The Beautiful Ones Page 9

  “It is,” Mother Terra says. The Gentlewoman steps forward and presses her hands to me and Wu’s shoulders before leaning forward and saying, “Come. I’ll escort you to your rooms.”

  We turn to follow, and as we make our way down the long hall—toward a place I’d never thought in my wildest dreams that I’d call home—I turn my head to consider the landscape spread out before me. I see vehicles as they maneuver throughout the streets, businesses and their signs as they flash their wares, buildings illuminated like rainbows in bright neon colors. I long to be out in the streets—to see the sights, to smell the smells, the touch the world and everything in it—but know that I can’t. My body, tired as it is, can take little more. Even my mind is beginning to feel sluggish.

  We come to a halt before a nondescript door with a simple gold placard upon it. Embossed, upon its surface, in fine cursive writing, is a name. My name. Kelendra Byron.

  “Kelendra,” Mother Terra says. “This is your new home.”

  She leans forward, curls her hand around the doorknob, then twists and pushes it open.

  She steps inside.

  I follow suit.

  Ceyonne and Wu peer in after me.

  A short moment goes by where we are standing in complete silence.

  Soon, however, Mother Terra presses her hand against the wall—and light appears.

  The hardwood flooring beneath my feet glistens with polish, reflecting the soft white light that appears from circular fixtures above my head. At first startled, but then intrigued, I step forward to examine the small space only to find that everything I could have ever hoped for exists here. There is a wide bed in the corner, a kitchenette along one wall, a small washroom off to the side, and a closet, within which I imagine are the bulk of my future clothes. The whole room has been modeled after all my hopes and dreams, and stuns me with its intricacy.

  “There is a manual that explains how to use the heating system and the various electronic devices within the room,” Mother Terra says, drawing a slim book off the bookcase inlaid within the wall and holding it before her. “There is also a hailing device on the wall, which you may use to order anything you require. Food, a cleaner, the mail service. Everything you need is at your disposal. All you need do is ask.”

  “I… don’t really know what to say,” I start, turning to face the Gentlewoman. “This is… just…” I want to say too much, but don’t want to risk offending my host. For that reason, I swallow and say, “Amazing.”

  “The capitol provides for its people,” Mother Terra says, “so long as they’re willing to do what is asked of them.” She turns to look at Wu and Ceyonne, who have since begun to wander the room in my stead, and clears her throat. “Girls.”

  Both Beautiful Ones look up.

  “Time to go to your rooms,” she says. “Tell Kelendra goodnight.”

  “Goodnight,” Wu and Ceyonne both say, then follow Mother Terra into the hall.

  Once the door is closed behind them, and once I am truly and utterly alone, I turn and begin to pad across the space, which is small in stature but absolutely luxurious. The thought that this place—this home—is mine astounds me, and once again reminds me of how fortunate I am to be blessed with the beauty that allows me to be here.

  After exploring my surroundings and familiarizing myself with the contents of my dresser drawers and closets, I pull myself out of my clothes and step into the washroom to shower. The minimalistic layout of the panel confuses me at first—particularly because it is not real to the touch and instead appears to be a projection created by some kind of electrical device—but I soon figure out how to turn the shower on, then adjust the temperature.

  I wash the makeup from my face, the dirt and sweat from my body, the worries from my mind. I battle, constantly, with guilt over leaving my mother behind, in a place where life is hard but simple, and eventually come to the stern conclusion that there is nothing I can do.

  Once out of the shower, I wrap a towel around myself, then make my way toward the dresser, where I climb into a pair of shorts and a heavy shirt that hangs to my knees and smells so new that I can imagine it being recently made.

  Beneath the bed’s plush and heavy comforter, I remember the promise I made to my mother.

  Think of me when you go to sleep at night. Pray for me when you wake up in the morning.

  I decide, without a second thought, to pray for her now, and close my eyes—wishing, willing, everything that is good in the world to happen to her.

  Maybe my father will return soon for his yearly visit. Maybe he will greet her with open arms, with hugs and kisses, and mourn for the daughter he has lost. They will celebrate for my newfound life, my prosperous future, the world’s great intent. And maybe, just maybe, everything will be fine.

  I drift off to sleep thinking of both of them, a smile upon my face.

  * * *

  I am awakened by a knock at the door the following morning, at an hour I can’t even begin to comprehend. Tired, disoriented, and feeling lost in a place that I am only beginning to familiarize myself with, I push myself out from beneath the covers and stride through the barely-lit apartment before calling out, “Just a moment!” and making my way toward my dresser.

  Unfortunately, whomever is at the door is impatient, and not willing to wait. Within moments I hear the click of a lock and then the sound of the door opening.

  “I’m not decent!” I cry, hurling myself back into bed and scrambling to cover myself with the blankets.

  “Hush now,” Mother Terra says in a dismissive tone, pausing only briefly to press the panel on the wall that turns on the lights. “It’s only me.”

  I stare in mute shock and fervent anticipation as the woman comes to stand in the middle of the flat. Though calm in her demeanor, she considers me with a hawkish gaze that is not in the least bit happy.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask, unable to remove my gaze from her face.

