‘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 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.