Scripted (22 page)

Our Double A earrings
are simple—
classy,
Lia had called them. Luminous single imitation pearl droplets at the end of braided wires. The morning of the Double A, I put them on clumsily, not used to earrings. I look quite demure with them on and my hair up in a bun. I turn around a couple of times, checking myself from all angles. Different expressions. Smile. No smile. My skin, the result of many days of diligent Skin Sequence, glows. Dr. Kanavan will be proud.

I didn't have time to buy a new dress, so I put on an old one. It's a white sleeveless silk shift, with some crystal beadwork at the bottom. Selwyn had picked it out for me a long time ago, so it's covertly in honor of her.

As soon as I step into the dining room, Mom rushes to the doorway, spatula in hand. “I'm not finished yet,” she says. “I'm making pancakes.” Underneath her apron, she's dressed up, too, in a gray skirt suit and black pumps.

“It's okay, Mom. I can wait.” I sit at the table, glancing out the window. The sky is pure and cloudless, scripted. I heard the helicopters outside while I listened to the radio last night.

“I just want everything to be perfect,” she says, returning to the kitchen. “You'll remember today for the rest of your life.” She comes back with a glass of orange juice. “Here, the pancakes will be done in a minute.”

“Thanks,” I say, holding the glass in both hands as I sip, like I used to when I was a kid.

“You can turn on the radio,” she calls from the kitchen. I turn on the radio behind me, battered-looking since our trip to the Sandcastle—I think it got knocked around a lot when Scoop was whipping the boat back and forth, trying to damage the cameras—but I don't think Mom has noticed. I twirl the dial to
voxless
music and tap my fingers on the table to its slow rhythm.

“Ready!” Mom comes back, bearing a stack of pancakes. She places them in front of me, then fetches syrup and fresh whipped cream.

I smother the pancakes in syrup and dig in. Mom eats too, but her eyes dart over to me and away, over and away, like I'm something so precious that I'll break if she disturbs me with a lingering look.

“Are you nervous?” she asks. “My legs were shaking when I walked up to the podium to get my assignment.”

“A little.” But not for the reasons she thinks.

“Well, that's natural. Nettie, you look
beautiful.
I'm so proud,” she gushes. She puts down her silverware and settles back in her chair, gazing at me warmly.

I feel awkward, but it suddenly seems vital to say, “Thanks, Mom. That's nice to know.”

I swallow the lump in my throat, imagining her seeing the pictures of my father and finding out how the company has been deceiving her. She trusts Media1.

“Nettie, Violet called. She said she got a message from you saying not to come to the Ceremony today.”

“Yeah, I called last night, but she was asleep, so I spoke to Tula. Violet's been fragile lately. I think it'd be too much excitement for her.”

“Okay,” Mom says, confused. But she doesn't question me. The Double A has brought out a softer side to her. I'm glad that, at least for a few hours, I can live up to her hopes.

• • •

Lia and Henna are by the fountain, inspecting the seats for the chamber music group that sits near the mayor. Tinsel stars twinkle in the trees. I give my mother a hug and move to the front rows where the juniors sit in alphabetical order. I pick up the program waiting on my seat.
Seventy-Third Apprenticeship Announcement Ceremony.
Instead of the solar system Lia had described, there's just one magnificent sun on the cover, a golden orb wreathed in orange-gold flames.

Lia catches my eye from her spot by the fountain and nods, her earrings bobbing with the dip of her head. She's wearing a black chiffon dress, a red rose tucked behind her ear. She scans the plaza methodically, checking the tinsel stars, the mayor's podium, refreshment tables off at the side bearing bottles of wine and soda. Conor is sitting behind the podium, wan, folding and unfolding a battered piece of paper that must contain the poem.

Lincoln is a couple of rows in front of me—I recognize his curls, cropped closely to his head in a fresh cut. The boys have it easy. Suits and ties, all in the muted colors of
voxless.
I locate Callen and wave at him, but look away quickly after he waves back. I've been having trouble coming to grips with the fact that I might lose him after today, and seeing him in the flesh just makes it harder.

