by Maya Rock
“Of course it does,” he sighs.
“No, you tell me what I want.” I mean to sound sarcastic and rude like Lincoln, but instead my voice is raw and plaintive. “What do I want today?” Weak. My voice is weak.
Luz opens and shuts his mouth a few times, then drops his eyes to his desk.
“Are you okay?” I ask warily, the smoke creating a thin haze between us.
He fidgets with papers on his desk. “You should know we’re tweaking the system. No more rewards. You’ll still get higher ratings, of course, and bonuses.”
“No more rewards?” I repeat. My eyes float up to the alarm, exasperated by its enduring silence.
“No rewards. The Initiative’s success green-lights us to go ahead and integrate it more fully into Characters’ lives. Following it is not a favor to us; it’s compulsory. To hammer this home, we’ve amended the Contract. If a Character doesn’t comply with the Initiative, they’ll qualify as a Show Risk, to be cut at our discretion.”
The cigarette falls from my fingers and into the mug. “You would cut someone for not taking the suggestions? I don’t believe it.” I fish a second cigarette out of my pocket and light it with shaking fingers. But I do believe it. After seeing the Patriots in the courtyard, I know Media1 is capable of anything.
“The legal department cleared it,” Luz says, straightening his collar, unable to meet my eyes.
I inhale deeply, smoke scratching my throat. Tears come to my eyes as I struggle not to cough. “The Originals wouldn’t have agreed to that.”
“The Originals are gone. The show has changed because the world has changed, and you have to change too,” he says quietly, voice tight. “On to today’s suggestion. Media1 would like you to close up with Callen.”
I’m horrified and embarrassed at once. How could he even say this to me?
“Is this a joke?” I cry, pounding my fist on the desk. “He’s not even my boyfriend. Is this some kind of perverted producer fantasy? Last week, all I had to do was talk to him.”
“It wasn’t my idea.” Luz jots down notes, avoiding my glare. At least he’s blushing. “But that’s not important. I stand behind it as being firmly in the spirit of the Initiative. Also, before I forget, we’re moving your Report to Sunday, just for this week, since the ceremony is on Saturday. This week is a big one for you, Nettie. You close up, and you attend the Double A. You’ll capture the whole teen Audience.”
“You’re disgusting. How can you live with yourself?” The cigarette is almost done. I might have to do the third. Luz is still too scared to look at me, and I press the stub of the cigarette into the underside of his nice new desk, drop it in the mug, and light up a new one. My lungs are scorched and it’s so gross, but I have to.
He stares into his own coffee mug. “Nettie, it’s not your place to decide what’s best for the Audience. Media1 knows a close-up with Callen will be a ratings bonanza. Further, I must tell you that the company is well aware of all the breaking of the fourth wall, or fralling, that goes on, and in this case, it will absolutely not be permitted. If you share the content of your suggestion with anyone, you will both be cut, as Show Risks. We’re serious about protecting the Initiative.”
“That’s not—” The smoke alarm shatters the air, cutting me off. I wince as the sound pierces my eardrums.
“Oh, no, not again.” Luz scrambles to his feet. Outside I can hear doors swinging open up and down and the corridor.
“Oops, I didn’t mean to!” I squeal, stubbing out the cigarette hastily on the desk again.
“Last time it took forever for them to turn it off,” he shouts, moving out from behind his desk. I hear employees filing out into the hall. “Let’s go.” We rush out of the office, eager to escape the noise, and merge into the green and purple sea of Reals filing out of the building. I stick close to Luz, palms sweaty, trying to drum up the courage to execute the plan.
“Oh! I forgot my book bag in your office,” I say, sighing.
“Well, hurry,” Luz says, but he doesn’t wait for me. I dash back down the now-empty hall toward his office, where I pull Scoop’s sweater out of my bag. I pick up a handful of jumpsuits from the pile in the corner, stuff them inside the sweater, then rush back out, joining the last of the Reals exiting the building in the lobby.
A heavy hand clamps down on my shoulder as I step outside. Luz. He steers me off to the side of the building, away from the other Reals, near the Contract display.
