Dad. Yeah. I really did want to help Dad. And May and Gerad. And, I supposed, even
my mother. When she talked about it that way, there was nothing to smile about. Things
had been strained around here for far too long. I wondered if Dad would see this as a way
back to normal, if any amount of money could make things better.
It wasn’t that our situation was so precarious that we were living in fear of survival or
anything. We weren’t destitute. But I guess we weren’t that far off either.
Our caste was just three away from the bottom. We were artists. And artists and
classical musicians were only three steps up from dirt. Literally. Our money was stretched
as tight as a high wire, and our income was highly dependent on the changing seasons.
I remembered reading in a timeworn history book that all the major holidays used to be
cramped into the winter months. Something called Halloween followed by Thanksgiving,
then Christmas and New Year’s. All back to back.
Christmas was still the same. It’s not like you could change the birth date of a deity. But
when Illéa made the massive peace treaty with China, the New Year came in January or
February, depending on the moon. All the individual celebrations of thankfulness and
independence from our part of the world were now simply the Grateful Feast. That came in
the summer. It was a time to celebrate the forming of Illéa, to rejoice in the fact that we
were still here.
I didn’t know what Halloween was. It never resurfaced.
So at least three times a year, the whole family would be fully employed. Dad and May
would make their art, and patrons would purchase them as gifts. Mom and I would perform
at parties—me singing and her on piano—not turning down a single job if we could
manage it. When I was younger, performing in front of an audience terrified me. But now I
just tried to equate myself to background music. That’s what we were in the eyes of our
employers: meant to be heard and not seen.
Gerad hadn’t found his talent yet. But he was only seven. He still had a little time.
Soon the leaves would change, and our tiny world would be unsteady again. Five
mouths but only four workers. No guarantees of employment until Christmastime.
When I thought of it that way, the Selection seemed like a rope, something sure I could
grab onto. That stupid letter could lift me out of the darkness, and I could pull my family
along with me.
I looked over at my mother. For a Five, she was a little on the heavy side, which was
odd. She wasn’t a glutton, and it’s not like we had anything to overeat anyway. Perhaps
that’s just the way a body looks after five children. Her hair was red, like mine, but full of
brilliant white streaks. Those had appeared suddenly and in abundance about two years
ago. Lines creased the corners of her eyes, though she was still pretty young, and I could
see as she moved around the kitchen that she was hunched over as if an invisible weight
rested on her shoulders.
I knew she had a lot to carry. And I knew that was why she had taken to being
particularly manipulative with me. We fought enough without the extra strain, but as the
empty fall quietly approached, she became much more irritable. I knew she thought I was
being unreasonable now, to not even want to fill out a silly little form.
But there were things—important things—in this world that I loved. And that piece of
paper seemed like a brick wall keeping me away from what I wanted. Maybe what I
wanted was stupid. Maybe it wasn’t even something I could have. But still, it was mine. I
didn’t think I could sacrifice my dreams, no matter how much my family meant to me.
Besides, I had given them so much already.
I was the oldest one left now that Kenna was married and Kota was gone, and I did my
best to contribute. We scheduled my homeschooling around my rehearsals, which took up
most of the day since I was trying to master several instruments as well as singing.
