by Maya Rock
“Not always so easy,” he says. His leg is alongside mine, and every once in a while, our feet touch.
“Well, that’s true. I remember being lonely, even back then,” I admit. I wasn’t friends with Lia—in those days, to me, she was just the Popular Tall Girl.
“I was lonely, too, and also . . .” He trails off.
“Also?” I prompt, noticing that now our toes are touching and not moving.
“I don’t know. Trapped?” he says tentatively. He moves his hand over mine, just like I wanted him to on the porch. Sensation shoots through me, and I find it hard to listen. “That’s when everything began to feel like a trap—classes, homework, my parents.” He’s even closer to me now, his breath feather light against my ear. “It felt like the island was one big trap.”
I know he just shared something important, but all my attention is focused on our hands. And on his mouth, so close to my ear. The sound of the ocean is overwhelming, but I swear I can hear his heartbeat. I turn to him to signal that I need him to fill the silence, but when I do, the urge to be closer overwhelms me. I don’t say anything, but I shift until our shoulders are touching. I feel like I can’t breathe.
He kisses me, and energy spikes out and burns through any need to fulfill suggestions or think about Patriots or worry about Lia or anything at all. Kissing Callen is utterly natural and explains in an instant why talking always felt too complicated. This is familiar and new. His lips, the ones I’ve daydreamed of so many times, are eager and tender, and all I want to do is keep kissing him forever.
Another scream. Then more like a squeal that ends in a burst of laughter. At first, my only response is to draw Callen closer, but then I hear a higher-pitched scream, definitely a girl, and think it might be Lia. Reluctantly, I pull away, glancing behind me. Shadows are racing around in front of the Grayson’s beach house, and I start thinking about the Patriots.
Callen touches my cheek, and I turn back to him. His hand drops and traces the line of my collarbone. “Ignore them,” he says, leaning forward to kiss me again.
I decide to follow his lead, closing my eyes and melting into the kiss. But I’m tense and aware of the growing noise coming from the shore—the Graysons’ screen door screeching open and shut, Characters carousing.
I break off the kiss, but keep my hands in Callen’s, our foreheads touching, our eyes drinking each other in. I’m caught between wanting to stay with him and needing to be on guard—Lia might come out. I was thinking she’d just have to accept Callen and me being together if it ever happened—but not now. This feels too soon.
“We need the Antithesis of a bonfire.” Lincoln’s voice. That ultraflat calm way he speaks whenever he’s very drunk and wants to pretend he’s not. “A smoke pit?”
“A smoke pit, no!” someone yelps.
“I think these are Nettie’s shoes.” It’s Selwyn. Lia might be close behind.
I tear away from Callen. “I have to go, it’s just—”
“You don’t want Lia to see us,” he says, running his hand through his hair, rumpling it more than ever, as I stand up, brushing off grit.
“Sorry.” I turn around, trying to make out her silhouette among the others in the yard. No sign of her. I glimpse the cameras on the beach again and feel a glimmer of excitement, thinking about the Audience getting to see us. For them, it’s the fulfillment of unrequited love.
We’re separated now, and I feel the magic fading and worry creeping in. Like if I’m not literally holding him to me, I can’t trust anything. I can’t lose Callen.
“I’m getting out of here. But I want to see you soon,” I say, glad now that I can’t really see his face.
“Me too.” He speaks with an urgency I’ve never heard from him before. “I wanted to ask you in the cafeteria this afternoon—come to the Brambles with me tomorrow. Skip the Festival.”
The Festival. I was already wavering, and now I picture girls sashaying around downtown with their garlands and Lia judging them all. As she said, whatever. I’d much rather be alone with Callen for a few hours.
“Well . . . okay. I mean, yes. Yes, I’d love to. When?”
“Eleven? Let’s meet at the statue at the gates.”
“All right.” I grin, feeling ridiculously, stupidly lucky. I just kissed Callen Herron.
“Let’s just do a bonfire,” Lincoln declares from the beach. “Bring out the logs from the basement.” Someone howls.
