by Maya Rock
When mine is, I’ll march up to the podium and shake hands with the mayor as I receive my assignment and smile for the pictures. At last I’ll know. My future will be set. But the vision feels hazy and dissipates quickly. What’s left is a mostly empty plaza and my present, which is all uncertainty.
• • •
We get back to the Arbor around eight. Lia seems to have regained her confidence. She walks me to my door, rolling her eyes at Callen’s house while I scrounge in my pockets for the keys.
“Growing a real jungle over there,” she sneers.
I actually think the Herrons’ yard is plus ten—it’s cool they’re not scared to distinguish themselves from the tame lawns around them. “Yeah,” I say, shrugging. “The mosquitoes go wild in the summer.”
“Ick,” she says and falls silent. I find the key and make a point of taking it out slowly, not wanting her to feel like I’m eager to leave.
She spends a while retying a ribbon at the neckline of her dress, glancing up twice, before saying, “At least my next boyfriend won’t be scared of closing up. Or holding me.”
“You’re so better off. Onward through the turmoil,” I say, quoting a line from a Drama Club play that we always mock, about a girl cheating on a biology test with tragic results. It was that mediocre play that convinced Lia she could write her own.
“Tomorrow beckons,” she quotes back. “Speaking of tomorrow, don’t change your mind about Mr. Black, okay?” She claps her hand over my shoulder, like we’re tracs getting pumped for a game.
I nod. “I won’t. Fincher’s was awful yesterday. Five hours spent on a defective music box.”
“Black’s your ticket out. See you later.” She leaves, and I go inside, hoping to catch the Reals on the radio again. But the idea drops away when I see the green light from the Missivor. I approach my room cautiously, dreading hearing about another Patriot.
Nettie Starling: Please go to the Center at 8 a.m. Saturday for a rescheduled Character Report, during which you will learn about the Initiative.
The Initiative. I press the off button hard, pick up The Player in the Attic, and flip pages for the cameras. Not reading. I can’t concentrate. Lia had been pretty positive about the Initiative, but I still remember the graffiti scrawled on my math desk.
Chapter 6
I carry a block of plastic-wrapped clay from the back of the room to the table Selwyn and I share for art, our first class on Monday. I end up taking a circuitous route, avoiding Rawls and Callen’s table but unable to resist casting a look back. Callen doesn’t see me—he’s concentrating on unwrapping the plastic. I can’t believe I told Lia I wouldn’t talk to him anymore. How long until she stops caring?
My path takes me past Belle’s old seat, which she shared with Shar Corone, a shy hulk with massive shoulders and a soft voice. Belle’s stool is gone, and Shar has spread out all his materials to further the illusion that he’s always sat there alone. Selwyn and I sit near the front. I heave the block onto our table, and it lands with an enormous thump.
“Yay, what took you so long?” Selwyn smiles as she ties on her smock. She reclips the barrettes pulling her long black hair off her face and then gets down to business, grabbing the block of clay and stripping off the plastic wrap like it’s a present. She claws out a chunk and begins expertly rolling out coils for her bowl—before she decided on the cello, Selwyn considered an art-related apprenticeship.
I eye the clay as if it’s an enemy, certain to defeat my attempts to control it.
“Nettie, get started,” Ms. Shade—our young art teacher with the Mohawk and single hoop earring—orders as she roams the room, snapping peppermint gum. “Clay won’t bite.”
“Okay,” I say, clumsily tearing off a piece. Art perplexes me, because there’s never an end goal. Like when I built the radio, I knew I was making an object identical to the one in the book. What am I making now? Ms. Shade made an example bowl but insisted we “form our own interpretations of what a coil bowl should be.”
I roll out a coil, but instead of coming out smooth and firm like Selwyn’s, mine remains lumpy and then, to my horror, the ends start to disintegrate. I survey the room—no one else’s is doing that. Ms. Shade comes over when she sees what’s happening and puts her hands around mine, guiding me to put more pressure on the clay.
“You have to control the clay, Belle—Nettie,” she catches herself, but it’s too late. Selwyn gasps, bringing her hand to her tiny lips, and Ms. Shade releases my hands and runs off to another table, mumbling, “Good luck.” The back of her neck is red. Even her shaved head is red. I didn’t realize heads could blush.
