The Beautiful Ones

by Kody Boye

  Once she finishes, I am left with a feeling of heaviness, but otherwise experience no pain.

  The nurse raises a mirror.

  I am astounded to find my bruising is gone.

  “How,” I start, lifting my hand to my neck.

  “Modern medicine,” the doctor replies, a smile curving her pleasant lips. “It’s really quite astounding, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” I reply. “It is.”

  The curtain is parted.

  Mother Chun steps in. “Wonderful!” she says, taking hold of my hand. “Just wonderful. You’ve done an excellent job, doctor. I’ll be sure to sing praises to the Countess for taking such exceptional care of her girls.”

  “It’s really no trouble,” the doctor replies, then nods before bowing at the waist and gesturing her nurse to follow her to the next room.

  Mother Chun continues to examine me for the next several moments, as if determining whether any spots have been missed or any permanent damage has been done to my person. She tilts my head up and down, left to right, side to side, then reaches forward and tests the flesh with a press of her finger, causing me to wince. When she finishes, she says, “Change back into your robes now, dear. We’ll be departing for wardrobe and makeup once Miss Marsden has undergone her treatment.”

  She doesn’t give me the time to respond. Rather, she steps outside and slides the curtain back into place. Her shadow passing across the curtain, and her clicking heels, are enough to assure me that she has entered Ceyonne’s room.

  Within moments the procedure begins anew.

  Judging from the sounds coming from the space next to me, I can only imagine the pain my friend must be in.

  I sigh.

  After dressing, I slip out of the room and begin to pace the floor outside.

  The whole while I walk, I can’t help but consider what will happen next.

  As Beautiful Ones, we are meant to be in the spotlight.

  My only question is: what, if anything, will they expect from us?

  Though I cannot know and cannot possibly anticipate what will happen come time we step foot before the flashing cameras and the blazing lights, I understand that I’m meant to put on the bravest face possible to represent the capital.

  With that in mind, I close my eyes and begin to mentally prepare myself for what is to come.

  Six

  The hair, wardrobe, and makeup department is located at the bottom level of the Spire, beyond a pair of golden double doors and in a place where a flurry of activity is taking place. Barred off from the public eye by a series of crimson curtains that extend from the floor to the ceiling, Mother Chun, Ceyonne and myself enter only to find that there are a multitude of other girls already undergoing the process.

  “Oh good!” a young man says, running forward and taking hold of Mother Chun’s hands. “You’re here. Oh, thank God you’re here. When they told me two were running behind, I thought something was wrong—terribly, terribly wrong! I was beginning to worry!”

  “Calm yourself, Stylus,” Mother Chun says. “The girls had to undergo some minor medical treatment before they could arrive.”

  “Medical treatment?” the hair and makeup artist asks. “For what?”

  “That is none of your concern.” Mother Chun turns to look at Ceyonne and I. “Take these girls and make them marvelous.”

  “Oh, will I ever, Revered Mother!” The man named Stylus reaches forward and takes hold of my hand. “Come with me, honey.”

  Though I am loathe to be separated from Ceyonne, the young man is adamant in his pursuits. He literally drags me from where I stand next to Mother Chun and leads me to an empty stool along the line of makeup artists, hairstylists and wardrobe managers.

  “Now,” the young man says, spinning to look at me with eyes sparkling with pride. He studies me for several long moments—as if contemplating my every feature from my eyes to my lips—then leans forward and whispers, “Can you keep a secret?”

  “I… suppose,” I say.

  “I think I got the prettiest girl.”

  I can’t contain the blush that blossoms throughout my cheeks.

  “Oh, dear,” he laughs, reaching back to rub his neck. “I don’t think I’ve ever made a girl blush before.”

  “It’s just that, I’ve never—”

  “Oh. Oh!” Stylus claps a hand over his mouth and laughs. “Don’t worry, honey. I’m not coming on to you.”

