Scripted (21 page)

I pull at Scoop's sleeve, and he backs up obediently, but his gaze is unwavering. He's mesmerized by the sight of his sister. I have to get him away from here.

“This way.” I tug his jumpsuit again. “We don't have much time. Let's see what else is here.” Scoop follows me down the hall like a zombie. We need to find something we can steal easily, and fast, something that will make it obvious to the Characters what's going on in here.

Too bad I can't pry off the metal plates adjacent to each door.
Munitions & Explosives.
I watch a man inside the room studying some sort of cube bursting with wires curling into one another, like a metallic bale of hay. It's Coran Thyme, who used to work in my dentist's office. Four other Patriots are with him, but I don't know their names. Scoop wants to linger at each room, but I keep pulling him along, worried we won't find anything to take back. The blinds are closed on the doors of
Biological Weapons, Wilderness Survival,
and
Communications Operations.
The next open window is for a room labeled
Undercover Techniques.

Another person I know, a Real, stands in that room with a group of Patriots. It's Til. She's holding a compact mirror and applying fake eyelashes. She puts the mirror down onto a table and blinks a couple of times until her lashes are righted, then says—I can't hear her, but I can read her lips—“You try! You can't get caught, or the drownclowns will . . . Let's just say the ones who live often wish they hadn't.” Behind her is Eveline Chromere, who was cut last summer, a nurse at Hidehall. Her hand trembles as she clumsily sticks the lashes onto her eyelid.

Scoop stirs to life beside me. “There,” he whispers, gesturing to an open door at the end of the hall. Reals wander in and out, their demeanors more subdued. Lights flash against the door; I hear laughter and conversation and, running under it all, the noise of a television.

We walk into the room with casual strides, trying to blend in. Couches lie in rows, a makeshift theater, with a massive television at the front of the room instead of a stage. Reals idle on the couches, snacking and sipping coffee. Stale air pervades the room. Some of the Reals are talking, and some are gawking at the television. A suntanned older man with shark eyes intones on-screen, “For the month of May, we are rationing meat due to antigovernment activities in the Drowned Lands. Collect your ration coupons at your nearest government office. Counterfeiters will be punished.” The screen fades to black, and the
Blissful Days
theme music comes on.

I usually seize any chance I can to watch the broadcast, but this time I only look long enough to see a farmer on a tractor in the Granary. Scoop and I search the room for something we can take that will make the Characters see what's going on here. I want to know more about the nature of this army—is it the Sectors army? Are they part of the attempt to stomp out the Drowned Lands rebellion? Table with coffee machine and napkins. Poster for the show with an aerial shot of the island. The file cabinet in the corner is tempting, but I can't imagine opening it without calling too much attention to myself. Everyone erupts in laughter as the farmer, stuck in a muddy ditch, pounds on his gas pedal.

“I'll be right back,” Scoop says to me suddenly. “I have to see her again.”

He's already slipping out the door before I can respond. I should go with him, make sure he doesn't do anything crazy. He's as rattled as Selwyn was in the bathroom. As I move toward the door, a colorful flyer on the floor catches my eye. Six people stare up from the page. The person nearest the middle is a woman holding up a pistol, a camouflage scarf around her head and flames behind her. I duck under a table and snatch it up.

Flora. The Health Haven cashier. We got a Missive about her being cut three seasons ago. She's one of many small headshots on the page, which is made up of columns and rows like our yearbooks. At the top, in big bold letters: Patriot Adventures,
Thursday at 8.
I keep reading, my stomach sinking.

This Season on
Patriot Adventures.
Who Will Survive? Who Will Make the Ultimate Sacrifice?
Then underneath the picture in small print:
Season Highlight Episode 1, The Electric Plant. Flora, one of our veteran Patriots, leads the destruction of an electric plant known to harbor fugitive Drowned Lands terrorists. Tally: Three Enemy Kills, One Patriot Makes the Ultimate Sacrifice.

Enlisted in the service of Media1.
It wasn't a lie, after all. There's another show.

“Do you want
a cup?” a Real asks from the nearby coffee machine. I look up, startled. The Real waits, staring right at me, and I drop my head again, pretending to be engrossed in the paper.

