The Beautiful Ones

by Kody Boye

  I want to tell Ceyonne’s story—without mentioning her at all.

  This idea, as necessary as I feel it happens to be, does not come without its dangers. Not only will I be lying to the Revered Mother about an event that never happened, I’ll be lying about advances the Commandant never made at me.

  Normally, I would never even dream of orchestrating such a ruse—as lying, as natural as it comes to some, is not one of my strong points. Given the circumstance, however, I feel it is necessary.

  My friend was wronged.

  I have to at least try and understand how to make things right.

  While standing before the communications device, dreading what will happen and trying to understand what the repercussions of my actions could entail, I swallow a lump in my throat and send up a silent prayer in the hopes that it will be heard by someone or something.

  Do the right thing, my mother would have said.

  With that in mind, I reach forward, tap the big red button that hails the front desk, and wait for the person on the other end to answer.

  “Yes?” a pleasant female voice asks a few short moments later.

  “I’d like to speak with Revered Mother Terra,” I reply. “It’s urgent.”

  “Give me one moment to locate her,” the voice returns.

  I wait in silence—dreading, already, the course of events I have struck into motion. Now that I have summoned the front desk and uttered those few words, I cannot take them back, nor can I abandon my call without arousing suspicion. I must now live with the fate I have sealed for myself regardless of whatever happens.

  Moments pass, miserably so.

  I sweat. I breathe. I think on all the things I have done wrong in my life and hope, desperately, for any form of salvation.

  “Kelendra?” the same voice asks, jarring me from my thoughts.

  “Yes?” I reply.

  “Mother Terra will be with you shortly.”

  “Thank you,” I say, then touch the red button once more to end the call.

  As I step away from the communications device and begin to make my way from the door, I come to realize that I am beyond terrified. My heart throbs, my mind races, my hands shake from the adrenaline coursing through my system. I could have run from all my demons and never have felt this way, but at the same time, I understand that my reasons behind doing this are for the common good. Ceyonne is my friend, and without her, I never would have made it this far, nor would I have likely survived the attack on the train.

  No.

  Ceyonne is worth going through whatever trials I have to in order to gain a better understanding of the situation.

  Minutes pass by slowly, agonizingly, in what seem like spans of hours rather than moments. During this time, I pace uncontrollably, walking from one side of the room to the other and then back again. My bare feet, cold from the solid wood flooring beneath me, tingle from the effort, and I am just about to turn and walk back to the dresser when a knock comes at the door.

  “Come in,” I say.

  The door opens.

  Mother Terra walks in. “Kelendra,” she says, scanning me from head to toe. “So happy to see you.”

  From my place near the dresser, where I stand trying to look at inconspicuous as possible, I turn to acknowledge the Revered Mother, but only for a moment. Shortly thereafter, I open one of the drawers and begin to sort through it to find socks—mostly to distract myself from having to look at her for an extended period of time, but also to gather my thoughts and figure out how I’m going to perpetrate my ruse.

  “Kelendra?” the Revered Mother asks. “I thought you wanted to speak with me.”

  “I do,” I reply, sighing. I slip the socks out from the dresser drawer and close it before walking to the bed and seating myself upon it.

  “Well?” the woman asks. “What is it then?”

  This is it—the moment of truth, and the moment whether my lie will be seen as fact or fiction

  After taking a deep breath and giving myself a moment to gain my composure, I tilt my head up to face the Revered Mother and say, “Something happened last night.”

  “After you came back from your dinner with Daniel Cross?” Mother Terra asks.

  I nod, and sink my teeth into my lower lip.

  “Well… tell me.”

  “I was… getting ready to go to bed,” I begin, my voice shaking and my body vibrating with nerves, “when I heard a knock at the door. I rose and I… I opened it and… well…”

  Mother Terra waits expectantly.

  I swallow and say, “The Commandant was there.”

  She eyes me like a predator, this woman of worth, this servant of the country, while waiting for me to continue—her eyes narrowed, her lips pursed. Mother Terra is, at this moment, the snake in the garden, slithering down the tree below which I stand, and though wanting to reach forward and reap my rewards, I cannot, for it will only take one bite to kill me on the spot. This realization, and more, seals and determines my fate in an instant, whatever it may be; and for one brief moment I realize that I can still get out of this lie, this falsehood, this complete and utter disaster of a story that is yet to be told. But I know I can’t. No. Not at all. Because it is Ceyonne whom I am trying to learn for, and for this reason I cannot.

  “What did the Commandant want?” Mother Terra asks a short moment later, during which time I feel the crescendo building, the wave rising, the dam cracking.

  “To come inside,” I say.

  A shot is fired somewhere in the distance, though whether it is my brain or outside of it I cannot be sure. I blink, stunned, while staring at the Revered Mother, and try desperately to find the urgency to deliver my speech, but to no avail.

  “And what did he do after that?” she continues.

  “He… came inside,” I say, “and… gestured me to sit on the bed.”

  This declaration does little to phase her.

  “He… touched me,” I say, “on my arm, and then… slid his hand lower… into my hand.”

