“Next year I get my bicycle, too,” she added more cheerfully. “There are good things each year,” Jonas reminded her.
“This year you get to start your volunteer hours. And remember last year, when you became a Seven,
you were so happy to get your front-buttoned jacket?” The little girl nodded and looked down at herself,
at the jacket with its row of large buttons that designated her as a Seven.
Fours, Fives, and Sixes all wore jackets that fastened down the back so that they would have to help each other dress
and would learn interdependence. The front-buttoned jacket was the first sign of independence,
the first very visible symbol of growing up.
The bicycle, at Nine, would be the powerful emblem of moving gradually out into the community, away from the protective family unit.
Lily grinned and wriggled away from her mother. “And this year you get your Assignment,” she said to Jonas in an excited voice.
“I hope you get Pilot. And that you take me flying!” “Sure I will,” said Jonas.
“And I’ll get a special little parachute that just fits you, and I’ll take you up to, oh, maybe twenty thousand feet,
and open the door, and—” “Jonas,” Mother warned. “I was only joking,” Jonas groaned.
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