Scripted

by Maya Rock

  Lia stays quiet but backs away, stunned. The tattoo looks awful. I remember our shopping trip and how Selwyn had ducked into Inked Up and sent me home. I thought she just wanted to flirt with Garrick. She’d been getting a tattoo.

  “They promised me the cello apprenticeship,” Selwyn mouths. “But now I have to see this every day of my life.”

  “I don’t know, Selwyn—a lot of Characters would kill for their first choice apprenticeship,” Lia mouths. She’s recovered from her shock at the tattoo. Her hands are back on her hips. “You two are so sensitive. Bek has given me suggestions my whole life. She didn’t call them that, and there weren’t any rewards, but she’s always given me tips on how to raise my ratings.” She shrugs. “And it worked. Just listen to Media1.”

  “But—” I break off as the bathroom door jolts against me. Someone wants to get in, and I push back with all my strength, praying it’s not a cricket. The pressure subsides—must have been a student.

  “But I have listened,” I finish. “I listened, and it got Revere cut, and now they think they can do whatever they want.”

  Selwyn’s eyes get teary. “Revere.”

  Lia throws an accusatory look in my direction. See what you’ve done. She puts her arm around Selwyn, consoling her, and when she next looks at me, her eyes are flashing with rage.

  “Nettie, God, all you think about is yourself lately. Your apprenticeship, your love life, your suggestions. Other people have problems too. Now you want help getting out of the Initiative? Haven’t I done enough for you? I gave you the idea for the math apprenticeship in the first place, and I obviously helped you pick your boyfriend.”

  “I’m the one who only thinks about herself?” I demand, anger rising so quickly in me that I don’t have time to think. Words come flying out, things I’ve buried for a long time. “I bend over backward for you constantly. I swear, if I let you, you’d tell me a better way to breathe. And if I have to hear about the stupid Double A program one more time—”

  “Oh, I’m sorry for caring about my future.” She throws up her hands. “It’s so terrible that I care about creating a memorable day for other Characters. I guess you and Callen think I should just shun the world and find a rock to sit on all day,” she mouths, her face red with fury. “You two are perfect together. I am sick of your superior attitudes.”

  “What about ‘friendship is more important than boys’?”

  “I am being your friend,” she mouths. “I’m being honest. It’s not about your being with Callen. It’s about how you act about everything. The company had to push you into this romance because you refuse to ever take changes. You’re always worried you’ll end up like your mother, but it’s too late. You are like her. Scared.”

  “I’m right to be scared,” I mouth back. “You should be too, after what I saw in the courtyard.”

  Selwyn breaks away from Lia and turns to me. “Wait, what’d you see?”

  I hesitate; the sight of her wan face and terrified dark eyes makes me want to protect her from the truth. But if I’m going to help Scoop tell the whole island, I should be able to tell Selwyn.

  “Remember I told you about the building behind Character Relations, where they keep Patriots before transferring them to the Drowned Lands? I saw them there, and . . .” I move closer to her ear, whispering everything while Lia paces the floor. Selwyn brings her hand to her mouth, biting down on her knuckles. When I’m done, I take a step back, and she looks worse than ever, her eyes now vacant.

  “Selwyn?” Lia says on-mic, darting back over to her.

  Selwyn begins to mouth something, but all that comes out is a huge wail. Lia looks over her shoulder at me, alarmed.

  “How could they?” Selwyn says on-mic, tears running down her face. “To Revere? To your dad?”

  “Shhh.” Lia brings her fingers to her lips. “My dad is fine,” she says hastily on-mic, even though that’s not the father Selwyn meant.

  “Media1 hates us,” Selwyn says, her voice loud. Still on-mic. “I’m sick of the Initiative too. I never wanted to—”

  Lia quickly claps her hand over Selwyn’s mouth.

  “We have to get to class,” I say, my voice trembling. I step away from the door, but then none of us move. We’re frozen in place until Ayana Lemon comes in, her high ponytail bouncing behind her. Lia drops her hand from Selwyn’s mouth.

  “Is everything okay in here?” Ayana asks, hugging herself as if she needs to be shielded from the frostiness between us.

  “Yeah,” Lia says quickly. “But we should get going.”

