The Selection

by Kiera Cass

  “You know I can only agree to sign up, right? I can’t make them pick me.”

  “Yes, I know. But it’s worth a shot.”

  “Wow, Mom.” I shook my head, still in shock. “Okay, I’ll fill out the form today. Are you serious about the money?”

  “Of course. Sooner or later you’d go out on your own anyway. And being responsible for your own money will be good for you. Only, don’t forget your family, please. We still need you.”

  “I won’t forget you, Mom. How could I, with all the nagging?” I winked, she laughed, and with that, the deal was done.

  I took a shower as I processed everything that had happened in less than twenty-four hours. By simply filling out a form, I was winning the approval of my family, making Aspen happy, and earning the money that would help Aspen and me get married!

  I wasn’t so concerned about the money, but Aspen insisted we needed to have some savings of our own first. It cost a bit to do the legal stuff, and we wanted to have a very small party with our family after our wedding. I figured it wouldn’t take very long for us to save for that once we decided we were ready, but Aspen wanted more. Maybe, finally, he’d trust that we wouldn’t always be strapped if I did some serious work.

  After my shower, I did my hair and put on the tiniest bit of makeup to celebrate, then went to my closet and got dressed. There weren’t a whole lot of options. Most everything was beige, brown, or green. I had a few nicer dresses for when we worked, but they were hopelessly behind in the fashion department. It was like that, though. Sixes and Sevens were almost always in denim or something sturdy. Fives mostly wore bland clothes, as the artists covered everything with smocks and the singers and dancers only really needed to look special for performances. The upper castes would wear khaki and denim from time to time to change up their looks, but it was always in a way that took the material to a whole new level. As if it wasn’t enough that they could have pretty much whatever they wanted, they turned our necessities into luxuries.

  I put on my khaki shorts and the green tunic top—by far the most exciting day clothes I owned—and looked myself over before going into the living room. I felt kind of pretty today. Maybe it was just the excitement behind my eyes.

  Mom was sitting at the kitchen table with Dad, humming. They both looked up at me a couple of times, but even their stares couldn’t bother me.

  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.”

  “I know.” It really seemed unreasonable to limit everyone’s life choices based on your ancestors’ ability to help the government, but that was how it all worked out. And I suppose I should just be grateful we were safe. “I gu
ess it was the only way to make things work at the time.”

  He didn’t speak. I breathed a sigh and picked up the canvas, setting it back into place. This was his life, and he couldn’t just wipe it away.

  “You don’t have to give up your hobbies, buddy. But you want to be able to help Mom and Dad and grow up and get married, right?” I poked his side.

  He stuck his tongue out in playful disgust, and we both giggled.

  “America!” Mom called down the hall. “What’s taking you so long?”

  “Coming,” I yelled back, and then turned to Gerad. “I know it’s hard. It’s just the way it is, okay?”

  But I knew it wasn’t okay. It wasn’t okay at all.

  Mom and I walked all the way to the local office. Sometimes we took the public buses if we were going too far or if we were working. It looked bad to show up sweaty at the house of a Two. They already looked at us funny anyway. But it was a nice day out, and the trip was just shy of being too long.

  We obviously weren’t the only ones trying to get our submission in right away. By the time we got there, the street in front of the Province of Carolina Services Office was packed with women.

  Standing in line, I could see a number of girls from my neighborhood in front of me, waiting to go inside. The trail was nearly four people wide and wrapped halfway around the block. Every girl in the province was signing up. I didn’t know whether to feel terrified or relieved.

  “Magda!” someone called. My mother and I both turned at the sound of her name.

  Celia and Kamber were walking up behind us with Aspen’s mother. She must have taken the day off to do this. Her daughters were dressed up as neatly as they could afford, looking very tidy. It wasn’t much, but they looked good no matter what they wore, just like Aspen. Kamber and Celia had his same dark hair and beautiful smiles.

  Aspen’s mother smiled at me, and I returned her grin. I adored her. I only got to talk to her every once in a while, but she was always nice to me. And I knew it wasn’t because I was a step up from her; I’d seen her give clothes that didn’t fit her kids anymore to families who had next to nothing. She was just kind.

  “Hello, Lena. Kamber, Celia, how are you?” Mother greeted them.

  “Good!” they sang in unison.

  “You guys look beautiful,” I said, placing one of Celia’s curls behind her shoulder.

  “We wanted to look pretty for our picture,” Kamber announced.

  “Picture?” I asked.

  “Yes.” Aspen’s mom spoke in a hushed voice. “I was cleaning at one of the magistrates’ houses yesterday. This lottery isn’t much of a lottery at all. That’s why they’re taking pictures and getting lots of information. Why would it matter how many languages you spoke if it were random?”

  That had struck me as funny, but I thought that was all information for after the fact.

  “It appears to have leaked a little; look around. Lots of girls are way overdone.”

  I scanned the line. Aspen’s mother was right, and there was a clear line between those who knew and those who didn’t. Just behind us was a girl, obviously a Seven, still in her work clothes. Her muddy boots might not make the picture, but the dust on her overalls probably would. A few yards back another Seven was sporting a tool belt. The best I could say about her was that her face was clean.

  On the other end of the spectrum, a girl in front of me had her hair up in a twist with little tendrils framing her face. The girl beside her, clearly a Two based on her clothes, looked like she was trying to drown the world in her cleavage. Several had on so much makeup, they looked kind of like clowns to me. But at least they were trying.

  I looked decent, but I hadn’t gone to any such lengths. Like the Sevens, I hadn’t known to bother. I felt a sudden flutter of worry.

  But why? I stopped myself and rearranged my thoughts.

