by Maya Rock
He agreed that it couldn’t be a coincidence.
“True,” Lia agrees. She’s holding her head higher than usual, showing off the silver necklace on her swan’s neck. How do she and Terra make the motif switch so quickly? She fusses with her tight bun, then asserts, “I wish I had a say. I think the adults trust Henna more for this stuff because she’s artsy. They asked me to make the schedule, which I did, and photocopy the programs, which I don’t even have to do until the night before. I want to help with the design and content of the program too, but they don’t want my input. I think I should get closer to Henna if I really want my opinion to matter. I didn’t sign up for this position so I could be ignored.”
No, she didn’t. She was worried that there wasn’t enough suspense around her apprenticeship, so she joined the committee to make sure the Audience kept watching her.
She edges over to me. “It’s not your fault,” she whispers. I nod, feeling queasy.
“Guess what? An orchestra member came to our practice, and I’m sure I did better than Thora.” Selwyn smiles broadly. She sees me watching and folds her lip over her fixed tooth instinctively, then remembers the chip is gone and smiles again, brighter and broader than before, until abruptly, the smile vanishes.
Lincoln’s here.
“Sit, Lincoln,” Lia chirps. “What’s up?”
His shirt is buttoned wrong. His curly hair is matted, like he didn’t wash it. His eyes are dull. “The ceiling,” he says, taking his seat, his movements laborious. Selwyn laughs and then becomes absorbed in cutting up her sandwich. Lincoln picks at a piece of bread. Something about his tray is different. It takes me a moment to place it. No cards. And one less seat at the table. Media1 removed it.
I stare at my plate, wondering how we’re going to survive this lunch. Revere’s gone, and so is the easygoing energy he brought with him. But Lia is unfazed. She gulps down Kofasip and murmurs something into her mic about how tasty it is—we got a Missive last night ordering us to do some propro for them. Selwyn follows Lia’s lead, praising Kofasip like it’s from heaven, but with less confidence, eyes flicking back and forth to Lincoln. I meant to ask Lia about Bek and the Sandcastle, but I feel immobilized in the face of his despair. Why are such young Characters being cut?
The situation is so tense that I’m actually relieved when Lia’s ex-boyfriend, motormouth and senior class president Martin Fennel, comes over.
“Is there room for me?” he asks, sitting in Callen’s old seat next to Lia without waiting for an answer. Martin is cherubic with his fat cheeks and bright eyes behind rimless spectacles. “Glad to have the chance to catch up with my favorite juniors. How’s life?”
“Plus ten, Martin,” Lia answers smoothly. “We’re talking about the Double A. I’m on the planning committee.”
“Ah, the good old days. I was on my year’s planning committee, remember?” Martin intones. A born politician, he’s careful to look at each of us in turn, but his gaze lingers on Lia. “When you’re a junior, all you think about is the Double A. Now that I’m senior class president, I have to juggle a million responsibilities. I’m chairing the committee for the senior Flower Festival float, I’m on all the dance committees, and I meet with the principal once a week.”
“Wow, that is a lot,” Selwyn chimes in. “I think—”
Martin steamrolls over her. “And on top of all that, I have my apprenticeship in the mayor’s office.” Martin removes his glasses, blows on them, and wipes them off with the bottom of his shirt. “It’s tough holding down an apprenticeship while you’re in school, keeping up with your friends, and in my case, being president of the senior class—”
“Martin, we know you’re the president of the senior class,” Lincoln says flatly. He’s expressionless, his usual sneer absent. There’s a brief silence, which Martin fills with nervous giggles. Selwyn saws at her sandwich again, knife squeaking loudly against the plate. I glance at Lia, panicked. It’s obvious something’s off at the table, and we need to fix it before Media1 notices.
Lia jumps in and starts explaining her vision for the play. Lincoln, at least, has raised his head and seems to be listening.
I try, but my attention wanders. I count three crickets roaming the floor. I watch Characters line up to get Kofasip out of the soda machine. I look over at Callen’s table and think about sitting with him on the porch yesterday.
