by Kody Boye
I have just begun to recover from my episode when the elevator grinds to a halt.
I am immediately knocked back into the present.
Mother Terra steps forward. I follow shortly after.
At my room, she turns to consider me and says, in a voice that is calm and pointed, “Do not attempt to leave your room before I return.”
“I won’t,” I say, finally admitting, for once and for all, that I cannot, and will not, fight any more.
“Good.” The Revered Mother pushes the door open for me. “Now, go, and count your blessings. This young man is very excited to meet you.”
Once inside my room, I wait for Mother Terra to close the door behind me before sighing and leaning back against it.
This is it, I realize—the start of it all.
Though a part of me feels that I should be relieved, given that I have not been left to suffer the wait that others in the past have, another dreads the future rushing toward me.
Tonight, I am to meet the man who will become my husband.
I can only imagine what he might be like.
* * *
The hours that pass are slow, and, in a way, haunting. With the knowledge that I will soon come to meet my future husband clearly in my mind, I wander about the small apartment, pacing to and fro and trying, without success, to keep my nerves from getting the best of me. My stomach feels like it’s in knots and my heart continuously beats hard against my ribcage. It is, undoubtedly, the worst kind of suffering, and causes me grief unlike any I have felt before.
You’ll be fine, I want to say. Everything’s going to be all right. The Revered Mothers would not have picked someone you weren’t compatible with.
The only problem is: the Revered Mothers don’t know me. They may think they do, but they do not know my history, my person, my likes and dislikes or my deepest, darkest desires. Worst of all, they don’t know my fears—which, in hindsight, may be my downfall.
As I stare at my reflection in the mirror, I consider what this mystery man may think of me and wonder if I will be everything that he could hope and want.
You are kind. You are smart. You are giving. But most of all, my mother had said, you are beautiful.
“I am beautiful,” I say. “I am—”
A knock comes at the door.
A short moment later, it opens; and with no consideration for my person or privacy, Mother Terra enters. “Kelendra,” she says, her normally-calm voice clipped and commanding. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, Revered Mother,” I say.
“Good. Let us go then.”
She leads me out of the room and into the expansive hallway, then down it and toward the elevator. She pushes a button to hail it before looking down to consider her timepiece, and it is at this moment, while she is momentarily distracted, that I consider the skyline of the Glittering City. Near dusk, the sun is still shining. The clouds have parted for the evening, and all manners of colors bleed across the horizon—from red, to orange, to blue and even purple and pink. The fact that I am bearing witness from such a height is nearly impossible to comprehend.
I struggle to believe that, once upon a time, I had longed to be here.
Now, in the shadow of it all, I can’t be so sure.
The elevator door opens. Inside we step.
“Revered Mother,” I decide to utter a short moment later.
“Yes?” Mother Terra asks.
“Is there anything I should know before I meet with this man?”
“I’ll explain as you’re having your makeup done,” she replies as the elevator begins to descend.
“You’re sure?” I ask. “In front of… well… whomever does my makeup?”
“Stylus knows everything there is to know about the process. He will understand just as anyone would.”
I nod, and wait silently as the elevator descends.
When it finally does open, I brace myself for what is to come before we make our way across the lobby and through the ornate double doors that I’d entered no more than a few days prior.
At this hour of the day—near nightfall, and just before dusk—there are few people milling about, save Stylus. The young man catches sight of us a short moment after I catch him looking at his reflection in the mirror, and he turns—swiftly, with the grace of a small bird—to head toward us.
The first words out of his mouth are, “You’re not wearing makeup.”
My reply is simply: “No, I’m not.”
He tsks—a sound that couldn’t sound more annoying or dismissive if he tried—and extends a hand toward me to usher me along. I choose to ignore it, more out of nerves than actual defiance, and step forward. I ask, “Where should I sit?”
He says, “Here is fine” and pulls a stool back for me to climb up into.
After washing my face with a simple solution, he begins to apply my foundation and concealer.
“Now,” Mother Terra says, drawing up behind me to look at our reflections in the mirror. “There’s a few simple rules I’m going to go over before I escort you to the restaurant to meet your husband to be. Are you listening?”
I nod.
“Good. Now—to start: you are to be on your best behavior throughout this meeting. You will display proper manners, engage in polite conversation, will eat like a lady and act like one all the same. You will laugh at his jokes, inquire about his person, make sure he is seen as your equal and ensure that he has nothing to feel intimidated about in the slightest. This is to ensure that you have a proper dining experience, and will allow the two of you to get to know each other in a casual setting before you’re thrust into the Glittering City’s limelight.
“Secondly: you will eat only the steak and the salad that comes with it. No potato crisps, no fish, no dairy of any sort. Sparkling water will be your drink of choice.
“And finally: I would have you stop obsessing over the matters at hand and the future that is to be. I can see you are nervous, Miss Byron, and I don’t wish you to impart those nerves upon the young man in question. Understand?”
