Scripted (4 page)

The Cannerys live in the kind of house good ratings can buy. I bet Belle's ratings target was high, too, like mine. Media1 might not have expected her to be at the center of scenes, but they must have expected her to be a good foil for her brother and parents.

A tricky situation. I should know. My ratings targets used to be low, but crept up as Lia and I became closer. My marks, the actual number of Audience members who watched me every quarter, went up too, but sometimes it seemed like that didn't matter. To determine your ratings payment, Media1 doesn't only count the number of Reals watching you, but whether that number is more or less than the target their formula predicted.

Mik showed me the formula that generates targets. I saw all the variables, what Media1 takes into consideration to predict your mark. Number of Special Events Attended, Character Age, Previous Quarter's Screentime. Friends' Average Marks. That's the one that keeps mine high. There's one for Family's Average Marks. That's probably what doomed Belle. But who knows? The formula is so complex. How does it go? X's, Y's, and Z's crowd my head.

I'm so busy recalling the formula that I don't see the figure in the blue jacket directly in my path on the stretch of road between Bliss High and the Arbor until it's too late. I twist the bike to the right, and it climbs halfway up the curb before the force of the abrupt turn topples it on its side, flinging me onto the grass.

I lie on my back, face-to-face with the sky, breath rapid and heart racing. I think I'm okay, but I'm too stunned to move.

“Nettie, are you all right?” Someone crouches next to me. I recognize the low voice and risk turning my neck. Okay. That worked. Sore, but functioning. I see white-striped blue sneakers. My eyes move up, all the way, to blue eyes under light blond hair.
Callen?

“Callen?” I say aloud. He nods, searching my face, probably worried the fall scrambled my brains.

“Are you okay?” he repeats.

I take a deep breath, reenergizing myself. “I think so.” I prop myself up on my elbows. “Just . . . shocked.” I sit up, head spinning. I check my clothes—grass stains all over my jacket, but no rips, no blood.

“Yeah, that was . . . unexpected,” he murmurs, with his typical understatement. He stands and holds out his hand, adding, “I should have been paying more attention. Thanks for not running me over.”

I grab his hand, and he pulls me to my feet, and we stand facing each other. My knees feel wobbly, and I can't tell if it's because I'm looking right at him or because of the fall.
Witson was too tall,
I think. Callen is medium height, and I don't have to crane to look into his eyes. Lia's always complaining because he's two inches shorter than she is, but for me, he's—

Lia.

We're still holding hands.

“Oh, oops.” I pull my hand away and make a show of brushing off the grass and dirt on my jeans. But it's like I want to brush off his touch because it felt way too good and now I'm guilty. “No, it's my fault, not yours. Sorry, next time I'll watch where I'm going,” I babble. He doesn't say anything.

I haul the bike up and wheel it to face forward while frantically trying to come up with more to say. It's been a while since Callen and I were alone together.

“Are you sure you can ride?” he asks, inspecting my face again. How dazed do I look? His scrutiny reminds me of my frizzy hair. It must look even worse. I try to seem casual as I run my hand through it.

“I'm fine.” I summon up my best imitation of my mother's chastising-librarian voice. Still, the idea of getting back on the bike unsettles me.

“Are you headed home?” he asks, glancing down the street.

“Yeah.”

“Me too. Let's walk together,” he suggests, gesturing me forward on the concrete sidewalk.

“Okay,” I agree quickly, glad for the excuse to stay off the bike, without having to admit that I'm scared.
Alone with Callen.
We're close to home, ten minutes give or take, but still.

Silence the first few steps. I'm sweating, partly out of nerves and partly because it's way too hot for this jacket. I'm only wearing it because of the Missive about the weather. I clear my throat.
Say something.

“You're not at practice.” I wince. I might as well have said,
I'm boring. Ignore me.

“Coach was sick, so he called it off.” On a route we could walk in our sleep, we wordlessly turn off the main road and enter the Arbor, stepping off the sidewalk and onto the mostly empty cobblestone streets. Squirrels scamper through the trees above us.

