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‘This is exactly the cake I want for my birthday,’ Amie gushes. She’s never had anything like a bakery cake before. When Amie came home from academy today and saw this one, my mom told her she could have one for her next birthday. It’s a pretty big deal for a kid who’s only had hand-me-downs her whole life, but my mom obviously wants to soften her transition into training.
‘It will have to be a bit smaller,’ Mom reminds her, ‘and you won’t be having any of this one if you don’t eat your dinner first.’
I can’t help smiling as Amie’s eyes widen and she begins scooping food into her mouth, gulping it down hard. Mom calls her ‘an eater’. I wish I could eat like her when I’m excited or tense or sad, but nerves kill my appetite, and the fact that this is the last dinner I’ll ever share with my family has my stomach in knots.
‘Did you get this for Adelice?’ Amie asks between bites, revealing bits of chewed food.
‘Close your mouth when you eat,’ my dad says, but I see the corner of his own curling up a bit.
‘Yes, Adelice deserved something special today.’ My mother’s voice is quiet, but as she speaks her face glows and a faint smile plays at her lips. ‘I thought we should celebrate.’
‘Marfa Crossix’s sister came home from testing last week crying and hasn’t left her room yet,’ Amie continues after swallowing the meat. ‘Marfa said it was like someone died. Everyone is so sad. Her parents are already setting up courtship appointments to cheer her up. She has an appointment with pretty much every boy with an active marriage profile in Romen.’
Amie laughs, but the rest of the table falls silent. I’m studying the scallops in the icing, trying to make out the delicate pattern the baker used. Amie doesn’t notice the quiet resistance of my parents to the Guild-approved curriculum and marriage laws, but they haven’t exactly been honest with her either. I’m old enough to understand why they don’t want me to become a Spinster, even if they’ve always been careful with what they say to me.
My father clears his throat and looks at my mother for support. ‘Some girls really want to go to the Coventry. Marfa’s sister must be disappointed.’
‘I would be, too,’ Amie chirps, shovelling a forkful of potatoes into her mouth. ‘They showed us pictures at academy. Spinsters are so beautiful, and they have everything.’
‘I suppose,’ Mom murmurs, slicing small bites of meat with her knife in slow, precise strokes.
‘I can’t wait for testing.’ Amie sighs dreamily, and my mother frowns at her. Amie’s in too much of a daze to notice.
‘Those girls are very privileged, but if Adelice was called, we would never see her again.’ Mom’s response is careful. My parents have started trying to plant doubt in Amie’s head, although her tendency to rattle on to anyone listening makes it hard to talk to her about important stuff. But I don’t mind listening to Amie relate the dramas of every girl in her class or the programmes she saw on the Stream. It’s my break before spending every night practising and rehearsing what to say – and not to say. Curling up with my sister before she falls asleep is when I get my only sense of normal.
But a cake can’t buy more than a night’s happiness. My parents will have a long road ahead of them preparing Amie to fail at her testing. She’s never shown an ounce of weaving ability, but they’ll prepare her. I wonder if she’ll still be eager to go when it’s her turn in four years.
‘Marfa says when she’s a Spinster she’ll always get her picture on the front of the Bulletin so her parents won’t worry. That’s what I’d do, too.’ Her face is solemn as though she’s really thought this through.
Mom smiles but doesn’t respond. Amie fawns over the glitzy images in our daily bulletin like most pre-testing girls, but she doesn’t truly understand what Spinsters do. I mean, of course she understands that they maintain and embellish the fabric that makes up our world. Every girl learns that early in academy. But someday my parents will explain what Spinsters really do – that no matter how good their intentions, with absolute power comes corruption. And the Guild has absolute power over us and the Spinsters. But they also feed us and protect us. I listen to my parents, but I don’t really understand either. Can a life of providing food and safety for others be that bad? I only know that what’s about to happen to me is going to break their hearts, and once I’m gone, I’ll never have a chance to tell them I’m okay. I guess I’ll have to get my picture on the front of the Bulletin like Marfa Crossix.
The meal continues in silence, and everyone’s eyes gravitate toward our fluffy white centrepiece. The small oak dining table sits four perfectly; we can pass bowls and plates to one another, but tonight my mother served us because there’s room for nothing but the cake. I envy the gleeful sparkle in Amie’s eyes as she stares at it, probably imagining how it will taste or building her grand thirteenth birthday cake in her head. My parents, on the other hand, sit in quiet relief: the closest to celebrating they can muster.
‘I’m sorry you failed, Ad,’ Amie says, looking up at me. Her eyes dart back to the cake, and I see the longing in them.
‘Adelice didn’t fail,’ my father tells her.
‘But she wasn’t chosen.’
‘We didn’t want her to be chosen,’ my mother says.
‘Did you want to be chosen, Ad?’ Amie’s question is so earnest and innocent.
I barely shake my head.
‘But why not?’ Amie asks.
‘Do you want that life?’ Mom asks her quietly.
‘Why are you so against the Spinsters? I don’t get why we’re celebrating.’ Amie’s eyes stay focused on the cake. She’s never been so blunt before.
‘We’re not against the Spinsterhood,’ Mom responds in a rush.
‘Or the Guild,’ Dad adds.
‘Or the Guild,’ Mom echoes with a nod. ‘But if you pass testing, you can never return here.’
Here – the cramped two-bedroom house in the girls’ neighbourhood, where I’ve been safe from the influence of boys my age. My home, with books stashed in hollowed cubbies behind panels in the walls, along with family heirlooms passed down for almost one hundred years from mother to daughter. I’ve always loved the radio in particular, even if it doesn’t work any more. Mom says that it used to play music and stories and proclaimed the news, like the Stream does now but without the visuals. I asked once why we kept it if it was useless, and she told me that remembering the past is never useless.
