Turning Eighteen
Mo stared at her reflection in the dresser mirror and sighed. No matter how she looked, she’d have to endure the sympathetic glances of others when they thought her attention was elsewhere. If she showed up a mess, they’d also whisper that she was too depressed to care for herself. She picked up her comb.
“Mo!” Papa bellowed.
“Coming.” She shoved the comb into her back pocket and went downstairs to join her parents. As soon as they were on the train, she’d excuse herself, go to the bathroom, and touch up her hair. She might fall apart at midnight, but she was determined to arrive tidy and composed.
“Finally,” Papa said, already in his cloak. “What were you doing up there? Trying on every outfit in your closet?”
No, procrastinating. Usually she looked forward to a party, but she couldn’t muster up any excitement over this one. Les, eighteen. Mo wished she could celebrate the milestone with her, but the entire day was a reminder of where her relationship with Les was going—or rather, not going. She grabbed her new cloak from its hook and shrugged it on.
Mama studied her. “It looks lovely. You outdid yourself this time, Michael.”
Papa beamed and started to fuss, adjusting the cloak’s collar and pulling down the sleeves, much to Mo’s annoyance. “I’ll have a light blue one soon,” she said, stepping around him and heading out the door.
Mama and Papa followed her. “I know that,” Papa said. “But I want you to look smart when you arrive at the Military Academy.”
Mo managed a small smile for him. “I certainly will, in this.”
Mama quickened her pace. “If we hurry, we can catch the five o’clock train.”
“We don’t want to be late for the supper,” Papa said. “The meals at the Dance Hall are always tasty.”
Mo wouldn’t know. She’d only been to the Dance Hall once, and that eighteenth party hadn’t included a proper sit-down meal. Rymellans under eighteen weren’t admitted to the Dance Hall—private functions like Les’s party were an exception. Now that Les was eighteen, would she want to spend all her free time at the Dance Hall, dancing the night away with other eighteen-year-olds?
“Any Solitary Notification yet?” Papa asked.
Mo perked up, all thoughts of Les leaving her behind forgotten.
“Not when I spoke to Adelaide an hour ago,” Mama said. “They usually arrive by seven, don’t they? Only a few hours to go.”
Papa shook his head. “It can happen right up until midnight. Ten to twelve—that’s what time the Solitary Notification arrived at an eighteenth I attended.”
“That’s late,” Mama said, frowning.
Papa sniffed. “A family of half-wits. Nice enough, but none of them had two brain cells to rub together. Up to that point, all the children had received Solitary Notifications. I think a member of the Chosen Council must have realized that one was about to slip through and breed, and rushed a Solitary Notification over.”
Mo rolled her eyes. “Papa, that can’t be true. That’s not the way it happens.”
Papa ignored her. “And at another eighteenth, the military delivered the Solitary Notification, not a courier. What happened was that someone spotted the Chosen Council’s courier and alerted the family. They figured that if they could dodge the courier until midnight had passed, the Solitary Notification wouldn’t be valid.”
“Were they related to the family of half-wits?” Mo asked.
“Eventually the courier contacted the military. They finally caught up with everyone around eleven-thirty and had to coax the young man out of a tree to hand him the Notification.”
Mo snorted. “First of all, they would have activated his comm unit beacon, so it wouldn’t have taken them long to find him. Second, they wouldn’t have coaxed him down. They would have shaken him out of the tree and dragged him to an execution site. Article CT43.” In accordance with the article, Les had sent a dispatch to the Chosen Council that detailed her expected whereabouts on her eighteenth birthday. Mo had watched her do it. Mine will be easy. We’ll be at the Military Academy, she remembered saying.
“I must admit, when I saw that CT43 had been added to the Tradition, I wondered if it was because of what happened at that eighteenth,” Papa said.
“What?” Mo shrieked.
“Don’t listen to him,” Mama said with a grin. “That article was in the Tradition when I did my Level Four, and he’s younger than I am.”
Mo nodded. “It’s probably been there for centuries.”
Papa let out an exaggerated sigh. “It was a lot more fun telling you stories when you were younger.”
“Yeah, I’m sure it was.” Mo paused. “Anyway, what’s wrong with being a Solitary? You aren’t disappointed with Mary and Matthew, are you?”
“Of course not,” Mama said firmly.
“But it can be disappointing for the Solitary,” Papa said. “No children, for one thing.”
Mama stared at him, wide-eyed. “Better no children than children weak in the Way! You don’t have to have children to serve the Way. Look at the Preeminent Ruler. He’s a Solitary.”
“I agree. I was just saying it can be disappointing for them when they first find out.”
“Were Mary and Matthew disappointed?” Mo asked.
“Why don’t you ask them?” Mama said. “They’ll be at the Dance Hall.”
“I just might,” Mo said, despite knowing she wouldn’t. She wasn’t close to either of them. Funnily enough, she felt more comfortable with Neil, even though he was the oldest. Mary had never wanted her little sister around when their breaks from the Indoctrination Academy coincided, and Mo didn’t have much in common with Matthew. Plus, he never laughed at her jokes. How could she be close to someone who never laughed at her jokes?
“And don’t worry. We won’t be disappointed if you turn out to be a Solitary. Chosen, Solitary, as long as you serve the Way, it doesn’t matter,” Mama told her.
It mattered to Mo. She wanted to be whatever Les turned out to be. If they were both Chosens, she could cling to the minuscule possibility that they were each other’s. She shouldn’t, but she would. If they were both Solitaries, they couldn’t have daughters, but they could choose to stay with each other for the rest of their lives. Nobody could split them up, not even the Chosen Council.