by Maya Rock
“Did you cut Revere so I could have the math apprenticeship? Because there wasn’t any apprenticeship slot for him if I took it?” I keep my voice level, but take a step closer to the desk.
Luz waves me over to the couch as he answers. “As reported in the Missive, Revere’s ratings fell 10 percent below his target. He was on the E.L., and the producers’ circle selected him to be cut. Besides, he hardly needed to be cut for you to get the apprenticeship—he could have just been anyassigned.”
“It just seems like a strange coincidence.” I remain standing. My shoulders are heavy, my book bag still on. “Even if he was on the E.L., what were the chances that he’d get cut at the most convenient time for me?”
Luz opens his mouth, ready with a response, but his eyes catch mine, and there’s silence. He recovers in an instant. “Because of the Contract, I can’t discuss Revere with you.” Luz starts searching through the sea of objects on his desk. “Nettie, I’d much rather talk about you and your ratings. Sit down.”
I ignore his order and plant my hands on his desk, leaning forward. I may not have the bulk of an Authority, but I’m hoping that I still can cut an intimidating figure in the small, narrow office. “Were you in the producers’ circle? Did you say, Let’s cut Revere so we can give Nettie the teacher apprenticeship? Did you do it because you knew Mr. Black would argue against me getting the slot with Revere still around?”
“Hypothetically, say that I had,” Luz says tartly. “Would it really be so much worse than how any other cut is made?” He sifts through a paper clip spill. “Characters are added to the Eligibility List because they’re not popular with the Audience. The ultimate decision comes down to the vote of the producers’ circle. There are no rules about how the decision’s made there.”
“If you won’t tell me the truth about the cut, can you at least let me know where he’s going? What happens to the Patriots?” I try to say it casually.
“You know I can’t say. Besides, Nettie, what’s it to you? You’re so far from being a Patriot,” he says, withdrawing the familiar green envelope from under a pile of rubber bands. He holds it up in the air. “Found it. Take a look. Nettie, please sit down.”
“Okay.” I remove my hands and retreat to the couch. He passes me the ratings envelope. I’m frightened by what it contains, the memory of last quarter’s disappointing card still fresh, making my hands shake as I rip into the envelope.
I gasp when I see my mark. “Really?”
“The porch scene with Callen was a major hit with girls ages nine to eighteen,” Luz says, triumphant. He rubs his hands together. “I knew you could do it.”
I’m holding the contents of the envelope in my hand like they’re sacred offerings. So many bills: 300 ceteks. A 200 cetek bonus for exceeding my target by way over the minimum 10 percent. The mark on the flat white card: 342. My predicted mark was 250. I can’t stop the smile creeping onto my face. “I’m safe this week?”
“Yes, you’re off the E.L. You should also know that I saved you from a fine. Your teachers might care about cheating on the math test, but you don’t have to hide it from the Audience. You should have been more aware of staying on-mic while in the janitor’s closet, especially since there is no camera coverage there—a situation that will be rectified.”
“Right,” I murmur, counting the bills again. “I’ll be more aware.”
“And of course, you’re firmly on the path to getting the math apprenticeship. Clearly, your first week as part of the Initiative was an unqualified success. Are you ready to hear your next suggestion?”
“What is it?” I slide the money and card back into the envelope and put it in my jeans pocket. Selwyn wanted to go downtown and shop for voxless clothes tomorrow. Now I’ll be able to buy some too.
“Three more conversations with Callen. I’ll send you a Missive with more specific instructions for each. Hi doesn’t count.”
“More flirting, you mean?”
Luz jots notes on his yellow notepad and comments without raising his eyes. “If it comes naturally, sure. Only make sure you talk to him. I think you’ll like the reward—I noticed how upset you were when your grandmother was fined for fralling. How would you like it if I ensured that she was never fined again?”
Getting Violet out of trouble permanently and getting to hang out with Callen again. “Yes, let’s do it,” I say right away, but I get quiet when I think about dealing with Lia.
“Fantastic. If you do as good a job as you did last week, your ratings are going to go through the roof,” Luz says, getting up and stepping on a purple jumpsuit. He kicks it unceremoniously into the pile in the corner. “Do you have any more questions about the suggestion?”