Martin brings the conversation back to himself, so Lia turns to me while he talks to the others. “We didn’t do the Diary this weekend because of the game,” she says, popping a grape into her mouth. “Bummer.”
“Yeah, too bad,” I agree, though I didn’t miss doing the Diary at all. I should. It’s probably good for ratings.
“It’s all about word choice,” Martin proclaims. “They have to sound natural, like words Mayor Cardinal would say, but also strike the right chord with the crowd,” he continues. Lincoln’s returned to a catatonic state, his hand resting on his sandwich, like he’s forgotten how to pick it up and eat it.
“So, you did it, you took the suggestion?” Lia whispers, leaning close to me.
I nod. “And Mr. Black basically said the apprenticeship is mine. You’re wrong. It is my fault. I think they cut Revere so I could have it.”
“The Missive said Revere was cut because of low ratings, like anyone else,” she mouths. “Anyway, you got out of Fincher’s, which is amazing,” she adds, but there’s a stiffness to her mouth as she speaks, and the words that come out next seem practiced. “So how was the flirting?”
I glance pointedly in the direction of the crickets, hoping Lia will take the hint and finish this conversation later. She doesn’t budge, her eyes drilling into mine.
“We just talked on his porch, and I smiled a lot,” I finally whisper.
“That’s all? Did he seem into it?”
“I don’t know,” I mouth, uncomfortable. “I was so—so—focused on myself. It was really a nothing conversation. I was surprised it was enough.” I bump her elbow so she’s aware of the crickets edging closer to our table.
“Okay,” Lia mouths. To my dismay, the crickets are now zooming in on Henna’s impromptu sculpture, giving Lia another chance to frall in the clear. She slams down the rest of her Kofasip and turns back to me. “Don’t talk to him anymore, okay?”
“Whoa, you’re giving out suggestions now too?” I whisper, annoyed. Her lip curls back. I wasn’t planning on talking to him, but her thinking she can just order me around bothers me. Our heads are right up against each other, side by side, both of us holding our hands flat against our mics. The picture of unity, but it doesn’t feel that way. She stays in place, her eyes insistent. “The suggestion’s over,” I say, choosing my words carefully. I haven’t said I won’t talk to him again.
“Plus ten,” she mouths. “Let me know when you find out what your next suggestion is. I’m sure after your scene bombs with the Audience, Media1 will change their mind about any loveplot between you and Callen. Bek actually doesn’t have much faith in the Initiative.”
Bek. “Lia, about Bek—” A camera hums right behind me. The crickets are here. Filming our Revereless table. I shut up.
• • •
Anger builds in me all day. Aimed at the audience. I blame them for not watching me in the first place, which led to this mess with Revere. I don’t care what everyone says—there’s no way the timing of his cut was a coincidence.
When I leave school, a light rain is falling, and the anger is still with me, so I pass the bike rack and march to the theater. I need to know exactly what Bek said to Lia.
I rush into the auditorium, hoist myself onto the empty stage, push behind the velvet curtains, and emerge into the dimly lit backstage where Characters are perching on stools, chairs, and costume and prop trunks. Lia is the ringmaster at the center of their circle.
“This play is totally about becoming a whole person and how
—”
“Um, Lia, can I talk to you—alone?” I interrupt.
Embarrassed, Lia shifts from foot to foot. The muffled roar of the lawn mowers is the only sound in the place, which gives me an idea.
“Is this important, Nettie, I was right in the middle of the—”
“It’ll only take a few minutes,” I insist, ignoring the whispering and the disapproving huffs from Ms. Pepperidge, the Drama Club adviser.
“Okay, okay,” she says, looking around and shrugging, like What can I do? I lead her downstairs and out the door, veering over to the lawn. She makes a show of putting her hands over her head, as if the sprinkling of rain is too much for her to handle.
“Where do you want to meet on Sunday, for the Diary?” I improvise, speaking loudly into my mic.
“Your house,” she says, puzzled. “Is that it? I have a club to lead.”
