After I’m done, as I am leaving, I think I see a shifting shadow, a flicker in my peripheral vision. I glance up quickly at the observation deck. Of course, it’s empty.
Two days later we receive the results of my boards—all passes—and my final score: Eight. My aunt hugs me, the first time she has hugged me in years. My uncle pats me on the shoulder awkwardly and gives me the largest piece of chicken at dinner. Even Jenny looks impressed. Gracie rams the top of her head into my leg, one, two, three times, and I step away from her, tell her to stop fussing. I know she’s upset that I’ll be leaving her.
But that’s life, and the sooner she gets used to it, the better.
I receive my “Approved Matches” too, a list of four names and statistics—age, scores, interests, recommended career path, salary projections—printed neatly on a white sheet of paper with the Portland city crest at its top. At least Andrew Marcus isn’t on it. I recognize only one name: Chris McDonnell. He has bright red hair and teeth that stick out like a rabbit’s. I only know him because once when I was playing outside last year with Gracie, he started chanting, “There goes the retard and the orphan,” and without really thinking about what I was doing, I scooped up a rock from the ground and turned around and hurled it in his direction. It caught him on the temple. For a second his eyes crossed and uncrossed. He lifted his fingers to his head, and when he pulled them away they were dark with blood. For days afterward I was terrified to go out, terrified I’d be arrested and thrown in the Crypts. Mr. McDonnell owned a tech services firm, and was a volunteer regulator besides. I was convinced he would come after me for what I’d done to his son.
Chris McDonnell. Phinneas Jonston. Edward Wung. Brian Scharff. I stare at the names for so long that the letters rearrange themselves into nonsense words, into baby babble. Gone Crap, Just Fine, Won’t Spill, Pick Chris, Sharp Things.
In mid-July, when my procedure is only seven weeks away, it’s time to make my decision. I rank my choices arbitrarily, inserting numbers next to names: Phinneas Jonston (1), Chris McDonnell (2), Brian Scharff (3), Edward Wung (4). The boys will be submitting their rankings too; the evaluators will do their best to match preferences.
Two days later I receive the official notification: I’ll be spending the rest of my life with Brian Scharff, whose hobbies are “watching the news” and “fantasy baseball,” and who plans to work “in the electricians’ guild,” and who can “someday expect to make $45,000,” a salary that “should support two to three kids.” I’ll be pledged to him before I begin Regional College of Portland in the fall. When I graduate we’ll be married.
At night I sleep dreamlessly. In the mornings I wake to fog.
Chapter Twelve
In the decades before the development of the cure, the disease had become so
virulent and widespread it was extraordinarily rare for a person to reach adulthood without having contracted a significant case of amor deliria nervosa (please see “Statistics, Pre–Border Era”). . . . Many historians have argued that
pre-cure society was itself a reflection of the disease, characterized by fracture,
chaos, and instability. . . . Almost half of all marriages ended in dissolution
. . . . Incidence of drug use skyrocketed, as did alcohol-related deaths.
People were so desperate for relief and protection from the disease they began widespread experimentation with makeshift folk remedies that were in themselves deadly, consuming concoctions of drugs assembled from common cold medications and synthesized into an extremely addictive and often fatal compound (please see “Folk Cures Through the Ages”). . . .
The discovery of the procedure to cure deliria is typically credited to Cormac T. Holmes, a neuroscientist who was a member of the initial Consortium of New Scientists and one of the first disciples of the New Religion, which teaches the Holy Trinity of God, Science, and Order. Holmes was canonized several years after his death, and his body was preserved and displayed in the All-Saints’ Monument in Washington, DC (see photographs on pp. 210–212).
—From “Before the Border,” A Brief History of the United States of America, by E. D. Thompson, p. 121
One hot evening toward the end of July I’m walking home from the Stop-N-Save when I hear someone call my name. I turn around and see Hana jogging up the hill toward me.
“So what?” she says as she gets closer, panting a little. “You’re just going to walk by me now?”