Scripted (12 page)

“How's Fincher's going?” she asks.

I hesitate, but she has to know. “Mom, about Fincher's,” I say as I begin a clandestine search for cookies—she baked some for her upcoming book club. I'm not supposed to have any; she worries about cavities.

“About Fincher's?” she repeats sharply.

I take a deep breath. “Mom, I'm going to apply for the high school math teacher apprenticeship. Mr. Black says I'll probably get it.”

Mom drops her pen, and her chair screeches as she leaps up and rushes to the kitchen entryway. “But you've been preparing for Fincher's for so long!”

I shut the cabinet door before she suspects I've been cookie hunting. “I know. But I think I'll like this more than being a repairman.”

“Really?” She sighs, exasperated. “Nettie, what's gotten into you?”

“Mom, it's all right. Everything's going to work out,” I mumble, grabbing a pear instead. Thanks to her unspoken rules about fralling, I can't even begin to explain what really happened.

“Nettie, you've been so secretive lately,” she says, following me into the living room. “And no food outside of the kitchen, you know that.”

“I haven't been secretive,” I snap. I sit on the couch and put the pear on the coffee table, wishing she'd go away.

“Well, why didn't you tell me about the apprenticeship earlier?” she asks, standing above me with her arms crossed. “You know you can talk to me if you're having problems. I'm here for you.”

“Did you read that in
Perfect Your Parenting
?” I joke, sort of. Mom loves self-help books. Other notable titles I've seen over the seasons have been
Friends after Forty
and
Attention, Belief, Clarity: The ABC's of Adulthood.

“No, I'm serious, Nettie. I'm worried.” She takes off her glasses and puts them on the mantel above the fireplace, rubbing her eyes. “You've seemed different lately.”

“I just feel like things are changing,” I say, resting my head back on the couch and staring up at the ceiling. I can't tell her what's actually on my mind—we don't frall.

“What do you mean?” She sits down next to me. A lamp shines directly on her hair, and I can see a few new gray strands alongside the brown ones. Without her glasses, she seems softer, a little more approachable.

“With me and my friends.” I try to think of something I can say on-camera. “Lia and Callen broke up.”

“Oh.” Mom purses her lips. “Tough for Lia. She must be relying on you a lot now.”

“Yup, tough.” I spin a letter opener on the table behind the couch—Mom collects them. She doesn't have much of an eye for aesthetics, unlike Violet or Eleanora Burnish, Lia's mom. I feel like a more normal mother would collect, I don't know, animal figurines or something.

“How about you?” she says abruptly. “How's your love life? Are you dating anyone?”

Eek. She's trying so hard to be the textbook mother now. At least I can use her interest to my advantage and add more to the plotline Luz says will definitely be broadcast.

“There's someone I like,” I say slowly. A part of me still feels guilty about Lia, but, really, should I? She doesn't feel guilty about lying to me about the Patriots. “I think
I
actually, um, like Callen.”

Mom makes a startled noise, but quickly composes herself. “That seems complicated.” Mom hasn't had a boyfriend since my dad and always seemed more bemused than moved by the men who've asked her out.

“It is. I don't want to hurt Lia, and I'm not sure how he feels, anyway.”

“Oh, these situations are hard,” Mom says, gaze drifting toward the window behind me as she gets lost in memories. I wonder if they're about my dad. “Just be honest, and it'll work out.”

Work out for who? Me, maybe, but not for Lia. “I hope so,” I say, keeping it short and vague. “Anything new happen in the library today?”

Her face lights up. “Mr. Gardene brought in his poodle, Jingle. Cute dog, but he chews up dictionaries. I had to lay down the law . . .”

Hearing about Mom's job is a nice escape. I giggle as she recounts the showdown between her, Mr. Gardene, and the neurotic poodle, Jingle, and how the new cushioned reading space has been used more for napping than reading. Munching on my pear and listening to her work travails, I can almost fool myself into thinking everything's okay.

