First

by Chanda Stafford

  Part of my Charm

  Mira

  “Tonight will be the most extravagant night of your life,” Mr. Reynard says with a flourish as he puts the finishing touches on my wig. That’s not saying much, hangs from my lips, but I pull the words back in time. This is stupid, I almost say again, as I refuse to let him inject me with that makeup stuff, but he seems to have expected that and dramatically rolls his eyes at me.

  I glance down at the deep blue strapless dress Mr. Reynard has dressed me in. The fabric clings to my body, and the long skirt falls to the floor and pools around my feet. It’s beautiful, but I want to rip it off. Tear it to shreds, throw it at him, and yell. Scream. Tell him my cousin’s dead, Mr. Flannigan’s dead, and I will be too. Does he know this? Are Texans the only ones kept in the dark? Or maybe it doesn’t matter because his kids, if he has any, can’t be picked. His kids get to grow up because he’s not a Texan.

  As an afterthought, he hands me a pair of matching gloves that go up to my elbows. “To hide that hideous tattoo.” He wiggles his fingers at my wrist.

  “It’s not like I had a choice.” I look at his arm. It’s smooth and bare. Of course it is. Why would he have a mark like mine, like Will’s, like even the guards?

  He puts his hands behind his back. “Of course you didn’t, it’s just… unattractive. Most Firsts have them removed after the procedure. However, from what I understand, Socrates has always been… different.” He hands me a pair of ridiculously pointy silver heels. “Hurry up. Put these on.”

  “Are you serious? I’ve never worn heels in my life.”

  He rolls his eyes at me. “Just try not to fall over and ruin your wig.”

  I stick my tongue out at him, but he’s already folding the empty garment bag. Sighing, I slip on the shoes and stand up, tottering back and forth. My ankles burn already. Yeah, this’ll be fun.

  Someone knocks on the door, and Mr. Reynard calls, “Come in,” as he gives one final fluff to the top of my head.

  When Will opens the door, his eyes widen as he looks me up and down. “My lady.” His eyes fill with surprise. Is he buying into this? I thought he was better than that. “Are you ready to go?”

  I stand up and let out a shaky breath. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

  Reynard reaches out and moves a strand of someone else’s hair back off of my shoulder. “Yes, she’s ready. Well, as ready as she’ll ever be, I’m afraid.” He examines me a final time. “Try to keep your wig on straight, please?”

  I roll my eyes at him, and Will snickers. “I’m not that—”

  “Let’s go.” Will holds out his arm for me. I slip mine into it, feeling his muscles bunch and flex under my touch. Delightful shivers find their way into the pit of my stomach.

  Will squeezes my hand with his free one and leads me out the door. “You look amazing.” I glance down at my dress, the shoes, eye the wisps of hair framing my face, and open my mouth to object. “But I favor you without the rug.”

  I blush and look away, fighting a grin. Me, too. What would Mr. Reynard say if I ripped it off? Changed back into my own clothes and went like that? When the elevator doors open, we turn left and walk through the main lobby. After passing several darkened exhibits, we veer into another short hallway with plush, ornately-patterned carpet. Bright lights illuminate everything, from the landscapes and portraits on the walls to the heavy dark wooden doors where we stop. I hear muffled music inside, and the urge to throw up, run away, or both, fills me. I put my hand to my stomach, as if pressing there will help calm me down. I can’t do this. Will turns me toward him and squeezes my shoulders, as if sensing my nerves.

  “I have to leave you here,” Will says. “I’m sorry, but I’m not allowed in there.”

  Panic fills me. No, he can’t do that! I shake my head. “Please, I… I can’t do this alone.”

  He pulls me into a fierce hug. “You won’t have to,” he whispers into my hair. “There will be a seat next to Socrates at the head table for you.” He nods to the right as he reaches for the door handles. “Just…” He pauses, searching for the right words. “Be careful.”

