by Maya Rock
Not much, it turns out. She tells me a few things she’s learned from some of the books Media1 let through. For example, there’s an annual cough that goes around that they can’t eradicate and cities where the train system runs all night. I tell her the names of the places I’ve seen on Dr. Kanavan’s calendar.
“I think I’d like to see them,” I say. “All of them.”
“But, Nettie, it could be dangerous,” Mom says as I gather our bowls. “I don’t want you to—”
“End up in the grave, like Dad?” The response comes out sounding a lot colder than it had in my head.
She sweeps the crumbs off the table and into her napkin, then readjusts her glasses. “Yes, that’s what I mean,” she says. “You may not have to listen to Media1, but you’ll still have to listen to me out there.”
I rise from the table to bring my bowl back to the kitchen and hug her impulsively. “I will,” I promise. I wasn’t lying when I said I wanted to see all of the Sectors. I just want both: home and Mom and freedom and the outside.
A large motor growls down the street. Mom snatches up her suitcase. “That must be the bus.”
The sky is cloudy, and it’s drizzling lightly. No scripted sky today. I stand on our porch while Mom, maybe unnecessarily, locks up. I see people streaming from their houses to get on the bus, which stops every dozen or so feet to pick them up. Whole families and individuals. The bus is supposed to be making rounds all day, and it looks like it will need to—it’s already filling up.
The bus arrives in front of our house just as Mom and I are still walking toward the street, and the Herrons beat us to it. I fall in line behind Callen, and Mom is behind me, and there are people behind her, but I don’t look back to check who they are. Callen glances back quickly, once, just to smile.
We pile into the bus in silence. Even the kids seem to know that this is a sober event. A brother and sister around the same age—six or so—sit together without making a peep. Their father sits behind them, wearing a wedding ring, but without a wife. I wonder how many families have been torn apart.
Crickets are here too, in uniform. One stands at the back of the bus; others are scattered throughout, whispering to one another. Callen’s parents sit together, his mom gazing forlornly out the window, while Callen sits across from them, alone. He gestures me over, and I look up at Mom.
“Go ahead,” she says.
I slide in next to Callen. He puts his hand protectively over mine on the seat, but when I look in his eyes and see the worry there, I’m not sure who’s protecting whom. I rest my head on his shoulder.
“Lia didn’t come.”
“I didn’t think she would,” he says. We pass the playground dividing Treasure Woods from the Arbor.
“She could change her mind,” I say, but I know she won’t.
We drive through Treasure Woods, and hardly anyone gets on. Life on the island is pretty good if you have strong ratings. We pass the Graysons’ mansion, perched on a hill. None of them are waiting for us. Callen grips my hand tightly as we pass Lia’s house.
Then Scoop, Belle, and their parents come aboard. Loudly. Mr. Cannery tips his hat to the Authority bus driver, and his mother puts her hand above her eyes as she scouts out the seats, mock-complaining, “I have to go all the way to the back?” and the mood on the bus lifts, coinciding with the sun breaking out from behind gray clouds. Scoop and I exchange nods as he goes to the back of the bus. Two partners finally at the end of a project.
I press my face up against the glass, and I try to watch without thinking, wanting to remember the way the hedges run along the sidewalk, how weeping willows kiss the ground. Details that Blissful Days might miss.
“We’re never coming back,” Callen says, rubbing the back of my hand with his thumb.
I’m leaving. I can carry the island in my head for a while. But bit by bit, the sense of it will fade, like a gradual changing of seasons, and it will all just be images on a screen. I think that I can live with that distance. Distance from Lia, from the familiar places flying by, from the certainty that my world ended at the ocean.
• • •
The Reals treat all the departing Characters like royalty at the Center. As soon as we step off the bus, it’s all “Welcome,” “Right this way,” and “Glad you’re here,” as they break us up into separate groups, directing us to different Center buildings. I think they’re worried about a repeat of yesterday’s hostility. With at least three hundred of us here, serious damage could be done if the group got angry. A nervous energy runs through the crowd, but it’s excitement all aimed at our futures as normal citizens of the Sectors, not hostility toward the company.
All the Characters traveling with the rescued Patriots end up in Character Relations. There are about thirty of us—I think Mom, Violet, and I are the only ones who weren’t connected to the Patriots. There’s a table with some snacks. Children run around, testing the limits of their new freedom by chasing one another throughout the entire building and talking to Reals directly. Adults are more cautious. Some even still have their turned-off microphones clipped to their collars.