  We file out of the bathroom, Ayana watching us leave, plum lips slightly parted, on the brink of asking us what’s going on again. She doesn’t get the chance. I stick close to Selwyn, scanning the mostly empty hall, tense, waiting for a cricket to emerge and reprimand her. Selwyn’s walk is listless, and the squeaks of the rolling cello case seem to mock her somber mood.

  Lia’s ahead of us, and she’s just about to turn the corner to our lockers when I call out, “I’m going to walk Selwyn to her lesson.”

  “Fine,” she calls back without turning around.

  Selwyn and I trudge together in silence, wordlessly turning right into the hallway lined with the soundproofed music practice rooms. Selwyn clings to me. I squeeze her hand. We pause outside her practice room. Inside, her teacher is doing her own warm-up exercises.

  “I don’t want to go in,” Selwyn says, nails digging into my arm. I understand this feeling between us now, a bond of fear. It yanks me back to the day they took Belle. I remember Selwyn twisting her long necklace and her wobbly voice and my own split-second certainty that they were coming for me.

  “You don’t have to. I’ll skip history, and we can go somewhere else.”

  “To the zoo,” she whispers, a smile breaking out across her tearstained face.

  “Or the beach.” I gently start to pry her hand from my arm.

  “Or the Granary depot tunnel.” She giggles, releasing me.

  “Yeah, let’s tag,” I joke. We dissolve into laughter, and the cello playing stops. Mrs. Taro appears at the door.

  “Selwyn, you’re late. Please come in now.”

  “Sorry. Just a sec.” Selwyn takes a deep breath. “Thanks, Nettie. I appreciate it—everything.”

  “No problem. See you later.” As I walk away, the only sounds in the hall are the dolorous notes of the cello and the brief, crystal silences in between them. Appropriate.

  And then I hear the thud of heavy boots. Several pairs, and they’re coming closer. I know what’s about to happen. I turn the corner and flatten myself against the wall. I see working cameras everywhere, looking at me. I know I should run, but I stay put, closing my eyes.

  A door swings open roughly, hitting the wall behind it, and the music stops. Selwyn’s scream is bloodcurdling. I hear Mrs. Taro murmuring and thuds and jostles. A clunk as something topples over and then a crack, the crush of wood bending and breaking. I open my eyes—I have to know. I lean around the corner, and I see a burly Authority yanking Selwyn out of the music room. Selwyn pulls back. She keeps screaming, but no one comes. Gone is the subdued, worn-out girl I left in the music room. She looks desperate, her black hair flying wildly, teeth clenched as she struggles. One of the Authority takes out a metal instrument and aims it at her neck. A high-pitched zapping sound rings out, and Selwyn goes limp.

  • • •

  I sit through history without any books or writing materials until Clemma Gosling takes pity, tears a page out of her notebook, and hands it to me, along with a dull pencil. Somehow I make it through.

  When I finally make it to my locker between classes, I can feel the heat of stares on me. They know; everyone knows. I avoid looking at Selwyn’s locker as I shove my books into my bag. Where is she? What do they do in the Sandcastle, when they’re not running obstacle courses? I only have three more classes. I
want to be home in my room. I want to be alone.

  The reminders. I’m going to have so many reminders.

  I see Callen farther down the hall, talking to Rawls at his locker. He’s blurry because my eyes are full of unshed tears. I blink them back furiously and hurry past. I don’t want to see him. Because I won’t be able to actually talk to him, not in the hallway, with tons of cameras watching.

  Lia’s already in the classroom. She’s wearing her most confident pose—head high, hands primly out on the desk—but she’s pale. I look away from her as I sit. There’s a rushing in my ears, as if I’ve just been dunked underwater, and it’s a struggle to pay attention as Ms. Pepperidge draws a diagram on the whiteboard, showing all the characters in The Player in the Attic.

  I shouldn’t have brought them to the bathroom. But how could I have known she would crisp? Lia glances at me, but I stare straight ahead. I’m not mad at her anymore. Compared to Selwyn getting cut, Lia’s bitchiness in the bathroom is trivial.

  “Lia, what do you think?” Ms. Pepperidge asks, coming up to her desk.