  “I didn’t. I wasn’t. I—”

  Stylus giggles once more and reaches down to take hold of my hand. “We better get started,” he says as he looks back to where Mother Chun stands looking on at the makeup artists. “We don’t want to make the Revered Mother angry.”

  With a nod, I pull myself into the stool and lean back until the curved bar touches the small of my spine. “What are you going to do to me?” I ask.

  “Make you beautiful,” he replies. “Gorgeous. Glamorous. Nothing is beyond my means when I’m working on someone as stunning as you.”

  The smile that curves my lips, like the blush that came before, cannot be helped; and as Stylus turns to consult a palette within which there are several swatches of brightly-colored makeup, I shiver at what he might do. Before, in Sandstone Hills, the only ‘makeup’ we’d had access to was hand-made from spices and food items. Here, though, it is undoubtedly manufactured by the lot, as each makeup artist possesses at least one makeup palette, if not two or three.

  As I’m considering this, Stylus turns and withdraws a wand from within a tube of flesh-toned liquid.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Concealer,” he says. “To hide your flaws.”

  Flaws? I think. Surely I must not possess any, for Beautiful Ones are supposed to be immaculate, perfect, without fault.

  I’m about to question him when he presses a finger to my lips and begins to swab the wand, and the liquid upon it, beneath my eyes. “For your dark circles,” he says, easing his hand down to my lips, “and the shadows around your mouth, along your cheeks, across your temple.”

  He swabs me from top to bottom, left and right, then takes a small sponge-like object and begins to blend the makeup into my skin. As he does this, I watch the small imperfections created by the natural effects of the human body disappear, and balk over how simple it is for him to do it.

  “How,” I start.

  “Practice, dear. I’ve been doing this for years.”

  “Thank you,” I manage as he turns to consult a different palette of what I assume are high and lowlights.

  “There’s no need to thank me. It’s all in the job description.” He draws a wide-brimmed brush and swipes it through the slightly-darker though flesh-toned color. “Now, suck your cheeks in.”

  I do, and watch as he slides the brush back and forth in the hollows of my cheekbones in the mirror before me.

  “Now,” he says. “For highlights.”

  He takes a separate, smaller brush and applies the brighter flesh tone to the apples of my cheeks, my temples, the ridge of my nose, the corners of my eyes.

  “Blend it all in,” he says, rubbing the areas with his thumb, “and now we start adding the color.”

  He takes a small brush and applies a hint of green to it before asking me to close my eyes. It is here, in the thick of it all, and at my most vulnerable, that I surrender to his work, his artistry, his craft. I try not to think of how many lights will be on me as he pads the surface of my eyes, as he blends it out and extends it to the corners of my lashline, and fail miserably in doing so.

  I think of the cameras as we came out of the train, the man as he ran toward us, the Dame as she came forward and blindsided him with the shock rod, and gasp.

  Panic assaults me.

  I attempt to breathe, but find myself hyperventilating in the process.

  “What’s wrong?” Stylus asks. “Did I hurt you? Did I do something wrong?”

  “No,” I say, opening my eyes. “You didn’t.”

  I look at my reflectio
n in the mirror to find that he has applied eyeshadow that almost matches the color of my irises. It is only a slight shade darker, and inspires mystery I could have never imagined within my features.

  “Mascara,” he says, drawing a new wand from his belt like a great weapon, “and eyeliner.” He pulls a pencil free from its place atop his ear. “Now, hold still. I don’t want to jab your eye.”

  I nod, and allow him to perform this ritual in moderate comfort. I am not a stranger to applying makeshift eyeliner myself, or even gaudy mascara to thicken my lashes, but these tools he uses are professional, and masterfully-crafted. They are unlike anything I could have ever possibly imagined. I don’t want to do anything that could risk damaging them—or worse: damaging myself.

  As he finishes my eyes, then the eyebrows above them, he draws a single tube of lipstick from a row of dozens and says, “Lucky Seven, just for you.”

