I wake up at dawn, and can’t go back to sleep, so I lie in bed and relive last night. Callen had touched my face. What would have happened if his father hadn’t interrupted us? Should I have stayed?
I think I’ll like being a math teacher. Eventually, Lia and I will live in that apartment downtown, and I’ll walk to work every day, just like she said.
I float over to my desk to listen to the radio. I’ve checked it almost every day since I stumbled on the Media1 walkie-talkie channel, but all I’ve been able to pick up is static. I usually try at night, though, so maybe giving it a shot in the morning will help. I sit on my chair and pull my legs up, resting my chin on my knees. I pick up the receiver and tap one of the wires with the metal stick, tweaking the frequency. I think about how the same hand working on the radio touched Callen’s.
I haven’t kissed anyone since Witson. Callen must be a better kisser than Witson. Witson had thin lips; his upper lip was practically nonexistent.
Static roar. Nelly and George, again. I tap a new spot, then another and another. Static. I’m about to give up when I hear a more solid sound underneath the static. I press the receiver closer to my ear and hear Reals again. I strain, trying to understand them.
“They delayed my sabbatical, again,” a man says.
A woman responds. “Well, they say this batch needs a lot more hours, but don’t worry, after they move them”—garble, garble—“but—”
The radio cuts out, then comes back on with the man saying, “When are they moving Stork, Cademia”—garble, garble—“Cannery?”
A chill runs down my spine. Those are the last names of the recent Patriots.
“Saturday, April twentieth. Then out of the Sandcastle”—garble—“off to the caves in the”—garble, garble—“survive”—garble, garble—“Drowned Lands.”
Static sears my ears. I set the receiver down with a clunk. The fairy-tale word again: Sandcastle. Loud and clear this time. Scoop was right. It’s a place, and they’re in there, but they don’t stay there.
Out of the Sandcastle, off to the caves. Almost three weeks. April 20. The day of the Double A. I know the transmission was garbled, but it sounded like Media1 is moving the Patriots to the Drowned Lands, not to an office in Zenta. Specifically caves in the Drowned Lands. The place Luz said was getting more dangerous by the day.
• • •
As soon as I step inside the math classroom, Terra Chiven raises her head in triumph. She’s taken my chair next to Scoop, who’s bent over some papers. Actually, technically my place—the chair and desk are different. The square wooden desks and spindly chairs have been replaced with metal oblongish ones with glossy black chairs attached to them. Voxless. The new motif. I saw the Missive about it right before I left for school.
The motif for the seventy-third season of Blissful Days is voxless! What is voxless? Voxless is the future. Voxless is fragile. Voxless is delicate yet strong. Voxless clothing is sleek and glimmering. Voxless music is electronic and soothing. Voxless art relies on straight lines and dark colors.
I tied up my hair with a black bow and left it at that. Other Characters have done more—Terra’s all in black; she even dug up a necklace with a piece of obsidian at the end from somewhere. I pause in the doorway, contemplating her. Normally I wouldn’t care that she stole my place, but I want to talk to Scoop.
While I deliberate, Scoop looks up and sees me. “Nettie, you’re out of luck,” he teases. Terra scowls. I take a deep breath and stride up to them. Terra pretends not to see me.
“Terra, actually, do you mind if I sit here today?” I keep my eyes trained on the top of her head.
She deigns to look up. “Sorry, Nettie,” she says, tossing her pigtails over her shoulder. “Scoop and I need to talk about the senior class Flower Festival float.”
“Terra, I need Nettie to help me finish last night’s problem set. We’ll catch up about the float after school.” Scoop flashes her a winning smile. Terra’s mouth moves like she’s chewing a pound of gum, but eventually she gathers her books and returns to her regular seat next to Mollie.
“The last one, seven.” He shows me his problem set, holding it up by one corner, like it’s trash. “You can see I tried. I derive no pleasure from derivatives.”
I snatch the paper from him, ignoring the wordplay. I only have a few more minutes before Mr. Black gets here. “Okay. I can take you from an F to a D.”
“Whatever you can do,” Scoop says affably. I write on his paper along the x-axis, tiny letters marching like ants. We need to talk—I heard something about the Patriots. I pass the paper back to him, pointing with my pencil tip at my writing. He peers down closely, then writes down the y-axis: Janitor’s closet before lunch?
I read it and nod—the janitor’s closet in the basement is a popular place to frall, since Media1 never fixed the sole broken camera there, and it’s right next to the boiler room, excusing problems with mics.
“Plus ten,” Scoop says on-mic as I pass the problem set back to him. Then Mr. Black comes, and I forget all about the Patriots as we’re whisked into the world of logarithmic functions. Eventually I get bored and start writing NETTIE + CALLEN, in bigger letters than usual in my notebook margins, heat sweeping over me as I think about what happened on the porch. The bell rings, and I leap up, slamming my notebook closed, ready to talk to Scoop.
“Nettie, can you chat for a moment?” Mr. Black calls out from his desk.
