Crewel

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