Crewel

once why we kept it if it was useless, and she told me that remembering the past is never useless.
    ‘But a Spinster’s life is exciting,’ Amie argues. ‘They have parties and beautiful dresses. Spinsters have control.’
    Her last word hangs in the air, and my parents exchange a worried glance. Control? No one granting permission to have children. No predetermined cosmetic routines. No chosen roles. That would be true control.
    ‘If you think they have control—’ Mom begins quietly, but my father coughs.
    ‘They have cake,’ Amie says with a sigh, slumping against the table.
    Dad takes one look at her pitiful face, throws his head back, and laughs. A moment later, my usually stoic mother joins in. Even I feel some giggles bubbling up my throat. Amie does her best to look sad, but her frown twitches until it turns into an impish grin.
    ‘Your cosmetic tokens should arrive next week, Adelice,’ my mom says, turning back to me. ‘I’ll show you how to apply everything.’
    ‘Arras knows, I’d better be able to apply cosmetics. Isn’t that a girl’s most important job?’ The jibe is out of my mouth before I consider what I’m saying. I have a habit of cracking a joke when I’m nervous. But judging from the look of warning on my mom’s face, I’m not being very funny.
    ‘And I’ll jump right on those courtship appointments,’ Dad says with a wink, breaking up the tension between Mom and me.
    This actually makes me laugh, despite the numbing dread creeping through my limbs. My parents aren’t as eager to get me married and out of the house as most girls’ families are, even if I am required to be married by eighteen. But the joke can’t elevate my mood for long. Right now the thought of getting married, an inevitability that was always too surreal to consider, is out of the question. Spinsters don’t marry.
    ‘And I get to help you choose your cosmetic colours at the co-op, right?’ Amie reminds me. She’s been studying catalogues and style sets since she could read. Mom doesn’t take us to the metro co-op to shop often, because it’s not segregated, and when she has it’s been for home supplies, not something exciting like cosmetics.
    ‘I hear they’re increasing the number of teachers in the Corps on assignment day,’ Dad continues, serious again.
    I’ve always wanted to be a teacher. Secretary, nurse, factory worker – none of the other designated female roles left any room for creativity. Even in a carefully controlled academy curriculum there is more room for expression in teaching than there is in typing notes for businessmen.
    ‘Oh, Ad, you’d be a great teacher,’ Amie bursts in. ‘Whatever you do, don’t get stuck in an office. We just finished our shorthand class, and it was so boring. Besides you have to food-gen coffee all day! Right, Mom?’
    Amie looks to her for confirmation, and Mom gives her a quick nod. My sister’s too oblivious to see the pain flash across her face, but I’m not.
    ‘I do make a lot of coffee,’ Mom says.
    My throat is raw from holding back tears, and if I speak . . . 
    ‘I’m sure you’ll get assigned to be a teacher,’ Mom says, eager to change the subject, and then she pats my arm. I must look nervous. I try to imagine what I would be feeling now if assignment day was only a week away for me, but I can’t. I was supposed to go to testing for a month, to be dismissed, and then get assigned. It was the first time I’d been on a loom, one of the large automated machines that show us the fabric of Arras. It was the first time any of us Eligibles had even seen a loom. I only had to act as if I couldn’t see the weave, like the other girls, and answer the proctor’s questions with my practised lies. If I hadn’t slipped, I would have been dismissed, and then assigned based on my strength assessments at academy. For years, I’d dutifully learned shorthand, home economics, and information storage. But now I’d never get the chance to use any of it.
    ‘We need a new teacher.’ Amie interrupts my thoughts. ‘Mrs Swander left.’
    ‘Is she expecting a baby?’ my mother asks in a knowing way. Her eyes dull a bit as she speaks.
    ‘No.’ Amie shakes her head. ‘Principal Diffet said she had an accident.’
    ‘An accident?’ Dad repeats with a frown.
    ‘Yep.’ Amie nods, suddenly wide-eyed. ‘I’ve never known anyone who’s had an accident before.’ Her voice is a mix of awe and solemnity. None of us know anyone who has