  She tosses something onto the bed. “See for yourself.”

  I lean forward.

  Printed, clearly, on the front cover of what appears to be a small book of sorts, is my shocked portrait from the night before, along with the words, ‘Call me Kel’ in bold white text.

  “You talked to him,” Mother Terra says, “didn’t you?”

  “Who?” I ask, stunned.

  “The photojournalist who took this picture.”

  “He… asked me about the train. He… he tricked me.”

  “I thought I explicitly told you not to talk with the photojournalists?”

  “You did.”

  “How did he learn your name?”

  “Ceyonne said it. She—I—

  “What do you have to say for yourself, young lady?”

  “I… Ceyonne. She... we—”

  “Should not have spoken in the first place if you were confronted by photojournalists.”

  “But—”

  “But nothing,” the Revered Mother says.

  Several tense moments pass in which she says nothing, during which time I struggle to keep from squirming beneath her oppressive gaze. Terrified beyond belief over what she might do, I place my hands in my covered lap and try my hardest not to squirm, though try as I may, I know she can see right through me.

  When I feel as though there is nothing to do but apologize, I say, “I’m sorry,” and bow my head.

  The sigh that escapes the Revered Mother’s lips raises the hairs on the back of my neck. “I suppose,” the woman says, in a voice so calm that I first believe it isn’t real, “there is nothing we can do about what has already occurred.”

  I lift my head to face her and ask, “Am I in trouble?”

  “There’s nothing to punish you for, Kelendra. You reacted based on fear, which is natural considering your circumstance. Besides—” Mother Terra clears her throat “—it isn’t as if you gave him any further information, correct?”

  “Correct,” I say. “I didn’t elaborate on what happened on the train. Just… sai
d that something did happen. Because I was tricked.”

  “Good.” Mother Terra gestures me from the bed with a wave of her index finger. “Rise.”

  I do as asked regardless of how embarrassed I am about my state of dress.

  “Put some pants on,” she says. “Or at least a skirt.”

  “Why are you here?” I ask as I make my way toward the dresser. “Is it because of the… the—”

  “Magazine?” Mother Terra asks. “No. It isn’t.”

  I exhale as I slide a pair of black dress pants up my legs, thankful that her business isn’t exclusively to berate me over the mistake I made the night before.

  “What I am here for,” she continues, “is to inform you of your upcoming meeting with First Lady Rosanna.”

  “What does she want?” I ask, then frown.

  “She’s interested in making headway in the media. Your picture is causing quite a stir, Miss Byron, though whether that will have a positive or negative effect is yet to be determined. Normally,” Mother Terra continues, “you girls are given time to acclimate to your lives before you begin your initiations into public life, but given the circumstances, she feels it’s important to start now.”

  “I think I understand,” I say.

  “Good,” she replies. “While I am loathe to go into detail about what will occur, I will simply say that she would like to determine your place and how you can positively impact our city.”

  “All right.”

  “Wear something nice,” Mother Terra states as she turns and makes her way toward the door. “There’s a makeup palette in the washroom for you to use to make yourself presentable, along with every other cosmetic in your preferred shades you could possibly need. Remember, Kelendra: this is your chance to make yourself known. Use it wisely.”

  “I understand, Revered Mother.”

  “Good.” She turns and begins to make her way toward the doorway. “Someone will be by to escort you to the Lady Rosanna’s chambers within the next hour. Do not dawdle.”

  Mother Terra departs without so much as a goodbye.

  Though I know I should be thrilled to find out what my future has in store for me, I feel nervous over the unknown.

  With that in mind, I turn and make my way into the washroom, intent on making myself as beautiful as I possibly can.

  Eight

  A gentleman in a red and black suit arrives to escort me to First Lady Rosanna’s quarters within the hour. Nervous beyond compare and weakened by my unsurety over the matter, I struggle to keep my shoulders high and my back straight as we make our way through the narrow halls and toward the elevator. While I can’t imagine we can rise much higher, given the heights we are already at, I am surprised when, upon entering the elevator, the gentleman presses a button far up on the panel.

  “How high does this building go?” I ask.

  He doesn’t reply. Rather, he steps back and laces his hands behind his back while the elevator begins to rise.

  “Did you hear me?” I ask—then, thinking better of my manners, add, “Sir?” I’m unsure how to properly address him given my title and his position.

  “Because you’re new,” he replies, not bothering to turn his head to face me, “I’ll inform you now that it is considered beneath you to talk to the staff unless absolutely necessary.”

  “Oh,” I say, then frown. “My apologies.”

  “It’s quite all right. But to answer your question: the building is approximately one-thousand-and-two-hundred feet high.”

  “Wow,” I say. “That’s amazing.”

  The man simply smiles as the elevator opens. “Please, follow me.”

  I do as instructed, making sure to keep up with his stride, though it is hard considering he is much taller than me and far quicker because of it. The fact that I’m having trouble breathing due to the thoughts racing through my head doesn’t help my ability to move. It stilts my step, my pace, the ability to move my legs. I stop to take a few deep breaths and begin to wonder.

