“Life after Callen.” She laughs and fills me in on her day as we walk to the Arbor together. Apparently there was a moment in history when she and Callen stood by their desks, not wanting to sit next to each other, but unwilling to surrender their usual spots.

“After a minute, I just sat down and Callen had to go back by the window.” She giggles. “Where he can stare at the sky more easily, which is all he ever wants to do anyway. Loser.”

“Good for you.” At this rate, she'll be over it in a couple weeks, and I'll be able to talk to him again.

“Small victories.” Lia flicks her mic up to make sure the Audience can hear every word. “So, I decided that in the play, Mia embezzles from her father's bank.”

She told me this on Saturday. It's not like Lia to repeat herself. I pretend I haven't already heard, and she keeps chattering about the play all the way to the Arbor.

Lia changes subjects abruptly as we near the Arbor and empty fields give way to its small, well-maintained houses. “What were you and Scoop talking about?” she says, looking at me closely. “You seem to have a lot to say to him lately.”

“Apprenticeship stuff.”

“Hmm.” She sighs and fixes her gaze in the distance, like she might find a solution to my problems there. But no luck. “Well, even if it didn't work out with Mr. Black, I'm glad you took the initiative, Nettie.”

Initiative. As we cross onto the Arbor cobblestones, I quickly mouth, “Last night, I got a Missive, rescheduling my Character Report for Saturday. They're going to introduce the Initiative to me.”

The sun falls on her face and her green eyes glitter. “Good,” she mouths, smiling. “My rescheduled Report was last week. Some new stuff they're trying out. It's a little different.”

“How?” I mouth uneasily. “How different?”

“Don't worry, StressNett. Just do what they say.”

The first difference
I notice when I step into Mik's narrow office on Saturday is the brightness. The shade at the back of the office is up for the first time. I take in the view—a stone building wedged into the hill that runs down to Eden Beach—then scan the office's newly luminous interior.

Mom would approve: it's spick-and-span. There's a Missivor screen instead of the still life of tomatoes and teacups, a floor lamp where there used to be a precarious tower of yellowing papers, and a sleek leather couch instead of the fraying checkered one. The white walls are aggressively bright, and the smell of fresh paint curls through the air. The massive oak desk that seemed like an outgrowth of the dusty floorboards has vanished. In its place stands one of light pine, its surface crowded with unidentifiable electronic gizmos. Wires coil through, under, and around the desk like vines.

There's one more difference that trumps all the rest. Grandfatherly Mik, my producer for the past six seasons, is
gone.
In his place is a man no more than ten years older than I am, with a narrow face and curly brown hair long enough to brush his navy-blue collar. The shirt is paired with crimson corduroy pants.

“Who are you?” I stride into this updated, modern office, the new paint making me sneeze.

The man leaps to his feet, and a notepad tumbles off his lap. “Hi, Nettie. I'm Luz. I'm so glad to meet you,” he says, bending down to retrieve the notepad. He's making an effort to talk slowly, but still speaks faster than Mik. “I'll be handling your Character Report from now on. Sit down, please.” As the man gestures me toward the couch, his dark curls sway like wildflowers in the wind.

“Where's Mik?” I sit on the couch, doing my best to not reveal how swerved off I am by all the changes. I cross my legs and rest my hands demurely on the plaid jumper I found at the bottom of the closet. Underneath it, I put a plain white shirt. I just wanted to look as normal and harmless as possible for whatever the Initiative is. At the last minute, I borrowed Mom's hemp bracelet for a
liberato
touch. Today, I want to be as good as a Character with lousy ratings can be.

My palms are sweaty.

“On a furlough, fishing at Lake Inok. Happy, happy,” Luz answers from behind his fancy desk. He puts down the notepad and trains his eyes on me. His smile bares yellowish teeth, not too unusual with Reals. I force myself not to recoil.

“Lake Inok,” I repeat. Sectors names always sound absurdly plain, as if a butcher took some juicy cut of meat and stripped it to the bone. “What's going on? Am I getting a ratings mark?”

“No. Today you're getting much more.” He twirls a pen like a cheerleader's baton. “Nettie, welcome to the Initiative.”

“Um, thanks.” I shrink back into the couch, meek as a Pastel at a party.

“The Initiative was created to increase and retain the Audience.” He lays down his pen and puts his arms behind his head. “The Audience needs
Blissful Days
more than ever. Yet they're watching the show less.”

“I don't understand.” I inch forward.