“We should go back, before they notice.” I smooth my hair down and try to rub away what I imagine is smudged eye shadow and mascara. Callen kisses my cheek one last time, and we leave the jetty, walking down the shore side by side but keeping a carefully platonic distance between us. There are twenty or so Characters outside. Some are setting up the wood for the bonfire; others are stretched out on the porch, tipsy. Lia isn’t there.
“Callen, give us a hand,” Lincoln says briskly, like he’s directing a servant, barely noticing me. He can trade in his fancy clothes for beaten-up ones, but he can’t trade in that aristocratic hauteur.
Callen flashes me a rueful grin as Lincoln drags him away. A shiver of pleasure runs through me. I feel weightless.
Selwyn jogs over from the porch, meeting me on the sand, huffing and puffing, clasping Callen’s sneakers and my heels.
“Here are yours.” She shoves mine into my hands. “Now, where is he, and what happened?”
She’s loud, and I look around, worried someone will hear her.
“Come over here.” I hustle her behind the house for privacy, stopping behind some shrubbery.
“You did it,” she says, with a mix of awe and pleasure. “You did . . . something.”
“We kissed,” I confess. Now it’s out there. I bury my face in my hands, embarrassed and giddy. “I can’t believe it. We kissed.”
“Finally!” Selwyn squeals, dropping the sneakers and hugging me.
“Selwyn, I really like him.”
“I know,” she says.
“We’re going to the Brambles together tomorrow,” I add. The wind intensifies, and I wrap my arms around myself, freezing. My eyes drift up to the cameras pinned to the side of the house. What would Kat Deva want to hear? “I think we’re going to be together.”
• • •
The Tram ride home seems to take forever. Without the party or Callen around to distract me, all I can think about is the courtyard. A very Bad Thing.
Lia didn’t want to hear it. She might even have thought I was making it up. We needed to get proof from the Sandcastle, something to give Characters the same visceral shock I got. Something that will force them to confront Media1.
I glance at the window reflection and fix my messed-up hair. Tall brick buildings slide by. The outskirts of the Heights.
I won’t get to see Scoop tomorrow if I’m with Callen in the Brambles, so I bolt off the Tram at Treasure Woods and head toward the Cannery house. Treasure Woods is noiseless, utterly still, but I feel uneasy. Exposed. The mansions and trees are set farther back from the road than in the Arbor, and there are lights and cameras lining the telephone wires instead of perched discreetly in the trees.
I walk fast, skipping my usual turn onto Lia’s block and making a left onto Pearl Lane, or Luxury Lane as it’s sometimes called. But Scoop’s house is unassuming for Treasure Woods: no columns, no fountain. Chalkboard white with blue trim. Flower boxes full of geraniums.
I cross the lawn. There’s no light on in Scoop’s room on the second floor, so I slow down to pick up a few pieces of gravel from the driveway and aim carefully, praying I don’t wake anyone else up. The stones ping against the windowpane and shower down into the grass.
I hear the window slide open. “Nettie?” Scoop whispers, a note of disbelief in his voice. “Be right there.” I scurry backward, into the shadow of a tree, reclipping my microphone that got knocked off my collar when I bent dow
n. Seeing it reminds me that I have to come up with some sort of reason for being here.
When he comes around, he’s carrying a cable-knit wool sweater. “I thought you might be cold,” he says, passing it to me. “It looks like you got in a fight or something.” He gestures toward my hair, messy from the wind on the beach and probably from Callen running his hands through it.
I put on the sweater. “No fight,” I say, sheepishly gazing up at all the cameras pinned to the back of the house. I’m at a loss for what to say. No one’s going to buy that we need to talk about math. If I were running into his arms after kissing Callen on the beach, it’d be the kind of ratings gold Lia spends late nights dreaming up, but I can’t pull it off, and it seems stupid to care about ratings now, with the memory of the courtyard hovering over me. “But—I want to tell you something, um, about the party. Walk to the playground with me?”
“Okay,” he says, steering me around the house and back to the road. As we trek toward the Arbor, I ramble on about the party.
“Lincoln’s parents would kill him if they saw him in that shirt. Shar and Beryl were, like, in maximum exhibitionist mode, and it was awkward—you know Shar’s hands are like flippers.” I do a credible imitation of Shar’s hands, flopping around Beryl. “Then Lincoln ordered us down to the basement, but I went outside with Callen.”