“No, thanks,” I say, as fast as I can. I fold the paper up, tuck it into my shirt underneath the jumpsuit, and hurry away. I need to find Scoop, and we have to get out here. I'm almost out when I stop for a second, pulled in by the television. What's on-screen now isn't
Blissful Days.
It appears to be people giving commentary on the show. Three Reals sit on stools on a stage, two women and a man with pearly teeth. All three are in better condition than the Reals I'm used to seeing on the island—they could pass for Characters.

“
Blissful Days
was a doozy yesterday!” the man says. His pearly teeth wink and flash under studio lights. The camera pans over the audience, clapping in agreement.

The plump older woman says. “Yes, let's talk teens. Finally, apprenticeship application time.”

“I saw a lot of second-guessing,” the second woman trills. “Lincoln Grayson changed his mind at the last minute and went for the casino slot.”

Casino dealer. Figures. Probably wants to be a Spate dealer to swerve off his parents. I spot a clock next to the television: 4:59. Scoop and I have until 5:30 to get back to the boat. I'm almost at the door when the ratter-patter of hundreds of drums striking in unison, marching-band style, stops me in my tracks.

A baritone voice proclaims, “Next up on
Patriot Adventures,
” and, of course, I turn back.

“Built over a century ago to house government records, Lim Tower is thought to be impenetrable. That's why the Drowned Landers made it their headquarters after taking over Krail. But what will happen when we send Seabert Oreganet in to destroy this vital building?”

“Kaboom!” a Real slumped on a couch crows. “I wish they were sending in the teen team, though.”

“Teen team?” the woman next to him asks.

“Yeah, they've started transferring teenagers from
Days
to
Adventures
—they think they'll make better Patriots. More malleable.”

“I hear they'll let Seabert opt out of his contract if he survives this one.”
The show.
I bet this insane show, not
Blissful Days,
is what the Reals were referring to when I overheard the radio transmission.
Mom said it was frightening,
one had said, and then I remember being on the Tram, after the depot tunnel, when the man said that before they had a draft,
Before they do that, they should up the adventures.
He meant
Patriot Adventures.

This is why Kat Deva knew my father was
tough.
Is tough. She's seen him in combat. What happens to Patriots has never been a mystery for the Audience. But if I thought they were heartless before, now I think they're a thousand times worse.

I remember how firmly my mother reprimanded me for mentioning my father on-mic and ruining our scenes for broadcast. All those reminders I threw out. Now I get that it was never about the Audience—it was how Media1 keeps
us
from questioning what happens to them.

A montage of destruction fills the screen—buildings toppling, flame storms, piles of fallen bodies. The drums start up again, and a Real claps in time on his knee.

Blood soaking through fatigues. Patriots racing through the jungle, fleeing gunfire. An agonized scream as someone falls to the ground. When I finally manage to tear my eyes away, I realize the Reals are rapt, unfazed by the carnage.

“Do you remember that time Starling blew up the bridge between the two rebel camps?” one of them asks nonchalantly. I look over. My father. They've seen him. I glance at the television. Maybe I can see him too.

“I miss him,” a dry voice says. “What's it been, two years now?”

“Yup,” the other one sighs. “Sad. But for the best cause. To Sectors reunification!” He lifts up his coffee up, and the others follow suit.

The carnage disappears, and the screen returns to the set with the commentators. I remain standing, in a trance. All these seasons, I thought he was in an office building in Zenta. Even after I began to question that, I never thought it out—never considered he could be . . . really gone. I thought I'd accepted that I'd never talk to him, never see him, never know him. But this is a finality I could never have conceived of before.

Patriot Adventures
comes back on-screen with a sickening roar—a helicopter touching down on a ragged field—and I snap out of my trance and burst into the hall. Scoop is at the shooting gallery, watching Belle.

“Let's go,” I say. He ignores me and keeps moving closer to the glass. A Real watches us curiously. I grab Scoop's hand, harder this time. “Let's
go.
”

“We have to help her,” he says, arms crossed resolutely, like he's ready to take the place down now.

“We will! I got it. I got the proof. It's worse than we thought. I'll tell you on the boat, but we have to get out of here.”

I don't wait for him to agree, just turn and start walking down the hall. It's all I can do not to break into a run.

Lia and I
stand next to each other in the lunch line. She steps in front of the trays of noodles and spoons some into her bowl without dropping sauce on the counter like everyone else.
If nothing else, she's poised,
I think. I need her to be, since what I plan to show her will seriously test her ability to hold it together.