“No, that’s not all,” I say into my mic, mind scrambling for something better. “I was thinking of visiting your mom. Maybe having company around will help her.” The nearest lawn mower is only a dozen or so feet away and coming closer, and I touch her hand. My eyes are pleading her to understand that I need her to stay in place until they’re near enough for us to frall properly.
“A visit probably won’t help, but that’s sweet of you, Nettie,” she says warily.
The mower comes close enough, and I whisper, “Do you think it’s possible Bek lied about the Patriots doing publicity? What exactly did she tell you?”
Lia looks down. Lia, who faces everything straight-on, is cutting off the connection between us. My touch on her hand changes to an iron grip, like I can squeeze the truth out of her, but I don’t need to, because I think I get it. Bek didn’t lie.
Lia did.
“I’ll come over around ten,” she says for the mics and then closes the space between us, whispering into my ear. A cool cucumber scent drifts over the grassy one—a new perfume for voxless.
“Nettie—I knew you obsessed about your dad, and I thought you’d be able to focus on being a good Character if you had an answer . . . I wanted you to be happy. Does it really matter what the Patriots are doing?”
I drop her wrist. “Yes, it matters,” I mouth angrily. “You lied to me. About something really important.”
“Lied to help you,” she says, fingering the band around her neck. “Haven’t you been happier? Why are you asking, anyway? Did Scoop put you up to this?” she mouths, glancing back to the theater. She moves her face back to the mic. “Listen, I have to go. But we’ll catch up later.”
I shake my head. “Whatever,” I say, turning around.
“Nettie,” she calls as I start to walk away. “Onward through the turmoil?” she calls out, our old in-joke.
The faint desperation in her voice makes me the guilty one suddenly, so I turn back around and yell back, “Tomorrow beckons.” I’m still angry, but it seems like sacrilege to leave the line hanging.
• • •
Click-click-click-click. My shoulders tighten as I hear the cameras in the ceiling swivel toward me. They were installed while I was at school yesterday. It’s lucky they can’t see what I’m thinking. Before leaving school, I tracked down Scoop and told him about Lia’s lie. The look on his face was sad but not surprised . . .
Even if the Patriots aren’t doing publicity, I still don’t believe that Media1 is experimenting on them.
Ugh, I don’t want to think about it.
I finish washing my hands and go downstairs, looking for something sweet before bed. Mom is at the dining room table, steam spiraling above her evening tea. A stack of paper lies by her elbow, and a newly installed ’bile unfurls from under the table and points its lens at her.
“Up late,” she mutters, reading a scrap, placing it at the bottom of the pile, then filling in a line on the grid. She’s compiling requests from library customers. Books from the Sectors used to be banned, but island writers can’t keep up with the demand, so Media1 decided to let in some books, though they make sure to keep out books that reveal too much about the Sectors.
“Yeah, I am.” I keep thinking about Revere. How cheerful he was. I never would have guessed he was on the E.L. The house reeked of the lavender disinfectant when I got home, but Mom seems calm enough now.
I wonder how Mom would feel about the Patriots if I told her Dana Cannery’s theory. Would she be worried about my father?
“How’s Fincher’s going?” she asks.
I hesitate, but she has to know. “Mom, about Fincher’s,” I say as I begin a clandestine search for cookies—she baked some for her upcoming book club. I’m not supposed to have any; she worries about cavities.
“About Fincher’s?” she repeats sharply.
I take a deep breath. “Mom, I’m going to apply for the high school math teacher apprenticeship. Mr. Black says I’ll probably get it.”
Mom drops her pen, and her chair screeches as she leaps up and rushes to the kitchen entryway. “But you’ve been preparing for Fincher’s for so long!”
I shut the cabinet door before she suspects I’ve been cookie hunting. “I know. But I think I’ll like this more than being a repairman.”
“Really?” She sighs, exasperated. “Nettie, what’s gotten into you?”
“Mom, it’s all right. Everything’s going to work out,” I mumble, grabbing a pear instead. Thanks to her unspoken rules about fralling, I can’t even begin to explain what really happened.
