Only Ever Yours

by Louise O'Neill

  I press my trembling lips together, fixating on the screen as it transforms back into the 360-degree mirror, remaining clear despite the steaming heat. I pull up my black running shorts and stretch my legs out, displaying them to her as a reprimand, wanting her to see how thin I am now, how my leg hollows at the thigh now, like freja’s. At least I’m thin. isabel is staring at herself in the mirror, at the sweat patches staining under her arms and her crotch area. She clenches her fists, her jaw jutting out.

  “I’m going.”

  “But the hour isn’t up yet!”

  “I know.” She yanks the exercise bike lever off, silencing the garbled abuse, and snaps off her ankle weights, chucking them to the ground.

  “I’ll come with you.” I wince as I bash my head against the control deck of the treadmill. “Please, isabel, I want …”

  She grabs her bag from the locker and throws that well-worn black dress on over her workout gear. She comes toward me, lavender muddled with sweat, and snatches the ePad, stuffing it into her bag. And she’s gone.

  Another blast of cold air swashes through the room.

  “The alarm went off,” chastity-bernadette says. “Where is isabel?” She looks around the tiny room as if expecting to find her hiding behind one of the machines.

  “She had to use the bathroom,” I lie. “The kcal blockers were giving her cramps.”

  “Oh, right.” She focuses her attention on me, her hooded eyelids drooping over violet-colored eyes. “Well, your hour is nearly up, freida, if you want to run along.”

  She must have forgotten that we’re not supposed to use the bathroom when we’re in the chamber. That’s what happened to agyness in 6th year. She had been overprescribed ExoLax on the same day she had detention, so she was trapped in the chamber when the diarrhea hit. I always wondered why she didn’t run for the bathroom—the doors aren’t even locked. I guess it was fear that stopped her. It’s always fear. The video footage of it got leaked somehow and it was all over MyFace within minutes. agyness, the pain imprinted on her babyish face as she tried to control herself, the shame when she failed. I tried to look away from the video but I couldn’t. Some part of me had to see it for myself. She ran and ran and ran on that treadmill, feces trickling slowly down her tiny legs, staining her polka-dot socks and neon-pink sneakers. But she was a good girl. She didn’t cry, not once.

  As I’m waiting for class to begin, I idly count messy side braids. megan has moved on already, of course, to a glossy topknot, causing the others to pick fretfully at their freshly styled hair.

  “Where’s isabel?” cara whispers to me, winding her braid into a low bun at the nape of her neck, and I shrug.

  “All final-year eves are to congregate in the Assembly Hall immediately,” the intercom shrieks.

  “Let’s go, girls.” chastity-theresa beams with delight at having class postponed. We move as one down the corridors, in the opposite direction to the garden, until we come to the Hall foyer, a white pebble-dashed circular room. In single file we walk through until there it is, space unfolding in all directions. The Assembly Hall is the biggest room in the school, with its high ceilings, expanse of floor, and a marble-lined stage extending for what seems like miles. Supposedly it was designed to be a replica of an opera house from Old-Europe, and it is very beautiful, but rarely used; they can’t afford to refurbish any wear and tear.

  We’re whispering among ourselves, voices melting into the noise and restlessness. chastity-ruth climbs the marble steps onto the stage, the other chastities following and falling into a single line behind her.

  “If you’re quite finished …” chastity-ruth calls out, standing by the marble podium, but no one besides me seems to hear her. The screen at the back of the stage flashes images: the traditional triquetra of the thirds; the Father of the Euro-Zone lifting steel weights as easily as if they were cardboard; another of him surrounded by adoring women; murals of Adam and eve, the first woman created for man; the design laboratories, the Genetic Engineers looking up from their Petri dishes to wave at the camera; rows and rows of newly designed babies incubated in plastic wombs, waiting to hatch; a companion caring for her husband and sons—she is warm, loving, nourishing them with her beauty; then a concubine, her head thrown back in ecstasy, her lips and legs parted, ready to be ravished. We settle in our red velvet seats, the flickering images anesthetizing us into silence.

