Imperfect Match

by Jordan Castillo Price

  “Don’t you find it all interesting? I think it’s extremely interesting.”

  “You’re mocking me.”

  “Me? Nah. I got nothing against Boomers. Sure, some of ’em are raging assholes, but you meet your fair share of assholes anywhere you go.” Troy turned to fill a drink order while Lee examined his guilt. He must have been carrying it years, though he’d only realized it once he surrendered his first kiss to Roman in the kitchen. If he wasn’t hurting anybody by leaving the Algorithm untriggered, he had nothing to be ashamed of—and the burden of that guilt and shame had been so ever-present, its sudden absence left Lee dramatically unbalanced.

  The Notary heaved herself back onto her barstool, checked her wine, shrugged, and took a large swallow. When she set down the dwindling glass, Troy emptied the bottle into it and said, “So if there’s a penalty for re-triggering the Algorithm, maybe it’s best for some people to blow it off altogether. Y’know. People who just aren’t the marrying type.”

  “That would be their decision,” the Notary said.

  Troy gave Lee a meaningful look. “But unless their pockets run deep—and I mean, really deep—what kind of life is that gonna be once they lose all their benefits? Not many Boomers can handle living in the Taxable District.”

  The Notary gave a pish-posh flap of her hand. “Rumor has it that one of the bride’s relatives just took a position out at Polytechnic Sixty-Two. Most folks I know would have nightmares at the mere thought of driving through that neighborhood with their windows rolled up. So it’s not common, no. But it can be done.”

  She checked her watch, finished her drink, and slid Troy a tip: a single dollar. Lee supposed he didn’t have much use for cash anyway, though it was unlikely she had any water filters in her bag.

  Without the Officiant Notary there to be a drunkenly oblivious buffer, Lee felt too exposed in Troy’s knowing gaze, and he still couldn’t tell if all that mirth being projected was at his expense. While he dug in his pockets for a shuttle token to leave and make his escape, in the gap left by the Notary, his cousin Jack elbowed up to the bar.

  Jack was two years younger, but he looked older than Lee. Paunchy now, with a hint of jowls. Maybe reproducing at an alarming rate did that to a person. His wife was waddling around the dance floor, ready to drop their fourth child at any moment…hopefully not at the wedding itself.

  Not many people had the patience or stamina to raise a double-sized brood in a small composite house. But Jack was playing the long game, and in twenty years or so, when the kids all moved out, he’d have accrued enough savings from their oversized-family benefits for early retirement.

  Although he was still years away from realizing his goal, he seemed awfully smug about it. He sized up Lee with an air of superiority, and said, “So, Lee…when are you getting married?”

  Maybe it was the alcohol. Drunkenness would be a convenient excuse for the answer Lee gave.

  “I have a job waiting for me when the semester begins. My housing will be paid for, and I can even take classes from an entirely new curriculum. There is no wedding on the horizon, Jack. And you’d starve to death waiting to eat a piece of dry banquet chicken at any reception of mine.”

  As Lee slipped through the press of bodies and off to wait outside in the parking lot, he decided that, no, it wasn’t really the vodka talking.

  It was hope.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  THE TWO MONTHS between Bea’s wedding and the start of the new academic semester were rough. Lee spent his time wrapping up his thesis. Funny how the motivation of needing the degree for his new job made the work he’d been dragging out for years come together in a few short weeks. The head of the department didn’t read it after all, but Lee hadn’t actually expected him to. The Masters in Language Arts was granted, and that’s what mattered.

  The dormitory where Lee had been placed was centuries old. But it was brick and concrete, rebar and steel, so it persevered. Its history had been painted upon the lobby walls, not in freeform District graffiti, but a calligraphic mural. Throughout its years on the planet, the building had been a dormitory, a troops garrison, a hospital and a motel. And now it was a dorm again.

  As he hauled his last box up the stairs, a young woman with hair as pink as candy floss approached him. “Professor Kennedy? Hi! I’m Jasmine, the fourth floor RA.”

  “Happiness and hope, Jasmine.”

