Matched

CHAPTER 20

I walk home from the air-train stop with Em after school and sorting. Once the others who came with us have gone ahead or fallen behind, Em puts her hand on my arm. "I'm so sorry," she says quietly.

"Em, don't worry about it anymore. I'm not angry." I look her in the eye so that she knows I mean it but her eyes are still sad. So many times in my life I've felt as though looking at Em is like seeing another variation of myself, but I don't feel that way now. Too much has changed recently. Still, Em is my best girlfriend. Growing apart doesn't change the fact that for a long time we grew side by side; our roots will always be tangled. I'm glad for that. "You don't have to keep apologizing," I tell her. "I'm happy I lent it to you. At least we both got to enjoy it before they took it away."

"I still don't understand," Em says softly. "They have plenty of displays in the Museum. It doesn't make any sense."

I've never heard anything so close to insubordination come out of Em's mouth before, and I grin at her. Maybe we aren't becoming so different after all.

"What are we doing tonight?" I ask, changing the subject.

Em seems relieved about the shift in topic. "I talked to Xander today and he wants to go to the game center tonight. What do you think?"

What I really think is that I'd like to go back to the top of the first little hill. The thought of being in that center with its stuffiness and crowds when we could be sitting and talking under a clean night sky seems like more than I can take. But I can do it. I can do whatever I need to in order to keep things normal. I have Ky's words to read. And perhaps, if I'm lucky, I'll see Ky himself later. I hope he comes with us.

Em interrupts my thoughts by saying, "Look. Your mother's waiting for you."

Em's right. My mother sits on the steps of the house with her face turned in our direction. When she sees me looking at her, she stands up, waves, and starts walking toward us. I wave back and Em and I pick up the pace a little.

"She's back," I say out loud, and it isn't until I hear the surprise in my voice that I recognize that part of me worried that she would stay away forever.

"Was she gone?" Em asks, and I realize that my mother's absence is likely one of those things that we aren't supposed to mention outside of our family. Not that the Officials said that explicitly; it's simply the kind of thing we've learned to keep to ourselves.

"Back early from work," I clarify. Ifs not even a lie.

Em says good-bye and goes into her house. Her maple tree isn't going to make it, I think, noticing that even in the middle of summer the tree only has about ten green, tired leaves. Then I look toward my house, where the tree grows full and the flowers are beautiful and my mother comes to meet me.

This reminds me of times when I was very small in First School and my mother's work hours ended before I got home. She and Bram sometimes walked up the street to meet my train. They never made it far because Bram stopped to look at everything along the way. "That kind of attention to detail might be a sign that he's meant to be a sorter," my father used to say, until Bram got older and it became apparent that he lost his ability to pay attention to detail along with his baby teeth.

When I reach my mother she hugs me right there on the sidewalk. "Oh, Cassia," she says. Her face looks pale and tired. "I'm so sorry. I missed your first official outing with Xander."

"You missed something else last night, too," I say, my face against her shoulder. She is taller than I am and I don't think I will ever catch up. I'm slight and short, like my father's family. Like Grandfather. I smell my mother's familiar smell of flowers and clean fabric, and I breathe in deeply. I'm so glad she's back.

"I know." My mother never speaks against the government. The most defiant she's ever been was when the Officials searched my father. I don't expect her to rant and rave about the unfairness of the Officials taking the artifacts, and she doesn't. It occurs to me that if she did, she'd be ranting and raving against her own husband. He is, after all, an Official, too.

Though he isn't the one who held out his hand and asked us to drop our prized possessions into it, he did that to other people.

When my father came home last night, he gave Bram and me each a long hug and then went straight to his room without saying anything. Maybe because he couldn't stand to see the pain in our faces and remember that he had caused that same pain in others.

"I'm sorry, Cassia," my mother says now as we walk home. "I know how much that compact meant to you."

"I feel sorry for Bram."

"I know. I do, too."

When we enter the front door I hear the chime that means our food has arrived. But when I go into the kitchen only two portions sit in the delivery area. "What about Papa and Bram?"