“Oh, Callen was there?” he teases.
“We, you know, anyway, I guess you were right, about him liking me, because we kissed.”
“Cute. For everyone but Lia, I guess.” He looks at me sideways as I undo the latch on the gate to the waist-high playground fence.
“She doesn’t know yet.” I fumble with redoing the latch.
“You wanted to do it, right?” He’s digging to find out if it was because of the Initiative. I finally get the gate shut and face him.
“No . . . ?” He scratches behind his ear.
“Yes,” I say hotly, tugging him toward the swings. “I wanted to.”
“Well, maybe Lia’s over it,” he says. “Although she did kind of have crazy eyes for a week after he dumped her.”
“Sit there,” I say, ignoring him and gesturing at a swing. I sit on the one next to him and start swinging. He probably used this trick when he was a kid too.
“Yeah, and the nearest camera is broken too,” I mouth, jerking my head over to where the dead red eye droops.
“Crisped,” he mouths. “That’s what the Reals say when the cameras break. That they crisped. Just like—”
“Like when someone’s cut as a Show Risk, people say they crisp?” He nods. Charming. Puppets, equipment—anything but people.
“I saw something tonight.” I tell Scoop about the courtyard, and it’s such a relief to be with someone who cares.
The more I say, the more he frowns, all traces of his customary good nature vanishing. “If Aunt Dana’s right, they could be getting them into shape before they start the experiments.”
“That was my first thought,” I mouth grimly. “But it seems unlikely, especially with the camouflage. I had an idea. What if they’re fighting against Drowned Landers, as some sort of Media1 legion?”
Scoop listens intently, nodding with each idea, but when I’m done, his response is simple. “We won’t know until I get into the Sandcastle,” he says, jaw clenched. “I’m going next week.”
It’s just what I wanted to hear. “You need to bring something back, something to make Characters believe you. Proof.”
“Yeah,” he mouths. “Will you come now? I could use your help.”
I hesitate for a couple of swings. I’d thought about it, but it was before I kissed Callen, and now I feel the old anxieties creeping in—I have so much to lose if we get caught. “I can’t,” I say softly—Scoop doesn’t press me. “But I want to help. Do you have a plan?”
“I sometimes take out the aquarium’s boat, and I found a cove on Eden Beach. I can take out the boat again, ditch it in the cove, cut through a fence, and sneak into the Center. I stole a cricket’s code—just stuck close behind one entering Character Relations—to get into the Sandcastle.”
A memory surfaces, Mik reprimanding me for trying my code out at a nearby apartment complex before one of my first Character Reports. “Because ours don’t work on the other buildings.”
“Right. But I still need to pass as a Real. I’m getting a wig from the scene shop, and I’m going to wear sunglasses, but what I really need is a jumpsuit.”
The jumpsuit pile in Luz’s office. “I might be ab—” I freeze. A rustling in the dark, and suddenly I see three crickets at the gate. In an instant, they’re inside, gathering at the foot of the swings like circling sharks.
I hold my breath, wondering what they’ve heard. Fear grabs me as I imagine myself being dragged away by the Authority. I force myself to keep swinging, and for a minute, the only sound is the squeak of the hinges. “I might be able to help you with that problem,” I say on-mic. I try to speak clearly, but my voice is small. “We can talk about it later.”
“Thanks,” Scoop says. In silent agreement, we stop swinging and rest in place, the cameras humming around us. I slip my feet back into my heels, heart accelerating, staring at the ground.
“Are you going to see Callen again?” he asks, giving them what they want.
“Yeah, tomorrow,” I confess.
“Lia doesn’t know?” he says. The cameras come closer and closer.
“I’m not sure. She might—Selwyn said she noticed we’d disappeared at the party.” One of the crickets coughs, and I feel myself tense.
Scoop whistles low. “Tough. Well, you’ll do the right thing. I know it.” He reaches over and tousles my hair. Exactly what he used to do to Belle. “Just remember, the truth always comes out.” He raises his voice so the clueless crickets hear every word.