  She tittered—at his formality, or his accent?—but seemed nice enough, regardless. “I’m here to help new students acclimate to dorm life, so make sure if there’s anything you need, let me know. No curfew for you, obviously, but music or TV needs to go through your headphones after 10 pm. The room must be clear of food at all times to prevent the spread of vermin, but the dining hall is always open. The after-hours selection is nothing special, but you won’t starve. This is the part where I’d go into a spiel about knocking points off your GPA if you’re caught hoarding food…. Well, you can see the importance. Just don’t do it.”

  Lee thought about the numerous vodka bottles stashed throughout his clothes. “What about alcohol?”

  “No homebrew, but sealed carry-ins are fine. Just dispose of the empties in the proper recycling chute. Laundry facilities are in the basement, a communal study room on two, and this end of the hall is all faculty, so that’ll cut down on some of the noise. Anyone who spends the night is your business—we’re all adults here, and there’s a condom dispenser in every bathroom—but divvying up your room and renting it out will get you in all kinds of trouble. Your room is huge—it was obviously a double—and it’s easy money, but seriously, I wouldn’t risk it. Any other questions?”

  “Isn’t the…ceiling…falling in?”

  Together, they looked up at where the overhead plaster sagged, mottled brown and water-stained, and huge flakes of old paint hung in shreds. Jasmine didn’t seem particularly alarmed. “Old construction, ya know. You can put in a maintenance request, but to be honest, they’re so swamped, they’re not gonna get to anything that isn’t open to the elements. If it bothers you, feel free to fix it yourself.”

  With what? Lee almost asked, but then he realized if he was going to thrive in the District, he’d need to stop thinking like a Boomer.

  Collapsing ceiling aside, it was a better living space than Lee had hoped for. It was easily as large as his parents’ living room, with two closets, two built-in desks, and plenty of space for a bed. Even a double bed.

  For someone who’d been sheltered his whole life, Lee adapted to his situation readily. He was a quick study. Maybe switching his major so many times had done more than just hold off his matriculation—it had taught him to figure things out.

  “Professor Kennedy?”

  Lee opened his door to a young woman in leather pants, black lipstick, and a Weeping Bubo T-shirt. Oddly enough, she reminded him of Emma. “Happiness and hope. Please, call me Lee.”

  “Right. So, I’m Dot. Jasmine said you might want some help with your ceiling and…I’m really good with my hands.”

  “Great, come in and take a look.”

  It had been less than a week since Lee moved in, and already he’d assembled himself a bed from repurposed packing foam, and a shelf system from discarded crates. But the fabric he’d stapled over the worst parts of the ceiling had started to bulge.

  “I’ve contained the crumbling plaster, but this solution is temporary at best. Do you have any ideas?”

  Dot looked him up and down. “All kinds of ideas.” She turned to the ceiling, assessed the bulge, then climbed up on the far desk, loosened the fabric’s corner and peered beneath it. “Nothing’s leaking anymore. Damage is really old. We’ll cut out the disintegrating sheetrock and haul the debris, and those moving boxes in the corner will make a pretty solid patch.”

  People didn’t decorate themselves with stickers, of course. Lee would have to ask. “Sounds like a lot of work. So how can I compensate you for your time?”

  Dot slipped off the desk and dropped
something onto the makeshift bed. A strip of condoms.

  As if bartering wasn’t confusing enough. Lee was supposed to offer something to her, and he didn’t need condoms…and then he realized what she was in the market for. “Dot, you seem like really nice girl….”

  “Not even a little—and that’s the whole point. My roommate was banging this Sector guy, said he brought her off four times one night.”

  “That would take an incredible amount of lube and finesse.” Before Lee finished the thought, Dot was yanking off her worn T-shirt, but he grabbed her by the arms and stopped her before she’d given him any more than a flash of brassiere. “Wait—I’d rather pay you in subway tokens.”

  “I can get subway tokens from the bursar.”

  “Dot, you’re a student and I’m a teacher. You should be with your peers.”

  She jerked out of his grasp. “My peers?”

  “Other students.”

