I reach up to touch the words Courtship Guidelines on the screen but before I do Xander’s face darkens and then disappears. The portscreen beeps and the voice says again, “Cassia Reyes, the Society is pleased to present you with your Match.”
My heart stops, and I can’t believe what I see. A face comes back into view on the port in front of me.
It is not Xander.
What?” Completely startled, I touch the screen and the face dissolves under my fingertips, pixelating into specks that look like dust. Words appear, but before I can read them the screen goes completely blank. Again.
“What’s going on?” I say out loud.
The portscreen stays blank. I feel blank, too. This is a thousand times worse than the empty screen last night. I knew what it meant then. I have no idea what it means now. I’ve never heard of this happening.
I don’t understand. The Society doesn’t make mistakes.
But what else could this be? No one has two Matches.
“Cassia?” Xander cal s to me through the door.
“I’m coming,” I cal out, tearing the microcard from the port and shoving it into my pocket. I take one deep breath, and then I open the door.
“So, I learned from your microcard that you like cycling,” Xander says formal y as I close the door behind me, making me laugh a little in spite of what just happened. I hate cycling the most out of al the exercise options, and he knows it. We argue about it al the time; I think it’s stupid to go riding on something that doesn’t move, spinning your wheels endlessly. He points out that I like to run on the tracker, which is almost the same thing.
“It’s different,” I tel him, but I can’t explain why.
“Did you spend al day staring at my face on the portscreen?” he asks. He’s stil joking, but suddenly I can’t catch my breath. He viewed his microcard, too. Was my face the one he saw? It feels so strange to be hiding something, especial y from Xander.
“Of course not,” I say, trying to tease back. “It’s Saturday, remember? I had work to do.”
“I did, too, but that didn’t stop me. I read al your stats and reviewed al the courtship guidelines.”
He unknowingly throws me a lifeline with those words. I am not drowning in worry anymore. I am neck deep and it stil washes over me in cold waves, but now I can breathe. Xander stil thinks we are Matched. Nothing strange happened to him when he viewed his microcard. That’s something, at least.
“You read al the guidelines?”
“Of course. Didn’t you?”
“Not yet.” I feel stupid admitting this, but Xander laughs again.
“They’re not very interesting,” he says. “Except for one.” He winks at me significantly.
“Oh?” I say, distracted. I see other youth our age mingling and gathering on our street, walking to the game center like us. They’re waving, cal ing, wearing the same clothes we wear. But there’s a difference tonight. Some are watching. Some are watched: me, and Xander.
The others’ eyes glance at us, hold, flicker away, look back.
I’m not used to it. Xander and I are normal, healthy citizens, part of this group. Not outsiders.
But I feel separated now, as though a clear thin wal rises up distinctly between myself and those staring at me. We can see each other, but we can’t cross over.
“Are you al right?” Xander asks.
Too late, I realize that I should have responded to Xander’s comment and asked him which guideline he found interesting. If I can’t pul myself together soon, he’l know something’s wrong. We know each other too wel .
Xander reaches for my elbow as we turn the corner and leave Mapletree Borough. When we’ve walked a few steps more, he slides his hand down my arm and interlaces his fingers with mine. He leans closer to my ear. “One of the guidelines said that we are al owed to express physical affection. If we want.”
And I do want. Even with al the stress I feel, the touch of his hand against mine with nothing to separate us is stil welcome and new. I’m surprised that Xander is so natural at this. And as we walk, I recognize the emotion that I see on some of the faces of the girls staring at us. It’s jealousy, pure and simple. I relax a little, because I can understand why. None of us ever thought we could have golden, charismatic, clever Xander. We always knew he would be Matched with another girl in another City, another Province.
But he’s not. He’s Matched with me.
I keep my fingers locked in his as we walk toward the game center. Maybe, if I don’t let go, it wil prove that we are meant to be Matched. That the other face on the screen means nothing; that it was simply a momentary malfunction of the microcard.
Except. The face I saw, the face that was not Xander: I knew him, too.
There’s an opening over here,” Xander says, stopping at a game table in the middle of the room. Apparently the other youth in our Borough feel the same way we do about this Saturday’s recreation options, because the game center is crowded with people, including most of our friends. “Do you want to go in, Cassia?”
“No thanks,” I say. “I’l watch this round.”
“What about you?” he asks Em, my best girlfriend.
“You go ahead,” she tel s him, and then we both laugh as he grins and spins around to give his scancard to the Official monitoring the game.
Xander’s always been this way about the games—completely alive with energy and anticipation. I remember playing with him when we were little, how we both played hard and didn’t let the other win.
I wonder when I stopped liking the games. It’s hard to remember.
Now, Xander settles himself at the table, saying something that makes everyone else laugh. I smile to myself. It real y is more fun to watch him than to play yourself. And this game, Check, is one of his favorites. It’s a game of skil , the kind he likes best.
“So,” Em says softly, the sounds of laughter and talking covering her words from everyone but me, “What is it like? Knowing your Match?”
I knew she would ask me this; I know it’s what everyone would like to know. And I answer the only way I can. I tel her the truth. “It’s Xander,” I say.
“It’s wonderful.”
Em nods in understanding. “Al this time none of us thought we could ever end up with one another,” she says. “And then it happens.”
“I know,” I say.
“And Xander,” she says. “He’s the best of us al .” Someone cal s her name and she drifts toward another table.
As I watch, Xander picks up the gray pieces and puts them out on the gray and black squares of the board. Most of the colors inside the game center are drab: gray wal s, brown plainclothes for the students, dark blue plainclothes for those who have already received their permanent work positions. Any brightness in the room comes from us: from the shades of our hair, from our laughter. When Xander sets down his last piece, he looks across the board at me and says, right in front of his opponents, “I’m going to win this one for my Match.” Everyone turns to stare at me and he grins mischievously.
I rol my eyes at him, but I’m stil blushing a few moments later when someone taps me on the shoulder. I turn around.
An Official waits behind me. “Cassia Reyes?” she asks.
“Yes,” I answer, glancing over at Xander. He’s engrossed in making his move and doesn’t see what’s happening.
“Could you come outside with me for a moment? It won’t take long, and it’s nothing to worry about. Merely procedural.”