"Papa requested dinner early so he and Bram could go for a walk before Bram's free-rec hours." "Really?" I ask. We don't often make such requests.

"Yes. Your father thought that Bram could use something special after everything that's happened lately."

I'm happy, especially for Bram's sake, that the nutrition Officials granted Papa's request. "Why didn't you go too?"

"I wanted to see you." She smiles at me and then looks around the kitchen. "We haven't eaten together in a long time. And of course, I want to hear about your outing with Xander."

We sit across from each other at the table, and I notice again how tired she looks. "Tell me about your trip," I say, before she can ask about last night. "What did you see?"

"I'm still not sure," she says softly, almost to herself. Then she straightens up. "We went to another Arboretum to look at some crops. After that, we had to go to some Farmlands. It all took some time."

"But now everything's back to normal, right?"

"For the most part. I have to write a formal report and submit it to the Officials in charge of the other Arboretum."

"What's the report about?"

"I'm afraid that's confidential information," my mother says regretfully.

We both fall silent, but it is a good silence, a mother-daughter one. Her thoughts are far away somewhere, perhaps back at the Arboretum. Maybe she's writing the report in her mind. That's all right with me, though. I relax and let my own thoughts go where they want, which is to Ky.

"Thinking about Xander?" my mother says, giving me a knowing smile. "I always daydreamed about your father, too."

I smile back. There's no point telling her that I'm thinking about the wrong boy. No, not the wrong boy. Ky may be an Aberration but there's nothing about him that is defective. It's our Government and their classification system and all their systems that are wrong. Including the Matching System.

But if the system is wrong and false and unreal, then what about the love between my parents? If their love was born because of the Society, can it still be real and good and right? This is the question that I can't get out of my mind. I want the answer to be yes. That their love is true. I want it to have beauty and reality independent of anything else.

"I should get ready to go to the game center," I tell her, and she yawns. "You should go to sleep. We can talk more tomorrow."

"Well, maybe 111 rest for a little while," she says. We both stand up: I take her foilware container to the recycling bin for her and she carries my water bottle to the sterilizer for me. "Come say good-bye before you leave, though, won't you?"

"Of course."

My mother goes into her room and I slip into mine. I have a few minutes before I'm due to meet everyone. Do I have time to read a little more of Ky's story? I decide that I do. I pull the crumpled napkin from my pocket.

I want to know more about Ky before I see him tonight. I feel as if the two of us are our true selves when we hike in the trees on the hills. When we're with everyone else on Saturday nights, though, it becomes difficult. We go through a forest that is complicated and full of tangles and there are no stone cairns to guide us except the ones we build ourselves.

Sitting on my bed to read, I glance again at the spot in my closet where I kept the compact. I feel a sharp pain of loss and turn back to Ky's story. But as I read and the tears slip down my cheeks, I realize that I do not know anything about loss.

In the middle of the crease Ky drew a village, little houses, little people. But all the people lie prone, on their backs. No one stands straight, except the two Kys. The young one's hands are no longer empty; they carry something. One hand holds the word Mother, slumping over the edge of his hand, shaped a little like a body. The top of the t tips up, like an arm flung askew.

The other hand holds the word Father, and that word lies still too. And the young Ky's shoulders are bent with the weight of these two little words, and his face is still tipped to the sky, where I see now the rain has turned into something dark, something deadly and solid. Ammunition, I think. I've seen it in the showing.

The older Ky has turned his face away from the village in the middle, from the other boy. His hands are no longer open. They are clenched. Behind him, people in Official uniforms watch him. His lips curve in a smile that never touches his eyes; he wears plainclothes, a line indicating the crisp crease where he's ironed them neat. at first when the rain fell

from the sky so wide and deep

it smelled like sage, my favorite smell

I went up on the plateau to watch it come

to see the gifts it always brought

but this rain changed from blue to black

and left

nothing.

