The Selection (The Selection #1)(8)

When I picked up the letter, I was a little surprised. Such high-quality paper. I’d never felt anything like it. Thick and slightly textured. For a moment the weight of the paper hit me, reminding me of the magnitude of what I was doing. Two words jumped into my head: What if?

But I shook the thought away and put pen to paper.

It was straightforward enough. I filled in my name, age, caste, and contact information. I had to put my height and weight, hair, eye, and skin color, too. I was pleased to write that I could speak three languages. Most could speak at least two, but my mother insisted we learn French and Spanish, since those languages were still used in parts of the country. It also helped with the singing. There were so many pretty songs in French. We had to list the highest grade level we’d completed, which could vary immensely, since only Sixes and Sevens went to the public schools and had actual grade levels. I was nearly done with my education. Under special skills, I listed singing and all my instruments.

“Do you think the ability to sleep in counts as a special skill?” I asked Dad, trying to sound torn over the decision.

“Yes, list that. And don’t forget to write that you can eat an entire meal in under five minutes,” he replied. I laughed. It was true; I did tend to inhale my food.

“Oh, the both of you! Why don’t you just write down that you’re an absolute heathen!” My mother went storming from the room. I couldn’t believe she was so frustrated—after all, she was getting exactly what she wanted.

I gave Dad a questioning look.

“She just wants the best for you, that’s all.” He leaned back in his chair, relaxing a bit before he started on the commissioned piece that was due by the end of the month.

“So do you, but you’re never so angry,” I noted.

“Yes. But your mother and I have different ideas of what’s best for you.” He flashed me a smile. I got my mouth from him—both the look and the tendency to say innocent things that got me into trouble. The temper was Mom’s doing, but she was better at holding her tongue if it really mattered. Not me. Like right now…

“Dad, if I wanted to marry a Six or even a Seven, and he was someone I really loved, would you let me?”

Dad set his mug down, and his eyes focused on me. I tried not to give anything away with my expression. His sigh was heavy, full of grief.

“America, if you loved an Eight, I’d want you to marry him. But you should know that love can wear away under the stress of being married. Someone you think you love now, you might start to hate when he couldn’t provide for you. And if you couldn’t take care of your children, it’d be even worse. Love doesn’t always survive under those types of circumstances.”

Dad rested his hand on top of mine, drawing my eyes up to his. I tried to hide my worry.

“But no matter what, I want you to be loved. You deserve to be loved. And I hope you get to marry for love and not a number.”

He couldn’t say what I wanted to know—that I would get to marry for love and not a number—but it was the best I could hope for.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Go easy on your mother. She’s trying to do the right thing.” He kissed my head and went off to work.

I sighed and went back to filling out the application. The whole thing made me feel like my family didn’t think I had any right to want something of my own. It bothered me, but I knew I couldn’t hold it against them in the long run. We couldn’t afford the luxury of wants. We had needs.

I took my finished application and went to find Mom in the backyard. She sat there, stitching up a hem as May did her schoolwork in the shade of the tree house. Aspen used to complain about the strict teachers in the public schools. I seriously doubted any of them could keep up with Mom. It was summer, for goodness’ sake.

“Did you really do it?” May asked, bouncing on her knees.

“I sure did.”

“What made you change your mind?”

“Mom can be very compelling,” I said pointedly, though Mom was obviously not ashamed at all of her bribery. “We can go to the Services Office as soon as you’re ready, Mom.”

She smiled a little. “That’s my girl. Go get your things, and we’ll head out. I want to get yours in as soon as possible.”

I went to grab my shoes and bag as I’d been instructed, but I stopped short at Gerad’s room. He was staring at a blank canvas, looking frustrated. We kept rotating through options with Gerad, but none of them were sticking. One look at the battered soccer ball in the corner or the secondhand microscope we’d inherited as payment one Christmas, and it was obvious his heart just wasn’t in the arts.

“Not feeling inspired today, huh?” I asked, stepping into his room.

He looked up at me and shook his head.

“Maybe you could try sculpting, like Kota. You have great hands. I bet you’d be good at it.”

“I don’t want to sculpt things. Or paint or sing or play the piano. I want to play ball.” He kicked his foot into the aging carpet.

“I know. And you can for fun, but you need to find a craft you’re good at to make a living. You can do both.”

“But why?” he whined.

“You know why. It’s the law.”

“But that’s not fair!” Gerad pushed the canvas to the floor, where it stirred up dust in the light from his window. “It’s not our fault our great-grandfather or whoever was poor.”