  “Thank you,” chastity-ruth says. The slideshow freezes on an image of the original Father beside a bonfire of pet dogs, hundreds of mournful eyes piercing the flames as ashes float through the air like snowflakes.

  “Your Ceremony is mere months away. It is imperative that the correct choices are made and that each of you is placed within the appropriate third. All the theoretical knowledge that you have been taught during your sixteen years in School must now be put into practice.” She pauses, knowing we are hanging on her every word. “Another element is to be added to your timetable. You will be introduced to the ten Inheritants that were born the same year that you were designed, the very men for whom you were created.”

  At the mention of the word “men,” high-pitched chatter and laughter fills the vast Hall.

  “Told you so,” megan says to anyone who will listen, and I swivel in my chair, searching for isabel.

  “Will you be nervous? The first time we meet the Inheritants?”

  “No.” isabel had just had a growth spurt, her legs and arms gangly, like pieces of elastic that had been stretched too far. “Why would I be?”

  “They’re boys.”

  “They’re just people,” she reasoned. “I bet they will be more nervous than we are!”

  “Maybe.”

  “Don’t worry, freida,” she said softly. “You’re great. They’ll all like you. I know they will.”

  Dozens of hands fly up into the air, waving frenziedly at chastity-ruth. She leans over to chastity-anne. “You need to control this. Up their Organized Recreation dosage today.” The other chastity nods in agreement.

  “I will answer a few select questions,” chastity-ruth says. “You may go first, #767.”

  “Will they be here every day?” megan preens at being selected first, any chance to draw attention to her #1 status welcome. “Will they stay in the School until the Ceremony?”

  “No. They will travel via train from the main Euro-Zone on randomly selected days. You will not be informed in advance of either the day or the time of these visits.”

  “And will we get to spend more time with the Inheritant who matches our ranking?” megan continues, ignoring the other eves eager to ask questions.

  “No. The men do not know how you are ranked, and you are forbidden to tell them. This is extremely important, girls. Anyone caught breaking this rule will be swiftly and severely chastised. Yes, #755.”

  “Speaking of our rankings, how is this going to affect them? Is the public vote on the School’s website still going to count?” naomi fidgets nervously with the ivory lace headband holding her thick braid in place.

  “Excellent question, #755. How very intelligent of you to ask,” chastity-ruth answers. You can almost see her making a mental note to examine naomi’s file for signs of previous “academic tendencies,” and naomi hunches down in her seat.

  “The answer is no. The public vote will now be rescinded. Your current rankings are null and void.” She gives a spiteful little laugh. “They are meaningless, I guess you could say.”

  The Hall falls as still as a tomb, each of us mute with shock. It’s as if she has ripped our skeletons from our bodies, smiling as the remaining flesh collapses in on itself. Meaningless? What was the point then? What was the point of all those sleepless Sunday nights, anxiety about the Monday foto writhing in our bellies? Sixteen years of being told that the rankings are everything, that they are our self-worth and the only indicator of our value. Meaningless?

  “But why … ?” megan cries before clamping her mouth shut. Her face has turned sickly pale. She has clawed her wa
y to the top and now she has been told it’s meaningless.

  “Why?” chastity-ruth says. “Because we can.”

  All of us ranked in the top ten look at each other in panic as chastity-magdalena clears her throat. “The Inheritants will select their favorite eve,” she says, pretending she can’t see chastity-ruth glowering at her, “so it’s quite fair really.”

  daria turns to me with an uncertain hope that must be echoed on my own face. Surely the Inheritants will choose from the top ten? They’re the ones who have been voting for us all this time, after all.

  “Yes,” chastity-ruth continues, “as I was going to say before I was so rudely interrupted …” chastity-magdalena dips her head—“the Inheritants will choose their favorite eve to become their companion. This will depend on how attractive you look to the Inheritants and how you perform in certain challenges and tests that will be set for you.” She stares at us. “The men must have the right to choose. It is their future that is at stake.”

