by Alice Rachel
I’m swimming in deep turmoil, the heat of all the mortification still burning my cheeks. The way Mrs. Fox has treated me so far brings shame into my heart, mixed with rage now compressing my chest. I clench my fists just enough that I know I’m rebelling, but not enough for anyone else to notice.
My mother indicates that I may be seated, and the evening goes on. I'm stuck in a haze of sort. I’m floating through it all like a ghost, a witness with no grip on the actions unfolding around me. Small talk takes place while the staff brings appetizers to the living room. Mr. Fox and my father discuss the latest political news, and Mrs. Fox asks my mother questions about me, my education, my tastes. Not once does she talk to me directly. She acts like I’m a child who can’t speak for herself.
When the meeting moves to the dining room, I sit next to my mother. William is on the opposite side of the table, which prevents me from approaching him in any way. Something about him bothers me profoundly. He's mysterious, fairly aloof—illusive even. I wish he were like his father, a bit nicer, a bit more transparent and easier to read. But it’s obvious his mother is the one who raised him and he's a lot like her. He doesn’t even look at me during the whole dinner, which only upsets me more and more. Who is this man coming to my house, sizing me up like livestock, and not even giving me enough importance to seek conversation?
At some point, William’s mother pays attention to me, and when I see the look she’s giving me, I suddenly wish she weren’t paying me heed at all.
“So, Thia, what skills have you been learning at school? Your mother just told me you're good at writing. Quite a useless ability to have if you ask me! What’s the point of writing? Just filling our young girls’ minds with idle thoughts and beliefs.”
I didn’t hear my mother refer to my writing, and I’m not sure how to respond to such a condescending comment. Is she expecting me to agree with her and acknowledge how worthless my skills are? Writing makes me feel good. It’s the only escape I have from this place. In my verses, women are free. They can make a life for themselves. I can live vicariously through them and imagine my future the way I’d want it to be. Of course, no one has ever read those poems. I only show my family and teachers the sonnets that fit our society’s narrow-minded beliefs.
“Thia writes poetry,” my mother interjects, trying to save face, but burying me deeper instead. “It is quite good. Though writing may seem useless, poems can brighten a tedious evening and help entertain guests.”
I wish she would just shut up, but she plunges the nail deeper, striking me like a hammer, as she speaks the words I've been fearing, “Thia, why don’t you read us one of your poems?”
I want to turn into a rodent right now, go hide, and never come out again. What is my mother thinking? I'll just humiliate myself even more than I already have. I nod gracefully anyway and ask to be excused from the table. I stand up and try to act normally in spite of my quivering. I walk to my bedroom, grab my notepad, and head back to the dining room as smoothly as I can.
My hands are shaking. I brush them against my dress in a quick gesture to stabilize them. I breathe deeply a few times, praying for the hundredth time tonight that I won’t faint.
I hold myself straight, open the pad, and look for the best sonnet I have. I start reading the rhymes. My voice is shaky with tears threatening to emerge. I hope they'll blame my emotions on the nature of the poem. I chose an ode to my grandfather who passed away a few months ago. It’s beautiful, I think, and I’m quite proud of it.
When I’m done, I hold the pad between my hands and stare at my feet. I’m too scared to confront the looks on their faces.
“Well, I do hope you'll have other ways to distract William’s guests once you two are married,” Mrs. Fox says with a snort.
Her comment doesn’t hurt my feelings though; it infuriates me. I hold the papers more tightly, out of anger, while trying to hide the frown forming on my face. Who is this woman to dare judge the poem I wrote in honor of my late grandfather? I hold the pad tighter and tighter until it twists between my fingers and my knuckles turn white.