  “I’m not good enough for you?”

  “People your own age.”

  “Scared you’ll contaminate your precious Boomer dick on some filthy Tax Rat?”

  Dot swung around and made for the door, but Lee caught her by the arm and slipped in front of her, blocking her way. “Dot.” He was hammering his plosives hard…and he didn’t care. “Look at me.”

  She met his gaze with tears glittering in her eyes.

  “First of all, I wouldn’t have sex with someone within five minutes of meeting them, and you and I don’t know each other. But even if we did, I wouldn’t do it.” At his words, a righteous indignation colored Dot’s cheeks, so he hastened to add, “I’m gay.”

  Dot’s mouth dropped open. She stared him in the eye for the span of a heartbeat, and then the fight drained from her. She dropped her gaze to the scarred linoleum floor and said, “I didn’t know, Professor. I’m really sorry.” With that, she pushed past him, and fled.

  Sorry about the contaminating his dick remark, he supposed, and not trying to barter sex from him. Which, if he thought about it a certain way, was somewhat flattering. He was mentally rehearsing what he might say to put Dot at ease when they inevitably passed each other in the hall or stairwell—or if he looked out over his classroom and saw her chagrined face looking back—when there was another knock on his door. He presumed it was Dot again, calmed down and reconsidering those subway tokens, so he was surprised to open the door and find a stranger looking back at him. A young man wearing lots of facial piercings, a worn leather jacket, and a knowing grin.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  INFORMATION WAS, IN its own way, a precious commodity—but students shared it with one another freely. By the time class was in session, Lee suspected every gay man on campus had offered to fix the crumbling ceiling. And probably some who were merely curious, too. In the end, though, it was Dot who helped him patch the sagging plaster, and paint the repurposed boards a striking shade of chartreuse. A full bottle of Benefit Sector vodka earned not only her assistance, but her eternal devotion.

  It was Dot who showed Lee how to bind the packing foam into a sort of mattress with some second-hand sheets and a box of safety pins. She then warned him that the makeshift mattress might begin to stink if it had no ventilation. She was also the one who showed him that six recycled plastic trays from the kitchens, the sort used for bread delivery, made a decent box spring if they were lashed together with duct tape. Together, they perched on the edge of his very bed-like bed and shared the final shots from his Sector vodka. He drank it straight up nowadays, and warm. And he definitely thought it tasted like winter.

  Dot crammed her tongue into the shot glass to capture the last residue of clean, pure alcohol. Lee did the same. He was still working up the courage to visit Mom and Dad, and though he’d called Emma and begged her to visit, she’d seemed distracted and vague. Surprisingly, her avoidance hurt. Of the whole family, she seemed like the one most likely to venture into the Taxable District to see him.

  Maybe it was just as well. Lee might be proud of what he’d accomplished in just a few short weeks…but he also remembered the way the District once looked to his privileged eyes, a patchwork of scrap covered in stickers and paint. While he saw his room as an accomplishment to be proud of, a Boomer might only see patched ceilings and bread pallets.

  Dot kicked her heels against the floor, absently, staring off at nothing at all. “So, don’t freak out or nothin’…but some guy’s been poking around campus, asking about you.”

  “What guy? And what was he asking?”

  “I dunno, some old guy.”

  “How old?”

  “Thirty? Thirty-five?” She ignored the meaningful look Lee gave her. “Checking out rumors about a resident Boomer professor. But don’t worry, we look out for our own. If he’s casing your room, someone would notice, and he wouldn’t get away with it.”

  “He’s not looking to rob me.”

  “If you’ve got debts, we’ll figure out how to settle them. With a family in the Sector, you’ve got access to all kinds of high-demand things. You know what? Maybe you should let me negotiate. I’ll make sure he doesn’t string you along and keep coming back for more.”

  “Thanks, Dot, but that’s okay. I can handle this myself.”

  Lee set out after his last class of the day. The destination was a long walk from Polytechnic Sixty-Two, and normally he would have bartered for the use of a bike. But since he didn’t know what he’d end up doing with it once he got where he was going, he walked.

