Matched

“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, especial y. 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’l be a wonderful night,” I tel her. “I promise. Everything’s so beautiful. It’s exactly like they tel us it wil be.”

“Real y?” 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 yel ow 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 yel ow and it’s the one with the butterfly sleeves ...”

I remember now. “Oh, Em, I loved that dress. You’l be beautiful.” She wil , too. Yel ow is the perfect color for Em; it wil look lovely against her creamy skin, her black hair, and dark eyes. It wil 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 tel s me. “I’ve been, you know, wondering.”

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

“I know. We al 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 al automatical y begin to gather our things. Time to work. Em sighs and stands up. Traces of worry stil 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’l 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 yel ow wal s, 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 tel myself. There’s no poem left. Papa’s problems are over. I’m safe here, and everywhere else.

Except, perhaps, on the little hil 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 stil 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 tel Xander. “You probably have some growing in your yard. We have them in ours.”

I don’t tel him that they’re not my mother’s favorite. She thinks the ones we have in the City in al 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 tel me stories about those different flowers that grew wild in the Farmlands. The stories didn’t have a plot; they weren’t even real y stories as much as they were descriptions, but they were beautiful and they lul ed 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 pul it from its smal 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 col ect while we hike. And thinking of hiking makes me think of Ky. Again.