  “But what if more than one of the Inheritants picks the same girl?” megan asks, clearly predicting that at least nine of them will choose her.

  “The highest-ranked Inheritant will have first choice.” A low hum starts again and irritation crosses over chastity-ruth’s face. “Enough,” she says. “You will do as you are told.” We fall silent again and she nods with satisfaction. “That’s better. Now, we are going to watch a short introductory video about each Inheritant.”

  daria squeals and grabs my hand. We have grown so accustomed to being seen but never seeing in return. These men will have grown up judging our weekly fotos, comparing and ranking us. Our faces are probably as familiar to them as their own, yet they have always remained strangers to us.

  The huge crystal chandeliers dim, an image of the Father on-screen disappears and a skinny, red-haired boy takes his place. He’s struggling to catch his breath, his chestnut-brown eyes swinging from the camera to his feet.

  “Hi, I’m Socrates Ortega, and I’m the Inheritant #10.”

  Everyone claps and whoops and chastity-ruth freezes the video. Socrates is caught at a rather unfortunate moment, his mouth hanging open. I can see something green in his back teeth.

  “If you are not going to behave yourselves, I will turn off the video and you will return to classes immediately.”

  chastity-theresa looks alarmed at this. We shut up and the video resumes.

  “My father is a cobbler, in charge of providing shoes to the people of the Euro-Zone and for the Accessories Closet in the School.”

  “A cobbler?” megan groans audibly.

  According to how many sons are born in a given year, three times as many eves are designed to accommodate demand for companions and concubines. You could be lucky and be designed for a year when the Mayor and a Genetic Engineer and a Surgeon all had sons. Or we could all have been designed to be companions for the sons of grocers, cobblers … the meat-grower, for pity’s sake.

  “I’m going to take over the business when I’m old enough.” Socrates’s face is turning as red as his hair. “I like looking at old shoes, rare ones that are made from real leather. I don’t like the material of the new shoes as much. Shoes are a really big passion of mine …”

  Socrates ends his sermon on footwear and the rest of the introductory videos continue. #9, Abraham Pinault, is the son of the publican. He likes girls who do yoga because it makes them “nice and bendy.” He also enjoys craft beers.

  Mahatma, George, Isaac, William, Sigmund … It’s funny to see the differences in their heights and weights and facial features. I look at the girls around me, at the uniformity in our perfection in comparison.

  “Yes, so my father is a Doctor.” A Doctor? My head snaps up. A boy with mousy-brown hair in a severe center parting is speaking, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. Did he say his name was Leonardo?

  “Is this the #1?”

  “No,” daria whispers back in delight. “Can you believe it? He’s only #3!”

  I’m barely listening as the #2, Albert Branson, a heavyset fair-haired boy with flushed cheeks, discusses his passion for porn and three-way activities.

  When Albert is finished, there’s a drum roll, a deep voice announcing, “And here is your #1!”

  And then he appears.

  Wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt that shows off muscular arms, he looks straight into the camera as he runs a hand through his mop of dark curls. His eyes are the brightest blue I’ve ever seen and he mustn’t have shaved in a couple of days, stubble shadowing his chin. He’s gorgeous. He looks like he was designed, not born of a mere woman.

  “I’m Darwin Goldsmith,” he says. “My father is the Judge in the Euro-Zone’s courts. I’m his only son.”

  I feel dizzy. He’s handsome and rich and is destined to become one of the most powerful men in the Euro-Zone once his father retires.

  “I’m looking forward to meeting all of you. You look beautiful in the fotos on the School’s website and it should be fun getting to know one another. See you soon.”

  He rises to his feet, jeans slung low on narrow hips, and the screen goes blank. The room erupts into light and chatter. I can hear Darwin being mentioned, his name thrown from girl to girl like a game of Pass the Parcel, stopping at megan. She’s surrounded, all the girls folding in toward her, assuming that he is destined to be hers. Darwin. Darwin. Darwin. Envy courses through my veins, thick as soured milk.

  “Girls, please,” chastity-ruth admonishes us. “I would remind you that the Inheritants are not to know of your previous rankings. I’m warning you, eves.”