Luz barks
into the mic attached to the end of his headset. I can only make out bits and pieces like “better for everyone” and “I'll get them another.” He throws the headset onto his cluttered desk when he's done, disgusted, and gestures me over to the couch, but I remain in front of his desk, clenching my hands, working up the courage to ask the questions that have been hounding me since Monday.

He's oblivious. “These bureaucrats,” he grumbles, caressing the fallen headset like a kitten. He has the beginnings of a beard, a feeble attempt that only accentuates his youth. “Despite its obvious successes, the Initiative has met with some resistance.” His voice becomes high-pitched as he mimics his Media1 bosses, wagging his finger at me like a disapproving teacher. “What if Characters hate their suggestions? What if the rewards don't entice them? What if they start complaining about the mobile cameras?” He sighs. “Why can't they be content to watch viewership climb?”

“Did you cut Revere so I could have the math apprenticeship? Because there wasn't any apprenticeship slot for him if I took it?” I keep my voice level, but take a step closer to the desk.

Luz waves me over to the couch as he answers. “As reported in the Missive, Revere's ratings fell 10 percent below his target. He was on the E.L., and the producers' circle selected him to be cut. Besides, he hardly needed to be cut for you to get the apprenticeship—he could have just been anyassigned.”

“It just seems like a strange coincidence.” I remain standing. My shoulders are heavy, my book bag still on. “Even if he was on the E.L., what were the chances that
he'd
get cut at the most convenient time for me?”

Luz opens his mouth, ready with a response, but his eyes catch mine, and there's silence. He recovers in an instant. “Because of the Contract, I can't discuss Revere with you.” Luz starts searching through the sea of objects on his desk. “Nettie, I'd much rather talk about you and your ratings. Sit down.”

I ignore his order and plant my hands on his desk, leaning forward. I may not have the bulk of an Authority, but I'm hoping that I still can cut an intimidating figure in the small, narrow office. “Were you in the producers' circle? Did you say,
Let's cut Revere so we can give Nettie the teacher apprenticeship
? Did you do it because you knew Mr. Black would argue against me getting the slot with Revere still around?”

“Hypothetically, say that I had,” Luz says tartly. “Would it really be so much worse than how any other cut is made?” He sifts through a paper clip spill. “Characters are added to the Eligibility List because they're not popular with the Audience. The ultimate decision comes down to the vote of the producers' circle. There are no rules about how the decision's made there.”

“If you won't tell me the truth about the cut, can you at least let me know where he's going? What happens to the Patriots?” I try to say it casually.

“You know I can't say. Besides, Nettie, what's it to you? You're so far from being a Patriot,” he says, withdrawing the familiar green envelope from under a pile of rubber bands. He holds it up in the air. “Found it. Take a look. Nettie, please
sit down.
”

“Okay.” I remove my hands and retreat to the couch. He passes me the ratings envelope. I'm frightened by what it contains, the memory of last quarter's disappointing card still fresh, making my hands shake as I rip into the envelope.

I gasp when I see my mark. “Really?”

“The porch scene with Callen was a major hit with girls ages nine to eighteen,” Luz says, triumphant. He rubs his hands together. “I knew you could do it.”

I'm holding the contents of the envelope in my hand like they're sacred offerings. So many bills: 300 ceteks. A 200 cetek bonus for exceeding my target by way over the minimum 10 percent. The mark on the flat white card: 342. My predicted mark was 250. I can't stop the smile creeping onto my face. “I'm safe this week?”

“Yes, you're off the E.L. You should also know that I saved you from a fine. Your teachers might care about cheating on the math test, but you don't have to hide it from the Audience. You should have been more aware of staying on-mic while in the janitor's closet, especially since there is no camera coverage there—a situation that will be rectified.”

“Right,” I murmur, counting the bills again. “I'll be more aware.”

“And of course, you're firmly on the path to getting the math apprenticeship. Clearly, your first week as part of the Initiative was an unqualified success. Are you ready to hear your next suggestion?”

“What is it?” I slide the money and card back into the envelope and put it in my jeans pocket. Selwyn wanted to go downtown and shop for
voxless
clothes tomorrow. Now I'll be able to buy some too.

