It doesn’t take long to see why Violet was dreading this event. Hours spent looking in the mirror is not time well spent. Clothes pile up on her bedroom floor as I try to find something worthwhile to wear. Violet dodges around the discarded options strewn across the floor. I keep bending down to hear her opinions, but even when she praises my appearance, nothing makes me feel good. A black, strapless dress makes my body look as puffy as my face; a sparkly, cinnamon-colored skirt only accentuates the trail of scabs across my cheeks. Nothing is flattering, nothing is right. And yet the trickiest problem is why I even care.
It’s not like I’ve never thought about the way I look. I think about it all the time; it’s my job to perfect my appearance. Mastering angles, proportion, and symmetry—my duty is to create an accurate manifestation. Every day I toiled over my form, pushing myself to be the best visual representation of my Person. When I moved an extremity out of place or miscalculated a movement, I would get upset. But at least those frustrations had merit. Making a mistake as a Pentral meant putting my salvation at risk, so of course I would get down on myself.
But now, standing in front of this mirror, there is no basis for judgment. I’m standing still, doing nothing worthy of critique or comment, and yet I feel completely worthless. As a Shadow, I would use that energy to work harder, to ensure I didn’t make the same mistake twice. But how I can fix something that isn’t even wrong? How can I improve upon a problem that refuses to be clear? I can’t understand it. This isn’t even my body, yet it’s hard, having this image—so cruel, so twisted and strange—staring back at me.
Finally I settle on an emerald green dress that covers my body without making my flesh bulge unevenly and feels the most comfortable. Though I am far from comfortable. I’ve covered my body, but that’s the least of my problems. Now I have to figure out what to do with everything from the shoulders up.
On the vanity sits a small collection of cosmetics. Shiny tubes of lipstick, little pots of shimmery powder, and an assortment of brushes sit at my fingertips. They are new additions to Violet’s life, these tools of beauty, that slowly began appearing in her room after her birthday this summer. Before June, she never cared about makeup, the only colors of her world being those of paint and digital pens. I couldn’t understand it at the time; covering her freckles with clashing pigments seemed like such a waste. And yet here I am, looking for a miracle solution. I don’t even know how to apply this stuff.
I cross my arms and lie my head down on the vanity. Violet’s consciousness comes streaming into mine.
“You know, you could try a tutorial,” she suggests.
“A what?” I say, trying not to sound as exasperated as I feel.
“Tap on my holopane. In the lower right corner there’s a folder called “how-to.” I’ve saved a bunch of projections there, mostly stuff about digital design. But there should be one on makeup. I was only starting to learn myself.”
Reluctantly, I swivel toward the glass. It’s currently in stand-by mode, with only a single line of blue text describing the weather scrolling across. I realize that up until now, I’ve had no reason to interact with this technology. Figuring out interpersonal relations has been consuming enough; throwing holopanes into the mix takes it to a whole other level.
How much force does it take to activate this thing? Not much, apparently. I barely press my pointer finger to the glass and it comes alive, filling the wall with more images and words than I can process at once. There’s too much to look at, so I focus on the corner as Violet instructed, selecting the glowing “how-to” folder. It springs open toward me, releasing a stream of files that swirl clockwise around my head. Names like “rendering,” “pixel size,” and “filters” float in the air. I turn slowly looking for one about makeup. Then I see it hovering above my shoulder: Makeup 101 with Celestia Sky.
You’ve got to be kidding me. “Seriously, Violet?!?” I yell in frustration, though I don’t connect with her for a response. Celestia’s perfect face is the last thing I want to see right now. But really, what choice do I have? Thomas will be picking me up in a matter of minutes, and I still look like a house of horrors. I need help.
I release a low, guttural sound of disgust as I click the file open. This is going to be torture. In seconds, a hologram of Celestia is seated next to me. Her face is natural, free of its usual polished finish. Still, even bare faced, she’s stunning. The projection is so lifelike; I reach to touch it and it quivers faintly, but the pre-recorded Celestia begins anyway, unfazed.
