Only Ever Yours

by Louise O'Neill

  “rosie … rosie … alessandra … rosie … rosie …”

  “I’m dying,” rosie gasps when she is announced the winner. “You’re so much prettier than me.”

  “No way,” alessandra says. “I would kill for your lips. And blue eyes are cuter, everyone knows that.” megan raises an eyebrow. “Blue and green eyes.”

  “Yeah, but I’d much prefer your nose. It’s straighter than mine,” rosie says, squeezing the tip of her own perfectly straight nose.

  “Well, at least you’re not fat like me.”

  “What? Have you seen my thighs? I’m practically veering into isabel territory,” rosie says, pinching nonexistent thigh fat. She waits, hiding a tiny smile as the garden bursts with dissenting voices.

  “You are so not fat. I’m fat.”

  “I’m so fat I should be made obsolete.”

  “I’ve gained at least three pounds since dinner, I know it.”

  How many kcals were in that chocco bar? It’s 555 kcal per 100 grams, but it was a large bar, which is 250 grams approximately. I only had a small bite. How many kcals in that? I need to pay more attention in Calorie Calculation class. My blood feels itchy with the compulsion to vomit the chocco back up, see it splash on the ground before me, leaving me clean.

  megan spins the bottle again, covering her face with slim fingers and exclaiming, “I’m so embarrassed!” when it lands on herself and angelina. I’ve always thought she and megan look alike, with their masses of dark wavy hair and milky pale skin. angelina would be my personal choice however; her feline-shaped blue eyes are gorgeous.

  “The twins can start it off.”

  They both choose megan, of course, each girl that follows regurgitating her name without hesitation. We’re shape-shifters, forever peeking over our shoulders to see what everyone else is doing in order to base our performance on theirs. freja opts for megan too, turning to me with an expectant face.

  angelina angelina angelina, a voice is screaming inside my head, but my tongue feels swollen, absorbing the words I want to say.

  “Sorry, what did you say? I didn’t quite catch that.” megan plays coyly with the silk tie of her kimono.

  “megan,” I repeat in defeat. I turn to agyness. She’s making a necklace from some poppy-flowers, tongue lolling out in concentration.

  “Hey, Augustus, it’s your turn,” megan says, throwing contemptuous looks at the others. “Augustus. Wake up, Augustus.”

  I nudge agyness, pointing to megan when she frowns at me for disturbing her jewelry making.

  “I was calling your name, you dumb bitch,” megan says in exasperation.

  “But you didn’t say my name.”

  “I did. I called you Augustus.”

  “But my name is agyness. Why would you call me Augustus?”

  agyness isn’t being awkward. She honestly doesn’t get that someone would call her by a man’s name because she has short hair.

  “Whatever,” megan sighs in the end, obviously deciding it isn’t worth explaining it to her. “My face or angelina’s?”

  “What?”

  “What is wrong with you?” megan says, losing her cool. “Did they drop you on your head when you were designed? Why do you think we’re all out in the garden at midnight? Did you expect us to sing songs and braid each other’s hair? We’re playing Your Face or Mine. The bottle landed on angelina and me. Which one of us do you think is the prettiest?”

  agyness looks from megan’s face to angelina’s, then back to megan’s again.

  “angelina.” She refocuses on her necklace, grabbing another poppy from behind her to intertwine in it.

  Silence fills the domed garden, no one daring to look at anyone else.

  “What?” megan isn’t even attempting to disguise her disbelief.

  “I said I choose angelina.” Irritation colors agyness’s voice at this further disruption. “I prefer her lips. You have great lips, angelina,” she says, and angelina smiles gratefully at this unexpected victory, however small. “But, um, you have a nice personality, megan.”

  She must be worried that she has hurt megan’s feelings. That’s the only explanation I can think of for the blatant lie. That warning vein is throbbing in megan’s forehead again, her lips so white they look as if they’ve disappeared.

  “Nice? Nice? NICE?” megan shouts. I try to shush her but she’s beyond reason.

  “Yes. You’re nice,” agyness lies again, looking perplexed at this reaction.

