Matched

“Cassia,” my mother says disapprovingly, glancing around to make sure that no one heard. We are not supposed to disparage other members of our street and our community. Mapletree Borough is known for being tight-knit and exemplary in this way. No thanks to Bram, I think to myself.

“I’m teasing, Mama.” I know she can’t stay mad at me. Not on the night of my Match Banquet, when she has been reminded of how quickly I am growing up.

“Come inside,” my father says. “It’s almost curfew. We can talk about everything tomorrow.”

“Was there cake?” Bram asks as my father opens the door. They al look back at me, waiting.

I don’t move. I don’t want to go inside yet.

If I do, that means that this night is coming to an end, and I don’t want that. I don’t want to take off the dress and go back to my plainclothes; I don’t want to return to the usual days, which are good, but nothing special like this. “I’l come in soon. Just a few minutes more.”

“Don’t be long,” my father says gently. He doesn’t want me to break curfew. It is the City’s curfew, not his, and I understand.

“I won’t,” I promise.

I sit down on the steps of my house, careful, of course, of my borrowed dress. I glance down at the folds of the beautiful material. It does not belong to me, but this evening does, this time that is dark and bright and ful of both the unexpected and the familiar. I look out into the new spring night and turn my face to the stars.

I don’t linger outside for long because tomorrow, Saturday, is a busy day. I’l need to report to my trial work position at the sorting center early in the morning. After that I’l have my Saturday night free-rec hours, one of the few times I get to spend with my friends outside of Second School.

And Xander wil be there.

Back in my bedroom, I shake the tablets out of the little hol ow in the base of the compact. Then I count—one, two, three; blue, green, red—as I slide the tablets back into their usual metal cylinder.

I know what the blue and green tablets do. I don’t know anyone who knows for certain what the red tablet does. There have been rumors about it for years.

I climb into bed and push away thoughts of the red tablet. For the first time in my life, I’m al owed to dream of Xander.

CHAPTER 3

I’ve always wondered what my dreams look like on paper, in numbers. Someone out there knows, but it isn’t me. I pul the sleep tags from my skin, taking care not to tug too hard on the one behind my ear. The skin is fragile there and it always hurts to peel the disk away, especial y if a strand or two of hair gets caught under the adhesive on the tag. Glad that my turn is over, I put the equipment back in its box. It’s Bram’s turn to be tagged tonight.

I did not dream of Xander. I don’t know why.

But I did sleep late, and I’m going to be late for work if I don’t hurry. As I walk into the kitchen, carrying my dress from the night before, I see that my mother has already set out the breakfast food delivery. Oatmeal, gray-brown and expected. We eat for health and performance, not for taste.

Holidays and celebrations are exceptions. Since our calories had been moderated al week long, last night at the Banquet we could eat everything in front of us without significant impact.

Bram grins mischievously at me, stil wearing his sleepclothes. “So,” he says, shoving one last spoonful of oatmeal into his mouth, “did you sleep late because you were dreaming about Xander?”

I don’t want him to know how close he is to the truth; that even though I didn’t dream of Xander, I wanted to. “No,” I say, “and shouldn’t you be worrying about being on time for school?” Bram’s young enough that he stil has school instead of work on Saturdays, and if he doesn’t get going, he’l be late. Again. I hope he doesn’t get cited.

“Bram,” my mother says, “go get your plainclothes on, please.” She’l breathe a huge sigh of relief when he moves on to Second School, where the start time is half an hour later.

As Bram slouches out of the room, my mother reaches for my dress and holds it up. “You looked so beautiful last night. I hate to take this back.”

We both look at the gown for a moment. I admire the way the fabric catches the light and plays it back, almost like the light and the cloth are both living things.

We both sigh at exactly the same time and my mother laughs. She gives me a kiss on the cheek. “They’l send you a little piece of the fabric, remember?” she says, and I nod. Each gown is designed with an interior panel that can be cut into pieces, one for each girl who wears the dress.

The scrap, along with the silver box that held my microcard, wil be the mementos of my Matching.

But stil . I wil never see this dress, my green dress, again.