The Beautiful People's Society

by Edward J. Yaeger, Jr

The Beautiful People's Society

  By Edward J. Yaeger, Jr.

  Copyright 2012 by Edward J. Yaeger, Jr.

  Despen waited months for her invitation. It came in an envelope that reeked of a teen perfume marketed in the made-up name of a pubescent pop singer. The envelope was dropped in her locker, and on it read, “For Despen!” in cursive, with a large heart serving as the dot in the exclamation point. When she opened her locker and saw the envelope resting atop the clutter, she immediately became weak in the knees. Her friend, Liza, nearly had to catch her and prop her back up. Liza also knew the significance of the envelope, her own curiosity (and envy) wringing her stomach like a dishrag. Despen's life at New High School was about to radically change.

  That Friday after school Liza helped Despen prepare for the occasion – Despen's formal initiation into the exalted 'Beautiful People's Society.' Of course, no one in the all-girl group would either call it that or deign to acknowledge such a thing even existed. But everyone else at New High was quite aware that it did. They were equally aware of the group's prowess. It was like a not-so-secret society of the unattainably, almost inhumanly gorgeous.

  “Do you think I'm underdressed?" Despen quivered.

  "No, you look beauti-." Liza caught herself, noting the absurdity of what she was doing – helping her friend join a clique of girls who based all value and all judgment on sheer looks.

  Reading Liza's reticence, Despen assured her, "This won't change things between you and me. I'm not like any of them."

  "Then why even affiliate yourself with their stupid little club?," was what Liza wanted to say, instead of eking out a barely audible, "I know."

  "Thanks for coming over, Liza, it means a lot."

  "Congratulations, Despen."

  Not one for protracted goodbyes, Liza quietly left Despen in her bedroom where Despen continued to critique herself in front of a full-length mirror until early nightfall.

  The “initiation” was hardly a formal one; it was just a bunch of pretty girls gathered at somebody's house, drinking, primping, gossiping and sharing beauty tips, mostly on how to keep thin. To their credit, the girls seemed open to all sorts of looks and personal styles, although they all shared one thing in common – dire skinniness. Despen felt fortunate that she didn't have to worry as much about her size. She was always on the gangly side and her tall height, while a source of anxiety a year ago, became her most striking asset. Now, if she could only grow respectably sized breasts, she'd joke, winning extra points among the girls for her humility.

  After a few hours the girls congregated in Brittani's bedroom. Brittani was the group's unofficial leader. She was the quintessential American prom queen – smart, popular, rich and, of course, beautiful. She lived like a modern-day princess, always getting what she wanted, never told no. She was at the same time charming and bitchy, naive and crafty. No one could resist her schemes, not even her own parents, who seemed to revere (and fear) her. It was no wonder they were hardly ever at home.

  Despen entered Brittani's bedroom as unnoticeably as possible and sat down quietly on the floor behind a batch of girls. Another batch of girls draped on a small sofa across from the bed on which Brittani and several fellow seniors reclined. The large, spacious room now felt stuffy and cramped. As the last two girls filed in and closed the door behind them, Brittani stood up and asked, "Whose turn is it?" Two girls sitting next to each other on the small sofa raised their hands.

  Brittani continued, "I assume you took your painkillers?"

  The girls nodded.

  "Great. Let's get started."

  "Uhm, Brittani, we have a newcomer," preempted Crystal, a junior and Brittani's likely successor. "Despen, where are you? There you are."

  The roomful of girls turned to look at Despen, who squeezed her knees tightly to her chest, making her appear small and frail.

  Brittani assessed Despen's demeanor for a moment and then extended a shallow, "Welcome."

  "She doesn't know," inserted Crystal.

  "Well, then, she can sit this one out and watch. Right, Despen?"

  Despen nodded.

  "Great. Okay, girls, you know the drill."

  The two girls got up off the sofa and undressed while the seniors placed towels on the bed. Brittani opened what looked like a toolkit and handed a sewing needle and sutures to Crystal. She then took out a large, razor-thin knife that gleamed heavily in the lamplight. Like a skilled surgeon she began slicing the knife into the flesh of one of the girls, who screamed murderously into a pillow as fat and muscle were removed from her inner thighs and haunches.

  "Hold still," demanded Brittani, "you're only making it worse."

  Brittani carved out large chunks of skin and body tissue, handing them to each of the seniors who tore into the bloody meat like ravenous vultures before reluctantly passing what remained to the younger girls. Despen blanched as she watched everyone around her feverishly devour the flesh of the now faint and delirious girl.

  "She's losing too much blood," cautioned Crystal.

  "Fine, sew her up."

  Crystal went to work on the first girl like a pro, closing the wounds gently yet swiftly and afterwards applying a greasy gel to them. Brittani, meanwhile, sliced into the second girl who had already passed out, making it easier to extract larger pieces of flesh. Raven, a sophomore, and one of the girls sitting by Despen, handed a piece of flesh to Despen, who declined in visible disgust.

  "I know what you're thinking," whispered Raven, "I reacted the same way at first. It took me a few weeks to process it all, but when I saw my weight vanish, I got over it."

  "This is some kind of diet?" questioned Despen with a look of both horror and incredulity.

  "Oh, yes, it's the only one that actually works, aside from complete starvation. We fast for two days, then we do this; the rest of the week I eat pretty much whatever I want."

  "What about the incisions? Aren't there scars?"

  “Not really. Most scars aren’t so deep; they tend to disappear in time.”

  "In time for what?"

  "For the next turn under the knife. We rotate girls every Friday. Everyone does it."

  Despen was aghast.

  "And since you're new, next week will be your turn."