  “Who cares about nice?”

  “I do. I think personality matters.”

  “Are you brain dead? Personality does NOT matter. All that matters is being pretty, you …” she stammers with rage, “you feminist.” There’s a horrified gasp. “Well, it’s true,” she says defiantly. “Being pretty is all that matters.”

  “I quite agree, #767.”

  We freeze as she moves out of the shadows cast by the plastic trees. Her black robes make her look like a huge crow, about to scavenge through the debris for something to eat. Behind her is chastity-bernadette, sleepily rubbing her eyes.

  Oh shit.

  “Being pretty is what’s most important. Although, I have to say, I feel using the ‘F-word’ was a little excessive,” she continues, wearing her calmness like a mask. I can’t breathe, terror constricting my lungs.

  “I’m sorry, chastity-ruth, I—”

  “Since you know how important being pretty is, I’m sure you’re aware of how important sufficient sleep is to keep your skin in good condition. Especially coming up to the Ceremony.”

  “Yes, chastity-ruth,” we whisper.

  “Words fail me, girls. And I’m not often short of words, am I?” We make submissive noises. “Now, let me see. There must be a ringleader. I wonder who it could be.”

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  “Did you really think you were going to get away with this? Get up right now and walk in single file back to your dorm. You will not speak to each other. You will not look at one another. I will expect you in my office in the morning to receive your chastisement.” She gestures at a quaking chastity-bernadette. “Escort them back to their dorms—if you can manage to stay awake that long.”

  “Wait, #630,” she says as we eves scramble to our feet, eager to escape. “I would like a little chat with you.”

  I stop, my heart thumping painfully in my chest. I try to grab hold of megan’s kimono as she passes, but the silk just slips through my fingers. chastity-bernadette closes the gate tightly behind them, locking me in here. With her.

  “Have you anything you would like to say, #630?” She loops around me again and again until I start to feel dizzy.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You requested a VideoChat with every girl in your year this evening. That’s an interesting coincidence, isn’t it?”

  She stands before me. She’s not tall, but it feels as if she is towering above me, ready to wrap her black veil around me and devour me.

  “Every girl except isabel. Didn’t you used to be ‘best friends’? Or did she get sick of you?” she continues, the moonlight glinting yellow in her gray eyes. I want to tell her that this wasn’t my idea, but I can’t. My life will be a living nightmare if I get megan in trouble, and I need her now. I’m not brave enough to do this by myself.

  “Do you have anything to say for yourself, #630?”

  “No,” I say, and she looks so angry that I draw back, afraid she might touch me, hit me and leave a scar. But she would never do that. The chastities are not allowed to damage the Father’s investments.

  “I don’t even want to look at you, you useless piece of garbage.” A malevolent grin stretches across her face, her teeth like a row of tombstones. “I will give you your chastisement tomorrow, #630. I need time to think of something extra special just for you.”

  Chapter 8

  “All final-year eves report to the chastities’ office.”

  I’m lying face down on the mattress when the intercom wakes me, my head sme
ared onto my arms, my mouth parched. I stretch, my mind gluey with sleep.

  “Will all final-year eves report to the office immediately. Except for isabel.”

  Obviously. The twin’s voices whisper in my head, and memories from last night smash into me.

  I crawl out of bed. Even in the low lighting, my mirrored cubicle is not kind to me today. I can see the wrinkles in my kimono from every angle, a big lump of knotted hair bulging at the nape of my neck. Peering closer at the wall at the base of my bed I notice angry handprints on my cheek from where I fell asleep.

  “Hurry up,” freja hisses from the doorway, immaculate in tapered pants and an olive blouse with a pussycat bow.

  Throwing an agonized glance at the mirror, I pull my matted hair into a bun and scurry to catch up with daria. We march together through the cloisters, past the garden gate to the back of the School until we have gathered in front of the chastity quarters. A tall gold-plated gate shields their privacy, the large black triangle of the chastities sculpted in the metal. There are five different cameras pointing directly at us. This is the only area of the School that still has functioning cameras. They can’t afford to replace the others.

  megan forces her way to the front, slamming her hand on a gold-plated box attached to the gate, the same black triangle inscribed on that. A sorrowful note rings out and the gates part. megan grabs my hand, her talons digging into my palms in warning. A surge of hatred pulses through my body, so strong my knees shake, and she lets go, smiling. She knows I’ll do what she wants.

