by Kody Boye
“Of course. Why else would we bother giving positions to more?”
I suppose I can understand her point. In theory, choosing more men than there are women wouldn’t even be necessary. It isn’t as though men bear the burden of carrying children—unlike us, who must suffer in pain and misery for at least nine months.
“My job,” the First Lady continues, drawing me from my thoughts, “is to ensure that the proper partners are found for each Beautiful One that has arrived in the city, though to be honest, that is not always the simplest task. This could take days. Weeks. Sometimes, if things are slow, even a month or more. A suitor will be found, however, and you will be expected to marry him. Given your newfound celebrity, however…” She pauses here to consider me.
“What?” I ask.
“It may be in your best interest to marry publicly.”
“You mean,” I start, “before a bunch of people?”
“Photojournalists. Television producers. Newspaper writers. Beautiful Ones are often married off in private, if only to preserve the integrity of the Process, but you—you have already sparked conversation within the city. People are asking, What is it like to be a Beautiful One? What happens? What do they do, how do they feel?”
“You mean to turn me into a celebrity,” I say.
“Such fine words coming from such an ignorant lady.”
I grimace at the words, but nod nonetheless.
“Yes, dear. Your image already lines every magazine rack within the city. You are, without a doubt, the face of this year’s Process. We should work to humanize you so that more opportunities can be found as a result of it.”
“I think I understand,” I say.
“Good,” First Lady Rosanna replies. “Now comes the issue of your time as a Beautiful One.”
“After you are to marry, become pregnant, and then carry and raise a child—or, preferably, children, if that is at all possible—you will be requested to find a personal cause to rally yourself behind in order to better the city and the lives of those who live within it. This can be almost anything you desire. To speaking out against crime, to improving relations with the neighboring districts, to inspiring children to become better educated, almost nothing is outside your grasp. The only thing we forbid you from participating in are politics.”
“Why is that?” I frown. The word is mostly foreign to me, but I understand it enough to know that political movements can make or break a community, especially if they rally enough power behind them.
“We simply do not want conflict to arise from the Process,” the First Lady replies. “Now… in light of the fact that no Handsome Ones have been found as of yet, I will request that you shadow another Beautiful One known as Wednesday Givings. Her work in her personal cause is quite inspiring, and provides the perfect stepping stones for any Beautiful One to take while seeking out their own cause. I shall arrange for you to meet with her sometime today.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“Do you have any other questions for me?”
“I don’t think so,” I reply. “I mean… unless there’s something I’m missing—”
“Which I don’t believe there is,” the First Lady of the region interrupts.
“—then I think what I’m meant to do is get married, raise a family, and improve the lives of others around me.”
“That is exactly what you’re meant to do,” First Lady Rosanna replies. “You are a fine listener, Kelendra. Speaking of which—” she rises “—I must attend to the next girl who is awaiting my summons. You are the first, and most important one, that I’ve spoken to. But now that that’s out of the way… you may go.”
“Thank you for your time,” I say as I stand and make my way toward the door.
“Do not hesitate to request a meeting with me if you have any further questions, dear. I am always here for you.”
“Thank you.”
I exit the apartment, only to nearly run into Ceyonne on my way out.
“Was I,” she starts.
“Right?” I ask. I then nod and watch as her sad eyes become even sadder. “I’m sorry,” I say.
She shakes her head. “It doesn’t matter,” she offers, then enters the apartment as First Lady Rosanna steps forward to escort Ceyonne inside.
“Shall I return you to your room?” the gentleman in red and black asks.
“Yes,” I reply, more than ready to be done with this part of the day.
He leads me to the elevator in silence, just as he’s done before.
When we enter, I close my eyes and exhale the breath I’ve been holding since I left the room.
I can’t believe it.
Once upon a time, in a land and place that now seem so far away, my life’s ambition had been to escape a world I never wanted to be born into.
Outside, I had been free.
Here, I am a slave—well-fed and finely-dressed, but still a slave.
The thought inspires my vision to blur with tears.
Thankfully, it’s not in the gentleman’s best interest to talk to me.
Regardless, I know one thing.
If these walls could talk, they would scream.
* * *
It is almost impossible to keep from crying in light of everything I had learned. Haunted by not only the First Lady’s words, but my fate that had been sealed as a result of them, I struggle to keep from succumbing to my emotions, but to no avail.
No matter how hard I try to ignore her voice, it keeps repeating over and over in my mind.
It is customary, and expected, for Beautiful Ones to bear and then raise children.
It could take days. Weeks. Maybe even a month or more to find a suitable suitor.
Given your newfound celebrity, it may be in your best interest to marry publicly.
These words, and more, assault my mind with a veracity I cannot even begin to combat, causing the hairs along the back of my neck to rise and gooseflesh to break out along my arms. My temples pulse, my heart throbs, my nerves spasm in tune to my despair. There is literally nothing I can do to stop it, yet at the same time, realize that this is the culmination of everything I could have ever hoped and dreamed of.