Navia Suchere, whom I've been lining up with my whole life, scoots into the row. Her dress is gray, with taffeta at the hips. She places the program in her lap, her hands on top of it, relaxed. She looks over at me. “What's up with your dress?” she says. “Seems . . . seriously out of date.” We're not allowed to talk directly about motifs, but the conversation can easily be cloaked.

“A good friend chose it for me. A friend who's no longer with us, so I want to honor her by wearing it,” I say on-mic. Navia pales at my reference to Selwyn and turns away just as Mayor Cardinal raps the microphone at the podium.

Henna and Lia run down the steps to their seats in the plaza while parents, relatives, representatives from the professions, and a host of other Characters settle into their seats. The chamber music quartet behind the mayor starts playing.

I take one last look behind me, trying to calculate how many Characters are here. At least five hundred, I estimate. The chairs are filled, and others sit on benches or stand. Plenty of crickets are around, too, but no Authority. The Double A is too perfect a scene to mar with edits. The chamber music group stops playing as the last stragglers take their seats. I turn and fix my eyes on the mayor, a pudgy man with thick black eyebrows and a mustache. He grips the top of the podium and clears his throat.

“Welcome to the Seventy-Third Annual Apprenticeship Announcement,” he says. Applause erupts, and some of the football tracs stomp their feet and guffaw like it's the funniest thing in the world. Lia shoots them a murderous glare.

“Every year, we gather to celebrate one of the most memorable occasions in a Bliss Islander's life. What you learn today will set the course of your whole future. We understand that you're desperate to know, but please remember, you are not permitted to open the program until everyone has received their assignment.”

Navia clutches her program tightly. “I'm dying,” she whispers.

“Oh, you can hold out,” I say, crossing my legs.

“I remember my first Apprenticeship Announcement,” the mayor says. “I had no idea what I wanted to do, had left the line on my application blank, ready to be anyassigned.”

The mayor goes on, but I stop listening, distracted by the sight of Navia's index finger slipping underneath the program cover. My stomach starts doing flip-flops.

The mayor landed a town council clerkship. Navia lifts her hand and joins the smattering of applause. I hear a few usual disgruntled rumblings. Some Characters hate that story because the chances of an anyassigned apprenticeship being good are slim. The mayor was lucky.

The mayor finishes up his prepared remarks, and Conor shuffles up onstage. I remember how Selwyn was worried his poem will make everyone cry or something. But it's actually okay and incredibly short.

Today our lives begin.

As we sit among our friends,

Watching our childhoods end.

There's not even time to let the final lines of the poem sink in, because Mayor Cardinal springs from his seat, clapping, and we all clap while Conor walks away. An assistant brings a basket of scrolls to the mayor. The assignments are on scrolls stacked inside the basket like logs for a fireplace. The anxiety that's been right under the surface during the ceremony rises up and settles heavily over the audience. I glance over—Navia has her program open, but she still hasn't seen the insert, tucked between the third and fourth pages of apprenticeship listings.

“Pruelle Ash,” the mayor calls out. Pruelle, a misfit who managed to scrub up pretty well for the occasion, runs up the podium stairs, pleated skirt swinging, a smile so nervous it almost looks like a grimace. The mayor hands her the scroll. “You have received a journalist apprenticeship.”

Pruelle's smile grows, and she skips down the steps to her chair, holding the paper aloft. Someone calls out, “You deserve it, Pruelle!” from the back rows. I twist around with everyone else, trying to see who yelled. A girl sitting near Scoop. He's not part of the ceremony, of course, but he looks as nervous as any of us: hunched forward, elbows on his knees, hands knotted together.

The crowd quiets down as the mayor moves on to the next Character, Anders Batling—policeman. Two more Characters receive their assignments amid flurries of celebration. And then: “Lia Burnish!”

Lia rises and squeezes out of her row. Behind me, I hear whispering, and I resist the urge to turn around this time.

“Lia Burnish,” the mayor repeats as he hands her a scroll. “A future Blisslet.” She smiles graciously, showing none of Pruelle's or the others' open relief. As always, she has perfect poise, and pauses at the top of the steps to give Scoop's mother time to snap a picture for the newspaper before beginning her descent.

