Scripted (9 page)

“Fantastic. That girl has great taste.” She scans me up and down, but doesn't say anything. She doesn't need to. I know my jumper is way too subdued for her. “Any boys around? Since Witson?”

“No, no one new.” I never told Violet about Callen because I knew she'd just urge me to, like, seduce him behind Lia's back. I spot a new watercolor on the wall behind her chair, depicting a cardinal and a bluebird at the feeder located right outside the window next to me. “This one's plus ten.”

“Yes, I think that painting came out well,” she says, poking her head up over the chair to look at it with me. “Birds are hard to get right, because they're so quick. Even a tiny painting takes so many studies.”

Something looks off about the painting, though, and it takes me a second to figure it out.

“Wait, would a cardinal and a bluebird share a feeder?” I ask, sitting back down. “Aren't bluebirds really shy?” Because of all the trees, the Arbor's full of birds, so I've done some casual bird-watching at home. I've seen bluebirds flit away at the sight of a shadow.

Violet bursts out laughing across from me, her shoulders quivering against her chair's plump cushions.

“What?” I say, stung.

“You notice all the details no one else sees, Nettie,” she says softly, reaching over and patting my knee with her bejeweled hand. A few seconds pass, and her brown eyes glaze and lose focus. I tense.

“Hart's the same way,” she says.

I keep a stiff smile on my face. “Do you want me to make some tea? You have honey here, right?” I hurry to the small kitchenette.

“Where is Hart?” she asks behind me.

I ignore her, moving faster and humming, hoping to mash the audiotrack. I yank open a cabinet just as a cricket barges into the room. Startled, I back into the wall, still clutching the kettle.

Youngish, with pimples clouding his cheeks, the cricket storms over to my grandmother and glares down at her.

“You can't talk about Patriots,” he growls. “That's breaking Clause 56. You're getting a fine.”

“I don't understand,” Violet says. “Is something wrong with Hart?” She looks up at the cricket, begging him to answer.

The cricket grabs her shoulder. “Stop talking. You're making the fine worse.”

I put the kettle down and run over. “Stop! She's not doing it on purpose, she's just—she's not all there anymore.” I pray she doesn't get a fine. She can't afford one. It's not like Hidehall denizens are impoverished—Media1 pays most of their housing and food costs, and they have savings and ratings payments, but they still don't make as much as people with jobs.

The cricket doesn't look at me, but he releases her shoulder. Violet slumps as if he's squeezed the life out of her.

“Do you understand?” he spits. His face is flushed, and his eyes are burning into her.

“What?” Violet lifts her head, but her pupils are unfocused, and she's speaking out into space.

“Do you understand?” the cricket repeats, placing his hand on the arm of her chair and lunging forward so he's less than an inch away from her face.

“Yes.” She squints, and I know she's surfacing again. “Oh, dear,” she says. “Nettie?”

“I'm here. It's okay,” I say from behind the cricket, but she doesn't seem to hear me. Thankfully, he marches out the room, and Violet seems frozen. The only sign of life is her wrinkled hand clenching the arm of her chair.

“I'm going to make the tea.” I shakily walk over to the stove. I've only actually seen crickets break into scenes to stop Characters from fralling once or twice in my life.

Violet remains quiet, and her eyes have gone distant again. My hands tremble slightly as I turn the burner on.

“What kind do you want?” I call out over my shoulder. She doesn't reply. “Lemon it is!” I declare brightly. I watch her as I fetch the tea bags from the cabinet. She gazes blankly at my empty chair for a minute or two, then a scuffling sound from outside rouses her—birds at the feeder. She blinks, once, twice, tilting her head toward the window, then calling over her shoulder to me.

“Nettie?” she says in a muddled sort of way. “Did I? Oh, my. Another fuzzy moment.”

“Yeah, I think so,” I say lightly. The kettle goes off, and I quickly prepare the tray, eager to bring some normalcy back to the scene.

When I reenter the room, she's gotten up and is peering out the window at the feeder. “Tula bought me a charming book on local wildlife. Take a look.” She points to a book on her bureau, then waddles back to her chair.

I set the tray down and fetch the book,
Blissful Nature,
while she sits and pours the tea.

“Pretty,” I say, flopping back onto the chair and looking at the book's line drawings of island flora and fauna. The truth is I can hardly pay attention. I'm overwhelmed by guilt and anger because of what just happened. I wish I'd told Violet to stop talking when she brought up my father's name. Why had the cricket been so mean to her? Was that part of the Initiative?