“Nettie, you’ve been so secretive lately,” she says, following me into the living room. “And no food outside of the kitchen, you know that.”
“I haven’t been secretive,” I snap. I sit on the couch and put the pear on the coffee table, wishing she’d go away.
“Well, why didn’t you tell me about the apprenticeship earlier?” she asks, standing above me with her arms crossed. “You know you can talk to me if you’re having problems. I’m here for you.”
“Did you read that in Perfect Your Parenting?” I joke, sort of. Mom loves self-help books. Other notable titles I’ve seen over the seasons have been Friends after Forty and Attention, Belief, Clarity: The ABC’s of Adulthood.
“No, I’m serious, Nettie. I’m worried.” She takes off her glasses and puts them on the mantel above the fireplace, rubbing her eyes. “You’ve seemed different lately.”
“I just feel like things are changing,” I say, resting my head back on the couch and staring up at the ceiling. I can’t tell her what’s actually on my mind—we don’t frall.
“What do you mean?” She sits down next to me. A lamp shines directly on her hair, and I can see a few new gray strands alongside the brown ones. Without her glasses, she seems softer, a little more approachable.
“With me and my friends.” I try to think of something I can say on-camera. “Lia and Callen broke up.”
“Oh.” Mom purses her lips. “Tough for Lia. She must be relying on you a lot now.”
“Yup, tough.” I spin a letter opener on the table behind the couch—Mom collects them. She doesn’t have much of an eye for aesthetics, unlike Violet or Eleanora Burnish, Lia’s mom. I feel like a more normal mother would collect, I don’t know, animal figurines or something.
“How about you?” she says abruptly. “How’s your love life? Are you dating anyone?”
Eek. She’s trying so hard to be the textbook mother now. At least I can use her interest to my advantage and add more to the plotline Luz says will definitely be broadcast.
“There’s someone I like,” I say slowly. A part of me still feels guilty about Lia, but, really, should I? She doesn’t feel guilty about lying to me about the Patriots. “I think I actually, um, like Callen.”
Mom makes a startled noise, but quickly composes herself. “That seems complicated.” Mom hasn’t had a boyfriend since my dad and always seemed more bemused than moved by the men who’ve aske
d her out.
“It is. I don’t want to hurt Lia, and I’m not sure how he feels, anyway.”
“Oh, these situations are hard,” Mom says, gaze drifting toward the window behind me as she gets lost in memories. I wonder if they’re about my dad. “Just be honest, and it’ll work out.”
Work out for who? Me, maybe, but not for Lia. “I hope so,” I say, keeping it short and vague. “Anything new happen in the library today?”
Her face lights up. “Mr. Gardene brought in his poodle, Jingle. Cute dog, but he chews up dictionaries. I had to lay down the law . . .”
Hearing about Mom’s job is a nice escape. I giggle as she recounts the showdown between her, Mr. Gardene, and the neurotic poodle, Jingle, and how the new cushioned reading space has been used more for napping than reading. Munching on my pear and listening to her work travails, I can almost fool myself into thinking everything’s okay.
Chapter 12
Luz barks into the mic attached to the end of his headset. I can only make out bits and pieces like “better for everyone” and “I’ll get them another.” He throws the headset onto his cluttered desk when he’s done, disgusted, and gestures me over to the couch, but I remain in front of his desk, clenching my hands, working up the courage to ask the questions that have been hounding me since Monday.
He’s oblivious. “These bureaucrats,” he grumbles, caressing the fallen headset like a kitten. He has the beginnings of a beard, a feeble attempt that only accentuates his youth. “Despite its obvious successes, the Initiative has met with some resistance.” His voice becomes high-pitched as he mimics his Media1 bosses, wagging his finger at me like a disapproving teacher. “What if Characters hate their suggestions? What if the rewards don’t entice them? What if they start complaining about the mobile cameras?” He sighs. “Why can’t they be content to watch viewership climb?”
