“Of course,” I say, because there’s no other answer when an Official asks you for something. I look back at my friends. Their eyes are on the game in front of them and on the players moving the pieces. No one notices when I leave. Not even Xander. The crowd swal ows me up and I fol ow the Official’s white uniform out of the room.
“Let me reassure you that you have nothing to worry about,” the Official tel s me, smiling. Her voice sounds kind. She leads me to the smal greenspace outside the center. Even though being with an Official adds to my nervousness, the open air feels good after the crowd inside.
We walk across the neatly cut grass toward a metal bench that sits directly underneath a street lamp. There’s not another person in sight. “You don’t even have to tel me what happened,” the Official says. “I know. The face on the microcard wasn’t the right one, was it?”
She is kind: she didn’t make me say the words. I nod.
“You must be very worried. Have you told anyone what happened?”
“No,” I say. She gestures for me to sit down on the bench and so I do.
“Excel ent. Let me set your mind at ease.” She looks directly into my eyes. “Cassia, absolutely nothing has changed. You are stil Matched with Xander Carrow.”
“Thank you,” I say, and I’m so grateful that saying it once isn’t enough. “Thank you.” The confusion leaves me and I final y, final y, final y can relax. I sigh and she laughs.
“And may I congratulate you on your Match? It’s caused quite a stir. People are talking about it al over the Province. Perhaps even al through the Society. It hasn’t happened in many years.” She pauses briefly and then continues. “I don’t suppose you brought your microcard with you tonight?”
“Actual y, I did.” I pul it out of my pocket. “I was worried—I didn’t want anyone else to see ...”
She holds out her hand, and I drop the microcard into her outstretched palm. “Perfect. I’l take care of this.” She places it inside her smal Official’s case. I catch a glimpse of her tablet container and notice that it is larger than standard issue. She sees my glance. “Higher-level Officials carry extra,” she says. “In case of an emergency.” I nod, and she continues. “But that’s not something you need to worry about. Now, this is for you.” She takes another microcard from a side pocket inside the case. “I’ve checked it myself. Everything is in order.”
“Thank you.”
Neither of us says anything for a few moments after I slip the new microcard into my pocket. At first, I look around at the grass and the metal benches and the smal concrete fountain in the center of the greenspace, which sends up silvery wet showers of water every few seconds. Then I peek over at the woman next to me, trying to catch a glimpse of the insignia on her shirt pocket. I know she is an Official, because she wears white clothing, but I am not sure which Department of Society she represents.
“I’m part of the Matching Department, authorized to deal with information malfunctions,” the Official says, noticing my glance. “Fortunately, we don’t have much work to do. Since the Matching is so important to the Society, it’s very wel regulated.”
Her words remind me of a paragraph in the official Matching material: The goal of Matching is twofold: to provide the healthiest possible future citizens for our Society and to provide the best chances for interested citizens to experience successful Family Life. It is of the utmost importance to the Society that the Matches be as optimal as possible.
“I’ve never heard of a mistake like this before.”
“I’m afraid it does happen now and then. Not often.” She is silent for a moment, and then she asks the question that I do not want to hear: “Did you recognize the other person whose face you saw?”
Suddenly and irrational y I am tempted to lie. I want to say that I have no idea, that I have never seen that face before. I look over at the fountain again and as I watch the rise and fal of the water I know that my pause gives me away. So I answer.
“Yes.”
“Can you tel me his name?”
She already knows al of this, of course, so there is nothing to do but tel the truth. “Yes. Ky Markham. That’s what was so strange about the whole thing. The odds of a mistake being made, and of a mistake being made with someone else I know—”
“Are virtual y nonexistent,” she agrees. “That’s true. It makes us wonder if the error was intentional, some kind of joke. If we find the person, we wil punish them severely. It was a cruel thing to do. Not only because it was upsetting and confusing for you, but also because of Ky.”
“Does he know?”
“No. He has no idea. The reason I said it was cruel to use him as part of this prank is because of what he is.”
“What he is?” Ky Markham moved to our Borough back when we were ten. He is good-looking and quiet. He’s very stil . He is not a troublemaker.
I don’t see him as much as I once did; last year, he received his work position early and he no longer goes to Second School with the rest of the youth in our Borough.
The Official nods and leans a little closer, even though there is no one around to hear us. The light from the street lamp above shines down, hot, and I shift a little. “This is confidential information, but Ky Markham could never be your Match. He wil never be anyone’s Match.”
“He’s chosen to be a Single, then.” I’m not sure why this information is confidential. Lots of people in our school have chosen to be single. There’s even a paragraph about it in the official Matching material: Please consider carefully whether you are a good candidate to be Matched.
Remember, Singles are equally important in the Society. As you are aware, the current Leader of the Society is a Single. Both Matched and Single citizens experience full and satisfying lives. However, children are only allowed to be born to those who choose to be Matched.
She leans closer to me. “No. He’s not a Single. Ky Markham is an Aberration.”
Ky Markham is an Aberration?
Aberrations live among us; they’re not dangerous like Anomalies, who have to be separated from Society. Though Aberrations usual y acquire their status due to an Infraction, they are protected; their identities aren’t usual y common knowledge. Only the Officials in the Societal Classification Department and other related fields have access to such information.
I don’t ask my question out loud, but she knows what I am thinking. “I’m afraid so. It’s through no fault of his own. But his father committed an Infraction. The Society couldn’t overlook a factor like that, even when they al owed the Markhams to adopt Ky. He had to retain his classification as an Aberration, and, as such, was ineligible to be entered in the Matching pool.” She sighs. “We don’t make the microcards until a few hours before the Banquet. It’s likely the error occurred then. We’re already checking to see who had access to your microcard, who could have added Ky’s picture before the Banquet.”
“I hope you find out who did it,” I say. “You’re right. It’s cruel.”
“We’l find out,” she says, smiling at me. “I can promise you that.” Then she looks down, glances at her watch. “I have to leave now. I hope that I’ve been able to eliminate your concern.”
“Yes, thank you.” I try to pul my thoughts from the boy who is an Aberration. I should be thinking about how wonderful it is that everything is back in order. But instead I think about Ky—how sorry I feel for him, how I wish I didn’t have to know this about him and could have gone on thinking he had chosen to be a Single.
“I don’t need to remind you to keep the information about Ky Markham confidential, do I?” she asks mildly, but I hear the iron in her voice. “The only reason I shared it with you was so that you could know without a doubt that he was never intended to be your Match.”
“Of course. I won’t say anything to anyone.”
“Good. It’s probably best that you keep this to yourself. Of course, we could cal a meeting if you would like. I could explain to your parents and Xander and his parents what happened—”
“No!” I say forceful y. “No. I don’t want anyone to know, except—”
“Except who?”
I don’t answer, and suddenly her hand is on my arm. She does not grip me roughly, but I can tel that she wil wait out the answer to her brief question: “Who?”
“My grandfather,” I admit. “He’s almost eighty.”
She lets go of my arm. “When is his birthday?”
“Tomorrow.”
She thinks for a moment, then nods. “If you feel that you need to talk to someone about what happened, he would be the optimal one. Stil . That is the only person?”
“Yes,” I say. “I don’t want anyone else to know. I don’t mind Grandfather knowing because ...” I leave the sentence unfinished. She knows why. At least one of the reasons why, anyway.
“I’m glad you feel that way,” the Official says, nodding. “I have to admit that it makes things easier for me. Obviously, when you talk to your grandfather, you wil tel him that he wil be cited if he mentions this to anyone else. And that’s certainly not something he wants now. He could lose his preservation privileges.”
“I understand.”