  “About what?” Lia snaps to attention. “I didn’t hear you.”

  “Why did Bruno choose to stay in the attic when the other children went to the carnival?”

  “Um . . .” Lia’s forehead wrinkles. “I think the idea of the carnival scared him. Meanwhile, the attic—even though it was just a shabby little room, it was his. He felt powerful there.”

  Ms. Pepperidge beams. “Great answer. Power comes in many forms . . .”

  Power. I think about the word as Ms. Pepperidge drones on. I felt powerful when I first started taking the suggestions. With Callen, when I began to suspect he liked me. Spending my bonus money at Delton’s, doing the reenactment with Selwyn by our lockers. Power gave my life a jolt, a thrust it had lacked before. But no matter how powerful I felt, I’d always been a puppet. With Media1 pulling the strings.

  I’m heading for the door at the end of class when I feel a hand on my arm. Lia. “Wait, Nettie—” She hesitates. “Do you want to do the Diary of Destiny after school?”

  Anger bites at me again. Selwyn’s gone.

  I imagine Lia sitting on my bed, explaining that Selwyn will be better off, like Belle, or that it’s her own fault for breaking the Contract. That she deserves it. “No, thanks. Um, I gotta go to calculus, but I’ll call you tonight,” I say, skirting around her and out of the classroom.

  For once Mr. Black is on time. I sit at my usual desk, not looking at Scoop but wishing I could talk to him. His trip to the Sandcastle is my last chance to save Selwyn from the army or slave labor or whatever miserable fate is in store for the Patriots when they leave the island on the twentieth, five days away. We need to expose what’s going on before then, or I might lose her forever.

  I write a note at the corner of the page and nudge it to the edge of my desk. Scoop looks down briefly and nods, the smallest trace of a smile on his face.

  I’m coming with you.

  Chapter 20

  Selwyn Baker became a Patriot today under Clause 53, Item B, Risk to the Show. As per the Contract, please refrain from mentioning Selwyn. As per the Contract, rid your personal sets of any reminders of Selwyn.

  • • •

  It’s official: Selwyn crisped. Seasons ago, it might have been a fine. Now she’s cut. It’s like they’re choking the life out of the island. I turn the Missivor off and go downstairs to get a garbage bag, aware that my room needs more than the five-minute scans I gave it after Revere and Belle.

  I pass Mom, who is vacuuming the couch with a fabric hose. Her face is screwed up in concentration, her hair tied back tightly, like some sort of home facelift. The sound of the vacuum rasping over the fabric makes me cringe.

  I escape upstairs and start filling my trash bag. There are silly ballpoint cartoons from when she used to draw in her spare time, birthday gifts—a checker set, a jelly bean dispenser, a hot pink wig, a book on watch repairs. All into the bag. In the midst of my hunt, I come across the fan letter Luz gave me, and I stuff it in my pocket, taking it with me as I haul the trash bag downstairs.

  I dump the trash in the basement and come upstairs, letter still in hand. I pause in the kitchen, reading it one last time. You’re just like your parents: funny, tough, and smart. I used to feel sorry for the Audience, but now I feel too sorry for myself to care about their drab Sectors lives. I click the gas on, hold out the paper, and watch the flames eat Kat Deva’s letter.

  The smoke is faint, but predictably, the alarm goes off. I’m scrambling on top of a stool to disable it when Mom comes in, frazzled, arms swooping about, like she can catch the noise in the air and quell it. My fingers are clumsy. I can’t figure it out, and I resort to banging the alarm on the counter until the batteries pop out.

  “Oh, my goodness,” Mom says, her hand over her heart. “What was that about, Nettie?”

  “Burning some junk mail,” I say, washing my hands.

  She pushes her glasses up her nose and fixes me with a stare.

  I wipe my hands on the dishrag and cross my arms over my chest, daring her to ask more. Her eyes flit to the cameras in the ceiling. “Would you come with me to my office?” Her voice has that don’t-mess-with-the-librarian air, and I follow her, too surprised by the invitation to refuse. Mom’s office is her sanctuary, and though I used to come in here when I was younger to play with blocks on the blue carpet, I hardly ever go inside it these days.

