Scripted by Maya Rock Page A

more or less that it’s Revere’s.”
    Lia’s shoulders slump. “That sucks, Nettie,” she says, putting her arm around me and pulling me close. But I don’t feel comforted.
    â€œI don’t really want to talk about it,” I say, loosening myself from her grip. “How are you? How’s life after Callen?”
    â€œLife after Callen.” She laughs and fills me in on her day as we walk to the Arbor together. Apparently there was a moment in history when she and Callen stood by their desks, not wanting to sit next to each other, but unwilling to surrender their usual spots.
    â€œAfter a minute, I just sat down and Callen had to go back by the window.” She giggles. “Where he can stare at the sky more easily, which is all he ever wants to do anyway. Loser.”
    â€œGood for you.” At this rate, she’ll be over it in a couple weeks, and I’ll be able to talk to him again.
    â€œSmall victories.” Lia flicks her mic up to make sure the Audience can hear every word. “So, I decided that in the play, Mia embezzles from her father’s bank.”
    She told me this on Saturday. It’s not like Lia to repeat herself. I pretend I haven’t already heard, and she keeps chattering about the play all the way to the Arbor.
    Lia changes subjects abruptly as we near the Arbor and empty fields give way to its small, well-maintained houses. “What were you and Scoop talking about?” she says, looking at me closely. “You seem to have a lot to say to him lately.”
    â€œApprenticeship stuff.”
    â€œHmm.” She sighs and fixes her gaze in the distance, like she might find a solution to my problems there. But no luck. “Well, even if it didn’t work out with Mr. Black, I’m glad you took the initiative, Nettie.”
    Initiative. As we cross onto the Arbor cobblestones, I quickly mouth, “Last night, I got a Missive, rescheduling my Character Report for Saturday. They’re going to introduce the Initiative to me.”
    The sun falls on her face and her green eyes glitter. “Good,” she mouths, smiling. “My rescheduled Report was last week. Some new stuff they’re trying out. It’s a little different.”
    â€œHow?” I mouth uneasily. “How different?”
    â€œDon’t worry, StressNett. Just do what they say.”

Chapter 7
    The first difference I notice when I step into Mik’s narrow office on Saturday is the brightness. The shade at the back of the office is up for the first time. I take in the view—a stone building wedged into the hill that runs down to Eden Beach—then scan the office’s newly luminous interior.
    Mom would approve: it’s spick-and-span. There’s a Missivor screen instead of the still life of tomatoes and teacups, a floor lamp where there used to be a precarious tower of yellowing papers, and a sleek leather couch instead of the fraying checkered one. The white walls are aggressively bright, and the smell of fresh paint curls through the air. The massive oak desk that seemed like an outgrowth of the dusty floorboards has vanished. In its place stands one of light pine, its surface crowded with unidentifiable electronic gizmos. Wires coil through, under, and around the desk like vines.
    There’s one more difference that trumps all the rest. Grandfatherly Mik, my producer for the past six seasons, is
gone.
In his place is a man no more than ten years older than I am, with a narrow face and curly brown hair long enough to brush his navy-blue collar. The shirt is paired with crimson corduroy pants.
    â€œWho are you?” I stride into this updated, modern office, the new paint making me sneeze.
    The man leaps to his feet, and a notepad tumbles off his lap. “Hi, Nettie. I’m Luz. I’m so glad to meet you,” he says, bending down to retrieve the notepad. He’s making an effort to talk slowly, but still speaks