Scripted Page 3

  Chapter 2

  I’m done with the test twenty minutes early. Mr. Black dismisses me, and I bolt down the hall, slowing by the history classroom. Lia’s sitting at her desk near the front, next to Callen, her hand in her chin and her face relaxed. I’m sure she’s stopped thinking about Belle. Lia gets over stuff fast. I wave. The gesture catches her eye, and she lifts up her hand, smiles, and mouths, “Everything’s okay, okay?” fast as lightning. I nod, and she turns back to the map of the island hanging at the front of the classroom.

  Bliss Island looks like a four-leaf clover surrounded by endless blue. Everyone knows that it’s inaccurate, though. A chunk of the mainland Sectors, across from Avalon Beach, should be shown to the east. On the other side of the island, in the southwest, across from Eden Beach, should be at least some of Drowned Lands, an island chain, of which, strictly speaking, Bliss Island is part—I think Media1 leased the island from the Sectors government. The Drowned Lands, separated from the mainland by thousands of miles, are constantly causing problems for the rest of the Sectors by threatening secession.

  But we just get the infinite blue because Media1 doesn’t want us to think too much about what goes on out there.

  I look away from the map and steal a glance at Callen. He’s sitting next to Lia, in a faded red T-shirt and dark blue jeans, slumped back in his chair, his right arm dropped to his side, hand flexing unconsciously, a habit that began when he started pitching. I hear a long sigh echo through the empty hall and realize with horror that the sound came from me. Time to get out of here.

  When I reach my locker, I stuff my books into my bag fast, as if they are hot coals. The more I think about Callen, the more I want him, and the more I want him, the farther away he seems. Which is absurd, because we actually live next door to each other; we used to sit on his porch and hang out—it was all so utterly normal. No foggy brain. No heart skipping. But our friendship got shaky once I became aware that I wanted more, then it collapsed completely when he started going out with Lia.

  I got together with Witson to get Callen out of my head, but the main lesson I took from that relationship was that feelings can’t be built—or dismantled—the same way clocks and radios can.

  • • •

  I lock my bike up in front of the Character Relations Building and hurry to the entrance, breezing past the display case containing the Contract and the season’s Missives. I hear a buzzing sound undercut by a shrill whistle, and I lift my head to the sky—fighter jet. There have been a lot lately, crisscrossing our airspace on the way to and from the Drowned Lands. It’s okay for me to look at them in the Center, since we’re off-camera. In the past, when there’d be flurries of jet activity, I chalked it up to training. Nowadays . . . well, either they’re training a lot or the Drowned Landers are causing serious trouble.

  I type my code into the number pad next to the door. It unlocks, and I walk into the lobby, which is overflowing with loud, fast-talking, sloppy Reals.

  No matter what the hour, they’re always working, purple and green nylon jumpsuits scratching, sneakers pounding as they circulate, gibbering to one another. I keep my head down as I walk to the stairwell that’s reserved for Characters. I won’t get fined for acknowledging Reals in the Center, but that doesn’t mean I want to interact with them. Lia says you can see a layer of grime on the Reals if you look close enough. It’s probably because the Sadtors are such a mess. There’s lots of sickness since they don’t have mandatory vaccinations and consistent medical attention, plus there’s tons of pollution.

  I climb to the fourth floor, Show Physicals. The lights are low here, and a custodian pushes a mop down the floor. I sidestep him on my way to Dr. Kanavan’s office near the end of the hall. My ears detect a low stream of sounds, and sure enough, when I reach the doorway, I can see that the television perched on her cabinet is on. I squint, taking in what I can of Blissful Days.

  The Bliss Elementary playground, at recess. The sinuous slide, the pine tree scarred with initials, the creaky seesaw. Kids tumbling around and laughing.

  Things were different then, I brood, watching the television. No fines, no payments, no ratings. No E.L.

  Dr. Kanavan, springy blond curls piled on her head in a messy bun, glances at the television every few seconds, her head popping up like an overambitious cuckoo clock. My producer, Mik, says Reals are addicted to the show. I don’t know how they do it—I get antsy a half hour into Lia’s Drama Club productions. But Mik says the Reals can watch it for days on end, and Media1 gives them the opportunity to by broadcasting hour-long episodes back-to-back, twenty-four hours a day.