“I understand,” I say.
“Good. Do you have any questions?”
“What’s his name?”
“Daniel Cross. Now hush. Let Stylus apply your makeup.”
As Stylus applies my makeup, taking extra care to ensure that I look as breathtaking as ever, I think of the meeting and what all it entails. Throughout, my mind runs rampant with the thought of getting married—of meeting the man who, though not of my dreams, is meant to be my husband—and I try to decipher what it will mean to meet this perfect stranger. Even the fiery red pigment that is applied to my lips and the lids of my eyes isn’t enough to display my rage toward the Process—which, though I understand in idea, is completely barbaric in its intensity.
I was supposed to have time to adapt to this new and strange world—to earn my wings and get my bearings. Now, I don’t have a choice. I must adapt, else I will be pushed to the sidelines and be reduced to nothing.
What happens to girls who cannot go through the Process? Do they become maids, like I have been led to believe—turned into slaves for failure to uphold the standard—or are they abandoned to the city and the homelessness that it potentially holds?
As Stylus applies the final touches to my makeup, he turns and withdraws from a long rack a red dress whose neckline is longer than I would’ve liked.
“I have to wear that?” I ask, too stunned to say anything further.
“Yes,” Mother Terra says. “You have to wear that—which, I might add, is a designer dress.”
I know nothing of what it means to wear a ‘designer dress.’ I assume it means that the person who made it is held in esteem, but regardless, I think of how much skin it will show, and to a complete stranger, no less. The knowledge that I can’t refuse makes it even worse.
With indignation I cannot suppress, I climb from the stool I am seated upon, then turn to give Mother Terra a hard, defiant look before shedding my clothes and step
ping into the dress.
It’s just as I expect: covering very little and displaying more than I could ever feel comfortable with.
“I feel naked,” I say.
“You look glamorous,” Stylus replies.
“Are you sure this is the first impression I want to give?” I continue, turning to look not at the young man who has shaped me into an object of desire, but to the Revered Mother who will sell my body to whom she feels is the most appropriate candidate.
“Your body will be your husband’s soon enough,” Mother Terra says. She turns and, with a wave of her hand, gestures me forward. “Come. We must not dawdle. Your betrothed awaits.”
Though I advance without further remark, my insides boil with hatred toward the woman and the government she represents. I had thought that she was my ally, my confidant, my greatest and utmost supporter. Sadly, that has not been the case. She is merely a mouthpiece for the Countess who wishes me to bear and give birth to children.
I sink my teeth into the inside of my cheek in the hopes that it will staunch my anger, but find that it doesn’t. Rather, it makes me even more apprehensive over the meeting that is soon to come, and causes me to break out in nervous sweats all over my body.
When we step outside and into the warm night, I shiver—not because I am cold, but because I am afraid.
A number of Dames who stand at the ready turn and regard us through visors made of thick glass before stepping forward to flank our sides.
“Come, ladies,” the Revered Mother says. “We have an errand to run.”
The four SAD agents guard our sides as we make our way across the street and to a destination I only know as Lips.
As we walk, slowly advancing toward a place that I do not know and a purpose I know is born out of an idealized version of utopia, my anger begins to dissipate. In its place, however, comes anxiety—born of nerves over how the Handsome One named Daniel Cross will react to my presence. Will he find me suitable? Beautiful? A perfect version of an ideal wife? Or will he think I’m just a miserable person going along with a preplanned ordeal?
The lights from the businesses above and at our sides bathe the street in hues of neon colors. From red, to gold, to pink, yellow, blue and green, we walk through a rainbow of what should be joy and wonder but is instead worry and apprehension. I am awestruck over the details—over the vehicles driving at our sides, over the businessmen and women shouting for us to come see their sights or buy their wares—and for a moment feel a flicker of wonder, for this place is amazing, awe-inspiring in every sense of the word.
This feeling only lasts for a moment, as the second we come around the corner, I see the sign and the word that strips away all happiness and joy from within my heart.
Lips.
The restaurant stands in the middle of a row of buildings and proclaims itself with a bright red sign that intermittently pulsates in hues from baby pink to the color of blood. The sign—shaped like the name implies—stands out amongst the others that are not as ornate, and flashes at us as it completes its color spectrum, as if it knows we are coming. This idea, as foolish as it happens to be, is enough to fill me with additional anxiety.
“Here we are,” Mother Terra says as we approach.
Two of the SADs draw close to me, while the other two make their way through the line, nudging some people and man-handling others so they will get out of their way. They then come to stand at the doorway and block further entry.
“What gives?” someone asks. “I paid good money for this reservation!”
“It’s her,” another woman replies.
The crowd turns.
I swallow.
My purpose is immediately made clear.
The Unfortunates—who are instead average-looking individuals of all shapes, sizes and colors—watch me with eyes unsure and mystified, as if I am a mythological creature sent from the skies to grace them.