  He lifts the cap, spins the tube, and reveals the most beautiful shade of crimson I have ever seen.

  “Now,” he says. “The final touch.”

  He leans forward and presses the tip to my lips, tracing their shape, then using a pencil with the same color to complete the look.

  Within moments he is finished.

  As he draws back to examine his work for himself, I stare past Stylus and revel in the beautiful creature that I have become. I am no longer the girl from Sandstone Hills, born into a poor family and raised by a single mother after her husband went off to war. I am, undoubtedly, a work of perfection—one that cannot be denied in presence or person.

  Struggling to gather my words, I start by saying, “I’m,” then manage to utter, “I can’t—”

  “Believe it?” Stylus asks, cutting me off. He clasps his hands around my shoulders and leans forward to look into my eyes. “That’s what most of the girls say their first time.”

  “Thank you,” I manage, sniffling.

  Stylus gasps. “Don’t cry! You’ll ruin all of my work!”

  I laugh, unable to control myself as I look at the vision of perfection before me—as I consider what people will think, how they will react, what they will do, how they will feel.

  I think of my mother, alone at home in a space that barely shields her from the elements. Then I realize that she isn’t here to revel in this moment with me and all my joy is snuffed from existence.

  With the old flame gone, and practical matters at hand, I stiffen, though whether Stylus realizes it as he rounds my stool to draw my hair into a bun I do not know. Regardless of whatever I felt before, the happiness is gone, the elation deflated, the crescendo drawn to an abrupt and sudden halt. No longer am I jovial. Instead, I feel lost—forlorn and withdrawn in a world that I cannot even begin to comprehend.

  In the silence that follows, Stylus draws two strands of hair down either side of my head to caress my cheekbones, completely ignoring the petulant look on my face. “Beautiful,” he says, teasing a strand with the tip of his fingernail. “Just beautiful.”

  “Are we done?” I ask, ready to be rid of the chair I am seated in.

  “There’s just one more thing,” the young man says. “Your dress.”

  He spins my chair.

  I gasp.

  The green gown that is held in place by a woman I have not seen before is dazzling, and sparkles in the light emanating from the bright lights centered over our heads. It appears to be scaled, this thing of theirs—like an emerald-green anole wandering through the desert—and soon, I will be stepping into it to complete the metamorphosis from Unfortunate to Beautiful One.

  Before I can even manage to stand, Stylus takes hold of my hand and pulls me from my seat.

  “Is there a place to change?” I ask, knowing more than well that there isn’t.

  “Here will be fine,” Stylus says, confirming my point. “But first—” a man draws forward, bearing a device of some kind which bears a flashing light along its rounded surface. “The hairs on your body. Let’s shave them.”

  With a sigh, I brace myself for the shame I am to feel within the presence of strangers, and step out of my dark robe.

  Within moments I am subjected to the humiliating process of bodily shaving. Though I’ve tended to myself well in the past, the beautician takes particular note of the fine hairs on my arms and those on my legs, blonde and barely-noticeable in the sun but seemingly magnified by the lights in this room. It’s a humiliating process, and though I try to keep my eyes to myself, I can’t help but allow them to wander to those around me.

  This process—it is embarrassing. Thankfully, no one seems to care about, or even balk at, my nudity.

  It’s over before I can finish.

  After blowing the stray hairs free from my body, the dress bearer steps forward and gestures me to slide into the beautiful green gown.

  Within moments I am stepping into the dress.

  Mere seconds after, I am sliding into flat-toed shoes of the same color.

  I stare at the person looking back at me from the mirror, at the person who is me but is not me at the same time, and acknowledge what I already know: I am beautiful—truly, utterly beautiful—and that is why I am here.

  “Kelendra?” a voice asks.

  I lift my eyes to find Ceyonne—who, dressed in a red gown not unlike mine, and wearing makeup in shades of gold, is undoubtedly one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen.

  “You look beautiful,” I say.

  “So do you,” she replies.