“Kind of brave to cancel practice when the game is so close.” Our high school teams are facing off next week for the first game of their year, timed to coincide with the new season of
Blissful Days,
which will also, thankfully, bring a new motif. The game is a big deal, a Special Event, and held in the stadium usually reserved for our two professional baseball teams.

“Brave? Maybe.” Slowing down his pace, he twists to dig into the back pocket of his jeans. It goes unsaid that Callen himself is probably the reason for his coach's confidence. He withdraws a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. I gape while he cups his hands together to light a cigarette.

“You smoke?” I ask, stopping in my tracks.

“Sometimes.” He blows smoke to his right, away from me. “What? Oh, I should have offered you one?” He grins.

“No way.” I widen the space between us and start walking again. I always thought smoking was dumb, a sign of weakness. Maybe partly because of Lia, who hates the habit even more than I do. Her mom used to chain smoke and stink up the house. A common game in the early days of our friendship was Flushing Mom's Cigarettes Down the Toilet.

“Isn't smoking bad for baseball?” I push my handlebars more forcefully as we go uphill.

“Maybe.” There's a hint of defiance in his upturned chin. “But I like doing it. Everyone's allowed one vice. What's yours?”

You.
“I don't think I have one,” I say, getting caught up in watching the sun stripe the tanned planes of his face. He draws the cigarette to his lips and inhales. His very full, lush lips. Lia wouldn't stop talking about his lips when they first started dating.

“I believe it. You're pretty good,” he says. We reach the top of the hill and turn onto Poplar Street, one of the less shady parts of the Arbor. Our houses are closer to the other end of the block, and I slow my pace, desperate to prolong my time with him.

“Except at Fincher's. I'm not so good there anymore. I was telling Selwyn today how stuck I feel. Too bad it's my best option.” I look over at him, daring him to contradict me. He's watching the cigarette smoke curl up to the sky, with his dreamy look that Lia can't stand.

“That's what my parents keep telling me about baseball,” he says, face still tilted toward the sky. “That it's my best option—”

“Well, it's something . . . something you can do well and—”

“And make a lot of money from,” he finishes, dropping the cigarette to the ground and stubbing it out with his sneaker. “I know.”

Not only will he get a good salary, he'll be guaranteed high ratings for seasons. He'll never have to think up plotlines to draw in more of the Audience. Great ratings and the payments that go along with them are just basically handed to you when you do something like that.

“You're lucky.”

“I guess, but sometimes it seems like baseball came out of nowhere—sort of like how you did back there.” He laughs.

“Well, it didn't come out of
nowhere,
” I say, stopping at the end of the stone path leading to his house. My driveway is empty, so Mom isn't home yet. His is empty too, all sparkling white gravel. His parents are going to be home late, and Lia is supposed to come over, and they're supposed to close up.

“You weren't on any teams, but you were always—” I meant to say
graceful
, but I don't want him to know I've thought about how he moves. “Coordinated.”

“Maybe, but I never liked sports. I miss free time,” he says, sticking out his lower lip like a stubborn child. “I miss hiking in the Brambles and hanging out with Conor and Garrick. Even helping Mom with her garden. Now I'm too tired to do anything on the weekends. And then there's the tracs.” He shakes his head and tugs at the bottom of his T-shirt. “I wore this just to screw with them, because it's red, and blue's our color.” He chuckles. “Heath, the captain, actually told me never to do it again. That's how easy it is to upset them.”

“That's funny because they seem—” Screeching brakes interrupt me. Mom's fire-truck-red car pulls into our driveway a few feet away. Callen moves, like he's going inside, and I gesture for him to stay, hoping she won't notice us. She cuts the engine off and jumps out, her loaded key chain jangling loudly. She's probably heard about Belle by now. If so, she'll be on edge. She bends down to pick a microscopic piece of litter off the driveway,
tsk
ing under her breath, then strides up to our door, head high, gripping her tote bag full of books. When she reaches the door, she pauses and turns, her brown eyes, a few shades lighter than mine, sweeping the neighborhood and stopping when she spots us at the end of the path. She raises her eyebrows.

