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As if I had a choice. Girl neighbourhoods sit on the opposite side of the metro from the boy neighbourhoods, and trips into the metro are carefully chaperoned by parents during approved movement hours. It wasn’t always like that though. My grandmother whispered stories about how things had changed since she was a girl. On my fourteenth birthday, a month before her removal, I asked her about the marriage profiles in the Bulletin. Girls at academy brought them to hide under their desks, taking turns passing them to one another and giggling at the pictures of the boys.
‘Why are there marriage profiles in the Bulletin?’ I asked her. ‘Can’t girls and boys meet in person in the metro after they turn sixteen?’
My grandmother had deep brown eyes and she turned the full force of them on me, studying me before she answered. ‘It’s not as easy these days for girls and boys to meet. Parents don’t like the chance of it, and most young people get tongue-tied when they meet the first time. ’Course –’ she chuckled a bit – ‘that’s not so different from before segregation.’
‘I never realised there was a before and after to segregation,’ I said, feeling very small under her wise gaze.
‘There’s always a before and after to everything since before humanity began,’ she said with a twist of her mouth, ‘and there’ll be an after to humans someday, too. But yes, when I was a girl. We lived together then – boys and girls. No separate neighbourhoods.’
‘Did you know grandfather then, before . . .’ My hushed voice trailed into a question. Even talking about boys seemed strange.
‘He grew up next door to me,’ she told me, widening her eyes in mock shock at the confession. ‘I think it was easier to meet the marriage requirements then. Girls didn’t marry complete strangers.’
‘But purity standards . . .’ I couldn’t finish the thought. It was too embarrassing.
‘Oh, yes, those,’ she said with a wink. ‘They were harder to keep.’
I didn’t ask her if she kept them; it seemed too personal a question, even for grandmother, and because I was really embarrassed by her wink. ‘My mom and dad were profiled though, right?’
‘Yes, our children were the first segregated generation,’ she said, and there was a trace of regret in her words.
‘But they loved each other when they got married,’ I reassured her, not understanding the sadness in her voice. ‘So it’s okay.’
‘Yes, they love each other,’ she said in a soft voice, and I felt peace settle into my chest. I didn’t ask any more questions that day. Only now do I regret the answers I lost.
‘What was your academy ranking?’ The doctor’s voice filters in over the memory, and I realise I’ve been answering the mapping questions without listening. Stupid mental stimulant.
‘I was ranked in the top quarter.’
‘Were you disciplined often?’ he asks.
‘You guys have my file, you know this,’ I say, fighting the urge to shove at the mapper again.
‘We’re studying how your brain processes each question and answer,’ he reminds me.
By the time the doctor asks me about my fifth-year teacher, I’m bored and uncomfortable. My back muscles spasm from the unnatural angle I’m lying at and my eyes water against the laser. I answer quickly, trying to stay awake. I’m sure they’re saving the juiciest questions for when I fall asleep.
‘Adelice,’ the doctor continues, ‘when did you discover you could weave?’
‘At the testing, when I wove on the loom.’
He pauses, and I bite my lip. How much can this thing tell them?
‘You never showed talent before then?’
‘I didn’t have access to a loom.’
‘Hmmm.’ He murmurs something I can’t make out.
‘And your sister, Amie, did she ever show talent?’
I grip the edge of the metal slab. ‘No.’
‘Okay,’ the doctor says, ‘we’re going to transition to talking about your time at the Coventry. What is your favourite dish from the food generators?’
I sigh and relax my fingers, returning to automatic-answer mode. He asks about my wardrobe, where I work, what my duties are and which ones challenge me. He doesn’t mention Maela, so I’m able to keep my blood pressure normal.
‘Thank you, Adelice. Nurse Renni will be in to remove the mapper and IV,’ he says in my ear.