“Three more conversations with Callen. I'll send you a Missive with more specific instructions for each.
Hi
doesn't count.”

“More flirting, you mean?”

Luz jots notes on his yellow notepad and comments without raising his eyes. “If it comes naturally, sure. Only make sure you talk to him. I think you'll like the reward—I noticed how upset you were when your grandmother was fined for fralling. How would you like it if I ensured that she was never fined again?”

Getting Violet out of trouble permanently
and
getting to hang out with Callen again. “Yes, let's do it,” I say right away, but I get quiet when I think about dealing with Lia.

“Fantastic. If you do as good a job as you did last week, your ratings are going to go through the roof,” Luz says, getting up and stepping on a purple jumpsuit. He kicks it unceremoniously into the pile in the corner. “Do you have any more questions about the suggestion?”

“No,” I say. “Just—Lia is so mad at Callen. I know she doesn't want me talking to him again.”

“Listen, Nettie—there's more to life than being Lia Burnish's best friend. Lose the old idea of yourself. And help your grandmother.” He comes around in front of the desk, stretching his arms like it's the first time he's moved around in ages. “Do you think the stars on
Blissful Days
put anyone before themselves? Start thinking like a star. What do
you
want?”

“I want to talk to him,” I say without thinking. I could sit on the porch all day with him. Corner him in art class and ask him how he likes our new self-portrait project. Saunter up to him in the hallway after lunch and walk with him to his next class.

“That's what the Audience wants too.” Luz turns around and shuffles through some papers, pulling out another envelope. “Here's the proof. I got permission from Media1 to share a fan letter with you. I thought it might be inspirational.” He passes me the envelope. “You can read it on the set, if you want,” he tells me. “Media1 won't broadcast it, but they won't fine you either.”

“Oh, wow, crazy,” I say, grabbing the envelope. I've never heard of anyone getting letters from fans. I never realized they'd
want
to write to us. Pretty plus ten. I put the envelope in my back pocket, next to my ratings card. Eager to get to it, I stand up, ready to leave, but the buzzing sound of a fighter jet catches my attention. Reflexively, I look out the window behind Luz, trying to get a glimpse, but the stone building behind Character Relations blocks the sky.

“Seems like things are pretty nasty in the Drowned Lands,” I throw out, one last try for a clue about what they're doing with the Patriots there.

“Yeah,” Luz says, sitting behind his desk again. “You should be happy your ancestors got out.”

“They were from the Drowned Lands?” I frown. “
All
my ancestors? None from the mainland?”

“Almost all the Originals came from the Drowned Lands; they're the ones who needed the securities of the island the most.”

Of course, it makes perfect sense. The poorest. Lia was wrong. We would have never been Zenta guttersnipes. Without the Originals, we would have been Drowned Lands peasants. Descendants of drownclowns, all of us.

Luz is bent over his yellow pad, writing something, leaving me with a full view of the stone building. My heart speeds up as I realize something: it's the perfect candidate, at the outskirts of the Center, far from Characters and the sets, and right near the beach—where the ships that take the Patriots away dock.

The Sandcastle.

A sharp electronic wail, and I tear my eyes away from the window. “Oh, God.” Luz leaps up in the air, right arm thrust out, trying to reach the smoke alarm that's piercing our eardrums. He fails. “I keep telling them to stop smoking in the halls, but no one listens . . . God, the alarms on Bliss Island.” Four seasons ago there was a massive fire in the Heights, and Media1 replaced all the old smoke alarms with supersensitive ones that candles and even cigarettes can set off.

“All right, see you next time,” I yell. I clap my hands over my ears and rush out of the office, my exit slowed by other Reals. I can read their lips as they complain about having to leave the building, even though it's not an emergency. I glance over my shoulder—sure enough, Luz isn't exempt. He's pulling on a jacket as he sprints out of his office. Yet another alarm joins in the chorus, and I start running, eager to escape the noise.