Chapter 17
“Nettie Starling.” Eleanora Burnish, Lia’s charming, gorgeous—and today, clearly buzzed—mother, swings the front door open, and suddenly there are scents: perfume, alcohol, and another, more pungent, acidic odor that I can’t place.
“Haven’t seen you in a while.” Every element of Mrs. Burnish’s all-voxless look is askew: Her plum lipstick is smudged. She has a diamond stud in her left ear but not in her right. Tendrils of strawberry blond hair have escaped her bun.
“I know. I’ve been busy, with the Double A coming up.” Is that urine? I cover my nose with the back of my hand while I look behind her, horrified. What is going on?
“What an adorable pursh.” She means purse but it came out slurred. I gulp. Uh-oh. She straightens up, trying to convince me she’s sober. “You look so beautiful. Are you doing something new?”
“It’s my mom’s,” I pat the leather purse under my arm. “Nothing new.” A lie. This morning, I put all the Makeup Session lessons to use, wanting to look good for Callen. I braided my hair, then spent almost an hour figuring out what to wear. In the end, I paired the sleeveless top Selwyn chose for me at Delton’s with checkered shorts—I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard.
“Well, whatever it is, it’s working. Come in, come in.” She ushers me inside, flinging out her arm dramatically, like a matador facing a bull. “What’s up?”
“Is Lia here?” I step into the dark front hall. A massive chandelier drops from the ceiling, hunks of glass shimmering in the pale morning light, making a daytime constellation on the polished wooden floor. The odor grows stronger.
“Yes, she’s getting ready for the Festival,” she trills. “Are you going downtown with her?”
“Actually, I’m skipping it this year.” I inch farther down the hall, toward the staircase. My hip grazes the sharp edge of a tarp-covered bulk. It must be furniture she ordered for the motif change. More draped pieces are scattered down the hall.
“Be careful. That’s my new armoire,” Eleanora confirms, her voice wavering uns
teadily. “Haven’t had time to uncover the new furni . . . shur.” She slurs the last word.
“You’ll find the time,” I murmur, taking a few more quick steps until I’m right at the foot of the stairs.
Eleanora arches her back coquettishly, bumping into a silver-rimmed clock hanging on the wall. “Ow.” She rubs her head, a cracked smile emerging on her face. “You’re in such a rush,” she croons, a light admonishment.
Nine according to the clock. I can’t stay long. “Yeah, I’m meeting someone after. I’ll talk to you later, Eleanora.” I gallop up the stairs, away from the nasty smell and her desperation. I idolized Eleanora when I was younger, but it’s difficult to be around her now. I thought the suggestions Lia got for the Initiative might help her, but she actually seems worse than ever. Is that what the Audience wants?
I knock on Lia’s bedroom door, but walk in without waiting for a response.
“Nettie?” Lia whirls around from her full-length mirror. She’s wearing jeans and a sleeveless blouse with a bib collar, and a garland of violets and bluebells around her head. My carefully chosen outfit looks plain by comparison. “Why are you here? Selwyn said you were sick. Staying home from the Festival.”
“I’m not sick,” I say, studying her face. I need to tell her now, before more lies get spun around this situation.
“There’s something I want—” A crash downstairs interrupts me, followed by a squeal. Lia rushes to her door and closes it, blushing. She begins running around the room, pitching clothes into her closet, throwing out wrappers, and returning hair ties and fallen jewelry and lipsticks to drawers.
“I didn’t know you were coming. It’s a mess in here,” she says, biting her lower lip. She pauses, hand on her hip. “Was my mom really bad?”
“No.” I walk over to her bed, push aside her beloved colony of stuffed animals, and sit cross-legged. “But what’s up with that smell?”
“The cat,” Lia says, scratching behind her ear. Lia’s reward, I remember now. “We got her two weeks ago, and my mom isn’t changing the litter box in the kitchen. I refuse to, and I don’t think my dad even noticed. Oh, the cat’s right there.” She gestures toward the stuffed animals, and now I see that one of them is moving. A sleek white cat stretches out her paw and purrs flirtatiously.