If that’s the case, why am I crying?
It’s simple, really: although I always believed that I would one day bear and then raise children, I expected I would always have more time.
Time.
It is a fickle word, escaping me even now, as I lie in bed awaiting what is to occur within the next hour or more. My makeup is smeared, my presentation all but gone. My clothes, thankfully, are not scarred by the recklessness of my emotions, yet at the same time, I could care less.
If Wednesday Givings is really to understand who I am as a person, then she will realize, upon meeting me, that my reaction is not unnecessary.
No.
My reaction, as immense as it happens to be, is completely appropriate for the things I have heard.
To be married at sixteen—to become pregnant and then a mother not long after—is nothing short of nightmarish.
I inhale quick breaths through my nose and expel them out my mouth in equal measure to keep from hyperventilating. Though all I need at this moment is to pass out, at least it would spare me the hardship of having to suffer these undeniable emotions.
But I can’t.
I have to wait for, and then meet with, Wednesday Givings, and find out for myself whether or not life as a Beautiful—married—One is really as bad as I think it might be.
With that in mind, I push myself upright, push the covers off myself, and reach up to wipe the tears and dripping makeup from my face before I make my way into the washroom.
The whole while I’m washing my face and reapplying my makeup, I wonder what Wednesday Givings will think of a girl like me.
I have just finished applying my makeup when a knock comes at the door, startling me from thought.
“I’m coming!” I call, then look at my reflection in the mirror.
Though it is
obvious by the redness in my eyes that I have been crying, I am otherwise immaculate—with fine blush, golden eyeshadow and a near-perfect cat’s eye. It is enough to show that I at least care about what is happening in my life, and as such, gives me enough courage to go and answer the door.
Upon opening it, I am confronted with the sight of a woman who cannot be much older than myself. She is tall, fair-skinned, blue-eyed, and has blonde hair just like me. However—unlike myself, who possesses what many in my village had referred to as ‘traditional beauty,’ this woman’s face is rounded and full, with thinner lips and a nose that is broader at the ridge than my own.
“Hello,” I manage, swallowing the lump in my throat. “Are you… Wednesday?”
“I am,” the girl says. “May I come in?”
I nod and step aside so she can enter.
“I’ve brought you something,” the veteran Beautiful One says, turning and presenting to me a box that is wrapped in brightly-colored red paper.
“A gift?” I frown. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I try to make the new girls I’m assigned to mentor as comfortable as possible,” she says, lifting and then lowering the box before me in slight movements, as if she is urging me to accept it. “Take it.”
I do, and admire its surface, which is accented with gold ribbon. I’m almost afraid to remove it from its paper, for it is far too intricate to simply be damaged, but realize that would be crass and begin to unwrap it before her eyes.
Once the plain white box is revealed, I pry the corner of the parchment back and watch in awe as two bottles of green perfumes are revealed to me. One is shaped like an apple, the other like a leaf with a flat base. Both, however, are beyond their material measure. They are, in a word: stunning.
“Sweet apple and mint leaf,” Wednesday Givings says. “To match your green eyes.”
“Thank you,” I say, staring at the immaculate bottles “I don’t know what else to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. Your thanks are enough.” She smiles and gestures me toward the door. “Shall we walk?”
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“Just into the hall,” she says. “I think having something to look at will put your mind at ease.”
Can she really tell that I’m upset, just like that? I mean, I’m aware that my eyes are red from crying, but does she read it in my body language? In the way I move? The way I talk?
I decide not to dwell on that and instead slide the perfume box onto the bookshelf before stepping into the hall after her.
In the light of day, the city is absolutely stunning. Bustling with activity, the streets are crowded with vehicles and the sidewalks people making their way to and from various places. This place—this world—is absolutely incredible, and though I am both proud and loathe to be a part of it, I can see why so many would believe it to be a promised land.
With hesitation born out of nerves, I ask, “Do you like it here?”
“The city?” Wednesday replies, looking from me, to the world, then back to me again. “I love it here. It’s… well… like a dream come true, to be perfectly honest.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Over five years now.”
“How did you manage to… well…”
“Get over the fear?” she asks after I pause. She waits for me to nod before continuing. “It was hard, at first, especially after meeting with First Lady Rosanna, but I acclimated, got stronger, braver. It’s a process you have to go through—adjusting to this new and strange world.”
“Do you like your husband?”
“He passed away in a farming accident last year,” Wednesday says.
“I’m so sorry to hear that.”
“I loved him dearly,” she continues. “Jonathan was one of the true victories of the Process. He was kind, caring, compassionate, a great husband and an even greater father.”
“How many children do you have?”
“Two. A boy and a girl. Simon and Clementine.”
“You speak with such admiration,” I offer. “I’m… not so sure I’ve fully accepted what’s going to happen to me yet.”