  “Yes, #767?” she says as megan’s hand shoots up again.

  “Are you going to film introductory videos of us for the Inheritants to watch?” she says, her eyes sparkling with devilment.

  “Of course not. All they need to see is how you look. A foto will suffice,” chastity-ruth replies.

  “Then I’m assuming isabel won’t be submitting a foto.”

  “isabel is none of your concern, #767.” megan dips her head, a small smile playing on her lips. “Oh, and one last thing—Please do not discuss any details of the Inheritants module with the younger eves; it might give them an unfair advantage when it comes to their own final-year Interactions.” You can see some of the girls are struggling not to laugh. None of the eves in the years above us gave us any help or advice. Why would we offer it to anyone else?

  chastity-ruth dismisses us, turning to speak with the other chastities. They form a circle, chastity-magdalena hovering on the outside as punishment for her earlier insubordination.

  “But really, girls, do you think isabel should submit a foto? I don’t want her to feel embarrassed because of her …” megan grimaces, the word sticking in her throat—“obesity.” She makes her way toward the exit, the rest of us trailing after her. She stops at a large gilt-framed mirror at the side of the Hall, pulling her gray Lycra dress down her thighs, and she catches my eye in the mirror. I look away, staring at my reflection next to hers. My hair is still perfectly set in pin curls, my sleeveless orange wrap dress accessorized with chunky gold chains at my scrawny wrists and neck. I look the same as I did this morning. If I look the same, why do I feel like this? Why do I feel as if there is limescale building up inside of me, clogging my air supply?

  “What do you think, freida?”

  “isabel’s been trying really hard to lose weight.”

  “Well, she’s obviously not trying hard enough, is she?”

  Everybody hates you, nobody likes you. You are disgusting. I wish you didn’t exist. I wish you were dead.

  The memory of those MyFace messages tears through my brain, making me reckless.

  “And why shouldn’t she submit her foto?” I say. “Some of the guys might like girls who are curvier.”

  The tips of my ears are blazing as laughter breaks out at my stupid comment. “And … and …” I’m stuttering, desperate to say something that will make them shut up. “And she was #1 for years and …”


  I stop myself just in time.

  “What are you implying, freida?”

  I look around at the others, looking for someone to accuse, someone to throw in the firing line in front of me.

  “What is going on here?” chastity-ruth says, barging into the middle of the group, the other chastities walking in single file behind her. For the first time in my life, I’m relieved to see her.

  “I see a lot of cross faces here. Do you all have some strange desire for an anti-age redesign by the age of twenty?” chastity-ruth says. “No one likes an angry girl. Are you teaching them how to manage their Unacceptable Emotions correctly, hope?” chastity-hope’s moon-shaped face falls with embarrassment. “Nice girls don’t raise their voices. Nice girls don’t get angry. Control yourselves.” chastity-ruth gestures at us to get out of her sight as quickly as possible.

  “She’s right,” megan says as we walk back to class, closely followed by chastity-theresa. “Self-control is so important, don’t you think? However lacking it may be in some people.”

  “Totally,” jessie says. “I haven’t even eaten dinner in two whole weeks.” She’s fingering her cream scalloped shorts, a half-moon-shaped purple stain seeping though the satin fabric. She sneaks a melted jelly from the pocket and pops it in her mouth, licking her fingers.

  “It’s a pity some people don’t seem to agree,” megan says as we take our seats in the classroom. “It’s a pity some people seem to think they can do whenever they want. We all get tired. But not all of us skip class whenever we feel like it.”

  “I had to miss class,” I say through gritted teeth. “I was unconscious in Sick Bay, megan. What was I supposed to do?”

  “freida, have you something that you would like to share with the rest of the class?”

  “No, chastity-theresa,” I mutter, ears burning again.

  “Then lower your voice.” She closes the door behind her and limps to her seat. “As we only have five minutes left in class,” she says, kicking her shoes off and reaching down to rub her feet, “you may quietly use your computers until the bell rings.”