The Selection. Кира КассЧитать онлайн книгу.
popped open.
“But only if you sign up for the Selection.” She was starting to smile now. She knew this would win me over, though I think she was expecting more of a fight. But how could I fight? I was already going to sign up, and now I could earn some money of my own!
“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