“No,” I say. “Just—Lia is so mad at Callen. I know she doesn’t want me talking to him again.”
“Listen, Nettie—there’s more to life than being Lia Burnish’s best friend. Lose the old idea of yourself. And help your grandmother.” He comes around in front of the desk, stretching his arms like it’s the first time he’s moved around in ages. “Do you think the stars on Blissful Days put anyone before themselves? Start thinking like a star. What do you want?”
“I want to talk to him,” I say without thinking. I could sit on the porch all day with him. Corner him in art class and ask him how he likes our new self-portrait project. Saunter up to him in the hallway after lunch and walk with him to his next class.
“That’s what the Audience wants too.” Luz turns around and shuffles through some papers, pulling out another envelope. “Here’s the proof. I got permission from Media1 to share a fan letter with you. I thought it might be inspirational.” He passes me the envelope. “You can read it on the set, if you want,” he tells me. “Media1 won’t broadcast it, but they won’t fine you either.”
“Oh, wow, crazy,” I say, grabbing the envelope. I’ve never heard of anyone getting letters from fans. I never realized they’d want to write to us. Pretty plus ten. I put the envelope in my back pocket, next to my ratings card. Eager to get to it, I stand up, ready to leave, but the buzzing sound of a fighter jet catches my attention. Reflexively, I look out the window behind Luz, trying to get a glimpse, but the stone building behind Character Relations blocks the sky.
“Seems like things are pretty nasty in the Drowned Lands,” I throw out, one last try for a clue about what they’re doing with the Patriots there.
“Yeah,” Luz says, sitting behind his desk again. “You should be happy your ancestors got out.”
“They were from the Drowned Lands?” I frown. “All my ancestors? None from the mainland?”
“Almost all the Originals came from the Drowned Lands; they’re the ones who needed the securities of the island the most.”
Of course, it makes perfect sense. The poorest. Lia was wrong. We would have never been Zenta guttersnipes. Without the Originals, we would have been Drowned Lands peasants. Descendants of drownclowns, all of us.
Luz is bent over his yellow pad, writing something, leaving me with a full view of the stone building. My heart speeds up as I realize something: it’s the perfect candidate, at the outskirts of the Center, far from Characters and the sets, and right near the beach—where the ships that take the Patriots away dock.
The Sandcastle.
A sharp electronic wail, and I tear my eyes away from the window. “Oh, God.” Luz leaps up in the air, right arm thrust out, trying to reach the smoke alarm that’s piercing our eardrums. He fails. “I keep telling them to stop smoking in the halls, but no one listens . . . God, the alarms on Bliss Island.” Four seasons ago there was a massive fire in the Heights, and Media1 replaced all the old smoke alarms with supersensitive ones that candles and even cigarettes can set off.
“All right, see you next time,” I yell. I clap my hands over my ears and rush out of the office, my exit slowed by other Reals. I can read their lips as they complain about having to leav
e the building, even though it’s not an emergency. I glance over my shoulder—sure enough, Luz isn’t exempt. He’s pulling on a jacket as he sprints out of his office. Yet another alarm joins in the chorus, and I start running, eager to escape the noise.
• • •
Lia sprawls out on my bed, paging through the Diary, her long legs encased in tight dark jeans. I’m straddling my desk chair, half listening, half dwelling on my Character Report. She writes in flowing cursive, saying aloud, “Good Things. Well—” She stops and reaches behind her ear, our signal for the suggestion. “I’ve decided I’m going to visit the hospital and ask about counseling for Mom.” She practically sings the words out. She’s gotten better at pretending she wants to talk about this.
A fake self. I think. That’s what the Initiative makes. But isn’t it better than what I had before? The fan letter might shed some light on that. I glance over my shoulder at the letter, still in its envelope, lying next to the radio. Lia was already here when I got home, so I had to put off reading it.
“I think the counseling’s a plus-ten idea.” I rise slightly so I can see over her and check my hair in the mirror hanging on my closet door on the other side of the bed. I’ve been trying to keep it under control, to fit in better with voxless.