“Um, I saw Lia,” Selwyn chirps, flicking long strands of escaped hair out of her face.
“How is she?”
“She told me what happened this weekend,” she whispers. Not quietly enough. Out of the corner of my eye, I see well-lipsticked Ayana Lemon and leggy Caren Trosser tilting toward us from across the aisle.
“Shhhh.” I motion to Selwyn to keep her voice down. “You mean the breakup?”
“Yeah. Last night she tore up all the pictures of them and mailed him the scraps.”
“Whoa.” It might be a while before she stops caring. I’m glad Witson never pulled that kind of stunt. It sounds kind of psycho. Caren Trosser falls off her stool in her attempt to eavesdrop, and a few boys snort with laughter. I huddle closer to Selwyn, recalling how Media1 had wanted that line about Callen for the aquarium reenactment and how the cameras had been interested when I told her about our near collision. I can’t talk to him, but I have a hunch it’ll help my ratings if I keep talking about him. “Selwyn, how long do you think before she gets over him?”
“Two weeks. Are you excited? Isn’t this your chance?”
“Maybe?” I cast a quick glance behind us to make sure he’s not listening. “But Lia would hate it. She doesn’t even want us talking as friends, so I think—I need to forget about him. Besides, Callen doesn’t—he’s not interested.”
“You always say that, but you’ve never tried.” Selwyn loops her latest coil around and up, then steps back and cocks her head from side to side, assessing it. “Maybe write him a note.”
“No way.” I lower my voice. “Lia’s going to hate him forever because he dumped her. I can’t do anything.”
“If you say so. Hey,” she says, reshaping the bowl, “how do you feel about tattoos?”
I abandon my coiling. “Selwyn, you almost fainted when you got your ears pierced. Do you think you can handle a tattoo needle?”
“It’ll be worth it,” she sniffs. “I was thinking of music notes with wings. Or a cello wrapped in rainbows. That would show the orchestra I’m more committed than Thora.”
“I don’t know, Selwyn. Rainbows?” She has on a flirty ruffled yellow summer dress underneath the smock, and now that she’s mentioned tattoos, all the exposed skin around her neckline seems vulnerable.
She fidgets with her beads fiercely again, just as she did in the hall on Friday, and avoids meeting my eyes. “Well, I haven’t made up my mind.”
• • •
“Starving,” Lia sighs as we get on the lunch line. “We’re out of food at home,” she whispers. “I had sugar cubes for breakfast. I am not a horse. It’s because Mom needs, like, half a bottle of wine to tackle grocery shopping. She loses her list most of the time.”
I don’t understand why Lia’s mother can’t get herself together—her life seems so easy. It’s almost like she creates problems because she doesn’t have any real ones. I give Lia a hug. “So lame.”
She nods and pulls a banana from an overflowing fruit basket.
“A banana, just what I needed.” She smiles at the nearest camera.
“Yum,” I say, summoning up some fake enthusiasm for propro. While I fill my glass up with Cherry Kofasip, she casts a critical eye at the cafeteria. “I think this place is to
o nice to just be a cafeteria. Look at those big, beautiful windows, the high ceilings, the polished floors. We should have a dance here one day. What do you think?”
I sip my drink. “Maybe? Decorations—sparkling cutlery?”
She laughs. “Right, and then everyone can dance on top of the tables and the tracs will start a food fight.” We head toward our table in the center of the cafeteria. For Lia, our walk away from the lunch line is more of a strut. Her long red braid swings like a whip across her back and she holds her head high. “Did you see Callen this morning at art? You know what—never mind, I don’t want to know.”
I’m a step behind her. Today she’s wearing equestrian-style boots that go over her jeans and nearly reach her knees, along with a sleeveless white linen top. Freshmen and sophomores steal glances at us as we pass, faces full of envy and longing. Next, a table of junior wallflowers, girls I was friends with a long time ago. Lia calls them the Pastels because they’re sort of dull. “Better than pencils, less than paints” is what she says.