  Dr. Kanavan doesn’t spend all her leisure time on Blissful Days. She’s a travel fiend, and in between glances at the television, she crosses off days on the calendar she’s mounted above her desk. Countdown to her next furlough. The goal date box always has a new place in thick black marker. Today’s is Zenta! In the past, there was Kyliss! Misk! She’s an adventurer—in her clothing choices too. Free from following motifs, she has on a glittery green sequin top beneath her lab coat; it flashes and winks when she moves.

  In the ten seasons I’ve been coming here, I’ve never seen Dr. Kanavan repeat a trip. The Sectors are a thousand times the size of Bliss, and she seems to want to visit every inch. I don’t get why. I like the familiarity of the island. Thanks to great set designers, anything I could ever want to see—cliffs, waterfalls, plains, orchards, hills, valleys—are all less than an hour away.

  My shoulders ache, and I slide off my book bag. Dr. Kanavan whirls around. “Nettie,” she squeaks, rising and running over to the television, blond curls bouncing behind her. Her high heels—green satin to match her top—sound like rain hitting a tin roof. She turns the television off and taps over to me, shamefaced, as if it’s the first time I’ve caught her with the television on.

  Dr. Kanavan is cute for a Real, with her messy curls, ruddy cheeks, and button nose. Still, like most Reals, she’d look out of place on the island. All the Characters are better looking than the Reals, since the Originals were cast for their appearances.

  Another difference is that Reals talk faster than Characters. But the ones used to conversing with us adapt, and I have no problems understanding Dr. Kanavan.

  “Punctual as always,” she says, ushering me away from the television. “You get that from your grandmother. On last night’s seven o’clock episode, I saw that Violet showed up right on time for her weekly bingo game. Reminded me of you.” Dr. Kanavan has always been more forthcoming talking about what she’s seen on Blissful Days than Mik.

  “Plus ten,” I murmur, wincing a bit at the irony of my words. “Plus ten” comes from when a Character earns bonus money for getting more than 10 percent of their ratings mark—a situation that has never happened to me, but is Lia’s ratings reality and probably Callen’s, too, since he started baseball.

  “Here you go.” She passes me a pale green paper smock, and I go behind the screen to change. As I fold my tunic, a foghorn blares from the beach behind us, and the walls shiver. I wonder if Belle is on the sand now, being escorted onto a ship bound for the Sectors. Now I shiver. When I come out from behind the screen, I take off my shoes and socks, then step onto to the scale near the door. I clench my fists as I watch the electronic display make up its mind.

  “You hit your weight target.” Dr. Kanavan makes a note in my file.

  “Great.” I relax my fingers. If only it were all so simple. If I don’t make my ratings target, the solution isn’t as simple as cutting my candy intake. I can guess what the Audience wants to see, but I’ll never know for sure. At my last Character Report, I asked Mik if he had any idea why my ratings had fallen, but he just clucked genially, patted my head, and reminded me of Clause 57, which limits how much the Reals can interfere with the show, the clause meant to keep Blissful Days natural and lifelike.

  I sit on the metal table in the middle of the room and watch as
Dr. Kanavan types out a code on a number pad next to a cabinet. She lifts the cabinet’s cover and pulls out a tray of vaccination tubes, which she brings over and places on a table next to me. I stretch out my arm, and she preps the needle, then feels for a vein. I watch impassively as the needle slides under my skin, smooth as a diver slipping into water.

  Selwyn claims her arm is sore for weeks after Media1 vaccines, but I don’t feel much, and the red bumps the vaccinations leave behind vanish in a day or two. I turn my head and look at the thin sliver of sky the window shade leaves unconcealed, light blue with white undertones. It reminds me of Callen’s eyes.

  When I think about Callen, it’s like I’m teetering.

  “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Dr. Kanavan says, following my gaze to the window.

  But I never fall. I blink, returning to real life.

  “So beautiful. The scripted sky,” she continues.