“Partly it's because of the Drowned Lands. This latest attempt at secession has been harder to put down than past ones. There are entire Drowned Lands islands that are actually under rebel control now,” Luz explains, propping his legs on his desk. “Along with the usual uncertainties and vicissitudes of Real life, the fighting has taken a toll on the Audience. They want entertainment, desperately, but
Blissful Days
doesn't have the excitement and rawness necessary to fully engage today's viewers, to alleviate their distress over political realities. That's where the Initiative comes in.

“The Initiative gives the Audience what they need. A select group of Characters has weekly Reports in which they'll receive, along with their ratings marks, suggestions on how to provide the Audience with the captivating entertainment it craves.”

“Suggestions,” I repeat slowly, frowning. “Do you mean I'll have, like, chores to perform?”

Luz laughs. “No, you'll
want
to do your suggestions—they'll align with your actual desires. That's what makes them so effective. Here's your first.” Luz drops his hands, removes his legs from his desk, and sits up, clearing his throat. “Flirt with Callen Herron. Just once, and your ratings will skyrocket.”

I'm not sure what to say for a few seconds. The thought of spending time with Callen thrills me. But there's a serious problem. “I told Lia I wouldn't talk to him.”

“Forget Lia. The Audience likes hearing you confide in Selwyn about your tortured feelings. But they want more, need more, to be able to invest in you. Now is the time to take action.”

“I don't know.” I'd sometimes wished Mik would give me hints about how to improve my ratings, but this feels different. “Doesn't the Initiative break the noninterference clause of the Contract?”

“Everything's been cleared by the legal department. Outside, you'll find an addendum to the Contract, which goes into more detail about the Initiative, if you're curious. Remember, these are
suggestions,
not orders. You don't have to take them, but why wouldn't you?” Luz jumps up and paces the narrow aisle between his window and his desk. He's skinny and short, full of kinetic energy. “I saved the best part for last. Initiative suggestions come with rewards. If you complete this suggestion, you'll get the high school math apprenticeship.”

I gulp. “You could do that? Mr. Black said—”

“I know what he said. Don't worry about it. Fincher's is not for you. You need to be challenged. Flirt with Callen, and you'll never have to set foot in Fincher's again. The extra time you spent at Fincher's during the past few months is probably what put you on the E.L.”

“That's what I thought.” I settle back and recross my legs, satisfied that someone else is confirming what I've guessed. The legal department must have done some tricky maneuvering to make the Initiative okay, but if it'll get me better ratings and out of Fincher's, it's worth it.

Flirting with Callen. Probably I should explain to Lia ahead of time, so she'll see that I have no choice. Excitement builds in me. I can talk to him again, maybe even touch him. Of course, he'll have to
want
to.

“Wait, is Callen in the Initiative, too? Did you tell him to flirt with
me
?”

“That's confidential, sorry,” Luz says briskly. I start to protest, but he cuts me off with a wave of his hand. “What do you think about the Initiative? About getting the apprenticeship? And making your ratings soar?”

I sigh. “Even if I do exactly what you say, you can't force the Audience to watch. You don't
know
that my ratings will improve.”

Luz sits on the edge of the desk, drumming against it with his heels. The laces of his squat leather boots are undone, and the ends hit the desk. He screws his face up, deep in thought. As I wait for his answer, I realize that I want him to tell me I'm wrong. I want that math apprenticeship. I want to believe that Luz can keep me off the E.L. I
want
to flirt with Callen.

“You're right. I can't guarantee your ratings.” Luz breaks his silence. “But I know the Characters, and I know the Audience. Media1 trusts me, and you should too.” The light shifts in the room, landing on a splash of purple in the corner—the jumpsuit he's not wearing. He sees me looking at it and shrugs. “Makes me itch.”

“How long have you worked for Media1?” I never would have dared ask Mik such a private question, but Luz talks to me like we're equals. He doesn't wear the jumpsuit—he seems to be a different kind of Real.

“Only a few seasons,” he says, straightening his back. “But that's exactly why the board in Zenta values me—producers who've been on the island too long lose their perspective. I have fresh eyes. Many Media1 employees see this as a job, but I'm a fan first. I'm especially a fan of
yours.
” He stabs a finger in the air at me when he says
yours.
“I might be designing Initiatives for several Characters, but you're who I wanted to meet with one-on-one. You're special, and I can make the Audience see that.”

• • •

After the Report, I stop by the public display of the Contract outside of Character Relations, needing to read it alone, without Luz's spin. First, the most fundamental.

C
LAUSE
1, C
HARACTER
S
.

Item A: Characters are bound to the territory of Bliss Island for the duration of their lives.

The only way to leave the island alive is as a Patriot. I move farther down along the display outside the Character Relations Building.