Tracs are at the back of the cafeteria, loud and rambunctious, like caged elephants. The floor beneath them is always littered with food and napkins and errant silverware. Callen’s there too, smiling and talking to his teammates as if he’s always eaten at that table.
The light from the window makes him seem kind of angelic.
“Keep moving.” Lia bumps me with the edge of her tray. I hadn’t realized I’d stopped, and I press forward, blushing and hoping she didn’t notice why I stopped.
“Play Spate with me, Lia,” Lincoln Grayson whines as soon as Lia sets her tray down. I sit between her and Selwyn, who’s pecking at a pile of grapes. Lincoln stretches across the table like a snake, waving his deck of cards in Lia’s face. The handkerchief in his shirt pocket is a spritely green today, with “LG” printed in black all over it. “Please,” he begs, his almond-shaped eyes wide as he implores her.
“I’m busy being miserable.” Lia peels her banana. “Didn’t you hear? I was dumped by an albino baseball player.”
Lincoln cackles and settles back in his chair. “At least you’re joking about it. I thought you’d be, like, rending your garments.” Lia’s been friends with Lincoln forever; they live near each other in Treasure Woods. He’s so rich that the Audience watches him just to gawk at his luxuries, like the spiffy gold watch on his wrist or his old-man monogrammed handkerchiefs.
“I have Drama Club and the Double A Planning Committee to lead. No time to feel sorry for myself.” She waves her hand in front of her, showing off her long, aristocratic fingers, as if being dumped is a pesky fly she can brush away.
Lincoln only half hears her. He’s distracted by Revere strolling up to the table, whistling. “Spate, now!” he says.
“Definitely,” Revere trills. Revere and Lincoln are so different. Revere is tall and pale with a messy ponytail, a large, pointy nose, and gray eyes. Lincoln is snub-nosed, has dark skin, tightly curled hair, and his best feature: velvety brown eyes that he doesn’t seem worthy of. Revere can’t help but be nice, and Lincoln . . . well, he’s Lincoln. You’re forever on the verge of slapping him.
What cements their friendship, I think, is that Revere is always willing to play Spate. He even bought Lincoln this special deck of cards for his birthday, one with sleek cars on the backs—car collecting is a favorite Grayson family pastime.
Lincoln pushes his tray to the side and spreads the cards out in the game’s starting pyramid formation. Spate has never really interested me, but Selwyn is quickly absorbed and brings her knuckles to her mouth to muffle her anxious gasps and squeals.
“Oooh!” she bleats as Revere lays a two of spades over the nine of hearts. “Oh no, Lincoln, what are you going to do?”
“Selwyn, you should just play,” Lincoln says, scratching his head as he plots his next move.
“Competition makes me too nervous.” She puts her hand over her eyes. “Make your move already! The suspense is killing me.”
Lia elbows me and whispers loud enough for the mics, but low enough so no one but me hears her, “You’re talking to Mr. Black today, right?”
I hesitate, watching Revere. He seems even nicer than usual today, playing Spate with Lincoln, his tongue at the corner of his mouth as he concentrates. But I have to get off the E.L. He wins the round and sweeps up the cards.
“For sure,” I whisper back. Lia smiles and nods approvingly.
“I want a tattoo,” Selwyn announces, lifting her hair and patting the bare expanse of skin on her back. “Here. Thoughts?”
Revere and Lincoln stop playing, and Lia gapes.
“Adventurous,” Lincoln pronounces admiringly.
Lia recovers. “Selwyn, is this about getting closer to Garrick?” she asks, a sliver of exasperation in her voice.
“No,” Selwyn yelps, flustered. Her expression plus the yellow dress makes her look like a fussy baby chick. “Garrick has nothing to do with it.”
“Oh, no, not Garrick,” I groan. Garrick is a friend of Callen’s, who graduated last season and now works at a tattoo parlor downtown. Selwyn adored him. I have no idea why. He had this lunatic glint in his eyes and was mostly known for charging people to see a private insect trove he named the Krazy Kollection. He made out with Selwyn at parties, but treated her like she was a distant acquaintance the rest of the time.