  This morning while I was in history, company helicopters thrumming outside had startled me out of my semislumber. The windows had fogged up with the chemicals they use to control the weather.

  By this afternoon, the windows were clear, the clouds were gone, and what was left was the scripted sky.

  “At home it never looks like that,” Dr. Kanavan says, loading up another injection. “Always dirty because of pollution. The sky in Zenta will probably be pitch-black while I’m there.”

  “That’s too bad.” I shake my head, imagining Belle and my father stuck with a dark sky. Dr. Kanavan slides another needle in.

  “Zenta wasn’t my top pick,” Dr. Kanavan murmurs. She keeps her eyes focused on the needle. “I wanted to go to the Drowned Lands. Everything’s so cheap, the sky is clean, food is fresh, and I heard the water’s clear as glass, but it’s not like you can trust their hotels to be sanitary. So many dumpy places there, and I hear you get swarmed by beggar children. Not to mention the Drowned Lands aren’t so safe for mainlanders right now.” She draws back the syringe, and the needle slides out.

  “I’ve heard the jets,” I venture. I have to be careful not to act too interested.

  “The secession movement has picked up strength, and the government is having a lot of trouble stomping out all the rebel groups. They say some parts are secure, but I’m not going to risk it. I’ll stick to the luxuries of Zenta,” Dr. Kanavan says, gripping my arm firmly with her small hand and pressing in yet another needle. I avert my eyes and watch the custodian push his mop bucket down the hall through the open doorway. I wonder if Belle will visit the Drowned Lands when she’s in the Sectors.

  I flinch at a sudden pressure on my arm and turn back. Dr. Kanavan is twisting herself to the side to get a better angle on what’s hopefully the last vaccine. Her new position makes the green sequins shimmer. “Almost done,” she says. She wants to get back to her vacation daydreams and her television. She packs the vials back into the tray and returns them to the cabinet, on autopilot. While I wait, I draw circles in the air with my dangling feet, enjoying the sight of my painted toenails—Citrus Sensations nail polish borrowed from Lia.

  Next, Dr. Kanavan listens to my heart with the stethoscope and tests my reflexes. She takes a blood sample. Media1 doctors are vigilant about disease control. Family Mapping hates the wild card illnesses can throw in—felling random Characters, skewing demographics.

  Dr. Kanavan scrutinizes me, then clucks with disapproval. “Nettie, I can see that you’re still not following your Skin Sequence.” She’s right. Most of the time, when choosing between more sleep or the fifteen minutes it takes to apply the Media1 lotions and exfoliants, I choose sleep.

  “I know. I’ll do better.”

  Dr. Kanavan raises her overly plucked eyebrows, and I feel a twinge of annoyance. Does she really think the Skin Sequence is going to help my ratings? I’ll always have more of a sidekick’s face than a star’s.

  “You might not see the point now, but when you’re older, you’ll get that being camperf is sometimes the key to keeping fans.” She walks over to her cabinet and puts back the vaccines and my file. “You have a duty to the Audience—keep them happy by giving them something pleasing to look at.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I hoist myself off the table. As I walk back to the changing screen in the corner, I glimpse a thick stack of magazines resting on a stand next to an eye chart. A lab coat lies over them, but about half of the cover of the top magazine is visible. I eagerly read it: “Ten Ways to Save on Groceries” . . . “I Was a Drowned Lands Hostage.” Yikes. Seems like Zenta is definitely the right move for Dr. Kanavan.

  I slip behind the metal changing screen and examine my blurry reflection in it, needing to assure myself my skin isn’t that bad. Even, olive tone, like my grandmother’s. Relatively smooth. But my hair seems worse than it was earlier. To put it bluntly, it looks like I stuck my fingers in an electric socket. If my ratings were good, sure, I could make the case that messy hair was an admirable quirk. But they’re not, I’m on the E.L., and I need to do everything I can to get off. Which means setting the alarm early tomorrow so I have time to do the Skin Sequence before Lia comes over.

  • • •

  The setting sun turns the scripted sky fiery as I bike home. I keep thinking about Belle. She was out of place in her gregarious, glamorous family. Scoop’s dad is a lawyer, known for his courtroom eloquence, and his mom is a photographer, always running around the island in a fedora and sunglasses, snapping pictures for newspapers and magazines. His aunt, my old history teacher, was pretty personable too, albeit somewhat eccentric.

