Matched

I knew the moment I saw it that it was the one I wanted. When I made my selection, the woman at the clothing distribution center smiled after she punched the number—seventy-three—into the computer. “That’s the one you were most likely to pick,” she said. “Your personal data indicated it, and so did general psychology. You’ve picked things outside of the majority in the past, and girls like their dresses to bring out their eyes.”

I smiled and watched as she sent her assistant into the back to retrieve the dress. When I tried it on, I saw that she was right. The dress was meant for me. The hemline fel perfectly; the waist curved in exactly the right amount. I turned in front of the mirror, admiring myself.

The woman told me, “So far, you are the only girl wearing this dress at the Match Banquet this month. The most popular gown is one of the pink gowns, number twenty-two.”

“Good,” I told her. I don’t mind standing out a little.

Bram reappears in the doorway, plainclothes wrinkled, hair askew. I can almost see the wheels turning in my mother’s mind: Is it better to comb his hair and make him late, or send him as he is?

Bram makes the decision for her. “See you tonight,” he says, sprinting out the door.

“He’s not going to be fast enough.” My mother looks out the window toward the air-train stop, where the tracks light up to indicate the approaching train.

“He might,” I say, watching Bram as he breaks another rule, the one about running in public. I can almost hear his footsteps pounding on the sidewalk as he runs down the street, his head lowered, his school pack bumping against his skinny back.

Right when he gets to the stop, he slows down. He pats his hair into place and walks casual y up the steps toward the train. Hopeful y, no one else has seen him run. A moment later, the air train pul s away with Bram safely inside.

“That boy is going to be the end of me.” My mother sighs. “I should have gotten him up earlier. We al overslept. It was a big night last night.”

“It was,” I agree.

“I have to catch the next City air train.” My mother pul s her satchel over her shoulder. “What are you doing for your free-rec hours tonight?”

“I’m sure Xander and everyone wil want to play games at the youth center,” I say. “We’ve seen al the showings, and the music ...” I shrug.

My mother laughs, completing my sentence. “Is for old people like me.”

“And I’m using the last hour to visit Grandfather.” The Officials don’t often al ow a deviation from the usual free-rec options; but on the eve of someone’s Final Banquet, visiting is encouraged and permitted.

My mother’s eyes soften. “He’l love that.”

“Did Papa tel Grandfather about my Match?”

My mother smiles. “He planned to stop by on his way to work.”

“Good,” I say, because I want Grandfather to know as soon as possible. I know he has been thinking as much about me and my Banquet as I’ve been thinking about him and his.

After I hurry and eat my breakfast, I make my train with seconds to spare and sit back. I may not have dreamed about Xander while I slept, but I can daydream about him now. Looking out the window and thinking about how he looked last night in his suit, I watch the Boroughs slide by on my way into the City. The green has not yet given way to stone and concrete when I notice white flakes drifting through the sky.

Everyone else notices them, too.

“Snow? In June?” the woman next to me asks.

“It can’t be,” a man across the aisle mutters.

“But look at it,” she says.

“It can’t be,” the man says again. People twist, turn to the windows, looking agitated. Can something wrong be true?

Sure enough, little white puffs drift past on their way to the ground. There is something strange about this snow, but I’m not exactly sure what. I find myself holding in a smile as I look at al the worried faces around me. Should I be worried, too? Perhaps. But it’s so pretty, so unexpected, and, for the moment, so unexplainable.

The air train comes to a stop. The doors open and a few pieces drift inside. I catch one on my hand, but it does not melt. The mystery of it does, however, when I see the little brown seed at the center of the snow.

“It’s a cottonwood seed,” I tel everyone confidently. “It’s not snow.”

“Of course,” the man says, sounding glad to have an explanation. Snow in June would be atypical. Cottonwood seeds are not.

“But why are there so many?” another woman asks, stil worried.

In a moment, we have our answer. One of the new passengers sitting down brushes white from his hair and plainclothes. “We’re tearing out the cottonwood grove along the river,” he explains. “The Society wants to plant some better trees there.”