“Hi there! Welcome to this introduction on applying makeup. We’re going to have so much fun today!” she starts in a bubbly tone. Part of me wants to vomit, yet as Celestia starts describing various techniques for using mascara, bronzer, and the like, part of me becomes oddly drawn in. Her personality starts to win me over. She is warm, encouraging, never making me feel ugly or foolish. On the jumbo holopane in town square, she seems like a rare deity, looking down on her subjects from on high, but here, in Violet’s bedroom, she’s more like a big sister, sweetly cheering on my progress. For a moment I forget how intimidated I’ve been by her. As I reach for the finishing touch of lip gloss, I have to admit; I’m almost appreciative of her.
“Well friend, I hope you’ve had as much fun as I have. You’ve done a great job! Please check out my other tutorials for more advanced techniques. Now, take a look in the mirror and admire your handiwork. Aren’t you a stunner?”
Full of hope, I turn toward the mirror. Despite my new friend Celestia’s careful instructions, I can’t say my Reflection has improved much. No amount of shading and contouring can erase my scars and swelling. Maybe I’ve been staring at Celestia’s beautiful face for too long, because now mine seems even worse by comparison. My eyes water, smearing my novice eyeliner work, and my Reflection answers back with midnight-stained moons under my eyes. It’s terrible. I’ve made such a mess. I place my hands, caked with various powders, on top of the mirror, covering the evidence of my mistakes. I wish that somehow, my Reflection could show me something different, just for a night, so I could make it through this event in one piece.
A thought sends my head spinning: could she? Could I communicate with my Reflection? Ask her for help? She is a Pentral after all, and if I can hear Violet’s thoughts when we touch, maybe I can reach out to this Class Two in the glass.
I slide my hand down the mirror, giving myself a clear line of sight with my Reflection. Her palm is pressed in tandem, awaiting my next move. Since Pentrals can’t read their Persons’ thoughts, I’d better speak out loud to get the conversation started.
“Hello?” I start, watching my Reflection mouth back my greeting. “Can I talk to you?” I keep my lips still, waiting for my reverse image to reciprocate. “I just want to understand what you see. Is this really the way I look?”
I wait, looking for any variation from my actions—a quick glance, a subtle twitch—but the Reflection remains a statue, only moving when I do. I release my hand, dejected. Perhaps the glass is too thick a barrier, eliminating any chance of a tether between us. Or maybe Reflections, whose job is to capture every detail of a Person’s life—not just an outline—are just unable to move on their own. Shadows don’t have much freedom, but I suppose our actions are slightly less scrutinized. We work under a Person’s feet, but Reflections perform for a captive audience. I guess there’s no chance for mistakes when someone is looking you directly in the eye.
Mrs. Rayne interrupts my failed makeover. I wouldn’t have even noticed her, if it weren’t for her normal Reflection hovering quietly behind my terrifying one. “Violet,” she says softly, staring at the floor. “Thomas is waiting downstairs.”
“Oh, thanks,” I answer, quickly trying to brush out my hair. I consider trying to do something more fancy, but while I’ve mimicked Violet styling her hair, dealing with the actual strands proves much more challenging. I give up.
“You suit each other, you know,” Mrs. Rayne adds, before disappearing
from the door. It seems like a random comment, especially coming from Violet’s mom, who probably hasn’t seen Violet and Thomas together in months. But it does make me wonder; do the two complement each other? I always thought so, watching them from below. I can understand why Violet was attracted to him; he’s sweet, caring, handsome. But how is it that Thomas fell for Violet? I know she is a good Person, but staring in the mirror has made me wonder how anyone could ever get past appearances.
I decide to find out. I trudge downstairs, stepping on my floor-length dress twice, where I find him waiting. Unsurprisingly, Thomas has succeeded in pulling off his eveningwear. Simple and understated, he wears a crisp black tux with his blond hair slicked back.
He pulls me close. “You look amazing,” he whispers. But his words fall on deaf ears. I don’t want to hear his baseless compliments. I don’t want his pity. I need to understand why he is dating a monster.
“Thomas, why do you love me?”
