Matched

A line from that other poem, the Tennyson one, comes to mind suddenly: The flood may bear me far.

If I had kept the poems from Grandfather, I’d be riding on a flood that I couldn’t stop. I did what I had to do; I did the right thing. But it is as though the rain outside pours on me, too, eroding my relief and leaving only regret: The poems are gone, and I can never get them back.

CHAPTER 12

At work that evening, we have an interesting sort for a change. Even Norah becomes animated as she describes it to me at her desk. “We’re looking at different physical traits for a Matching pool,” she says. “Eye color. Hair color. Height and weight.”

“Is the Match Department going to use our sorts?” I ask.

She laughs. “Of course not. It’s for practice. This is to see if you pick up patterns in the Matchees’ data that the Officials have already noticed.”

Of course.

“There’s something else,” Norah adds. She lowers her voice, not because this is a secret but because she doesn’t want to distract the others from their work. “The Officials told me that they’re going to administer your next test personal y.”

This is a good sign. This means that they want to see for themselves if I can work under pressure. This means that they may be considering me for one of the more interesting sorting-related vocations.

“Do you know when?”

She does, I can see, but she’s not supposed to tel me. “Sometime soon,” she says again, vaguely, and then she gives me one of her rare smiles.

She turns back to her screen and I go to my station to get started.

This is good, I think. I might get an optimal vocation assignment if I can impress the Officials enough. Everything is going wel again. I won’t think about Grandfather and the lost sample and the burned poems or my father and the Officials searching him. Or that Ky won’t ever get to be Matched to anyone or work anywhere besides the nutrition disposal center. I won’t think about any of it. It’s time to clear my mind and sort.

It is actual y rather startling when you sort eye colors, how limited the possibilities truly are: such a smal , finite number of options. Blue, brown, green, gray, hazel—these are al of the options for eye color, even with many ethnicities represented in the population. Long ago there were genetic mutations, like albinos, but those don’t exist anymore. Hair color is similarly limited: black, brown, blond, red.

So few options, and yet an infinite number of variations. For example, plenty of boys in this database have blue eyes and dark hair like Ky, but I am positive that not one of them looks as he does. And even if someone did, if one of those boys looked exactly like him or if he had a twin somehow, no one else could have the combination of movement and restraint, of honesty and secrecy, that Ky has. His face keeps appearing in my mind, but I know that it’s not the Society’s mistake anymore. It’s mine. I’m the one who keeps thinking of him when I should be thinking of Xander.

The tiny printer next to me beeps, and I jump.

I made a mistake and I didn’t notice my error within an acceptable time frame. A little slip of paper curls out onto the table next to me and I pick it up. “ERROR AT LINE 3568.” I hardly ever make errors, so this wil cause interest. I go back to the line where the mistake was made and correct it. If this happens next week while the Officials are watchingIt won’t happen. I won’t let it happen. But before I lose myself in the sorting again, I al ow myself one brief moment to think of Ky’s eyes, of his hand on my arm.

“Someone said a girl your age came to the work site today,” my father says. He came to meet me at the air-train stop, something he does now and then with Bram or me so that we can have a little one-on-one time before we get home. “Was it you?”

I nod. “They canceled hiking because of the rain, so I thought I’d come see you before school. Since I didn’t see you this morning. But you were busy and I didn’t have much time. I’m sorry I couldn’t stay.”

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

“I know. Maybe I wil .” My answers sound a little distant, and I hope he can’t tel that I’m stil slightly angry with him for losing the sample. I know it’s irrational and that he feels horrible, but I’m stil 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 tel me? Is that why you came to the site?”

His kind face, so like Grandfather’s, looks worried. I have to tel 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 hel o and separate around them on the sidewalk. When they are far enough away my father stops.