The Selection series 1-3

“That’s awfully sweet!” Mom exclaimed. I had almost forgotten she was in the room.

“Aspen, I’m glad you’re here.” I tried to sound as removed as he had. “I’ve made a mess trying to pack. Could you help me clean?”

With my mom there, he had to accept. As a general rule, Sixes didn’t turn down work. We were the same in that way.

He exhaled through his nose and nodded once.

Aspen followed me down the hall. I thought about how many times I’d wanted just this: for Aspen to walk in my house and come to my room. Could the circumstances have been any worse?

I pushed open the door to my room and Aspen laughed out loud.

“Did you let a dog do your packing?”

“Shut up! I had a little trouble finding what I was looking for.” In spite of myself, I smiled.

He went to work, setting things upright and folding shirts. I helped, of course.

“Aren’t you taking any of these clothes?” he whispered.

“No. They dress me from tomorrow on out.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“Were your sisters disappointed?”

“No, actually.” He shook his head in disbelief. “The moment they saw your face, the whole house erupted. They’re crazy about you. My mom in particular.”

“I love your mom. She’s always really nice to me.”

A few minutes passed in silence as my room went slowly back to normal.

“Your picture …,” he began, “was absolutely beautiful.”

It hurt to have him tell me I was beautiful. It wasn’t fair. Not after everything he’d done.

“It was for you,” I whispered.

“What?”

“It’s just … I thought you were going to be proposing soon.” My voice was thick.

Aspen was quiet for a moment, choosing his words.

“I’d been thinking about it, but it doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It does. Why didn’t you tell me?”

He rubbed his neck, deciding.

“I was waiting.”

“For what?” What could possibly be worth waiting for?

“For the draft.”

That was an issue. It was hard to know whether to wish to be drafted or not. In Illéa, every nineteen-year-old male was eligible for it. Soldiers were chosen at random twice a year, to catch everyone within six months of their birthday. You served from the time you were nineteen until you were twenty-three. And it was coming soon.

We’d talked about it, of course, but not in a realistic way. I guess we both hoped that if we ignored the draft, it would ignore us, too.

It was a blessing in that being a soldier meant you were an automatic Two. The government trained you and paid you for the rest of your life. The drawback was you never knew where you would go. They sent you away from your province, for sure. They assumed you were more likely to be lenient with people you knew. You might end up at the palace or in some other province’s local police force. Or you might end up in the army, shipped off to war. Not very many men sent into battle made it home.

If a man wasn’t married before the draft, he’d almost always wait. You’d be separated from your wife for four years, at the very best. At the worst, she’d be a young widow.

“I just … I didn’t want to do that to you,” he whispered.

“I understand.”

He straightened up, trying to change the subject. “So what are you taking to the palace?”

“A change of clothes to wear whenever they finally kick me out. Some pictures and books. I’ve been told I won’t need my instruments. Anything I want will be there already. So that little bag there, that’s it.”

The room was tidy now, and that backpack seemed huge for some reason. The flowers he’d brought looked so bright on my desk compared to the drab things I owned. Or maybe it was just that everything seemed paler now … now that it was over.

“That’s not much,” he noted.

“I’ve never needed very much to be happy. I thought you knew that.”

He closed his eyes. “Stop it, America. I did the right thing.”

“The right thing? Aspen, you made me believe we could do it. You made me love you. And then you talked me into this damn contest. Do you know they’re practically shipping me off to be one of Maxon’s playthings?”

He whipped his head around to face me. “What?”

“I’m not allowed to turn him down. Not for anything.”

Aspen looked sick, angry. His hands clenched up into fists. “Even … even if he doesn’t want to marry you … he could …?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” He took a few deep breaths. “But if he does pick you … that’ll be good. You deserve to be happy.”

That was it. I slapped him. “You idiot!” I whisper-yelled at him. “I hate him! I loved you! I wanted you; all I ever wanted was you!”

His eyes welled up, but I couldn’t care. He’d hurt me enough, and now it was his turn.

“I should go,” he said, and started heading to the door.

“Wait. I didn’t pay you.”