“You will, in time. The Gentlewomen are careful to pick men who will be good matches for the girls.” She turns to look at me before saying, “But that’s not what I’m here for. I’m here to tell you about what I do for my own personal cause.”
I nod, and wait for her to continue.
“When I first came here five years ago,” Wednesday begins, “I was struck with the scope of the city—how impressive it was, how far it extended. I thought, There must be so many people here. And there are, too. Thousands of them. It’s hard to imagine such a number when you come from a little settlement like Joanna’s Town, but they’re here—living, existing, eating, breathing. There’s so many skyscrapers and so many apartment homes within them that it’s impossible to think there’s a homeless population.”
“People are homeless?” I ask, then wait for her to nod before following up with, “How?”
“Not everyone who live in the city is fortunate,” Wednesday replies. “There are Unfortunates who live here just as they do elsewhere. The conditions may seem better, but it’s not uncommon for you to find tents in lower-income areas of the city, people living under bridges, that sort of thing. When I first heard of this, I wondered, How is this possible? There’s so many places to live and so many buildings that could be made into homes that it seemed undeniable to refuse them. So… when I was officially deemed a Beautiful One, and asked to select my Purpose, I chose to help the homeless.”
“How did you go about doing it?”
“It wasn’t easy—and it still isn’t even though I’ve gained clout amongst the politicians and city managers—but I’ve managed to help some people gain access to proper homes, working jobs, these sorts of things. The conditions may not be as great as the ones we live in—and people still go hungry regardless of the fact that they are still working jobs—but I’m working toward establishing what I’ve deemed ‘Free Living’ within the city. No rent for all. Just as the politicians, city goers and fortunate ones who are Beautiful and Handsome live in. It seems only fair, right?”
I nod. Back in Sandstone Hills, it was nearly impossible to find people who were willingly homeless. Most people were kind enough to open their homes to their friends, their family, their neighbors. And while some lived on the outskirts of town in the desert, serving as hunters and gatherers, they still had options for homes if they so wanted.
While thinking on this, and in realizing the purpose that Wednesday Givings has chosen for herself, I try to imagine what purpose I will find for myself. I want to help those outside the city—especially people like my mother and father—but just how can I do that when they’re so far west and I east?
The thought, troubling as it is, stays with me only for a moment, as soon, Wednesday is sighing and saying, “I hope, for your sake, that you find something that can bring you happiness and the feeling of success.”
“Do you not feel that here?” I frown.
“No. It isn’t that. It’s just… well… it’s hard, working with the bureaucracy.”
“The what?”
“The people who run our world. They think it’s giving handouts if we’re being decent to everyday citizens—like we’re just giving things away. But that’s not true. People who are given basic living conditions by the city are more likely to find work anyway. At least with Free Living they could afford to buy food and clothes. At least it would give them something to look forward to at the end of the day.”
“I think I understand.”
“My progress is slow, but moving,” Wednesday says. “I just don’t want you to fall into the same trap as I did: the hopeless, or near-hopeless, situation.” She sets a hand on my shoulder and looks out at the city. “We have so much to be thankful for, Kel. We shouldn’t take anything for granted.”
No. We shouldn’t. Which is why, in standing there,
and looking out at the city, I come to realize something.
Even though things will be expected of me here, that doesn’t mean that I have to stop living my life in the process.
For that reason, I straighten my back, hold my head up high, and look on at the world that was meant for me.
I can weather any storm; and while I will be battered, damaged, and often drown throughout, I will always be able to emerge in the dappled sunlight, should I wish.
It’s the one thing that seriously compels me to move forward in my life.
Nine
The storms of consciousness assault me in the days following my meeting with Wednesday Givings and the First Lady who recommended I meet with her. Filled with doubt over my future and anxiety over when I will next meet with Mother Terra, I force myself to remain proactive by familiarizing myself with the various technologies within my apartment—by first reading from books, then operating the machinery itself. These small victories, however, do not curb the frustration I feel over my lack of human socialization; and as a result, I am compelled to leave the apartment three days after my self-imposed isolation.
With no direction to speak of and even fewer activities to partake in, I first approach the panoramic window that extends from one wall to the other to look out at the Glittering City—which, at this hour of the afternoon, reflects its namesake splendidly.
From the tops of skyscrapers and along the peaks of towers there appear glimmers of light that reflect upon the city and out. I wonder, briefly, how those who live in the lands beyond feel about the extravagance that exists within these walls, then realize they are likely reminiscent of how I once felt: destitute and alone in a world where others had more than me but were not willing to share.
The thought, grim as it happens to be, is enough for me to consider my Designated Purpose—and how, given that I have not heard from Gentlewoman or petty servant, I will go about discovering and then presenting it to the appropriate authorities. I can already imagine that I cannot improve the lives of those beyond the region, and for that reason begin to dwell on what I can do for the less fortunate within the walls and, possibly, those directly outside.