“Your turn,” she says, pointing her pen at me. “Good Things?”
Good Things. I sit down again. I can’t talk about my spectacular ratings. I can’t talk about the moment I had with Callen on Monday. Given the situation with Revere, it feels like a mistake to call the apprenticeship a Good Thing. “I got a hundred on my math test,” I say instead. The test Revere had graded. I can tell his handwriting from Mr. Black’s. I see it peeking out of my folder on my nightstand, a missed reminder.
Lia laughs. “All right, human calculator.” Her gaze shifts to the desk behind me. “You finished the radio, right? Does it work?”
I nod, still not sure if I should tell her about overhearing the Reals. “It works. You have to keep your ear glued to the receiver to hear it, though.”
“Still counts,” she says briskly, writing in the notebook. It’s getting warm in here, and I open the window behind my desk, discreetly checking the porch for Callen. “All right, Bad Things.” She bites the top of her lucky pen as she thinks. I can’t mention those either. Learning that the Patriots are in the Drowned Lands. Revere. I struggle to think of camera-appropriate information.
“Nothing.” I shrug.
“Gosh, living in Nettieworld must be nice. Very, very peaceful,” she says with a tinge of sarcasm, scrutinizing me. I crack a weak smile.
“Well, moving on to me. This week,” she says, turning on her side, “Mom kept us up with her crying last night.” She records the event in the Diary.
I get up off the chair and lie down next to her, running my fingers through my hair to hide my face from the cameras.
“So, the counseling is a suggestion?” I mouth.
“Yeah. I’ll survive, and they’ll get Mom a cat. She’s wanted one since she was a kid, but all her requests have been denied.” New pets are as tightly regulated as pregnancy on the island, for the same reason—population control. “What’s yours?”
I swallow hard and look away, staring at the shelves across from us. I can’t get the words out. Then I notice that my books are out of order. Someone was in here. Sure enough, on the underside of the top shelf, I see a new ’bile, its red light beaming. Great.
Lia jabs me. “Just tell me,” she mouths.
“Luz wants me to keep talking to Callen. If I do, the crickets won’t bother Violet anymore.”
Lia’s eyes flutter, like someone who’s been knocked unconscious coming back to life. “I knew it. They think you two are going to fall in love,” she mouths slowly. “Or have you already?”
“In love?” I mouth. “Relax. You said yourself that Callen doesn’t want anything to do with me. So how much farther can they go with it? Oh, guess what, I’m off the E.L.” I hope she’ll drop the Callen stuff now.
“About time,” Lia mouths matter-of-factly. “Nettie. You should talk to him, but don’t lead him on either. Hopefully, Media1 will pick up that you have no chemistry and let it go. Okay?” Her eyes drill into mine.
Part of me wants to be honest, like Mom said, but I don’t want to upset Lia either. In the end, I just mouth, “Got it,” and sit up, ending the discussion.
“Okay, Vows.” She sits up straight, pushing her flame hair back and poising her pen. “Anything apprenticeship related?”
I slide back down into fralling position. This is when I appreciate my thick, dark, wavy hair the most, when it so effectively shields my face from the cameras. Lia follows suit. “Revere was cut so I could get the apprenticeship.”
“Wait, that Initiative idea guy told you he cut Revere for you?” she mouths.
“No, but he didn’t say he hadn’t, so—”
“So you’re jumping to conclusions.” She begins to draw herself up again, and I reach out to stop her.
“Aren’t you worried?” I whisper into her ear while pulling her back toward me. “About what they’re going to do with him? We have a right to know.”
“That’s not what the Originals agreed to. God, Nettie, calm down. I thought you were over all that,” she whispers. “Listen. I’m sorry I lied to you about Bek.” She puts down her pen and gives my hand a squeeze. “That was wrong.”
I’m grateful for the apology. We haven’t spoken about it all week, and even though I’m not angry anymore, it’s still been nibbling at the back of my mind.
“I understand why you did it,” I mouth. “I know you just want me to be happy.”
