by Maya Rock
“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, tsking 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 horrif
ied 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.
“Yeah. Well, Lia’s a passionate person.” I grab my bike and stomp off toward our garage. “Um, I need to go. See you tomorrow.”
Chapter 3
The scent of lavender disinfectant floats in the air. Mom probably went straight to the supply cabinet after talking to me and Callen. She’s into extreme cleaning to begin with, and it always gets worse after Characters are cut. I hear her sweeping the kitchen downstairs. Her house, her rules. I smooth out the wrinkles on the hallway’s long rug, then stand up and straighten my grandmother’s oil landscapes on the walls.
A green light is blinking beneath my closed door at the end of the hall. I enter and walk to the flashing square screen embedded in the wall next to my desk.
Pots clang downstairs. In addition to going on cleaning sprees, Mom also prepares culinary masterpieces after cuts. I press the Missivor’s silver button, and the screen turns white with green text.
Belle Cannery became a Patriot today under Clause 53, Item A, Unsatisfactory Ratings. As per the Contract, please refrain from mentioning Belle. As per the Contract, rid your personal sets of any reminders of Belle. Ratings mark: 168. Ratings target: 293.
I gasp on-mic, clamp my hand over my mouth, and then let it drop, trying to compose myself for the cameras. Ratings mark: 168.
Exactly the same as my mark.
I hit the silver button, and the Missivor turns off. We’re only allowed a minute to read Missives since the scenes can’t be broadcast. I turn and scan my small, sparse room, eyes crawling over its mostly bare white walls, the wooden desk, the low-lying bed, and the long shelves near the closet, searching for reminders.
The show’s guiding ethos is that it’s supposed to mimic real life, but there’s no equivalent to Patriots in the Sectors. If there were, they wouldn’t need to be mentioned in the Contract. Media1 doesn’t want the Audience to think too hard about that discrepancy or it’ll ruin Blissful Days viewings for them. So we’re not allowed to mention the Patriots and we have to get rid of reminders that could spark memories of the departed Characters.
I comb through the shelves and closet, though I’m certain I don’t have anything of Belle’s. I get down on the floor and peer under the bed, discovering a turquoise ring that went missing a few weeks ago. I drop it into my largely empty jewelry box. Searching for reminders soothes me. Slowly, today’s events are making sense. Except for her age and the fact that I knew her, there’s nothing out of the ordinary about Belle’s cut, really.
She is a Clause 53, Item A, cut, like most Patriots. Item B—Risk to the Show—cuts are for Characters who crisp, or break the fourth wall in a particularly egregious way. There’s only been one in my lifetime—Lynne Thrush, who lost it at her son’s Double A ceremony, complaining that Media1 played favorites in assigning. I wasn’t there—the Double A is a Special Event, and attendance is optional, though encouraged. Lia had gone, of course—there aren’t many Special Events she misses—and had later told me how the Authority rushed in out of nowhere and seized Lynne while she ranted.
It’s only when Characters are getting cut that the Authority interact with us. I’ve heard the Authority are Sectors military or maybe ex-military, hired by Media1 to maintain the peace. They’re like police for the Reals and mostly deal with them. Except when it comes to Patriots.
Sometimes I wonder why the Reals don’t send crickets to escort the Patriots, instead of big men with guns. I’ve never heard of anyone resisting. Why would they? Becoming a Patriot is in the Contract.
“Rawls was running laps.” I hear Lia outside now, her voice soaring over the sound of Mom’s cooking. I go to the window behind my desk and peek out at the Herrons’ porch. Below me, Lia and Callen are standing next to the porch swing, facing each other.
“So?” Callen backs away from her, raking his hand through his hair. The equivalent of a full-blown temper tantrum for him.
“So, don’t you have to stay in shape too?” she says, scowling. She takes a step forward, and he moves back farther, trapping himself in the corner of the porch.
“I don’t understand why you care so much,” he grumbles.