“Yes, Mr. Black?” I didn’t think it would happen so soon. I straighten my tank top and walk over. Glad I did the Skin Sequence today. Obviously this scene will be broadcast.
“Nettie, I want to encourage you to apply for the math teacher apprenticeship. As we’ve discussed, there’s a slot available, and we’d like to consider you.” He grimaces and pulls at his tie, checkered today, avoiding my eyes.
“Oh. Wow.” I clasp my hands, overwhelmed with relief. I knew it was coming, but hearing the words brings me to a whole new level of joy.
He plays with an eraser and when he speaks, his tone is solemn. “Yes. Would you like to help with my freshman geometry class next week? They’ll be working on a golden ratio project.”
“Okay,” I say. He’s still not looking at me.
“Plus ten,” Mr. Black says, wiping his sweaty brow with his sleeve. “Glad you’ll apply, Nettie.” He sounds tired, and his chair groans as he settles back into it and begins shuffling through problem sets.
Mr. Black seems less than enthusiastic. I back away from the desk, my heart sinking. I’m guessing Media1 sent him a Missive with instructions, and he’s irked because he didn’t have any say and prefers Revere. The thought of Revere being anyassigned still makes me uncomfortable, especially after he worked so hard for the apprenticeship.
Scoop hovers outside the classroom, waiting for me. He cocks an eyebrow. “Ready for some fun?” he says suggestively, and he starts walking before I can respond. I glare at his back. Sometimes Characters make out in the janitor’s closet. Lia says it’s a thrill to kiss without the cameras. I don’t plan to find out. I follow Scoop down the hall to the stairwell that leads to the basement, keeping a distance between us.
Scoop turns a knob, and we step into the dark closet, carefully navigating obstacles from memory—a row of mops here; the depression where the floor drains there. The boiler room rumbles next door, helping to mash the audiotrack. I safely reach the clear space in the back, and Scoop is right behind me.
“I don’t understand any of it,” Scoop says on-mic. He continues with a cover story for Media1. It’s better than making out, but not by much. “Next week, while you’re taking the test, can you push your paper over a little?”
“Um, I can help you study, but I won’t help you cheat,” I grumble into my mic. How bad is it for a future teacher to cheat?
He bends down and whispers, “What’d you hear?”
I stand on my tiptoes to reach his ear and whisper everything that came from the two transmissions I caught on the radio. When I say Sandcastle, he inhales sharply, but I keep talking, concluding with, “So I’m not so sure about the Patriots doing publicity in Zenta anymore. What did your aunt tell you? Does it match either story?”
“Not really. One day Aunt Dana was in the Character Relations lobby and overheard a cricket name a woman who’d been cut. He said that ‘this batch is weak’ and that ‘they won’t survive long.’ Then he said that ‘one of them might not even make it out of the Sandcastle,’ and another one asked about her ‘fitness results.’”
“That could mean anything,” I whisper.
“My aunt Dana was sick a lot. She said the show doctors went crazy trying to figure out what she had—they were so obsessed with health on the island, she thought maybe they were experimenting on the Patriots. Think about it. How else could Media1 figure out which weather chemicals are safe? Or which vaccinations work?”
“Wait, so she thought ‘they won’t survive long’ meant they would die. Because of experiments.” I shudder.
“And that ‘fitness results’ was about whether the Patriots were in good enough shape to be used as subjects.”
Goose bumps rise on my arms. I’d never thought that Media1 could hurt us. Fine us. Make us pretend about the weather and promote products. Take us off the island. But not hurt us.
“No way. Aren’t the Patriots guaranteed lodging and food provisions for their lifetimes? That’s what the Contract says.”
“And that’s all it says. There are no rules, really. My parents trusted Media1, but Belle and I thought Aunt Dana might be right.”
“Yeah, but you were kids. You probably believed in witches and ghosts too. Besides, why would they do experiments in Drowned Lands caves?”
“Maybe keeping Patriot experiments in the Drowned Lands lowers the risk of some kind of medical catastrophe if an experiment goes wrong.”
“Or they could just have more offices there,” I whisper. “I’ll talk to my source again. We don’t know enough yet.”
Scoop mumbles something on-mic about how he’ll fail the test if I don’t help him, then whispers, “Forget your source. We need to find out what’s going on in the Sandcastle ourselves. You said they’re moving everyone on April twentieth?”
“Yes. But we don’t even know where the Sandcastle is.” I frown in the darkness. “I wish they would just tell us what’s going on. I’m sure there are a lot of other Characters who’d like to know.”
“We’ll be the first ones to find out,” Scoop whispers.
“You’re going to sneak around the Center? You’ll get cut if they catch you. Show Risk.”
“I don’t have a choice. I have to know what they’re doing to Belle, to Revere, to all of them.”
It takes me a second to realize what he just said.
“What do you mean what they’re doing to Revere?” Numbness settles over me, like my body is icing over.
“You don’t know? They cut Revere,” he says slowly, almost apologetically. “I heard the Authority got him on the Tram last night.”