  I’m about to ask him why when he lets go of my hands after giving me a final squeeze, then grabs the polished brass door handles and pulls the doors open. You can do this, Mira. Remember, your cousin did it. If he could, so can you.

  Enormous multi-tiered glowing glass chandeliers hang throughout the banquet hall. Round tables covered in lily-white tablecloths and napkins are spaced throughout, and for several heartbeats, I stand frozen, hands clenched in front of me, palms growing sweaty. People wearing expensive dresses and suits sit around the tables, chatting like old friends. I’ve never seen so many different outfits before, so much richness, luxury. It overwhelms me. I can’t do this. I turn around, terror gripping me, but Will is already shutting the door, cutting me off. I’m trapped.

  My legs wobble, and I look around wildly. My wig slips, and I reach up to adjust it.

  I spot someone standing up at the long table at the opposite end of the room. Socrates waves at me, and I gratefully hurry over to him.

  As I pass, people murmur to each other, but the general hum in the room along with the music makes it so I can’t hear them. The way they glance at me then look quickly away means I probably don’t want to know what they’re saying anyway.

  I finally reach Socrates’s table, and he smiles wryly. “Welcome to your first official festivity. You’ve made it farther than most Americans ever dream into the upper echelon of our society.”

  I have no idea what to say, so I just mumble, “Thank you, I think.”

  He gestures to the seat next to him, and I collapse into the uncomfortable wooden chair. A few moments later, white-dressed waiters, all young with dark hair and dark eyes, bring out trays and little tables and start to serve the meal. Even though the food smells great—some kind of soup with beef and mushrooms—I’m too nervous to do more than sip it.

  “She is lovely,” an older man with a thin mustache says, leering at me while nudging Socrates with an elbow. The gold etched nameplate in front of his seat says he’s Ferdinand Caringer.

  I open my mouth to say that I do, in fact, have a name when Socrates pinches my arm. Apparently, it’s like the farm, and I just need to shut up and act like part of the scenery. So much for Absolution equaling freedom.

  “Yes, she’s perfect,” Socrates murmurs.

  My cheeks grow warm as another stranger turns to assess me through narrowed eyes. “A girl this time, eh?” The man cocks his pale blond eyebrows suggestively. “I heard she’s a troublemaker. Is that right, old man?”

  “Yes, but trouble is far preferable to boring.” Socrates smiles benignly.

  Hello? I’m still here. I shoot Socrates a look, but he shakes his head. Fine.

  After dinner and a chocolaty desert, the room quiets once more. Because I was so focused on getting to Socrates, I didn’t notice a small stage surrounded by deep burgundy curtains in the front of the room. On it stands a polished wooden podium.

  A short, balding man climbs up onto the stage, reaches the podium, and clears his throat. His voice grows immediately louder, as if there are some sort of invisible speakers.

  “Good evening, distinguished and celebratory guests. I am Mr. Atkins, and I’ll be your speaker for tonight. This is the eve of a new era when one of our most venerable personages, Socrates, accepts a new Second. Throughout his many lifetimes…” An image of my cousin’s lifeless body waking up as Thoreau comes to my mind. “… Socrates has spearheaded some of the greatest peacekeeping efforts throughout history. Never one to shirk from adversity, he is set to speak before Congress regarding the controversial Free America Act.” What is he talking about? None of this makes sense. Maybe I should have paid more attention in school. “Please give a warm welcome to the first of the Firsts, Socrates.
”

  Mr. Atkins steps back, gesturing with his hands, and Socrates stands up, squeezing my shoulder reassuringly, before adjusting his tie so it’s straight before taking a step leaning on his old twisted cane. That’s when I notice Ben’s not at his side. The dog’s absence feels wrong, like he should be as permanent a fixture as Socrates’s cane. Huh, must have left him in his room. I suppose this isn’t the most dog-friendly place. Although Socrates sways as if he’s having a hard time staying upright, no one steps forward to help him. What if he falls? Then, just as the thought crosses my mind, it happens. Socrates stumbles. I look around, but no one makes a move toward him. Fine, if no one else is going to help him, I will. I take a deep breath and stand up, quickly walking over to him and taking his free elbow in my hand.