  Belle didn’t fit.

  The Cannerys live in the kind of house good ratings can buy. I bet Belle’s ratings target was high, too, like mine. Media1 might not have expected her to be at the center of scenes, but they must have expected her to be a good foil for her brother and parents.

  A tricky situation. I should know. My ratings targets used to be low, but crept up as Lia and I became closer. My marks, the actual number of Audience members who watched me every quarter, went up too, but sometimes it seemed like that didn’t matter. To determine your ratings payment, Media1 doesn’t only count the number of Reals watching you, but whether that number is more or less than the target their formula predicted.

  Mik showed me the formula that generates targets. I saw all the variables, what Media1 takes into consideration to predict your mark. Number of Special Events Attended, Character Age, Previous Quarter’s Screentime. Friends’ Average Marks. That’s the one that keeps mine high. There’s one for Family’s Average Marks. That’s probably what doomed Belle. But who knows? The formula is so complex. How does it go? X’s, Y’s, and Z’s crowd my head.

  I’m so busy recalling the formula that I don’t see the figure in the blue jacket directly in my path on the stretch of road between Bliss High and the Arbor until it’s too late. I twist the bike to the right, and it climbs halfway up the curb before the force of the abrupt turn topples it on its side, flinging me onto the grass.

  I lie on my back, face-to-face with the sky, breath rapid and heart racing. I think I’m okay, but I’m too stunned to move.

  “Nettie, are you all right?” Someone crouches next to me. I recognize the low voice and risk turning my neck. Okay. That worked. Sore, but functioning. I see white-striped blue sneakers. My eyes move up, all the way, to blue eyes under light blond hair. Callen?

  “Callen?” I say aloud. He nods, searching my face, probably worried the fall scrambled my brains.

  “Are you okay?” he repeats.

  I take a deep breath, reenergizing myself. “I think so.” I prop myself up on my elbows. “Just . . . shocked.” I sit up, head spinning. I check my clothes—grass stains all over my jacket, but no rips, no blood.

  “Yeah, that was . . . unexpected,” he murmurs, with his typical understatement. He stands and holds out his hand, adding, “I should have been paying more attention. Thanks for not running me over.”

&
nbsp; I grab his hand, and he pulls me to my feet, and we stand facing each other. My knees feel wobbly, and I can’t tell if it’s because I’m looking right at him or because of the fall. Witson was too tall, I think. Callen is medium height, and I don’t have to crane to look into his eyes. Lia’s always complaining because he’s two inches shorter than she is, but for me, he’s—

  Lia.

  We’re still holding hands.

  “Oh, oops.” I pull my hand away and make a show of brushing off the grass and dirt on my jeans. But it’s like I want to brush off his touch because it felt way too good and now I’m guilty. “No, it’s my fault, not yours. Sorry, next time I’ll watch where I’m going,” I babble. He doesn’t say anything.

  I haul the bike up and wheel it to face forward while frantically trying to come up with more to say. It’s been a while since Callen and I were alone together.

  “Are you sure you can ride?” he asks, inspecting my face again. How dazed do I look? His scrutiny reminds me of my frizzy hair. It must look even worse. I try to seem casual as I run my hand through it.

  “I’m fine.” I summon up my best imitation of my mother’s chastising-librarian voice. Still, the idea of getting back on the bike unsettles me.

  “Are you headed home?” he asks, glancing down the street.

  “Yeah.”

  “Me too. Let’s walk together,” he suggests, gesturing me forward on the concrete sidewalk.

  “Okay,” I agree quickly, glad for the excuse to stay off the bike, without having to admit that I’m scared. Alone with Callen. We’re close to home, ten minutes give or take, but still.

  Silence the first few steps. I’m sweating, partly out of nerves and partly because it’s way too hot for this jacket. I’m only wearing it because of the Missive about the weather. I clear my throat. Say something.

  “You’re not at practice.” I wince. I might as well have said, I’m boring. Ignore me.