“What?” he pulls back. “What kind of question is that?”
“Just…answer.”
“Well, there are lots of reasons, but mostly it’s because you make the world a more beautiful place.”
Beautiful. He had to choose that word. “What makes me beautiful?”
He steps closer, holding my face in his hands. He runs his thumb across my cheek and I cringe, thinking of the scars I tried to mask with makeup.
“You’re beautiful because of the art you create, the way you care for other people. When we were apart, everything was gray for me. You make everything light.”
I take a beat to let his kind words wiggle into my mind and take root. I want to believe him. Still, I’m not sure how he can ever let those things override this disfigured face.
“And what about the way I look?”
Thomas looks right into my eyes. “Beautiful.”
“Are you sure? Because—”
“Yes,” he stops me. “I love the way you look, but it’s only one part of you. All these parts add up to one beautiful you.”
I bury my face in his suit jacket, trying to accept this idea. As a Shadow, appearance was important to me, albeit for different reasons. But was my outline my only determining factor? Were my shapes and lines the only way to decipher Antares from any other Pentral on the pavement? I suppose not. Take away my Shadow form and I’m still me, a collection of thoughts and opinions that are mine and mine alone. I guess that makes me special. And Violet, no matter what she looks like, is special too.
I should try and not lose sight of that, even when my sights are less than pleasant.
* * 17 * *
FreshView headquarters rises out of the Talline skyline like a lighthouse against the sea. Dwarfing the surrounding buildings with its grand pyramid shape, the structure is lined with brilliant metallics—impressive bands of chrome and copper alternating upwards. The top floors, which come to a point, are transparent glass and when they are lit, as they are for the party tonight, it casts an almost magical glow upon the city. From outside, the ballroom looks light and airy, almost as if it was floating on top of the tower. Upon entering, it is clear much effort was taken to carry this enchanting feeling all the way through.
We are late to the party, thanks to my prolonged primping. When we exit the elevator on the top floor, my body feels strangely light, as if gravity was lessening its hold. Maybe it’s the shift in altitude, or maybe I’m just not used to walking in heels, but there is something different about the air up here. It takes me a minute to adjust. I hold on tight to Thomas’ arm, and he gives me a reassuring squeeze as we approach the ballroom’s entrance. Just as we’re about to open the silver doors, a couple bursts out, laughing and falling all over each other. They bump into us, but make no apologies. Their eyes are glassy, cheeks wet with happy tears. The woman clutches onto her date’s suit jacket to keep from completely toppling over.
“That cloud was sooooooo amazing!” she says, slurring her words. “I never wanted it to end!”
The man laughs, trying to secure his arms around her flailing body. “Pace yourself now, okay? Let’s take a breather.”
I look at Thomas, confused. “That was weird.”
“Agreed.”
We pass the delirious duo and enter the party. Never in my life have I seen a more beautiful physical space. Tiny white lights twinkle like stars from the glass ceiling, and candles glow on mirrored tabletops. Every surface is polished to a high gloss, catching every flicker of light.
Even the party guests are meticulously coiffed and magnificent. Usually the faces I see in this town are grim and tired, but tonight everyone looks elated, happy to be alive. Every woman’s gown is more beautiful than the next, dripping with rich jewels or luxurious velvet. Every face has been scrubbed, plucked, and plastered to its best possible presentation. I tug at my own dress, wondering if maybe tonight was not the time to choose comfort over appearance—no one else seems concerned with whether her attire limits a full range of motion. Bodies are so tightly compacted in their clothing that I doubt anyone can breathe. It’s a bit unnerving.
“Hey,” Thomas says, stopping just after we’ve crossed the party’s threshold. He cups his hands around my cheeks, sensing my discomfort. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just… I feel underdressed.” Not that he could understand, Thomas blends right in, looking positively impeccable.
“You don’t need to worry. No one compares to you.”
I force a smile. I spent hours waging a war in the mirror, but it appears I was the only one being hunted by a monster in glass.
