Scripted

by Maya Rock

  “Callen, guess where I just came from?” I approach the house, but hesitate at the bottom of the steps.

  “Not school,” he says, pushing back the mop of blond hair that’s fallen in front of his eyes.

  “Nope. I was spray painting with Selwyn, in an abandoned passageway at the Granary stop. Do you know about it?”

  “Really?” he says, waving me up. I scramble up the stairs and sit on the porch swing with him. “I’ve heard about it, but I’ve never been there. What’d you do?”

  “Selwyn spray painted a masterpiece. The town hall plaza fountain. It looked so real—she chose just the right colors, and, well, I couldn’t begin to do something like that . . .” I trail off, realizing what I’m leading up to.

  “Well, what did you do?” he prompts.

  I keep my lie short and simple. “My name. Then we got out fast. I thought the police might catch us or something. But the only thing that caught us was the rain.” I lift up my soaked sneakers ruefully.

  “Spring rain is the best,” he says. I love how the skin around his eyes crinkles when he smiles. “It gives me my afternoons back.”

  I’m barely listening, my mind whirling as I try to figure out how to flirt. Between us, lying on the swing, is a baseball. I pick it up, using the movement as an excuse to edge closer to him. Flirting. I need to say something that’s coy, but not too subtle. Channel my inner Terra.

  “You did such a plus-ten job yesterday.” I spin the baseball in my hands.

  “Thanks,” he says, pushing back on the floor with his feet so the swing rocks a little. “It’s scary being in the stadium. So many people there. Much more than the bleachers at school can hold. Nerve-racking.” He glances at me, then quickly looks away. By his standards, that was probably a huge admission.

  What would Terra say? “I couldn’t tell at all, you looked so calm,” I say, unable to meet his eyes, but I make sure my head is positioned so my voice will reach the mic.

  “So tell me about the tunnel. Garrick told me they’d nailed it shut. How’d you get in?” he says after a moment. The sun fills his eyes with light, and I almost forget to reply.

  “Someone had broken through the boards on one end. Still, it wasn’t easy.” I show him the scratches on my arms.

  “I wish I could have been with you,” he says. I feel myself blush, and I’m glad my skin hides it better than Lia’s.

  “Do you miss Lia?” I wince. That’s the furthest thing from flirting I could have said. But it just came out.

  “I’m all right.” He shrugs. Back to the inscrutable face I’m used to seeing on him, eyelids at half-mast, looking off in the distance. I put the baseball down and flatten my hand on the swing. Only a few inches from his. My stomach churns with nerves. Hands touching. That would be undeniable flirting. Actually, putting my hand over his would seem more like harassment than flirting.

  I become aware and then slightly mortified that I can smell him. Soapy. Fresh. He must have showered after practice was canceled. His hand seems so close, so warm, callused fingers splayed slightly on the wood, and I move mine nearer, in small motions, like an inchworm, start stop, start stop.

  “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.

  Chapter 10

  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.”

  Chapter 11

  “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.