C
LAUSE
53, P
ATRIOTS
.

Item A: Unsatisfactory Ratings. Characters who fall 10 percent below their ratings mark are eligible to become Patriots during the subsequent ratings quarter.

Item B: Risk to the Show. Characters who constitute a risk to the show
Blissful Days
are eligible to become Patriots.

Item C: Reference on Show. Reference to Patriots by Characters is not permitted and falls under Clause 56.

Item D: Patriots are enlisted in the service of Media1 and are given lodging and food provisions for their lifetimes.

Close by, Clause 56:

C
LAUSE
56, B
REAKING
THE
F
OURTH
W
ALL
.

Fralling. Forty-two examples of what constitutes breaking the fourth wall follow, a handful of which I commit regularly—things like deliberately obscuring the audiotrack or avoiding cameras.

Next, Clause 57, Noninterference with the Show. The clause I brought up to Luz.

Media1 will not impede, control, or manipulate Characters on
Blissful Days
. Characters on
Blissful Days
retain autonomy over their lives.

At the end of the display of the Contract is the addendum, two paragraphs on pale green paper. I read it swiftly. The Initiative encompasses much more than Luz revealed during the Report. Several aspects of the Initiative will affect the entire cast:
Stricter enforcement of Clause 56 . . . Increased camera coverage . . . Selected Characters from the fifty-eighth to seventieth birth seasons will have a redesigned ratings schedule . . . Suggestions to increase ratings . . . Introductions of mobile cameras.

Mobile cameras? Does that mean there will be fewer crickets slinking around?
Increased camera coverage
would explain the cameras in the school bathrooms. I groan aloud. I hope they don't install them at home too.

• • •

I sign the leather-bound Hidehall visitor's register. Under Visitee, I write my grandmother's name, Violet Starling. It's so nice that we share the last name, unlike Mom and I. Media1 has some algorithm they use to distribute last names around the island, so it's not uncommon for parents and children to have different ones.

“I'll let Violet know you're here,” Tula the receptionist says. She picks up the telephone and rings my grandmother, tilting her mouth from the receiver so her dark red lipstick stays untouched. “She's ready.” Tula gestures toward the hall on her left.

“Thanks.” I swing my arms as I walk through the mansion. Here there's no pressure. Smooth, slow, serene Hidehall. Pressed flowers and photographs of the island line the dark-wood-paneled walls. Expansive windows look out onto the long, still lake and the brown-green sliver of the Brambles in the distance. Orderlies float by, dressed in the
liberato
uniform: puffy blouses and flowing skirts for the women and light linen pants for men.

“Nettie, my most beloved grandchild,” Violet cries from her royal-purple velvet armchair as I step inside her apartment at the corner of the first floor.

“Your
only
grandchild.” I smile, sadness twinging me. She used to be able to get up to greet me. As I bend and hug her, I can feel her fragility. Time has stamped her: it's in her sunken cheeks and the wrinkles of her moon-shaped face. But her jet-black ringlets, dyed religiously, are the same as ever, as is the bright scoop-necked dress that displays her cleavage. No
liberato
for her. Hidehall arranges bused shopping excursions downtown around the motif change time, but Violet never gets on.

Her dress is on the ostentatious side, and so is her room. Paintings, most by Violet herself, crowd the walls. Each piece of furniture is upholstered in velvets and chenilles. Knickknacks compete for space on the white lacquered shelves. Sometimes it's hard for me to believe that someone with her opulent—some might say garish—sense of style ever made a living as a portrait painter, but she's assured me that she knew how to “tone it down for customers.”

“Only and most beloved grandchild,” she says as I sit in the hard-backed chair across from her and next to an open window. “How's your mother? Are you looking forward to the game tomorrow?”

“She's fine. Yeah, a little.” A lot. I loved watching Callen pitch the opening game last season, and I can't wait to have an excuse to look at him again.

“How's the apprenticeship?”

“The same.” I've told her about my problems at Fincher's, but I don't want to hash it out again, so I just leave it at that. I stare up at the intricate ceiling moldings, wishing I could tell Violet about the Character Report but not wanting to risk the chance that her mind will start wandering and she'll talk about it on-mic. We used to frall a lot, but it's become too dangerous.

“Did you get your dress for the Double A yet?”

“No, Selwyn and I are going to go shopping soon.” Thinking about Selwyn reminds me of Lincoln whispering
Initiative
to Revere at lunch when she brought up the tattoo. My skin prickles. Selwyn would never do something like that on her own. The tattoo might be a suggestion. She'd do anything for the cello apprenticeship.