Read Online Scripted by Maya Rock - Free Book Online Page A

in a month. There’s still time.” Lia begins writing in the notebook. “I think you’d be a great teacher.” She can’t say it on-mic, but I hear the unspoken reason: maybe my ratings would be better if I were in an apprenticeship I liked.
    But . . . Revere. “I’d feel awful if I got it, though. Revere would be pissed if he ended up anyassigned.”
    â€œOh, come on. Revere’s incapable of being mad. Listen, it can’t hurt to ask,” Lia says. She puts the pen down next to her leg, and I discreetly pick it up, not wanting red marks on my comforter. She reads what she wrote out loud. “Vows. Nettie Starling vows to quit moping around and ask Mr. Black about her chances of getting the available high school math teacher apprenticeship slot.” She blocks her face from the camera and quickly mouths, “The Audience will love it if there’s conflict between you and Revere.”
    I nod slowly. Coming up with plus-ten plotlines comes so naturally to Lia. I imagine storming past Revere to the front of the classroom and demanding a chance from Mr. Black, the Audience cheering me on.
    â€œI’ll think about it,” I say.
    â€œAsk him. Monday.”
    â€œAll right,” I agree. I look over at the clock on my night table. “I gotta get going.”
    Lia claps the journal shut. “Okay, maybe I’ll visit Callen. Stuff ended not so plus ten last night after No Arms.” She picks up her book bag. “Which means we argued as much as Callen
can
argue. It’s, like, different shades of silence. I-hate-you silence, I’m-hurt silence, I’m-tired-of-this-silence silence.”
    I give her some silence of my own. Like, I-would-love-it-if-he-never-spoke-to-you-again silence. I smooth out wrinkles in my comforter. “I hope you make up,” I say finally.
    â€¢Â â€¢Â â€¢
    I take the really long way to Fincher’s, riding down the eastern coast, gliding past Avalon beach houses, including Lincoln’s. A blue sheen radiates from the distance. The aquarium. Scoop works there every weekend as part of his apprenticeship. Thinking about him grieving while cleaning out tank filters makes me want to tell him
something
about the Patriots.
    If I move fast, I can find him, say what I have to say, and still make it to Fincher’s on time. I get a ticket, lock my bike to a camerapole, and join the crowds churning through the halls. The air in here is sharp and pure, with a vacuumed, institutional quality to it. I haven’t been to the aquarium since I was a kid, and I find myself almost hypnotized by the octopi and squid, lobsters and eels, salmon and sharks.
    Lots of entrancing sea creatures, but no Scoop. I take a break from my search to get an ice cream from the concession stand. I’m peering over the cartons, trying to choose a flavor, when I remember the morning’s propro Missive.
    â€œDo you have any fruit?” I ask the elderly man with a flourishing mustache.
    He shuffles over to a carton of apples and hands one over. “Half a cetek,” he says crankily. He was probably anyassigned.
    Apple in hand, I sit on a concrete bench across from the jellyfish tank and bite in. Juicy and sweet. Must be from the Granary. The best fruit is grown there—a cluster of farms and orchards at the southern tip of the island. I let the apple lie in my lap, resting my head against the wall and closing my eyes. What if Callen were with me, watching the jellyfish, their transparent, filmy skins undulating through the water like silk scarves fluttering in the air. Then I imagine us on the Herrons’ living room couch, his arms around me.
Eagerly
around me.
    I’m so transfixed by my daydreams that Scoop manages to sneak up on me.
    â€œYou’re watching that tank almost as intensely as you watch Callen during lunch.” He grins, waiting for my response.
    Ugh, how? I’ve never breathed a word about