There are so many faces, hardly any I recognize. You’d think spending 17 years on the streets of Talline would make me more familiar with the population, but if a Person wasn’t on Violet’s radar, he certainly wasn’t on mine. I’m glad to have Thomas by my side right now, otherwise I’m not sure what I’d do with myself. Probably just hide in a corner, blend into my surroundings, become a presence not requiring attention. It’s what I’m best at after all: disappearing in plain sight.
No one is taking notice of me anyway. All the guests are giddy, sampling endless trays of appetizers and reveling in the party’s extravagance. I wish I shared their glee. Everyone is so carefree, so uninhibited, it makes my self-consciousness all the more palpable. Especially when I notice one Person is paying me extra special attention.
The moment our eyes meet, Mr. West crosses the room, carrying a plate packed with puffed pastries. I’m not sure why he’s heading my way—surely there are other guests more appropriate for him to talk to than his student—yet he careens through the crowd on a determined path. It’s unexpected, really, and when he stops before me, a tiny prickling of goose bumps covers my bare arms. I rub them nervously, trying to counteract the cooling sensation Mr. West’s arrival has caused.
“Violet,” he says, lips dusted with flaky crumbs, “how delightful to see you outside of class.” Despite the black tie dress code, he’s wearing a jacket and tie I know I’ve seen him wear to class.
“Oh sure, you too, Mr. West,” I fidget. What are teachers and students supposed to talk about?
“And you are Thomas Brandt, correct?” asks Mr. West, thankfully adverting his glance off of me.
“Yes sir,” Thomas nods.
“I’m sorry to say that I’ve never caught one of your soccer games, but from what I hear, you are quite the star,” Mr. West says, somehow managing not to topple his food even though he’s waving his plate wildly.
“Thank you, that’s very kind. You should come to a game sometime.”
“Certainly, though I don’t get much free time. I have very important matters to attend to.” And with that, Mr. West resumes his stare, looking at me like I’m the eighth wonder of the world, some sort of unbelievable sight to behold. His glare is unwavering, and if there wasn’t this undeterminable draft chilling my skin, I’d be burning of embarrassment.
Finally, he’s seen enough. “Well, enjoy the rest o
f the party. Goodnight then.” He walks away, giving me one last glance over his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd. I take a deep breath and feel some warmth return to my veins. My skin smoothes out to its regular freckled state.
“You know,” Thomas starts, “Mary always raved about that guy, but I think he’s kind of—“
“Crazy?” I interject.
“Well, I was going to say ‘intense,’ but sure, crazy works. He seemed really fixated on you. Is he like that in class?”
Yes, I think. Though I can’t say for sure if he’s always been so interested in Violet. Instead, I shrug. “He’s definitely odd. I’m glad he’s gone.”
Everyone has gathered in the middle of the ballroom, standing on the outskirts of a small stage. A few moments later, the room bursts into applause as a radiant Celestia Sky appears and stands elevated above the crowd. She wears a blazing, red-sequined dress, so tight even the cheap seats can see every curve of her body. Dipping down to her navel, and equally low in the back, she is the one Person who could pull off such scandalous attire. She waves to the crowd, and everyone continues to cheer despite her efforts to calm them down. Persons randomly shout out, “Celestia! We love you!” as their goddess gives a small laugh, delicately touching her hands to her cheeks, as if she cannot believe their adorations. She takes the microphone and the room falls quiet, desperate to hear whatever she has to say.
“Thank you, thank you,” Celestia coos, as a spotlight illuminates her frame. Her dark skin gives an impossibly glimmering sheen against the sparkles of her dress. “FreshView employees, citizens of Talline, we welcome you. We are honored to have you here with us tonight. For 20 years, FreshView has improved the lives of our families and friends, by providing medicines and supplements engineered to boost, strengthen, and heal. I have no doubt everyone in this room has benefitted from a FreshView product.”
Heads bob in unison, hanging on her every word. “Tonight, we celebrate the achievements of this monumental organization. But we must not forget the man responsible for all this innovation and splendor. Ladies and gentleman, please welcome a personal hero of mine, Mr. William Kelly!”
The Pentrals Page 10