  “You shouldn’t be up here, girl, but thank you,” he says, gruffly.

  “Why?” I whisper, cautious of all the eyes on me, many of them glaring.

  “Seconds are like little children, better to be seen and—”

  “Not heard, I get that. Well, I’m not going to let you fall. So either you take my help or you take my help. Anyone who doesn’t like it will just have to deal with it.” Socrates shakes his head. A faint smile plays at the corners of his lips.

  When we reach the stage, one of the servants standing at the edge of the steps puts out his hand to stop me. Socrates leans forward and whispers something to him. They both glance at me.

  What? I drop my hand from Socrates’s elbow. A couple of men from the front look as if they’re going to stand up and come toward us. Socrates shakes his head so minutely that I barely catch it, and they settle back in their chairs. He smiles the briefest of smiles and nods at the servant, who steps back and glares at me.

  As Socrates lifts his foot to take the first step, I feel all of those eyes on me, so I falter and freeze. Come on. I can do this. I have to. I can’t just stop now. Everyone’s already staring at me. How much worse can it get? I take a deep breath of air thick with tension and animosity. Socrates waits for me, one step up, watching me from the corner of his eye, as if he’s waiting for me to make a decision. When I finally step up to stand next to him, he takes my hand and squeezes it, allowing a little smile to twitch the corners of his lips. We both climb the rest of the stairs and walk across the small stage to stand at the podium.

  “Good evening, and thank you, all of you, for joining me for my seventh Acceptance Banquet. I am, of course, Socrates, and this is my Second, Mira.” He scans the crowd. “Every time I choose a new Second, I wonder, will this one be different from the rest? Or will he or she blend in, mere pale facets in my long-lived existence where eventually the only recollection I have of his or her individuality is in the hall of portraits in my house? Well, from the moment I met Mira, who arrived late for her own choosing, I knew she was different.”

  I shift uncomfortably in my heels, drawing a sharp glance from Socrates.

  “You see, she didn’t want to go. She had a life and was merely biding her time until phasing out of the program in a few months. She never believed that she’d be chosen. She never thought both she and her family would be given such a great honor as this. In her mind, her future was set at the farm—leaving the program, getting married, and raising children of her own who would one day train to be Seconds themselves. Even though her cousin, Adrian, was chosen a couple of years ago, she never thought she would have the honor.

  “But in an instant, her life changed. She was no longer a servant at Chesaning Farms. She was Absolved, with all the freedoms, responsibilities, and long hours of lessons that entailed. She has lived at Chesaning Farms her entire life, but suddenly, she was an outsider.” He isn’t smiling anymore. His words take a more ominous tone. Maybe I’m the only one who notices. I shift from my left to right foot, nerves and never having worn heels before to blame.

  “Just before she was to leave, Live Once rebels infiltrated her farm with the goal of preventing her from being my Second by any means necessary.”

  What is he playing at here? I told him the truth! I told him that it was all a lie.

  “Luckily, our nation’s best were there to protect her, and with her own strength and resourcefulness, she made it through that situation, unharmed.” Unharmed? That’s a joke.

  I can almost hear a collective sigh of relief in the audience, as if they, too, have lived through seeing the barrel of a gun inches from their faces and being prodded in their backs by armored “rescuers.” Maybe they have, but I doubt it. But they seem so happy here, so eager to watch me die. I hate them.

  “Throughout all of my lifetimes, my various physical personas, and my numerous roles and purposes, I’ve had the privilege of choosing several outstanding Seconds, not the least of whom was my own son, but few of them have made such an impact on my own life as Mira.” He smiles at me again, and when I look at the crowd, I see other people grinning, too. I try to join them, but feel more like throwing up.

  Socrates puts his arm around my shoulders, leaning into me. He smells like medicine—like the kind we put on the aching joints of the horses after way too long spent in the fields—and smoke. “Those who have taken Seconds know that after a while, the various faces and experiences kind of blend together until the only one you really remember is the first.”