  What will the First Lady be like? Will she be kind? Will she be sweet? Will she be rude, crass, completely authoritarian? Or will she be a benevolent person who, with a hard edge to her demeanor, is simply looking out for the best interests of the city? It’s hard to imagine anyone within the government being kind, especially given the barbaric Process that occurs each year, but regardless, I understand I can’t dwell on it.

  With that in mind, I continue to follow the gentleman in the red and black suit.

  As we come to stop at a door that is not unlike my own, I look up at the nameplate and read none other than The Offices of First Lady Rosanna.

  “Here you are,” the gentleman in red says as he turns to face me. “I shall await your return.”

  “Thank you,” I reply, then step toward and consider the door once more.

  In the moments that follow, I fight to inspire the courage to reach forward and knock on the door—not only because I realize that I will soon learn my fate, but because with that knowledge it will finally be sealed.

  My mother always told me that I was strong.

  What she hadn’t realized was that I am just like any teenage girl, and am wrought with grief and insecurities.

  After closing my eyes, I take a deep breath and reach forward.

  I knock.

  I open my eyes.

  A moment passes, then two, then three, during which my chest tightens and my heart begins to race like a rabbit attempting to escape a coyote.

  The sound of a lock snapping out of place enters my ears.

  The door opens.

  Revealed, in full, is a startling white woman—who, with a harsh highlight upon her cheekbones and silver glitter around her gray eyes, is just as striking as she is intimidating to look at.

  “Hello,” I manage, swallowing a lump in my throat.

  “You must be Kelendra,” she says in a voice that is as smooth as silk.

  “Yes ma’am,” I say.

  “Come in.”

  She steps aside to allow me passage into a room that is far larger and much more extravagant than my own. Decorated in shades of gray to match her eyes and highlighted with white trim, the room is sterile—cold, I would say, and devoid of any emotion. I feel next to nothing as I advance into the quarters, and am startled as she closes the door behind me, causing a laugh to stir from my throat and echo into the space beyond.

  “I assume you know why you’re here,” First Lady Rosanna says as she leads me into the room, which unlike mine is equipped with more furniture than just a bed.

  “You mean to tell me my purpose here,” I reply.

  “Sit.”

  I settle down on a plush silver couch and wait for her to seat herself in the chair across from me, watching her every move as if it will be my last. Her cold disposition leads me to believe that she does not like me, though whether or not that is true or just simply a result of her nature I am not sure. Regardless, she centers her gaze on me as she sits down, smoothing out her skin-tight gray pants before brushing her hands along her black sweatshirt. She then leans forward and says, “Miss Byron.”

  I straighten, hoping to make a good impression.

  “I will not lie when I say that your purpose here has already been determined in years past.”

  Of course, I think. Why would it be any other way?

  I nod rather than speak and settle my quivering hands in my lap in an effort to still them, but find that they continue to shake regardless.

  First Lady Rosanna crosses one leg over the other and leans back in her seat to examine me. She is obviously waiting for me to speak, but given that I’ve no intention to do anything but listen, she’s out of luck.

  When she finally realizes what I’m doing, the First Lady frowns, then asks, “Do you know what the purpose of a Beautiful One is, Kelendra?”

  I swallow, afraid to speak the words that are rising up my throat and tickling the surface of my tongue.

  First Lady Rosanna laughs. “You have noth
ing to be ashamed of, darling.”

  “I’m not ashamed,” I reply.

  “But you’re afraid to speak.”

  This I cannot deny, so I nod instead.

  The First Lady leans forward to examine me before continuing by saying, “It is customary, and expected, for Beautiful Ones to bear and then raise children. Now—the actual conception of such children cannot always be planned, and for that reason, we try to arrange your marriages as quickly as humanly possible. However...” She pauses here. “A suitable suitor must be sought out for each individual girl. He must be kind, intelligent, charismatic, hard-working, and most of all, deemed a Handsome One by the Gentlewomen of the city.”

  “I didn’t know men underwent the process as well,” I offer, surprised at this statement.

  “Men are only chosen from the city, dear. They are not sought out in outlying regions like you and the other Beauties who arrived here were.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because there is an abundance of men here. Most do not go to war, as they tend to the various functions of the city—from managing farms, to building machines, to attending to their functions, etcetera.”

  “Why is that?” I ask. “I mean, why don’t they go to war?”

  “We feel that war is for the uneducated.”

  I have to bite the inside of my tongue to keep from speaking. The fact that she, a woman of such high regard and supposed purpose, believes that only the unintelligent go to war is ridiculous. I know for a fact that my father is not a stupid man, and for that reason, seethe with anger. It threatens to overwhelm me, spilling over like water over a dam, and for that reason I inhale a deep breath through my nose in an effort to calm myself down.

  While waiting for me to continue further, First Lady Rosanna lifts a hand to admire the sterling silver paint along her fingers, as if distracting herself from the world and all its problems by looking at them.

  “First Lady?” I ask.

  “Yes?” she replies.

  “The Gentlewomen only choose enough men as needed for each girl, right?”