Matched (14 page)

“You should come again, if you want to,” he says. “I’m back in the office all next week. That’s a much shorter ride.”

“I know. Maybe I will.” My answers sound a little distant, and I hope he can’t tell that I’m still slightly angry with him for losing the sample. I know it’s irrational and that he feels horrible, but I’m still upset. I miss my grandfather. I held on to that tube, to the hope that he might come back.

My father stops and looks at me. “Cassia. Did you have something you wanted to ask me? Or tell me? Is that why you came to the site?”

His kind face, so like Grandfather’s, looks worried. I have to tell him. “Grandfather gave me a paper,” I say, and my father turns instantly pale. “It was inside my compact. There were old words on it—”

“Shhh,”
my father says. “Wait.”

A couple walks toward us. We smile and say hello and separate around them on the sidewalk. When they are far enough away my father stops. We stand in front of our house now, but I can tell that he doesn’t want to continue this conversation inside. I understand. I have something I want to ask him and I want the answer before we go where the port hums and waits in the foyer. I’m worried we won’t have a chance to talk about this again.

“What did you do with it?” he asks.

“I destroyed it. Today, at the work site. It seemed like the safest place.”

I think I see a flash of disappointment cross my father’s face but then he nods. “Good. It’s best that way. Especially right now.”

I know he’s referring to the visit from the Officials, and before I can stop myself I ask, “How could you lose the sample?”

My father covers his face with his hands, a gesture so sudden and anguished that I take a step back.

“I didn’t lose it.” He takes a deep breath, and I don’t want him to finish but I can’t find the words to stop him. “I destroyed it. That day. He made me promise that I would. He wanted to die on his own terms.”

The word “die” makes me cringe, but my father isn’t finished. “He didn’t want them to be able to bring him back. He wanted to choose what happened to him.”

“But you had a choice, too,” I whisper, angry. “You didn’t have to do it. And now he’s
gone
.”

Gone. Like the Thomas poem. I was right to destroy the poem. What did Grandfather think I could or would do with it? My family doesn’t rebel.
He
didn’t, aside from the small act of keeping the poem. And there’s no reason
to
rebel. Look what the Society gives us. Good lives. A chance at immortality. The only way it can be ruined is if we ruin it ourselves. Like my father did, because my grandfather asked him to.

Even as I turn away from my father and run inside, eyes burning with tears, part of me understands him and why he chose to do what Grandfather asked. Isn’t that what I’m doing, too, every time I think the words of the poem or try to be strong without the green tablet?

It’s hard to know which ways to be strong. Was it weak to let go of the paper, watch it drift to its death as silent and white and full of promise as a cottonwood seed? Is it weak to feel the way I do when I think of Ky Markham? To know exactly the spot on my skin where he touched me?

Whatever I’ve been feeling for Ky must stop. Now. I am Matched with Xander. It does not matter that Ky has been places I’ve never been or that he wept during the showing when he thought no one could see. It does not matter that he knows about the beautiful words I read in the woods. Following the rules, staying safe. Those are the things that matter. Those are the ways I have to be strong.

I will try to forget that Ky said “home” when he looked into my eyes.

C
assia Reyes,” I say, holding out my scancard. The worker records the number on the side of the foilware dinner with her datapod and gives the meal to me.

The datapod beeps again as Xander takes his food and stands beside me. “Do you see Em anywhere? Or Piper or Ky?” he asks.

Blankets patchwork the play yard on the side of First School. It’s a real picnic—food eaten outdoors on the grass. The workers rush around the yard, trying to get the right meals into the right hands. It’s a bit of a hassle and I can see why they don’t do this very often. It’s much easier to have food sent to people’s homes, schools, workplaces.

“I don’t think Piper and Ky signed up in time,” I say. “Because of work.”