When we're done with the tea, I leave, taking the book with me at Violet's insistence. I walk down the hall and see the pimply cricket with three others, outside a bathroom that's being rewired for cameras. I have to ball my hands into fists to stop them from shaking.

“Can't read the Contract,” he says. Maybe it's because I had to listen to Luz talk fast this morning, but I can understand him clearly as he speedmurmurs to his friends, a smug smile on his face. The anger in me amplifies. I try staring at the floor, not wanting to look at them, and I see keys, wallets, and sunglasses spilled out next to a toolbox.

“Stupid puppets,” a different one says, with a deeper voice.

Crack.
I tread on the sunglasses, hard. The crickets fall silent, and I wish I could turn around and see their astonished faces, but that would be against the Contract, so I keep walking, smiling to myself.

“We'll reach
the stadium faster if we cut across the field,” I say, climbing over the wooden fence before Lia can protest. She follows me, breaking away from the scores of Characters streaming from the Tram station to the stadium.

I survey the field, a vacant plot of land in the Granary, near the stadium. Camerapoles shoot up every dozen feet or so, and it takes me a few seconds to spot a patch of grass out of their range. “Let me show you this . . . flower.” I pull Lia over to the spot. Once I've moved us out of view, she scours the grass, intent on finding the nonexistent flower, until I nudge her sneaker—red-laced, in honor of the Ants—and she looks up.

“I had the rescheduled Report, yesterday morning. It's official. I'm in the Initiative now,” I mouth.

She smiles and mouths, “Awesome. This is just what you needed.”

“Yeah, it's good, definitely,” I say, struggling to come up with the right way to word this, knowing I can't spend too much time off-camera and off-mic. “But Luz asked me to—”

“You spoke with the Real in charge of the Initiative? What was he like?” Lia cocks her head to the side like she did while trying to coax Mollie's name out of Lincoln.

“Well. He's sort of nerdy.” She's paying close attention, and I draw it out, enjoying lording my insider's knowledge over her. “Young. Enthusiastic.”

“Wow, you spent a lot of time with him.” Lia crosses her arms, ruffled. “Bek said that Luz wasn't meeting with any Characters one-on-one.”

“Yeah, he said I was the only one. Because he's a fan of mine,” I say. Seeing her expression curdle stops me. “But his first suggestion, it's odd.”

“Spit it out,” Lia commands, her face hard and her arms still folded.

“He wants me to flirt with Callen,” I say, shrugging apologetically. “They'll give me the math apprenticeship if I do.” I feel a lump in my throat, the same one I get when I lie. But it's not a lie, I argue to myself.

“Flirt with Callen?” Lia repeats. She twines her braid in her hand. “The way Bek explained the suggestions to me, they're supposed to be things we
want
to do,” she mouths, the braid slipping over her wrist like a handcuff. “But you don't want to flirt with Callen, and it's not like he
wants
to be flirted with, by you or anyone else. All he wants to do is smoke cigarettes alone and feel sorry for himself.”

“I don't even want to have to
see
him after what he did to you.” Now, that's a lie, and it comes out effortlessly. Of course I want to see him. But I would never have dared without the Initiative. “It's just—I really want the math apprenticeship. Have your suggestions been things you actually wanted?”

“I didn't think about it before, but I guess not. I've only had one. Remember how I changed the play? Bek said if I did it, my reward would be a private acting lesson with a top Blisslet. Actually, I didn't really want to—I thought my ending was better,” she says, frowning. “And this week's, ugh. I'm supposed to bring up my mother's, you know, alcohol issues. In public, on-camera. In exchange for a B-plus in chemistry, to get Dad off my back.”

“Have you thought about
not
doing it?” I ask. “Dropping out of the Initiative?”

“No. Is that an option?” Lia adjusts her red T-shirt, getting ready for all the cameras in the stadium. Not that there's much to adjust. She cut off the bottom half, baring a good two inches of her stomach. I haven't really mentioned it—must have had something to do with showing up Callen on his big day. “Media1 knows what's right for the Audience.”

The image of the cricket bullying Violet flashes in my mind. “But what about us?” I mouth. “Do they know what's right for
us
?”

“It's the same thing. Listen, without Media1, what would we be?” she mouths.

Her question hovers in the air. I know the emptiness in my mind isn't the right answer, except, maybe it is. Nothing. We'd be nothing.

Lia glances over her shoulder, toward the stadium. “We should get going.”

