Sorted
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Matched
Copyright: Ally Condie
One day after Cassia's sorting test, the whistle signaling the end of Ky's shift was followed by a second, longer whistle: the sign for an important announcement. Instead of filing out of the room, he and his fellow workers stayed put. He looked up toward the observation deck where she had stood, where Foreman Miller was standing now with folded arms and an uneasy smile.
"Attention!" called Miller, his voice echoing through loudspeakers and bouncing off concrete walls. "May I have your attention, please?"
Silence. Not just the exhausted silence of workers who have spent all day on their feet, breathing steam, soap and poison, but the tense silence of holding one's breath while waiting for a storm to break.
"I'm sure you are all aware of the sorting that took place here yesterday," Miller continued, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Well … the young woman's test results were sent to me this morning. I am pleased to announce that forty-nine of you qualified for promotion."
Smiles touched the faces of the workers around Ky. Some clapped each other on the back; one even managed a whistle, which drew scattered laughs. Others, however, scowled. Ky's neighbor, a middle-aged woman with the face of a bulldog, muttered darkly into her sink: "As if we weren't spread thin enough already."
As Miller began to read out the names of those lucky forty-nine, Ky found it hard to concentrate. He couldn't stop thinking about the rumors he heard in the sterilizer or the cantina; about that man he had once heard, whispering to a friend about promotions. My brother got 'promoted' six months ago, and I haven't heard a word from since. No letters, no port message, no nothing. I wonder if – At that point, his friend had shushed him, eyes flicking back and forth for eavesdroppers, glowering at Ky until he turned he way with studied indifference. As an Aberration and the son of a Rising leader, Ky had learned early to recognize a loaded silence. As a sorter, he had no problem aligning these facts with the ongoing war in the Outer Provinces.
These so-called promotions, he knew, were not what they appeared to be.
Beneath his impassive features, he was dizzy with nerves. Cassia had held his life in her delicate hands. What had she done with it? Relax, he ordered himself. Trust her. But it had been so long since he had trusted someone. It was not an easy thing to relearn.
"Number 451," Miller read from his scribe. "Ky Markham."
Ky's blood ran cold.
Cassia, what have you done?
The thought was involuntary, bitter as the sanitizing soap in the water in front him. If he could, he would have torn it from his mind and flushed it down the drain with the rest of the refuse. It was unreasonable, and he knew it. The woman he loved would never send him to die.
But she knows me, that bitter voice insisted. She knows I wouldn't ask for a promotion, even if it were real. Does she want to get me out of this city? Is she tired of me? And what gives her the right to decide my future anyway?
He snapped the edge of his latex glove, making his wrist sting to recall him to his senses. He dragged his thoughts back to the sorting, to Cassia's coppery hair against the gray walls and the examiner hovering behind her. Deciding his future, he knew, was less of a right for her than a duty. She could not have refused the test without looking suspicious.
He remembered her face, pale in spite of the heat, as she stared down at him in horrified sympathy. She was either an exceptional liar (which was highly unlikely), or someone who loved him.
Finished with his names, Miller cleared his throat and wound up his announcement: "You will be escorted from your homes tomorrow after dinner. Leave all posessions behind, as you will be provided for at your destination. I can't tell you where you're going, but my superiors assured me that, as always, Society has your best interests at heart. So … congratulations," he finished, his voice falsely bright. "I wish you optimal results."
He began to applaud and the workers followed, the slap of wet gloves reverberating through the room. Ky clapped too, blending in as always, faintly nauseous at the idea of celebrating his own death.
She was trying to protect me, he argued with the voice. Like the angels she dreams about. She could not have known. It was his turn to feel a rush of sympathy for her, innocent as she was. If this were a genuine promotion, her choice – giving him up so he could live a better life – would have been a noble one.
If only. The most dangerous words in the English language. After his parents' deaths, he had believed there were no more if only's left in him, but Cassia made them grow with redoubled force. If only he were a citizen and her Match. If only they were free to choose. If only she had known to rank him in the less efficient group. If only he could stay.
At the very least, he could see her one last time. He would ask her for that kiss he'd seen in her eyes ever since their first hike. He would hold her in his arms on top of the Hill, breathe in the sun-and-forest scent of her, bury his hands in the satin of her hair. He would write his love for her, ask her not to read it until he was gone.
Above all, he must not let Cassia know he had suspected her, even for a moment. He must not meet her clear bright eyes with any darkness in his own.