“Perfect.” My mother dabs her mouth primly on her napkin and beams across the table at Mrs. Hargrove. “Absolutely exquisite.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Hargrove says, inclining her head graciously, as though she, and not her cook, has been the one to prepare the meal. My mom has a housekeeper who comes in three times a week, but I have never known a family with an actual staff. Mayor Hargrove and his family have real servants. They pass through the dining room, pouring water from sterling silver pitchers, refilling the bread plates, pouring out the wine.
“Didn’t you think so, Hana?” My mother turns to me, widening her eyes so I can read the command in them.
“Absolutely perfect,” I reply obediently. My mother narrows her eyes at me slightly, and I can tell she’s wondering whether I’m making fun of her. Perfect has been her favorite word this summer. Hana’s performance at the evaluations was perfect. Hana’s score was practically perfect. Hana was paired with Fred Hargrove—the mayor’s son! Isn’t that perfect? Especially since, well . . . There was that unfortunate situation with his first match . . . but everything always works out in the end. . . .
“Mediocre at best,” Fred puts in casually.
Mayor Hargrove nearly chokes on his water. Mrs. Hargrove gasps, “Fred!”
Fred winks at me. I duck my head, hiding a smile.
“I’m kidding, Mom. It was delicious, as usual. But maybe Hana is tired of discussing the quality of the green beans?”
“Are you tired, Hana?” Mrs. Hargrove has apparently not understood that her son is joking. She turns her watery gaze to me. Now Fred is concealing a smile.
“Not at all,” I say, trying to sound sincere. It is my first time having dinner with the Hargroves, and my parents have impressed on me for weeks how critical it is that they like me.
“Why don’t you take Hana out to the gardens?” Mayor Hargrove suggests, pushing away from the table. “It’ll take a few minutes to get coffee and dessert on.”
“No, no.” The last thing I want is to be alone with Fred. He is nice enough, and thanks to the information packet I received about him from the evaluators, I’m well prepared to discuss his interests (golf; movies; politics), but nevertheless, he makes me nervous. He is older, and cured, and has already been matched once before. Everything about him—from the shiny silver cuff links to the neat way his hair curls around his collar—makes me feel like a little kid, stupid and inexperienced.
But Fred is already standing up. “That’s a great idea,” he says. He offers me his hand. “Come on, Hana.”
I hesitate. It seems strange to have physical contact with a boy here, in a brightly lit room, with my parents watching me impassively—but of course, Fred Hargrove is my match, and so it is not forbidden. I take his hand, and he draws me up to my feet. His palms are very dry, and rougher than I expected.
We move out of the dining room and into a wood-paneled hall. Fred gestures for me to go first, and I am uncomfortably aware of his eyes on my body, his closeness and smell. He is big. Tall. Taller than Steve Hilt.
As soon as I think of the comparison, I’m angry with myself.
When we step onto the back porch, I move away from him, and am relieved when he doesn’t follow. I press up against the railing, staring out into the vast, dark-draped landscape of gardens. Small, scrolled-iron lamps illuminate birch trees and maples, trellises neat with climbing roses, and beds of blood-red tulips. The crickets are singing, a throaty swell. The air smells like wet earth.
“It’s beautiful,” I blurt.
Fred has settled onto the porch swing, keeping one leg crossed over the opposite knee. His face is mostly in shadow, but I can tell he’s smiling. “Mom likes gardening. Actually, I think she just likes weeding. I swear, sometimes I think she plants weeds just so she can yank them up again.”
I don’t say anything. I’ve heard rumors that Mr. and Mrs. Hargrove have close ties to the president of Deliria-Free America, one of the most powerful anti-deliria groups in the country. It makes sense that she likes to weed, to uproot the nasty, creeping growth that blemishes her perfect garden. That is what the DFA wants too: total eradication of the disease, of the nasty, dark, twisting emotions that cannot be regulated or controlled.
I feel as though something hard and sharp is stuck in my throat. I swallow, reach out, and squeeze the porch railing, taking comfort in its roughness and solidity.
I should be grateful. That’s what my mother would tell me. Fred is good-looking, and rich, and he seems nice enough. His father is the most powerful man in Portland, and Fred is being groomed to take his place. But the tightness in my chest and throat won’t go away.
He dresses like his father.