I tug her arm, stopping her. “So you agree that I should just go ahead and flirt with Callen?”

“Well . . .” She stubs the ground with the toe of her sneaker. “I'm not happy about it, but obviously, I want you off the E.L., and the math apprenticeship would be amazing.”

“Ants attack! Ants attack! Ants attack!” Three younger boys scream, vaulting over the fence and sprinting across the pasture, a red blur, kicking up mud and grass and splattering Lia's jeans.

“Brats.” Lia scowls as she brushes the dirt off her jeans. “Let's go.” We follow their path, climb back over the fence, and merge with the crowd moving toward the stadium. “Selwyn's probably there already.”

Which reminds me. “I think Selwyn is in the Initiative,” I whisper to her. “I bet they told her to get the tattoo.”

“I figured, but I haven't actually fralled about the Initiative with anyone but Callen. He hates the whole idea. He's not in it.” She plunges forward, deftly weaving through the crowd.

“He's not in it,” I repeat, a thrill going through me. So his reaction to my flirting will be genuine.

I fall behind Lia in the crowd, and she reaches back for me. “Come on,” she says, pulling me toward her. She whispers into my ear when I'm next to her, “Let's tell Selwyn we're in it too. We should all be honest about what they're asking us to do. Otherwise it might lead to misunderstandings.”

• • •

We're on the third level of seven. A decent view. Selwyn's already at our seats, in a periwinkle-blue dress with a patent-leather black belt around the waist and big blue-rimmed sunglasses that cover half her face. I glance down at my jeans—dark blue—and tank top—faded blue—and feel uncreative. Selwyn even has a pigeon finger painted on her cheek. She pops up as she sees us sidling down the aisle. She's brandishing a pigeon pennant, and it looks like she's about to leap out of her skin; she's effervescent, her lustrous black hair reflecting the sunlight like pavement slick with rain. It's not like she loves baseball, but she's easily excited and gets swept up by the tumult around us.

“You're late,” she shouts over the din. The blue dress has a wide, square neckline, and I don't see any traces of a tattoo.

“It was a slow walk from the Tram, with all the people coming here.” I hug her, then sit down between her and Lia and—
screeeeek.
I gasp. A device attached to the seat back directly in front of us springs out like a jack-in-the-box. After a couple of stunned seconds, I recognize the lens and the red light, and my heart slows down to a normal rate.

A camera. The mobile camera the Initiative posting at the Center had mentioned. Lia doesn't react to it at all, and Selwyn just pats my knee. They must have seen them before.

I move back in my seat, and the camera stretches forward, like a reflection.

“No Callen, no pretending I care about sports.” Lia takes a stack of papers out of her straw bag, like she's in study hall instead of at one of the biggest Special Events of the seasons. “I'm going to work on the play.” The new camera screeks over to her, its movements straighter than the swerve and sway of the ones the crickets carry. I relax, pleased to have it off me.

“Plus ten,” I murmur.

“Yeah, without Callen, I have time to focus on stuff I really care about. I'm thinking of getting Mom help.” Lia tilts her head to give the camera a flattering three-quarter view of her face.

“Is something wrong with your mom, Lia?” Selwyn asks, taking a break from her fervent pennant-waving.

Lia pauses and looks from one of us to the other several times before taking a deep breath. “I think she may have a real problem. She stays up all night guzzling white wine, and then she starts screaming at me and Dad. Last night, she tore apart her closet, looking for a necklace her mother gave her, and when she couldn't find it, she came to my room and went on and on about how I had stolen it.”

“Guzzling white wine?” Selwyn puts the pennant down in her lap and leans over me so she can make eye contact with Lia. “Are you saying she's an alcoholic?”

“That's what I want her to figure out,” Lia says, flipping her braid behind her and turning her attention to the field.

“Lia, that is so terrible. I'm here for you, if you ever want to talk about it,” Selwyn says, wringing her hands.

Lia is cringing, like she wants to run away and hide, but she manages a “thanks,” raising her voice so the mic can hear her over the stadium noise.

The organ player works the crowd into a feverish pitch around us, and Selwyn leans back into her seat, shaking her head and murmuring, “I had no idea.” It's the perfect time to frall. “She wanted her mom's problems to be a secret,” I mouth to Selwyn, “but she had to bring them up because of the Initiative. We're both in it. You're part of it too, right?”

Her eyes widen. “How'd you know?” she mouths, shifting closer to me, making it harder for the moving camera to see us.