  “Everyone!” Mother Terra calls, clapping her hands above her head to draw the attention of every individual in the room. “Listen up! The show starts in five minutes. I don’t want any hair undone, any eyelashes uncurled, or any line smeared upon these girls’ heads or faces. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes ma’am!” the makeup artists and hair stylists cry.

  “Final check!”

  Stylus spins me about to examine me. From my hair, to my makeup, to my dress, he scrutinizes every aspect of my appearance before nodding and saying, “You’re good.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  He leans forward and gives me a brief hug—an action so unexpected that at first I freeze up. I’ve never been touched by any man this way except my father. “Sorry,” he says, as if realizing the action was inappropriate. He then lifts and kisses my hand before saying, “For luck.”

  Luck.

  Though I’ve no idea what will happen, I’m sure I can use every ounce of favor I can get.

  With one last nod, I turn toward Mother Terra and watch as she gestures us all forward.

  As we walk through the curtains and out the golden double doors, I wonder: what will the Countess think of us, these simple girls from Sandstone Hills and Gladberry and Thomasberg? Will we shine proudly and find ourselves within her favor? Or will we be seen as lesser than by the one woman whose opinion could change the course of our lives forever?

  Though a part of me is thrilled to find out what will happen, another is terrified beyond belief.

  “Hey,” Ceyonne whispers. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine,” I lie. “Don’t worry about me.”

  The girl considers me for several moments before turning her head back toward Mother Terra, who leads us alongside Mother Chun and Mother Merissa.

  “Listen up!” she calls as we come to stand before a nondescript pair of tinted glass doors that look out onto a massive red carpet and a glimmering white building that is illuminated by floodlights and surrounded by intricate wrought-iron fences. “We don’t have long, so I’ll give you a few specifics and then let you be on your way.

  “To begin: before you is the prestigious red carpet that I have previously spoken to you about. It is here where many young girls just like you have walked to ensure that our great land, and our marvelous city, is shown to be the best it can possibly be.

  “Upon the red carpet, on which you will walk from one end to the other, you will be expected to smile and pose for the cameras but not to speak. The photojournalists
will ask that you give them specifics—who you are, where you are from, what you did to survive beyond the Glittering City—but do not speak to them. You have not been advised on matters related to your position within the city, and speaking out will only serve to jeopardize your position here.

  “Furthermore: once you complete your journey down the red carpet, you will be dining with Countess Aa’eesha and her husband, the Commandant Logan Dane. Please ensure that you are proper young ladies during this dinner. Chew with your mouths closed, do not place your elbows on the table, and speak only when spoken to. I imagine, given the length of the night’s endeavors, that you will not be spoken to on a personal basis. That will come later, in the coming days.

  “Now then. With that being said, go out there and give it your all. Just remember: do not be afraid, for you are among the elite of our world now.”

  I look at the girls surrounding me and try not to be struck with fear. All of them are scared. I see it in their eyes, on their faces, in the trembling motions of their arms and the set of their shoulders. Each is afraid of what might happen come time we are exposed to the waiting public, but there is no time to anticipate what could occur.

  Soon, the doors are opening.

  Soon, we are stepping out.

  And soon, we are blinded by the flashing lights.

  I am immediately separated from my peers in their effort to free themselves from the oppressive nature of the Spire. Here, in the spotlight, we at least have an idea about what we are doing, and as such begin to give the men and women what they want: our pictures. We pose. We smile. We laugh. We wave toward the photographers and the men and women who are cheering with signs that proclaim the beauty that is the Process.

  “Beautiful Ones!” someone cries.

  “We love you!” another adds.

  “Beauties! Beauties!”

  I see Ceyonne in the distance and marvel at how naturally she moves before the cameras. She places a hand on her hip, juts her torso out, reaches up to flip her meticulously-braided hair over her shoulder. She is phenomenal—unlike me, who can’t even seem to hold myself steady in the presence of such adoration.