  The neighborhoods around campus were all familiar now. Dot had shown him how to scrounge things for his room. Pickings were slim, but she had a good eye. Tonight, though, he left a perfectly good bundle of shoelaces lying exactly where they were, and forged ahead.

  His feet were sore and the sun was down by the time he got to Roman’s building. Some of the neighbors’ lights were on, but the windows in Roman’s apartment were all dark. And so Lee propped himself against the security grate, and he waited.

  The neighborhood was densely populated, and all around him, people came and went. He realized that although he knew better than to sit on the curb where he’d be an easy target for a mugger, he was no longer clutching his wallet and jumping at shadows. Roman’s neighbors were just regular people with regular jobs. And if anyone was acting suspicious, it was Lee, lurking there against the building, waiting and watching.

  He was nervous, worried that he might run into Spike first. Though now that he dealt with District students her age, he understood her posturing and bravado for what it was. Eventually, a figure rounded the side street and headed toward the building, all long legs and confident gait—easily recognized, even in silhouette. Lee’s anxiety spiked, but he swallowed down his fear, pushed off the building, squared his shoulders, and stood tall.

  Roman planted himself in front of Lee and gave him a long, appraising look. Lee realized he’d stood there for hours and somehow hadn’t managed to figure out what to say, but maybe that was for the best. He’d never been much good at delivering a rehearsed speech without coming off as pedantic and stiff. Instead, he borrowed words from one of the most powerful nights of his life. “Someone told me a guy was looking for me…but my debts are settled and I’m not in the market for any batteries or pills.”

  “So it is true.” Roman glanced at Lee’s left hand, saw no wedding band there, then took a few steps back and really took him in. “You’re a Tax Rat now.”

  Lee should have been offended at the slur, but all he felt was a sense of pride, and even a tenuous belonging. A few months ago, he would have scoffed at the notion of someone marking him by sight as a District resident, but now he knew it was entirely possible. He was no longer clean shaven, since space at communal sink was dear, and his brown overcoat was patched in blue plaid with yellow thread. “I’m still me,” he said. “Just a man…trying to figure out where he fits in this world.”

  “Overthinking everything, as usual.” Roman scuffed the sole of his boot against the sidewalk. “Formed any hypotheses
yet?”

  “I’ve got some ideas.”

  Lee reached for Roman and pulled him into a kiss. Roman stiffened, and Lee feared that maybe he’d read things wrong, and thinking that Roman still wanted him was nothing but hubris. But then Roman backed Lee against the security grate, grasped the old metal on either side of his head, and pressed their mouths together urgently. He kissed not just with lips and tongue, but his whole body. Eager and needy. Entirely sure.

  Roman pulled out from the kiss and took Lee’s face between his palms. His eyes glittered in the twilight and his hands smelled like rust. “Be with me.”

  “There’s nothing I’d rather do. But not here.” It wasn’t the high narrow bunk, or even the likelihood of running into Spike that made Lee feel hesitant. It was the need to demonstrate, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that despite his upbringing, it was possible to change. And that not only had he allowed the change—he’d embraced it. “It’s a long haul back to the dorm, but—”

  Before Lee could even finish apologizing, Roman had spun away, stepped into the street and stuck out his thumb. A passing car pulled over. The window rolled down, and water filters changed hands. Roman cocked his head toward the backseat and said, “Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s go.”

  No doubt the driver formed some opinion of the two of them exchanging nervous glances all the way to campus. Judging by the wolf-whistles and catcalls, the students came to certain conclusions as well. But Lee had earned another chance with Roman, and that was the only thing that mattered to him. It was like analyzing a single obscure word in a lengthy passage. Yes, the context was still there. But his entire focus narrowed to the one elusive concept, the single key to making everything else fall into place.

  Lee unlocked the door and they rushed into his room. He’d hoped to give Roman the grand tour, but Roman was only interested in the bed…and not to admire Lee’s scavenging abilities, either. Outerwear dropped to the floor, one scuffed leather jacket, one brown overcoat patched with blue plaid.