The Beautiful Ones Read online

  “Now,” the Gentlewoman says. “Will the next girl please step onto the stage?”

  Most of the crowd of would-bes has been whittled down, to the point where no one stands before or beside me. It is only when I see the Gentlewoman lay eyes upon me that I realize it is my turn to join the Procession.

  I turn, kiss my mother on the cheek, whisper, “Thank you,” then turn and begin to make my way toward the stage.

  My breath is ragged as I approach, as I cross the valley over which many girls’ hopes and dreams have fallen, and my eyes are set more on my feet than they are on the Gentlewoman whose attention I am supposed to command. I rise, with urgency I find alarming considering I am completely and utterly terrified, onto the stage and before the official’s presence, only to realize that I may not be deemed as beautiful as the one who has come before me. I know I am beautiful, but does this woman before me? Would she, by Countess Aa’eesha Dane’s accord, see what it is my mother and the rest of my community sees in me? Yes? No? Maybe?

  I wait in deliberation and raise my head to face Mother Terra’s eyes. As I stare into their beautiful, cosmetically-altered teal depths, I surrender to her submission, and hope—and pray, as Mrs. Garret had before me—that I will be found acceptable.

  “Remove your glasses,” she says.

  I do so.

  “Remove your hood.”

  I oblige, and allow my long blonde hair to spill down my neck and into the crest between my shoulder blades.

  “Tilt your head up,” the Gentlewoman continues. “Then to the side. Now, your other side.”

  She treats me as if I am stupid, not knowing left from right, but I do as she asks without question. When I turn to face her again, she comes forward to take hold of my chin. She looks into my eyes—examining their depths, my intent, my purpose, my person. It is as if she can see everything. My secrets have been laid bare, and with them the cruelty of the world as we know it.

  “Turn,” she says as she steps back from me.

  My sun dress billows about my ankles as I do what she asks.

  “Relax,” the woman continues.

  I struggle to do this, though I know it is because she wishes to see my regular posture—to decipher any irregularities within my person. It is not uncommon for girls to have attended Processions with corsets beneath their dresses, thereby disguising their figures or enhancing their bodies. Illegal as those objects happen to be during a Procession, I am surprised that she thinks that I may actually possess one, given the poverty that affects this area. But maybe, just maybe—

  The Gentlewoman clears her throat, arresting my mind and body where it stands.

  I wait for her declaration—to be deemed Unfortunate and sent back to the village.

  Instead, I hear what I think is impossible.

  “You are Beautiful,” the Gentlewoman says.

  My whole world grounds to a halt.

  There is no sound in my ears at this moment, as I stand before the official who has just declared me capable of walking among those of the highest regard, just as there is no clarity to what it is she has just said. My mind is blank, my mouth is open, my heart seems to have ceased to beat. My blood runs cold, then warms.

  It isn’t long before a Dame comes forward to take hold of my arm.

  “Did you,” I start, “just say—”

  “Yes,” the Gentlewoman replies. “You are beautiful, dear. Tell me: what is your name?”

  “Kelendra,” I say. “Kelendra Byron.”

  “Your mother will be so proud,” she replies. She turns her attention to a Dame and says, “Take her to the tent with the other one.”

  Then we are moving—swiftly, with speed I could never possibly imagine, off the stage and toward the tent where only the Beautiful can be seen.

  I can’t believe it. I just can’t.

  I’ve been declared Beautiful by one of the highest-ranking officials in all of the Great South.

  My life is going to change forever.

  I’ll never be poor again. I’ll never have to worry about where my next meal comes from. I’ll never have to worry about working, or being trapped in a sweatshop, or wondering when or if I will survive the next heatwave or sandstorm or even the war should it come knocking on our doorstep. I’ll be safe.

  Except—

  My mother.

  I scan the crowd in an effort to find her, and at first cannot see where she is. Then I see her—slowly making her way forward in an attempt to speak to me. I see her lips moving, but can’t make out what she’s saying.

  Then I hear her. “Kelendra!” she cries.

  “Mama!” I say, desperate to free myself from the Dame’s grip, but knowing that doing so may ruin my chance of progressing to the tent and, ultimately, my future. “I love you!”

  “I love you too,” she says, now near enough to be heard without shouting but far enough away so that the SADs lining the edge of the tent won’t attack. “Just promise me one thing.”

  “Anything.”

  “Remember where you came from.”

  I tighten my grip on the small satchel in my hand.

  There are tears in her eyes, on her face, coursing down her neck and into her own old dress. There is a dichotomy here, I realize, now more than ever. She is not Beautiful. I am.

  The idea that I may never see her again leaves me breathless.

  But I can’t think about that.

  As I turn away from her to face the tent, I realize that I can’t let anything hold me back.

  My future awaits me.

  Two

  I approach the tent with trepidation unlike anything I have ever experienced. Scared, senseless, in a way that only comes from the uncertainty of a future you’ve longed and prayed for your entire life, I step forward and try not to allow any burdens to weigh heavily on my consciousness. I think first of my mother, who is probably heading home right now with relief in her heart, then of my father, who is likely fighting rebels in some distant part of The Great South. The thought of what they might feel toward me now that I have been declared Beautiful follows me the whole way toward the tent—and, I understand, will continue to follow me throughout my entire life. But I cannot allow that to govern my actions.