“We’re so close to the Apprenticeship Announcement,” she sighs. She kisses him on the cheek, her hair concealing the point of contact from me, like a stage curtain. Lia’s liberato outfit looks so much better than mine. Her short-sleeved white blouse with little flowers embroidered at the collar is tucked into her tight fawn-colored skirt, which stops right above her knees. She’s wearing her chunky clogs, which put her a head above Callen.
Their voices get lower, unintelligible. I back away from the window and sit on my bed, pushing off my sneakers with my feet. Five months ago, I was sitting here while Lia was at my desk saying she thought Callen was a possibility.
I think that’s how she phrased it too. A possibility. She’d used the same word when casting last semester’s Drama Club play. She ticked off Callen’s good qualities one by one, as if she were contemplating an expensive purchase. Excellent at baseball. Nice hair. Sometimes funny. She’d even fralled something like, Probably good for my ratings too.
I remember watching her and thinking, Maybe I should say something. But then, in the next moment, What’s there to say? I have feelings that are going nowhere? I tried to convince myself it wasn’t that bad. Lia had dated and dropped a series of boys after Martin. I assumed her relationship with Callen would be the same, measured in days rather than months.
Four and a half agonizing months.
The worst part is that, even after spending so much time with him, she still doesn’t know him. Not the way I do. Maybe that just comes with the territory of being obsessed, or maybe I’m obsessed because I see these things. Chicken or egg deal. I see that his aloofness covers up his sensitivity. I see how he distances himself from all of us at lunch and I know that he still thinks of himself as someone who’s on the outskirts of every social situation, even though his sports success has made the opposite true. He didn’t have to tell me he was tired of baseball. I see him flinch when the other tracs get too rowdy. I know he doesn’t feel like one of them. That he isn’t one of them.
The Herrons’ screen door slams shut. They’re inside now. I get up and jerk the cord on the blinds, ignoring Media1’s encouragement to keep our windows unshaded. I can’t risk seeing them close up. It’s bad enough that Lia’s going to share every detail when she comes over tomorrow. She’s going to be thrilled, and not just because they did it. When she started closing up w
ith Martin, her already high ratings skyrocketed, and she’s sure that’s why. Yet another way in which her desires coincide with what the Audience wants to see.
As I walk away from the window, my elbow knocks against an empty blue bottle that stands next to the old telephone receiver I’m using for the radio. My breath catches as the bottle wobbles precipitously. I reach out and still it. Rid your personal sets of any reminders of Belle.
Belle gave me the bottle in sixth grade.
We’d taken a field trip to Avalon Beach, playing tag on the shore. I’d broken off from Selwyn and Geraldine Spicer and scrambled onto a jetty, hunting for seashells. But Belle had beaten me there and was bent down, spidery-legged, pulling out a bottle wedged between the rocks.
“What’s that?” I asked.
She gasped, surprised, and stammered in her faltering voice, “Sorry, I thought—I didn’t hear you. Um, I just—it’s a bottle.”
I came closer. “It’s nice,” I said.
She glanced at it and back at me, calming, her hazel eyes assessing me. It was one of the few times I’d seen her without her glasses, and she almost looked pretty, her stringy hair wet and clinging to her cheeks.
“You think so?” She didn’t wait for me to answer, just stood and thrust her hand out at me. “Here, take it.”
“Oh, okay, thanks,” I said, cradling it. She was already scurrying back over the rocks to the shore. The deal was done.
I haven’t thought of her connection to the bottle in seasons.
I want to keep it.
I wonder if Mom had struggled with letting go of my father’s reminders. If she hadn’t given them up willingly, Media1 would have taken them and fined her. I wouldn’t know if they’d missed any. He was cut a long time ago, and I don’t have any memories of him. Sometimes my grandmother Violet rambles about him as if he’s still on the island. From what I’ve pieced together from her accidental reveals, he was shy. He liked the rain. He disliked the sound of markers scrawling on paper.