  Many members of the audience nod. Are they all Firsts? Is that possible? Will said this stupid banquet was to introduce me to the Firsts and other dignitaries. Just how many Firsts are there? Could they all be here?

  “But I can assure you that no matter how many more lifetimes any of us live, no one will forget Mira.” He looks down at me again, then back at the crowd. “I’ve always considered the Release Ceremony to be a rather private matter, with no audience present. However, I am inviting all of you, either in presence or video cast, to be there with me during this unique experience. Because, my friends, I can assure you, this one will be different. I now present to you my seventh Second, Mira of Chesaning Farms.”

  Socrates steps back as thunderous applause erupts, and I follow him off the stage and into groups of people who clap him on the shoulder, shake his hand, and murmur things I can’t hear. Only I seem to see the fatigue in his eyes and the weariness that causes his steps to slow. I tighten my grip on his arm, but maybe we’re both helping each other right now, holding each other upright. Somehow, I make it back to my seat without falling apart.

  A servant walks by with a tray filled with glasses of red wine. He’s a mere boy, not much older than Max, pale with long dark locks of hair parted at the side of his head.

  One of my neighbors, an older gentleman with a mustache that would hold a coat up on each end cocks a finger at the servant. As the boy turns sharply, he trips over my neighbor’s shoe, and the tray goes flying. One of the glasses lands in my lap, coating my beautiful dress with dark red stains that look just like blood. I immediately dab at the mess with my napkin.

  The man next to me starts yelling at the poor boy. “Idiotic, stupid, lazy, clumsy fool! You’re the worst servant I’ve ever had. I’ll have your head for this. You should be put on the farms, made to work like the rest of the scum. I’m going to talk to your supervisor.”

  The boy cowers, head bowed. He shakes and hunches his shoulders, trying to be invisible. The man raises his fist, as if about to hit him.

  I jump between them just as the man’s hand starts to go down. “No, don’t! It was an accident. Leave him alone.” I turn my face, but the blow doesn’t come. Instead, the man grabs my arm and tries to move me aside. I put my hand on his arm and stand my ground.

  “What the hell are you doing, girl?” He looks at my hand as if it’s diseased.

  I suddenly realize everyone around us is silent. I feel myself flush as red as the wine on my dress. Great. Just great. Good job, Mira.

  The boy quickly looks at me, the fleeting, darting look rabbits get when a
hawk notices them.

  I try to smile at him. He slides further behind me to escape the man’s wrath. “It’s okay, it was an accident.”

  The old man, his face an enraged deep red, snarls, “Get your hand off me.” I pull my hand back, as if his arm were white hot. “Just because you are Absolved doesn’t mean we’re equals. You’re still a rebel whore all prettied up in a frilly dress.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see the boy reach down, scoop up the tray and spilled wine glasses, and scurry away. I wish I could do the same, but I glance back at the old man, meeting his eyes.

  “You think you’re one of us now, don’t you?” He raises his hand, looks around at all the faces staring at us, and seems to remember that we’re in the banquet hall for a feast—sort of in my honor, even. He lowers his hand, scowling. “Stupid girl.”

  “It was just an accident. Everyone makes mistakes, even you, I’m sure.” I grow bolder as I realize he’s not going to hit me. His face turns an even deeper shade of red. Why can’t I keep my mouth shut?

  “What the hell gives you the right to talk back to me? I’ll have you know, I’m Edridge Marshall, former President of the United States.”

  This is just great. So much for keeping out of trouble. With my luck I’ll end up in another prison like Fullbright. Do they even have jails here in Washington? “It’s only wine. I can go change.” I glance down at my dress. It’s ruined. “I’m sure the boy was just nervous, just like I am.”

  “You should be. You don’t belong here any more than they do.” He gestures at a couple of servants at the next table.

  “Then, let me go home!” I hiss, my voice barely rising above a whisper.