  Rather than consider what they may feel, I enter the spacious tent only to find that it is far cooler inside than out. Though underfoot there is sand, there are great white machines flanking the sides of the tent, which blow cool air into the enclosure as if they are great gods whose purpose is to breathe life into this place. The contrast is enough to startle me into submission, and cause me to gaze at the plush red furniture that has been arranged beneath the blood-red fabric on the underside of the tent.

  Seated on one of these plush seats is Ceyonne Marsden. She sips water despite the unnatural chill and watches me with cautious brown eyes.

  “Hello,” I say.

  “Hello,” she replies after finishing her drink. “Would you like a glass of water?”

  “I would.” I’m parched from having stood outside in the blazing sun.

  The dark-skinned beauty rises and makes her way to a cooler with a tap. She draws a fine crystal glass from atop a table and fills it with water before turning to face me. “I suppose I should introduce myself,” she says as she extends the glass toward me. “My name’s Ceyonne.”

  “Kelendra,” I reply.

  “You’re very pretty,” she says.

  “As are you.”

  We sip our water, and acknowledge one another with eyes that have always been conditioned to determine whether or not another beautiful girl could eventually be our competition. While I’ve never met Ceyonne even though we’ve lived in the same village for the past sixteen years of our lives, I have seen her about the village—talking to friends, playing kickball with her sibling, helping her mother clean and hang laundry. She’s always seemed nice, but just because someone appears to be one way does not mean they might not be something else.

  Is she friend? I wonder.
/>   Is she foe? I question.

  Either way, I can’t allow myself to jump to conclusions. Making too rash a decision at this point will only drive a wedge between someone I don’t even know.

  For that reason, I settle down on the plush red love-seat and wait for Ceyonne to seat herself in the space beside me before brushing my hair back over my shoulder and sipping my water.

  Outside, the ominous drone of the Gentlewoman’s voice continues on, judging each and every girl she sees as something less than.

  “I still can’t believe I’m here,” I say, more to myself than to the companion who is seated beside me.

  “Neither can I,” Ceyonne says. “It’s like a dream.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean, we’re told we’re beautiful from the time we’re young, but that isn’t always the truth, you know? It’s not like our mothers can just sit back and say, You’re going to go to the Glittering City someday with confidence in their hearts.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I mean, God.” Ceyonne laughs. “Praise my mother and all she stands for, but I never believed I’d end up in this position.”

  “I don’t think I did either,” I reply.

  Truth is: I could’ve never imagined sitting here, in this air-conditioned tent, drinking water while waiting for the Gentlewoman to finish her judgment upon the teenage populace of the Sandstone Hills. We’re conditioned as children to be afraid regardless of what our faces and bodies tell us, what our skin and hair whispers. Nightmares aren’t uncommon. I know I’ve experienced them, just as I’m sure Ceyonne has.

  The girl next to me crosses a leg over her other and smooths her simple black dress across her abdomen. She seems to contemplate the world and everything in it, for she doesn’t speak any further. When she does, however, it’s to say, “Who are you leaving behind?”

  “My mother,” I say, “and my father, but he’s off in the war.”

  “Ah.”

  “You?” I ask.

  “My mother, and my little sister, Baylea. My father, he—he died when I was seven.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay,” Ceyonne replies. “There’s nothing you can do about it.”

  Still, the fact that I can’t do anything to help her at this moment is enough to give me pause. I’ve always considered myself a fairly selfless person, but I know that there’s only so much a you can do when it comes to comforting someone else.

  With that in mind, I lean back and close my eyes, allowing my body to bask in the cool air blowing from the machines at the opposite side of the room.

  As we wait, I continue to contemplate my existence and what will occur now that I have been selected to go to the Glittering City. Given the distance between us and it, it has always been a realm of fantasy—and a world filled with many impossibilities. Some have speculated that it is where only the most Beautiful live in the greatest splendor. So far west of it, whispers have always been spoken on pale lips about the wonders that await those who are chosen to enter. Great food, fine wine, running water, electricity—these are but a few things that are said to be gifted to those esteemed enough to enter, yet I cannot know whether or not that is true. While I know that electricity is a given, I cannot be sure of the other things. For all I know, it’s simply just another village like ours.

  No, I then think. It can’t simply be another village like ours. It must be a bastion—a utopia for only the most fortunate. And, it must be beautiful. Why else would everyone want to go there?

  It seems like an eternity has passed before the Gentlewoman finally stops speaking, thus ending the annual Procession. As the speakers’ reverberations die down, echoing the final timbre that is the Gentlewoman’s soft but firm voice, I realize that it is only Ceyonne and myself and that no other girls but us have been chosen.

  The thought is mortifying.

  To think that we were so fortunate is completely and utterly overwhelming.