“How's it going with Callen?” she asks as I lean over the noodles. I nearly drop the ladle. We haven't talked about him since we were in the bathroom with Selwyn. We haven't been talking much at all, about anything.

“It's not really going,” I say as we walk to the table. Media1 knows too—this morning I had received a Missive officially letting me out of the suggestion due to the breakup.

“Really?” Lia says, her voice an octave higher than usual. She bumps into a freshman, apologizes, then turns back to me. “What happened?”

I keep walking. “We had an argument,” I say, not bothering to contort my body in any way for the cameras. “We sort of—” I swallow, still finding the words hard to get out. “We sort of broke up.”

“Aw, Nettie.” Lia pats me on the back as we reach the table. “Callen is such a nut,” she sighs. As far as I can tell, she's actually sad for me, not just saying so. Good. I need her to be on my side today.

“I know.” I don't want to talk about it anymore. “How's your mom doing?”

“Actually, the therapy seems to be helping,” she says. She puts her napkin on her lap. “She's been doing these exercises about exploring her feelings, trying to figure out why she drinks. Her counselor said she's hiding something.”

“Maybe she's really ready to change,” I offer. I hope so—she was scary on the day of the Flower Festival.

“I'm ready for her to change too,” she says. “I've missed you, Nettie.” She digs into her noodles. That's it, and it's enough. I know we're good again, and at least there's a chance she'll listen to what I have to tell her.

Across from me, Lincoln wolfs down a hamburger, and I'm wondering how he'd fare as a Patriot. He can wound with words, but I can't imagine him using actual weapons. And Martin would wet his pants if faced with a gun. Henna, on Lia's other side, well . . . I've seen how she watches us, noticed the politic way she has of handling Lia's suggestions. I think she'd survive. There's something not quite so innocent about Henna's innocence.

“So, are you and Callen going out or not?” Mollie Silverine, who's taken Selwyn's place, is studying me with interest. Her reporter's notebook is on her tray.

“No comment, Mollie,” I say, cringing and scooting my chair a few inches away from her.

“I need something, anything,” she pleads to the table. “Any plus-ten gossip? My deadline is in four hours. There are, like, six other people competing for two slots at
Bliss Daily News.
I need a big scoop.”

“Okay, okay.” Lia puts down her fork. “Let me think. Do you want to write about my play? Auditions are done.”

“I need something juicier, Lia. Do you feel like Nettie betrayed you?” Mollie flips her notebook open and uncaps her pen. Lincoln snickers. Lia doesn't respond, and Mollie begs again, “Please, please. I don't want to get anyassigned.”

“Mollie, the Double A is tomorrow. They already delivered the lists to my house to put in the program tonight,” Lia says, her tone calm but firm. She motions for Mollie to close the notebook. “It's
over.
You either have the apprenticeship or you don't.”

After lunch, I pull Lia aside and say on-mic, “I think we should talk about Callen. But alone, so Mollie doesn't hear. Janitor's closet?” I cross my fingers, hoping they haven't gotten around to fixing it. We can't stay here. A team of crickets is nearby, filming the post-lunch hall.

“All right,” she sighs.

“Good,” I say, dragging her down the stairs. Worried that the crickets will chase after us, I sprint into the closet, and Lia keeps up with me, panting slightly as she closes and locks the door. I make my way to the clearing in the back, my legs colliding with buckets and mop handles. She follows more slowly.

I pause, listening for the buzz of the cameras and peering into the dark, trying to detect red lights. Nothing. Luz was frazzled and probably forgot to give the order. We only have a few seconds alone, but I explain everything in a rush, and she doesn't have a chance to respond before crickets charge in, breaking through the lock. Light from the hall blasts us. I untuck my mic automatically, and Lia does the same. A tall man stoops and tilts a camera up into our faces.

Lia says on-mic, “God, I hope I don't have puffy eyes from staying up so late, photocopying programs. But it'll be worth it. It's nice that Scoop can help me.”

“Definitely worth it,” I say. The bell rings, and we press past the crickets, walking up to our lockers. They follow us the whole way.

• • •

Now that I've talked to Lia, I don't have anything to take my mind off
Patriot Adventures.
Calculus is a strange kind of torture. The objects in the classroom, the Characters here, seem rigid and hard, yet I feel transparent. Terra props her elbows on Scoop's desk and prattles on about how she had to sit in on a tonsil-removal operation as part of her apprenticeship.

