I obey. The sun shines almost directly overhead, the light unflattering. Her skin looks papery and misted with sweat. Her edges seem blurred, her uniform and its insignia smal , less powerful than the last time we talked. I tel myself this so that I won’t panic, so that I won’t give anything away, especial y Ky.
“There’s no need to be modest,” she says. “Surely you have some idea of how wel you performed on your sorting test.” Thank goodness. Is that why she’s here? But what about the Infraction?
“You have the highest score of the year. Of course, everyone is fighting to get you assigned to their department for your vocation. We in the Match Department are always looking for a good sorter.” She smiles at me. Like last time, she offers relief and comfort, reassurance about my place in the Society. I wonder why I hate her so much.
In a moment I know.
“Of course,” she says, her tone now touched with what sounds like regret, “I had to tel the testing Officials that, unless we see a change in some of your personal relationships, we would be averse to hiring you. And I had to mention to them that you might also be unfit for other sorting-related work if these things keep up.”
She doesn’t look at me as she says al of this; she watches the fountain in the center of this greenspace, which I suddenly notice has run dry. Then she turns her gaze on me and I feel my heart racing, my pulse pounding clear to my fingertips.
She knows. Something, at least, if not everything.
“Cassia,” she says kindly. “Teenagers are hot-blooded. Rebel ious. It’s part of growing up. In fact, when I checked your data, you were predicted to have some of these feelings.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do, Cassia. But it’s nothing to worry about. You might have certain feelings for Ky Markham now, but by the time you are twenty-one, there is a ninety-five percent chance that it wil al be over.”
“Ky and I are friends. We’re hiking partners.”
“Don’t you think this happens quite often?” the Official says, sounding amused. “Almost seventy-eight percent of teenagers who are Matched have some kind of youthful fling. And most of those occur within the year or so after the Matching. This is not unexpected.” I hate the Officials the most when they do this: when they act as if they have seen it al before, as if they have seen me before. When real y they have never seen me at al . Just my data on a screen.
“Usual y, al we do in these situations is smile and let things work themselves out. But the stakes are higher for you because of Ky’s Aberration status. Having a fling with a member of Society in good standing is one thing. For the two of you, it’s different. If things continue, you could be declared an Aberration yourself. Ky Markham, of course, could be sent back to the Outer Provinces.” My blood runs cold, but she isn’t finished with me yet. She moistens her lips, which are as dry as the fountain behind her. “Do you understand?”
“I can’t quit speaking to him. He’s my hiking partner. We live in the same neighborhood—” She interrupts me. “Of course you may talk with him. There are other lines you should not cross. Kissing, for example.” She smiles at me. “You wouldn’t want Xander to know about this, would you? You don’t want to lose him, do you?” I am angry, and my face must show it. And what she says is true. I don’t want to lose Xander.
“Cassia. Do you regret your decision to be Matched? Do you wish that you had chosen to be a Single?”
“That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?”
“I think people should be able to choose who they Match with,” I say lamely.
“Where would it end, Cassia?” she says, her voice patient. “Would you say next that people should be able to choose how many children they have, and where they want to live? Or when they want to die?”
I am silent, but not because I agree. I am thinking of Grandfather. Do not go gentle.
“What Infraction have I committed?” I ask.
“Excuse me?”
“When they cal ed me out of school over the port, the message said I’d committed an Infraction.” The Official laughs. Her laugh sounds easy and warm, which makes a shiver of cold prickle my scalp. “Ah, that was a mistake. Another one, it seems. They seem to keep happening where you are concerned.” She leans a little closer. “You haven’t committed an Infraction, Cassia. Yet.” She stands up. I keep my eyes on the dry fountain, wil ing the water back to it. “This is your warning, Cassia. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” I say to the Official. The words are not entirely a lie. I do understand her, on some level. I know why she has to keep things safe and stable and some part of me respects that. I hate that most of al .
When I final y meet her gaze, her expression is satisfied. She knows she’s won. She sees in my eyes that I won’t risk making things worse for Ky.
“There’s a delivery for you,” Bram tel s me when I arrive home, his face eager. “Someone brought it by. It must be something good. I had to have my fingerprint entered in their datapod when I accepted it.”
He fol ows me into the kitchen where a smal package sits on the table. Looking at the pulpy brown paper wrapped around it, I think how much of Ky’s story he could put on those pages. But he can’t do that anymore. It’s too dangerous.
Stil , I can’t help but open the paper careful y. I smooth it out neatly, taking my time. This almost drives Bram crazy. “Come on! Hurry up!” Deliveries don’t happen every day.
When Bram and I final y see what’s in the package we both sigh. Bram’s is a sigh of disappointment and mine is a sigh of something else I can’t quite define. Longing? Nostalgia?
It’s the scrap of my dress from the Match Banquet. In keeping with tradition they have placed the silk between two pieces of clear glass with a smal silver frame around the edge. The glass and the material both reflect the light, blinding me for a moment and reminding me of the glass mirror in my lost compact. I stare at the fabric, trying to remember the night at the Match Banquet when we were al pink and red and gold and green and violet and blue.
Bram groans. “That’s al it is? A piece of your dress?”
“What did you think, Bram?” I say, and the acid in my tone surprises me. “Did you think they were going to send our artifacts back? Did you think this was going to be your watch? Because it’s not. We’re not getting any of it back. Not the compact. Not the watch. Not Grandfather.” Shock and hurt register on my brother’s face, and before I can say anything he leaves the room. “Bram!” I cal after him. “Bram—” I hear the sound of his door closing.