Matched

Xander and I go out in the hal way alone. I wonder if he’s about to kiss me and I wonder what I’m going to do if he does, but then he whispers to me instead, his words soft and close. “Ky throws the games.”

“What?”

“He loses the games on purpose.”

“You tied. He didn’t lose.” I don’t know what Xander’s getting at.

“Not tonight. Because it wasn’t a game of skil . Those are the ones he usual y throws. I’ve been watching him for a while. He’s careful about how he does it, but I’m sure that’s what he’s doing.”

I stare back at Xander, not sure how to respond.

“It’s easy to throw a game of skil , especial y when it’s a big group. Or a game like Check, when you can put your pieces in harm’s way and make it look natural. But today, in a game of chance, one-on-one, he didn’t lose. He’s no fool. He knew that I was watching.” Xander grins. Then his face gets puzzled. “What I don’t understand is why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would he throw so many games? He knows the Officials watch us. He knows they’re looking for people who can play wel . He knows our play probably influences what vocations they assign us. It doesn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t he want them to know how smart he is? Because he is smart.”

“You’re not going to tel anyone about this, are you?” Suddenly I am very worried for Ky.

“Of course not,” Xander says, thoughtful y. “He must have his reasons. I can respect that.”

Xander’s right. Ky does have his reasons, and they are good ones. I read them on the last napkin, the one with the stains that I know must be tomato sauce but that look like blood. Old blood.

“Let’s play one more time,” Ky says when we get back, his eyes on Xander. They flicker once, and I think he’s looked down at my hand in Xander’s, but I can’t be sure. His face shows nothing.

“Al right,” Xander says. “Chance or skil ?”

“Skil ,” Ky suggests. And something in his expression suggests that he might not throw the game this time. He might be in it to win.

Em rol s her eyes at me and gestures at the boys as if to say, “Can you believe how primitive this is?” But we both fol ow them to another table.

Livy comes, too.

I sit between Ky and Xander, equidistant from both of them. It’s as if I’m a piece of metal and they are two magnets and there’s a pul from either side. They’ve both taken risks for me—Xander with the artifact, Ky with the poem and the writing.

Xander is my Match and my oldest friend and one of the best people I know. When I kissed him, it was sweet. I’m drawn to him and tied to him with the cords of a thousand different memories.

Ky is not my Match, but he might have been. He’s the one who taught me how to write my name, how to keep the poems, how to build a tower of rocks that looks like it should fal but doesn’t. I have never kissed him and I don’t know if I ever wil , but I think it might be more than sweet.

It is almost uncomfortable, this awareness of him. Each pause, each movement when he places a piece on the black-and-gray board. I want to reach out and grab his hand and hold it to me, right over my heart, right where it aches the most. I don’t know if doing that would heal me or make my heart break entirely, but either way this constant hungry waiting would be over.

Xander plays with daring and intel igence, Ky with a kind of deep and calculated intuition; both are strong. They are so evenly matched.

It’s Ky’s move. In the quiet before Ky takes his turn, Xander watches him careful y. Ky’s hand hovers over the board. For a moment, as he holds the piece in the air, I see where he could put it to win and I know he sees it, too, that he planned the whole game for that last move. He looks at Xander and Xander looks back, both of them locked in some kind of chal enge that seems to run deeper and older than what’s happening here on this board.

Then Ky moves his hand and puts his piece down in a spot where Xander can eventual y overtake him for the win. Ky doesn’t hesitate once he places the piece; he sets it down with a solid sound and leans back in his chair, looking up at the ceiling. I think I see the slightest hint of a smile on his lips but I can’t be sure; it’s gone faster than a snowflake on an air-train track.

Ky’s move may not be the bril iant one I know he could have made, but it’s not stupid, either. He made the move of an average player. When he looks back down from the ceiling, he meets my gaze and holds it, as he held the game piece earlier before putting it down. He tel s me something in that silent pause that he cannot say out loud.

Ky can play this game. He can play al of their games, including the one in front of him that he just lost. He knows exactly how to play, and that’s why he loses every time.

CHAPTER 21