  “And this bothered you,” Mother Terra says.

  “Yessum. It did.”

  “And what did you do?”

  “I tried to pull away, but he grabbed me and told me everything was all right, that everything was okay. He said… that I… I shouldn’t worry, and that if something happened, he would be there to take care of me. Then he left, and… I… I went to sleep.”

  “And you thought I should know,” she says.

  “Yessum. I did.”

  “You were right to bring this to my attention,” she continues, waiting for me to give her a slight nod before seating herself on the bed beside me. “Unfortunately, the Commandant had every right to say what he did.”

  “It felt inappropriate,” I reply, “especially because he has a wife.”

  “There have been times when appropriate men could not be found for the girls,” she continues, “and during those times, the Commandant has filled their places to give them the children we need to continue to make our world a better place.”

  I blink, stunned. “But the Countess—” I begin.

  “Understands,” the Revered Mother says. “She knows that sometimes, sacrifices must be made on an individual level to better the whole of our world.” She pauses to reach up and brush a strand of hair from my face. “I understand that you might have felt uncomfortable, Kelendra. You also must have felt confused, given your meeting with Daniel.”

  I nod, then prepare to ask the question I fear the most. “Will you… tell anyone?” I ask. “About what happened?”

  “No.” She shakes her head. “The Commandant will soon learn that you are to be married, and as such will bother you no further.”

  “Thank you,” I say, far more relieved than I could have ever possibly anticipated.

  The Revered Mother rises and smooths her skirt out before making her way toward the doorway. “Kelendra,” she says, stopping mid-stride.

  I freeze, instinctively believing that I have been caught
in my lie. “Yes?” I decide to ask, fear skirting along the corners of my heart.

  “You are a good person,” she says. “Just remember that.”

  She then leaves without so much as saying goodbye.

  Left alone in the room with only my thoughts to guide me, I swallow a lump in my throat and try to piece together just what it was she’d meant by that.

  Does she know that I was speaking for someone other than myself?

  I can’t know, and therefore, cannot dwell on it.

  With that in mind, I lay back, close my eyes, and try to think of happier things.

  Sadly, the only thing I can think about is the arranged marriage that is soon to come.

  Twelve

  My first week within the Glittering City passes quickly, and though filled with apprehension over what is to come, I use every resource available to make myself as comfortable as possible. In the mornings I summon cooks for breakfast, in the afternoons I visit with Ceyonne in the halls or in our rooms, and at night I finish off my day with a grand dinner—all with the knowledge that, soon, my life will not be my own, and will instead be bound to the Process that comes with being a Beautiful One.

  The day after the first week ends, I am awoken by a knock that comes at the door.

  “Hello!” Wednesday Givings’ familiar voice calls in. “Kelendra?”

  “I’m coming!” I call back. “Give me a moment to dress!”

  I crawl from bed and sort through the clothes in my dresser as quickly as possible—not exactly afraid of the woman’s arrival, but not thrilled over it either. The fact that she is here can only mean one of two things: that she has come to visit to tell me of some impending trial, or by Mother Terra’s recommendation. Either option leaves me with a sense of dread.

  After dressing and making sure I appear as decent as possible in the long skirt and sleeveless shirt, I make my way to the entryway, brace myself for what is to come, then sigh before opening the door.

  Outside, Wednesday Givings looks in at me with a pleasant expression upon her face. “Hi,” she says.

  “Hi,” I reply.

  “Can I come in?”

  I step aside to allow her entry and close the door before turning to face her.

  “I’m… sorry I’ve visited on such short notice,” she says as she spins to face me, “but Mother Terra asked that I come.”

  “I figured as much,” I reply, already defeated by the notion that this is about the events that are soon to take place. “This is about my wedding, isn’t it?”

  Wednesday nods and sinks her teeth into her lower lip, an action that would get me chastised in front of any Revered Mother. “Yes,” she says, morosely at that. “It is.”

  “You don’t seem thrilled.”

  “Normally, girls are wed off in private,” she says. “But in your case, it’s going to be a public spectacle.”

  “Yeah. I’m not looking forward to it.”

  “It isn’t all that bad.”

  “You’ve experienced it before?”

  “I had a public wedding as well,” she replies, “five years ago, when I got married to Jonathan”

  “Why was it a public event?” I frown.

  “Because he was First Lady Rosanna’s son.”

  I stare, stunned. “You mean your husband—”

  “Was part of the elite,” she says. “Yes. He was. Before… well—”

  “You don’t have to talk about it,” I say, cutting her off before she can continue. “I don’t want to bring up any bad memories.”

  “It’s all right,” she replies. “I’ve made peace with my husband’s death.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” She straightens and forces a smile to reveal immaculately-white teeth. “We’re not here to dwell on the past. We’re here to celebrate the future.” She turns and gestures toward the bed. “Let’s sit.”

  She crosses one leg over the other, leans forward, takes my hand, and says, “The first thing you should be aware of is that you’ll have to be able to fit into the dress.”

  I nod.

  “You’ve been eating properly,” she asks, a tone of worry in her voice, “right?”