***

There's a drought of Officials at the game center, even though the center itself brims with people playing, winning, losing. I see three Officials, watching the largest of the game tables. They look earnest and on edge in their white uniforms, their faces showing more stress than usual. This is strange. Usually, we have twelve or more lower-level Officials in the center, keeping the peace, keeping score. Where are the rest of them tonight?

Somewhere, things aren't going quite right.

But here, as far as I'm concerned, at least one thing has. Ky's with us. I look at him once as we weave our way through the masses of people, following Xander, hoping that Ky understands from that look that I have read his story, that I care. He walks right behind me and I want to reach back and take his hand but there are too many people. The one thing I can do for Ky is to help keep him safe, to hold onto what I want to say until there is a good place to say it. And to remember the words he wrote, the pictures he made, even though I wish that part of the story had never happened to him.

His parents died. He saw it happen. Death came from the sky, and that's what he remembers. Every time it rains.

Xander stops and so we all do, too. To my surprise, he gestures to a game table where the games played are one-on-one. Games Xander doesn't usually play. He likes to take on a group, to win when the stakes are higher and more players are involved. It's a better test of his abilities—more challenging, more variables. Less personal. "You want to play?" Xander asks.

I turn to see who he means. Ky.

"All right," Ky says without hesitation, nothing revealed in his voice. He keeps his eyes on Xander, waiting for the next move.

"What kind of game do you want to play? Skill or chance?" Is there a trace of challenge in Xander's voice? His face remains perfectly even, as does Ky's.

"I don't care," Ky answers.

"How about a game of chance, then," Xander says, which surprises me again. Xander hates games of chance. He much prefers ones that involve actual skill.

Em and Piper and I stay, watching, as Xander and Ky sit down and scan their cards into the datapod at the table. Xander sets out the playing cards, red with black markings in the center, first stacking the edges even with two sharp hits of the deck against the metal. "Want to go first?" Xander asks Ky, and Ky nods and reaches to draw.

"What game are they playing?" someone asks next to me. Livy. She's here for Ky, I'm sure of it, her eyes possessive as she watches his hands over the cards.

His hands are not yours to watch, I think to her, and I remember again that they aren't mine, either. I should be watching Xander. I should be hoping for Xander to win.

"Prisoner's dilemma," Em says next to me. "They're playing prisoner's dilemma."

"What's that?" Livy asks.

She doesn't know the game? I turn to her in surprise. Ifs one of the simplest, most common games. Em tries to explain it to Livy in a low voice so she doesn't disturb the players. "They each put down a card at the same time. If they both have an even card, they each get two points. If they're both odd, then they each get one point."

Livy interrupts Em. "What if one has even and one has odd?"

"If one is even and one is odd, the person who puts down the odd card gets three points. The person who puts down the even one gets zero."

Livy's eyes fix on Ky's face. Jealously, I think that even if she sees him in the same amount of detail that I do—which I doubt—she doesn't know anything about him. Would she still be so interested in Ky if she knew about his status as an Aberration?

I have a thought that strikes me cold: Would I be so interested if I didn't know that he's an Aberration? I never paid Ky particular attention before I knew about his classification.

And before you saw his face on the microcard, I remind myself. Naturally, that piqued your interest. Besides. You weren't supposed to be interested in anyone until you were Matched.

I feel a little sick thinking that Livy might see Ky's true worth in a way that is somehow more pure; she's simply interested in him. No hidden reasons. No tangles. No extra layers beneath her basic attraction to him.

But then again, I realize, I never know. She could be hiding something, as I am. We could all be hiding something.

I turn my attention back to the game and I watch Ky's and Xander's faces closely. Neither one of them blinks an eye, pauses before a move, shows their hand.

In the end, it doesn't matter. Ky and Xander end the rounds with an even number of points. They've each won, and lost, an equal amount of hands.

"Let's go walk around for a minute," Xander says, reaching for me. I want to look at Ky before I twine my fingers with Xander's, but I don't. I have to play the game, too. Surely Ky will understand.

But would Xander? If he knew about Ky and me, and the words we share on the Hill?