“Nettie,” he says, looking around him and lowering his head, trying to make sure we’re not overheard. “You don’t want to be cut. Trust me. Take the suggestion.”
• • •
Just beyond the Center gates, I see Scoop pacing in a small circle, book bag on his shoulders. I called him last night after the Festival and asked him to meet me here so I could return his sweater.
The sweater conceals the jumpsuits well, and I chose this place because of the spotty camera coverage, so we’re doubly protected. “Here.” I balance my bike on my leg and take the ball of material out of my bag. “Success, and I got backups too,” I mouth, adding on-mic, “Here’s your sweater.”
“Thanks,” he says, putting it in his book bag. When he’s finished, he mouths, “Are you okay? You look upset.”
I don’t reply right away. Scoop’s got the backpack hoisted over both shoulders, tugging the straps, and he’s wearing a concerned frown. Even so, he exudes charisma and cool sexiness, his hazel eyes dancing, his tall, lean frame. Scoop doesn’t have a girlfriend, but there are always girls around him. He’s probably closed up before.
But I can’t say anything to him. A fine is one thing; being responsible for someone getting cut is something else.
“I’m fine,” I assure him.
“All right,” he says, skeptical. He mouths, “Last night, I thought up a way to let everyone know about what I find in the Sandcastle, but I need your help. It involves someone else.”
“Really?” At least one good thing has happened today. “Tell me.” He jerks his thumb behind us, toward the Center, and we move a few steps back, only a foot away from the entrance booth where a helmeted Authority sits.
“Okay, here goes,” Scoop mouths and bends down to whisper his plan in my ear.
• • •
I dump my empty book bag on the floor and fling myself into the chair across from Violet. Thoughts about the close-up dogged me all the way here. It’s not only the close-up—although it’s definitely too soon for that—it’s that Media1 thinks it’s okay to invade my life like this. Besides, would Callen even want to? I recall the awkwardness of Lia trying to lure Callen into bed.
“Ugh,” I groan, burying my head in my hands.
“Nettie, you sound like a dying animal,” Violet clucks. “Would a walk raise your spirits?”
“Okay,” I say, standing again. “You want to go to the gazebo?”
“Yes, that sounds nice,” she says.
I help her slip into a light coat. “No one has, um, been bothering you lately, have they?”
“Hmm? There is a new aide who hums a lot.” She bangs on the window with the end of her cane. “And these squirrels who have discovered the feeder. Go away. Scat.”
“Good. I mean, not good, but good that everything is basically okay.” We walk out to the hall together and through the door that leads to the manicured grounds between the Brambles and Hidehall, following the tulip-lined path to the wooden gazebo next to the lake.
“But you seem bothered,” she says, sitting on the bench and propping the cane up next to her.
“Do you remember Callen Herron?” I nibble at my nails, trying to figure out how to put this.
“Your next-door neighbor? I knew Dahlia Herron quite well.”
“His grandmother?” I pace the gazebo.
“Yes. She did a funny thing with numbers—if she didn’t concentrate, she
’d write them mirror-image by mistake.” Her eyes crinkle at the memory. “And what hair she had!”
“Very blond,” I guess, finally sitting down next to her.
“Yes! Like snow. What about this grandson?”
“Well, he and I sort of started seeing each other last week. But—there’s a problem.”
Violet snorts. “A problem already?”
“Yeah, but it’s not him—or me. It’s not either of us,” I say, scanning the lawn for crickets, then taking in all the cameras pointing at us from the rafters, and I know what I’m doing is risky, but I can’t keep it inside anymore. “Violet, do you ever feel as if—like, say, someone is trying to help you? But maybe they start interfering with your life too much?”
Of course she doesn’t get it. “You’ll have to be more specific,” she says.
“I—I can’t be,” I stammer.
Violet picks up her cane and bangs it on the floor. “Snap out of it,” she says. “Goodness, no one should be so glum at the start of a romance.”
I turn and face her. “I just don’t think it’s fair that some people on Bliss Island control other people.” I meant Media1, but when I hear the words spoken aloud, I realize I’m thinking about Lia too.
