As I sat in class, I could barely keep my focus. My mind kept wandering to the Partner Selection the next day.


The year was 2148, and America was very different from what it used to be, or so I had heard. In 2079, divorce rates hit an all-time high. Nearly 8 out of every 10 people would get a divorce before their 35th birthday. The abusive relationship rate became much higher as well.


The government also decided that married couples should marry someone who is “opposite” from them. People with low IQs should be matched with someone with a high IQ. People that aren’t athletic should be paired with someone that is. This is so the couple’s future offspring will have similar talents and capabilities to everyone in the rest of the world. The government wanted to make a change. In 2082, they established the Partner Selection.


That night, I could barely sleep. I worried about what questions would be asked and how I would answer. The thought that I would be stuck with a complete stranger for the rest of my life frightened me. I reminded myself that my parents had gone through the same selection process nineteen years earlier and that it worked out well for them.

Each year for Partner Selection, ninth grade students take a test. This test asks them about their personal preferences, likes and dislikes, and their views on society and the world. The government would then match them up with a person of their preference of gender that has similar answers to theirs.


People taking the test don’t know a lot about it because every year it changes. The government decides which questions are useful each year and varies the test. The day after the test, the selected partners get to meet. They are expected to start dating. Then, in 11th grade, they will be married. These people could never divorce. “Divorce” was a term that had disappeared.



In the morning, I could barely eat my breakfast. My twelve year old brother, Mark, was still sound asleep. Any child that wasn’t in the ninth or eleventh grade had the day off from school.


I thought about the eleventh graders that would be married while I was taking the test. It was their Marriage Day. Some would be happy; others would be furious. However, they would have to deal with it and try to be happy with who they were marrying. Hopefully, they weren’t as nervous as I was.


My parents were already at their jobs when I left. I walked to school by myself, lost in my own thoughts. New couples could continue living with their families for another year. Then, in tenth grade, they would be assigned to a house together, somewhere in the country.


At school, booths were set up for testing. I signed in at the nearest check-in table. They handed me a piece of paper—my Partner Selection Test. I found a vacant booth and went inside.


The top of the test said my name, Daniella Wood. It said that I lived in Oregon, too. The first question asked my preference of gender. I circled male. Then, I was asked to say if there was any specific person I would not want to be matched with. I wrote “None”.


I turned the sheet over. Nothing else was asked. I kept staring at it, searching the mostly-white sheet for more questions. Nothing. I panicked that they didn’t know anything else about me.


I tried to calm myself down. I told myself that the Choosers knew what they were doing. They would match me up with the best person possible.


After I passed in the test, I headed home. The rest of that day was a blur. I tried to distract myself, so that I wouldn’t consider the possible test results.





The next morning, I walked to my school again. A few minutes after I got there, they split us into groups of thirty and loaded us onto buses. No one knew where the buses were taking us, except for the bus drivers and school staff of course. We drove for what seemed like an eternity but what was actually about five and a half hours.

The bus pulled up to a large brick building that was most likely an abandoned warehouse or factory. The other buses had gone in different directions.

All of us exited the bus. We were led inside to a large, bright room. One by one, each person was led to a small room of their own. A staff member walked me down a long, narrow hallway and left me in my room. It was dimly lit and was about half the size of an average bedroom.

The room was nearly empty, but it had a chair sitting in the corner. The walls were bare with no decorations and only a thin layer of beige paint coating them.

I stood in the room for awhile and then I sat in the chair. Eventually, an unrecognizable, monotone voice began to speak through an intercom in the ceiling, which I had not noticed before.

“Hello,” said the voice, “and welcome to your Partner Choosing. Please stand.”


I stood up, unsure and nervous. I heard a noise coming from one of the walls. I faced it. The lighting started to get brighter and the wall lifted up.


On the other side of the now-missing wall was a boy taller than I. He was about 5’9” or so. The boy had short, light brown hair that was well-kept. His eyes sparkled, revealing a bright-blue color. His skin was a bit more tan than mine.


The boy had a great smile with blindingly-white teeth to fill it. He wore a bluish-black tank top and khaki shorts. On his feet were black Converse sneakers. I could tell he was very excited to see me, but also a bit nervous.

He stepped forward, still smiling. “Hi,” I said, grinning. “I’m Daniella.”
“Hey,” he said. “Nice to meet you. I’m Adam.”
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“California. San Diego, actually. How about you?”
“Oregon,” I said, feeling less nervous.


We talked for another hour, getting along great. Then, we were called to exit. Each couple split to go back to their homes. Adam and I exchanged phone numbers, hugged each other good-bye, and left. I couldn’t help but smiling the whole way back to Oregon.


When the bus pulled into the school parking lot, I was the first one off. I ran straight home, looking forward to telling my family about my day.


At home, my mom was in the kitchen, helping my dad cook dinner. They told me that Mark was at a friend’s house. I began to tell them about Adam and how well we got along. They smiled, happy for me.


That night, just as I was about to go to bed, I heard my cell phone vibrate. I picked it up and turned it on to find a message from Adam.

Goodnight :), it read.


I grinned and said goodnight back to him. Then, I turned my phone off and went to sleep.

***


The next few weeks went by fairly quickly. Each day, Adam and I would call or text each other to talk. On Sundays, our parents would drive us each halfway to meet up.


I learned a lot about Adam during this time. I discovered that he had an older brother and two younger sisters. His favorite subject in school was math and his favorite sports were hockey and soccer. Adam loved to eat Mexican food, but he hated Chinese food. When he wasn’t in school or playing sports, Adam played the guitar and wrote songs. Our relationship was going great. I felt really comfortable around Adam.

One day after school, about four months after Adam and I had first met, I got a phone call. On the other line was Adam’s mother, Tracy. Her voice was shaky and quiet.

“Daniella,” she said, avoiding typical, pointless chitchat, “it’s Tracy. Adam was leaving school, walking across the crosswalk, when a reckless, drunk driver drove through and hit him.”

Panic flooded through my body. How could this be happening? I wondered.

“He is in the ICU now, in critical condition. It doesn’t look good; I don’t know how long he has left. You’re welcome to visit if you would like to.”


She gave me the address of the hospital and we hung up. I called my mom at work and told her the news. She said that she would leave work right away to take me.


I burst into tears thinking about Adam. Then, the phone rang again. This time, a man was calling.

“Hi, Daniella?” a man asked, making sure he had called the right number.
“Yeah?” I said.
“This is Jordan, Adam’s brother.”
I had met him twice before. “Oh, hi Jordan! How’s Adam doing?”
“That’s what I called to talk to you about,” replied Jordan, his voice quivering. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but…” I dreaded listening to the rest of that sentence.

This couldn’t happen, I thought to myself. We were supposed to stay together forever.

I knew that the government would not give me a new assignment, either. They believed that each person should only have one partner in their life, no matter how long it lasted.


Quickly, I came to the unfortunate realization that I would be single for the rest of my life, from fourteen on. The government not only controlled who I married, but my marital status for all of time.