Someone waves at us from a blanket in the middle of the yard. “There’s Em,” I tell Xander, pointing, and together we weave our way through the blankets on the grass and say hello to our classmates and friends. Everyone is in a good mood, giddy with the novelty of the whole activity. Looking down, trying not to step on anyone’s blanket or in anyone’s food, I walk right into Xander, who has stopped. He turns to grin at me over his shoulder. “You almost made me drop my dinner,” he says, and I tease him back, giving him a little shove. He flops down on the blanket next to Em and leans over to look in her foilware container. “What did they send us?”

“Meat-and-veggie casserole,” Em says, making a face.

“Remember the ice cream,” I say.

I’m almost finished eating when someone calls out to Xander from across the grass. “I’ll be right back,” he tells us before he stands up and makes his way through the crowd. I can track his progress through the mass of people; they turn to watch him pass, call out his name.

Em leans over and says to me, “I think something’s wrong with me. I took the green tablet this morning.
Already
. I meant to save it for later this week. You know.”

I almost ask Em what she means and then I feel like a terrible friend, because how could I forget? Her Match Banquet. She meant to save the tablet for that night, because she’s getting nervous.

“Oh, Em,” I say, putting my arm around her, hugging her. She and I have been drifting apart lately, but not by choice. This happens, as you get closer to your work assignments and vocations. But I miss her. Nights like this, especially. Summery nights, when I remember how it was to be younger and have more time. When Em and I used to spend so many of our free-rec hours together. We had more of them, then.

“It’ll be a wonderful night,” I tell her. “I promise. Everything’s so beautiful. It’s exactly like they tell us it will be.”

“Really?” Em asks.

“Of course. Which dress did you pick?” They redesign the dresses every three years, so Em has the same pool to choose from that I did.

“One of the yellow ones. Number fourteen. Do you remember it?”

So much has happened since I stood in the Matching Office and picked out my dress. “I don’t think I do,” I say, searching my mind.

Em’s voice becomes animated as she describes the dress. “It’s very light yellow and it’s the one with the butterfly sleeves ...”

I remember now. “Oh, Em, I loved that dress. You’ll be beautiful.” She will, too. Yellow is the perfect color for Em; it will look lovely against her creamy skin, her black hair, and dark eyes. It will make her look like sunshine, the spring kind.

“I’m so nervous.”

“I know. It’s hard not to be.”

“Everything’s different now that you’ve been Matched with Xander,” Em tells me. “I’ve been, you know, wondering.”

“But my Match with Xander doesn’t make it any more likely—”

“I know. We all know that. But now we can’t help but wonder.” Em looks into her foilware container, at her nearly untouched dinner.

A chime sounds from the loudspeakers and we all automatically begin to gather our things. Time to work. Em sighs and stands up. Traces of worry still line her face, and I remember how it felt when I waited for my Match.

“Em,” I say impulsively. “I have a compact you can borrow, if you want, for your Banquet. It’s golden. It would look perfect with your dress. I’ll bring it over tomorrow morning.”

Em’s eyes widen. “You have an artifact? And you’d lend it to
me
?”

“Of course. You’re one of my best friends.”

 

Red-blossomed newrose plants sit in black plastic tubs, waiting for us to plant them into the ground in front of First School. First School always looks so cheerful. I can picture the inside of the school with its bright yellow walls, green tile floors, and blue classroom doors. It’s easy to feel safe here. I always did when I was young.
I feel safe here now
, I tell myself.
There’s no poem left. Papa’s problems are over. I’m safe here, and everywhere else
.

Except, perhaps, on the little hill where, in spite of my decision to stay safe, I often find myself glancing over at Ky, wondering. Wishing we could talk again, but not daring to take the risk of saying anything to him besides the common things, the things we always say.

I look over my shoulder for Ky, but I still don’t see him.

“What kind of flowers are these?” Xander asks as we dig. The soil is thick and black. It comes apart in clumps as we lift it.

“Newroses,” I tell Xander. “You probably have some growing in your yard. We have them in ours.”

I don’t tell him that they’re not my mother’s favorite. She thinks the ones we have in the City in all the gardens and public spaces are too hybridized, too far from their original selves. The oldroses took a lot of care to grow; each blossom was a triumph. But these are hardy, showy, bred for durability. “We don’t have newroses in the Farmlands,” my mother says. “We have other flowers, wildflowers.”