“Oh, Nettie,” Violet says, smiling sadly. Then she sighs, a typical, extravagant Violet sigh. Her emotions are so oversized. “Rebellion’s in your heart, dearest.” She pauses significantly.
Rebellion’s in your heart.
Her face is blank, only the faintest hint of a smile. Am I crazy to think she’s telling me about my father? Heart. Hart. This is the first time she’s mentioned my father while lucid.
She speaks again. “The desire to reject authority,” she continues, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “You’re tough, sweetie.”
Funny, tough, and smart.
“I don’t feel that tough.” I walk over to her, kneel, and say into my mic, “I like your earrings,” and they are nice, large wire hoops with red coral beads. I touch the earrings and whisper into her ear, “Are you talking about my father?”
Her eyes seem crystal clear, but she doesn’t move a muscle, and it’s as if she doesn’t hear me. I wait, the only sound our breathing, and a few seconds later her hand tightens around mine, and she pulls me back to whisper in my ear, “Yes. He was tough, and he got in trouble. Be careful.”
Chapter 19
“Here.” Lia slaps a paper onto my lunch tray. “Double A application.”
“Thanks,” I say, but I’m barely paying attention. I’ve had trouble falling asleep every night since my Character Report. I hid out in my room all weekend. A Missive came—something about promoting a new brand of bread. I barely read it, just turned it off and sat on my bed, contemplating how good it would feel to smash the Missivor to pieces.
I’ve spent every second since I left Hidehall thinking about how I can get out of the suggestion without getting cut.
“Nettie, you’re not even looking at it,” Lia chides.
I examine the paper. “The Apprenticeship Announcement Application” in bold at the top. Stars on the borders. Two lines dead center: “Name” and “Apprenticeship Selection.” I flip the paper over. A listing of all the apprenticeships, each with the number of slots available in parentheses. There’s mine: High School Math Teacher (1).
“Hot off the press,” Lia trumpets. “We’re handing them out tomorrow. But, for my friends, a head start.”
“A head start on a lifetime of drudgery,” Lincoln drawls across from me. “Thanks.” He’s wearing sunglasses inside; it’s an affectation he likes to take up after parties—even if the party was more than seventy-two hours ago. He should give the sunglasses to Martin, who could use them. His face looks dim and dull, and he has a hacking cough that he keeps trying to stifle with the plaid handkerchief Lincoln lent him. Too much partying.
Lia rolls her eyes. “I’m excited about being a Blisslet, Lincoln. Too bad whatever you’re doing sucks so much.” Lincoln’s refused to share his pick. She turns to Henna. “The stars look so plus ten. Great job.”
Henna’s wearing a turban again; this time it’s pink. “It was your idea,” she replies, the faintest trace of a smug smile on her face.
Lincoln fills his application out and pushes Lia’s lucky red pen across the table to Selwyn, who picks up the pen, scribbles her name and then quickly, Cellist. “There, done,” she says briskly, putting the pen on my tray. “Your turn.”
I look at her composed face, her serene black eyes. She must have been promised the apprenticeship as her last reward. There’s no other way her attitude would change so fast. What did she have to do for it?
I eye the pen on my tray warily. “I’ll do it later,” I mutter, passing it back to Lia.
“What’s wrong, StressNett?” she sighs, putting the cap back on.
“Nothing.” I fiddle with the hemp bracelet I put on this morning. I’d been so out of it, I forgot about the motif change, and now I’m back in the stupid tunic too.
“I heard things are going very right for Nettie,” Lincoln says, his almond-shaped eyes slitting slyly. I brace myself, knowing what’s coming. “Don’t you have a new boyfriend?”
“Stop it.” I glare at him.
“Who’s the lucky guy?” Martin asks.
No one speaks. I can’t look up.
Lia breaks the silence. “Oh, it’s Callen.” She laughs, short and sharp. But at least she’s trying. “Nettie and Callen are dating. Kind of strange, but life moves on.”
“Oh.” Martin fiddles with a fork, speechless. “Oh.”