“Exactly,” Lia replies, clasping my hand in both of hers now, and for a moment, things feel right between us again. We both laugh, a nice tension-releasing laugh.
I feel brave enough to continue. “I probably would have kept believing if I hadn’t heard on my radio that—”
And with that, the moment’s gone. Lia yanks away her hands away and shakes her head adamantly. “No. Nettie, knowing the publicity thing isn’t true just means that you and Scoop have to live like everyone else on this island—trusting the company to keep them safe. It’s in the Contract. It’s what we promised.”
I didn’t promise anything.
• • •
Before we walk through the revolving doors into Delton’s, Selwyn pauses to look at me. “Nettie, are you sure this is okay? Do you have enough money?”
“I have enough,” I say. I scratch behind my ear, and she smiles knowingly.
“Plus ten,” she murmurs, pushing on the glass door, and we walk onto Delton’s marble floors, dodging perfume sprayers in the cosmetics section as we make our way to the escalators, headed toward the juniors section, third floor of five. I raise my head and gaze at the immense glass dome that caps the building, making it one of the highest buildings on the island. This is the first time I’ve felt like I belong at Delton’s.
It’s fun to shop with enough money to buy what I actually want. Selwyn takes charge, selecting outfits for me, giving me a thumbs-up or thumbs-down when I model her selections.
I take a break in the shoe department while she promenades, showing off sparkly stilettos. “What do you think? Imagine these with jeans at the Flower Festival. Like, casual sexy.”
“Awesome,” I say absently, running my hand along the bench, which is upholstered in velvet. The voxless music is soothing, a single guitar strumming a melody that Selwyn occasionally hums along to. It’s been much easier lately to spend time with Selwyn than with Lia. No weird boy tension.
She stops in front of a three-sided mirror in an ornate gold frame, turning her foot to study the shoe from every angle. “Yeah, they’re high, but I think I’ll survive the parade. Looking camper—hot is worth it.”
“I might skip this year.” I’ve never really liked the Festival,
and with my ratings climbing, I feel less compelled to attend the Special Events.
She turns from the mirror, distraught. “You don’t want to go to the Festival?” she says. “But you’ll miss the sing-along! The coming of spring, the joy that it brings.”
“I haven’t decided yet,” I hedge. “I’ve never had much fun at those things, but Lia makes me go . . . You know how she needs to be involved in everything.”
“That’s just Lia,” she says, bending down to pull off the shoes.
“Yeah.” I stretch over the carpet and pick up the discarded stilettos, putting them back into the box next to the bench. “Lia’s been getting sort of controlling. She’s on the verge of forbidding me from looking at Callen.”
“Well, have you been looking at him a lot lately?” she asks coyly. “Are you two . . . hanging out?”
“He seemed to like hanging out with me on the porch,” I say. “I would like to talk to him more.” I rub behind my ear.
“Plus ten. It’s a tricky situation, but you two are so cute together. At least you don’t tower over him, like Lia does,” she says, doing a pirouette. “Whoa, check this out.” She skips over to a rack and pulls out a clingy magenta dress with a low neckline and black belt. “Try this on. April twentieth, you in this dress, a total knockout.”
I walk over and take the dress from her, holding it out dubiously.
“It will go so well with your earrings,” she says. Way back in seventh grade, Lia, Selwyn, and I had gotten earrings and vowed to wear them for our Double A—identical imitation pearl drops, but in different colors.
“My earrings are more purple than magenta,” I inform her. The dress is way too sexy for the ceremony. “Selwyn, do you want me to be the slut of the Double A?”
“No, no, no. Sexy, not slutty,” she laughs. “Okay, maybe it’s not for the Double A, but just try it on. You have to lose the old idea of yourself. Stop being so dowdy.”
Lose the old idea of yourself. Luz’s words. Does she realize that she’s parroting Media1? Luz must write out what the other producers should tell their Characters. I examine the dress again, wondering if it really is that simple. Change my dress. Flirt with Callen. Be new, be fresh, be someone the Audience loves. Most of my life I’ve been seen but not really noticed. With a few suggestions, I’m changing—becoming better than I ever thought was possible.