I look up. My brother rolls his eyes at Mrs. Fox, just once, before winking at me. Mrs. Fox has returned to her meal and so have her husband and my father. My mother though is staring at me with profound pity. There is something else hiding in her eyes too, pride maybe? She throws Mrs. Fox one quick look of disdain, so fast it almost never was. I’m both surprised and shocked by it. My mother is not one to be sentimental—especially not toward me. The disgust she just expressed for Mrs. Fox, no matter how swift it was, is quite unsettling. It’s such a small act of defiance, but the soothing effect on my heart is strong all the same.
When I turn toward William, his eyes meet mine. He's actually looking at me for once, and delight flickers through his gaze swiftly—there one second, gone the next—as if he were proud of me. Then his eyes shift to his mother, and a frosty spark of irritation shines through them before he looks back at his plate.
I resume my place next to my mother, and Mrs. Fox's snotty comments never stop. William ignores me for the majority of the evening, but his eyes keep on narrowing a little bit more each time his mother throws a demeaning remark at me, and the hope that he might like me is now growing inside my heart.
Chapter 4
This morning, my sheets are wet with sweat as I wake to an intense headache and feelings of helplessness and dejection. I’ve spent all night worrying that the union might not be taking place, all the while hoping that the Foxes might reject me. I don't want to spend my life obeying such an appalling woman as Mrs. Fox. A pang of guilt stabs me upon wishing for this arrangement to fail. I should want it to work, if not for myself, at least for the sake of my family.
Emily walks in right on time, as she does every day. I want to turn around and disappear. I wish to hide in slumber, escape in dreams, and never face reality again. I force myself to sit up and rub my eyes which are stinging from my lack of sleep. The migraine pounding through my skull is making me sick to my stomach.
As I walk downstairs, Emily follows me while clicking her tongue. I ignore her foul mood and pretend not to hear her disgruntled mumbles. Our cook has prepared breakfast for me already. This time, she has made salted waffles. Some yogurt is also waiting by the plate. The mere sight of this meal turns my stomach and makes me gag. I sit at the table anyway. I cut a piece, take a bite, chew on it, and try to ignore the feeling in my abdomen. I swallow it down and take a few more bites before pushing the dish away.
I tell Emily that I’m done. She sends me a glance filled with irritation when she sees the plate still covered with food, but she doesn’t say anything. Wasting food is punishable by law. Any uneaten rations need to be refrigerated and eaten later. Nothing can be wasted; nothing can be discarded. Anyone caught throwing food away will see their resources cut down drastically.
I stand up and the chair squeaks as I push it. The sound alone costs me another glare from Emily—one of the usual signs showing her annoyance at me. She’s extremely professional; her snapping words and short, rapid movements are never blatant enough to be called brazen or insubordinate. But the jealousy still shines through her tiny brown eyes while she holds her petite frame straight in disapproval of my attitude.
Emily and I live on opposite sides of the same wall, both trapped by it, unable to understand each other while looking for our way out. She's only a few years older than I am. Her desire to get married has always been strong and plain for all to see. Her situation saddens me, really. I'm sure this was not the future she wanted for herself. I send her a tiny compassionate smile, and when she responds with a frown, I go outside to find Walter waiting to take me to school.
It’s a dark, rainy day. Walter and I run to the station. The rain pours down on us until we reach the train. We find our compartment and settle down. I rest my head against the window and watch the raindrops roll down the pane. Walter and I don't talk. The train reaches the school’s station too quickly. I wish it didn’t. I do
n’t feel like talking to Melissa about the meeting. I gather it didn't go so well; I don’t want to acknowledge how I probably ruined my only chance to make my family proud.
When I get out of the train, I sigh and my shoulders slump forward. Walter has an umbrella ready for me. I take it, thank him, and walk to school. I consider just going straight to the bathroom to wait there until the bell rings for first period. But I'm not so cowardly as to avoid my friend. I join Melissa by my locker, and when she sees me, she jumps up and down, waving her arms.
“Thia, hey! Tell me, tell me, how did it go?”
I groan. My migraine is back, just like that. “It went well, I guess.”
“Oh!”