“Impressive, Nettie,” Lincoln says, punching me lightly in the arm, like tracs after a good play. “Watch out, though. You might end in Mollie’s gossip column with a scandal like this.”
“Hanging out with Mollie a lot these days, Linc?” Lia asks innocently, at last revealing she knows the girl he had us guessing about so fervently three weeks ago.
“Who told you that?” he demands, eyes blazing. Selwyn’s eyes are glued to her plate, but he doesn’t notice. He and Lia argue, and I’m glad to have escaped further scrutiny about Callen.
“He’s looking at you,” Selwyn whispers to me.
“Yeah?” I glance across the room, and our eyes meet. He gives me a half wave, and I smile back weakly. I hadn’t wanted to see him this weekend, debating what I should do about the suggestion.
“You two are so cute,” Selwyn pronounces. Her gaze falls on the application again. “You’re really not going to fill it out?”
I fold the application and put it in my pocket. “Later, I guess.” My plate is clear, and there are still fifteen minutes before class starts. Over the weekend, I’d had a flood of ideas about how to get out of the suggestion, but most were desperate and crazy, like stow away on a freighter. Only one seemed feasible, though still a long shot. I decide it’s now or never.
“You’re almost done eating, right?” I say to Selwyn. “Wanna come with me to the bathroom before class? I need to fix my makeup.”
“Okay,” Selwyn agrees, finishing the last of her fries.
“I’ll come with you,” Lia cuts in.
I hesitate, but can’t think of a good excuse to leave her behind. “Yeah, come on.” I lead them to the first-floor bathroom, which hasn’t been outfitted with new cameras since a pipe burst there a week or so ago. In addition to flooding, the lights cut out. They cleared up the mess, but I think it has to dry out before they can install any new electric wiring.
As soon as we enter, I heave open the window that faces the road, then flatten myself against the door so no one can interrupt us. Lia turns on some faucets and leans against the wall opposite me, crossing her arms. Selwyn stands in the middle of the floor, tapping her cello case.
“They’ve gone crazy with the Initiative,” I mouth. “Ending the rewards. Cutting people who don’t do what they want. I
want to stop them.”
Selwyn gasps on-mic, and Lia shushes her, but her eyes are wide—she didn’t know either.
“They didn’t tell you at your Reports?” I ask.
Selwyn shakes her head and clutches her cello case more closely to her body.
“No, same old, same old with the reward for me,” Lia mouths.
“But you started earlier than me.” I’m swerved off. “Why would they tell only me?”
“Well, maybe it comes with being the special favorite of the Initiative. What’s the suggestion?” Lia leaves the wall and strolls over to me. “I bet it’s something they think you won’t do without such a harsh threat.”
“The suggestion itself isn’t important,” I mouth, Luz’s threats about cutting anyone I tell ringing in my ears. “What’s important is that I don’t want to do it. I think if we all refuse to take the suggestions, they might listen and let us out of the Initiative.”
“What would we say?” Selwyn lets go of her cello case and joins us by the door. “They haven’t threatened me with being cut yet, but I—I didn’t like my last suggestion very much. I don’t want to be in the Initiative either.”
“Well, I haven’t liked any of mine,” Lia mouths emphatically. She put her hands on her hips. “But I did them. What is it, Nettie?” she presses.
“Forget what it was,” I mouth, avoiding her eyes.
“Nettie,” Lia mouths, eyes narrowed, “how bad could it be? Don’t you always pretend like you don’t want to do them? Remember the flirting one? You told me, ‘I don’t even want to have to see him after what he did to you.’ Just stop.” She says this last word on-mic, her voice dripping with disgust.
Selwyn touches her arm. “Lia, I think Nettie’s right. Threatening to cut her is horrible. I’m sick of the Initiative too. It’s not worth the ratings. Look what they made me do.” She pushes her blouse down over her shoulder, and there on her skin is a huge collage of musical notation: bars, notes, and clefs, starting at her collarbone. She turns, and I see the rounded curves of an instrument, what must be a cello, on her shoulder, continuing down her back under her blouse.