“Nettie, shouldn't you be at Fincher's?”

Worry lines groove her forehead. She pushes her square glasses up to the bridge of her aquiline nose. “Hi, Callen,” she adds, in a tone that does not invite further conversation. Her voice, her nose, and most of all her hair, sheared right off at her chin, ensure that Mom pretty much always looks severe. Her plain wardrobe—today a black wool blazer and silk button-down blouse paired with a long black wool skirt—adds to the effect.

“No, not today.” Mom
really
wants me to apprentice at Fincher's. She liked reading books, so she became a librarian. She figures that I like building gadgets, so I should become a repairman. She probably also thinks that doing something I'm good at will translate into plus-ten ratings. But I'm going about my tasks at Fincher's in such a cloud of misery that I suspect no one will want to watch me there for very long.

I haven't talked about my doubts with Mom. She and I never frall about ratings—never frall about anything, really. She stopped because I was so awful at it when I was young, slipping up on-mic all the time, saying things like
I'm tired of this motif
or
I don't care about that Special Event.
She might not want to talk to me about ratings, but I know she cares—a lot. More than once I've caught her fishing through my trash can after a Character Report.

“So, you'll go to Fincher's this weekend?” she persists. Her hand tightens around her tote bag. She has on a hemp bracelet, for
liberato.

“Maybe.” I cross my arms. I wish she would just go inside. I glance back at Callen. He's shuffling his feet and staring at the ground, pretending not to eavesdrop, but I see the small smile on his face.

“Nettie, you have to show them that you're interested,” Mom says, putting the tote bag down on the doormat. “What if someone else applies and you end up anyassigned?” She takes a few steps down the porch stairs. Uh-oh. I don't want her coming here and embarrassing me more.

“I understand, Mom,” I bite out. “I'll go tomorrow after Lia comes by.”

She stops her march toward me, brown eyes flicking over to Callen, gleaning that I want to be left alone. “Good. Okay, dinner will be ready soon, and then I need to draw up the volunteer schedule for work and do the reading for book club, so I better start cracking,” she says, disappearing into the house. Mom is always busy—at work, cooking, book clubbing, or going to these unsexy singles dances. Still, it never seems like the busyness makes her happy, because she's always fretting about what could go wrong. What makes it even weirder is that I'm pretty sure she
thinks
she's happy as long as her ratings are on target.

I turn back to Callen. “Sorry about that. She can be . . . overbearing.”

“She's worried,” he says mildly. “And it seems like she worries a lot. Probably not that easy for either of you.”

“Yeah, but I just wish she'd keep it to herself a little. The problem is she thinks we're alike.” I kick at some of the snowney on his lawn.

“And you're not? Not even a little bit?” he teases. “I bet she'd be just as horrified about my smoking.”

“I'm not horrified,” I protest. Now he thinks I'm lame. He just raises his sandy eyebrows briefly. I've about run out of things to say, but the silence doesn't seem too bad, especially with the sun setting so spectacularly, the sky streaked in a million shades of pink, purple, and yellow.

“So pretty,” I breathe. He tips his chin up in acknowledgment, and we watch it together for a few seconds until he bends down to retie his sneaker laces. I can't help but stare at his fingers, how deftly they move. He looks up and catches me watching him, and I start dusting off my jacket and jeans again, muttering about how Mom will kill me if I dirty up the house.

“Yeah, I better get inside too,” he says, eyeing me. “Lia was supposed to be here by now.”

Everything is so purposeful with him, and Lia is his purpose now.

“Oh, right, she told me you were, um, hanging out.” Closing up. The sad and weird nightmare. Why can't I just like someone who likes me back?

Before I think about it, these bitchy words fall out of my mouth: “If you think I'm bad, well, Lia hates smoking.”

“Lia hates a lot of stuff,” Callen says, jaw clenching.

Is it my imagination, or does his mild voice have an edge to it? I linger, daring him to say more, but he just kind of does this half shrug. Irritation burns me. This is dumb. I'm reading too much into everything he says and does, because I want so much out of him.