When I was little, she used to tell me stories about those different flowers that grew wild in the Farmlands. The stories didn’t have a plot; they weren’t even really stories as much as they were descriptions, but they were beautiful and they lulled me to sleep. “Queen Anne’s lace,” my mother would say in a slow, soft voice. “Wild carrot. You can eat the root when it’s young enough. The flower is white and lacy. Lovely. Like stars.”

“Who’s Queen Anne?” I’d ask, drowsy.

“I can’t remember. I think she’s in the Hundred History Lessons somewhere. But shhhh. That’s not important. What’s important is that you see the lace in front of you, too many little flowers to count, but you try anyway ...”

Xander hands me a newrose plant and I pull it from its small plastic tub and put it in the ground. The strong, stringy roots have grown in circles around the inside of the pot, for lack of anywhere else to go. I spread them out as I put the newrose plant into the ground. Looking at the soil makes me think of the dirt my shoes collect while we hike. And thinking of hiking makes me think of Ky. Again.

I wonder where he is. As Xander and I plant the flowers and talk, I picture Ky working while the rest of us play, or listening to the music piped into the almost-empty auditorium. I imagine him walking through the crowds at the recreation building and taking his turn playing a game that he will likely lose. I see him sitting in the theater watching the showing, tears in his eyes.
No
. I banish the images from my mind. I won’t do this anymore. The choice is made.

I never had a choice to begin with
.

Xander knows I’m not listening to him as closely as I should. He glances to make sure no one can hear us and then he says softly, “Cassia. Are you still worried about your father?”

My father. “I don’t know,” I say. It’s the truth. I don’t know how I feel about him right now. Already the anger is giving way—almost against my will—to more understanding, more empathy. If Grandfather had looked at
me
with his fiery eyes and asked me to do him one last favor, would
I
have been able to tell him no?

The evening slides in slowly, darkening the sky by degrees. There’s a trace of light left when the chime rings again and we stand up to survey our work. A small breeze drifts across the grounds and the flower beds ripple red in the dusk.

“I wish we could do this every Saturday,” I say. It feels like we have created something beautiful. My hands are stained red from some of the crushed petals; and they smell of earth and newrose, a sharp-flower smell that I like in spite of my mother’s comments about the oldrose perfume being more subtle, more delicate. What’s wrong with being durable? What’s wrong being something, someone, that lasts?

Standing there looking at my work, however, I realize that all my family has ever done is sort. Never create. My father sorts old artifacts like my grandfather did; my great-grandmother sorted poems. My Farmlander grandparents plant seeds and tend crops, but everything they grow has been assigned by the Officials. Just like the things my mother grows at the Arboretum.

Just like we did here.

So I didn’t create anything after all. I did what I was told and followed the rules and something beautiful happened. Exactly as the Officials have promised.

“There’s the ice cream,” Xander says. The workers wheel the freezer carts along the sidewalk near the flower beds. Xander grabs me by one hand and Em by the other and pulls us into the nearest line.

It takes the workers much less time to hand out our foil cups of ice cream than it took them to pass out dinner because the ice cream is all the same. Our meals have our specialized vitamins and enrichments and have to be given to the right person. The ice cream is a nothing food.

Someone calls out to Em and she goes over to sit by them. Xander and I find a place a little apart from everyone else. We lean our backs against the sturdy cement-block walls of the school and stretch out our legs. Xander’s are long and his shoes are worn. He must be due for some new ones soon.

He digs his spoon into the single white scoop and sighs. “I’d plant acres of flowers for this.”

I agree. Cold and sweet and wonderful, the ice cream slides across my tongue and down my throat and into my stomach, where I swear I can feel it long after it melts. My fingers smell like soil and my lips taste like sugar and I’m so awake right now I wonder if I’ll be able to sleep tonight.

Xander holds out his last spoonful toward me.