“What is this?” I hear someone whisper behind me. Lia walks down the stairs, gazing into the crowd, and our eyes meet. She knows it's out there. My heart thumps louder, about to break through my rib cage. Lia sits down in her chair, calm and collected.

“Look inside,” someone whispers, and now Navia is turning the page in her program.

“
Patriot Adventures
?” Navia says, frowning. She takes out the insert and shows it to me. “Nettie, have you seen this?”

“Um, yeah.” At last I open up the program. I flip to the insert that Lia photocopied and put in all the programs. The top has the ad for
Patriot Adventures
that I stole from the Center. I flip the paper over.

“Hey, check out the back,” I whisper loudly to Navia. “There's a message.”

Characters of Bliss Island: We have never been told what happens to our loved ones, the Patriots. We've taken solace in the Contract's promise that their needs will be met. Maybe you heard rumors of circumstances that were less than comfortable, but you had faith that Media1 had their best interests at heart. Perhaps others urged you not to ask questions. Ultimately, you decided it wasn't worth risking your life on Bliss to find a truth no one else seemed to care about.

But many of us do care, even though we've been told not to.

That's why we looked for, and found, the truth. This is what becomes of those of us who are cut. They join the cast of a show called
Patriot Adventures.
On the back of this statement you'll find pictures and descriptions of the stars of
Patriot Adventures.
They're enlisted to help the Sectors government defeat the rebels in the Drowned Lands. To do so, they put their lives on the line—carrying guns and bombs, attacking Drowned Landers directly or going undercover among them. Read the show descriptions. They'll tell you everything you need to know. You'll also see references to the “Ultimate Sacrifice.” That's death. Patriots get killed on
Patriot Adventures.

We also believe that Media1 has been deliberately cutting younger Characters because they make better—and more pliable—fighters on
Patriot Adventures.

Media1 can no longer be trusted. We demand an end to the Contract.

The murmurs of the crowd grow louder and louder. The mayor is oblivious; he keeps calling out names, assuming the murmurs are just the usual sneak peeks. Characters go up and receive their assignments, but no one's paying attention to the stage anymore. When he gets to Shar Corone, however, Shar just sits there, shaking his head. The mayor repeats his name three or four times before saying into the microphone, “Is something going on?”

“Do you know about
Patriot Adventures
?” someone calls out.

“
Patriot Adventures
?” the mayor repeats, scratching his beard.

I hear a click and look down at my mic, put my ear down against it.

That high, nearly imperceptible buzz it usually emits is absent.

“Is your microphone off?” I ask Navia. She checks and nods, face solemn.

“Is that my uncle?” Caren Trosser asks behind me, puzzled. “He's
killing
people in the Drowned Lands?”

The mayor says again, voice tremulous, “Is something going on?”

“The cameras are off!” A boy points up at a dead red eye in a tree. Hundreds of heads turn up, scouring the camerapoles and the trees and the backs of chairs—anywhere a camera might be.

“He's right,” a man shouts.

“Our mics are off too.” I recognize Lia's voice. She's standing among a group of our classmates. “It must be true.”

Her parents wade through the crowd over to her. “Lia, I think we should go home.” Eleanora Burnish puts her long arm over Lia and, with a flick of her wrist, tosses the program into a nearby trash can. She pushes Lia forward, trying to usher her out of the plaza.

I put my hand over my eyes to block out the sun and see Characters leaving. I can't tell if they're scared or don't care.

“This is a prank.” A new voice rings out over the crowd. A cricket is clattering onto the stage and has commandeered the podium, pushing the mayor to the side. He seizes the mic and starts talking, but he's too fast and no one can understand him. He takes a deep breath and slows down. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a prank. There is no
Patriot Adventures.
”

“He's lying,” I call out, pointing at him. Now people lift their heads from the programs and the dead cameras and turn to me, including the cricket at the podium. Uh-oh. I glance down at the insert in my hands and the faces on it, and I think of how Selwyn's going to be joining them soon.