Read Scripted for Free Online Page B

chuckles. “Heath, the captain, actually told me never to do it again. That’s how easy it is to upset them.”
    â€œThat’s funny because they seem—” Screeching brakes interrupt me. Mom’s fire-truck-red car pulls into our driveway a few feet away. Callen moves, like he’s going inside, and I gesture for him to stay, hoping she won’t notice us. She cuts the engine off and jumps out, her loaded key chain jangling loudly. She’s probably heard about Belle by now. If so, she’ll be on edge. She bends down to pick a microscopic piece of litter off the driveway,
tsk
ing under her breath, then strides up to our door, head high, gripping her tote bag full of books. When she reaches the door, she pauses and turns, her brown eyes, a few shades lighter than mine, sweeping the neighborhood and stopping when she spots us at the end of the path. She raises her eyebrows.
    â€œNettie, shouldn’t you be at Fincher’s?”
    Worry lines groove her forehead. She pushes her square glasses up to the bridge of her aquiline nose. “Hi, Callen,” she adds, in a tone that does not invite further conversation. Her voice, her nose, and most of all her hair, sheared right off at her chin, ensure that Mom pretty much always looks severe. Her plain wardrobe—today a black wool blazer and silk button-down blouse paired with a long black wool skirt—adds to the effect.
    â€œNo, not today.” Mom
really
wants me to apprentice at Fincher’s. She liked reading books, so she became a librarian. She figures that I like building gadgets, so I should become a repairman. She probably also thinks that doing something I’m good at will translate into plus-ten ratings. But I’m going about my tasks at Fincher’s in such a cloud of misery that I suspect no one will want to watch me there for very long.
    I haven’t talked about my doubts with Mom. She and I never frall about ratings—never frall about anything, really. She stopped because I was so awful at it when I was young, slipping up on-mic all the time, saying things like
I’m tired of this motif
or
I don’t care about that Special Event.
She might not want to talk to me about ratings, but I know she cares—a lot. More than once I’ve caught her fishing through my trash can after a Character Report.
    â€œSo, you’ll go to Fincher’s this weekend?” she persists. Her hand tightens around her tote bag. She has on a hemp bracelet, for
liberato.
    â€œMaybe.” I cross my arms. I wish she would just go inside. I glance back at Callen. He’s shuffling his feet and staring at the ground, pretending not to eavesdrop, but I see the small smile on his face.
    â€œNettie, you have to show them that you’re interested,” Mom says, putting the tote bag down on the doormat. “What if someone else applies and you end up anyassigned?” She takes a few steps down the porch stairs. Uh-oh. I don’t want her coming here and embarrassing me more.
    â€œI understand, Mom,” I bite out. “I’ll go tomorrow after Lia comes by.”
    She stops her march toward me, brown eyes flicking over to Callen, gleaning that I want to be left alone. “Good. Okay, dinner will be ready soon, and then I need to draw up the volunteer schedule for work and do the reading for book club, so I better start cracking,” she says, disappearing into the house. Mom is always busy—at work, cooking, book clubbing, or going to these unsexy singles dances. Still, it never seems like the busyness makes her happy, because she’s always fretting about what could go wrong. What makes it even weirder is that I’m pretty sure she
thinks
she’s happy as long as her ratings are on target.
    I turn back to Callen. “Sorry about that. She can be . . . overbearing.”
    â€œShe’s worried,” he says mildly. “And it seems like she worries a lot.