  We walk through the gates into a long murky passageway, stopping at a large oak door with a brass peephole at eye level.

  “What do we do now?” megan asks, jumping as the door swings open.

  “Follow me,” chastity-anne says with a disapproving shake of her head, leading us through their quarters. The diamond tiles give way to a black marbled floor. There are no light-lamps here, only old-fashioned white candles in glass lanterns, six along each side of the hall. Beside each lantern there is a single door, which must be the chastities’ individual sleeping quarters. chastity-anne leads us through another oak door into a dimly lit room where every surface is covered in oak-wood panels, including the ceiling. The big window at the far end of the room is sealed with a huge print of the original Father, the man who led the Noah’s Project for the Euro-Zone all those years ago. The poster is dotted around with star-shaped light bulbs.

  Lining either side of the room are six wooden chairs, each one underneath a lantern holding a white candle, the same as in the corridor. Eleven chastities are sitting in the chairs, their black robes draping to the ground, stitching brightly colored thread into linen frames. They’re working in a perfect rhythm, needles going in and out at the exact same time, the concentration on their faces clear to see even in the candlelight.

  chastity-ruth is sitting at a large wooden desk beneath the Father’s poster. She claps twice and the other chastities immediately stop their embroidery and stand up. With bald heads bowed and needlework clasped in their hands, they glide silently from the room. chastity-magdalena holds a finger to her lips as she passes me, her face grave.

  When they have left, chastity-ruth looks at each girl in her turn, except for me. For all the times I’ve wished I was invisible to her, I can’t help but feel this is a bad omen.

  “I’m sure you are aware of how disappointed I am in you.”

  “Yes, chastity-ruth,” we reply, heads hanging.

  “I have known for some time that chastity-bernadette was perhaps ill-suited to night duty, but I never dreamed that you would abuse her limitations in such an insolent manner.” She does look shocked. The chastities never expect us to disobey them, to have the audacity to break the rules carved into us since design. She shakes her head before adding, “chastity-bernadette shall also be punished of course.”

  I feel a pang of guilt at the thought of poor old chastity-bernadette getting in trouble because of us.

  “Isolation is enforced to ensure that any incidents of female hysteria which Organized Recreation has failed to drain from you do not occur. It’s for your own safety.”

  “Yes, chastity-ruth.”

  “I thought long and hard about a suitable chastisement for you. I was considering banning you from makeup for a week …” daria catches her breath, blood draining from her face, “but I decided that would only be detrimental to the reputation of the School. You may be perfectly designed, but there is always room for Improvement.” She scrutinizes us as a heaviness hangs in the gloomy room. “So, as your chastisement, your internet usage will be banned for a week.”

  “What?”

  “No!”

  “That’s not fair—”

  “That means,” her cold voice slices through the protests, “no MyFace, no VideoChat, no TV. Nothing. I shall collect your eFones and ePads at breakfast. Now get out of my sight.”

  We go to leave, stunned into silence.

  “Stay where you are, #630,” she says as the others file out. “Sit down.”

  I grab one of the chastity’s chairs and drag it so that I can sit across from her, the desk a welcome buffer between us.

  “Why are you still in your nightclothes?”

  I look down at my crumpled kimono. I’d forgotten I was still wearing it.

  “Pathetic.” She leans forward, digging her elbows into the wood. “I have to say, #630, I’m surprised that you’re the ringleader in all this. You’ve always seemed more like a follower. Wouldn’t you agree? A sheep. Cannon fodder. Pretty, if you like that sort of thing, but rather bland.”

  It’s as if she has ripped my head off my shoulders and held it to her ear like a seashell fossil, listening to the echo of my secret thoughts. I bite my lip. Crying is ugly. No man wants a girl who cries.