  I didn’t want this. If I wasn’t pretty enough, surely that was a good thing. I would at least be a notch below Aspen’s sisters. They were naturally beautiful, and looked even lovelier with the little hints of makeup. If Kamber or Celia won, Aspen’s whole family would be elevated. Surely my mother couldn’t disapprove of me marrying a One just because he wasn’t the prince himself. My lack of information was a blessing.

  “I think you’re right,” Mom said. “That girl looks like she’s getting ready for a Christmas party.” She laughed, but I could tell she hated that I was at a disadvantage.

  “I don’t know why some girls go so over the top. Look at America. She’s so pretty. I’m so glad you didn’t go that route,” Mrs. Leger said.

  “I’m nothing special. Who could pick me next to Kamber or Celia?” I winked at them, and they smiled. Mom did, too, but it was forced. She must have been debating staying in the line or forcing me to run home and change.

  “Don’t be silly! Every time Aspen comes home from helping your brother, he always says the Singers inherited more than their fair share of talent and beauty,” Aspen’s mother said.

  “Does he really? What a nice boy!” my mother cooed.

  “Yes. A mother couldn’t ask for a better son. He’s supportive, and he works so hard.”

  “He’s going to make some girl very happy one day,” my mother said. She was only half into the conversation as she continued to size up the competition.

  Mrs. Leger took a quick look around. “Between you and me, I think he might already have someone in mind.”

  I froze. I didn’t know if I should comment or not, unsure if either response would give me away.

  “What’s she like?” my mother asked. Even when she was planning my marriage to a complete stranger, she still had time for gossip.

  “I’m not sure! I haven’t actually met her. And I’m only guessing that he’s seeing someone, but he seems happier lately,” she replied, beaming.

  Lately? We’d been meeting for nearly two years. Why only lately?

  “He hums,” Celia offered.

  “Yeah, he sings, too,” Kamber agreed.

  “He sings?” I exclaimed.

  “Oh, yeah,” they chorused.

  “Then he’s definitely seeing someone!” my mother chimed in. “I wonder who she is.”

  “You’ve got me. But I’m guessing she must be a wonderful girl. These last few months he’s been working hard—harder than usual. And he’s been putting money away. I think he must be trying to save up to get married.”

  I couldn’t help the little gasp that escaped. Lucky me, they all attributed it to the general excitement of the news.

  “And I couldn’t be more pleased,” she continued. “Even if he’s not ready to tell us who she is, I love her already. He’s smiling, and he just seems satisfied. It’s been hard since we lost Herrick, and Aspen’s taken so much on himself. Any girl who makes him this happy is already a daughter to me.”

  “She’d be a lucky girl! Your Aspen is a wonderful boy,” Mom replied.

  I couldn’t believe it. Here his family was, trying to make ends meet, and he was putting away money for me! I didn’t know whether to scold him or kiss him. I just. . . I had no words.

  He really was going to ask me to marry him!

  It was all I could think about. Aspen, Aspen, Aspen. I went through the line, signed at the window to confirm that everything on my form was true, and took my picture. I sat in the chair, flipped my hair once or twice to give it some life, and turned to face the photographer.

  I don’t think any girl in all of Illéa could have been smiling more than me.

  CHAPTER 4

  IT WAS FRIDAY, SO THE Illéa Capital Report would be on at eight. We weren’t exactly obligated to watch, but it was unwise to miss it. Even Eights—the homeless, the wandering—would find a store or a church where they could see the Report. And with the Selection coming up, the Report was more than a semi-requirement. Everyone wanted to know what was happening in that department.

  “Do you think they’ll announce the winners tonight?” May asked, stuffing mashed potatoes into h
er mouth.

  “No, dear. Everyone who’s eligible still has nine days to submit their applications. It’ll probably be two more weeks until we know.” Mom’s voice was the calmest it had been in years. She was completely at ease, pleased to have gotten something she really wanted.

  “Aw! I can’t stand the wait,” May complained.

  She couldn’t stand the wait? It was my name in the pot!

  “Your mother tells me you had quite a long wait in line.” I was surprised Dad wanted in on this conversation.

  “Yeah,” I said. “I wasn’t expecting that many girls. I don’t know why they’re giving people nine more days; I swear everyone in the province has already gone in.”

  Dad chuckled. “Did you have fun gauging the competition?”

  “Didn’t bother,” I said honestly. “I left that to Mom.”

  She nodded in agreement. “I did, I did. I couldn’t help it. But I think America looked good. Polished but natural. You are so beautiful, honey. If they really are looking through instead of picking at random, you have an even better chance than I thought.”

  “I don’t know,” I hedged. “There was that girl who had on so much red lipstick she looked like she was bleeding. Maybe the prince likes that kind of thing.”

  Everyone laughed, and Mom and I continued to regale them with commentary on the outfits we’d noticed. May drank it all in, and Gerad just sat smiling between bites of dinner. Sometimes it was easy to forget that as long as Gerad had been able to really understand the world around him, things had been stressful in our house.

  At eight we all piled into the living room—Dad in his chair, May next to Mom on the couch with Gerad on her lap, and me on the floor all stretched out—and turned the TV to the public access channel. It was the one channel you didn’t have to pay to have, so even the Eights could get it if they had a TV.

  The anthem played. Maybe it’s silly, but I always loved our national anthem. It was one of my favorite songs to sing.

  The picture of the royal family came into view. Standing at a podium was King Clarkson. His advisers, who had updates on infrastructure and some environmental concerns, were seated to one side, and the camera cut to show them. It looked like there would be several announcements tonight. On the left of the screen, the queen and Prince Maxon sat in their typical cluster of thronelike seats and elegant clothes, looking regal and important.