I held the course envelope lightly and gently in my hand, as if handling it incorrectly would result in me being put into an unfathomable situation that twisted my family into government problems. Of course I knew what the envelope contained, the same letter that my sister received when she was sixteen, and of course I knew what my father would say when he finds out when my letter was delivered in the mail.
That's why I stood here in the kitchen trying to find a tight space to hide the letter. No one comes in here except me, and that's only so I can make dinner and breakfast. Still I had this nagging voice in the back of my head telling me that I should just tell him. I remember what he told Sara the week following the beginning of The Selection, when my mother died. Unlike the books in school, I don't still cry myself to sleep at night. However lately I've been stressing about what my father said to Sara, I've been kept up at night wondering if it would be worth it to enter the Selection.
My father blamed Sara for my mother's death. He said that had she entered The Selection, she would've been selected, and that the compensation would saved her from her untimely death. It was inevitable though, it was too late for her to be saved even if Sara made it into The Selection, the cancer had already swallowed her up.
Next came the alcohol, that not only drained our savings, but my father's dignity and my respect for him. This forced me to work. Then came the blame and yelling. I was only ten years old when my father became like this, sometimes his eyes still glaze over and he falls into this trance. I've learned not to snap him out of it, he'll just get grumpy.
The Selection is a tough topic, we have to dance our way around all of the problems to avoid any bad memories. I don't blame my sister, I don't blame anyone for except for the hospital who sent my mother home and said she just had the flu. That's what happens why you're a Four, the doctors aren't qualified and half of them don't know what he hell they're doing.
The front door opens and light spills into the room, I look up and my father's square face appeared in the door way, his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He threw his leather briefcase onto the rug under the couch.
A wave a panic rushes over me and I lean back against the counter and slip the paper in between the small space between my body, and the polished counter top. I plaster a quick smile of my face.
"Hey Dad! How was work?" I question through a smile. He runs his fingers through his hair, the bags under his eyes shift as he gives a small smile and shrugs his shoulders. My dad has worked as an engineer for a big company, most of his pay goes towards our house, because Bankston is an expensive place to live. He shrugs his shoulders and sighs softly, he pulls of his boots and sets the, by the door.
"What do you want for dinner?" I question, trying make a conversation. "I can make chicken Parmesan or I think the fish you boug-" Before I can finish my sentence the letter fluttered to the bottom of the hardwood floor. My heart shoots up to my through as my father looks down at the floor. He picks it up before I can even begin to think of an excuse.
"Morgan, I thought these letters didn't come until next week. Well let me know if you need help filling them out, oh and chicken Parmesan sound great," He says casually. As if a decision that should've been mine was suddenly his. My gut tells me to just do it, sign up for the Selection, I wouldn't get picked anyway. But the stubborn part of me tells me to argue, what is he going to do? Well what couldn't he do? Kick me out if the house that he pays for?
"Dad-" I bite my tongue. He looks up and raises an eyebrow. "I'll get started on the chicken."