I push the thought away as I walk from the table with Xander. Livy immediately slides into his place and starts up a conversation with Ky.

Xander and I go out in the hallway alone. I wonder if he's about to kiss me and I wonder what I'm going to do if he does, but then he whispers to me instead, his words soft and close. "Ky throws the games."

"What?"

"He loses the games on purpose."

"You tied. He didn't lose." I don't know what Xander's getting at.

"Not tonight. Because it wasn't a game of skill. Those are the ones he usually throws. I've been watching him for a while. He's careful about how he does it, but I'm sure that's what he's doing."

I stare back at Xander, not sure how to respond.

"It's easy to throw a game of skill, especially when it's a big group. Or a game like Check, when you can put your pieces in harm's way and make it look natural. But today, in a game of chance, one-on-one, he didn't lose. He's no fool. He knew that I was watching." Xander grins. Then his face gets puzzled. "What I don't understand is why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would he throw so many games? He knows the Officials watch us. He knows they're looking for people who can play well. He knows our play probably influences what vocations they assign us. It doesn't make sense. Why wouldn't he want them to know how smart he is? Because he is smart."

"You're not going to tell anyone about this, are you?" Suddenly I am very worried for Ky.

"Of course not," Xander says, thoughtfully. "He must have his reasons. I can respect that."

Xander's right. Ky does have his reasons, and they are good ones. I read them on the last napkin, the one with the stains that I know must be tomato sauce but that look like blood. Old blood.

"Let's play one more time," Ky says when we get back, his eyes on Xander. They flicker once, and I think he's looked down at my hand in Xander's, but I can't be sure. His face shows nothing.

"All right," Xander says. "Chance or skill?"

"Skill," Ky suggests. And something in his expression suggests that he might not throw the game this time. He might be in it to win.

Em rolls her eyes at me and gestures at the boys as if to say, "Can you believe how primitive this is?" But we both follow them to another table. Livy comes, too.

I sit between Ky and Xander, equidistant from both of them. It's as if I'm a piece of metal and they are two magnets and there's a pull from either side. They've both taken risks for me—Xander with the artifact, Ky with the poem and the writing.

Xander is my Match and my oldest friend and one of the best people I know. When I kissed him, it was sweet. I'm drawn to him and tied to him with the cords of a thousand different memories.

Ky is not my Match, but he might have been. He's the one who taught me how to write my name, how to keep the poems, how to build a tower of rocks that looks like it should fall but doesn't. I have never kissed him and I don't know if I ever will, but I think it might be more than sweet.

It is almost uncomfortable, this awareness of him. Each pause, each movement when he places a piece on the black-and-gray board. I want to reach out and grab his hand and hold it to me, right over my heart, right where it aches the most. I don't know if doing that would heal me or make my heart break entirely, but either way this constant hungry waiting would be over.

Xander plays with daring and intelligence, Ky with a kind of deep and calculated intuition; both are strong. They are so evenly matched.

It's Ky's move. In the quiet before Ky takes his turn, Xander watches him carefully. Ky's hand hovers over the board. For a moment, as he holds the piece in the air, I see where he could put it to win and I know he sees it, too, that he planned the whole game for that last move. He looks at Xander and Xander looks back, both of them locked in some kind of challenge that seems to run deeper and older than what's happening here on this board.

Then Ky moves his hand and puts his piece down in a spot where Xander can eventually overtake him for the win. Ky doesn't hesitate once he places the piece; he sets it down with a solid sound and leans back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling. I think I see the slightest hint of a smile on his lips but I can't be sure; it's gone faster than a snowflake on an air-train track.

Ky's move may not be the brilliant one I know he could have made, but it's not stupid, either. He made the move of an average player. When he looks back down from the ceiling, he meets my gaze and holds it, as he held the game piece earlier before putting it down. He tells me something in that silent pause that he cannot say out loud.

Ky can play this game. He can play all of their games, including the one in front of him that he just lost. He knows exactly how to play, and that's why he loses every time.