“I knew you'd never want a tattoo. They told you to get one, right?”

“Yes, but I didn't have to. They just wanted me to say I wanted it. And look, my reward was getting my tooth fixed!” She lifts her lip so I can see her restored canine tooth. “And my ratings bumped up.”

“Neat,” I say, glad for her. The Initiative worked for Selwyn, and maybe it'll work for me too. Off the E.L., in a plus-ten apprenticeship, and whatever flirting with Callen leads to.

The organ plays a few notes, signaling us to stand. Cheering gets louder, becoming a roar, and Selwyn and I get up to do the Pigeon chant—“Coooooo! Coooooo!”—ignoring the Ant fans shooting nasty looks at us. I sit down again, but she keeps standing, cheering. Unlike hers, my enthusiasm is fake, mostly for the Audience's sake. The camera snakes forward, real close, then retracts, and Lia leans over. “I heard Characters calling them '
biles,
” she whispers. “Short for mobile cameras.”

“They are sort of bile-inducing,” I whisper back. “Do they need to be so close to our faces?”

“I know.” Lia rolls her eyes. “Thank God for these makeup techniques from the Sessions.” She bats her eyelashes comically. But she does look better with whatever tricks they showed her at the Center, and I feel a pinch of jealousy.

Selwyn pokes my shoulder, blocks her mouth with her pennant and hand, and mouths, “What's your suggestion?” My skin grows hot.

“Flirt with Callen.” I keep my eyes fixed on the still-empty field.

The pigeon on her cheek crinkles with her smile. “So. Plus. Ten,” she says on-mic, forgetting to hide the fralling. “That your radio works!”

I whisper, “I'm only doing it because they said so. Probably nothing's going to happen.”

“They must have you doing it for a reason. They want you to go out, and they think you have a chance!” she mouths, smiling. I can't help smiling back. I'm too scared to say it aloud, but it's great hearing her voice my biggest dream.

She turns back to the game. “Where are they?” she shouts down to the field. I touch my face while she's looking away. Between Lia's makeup and Selwyn's perfect smile, I can't help but feel drab, and I remember Dr. Kanavan chastising me at my Show Physical. Will better Initiative plotlines even work if the Audience doesn't like my face?

Lia passes me the binoculars. “Your mom's across the field, to the right.” I twist around and zoom in. There she is, with her book club brigade, their eyeglasses glinting in the sun. I don't think baseball is their thing, but they know how to fake enthusiasm for a Special Event; they're all waving pennants and cheering.

I turn the binoculars to closer targets. Lincoln is a few rows down, next to Revere. Farther down the row is Scoop, eating popcorn and chatting with his friends, including Terra, who's fanning herself with a souvenir red palm, her hair in two pigtails tied with red ribbons.

She touches his shoulder and asks something, gesturing toward the field. He points at home base, then at the outfield, pausing to make sure she understands. She nods and runs her tongue along her lips, and I laugh aloud. Maybe I should use that move on Callen.

“Welcome to the opening game for your high school, Ants vs. Pigeons!” the announcer booms.

The crowd's in a frenzy by the time Callen saunters to the mound, his easy gait at odds with the frenetic energy in the stands and on the field. Selwyn jabs me, grinning, and I ignore her, staring straight ahead, my breath caught in my throat.

He's so beautiful.

The crowd roars, and the 'bile in front of us retracts. The game starts. The first Ant hitter saunters up, brushing off dust on home plate with his sneaker, then loosening up his arms like a dog shaking off rain. Selwyn jumps up and down as the hitter settles into batting position, facing Callen.

I imagine flirting with him. I'm not good at that. Compliment him? What nice hair you have . . . I bury my head in my hands. I can't even talk to him without blushing.

Lia puts down her pen and elbows me. “What's going on with you?” she says gruffly.

“Just . . .” I don't want to drag her into the suggestion anymore, but her eyebrows furrow in that way that I know means she's reading my mind.

She looks for the 'bile, then turns so her body blocks it and whispers in my ear, “Don't agonize about Callen. He'll probably just walk away from you. I don't think he wants anything to do with any of us. Once Media1 sees that, they'll give you new suggestions.” At
us,
she makes a sweeping gesture that covers me, Selwyn, Revere, and Lincoln, and even seems to include some random Drama Club members sitting nearby. The message is clear: she has the bigger team, and Callen stands alone. I grin, like it's hilarious and true, but my stomach turns because I hear another message too.