• • •

Lia sprawls out on my bed, paging through the Diary, her long legs encased in tight dark jeans. I'm straddling my desk chair, half listening, half dwelling on my Character Report. She writes in flowing cursive, saying aloud, “Good Things. Well—” She stops and reaches behind her ear, our signal for the suggestion. “I've decided I'm going to visit the hospital and ask about counseling for Mom.” She practically sings the words out. She's gotten better at pretending she wants to talk about this.

A fake self. I think. That's what the Initiative makes. But isn't it better than what I had before? The fan letter might shed some light on that. I glance over my shoulder at the letter, still in its envelope, lying next to the radio. Lia was already here when I got home, so I had to put off reading it.

“I think the counseling's a plus-ten idea.” I rise slightly so I can see over her and check my hair in the mirror hanging on my closet door on the other side of the bed. I've been trying to keep it under control, to fit in better with
voxless.

“Your turn,” she says, pointing her pen at me. “Good Things?”

Good Things. I sit down again. I can't talk about my spectacular ratings. I can't talk about the moment I had with Callen on Monday. Given the situation with Revere, it feels like a mistake to call the apprenticeship a Good Thing. “I got a hundred on my math test,” I say instead. The test Revere had graded. I can tell his handwriting from Mr. Black's. I see it peeking out of my folder on my nightstand, a missed reminder.

Lia laughs. “All right, human calculator.” Her gaze shifts to the desk behind me. “You finished the radio, right? Does it work?”

I nod, still not sure if I should tell her about overhearing the Reals. “It works. You have to keep your ear glued to the receiver to hear it, though.”

“Still counts,” she says briskly, writing in the notebook. It's getting warm in here, and I open the window behind my desk, discreetly checking the porch for Callen. “All right, Bad Things.” She bites the top of her lucky pen as she thinks. I can't mention those either. Learning that the Patriots are in the Drowned Lands. Revere. I struggle to think of camera-appropriate information.

“Nothing.” I shrug.

“Gosh, living in Nettieworld must be nice. Very, very peaceful,” she says with a tinge of sarcasm, scrutinizing me. I crack a weak smile.

“Well, moving on to me. This week,” she says, turning on her side, “Mom kept us up with her crying last night.” She records the event in the Diary.

I get up off the chair and lie down next to her, running my fingers through my hair to hide my face from the cameras.

“So, the counseling is a suggestion?” I mouth.

“Yeah. I'll survive, and they'll get Mom a cat. She's wanted one since she was a kid, but all her requests have been denied.” New pets are as tightly regulated as pregnancy on the island, for the same reason—population control. “What's yours?”

I swallow hard and look away, staring at the shelves across from us. I can't get the words out. Then I notice that my books are out of order. Someone was in here. Sure enough, on the underside of the top shelf, I see a new 'bile, its red light beaming. Great.

Lia jabs me. “Just tell me,” she mouths.

“Luz wants me to keep talking to Callen. If I do, the crickets won't bother Violet anymore.”

Lia's eyes flutter, like someone who's been knocked unconscious coming back to life. “I knew it. They think you two are going to fall in love,” she mouths slowly. “Or have you already?”

“In
love
?” I mouth. “Relax. You said yourself that Callen doesn't want anything to do with me. So how much farther can they go with it? Oh, guess what, I'm off the E.L.” I hope she'll drop the Callen stuff now.

“About time,” Lia mouths matter-of-factly. “Nettie. You should talk to him, but don't lead him on either. Hopefully, Media1 will pick up that you have no chemistry and let it go. Okay?” Her eyes drill into mine.

Part of me wants to be honest, like Mom said, but I don't want to upset Lia either. In the end, I just mouth, “Got it,” and sit up, ending the discussion.

“Okay, Vows.” She sits up straight, pushing her flame hair back and poising her pen. “Anything apprenticeship related?”

I slide back down into fralling position. This is when I appreciate my thick, dark, wavy hair the most, when it so effectively shields my face from the cameras. Lia follows suit. “Revere
was
cut so I could get the apprenticeship.”