Scoop laughs at something she says, raking his hair back in a sort of
Bliss Teen
hunk cover pose. The natural glow of his hazel eyes is more obvious than ever. Maybe he figures he might as well give her what she wants, since she'll have real problems to handle after tomorrow. Every Character will.

Mr. Black calls on me to solve a problem on the whiteboard, and I watch my arm move. I hear myself explain my calculations, but it all seems ephemeral. Like I'm a watercolor that used to be an oil painting. Maybe this feeling is like the final manifestation of never being at ease here, not in the way that Lia is.

That's it, I conclude at the end of class and the closing down of the day.
I've never been at ease.
It's been a secret inside me, but now it's sprung out, and it's confronting me everywhere.

I don't fit in, and I don't belong on
Blissful Days.

• • •

At the end of school, I pass the athletic fields while going to get my bike. The Ants and Pigeons practice at separate ends, with the Pigeons closer to the high school. I decide to watch Callen from a distance—just a little. I miss him. I idle on the sidelines, hovering behind two sophomore boys with clipboards and whistles who occasionally refill water bottles and trot out to the field to pass them around.

Callen sees me and drops his head, kicking up dirt on the pitcher's mound. I should leave, but I stand in place, waiting for him to look up again. I want to make things right between us before tomorrow.

I wait until he looks at me again and jerk my head toward the bleachers behind me. He pauses, then nods quickly, and I climb until I'm on the highest row. I wait the entire practice, until the sun begins setting, shredding the sky. The breeze picks up, and I zip up my jacket and wrap my arms around my bent legs, resting my chin on my knees, inching my head down, like a turtle retreating into its shell.

The sounds of practice are melodic: yelps and yells, grunts and groans. The crack of the bat. The whistle of the ball flying through the air and the thump as it's caught.

Callen acknowledges me with another nod as he walks off the mound and into a swarm of players gathered around the coach, who's giving them a pep talk. At one point, there's a rousing cheer, hands clapping. Callen claps, but he's disengaged, not smiling or reacting to any individual line. He's going through the motions. Like I've been doing on the show ever since we learned about
Patriot Adventures.

I get lost in thoughts, running through the details of our plan, hoping Lia and Scoop come through.

“Hey, Nettie.” I look up, startled. Callen's standing next to me. No trace of a smile, but at least he's here.

“Oh, hi. Sit down.” I pat the space next to me, trying to think of how to word what I want to say without bringing up the Initiative. He sits but maintains a distance between us.

“I feel bad about Wednesday,” I say. “I think . . .” I quickly glance around, looking for cameras. They're all over the place, on railings and poles above us. Even though Media1 let me off the hook with the suggestion, I'm still hesitant to tell him the full truth. But why not? “I just wasn't feeling like myself.” I lean over and whisper into his ear, “They made me push for the close-up for the Initiative. I'm in it. They made me do some other stuff too, about us.” I tell him about the suggestions related to him. I fight the urge to close my eyes—I'm so scared of his reaction. I go back on-mic. “I want to be with you. I don't care about the close-up.”

He shifts his gaze toward me, still not smiling, but his features more relaxed. Open. “I believe you,” he says on-mic. “I'm not thrilled about—that other stuff.” He touches behind his ear. The Initiative. “But it explains a lot.” He clears his throat, choosing his next on-mic words with care. “Nettie, I was always a little worried—that you didn't really like me. The way Lia didn't. It seemed to take you so long to notice me.”

“I was shy—and you were dating Lia,” I protest.

“I know, but . . . ,” he says doubtfully. “Even when we ended up on the rocks together, it almost didn't seem real. Too good to be true.” He stumbles, sandy eyebrows knitting together as he tries to figure out how to not mention the Initiative.

“But it
was
real.” I pick up his hands and interlink our fingers. “We have to start over and trust each other.” I bring my mouth up to his ear and whisper, “Because after tomorrow, I won't be in the Initiative. No one will.”

He turns his head sharply to me, mouthing, “What do you mean?”

I grab his hand. “Do you remember what you told me about the island being a trap?” I say on-mic, hoping it'll just pass as teenage angst. “You were right, but . . . that's going to change.”