She can read right through me. My attitude is enough to describe the situation. No words are needed to imply failure. But I need to blurt it all out, so I let it flow, all the misery, all the shame, out, out, out of me like a river soiled and polluted by those around me, tainting my soul with embarrassment and disgrace.
“It was quite humiliating and painful. William didn’t even acknowledge my presence, and his mother had nothing nice to say the whole time,” I tell Melissa.
“Oh! That’s quite normal, dear.”
Out of everything she could have said, I was not expecting that.
“Well, I guess William’s aloofness is a bit strange,” she admits, “but it’s quite natural for his mother to be harsh. They’re just testing you, trying to make you crack under the pressure to see how much you really want the union. John’s mother never treated me like that, but I’ve heard plenty of stories.”
I sigh in relief, though I don't feel much better about my promised fiancé.
“So, is William still good-looking?" she asks. "I heard Mary-Alice got engaged to a grouch who’s thirty years older than she is, the poor girl.”
I’m not sure if that's supposed to cheer me up. Knowing that the living conditions of another person might be worse than mine doesn’t comfort me at all.
“No. William is actually really quite gorgeous,” I reply.
"What's the problem, then?" she asks, not even realizing how shallow her question sounds.
Her words irritate me, but the bell rings just then, saving me the trouble of explaining to her how being handsome does not make a good husband. We head to our behavioral class, where we usually learn how to conduct ourselves like proper ladies worthy of the superior men who reign over our lives.
The day drags on with a sense of doom looming in the air and rain pouring down, anchoring the overwhelming grief inside my heart. The sadness just stays locked inside, refusing to come out through the relief of tears. And when the day is finally over, I find solace in going home. I head straight to my bedroom and spend the late afternoon sulking while doing my homework. No one comes to check on me, and I’m just glad I don’t have to feign happiness. Soon the Foxes will give us an answer, and I will finally know if William has decided to give me a chance or reject me and ruin my life for good.
Chapter 5
It took two weeks for the Foxes to send us their reply under the form of a letter—two weeks of me dreading a negative answer while hoping for more than a life spent in Mrs. Fox's claws. Apparently, I made a great impression on William and his father. They've decided that I fit their status. This should bring me joy, but instead, it feels like agony. Now I know where my life is heading, and I don’t like the direction it’s taking.
We've met William’s family on multiple occasions since their consent to hold the wedding. Though they appreciate me, each meeting with them brings along its share of heartaches and vexations. I have yet to hear Mrs. Fox say anything nice or hear a single word from William's mouth. He just sits by my side most of the time and observes me without ever reaching out. If he likes me as I had first hoped, he's not showing any sign of it. The cold wind of his attitude just blows my way, and I can never warm up to him.
Today is just a typical day; nothing warns me that it will be any different this time. William has a football game that I am to attend as his promised fiancée. My life is now punctuated by a series of outings and events. I am to look pretty, make William shine, and seem obedient and polite. The whole time, I feel like screaming and hurting myself, but that’s just underneath it all. In appearance, I am calm, compliant, and well behaved. The screams of protest fill my head, but they don’t ever get out. I won’t let them. I just choke on them while my mind slowly gives in to insanity.
I’ve never been to any of William’s games before, and I don’t really care for sports. Such events are meant for young socialites and families trying to impress those around them—something I couldn't care less about, but find myself forced into for the sake of my husband-to-be. I have to pretend I’m enjoying myself the entire time. To others, it looks like nothing could make me happier than to be here for William. Inside, I wish I were anywhere else.
Balls, events, and games are the few times girls get to mix with boys. To prevent shameful desires and unnecessary crushes, young girls aren’t allowed to be around men. Because of those rules, today is one of the first times I get to be around males that aren't related to me. I never quite understood what the whole fuss was about. I’ve never looked at any boy. Romantic feelings are completely foreign to me, and my parents never cared to show me love. Though I’ve always craved my mother’s attention and care, I’ve never expected to receive affection from her, or anyone else for that matter.