  Soon, the curtains part, and the Gentlewoman steps in. Her face is pleasant, and not in the least bit phased by what has occurred in the world outside. “Well then,” she says as she gazes upon both Ceyonne and myself. “I hope you have both been pleased at the accommodations that you have been given.”

  Ceyonne and I both nod.

  “Now,” the Gentlewoman says. “To the matter at hand.” She pulls one of the plush red chairs across from us and settles down in it, careful to smooth out the ruffles in her dress, before placing her hands in her lap and saying, “You will soon be boarding the International Express and be traveling by train to the Glittering City, which is approximately sixteen hours away from here via our transit system. You will be allowed a few final hours with your family members to say your goodbyes before we board at sunset.”

  We both nod once more.

  The Gentlewoman smiles and says, “As your Gentlewoman, I will continue to advise you on the matters pertaining to your ascension as Beautiful Ones from now until we reach the Glittering City. You are free to ask me anything that you may wish.”

  “Will we have contact with our families?” Ceyonne asks. “After we leave for the Glittering City?”

  “The distance is too great for there to be casual communication between the capital and those outlying settlements. I would highly suggest that you take these final few hours to spend as much time with your loved ones as you can.”

  “I’m going,” Ceyonne says, rising and making her way out of the tent.

  “The girl didn’t even let me finish,” the Gentlewoman says, brushing a hand across her tightly-hooded head. She appears to consider the outside world and the SAD forces who guard us before turning her attention back to me. “I was going to say that you will be escorted back to your homes by our SAD troops. This is to ensure that you will have proper protection from those who may feel wronged by the decisions that have been made here today.”

  “Have there been problems before?” I ask.

  “Of course. They who tempt the snake will most surely be bitten.” She clicks her teeth twice and continues by saying, “There will always be those who have prejudice against those who are more fortunate than them. It is the way of life.”

  “I mean… have there been—”

  “Deaths?” The Gentlewoman waits for me to nod. “Yes, Kelendra. Unfortunates have been killed by SAD troops when they have threatened the livelihoods of the Beautifuls.”

  Unfortunates.

  The word makes me cringe, but I manage to smile and nod before saying, “I understand.”

  “A series of SAD troops will now accompany you to your home, should you wish to say goodbye to your family members. If not, you are welcome to stay here until nightfall.”

  “Thank you, but I’ll go. My mother will want to spend the last few hours she can with me, and me with her.”

  The Gentlewoman nods and rises alongside me before reaching out and drawing me into a hug. “Congratulations, dear. You are truly beautiful.”

  With a nod, and with one last forced smile, I make my way out of the tent. I instantly regret the action—not only for the fact that I have exposed myself to potential danger, but because the temperature difference is so vast.

  “Kelendra Byron?” a female voice asks.

  I turn to regard the SAD officer who stands beside me. “How do you know—” I start.

  “Me and my unit have been instructed to return you home.”

  Three other Dames step forward and position themselves around me—one in front, two at my sides, while the former positions herself behind me. I nod, then turn and allow them to half-lead, half-follow me out of the town square and down the road lined with rows upon rows of rectangular houses.

  As we walk, making ourselves known through sheer intimidation, I take note of the curtains that part to allow those Unfortunate to look out into the world. I wonder what they think of me—of a Beautiful One—and whether or not they would seek to cause me harm based solely on the fact that I have been chosen because of my beauty. Perhap
s it was their daughter who was not chosen, who now cries inside, who now must live in poverty for the rest of her life; and perhaps, for this reason, it is why they appear so menacing. It seems at any moment someone will simply draw a weapon and shoot me down, but I know that is as ridiculous a statement as any. Few people in the village possess guns, and even fewer would be stupid enough to shoot me, a Beautiful, surrounded by armed SAD guards. That’d be grounds for immediate execution, whether it be by the SADs’ own automatic rifles or by the shock batons they carry at their waists.

  I shake my head at these thoughts and try not to let them bother me the further we make our way down the road. Regardless, they continue to do so, and threaten to cause me panic when I should be relieved beyond belief. There are nearly three-hundred people in our small settlement, nearly a third of them young women who had, up until earlier, been vying to be selected to go to the Glittering City. Out of all of them, Ceyonne and I had been picked—plucked, seemingly, from the crop, and extracted with sickles. I should be happy, but right now, I feel a prolonged sense of grief.

  My thoughts instantly turn to all the girls who didn’t get picked, and I wonder: what will happen? Our culture, while normally kind to Unfortunates, is wicked in that girls can never truly recover from being rejected from a Procession. On farms they will toil, in sweatshops they will work, making clothes and building tools. Few will wed, as those men who remain within the Hills are either married and disabled veterans of war or too young to become fathers, and even fewer will raise children, as those boys will eventually grow to be men, and as men, they’ll be called off to war. The thought punctures my stomach and causes a pang of guilt to surge through me—because I, as a Beautiful One, have escaped a life of torment.

  Eventually, my thoughts dissipate; and soon, we are at the threshold of my home.

  “We will wait here until sundown,” the Dame who has spoken to me before says.

  I nod and approach the door cautiously. When I knock, it isn’t with strength, but worry; and when I hear the doorknob click, it is not with excitement, but dread.