  “If you’re asking if I’ve cheated by eating anything sweet, then no, I haven’t.”

  “Good. The tailors do not like adjusting dresses more than once, so you should do your best not to gain or lose any weight. Speaking of which—you haven’t been not eating, right?”

  “No. I’ve been eating.”

  “That’s another thing that sometimes happens to the girls when they end up in these predicaments: they get nervous and stop eating altogether. One got so thin that…” She pauses and lowers her eyes to the floor. It’s almost as if she’s seen a ghost.

  “What?” I ask, frowning. “Why’d you stop?”

  “Because,” Wednesday continues. “This girl… she was nearly skeletal by the time her wedding came around. They… they called her The Corpse Bride.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you could see her bones.”

  “How did the capitol let this happen?”

  “A photojournalist saw her on the day of her engagement and became obsessed with her,” Wednesday Givings replies. “He called her Belladonna; or, the Sacred Garden. This girl, she… was an uncanny beauty: a woman unlike any you’d ever seen before. He saw her thin frame as beautiful… and she, believing the articles he wrote about her, decided it would be best to starve herself.”

  “That doesn’t explain why the capitol let her do it.”

  “Oh, they didn’t let her—at least, that’s what they claim. From what I understand, she was still accepting meals as they were delivered. She was just putting them down the garbage disposal.”

  “There are no cameras in our rooms,” I say, suddenly bewildered and horrified at the same time.

  “So there was no way for her to be watched,” Wednesday says. “She could say she ate all she wanted. She wasn’t hoarding the food. It was gone. So how could they know she wasn’t eating?

  “But,” the woman continues, “given that you’ve been eating—and haven’t been cheating—you should be fine in that department. The rest leading up to it is pretty standard. You’re fitted for a dress, partnered with a makeup artist, a hair stylist, that sort of thing. It’s when you get to the public ceremony that things start to get tricky.”

  I wait for her to continue in silence.

  Sighing, Wednesday reaches forward, takes hold of my hand, and says, “They’ll want photos—and by photos, I mean photos of everything. The engagement—”

  “Which hasn’t even happened,” I say.

  “—which will be staged,” she continues, “the wedding—”

  “Which is when?” I inquire.

  “In a week’s time,” she says.

  “A week?” I ask.

  Wednesday nods. “Yes. A week.”

  “How am I supposed to be ready in a week?”

  “Everything is going to be done for you. You won’t have to worry about finding an official, paying a registration fee, seeking out photographers, your artists and stylists, any of that stuff. The Gentlewomen will take care of that for you.”

  “And when it comes down to the day?” I ask. “What then?”

  Wednesday closes her eyes, exhales, then opens her eyes again before leaning forward and saying, “Given that it’s a public event, it’s going to attract all sorts of people. Those who love you. Those who don’t.”

  “Don’t?” I frown.

  “There are some who believe the establishment is broken—that the Process is corrupt, jilted, unfair. We call these people the Fanatical. They tried to sabotage the girl they called The Corpse Bride’s wedding by… well…”

  “Well… what?” I ask.

  “They threw… things at her. Rotten things. Eggs, meat, fruit. And that’s the tame part of it. The SADs couldn’t disperse the crowd fast enough to stop it from happening. They eventually just pulled out their riot shields
to protect her as best as they could.” Wednesday shakes her head. “I don’t dare speak any further, because it upsets me too much, but… let’s just say that it wasn’t pretty. It ended up in the news and was the headlining story for about a week, before the news of the girl’s death came.”

  “Wait.” I pause. “She died?”

  “She hanged herself,” Wednesday says, “over the things they said, the things they wrote, the things they filmed. She felt hopeless. She felt her only solution was to end it all.”

  “That’s horrible,” I say. I can’t possibly imagine ever falling so low that I would simply want to end my life, but at the same time, perhaps the Process was crueler to her. From everything that Wednesday has said, it seems like it was.

  Wednesday reaches up, parts her dark hair back from her face, and continues by saying, “Emily’s death—which happened three years ago—set a precedence for any future public marriages that were to take place. Nowadays, those events are held at the Dome, which is a large, bubble-shaped exterior that is covered with a sheet of glass. People can see in—and the glass is designed to take pictures without producing a glare—but the couple can’t hear them, and they’re safe from any harm that might come their way.”

  “That’s good, at least,” I say, but still can’t shake the image of a girl, hanging, from my mind. I stare at my hands in these moments while trying to compose myself, only to find that I can’t, and instead grind my jaw together in an effort to dispel the emotions in my heart. When the feeling finally passes, I lift my head and ask, “Will you be there?”

  “All the Beautiful Ones are required to be in attendance,” she says. “So yes, I will be there.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  “And after the wedding?” I ask. “What will be expected of me then?”

  “You’ll be expected to proclaim your chosen cause, for one.”

  “Which I’m still struggling to work on.”

  “And you’ll likely be moved into a separate living unit that is large enough for you and your husband.”

  “Which I’m nervous about,” I admit.

  “Don’t be. You’ll have more space—extra rooms to call your own. An office, a sprawling bedroom, a nursery.”