  “I would have presumed one would need to be more popular to persuade the rest of the class to break the rules so flagrantly. And so close to the Ceremony.” She widens her eyes theatrically. “Will they be very angry with you, #630?”

  They won’t blame me, will they? Everyone knows it was megan’s idea; she said so herself in the garden.

  “Was this your idea, #630? Or was someone else involved? Someone ranked higher than you, perhaps.”

  “No, chastity-ruth.” I stare into my lap miserably. I can’t risk it. “It was my idea.”

  “How touching your loyalty is, if rather misguided.” I can hear her wooden chair scraping back on the marble floor. “It’s a pity you didn’t show similar loyalty to isabel.”

  “Yes, chastity-ruth.”

  “Besides having your internet usage rescinded, as an extra chastisement you are forbidden from using makeup or hairstyling this week.”

  “But what about standards being upheld?” I blurt out in desperation. “I thought you said—”

  “Are you questioning me?” Her eyes are like chips of ice.

  “No, chastity-ruth.”

  “Glad to hear it.” She peers closer at me. “Those dark circles under your eyes aren’t going to help your rankings. What is the point of your taking SleepSound when it’s clearly so ineffective? I must discuss it with chastity-anne.”

  I can feel my chin starting to wobble. Don’t cry. Don’t cry. I am always happy and easygoing.

  “I hope you’re not going to cry, #630, like some new-design.”

  “No, chastity-ruth.”

  “And you’re in detention for two weeks,” she says. “You will report to the chamber every morning after breakfast. You are dismissed.”

  I leave quickly before she can find a few more chastisements for me, running away, the world blurring with my fear.

  Chapter 9

  “Your weight is 115 pounds, freida,” the PSP says. “Please step into the changing room.”

  “Can I look through some old fotos to reference first?”

  “Outfit denied.”

  “But I haven’t chosen an outfit yet.”

  “Outfit denied.”

  I peer closely at t
he screen, tapping it repeatedly, but it keeps saying, “Denied. Denied. Denied.”

  “Denied,” the PSP says again. “Please step into the changing room. Your outfit has been selected.” The computer screen vanishes and my face reappears. My eyes are bloodshot, purple shadows smudged underneath them. I pinch my cheeks to draw some blood into them, give them some color. I could really use makeup today.

  “Maybe a sneaky hint of lip gloss?” I say as the trapdoors of the changing room open and I step in.

  “Close your eyes.”

  The lasers crackle, the top layer of my skin seared clean, hair yanked into a tight ponytail. Back in my room I stare in disbelief at the outfit that has been selected for me. Ochre velour sweatpants have been matched with an oversized yellow T-shirt, yellow flip-flops and a yellow backpack. I look like a stick of margarine.

  Sometimes I fantasize about having a terrible accident, one so awful that everyone would feel sorry for me and take care of me until I got better. I wish that every bone in my face was broken, my features disfigured beyond repair, so that a complete redesign was unavoidable. I could flip through a catalog of body parts, hand-picking the new, improved me. I know everything would be better then.

  I take my place in the line for the fotobooths. daria passes, nose in the air, and freja waits for me to walk ahead of her, pretending to be engrossed by the floor tiles. I try my best to take a good foto, dimming the lighting and turning slightly away so only my side profile has been captured, but I know it’s no use. I can imagine all the Inheritants looking at the foto, at my greasy hair and my uneven skin, thinking how tired I look. I will be unwanted by any man, utterly failing in my one role as an eve.

  Conversations stop when I enter the cafeteria, continuing in whispers as I pass. Even the younger eves nudge each other, heads tilted in my direction. Everyone knows.

  “Morning, chastity-anne.” She doesn’t look up from her desk as she hands me the test tube with my foto on it.

  “Wait,” I say, talking to the top of her head, the rivets of blue veins tracing around her skull. “Where are the rest of my meds?”

  She shrugs and looks over her shoulder at chastity-ruth. She’s perched at her desk, a big pile of confiscated ePads and eFones in a wooden crate at her feet.