  “I want you to see my plus-ten view of Ginevra Herron’s snowdrops.” She steers me to a corner by the windows. All I see, however, is a blur of white as she jostles me tightly into the corner, then, to my astonishment, begins fralling with me for the first time in ages.

  “Nettie, I don’t know what got into Selwyn, but I’m worried about you. You’re old enough to know now: your father was a Show Risk.”

  I blink. A Show Risk? That’s what Violet meant when she said he was rebellious. I didn’t realize she meant he acted out toward Media1. I thought she meant he got into trouble with Characters, not Reals.

  “Toward the end, he was completely careless about fralling. He’d wave to the crickets. He even deliberately broke a few cameras, and one day—” She closes her eyes, like she can’t bear to remember, then opens them and forces herself to go on. “He took his mic off. I saw him do it, before he went to work, and I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen. All he would say was that his life wasn’t a performance. Who hasn’t felt that way? But he didn’t have to— I got home, and there was the Missive.”

  “Wow.” I know Mom wants to scare me, but the only thing I feel is a weird sort of pride.

  “Nettie, there’s no wow,” she mouths. “I’m worried you’re going down the same road. You’re not yourself—you’ve abandoned your building hobby, you didn’t go to the Flower Festival, and now one of your closest friends was a Show Risk cut.”

  I take pity on her. “Mom, I’ve been acting differently because of the Initiative. Have you heard of it?” On-mic, I add sweetly, “Those flowers are gorgeous.”

  “I know. Ginevra told me they were hybrids—a cross between lilies and roses?” she says on-mic. She switches back off. “The Initiative? I hear it can do wonders for your ratings. Is that why you’re buying all those new clothes? I’m so proud of you, sweetie. This is wonderful.”

  Her reaction baffles me, but then I realize what’s behind it—she thinks I’m a success now. She doesn’t see beyond the Audience. “Mom,” I mouth gently, “the Initiative is an excuse for Media1 to interfere with our lives.”

  “But your ratings are going up, right?” she mouths.

  I’m conscious of how I can’t see behind her. Her tall form blocks me off from the rest of the house. Her brown eyes implore me to say what she wants. Be who she wants me to be. I imagine telling her my latest suggestion. She’d probably ask what night I was planning for and offer to stay out so Cal
len and I could have the house to ourselves.

  But instead I ask something that’s been on my mind forever.

  “Mom, do you miss him?” I mouth.

  She stiffens. I wait, hoping she’ll answer, and she does, but she’s speaking on-mic, something about the Flower Festival and a display Mrs. Herron put together outside town hall. I nod, ask a few questions, and don’t push her any further. I am who she wants me to be.

  • • •

  Safe in my room, I lie on my bed and think about our plan to get into the Center, imagining each detail as vividly as I can, scrutinizing each step for potential errors. My brain gets exhausted, and I can’t even drag myself to my feet to check the radio for Reals chatter.

  I just want to sleep and forget about what happened to Selwyn. I turn on my side and stare at the empty space. Where Callen is supposed to be this week. But I can’t do that.

  I’m over wanting to be a Media1 pet like Lia is, but there’s one thing she has that I still want. I can’t quite come up with the perfect word for it. Resolve? Certainty?

  Callen would probably just say she’s bossy.

  I sit up straight. I have an idea. I look at myself in the mirror and tilt my head in my Lia pose, the one that I use to give me confidence. I need to act like Lia used to with Callen. Right before he broke up with her, she came on too strong about the close-up. What I’d always thought of as confidence, he viewed as manipulation. If I do that, he’ll refuse me for sure. He might even break up with me.

  That’s what I need, I realize. A breakup. The one thing that could get me out of the suggestion.

  • • •

  I rummage through the fridge late Wednesday afternoon, searching for whatever requires the least preparation. I settle on strawberries and bread, but perching on the kitchen stool, I find I’m too nervous to eat them. Instead, I fidget with the wire cutters I dug up in the garage. They’re for Scoop and me to bring with us on Thursday, to cut through the fence that surrounds the Center. Oddly, breaking into the Center is causing me less anxiety than this close-up. Or is it a setup? A setup close-up.