The game started about half an hour ago. I’m sitting between my parents, doing my best to focus on the match. My parents are deeply into it, of course. Or if they aren’t, the pretense is good enough to make us believe that they actually care. It's the first time they get to enjoy an outing based on their daughter’s engagement, and they're going to make the most of it.
William’s parents are sitting closer to the field since they're related to a player. Mrs. Fox is wearing a golden dress today, the color of prestige and achievement. It reflects the champagne streaks in her hair. She looks more splendid than ever. My own mother is wearing a purple dress, the color of royalty and ambition. I’m starting to wonder if outings will become a reason for competition between the two of them. It's as if my mother, especially, feels the need to impress that woman. I’m not sure if she's upset at Mrs. Fox’s status in society, or if she’s holding a grudge at the way Mrs. Fox has treated us so far. But my mother is making quite an effort to show that woman that we can be just as elegant as she is.
To that purpose, she chose my dress again today. Of course, she placed beauty before practicality. It’s not a hot day, but the dress she picked is heavy and warm. It’s long and blue, the color of loyalty and integrity—the shade that promised brides-to-be have to wear in public to show every man that they’re already taken.
Despite the chilly breeze and lack of sun in the sky, this outfit is overwhelming me and I have to put a lot of energy in remaining cool. To others, it looks like I’m engaged in the game, proud at how well William is mastering the ball, outplaying his opponent. But the corset is crushing my chest and the crowd around us is making the air stuffy. Breathing is getting harder by the minute and heat rises higher and higher in my body, with deep turmoil stirring inside me as I hyperventilate.
I try to ignore the unhealthy feelings and fears, but when I look at William, my heart jumps inside my chest, faster and faster, until it hurts so much I feel faint. Our pre-nuptial night is getting closer. I’m still petrified whenever I think about it. I close my eyes and try to breathe. The last thing I need is to have a panic attack in the middle of the stadium.
I study those around me and push away all these negative thoughts that have become my enemies. Everyone is deeply focused on the game, so no one notices me. I study their faces one by one. I have this strange sensation, as if I'm under someone else's scrutiny. I get paranoid that my thoughts have been showing.
I lower my eyes, take a deep breath, and focus on remaining cool and tranquil. But the feeling that someone is watching me doesn’t go away. I l
ook up and see him, a boy about my age, observing me. He’s staring at me with no impunity, no shame at such a blatant disregard for the rules. It’s illegal for a male to covet another man’s promised fiancée. Going after the woman of another is punishable under the law by death. It is deemed a threat to our society’s good functions. It is not a matter to be taken lightly. Yet, this boy is devouring me whole with his eyes. He doesn’t turn his head away when I look at him either. He keeps on eyeing me steadily without blinking, with curiosity and something else I can’t quite pinpoint but that makes me feel special, strangely alive. His gaze is intense, piercing through my skull, examining every detail of my face. I feel visible for the first time in my life.
I turn my eyes away and don’t dare look back. It’s not becoming for a proper young girl to look at men, let alone stare at them. We are not to feel desire for men other than our betrothed. Only one man is to be the object of our adoration. Whether that veneration is faked or not doesn’t matter. We are all well aware of the lies, but this façade is the only thing protecting our society and hiding the imperfections of its foundation.
I can still feel his eyes on me though, and in spite of my own will, I glance at him again. I can’t help myself; my eyes shift and I look up. He's still staring at me, his lids not fluttering once. And instead of averting my eyes as I should, I examine him, his face, and his posture. His irises are dark brown, almost black from this distance. His hair is dark brown too, falling over his forehead, almost obstructing his eyes. It looks disheveled in a natural way though he probably spent time working on it. His skin is tanned, his nose is long and straight, and his mouth is nicely shaped, his lips full. He's handsome. The thought reaches my mind before I can suppress it. I flush as heat engulfs me, and a flirtatious grin appears on his face.