“You’d have to live with a tattoo for the rest of your life,” Lia says, pinning Selwyn with a sharp schoolmarm stare.
“I know that, Lia,” Selwyn says. Lincoln leans over and mouths Initiative to Revere. So they’re in this too?
“Whatever makes you happy,” Revere pipes up, shuffling and reshuffling the cards for a new round of Spate. “I think a tattooed cellist would be cool.”
“If I get the apprenticeship,” Selwyn sighs.
“You’ll get it,” Lia assures her. “Henna and I are designing the program for the Double A this week. Any ideas?”
I look over to where Henna sits with the misfits. She’s got hot-pink streaks in her hair and a red plaid shirt over the zebra leggings she’s worn every day for the last month. Peacock feather earrings are her only concession to liberato. Callen’s old friend Conor is there too, probably forcing one of his morose poems on them. Belle used to sit at the corner of that table, up against the window, crouched over a book, her mousy hair falling over her glasses.
“Hey, dreamer.” Lia pokes her knee into mine. “What are you thinking about?” She follows the direction of my gaze and says, “Oh,” sagely. She takes a sip of her water. “It’ll take a while to feel back to normal, and that’s okay, okay?”
“Got it,” I answer, turning my attention back to my food. “Thanks,” I add.
• • •
Scoop slouches back in his chair, talking to Terra Chiven, who is hovering over him, her fingers grazing his desk. With her peachy complexion enhanced by the warm smile she reserves just for him, she looks prettier than usual. As soon as I sit down, he turns away from her. “Nettie, I wanted to—finish our conversation from Friday,” he says. “Can you leave us alone, Terra?” The transformation to the Terror is immediate. Terra glowers at me before stomping off to the back of the room and her seat next to Mollie.
“After school,” I say absently, sliding into my seat. I can’t think about Patriots now. I need to prepare for my conversation with Mr. Black. I straighten up, pretending I’m Lia, a trick I use when I’m nervous. Neck high, chin up. By the time the bell rings for the end of class, my body is aching.
I wait until the room has emptied, clear my throat, and walk up to Mr. Black’s desk. He’s going over the homework already, his bald spot gleaming, aimed right at me.
“Mr. Black?”
He looks up from his work. “What’s up, Nettie?”
I fiddle with the straps on my book bag. “I know . . . it’s a little late.” His polka-dot tie is on crooked. He adjusts
it while I talk, his fingers as plump as sausages. I struggle to remember my speech, but can barely hear my thoughts over the pounding of my heart. “If I were to apply, do you think I’d have any chance at getting the math teacher apprenticeship?”
Mr. Black’s face contorts like a squeezed balloon. “Well, I don’t know, Nettie. Most people started preparing for their apprenticeships a while back,” he says. “It has nothing to do with your talents.”
He keeps going, and I stand and nod, disappointment trickling through me. I know Lia said that even trying would pull in the Audience, but nothing about this feels good. Mr. Black is still talking, but I mumble good-bye and flee the classroom.
I’d tried to keep my hopes in check about the apprenticeship, but I can’t deny how happy the idea of a future not at Fincher’s made me. I’m midway to my locker when I feel dampness on my cheeks and realize I’m crying. Startled, I wipe my eyes against my sleeves and take a detour to the bathroom to wash my face.
In between splashes of cold water, I see my blotchy skin and swollen eyes in the mirror, the proof of my distress.
I’m going to be miserable my whole life, like Selwyn’s parents, and then I’ll be cut and shipped to the Sectors, separated from my friends and family, and forced to endure all the things the Originals wanted to escape. My sadness turns into anger at myself for waiting so long, and I kick a lead pipe curving under the sink.
“Ow,” I say into my mic, reaching down to massage my foot. I hear a familiar buzzing and turn my head up to the ceiling, only to see half a dozen cameras. Aimed away from the stalls, but in the bathroom. There are four more: against the walls, on the radiator, near the mirror. I don’t like it; I want some privacy. And I don’t like being forced to do a job I hate because of rules the Originals agreed to almost a hundred seasons ago. I blame Media1; they just control so much in my life, and there’s nothing I can do to stop them.