We’re only there for a few hours, until the sun begins setting. Then the Reals take us outside and lead us down the road to Eden Beach. The black freighter waits in the water for us, long and low, with colored storage containers stacked on top. Reals in purple jumpsuits lead us up the gangplank. We’re at the end of the line, Violet hobbling slowly. She hasn’t been saying much and refused the grapes I brought her from the food stand. I’m grateful when she jabs me with her elbow and lifts her cane up, aiming it at Callen’s back. “That’s him, right?” she says, the ghost of a smile on her lips. I nod, glad she’s showing some life.
A brown-eyed female Real with chipped nail polish shows us to our cabins. “You’ll understand we weren’t prepared for your voyage,” she says as she struggles to unlock the door with a big iron key. “Please forgive us.” Scoop rolls his eyes at me. He’s not impressed. He’s right. Puppets, I remind myself. Any friendly attitude is just today’s company policy. As if I need more of a reminder not to trust them, the last thing she says to us—with a big smile—is, “Remember, don’t leave your cabin until 8 a.m. tomorrow.”
The cabin is small, with only one real bed, which Violet takes, and a cot for Mom. I get a sleeping bag on the floor. There’s a tiny bathroom adjacent to the room, thankfully. Settling down, I think about Lia, who slept on my floor last night. I replay our conversations in my mind, grasping for clues that I failed to pick up on. Was it seeing Callen with me? Maybe it was the thought of having Real kids, maybe . . . but then the freighter’s engines kick up, and there’s a long screeching noise—the anchor?—and the foghorn bellows, a familiar sound. I close my eyes and I can see it: the black shadow moving away from the island. Me, moving away from the show.
• • •
The trip is supposed to last three days, and, yes, for some of that time, we’re confined below deck. But during daylight hours, we’re allowed to roam free. We learn all this during a quick morning meeting led by the ship’s captain. We’re each given diagrams of the freighter’s interior with emergency escape routes. As soon as the meeting is over, everyone heads up to the deck. Selwyn and I break off from our families and walk together.
Selwyn is overdressed, a cardigan over her short turquoise summer dress. I think she’s still shy about showing the tattoo. She takes one step on deck, sniffs the salty air, shakes her head, and points at her diagram. “I’m going to the game room,” she says. “I think I’m seasick—it started last night. Watching some games might get my mind off of it. Maybe there will be some cute Real sailors,” she speculates.
“All right, have fun.” I find my mother and Violet strolling around the deck, using one of Violet’s frilly parasols to block the sun. Ever since the captain finished his lecturing, they’ve been caught up in an endless dialogue about my father. That’s wh
y I paired up with Selwyn, not ready to listen.
Scoop is up here too. He and his family seem to operate as one seamless unit, even if Belle still stands out—quiet, without a gleaming Cannery smile. She’s happy, though, and her face looks fuller. Scoop points to the ocean, maybe spotting a dolphin or something, and they all chatter about it. I look away, content to let them have their family moment.
The freighter’s so huge, you almost can’t feel it moving. I don’t know how Selwyn got seasick. I watch the waves. Something feels different, and I think it’s the absence of fear. The future’s so unknown that I can’t begin to worry about it.
“I found you.” Callen comes up from behind and puts his arm around me. I rest my head on his shoulder, resisting the urge to kiss his neck; Violet and Mom might see us. He watches the ocean with me for a bit. “This is it. We’re out of the trap. The great beyond.”
“The great beyond,” I echo. We’re out of earshot of anyone who might accuse him of being cynical. But who could really deny it? Leaving the island is a death of some kind. Death of my old self. What Luz always wanted.
“Nettie, Nettie!” Selwyn jogs up the stairs. “Oh, hi, Callen. Nettie, you’ve got to come downstairs. Guess what’s in the game room? A television, and they’re running all these old episodes of Blissful Days. There’s one on now about Lia’s seventh grade birthday party. Do you remember, with the bad magician who let the rabbit loose?”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Well?” she urges, raking her hand through her short hair.
I pause. I’m sort of curious. I could see my younger self. Could see us the way everyone else saw us. Watch Lia’s episodes.
“Let’s go, it’ll be fun.”
Callen stays silent next to me, but grabs my hand. I look over my shoulder, like someone’s calling me from the ocean. No, just the waves. Still, they’re enough of a reason to miss Blissful Days, for now.
“No, thanks,” I say, looking out at the ocean and the freighter and Callen. “I’ll stay up here.”
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Michelle Andelman, my kind, sensitive, and brilliant agent, and to Arianne Lewin, my funny, tough, and smart editor, who has taught me so much about how to craft a novel. Also thanks to Eveline Chao, Chantal Clarke, Lara Ehrlich, Trish MacGregor, Katherine Perkins, Paula Sadler, and Heather Wagner for their editorial input. Last, I am eternally grateful to Pat Willard and Al Zuckerman, my wonderful mentors and inspirations.
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