I am struck by the contrast of our persons—of their casual clothes and my immaculate ensemble—for one brief moment before I am pulled by Mother Terra toward the doorway.
The SADs guarding the threshold turn and push the doors open.
The Revered Mother and I step inside.
I am immediately struck by the décor—of the immaculate rug leading into the lobby, wherein a single girl who can’t be much older than me stands at a booth, awaiting our advance.
“What am I to do?” I ask.
“You’re to meet with Mr. Cross and have a nice dinner,” Mother Terra replies. “Do you remember what I told you?”
“Yes.”
“About the food and about your manners?”
“Yessum.”
“Good.” She clasps my arms and tightens her hold around them, as if trying to offer me reassurance. Unfortunately, her grip only serves to make me even more nervous. “Now go. This young lady will take you to your seat.”
“The reservation was for?” the girl asks.
“A Kelendra Byron,” Mother Terra says, turning her attention on the girl managing the booth, “and Daniel Cross.”
“I’ll take you to your table.”
Mother Terra’s hands are like a grounding force, because the moment she pulls them away, I feel lost and completely alone—as if I’ve been stranded on a deserted island with nothing but the fish to keep me company.
“Miss?” the mousy girl attending the booth asks. “Come with me, please.”
She leads me through a narrow hallway and then around a corner, into an immaculate room with many chandeliers. As we advance, passing diners who turn to look at me with awe in their eyes and wonder upon their faces, I realize that my reputation has preceded me, and as such blush. It isn’t my intention to cause a scene, but I do just that as we make our way through the dining room and toward a row of booths on the far side of the room.
The mousy girl narrows in on a booth wherein one young man sits.
I gasp as I realize that this is him—my future husband, my arranged match, my Daniel Cross.
The dark-haired man—who can’t be older than seventeen or eighteen, maybe nineteen at the most—lifts his gray eyes to examine us and smiles as he sets his gaze on me. “Kelendra?” he asks.
I swallow and nod.
He stands.
I step back.
He extends a hand, offering it palm-up so I can place my own within it. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says.
“The pleasure’s mine,” I lie.
I set my hand in his and shiver as his fingers carefully wrap around my palm.
“Someone will be here to serve you shortly,” the mousy girl says, then turns and walks away.
Daniel Cross and I stare at each other for several long moments—examining one another, sizing each other up, likely hoping and praying and wishing for a night unlike any there was before. When it becomes apparent that by standing we are making even more of a scene, he smiles and says, “Let’s sit.”
So we do—he on one side of the plush red booth, I on the other. He reaches forward to take hold of and then sip a glass of sparkling water before lifting his eyes to face me once again.
Daniel Cross is magnetizing. With his dark hair and gray eyes, he is like a brooding thunderstorm just waiting to impose itself upon the earth. His eyebrows are thick, his lips lush and well-tended, his chin cleft and his jaw square. His proud nose is unmarred by scar or break and his skin is immaculate and tanned by the sun. He is just like me, I realize, as I look at him—just as confused and worried about the Process—but his determination to make me feel as his equal is enough to immediately set me at ease.
“You’re very beautiful,” he says after a moment’s hesitation.
“Thank you,” I reply.
He is just about to open his mouth to say something when a woman bearing a notepad and paper steps forward. “Hi,” she says. “I’m Tiffany, your waitress. Can I take your order?”
“I’ll have the steak,” I say, almost instinctively, as if it has been etched into my conscie
nce with a bladed instrument. “And the salad that comes with it.”
“And for you?” she asks, turning to face Mr. Cross.
“The same,” he replies, then smiles in my direction.
“All right,” the waitress says. “I’ll be back as soon as I can with your food.”
“Thank you,” I offer, though my words are barely above a whisper.
The waitress turns and walks away a short moment later.
“You knew exactly what you wanted,” Daniel says.
“Yeah,” I say in kind. “What of it?”
“I was just impressed. You didn’t even look at the menu.”
I watch his eyes trail from me, to a thin book with a seemingly-transparent coating upon it, then back again.
I swallow the lump in my throat as I consider what to say. Am I supposed to come and tell him that I was instructed what to eat? Or just play it off as if I knew what I wanted?
When it comes time for me to speak, it’s a lie, and I say: “I had it at the Countess’ mansion.”
“Oh?” he asks, as if surprised by this statement.
I nod and set my hands in my lap. “We were well fed,” I say, and laugh. Our meeting with the Countess and Commandant was probably my last chance to operate as my own person, and I didn’t even touch the sweets.
Daniel smiles, reaches up to run a hand through his hair, and says, “Wow. Can you believe we’re here?”
“In the Glittering City?” I reply.
“At Lips,” he says, then stops and considers me before saying, “Oh. I… forgot that you weren’t from here.”
“It’s okay,” I say.
“Where are you from?”
“The Sandstone Hills.”
“That’s far west of here, right?”
I nod. “How did you know?”