by Kody Boye
The last part makes me cringe.
Wednesday reaches out to take hold of my hand. “You don’t have anything to be afraid of,” she says. “I was like you, once: unsure of the world and what it had to offer. But it got better, and easier.”
“I don’t feel like that’ll ever happen,” I say.
Wednesday leans forward and takes me into her arms. “It will,” she says.
I nod.
The things I feel, they don’t feel normal. This anger, this hate, this undeniable presence of anxiety. It’s like a monster that’s been caged within my chest my entire life has just awoken and is now trying to claw its way out.
I can’t stand it.
I know I have to be strong though, because weakness makes me sick, and appear as though I am incapable of performing the tasks that are required of me. The fact that girls have died while undergoing the Process is just a reminder of all the burdens that are placed upon us.
With a nod, I draw back, look into Wednesday’s eyes, and force a smile.
I know, regardless of any obstacles that face me, that I can do this. I have to—if not for me, then for all the girls who weren’t able to make it this far.
* * *
“So,” Ceyonne says the following morning, after she has arrived on my doorstep and entered my room. “How have things been going?”
I lift my head from where I stand looking at the books on my shelf and ask, “How do you think?”
She doesn’t respond. Rather, she steps forward, kicks the door shut behind her, and places a hand on my arm before saying, “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
With a frown, I pull the manual that details how to use the electrical appliances from its place on the shelf, then turn and make my way into the area where the refrigerator and stove stand. Rather than answer her, I withdraw a carton of eggs and ask, “Are you hungry?”
She says, “Kel.”
I reply, “What?”
She returns, “Talk to me.”
I swallow the lump in my throat. I can’t avoid her forever. She knows something is wrong. That much is already evident.
For that reason, I tilt my head up to face her and ask, “You want to know what’s wrong?”
She nods.
“What’s wrong,” I continue, “is that I’m going to be getting married in a public setting within the next week.”
“The next week?” Ceyonne asks. “I thought you—”
“Just met Daniel? Yeah. I did.”
“Then why—”
“Are they marrying me off so soon? For publicity, I guess. I’m going to be married at this place called the Dome, which is basically a big sphere covered in glass. People can watch and take pictures, but they can’t hear us.”
“Why get married there?” Ceyonne asks.
I’m loathe to tell her about Emily—the former ‘corpse bride’ of the Glittering City—and for that reason only reply with, “It’s for security reasons.”
Ceyonne’s mouth forms in the shape of the letter O before returning to its pursed expression. I, in response, withdraw a skillet that is dangling from a rack above the stove, turn the nodule that draws heat onto the electric stove top, and crack an egg. “You want one?”
“You don’t have to cook anything for me,” Ceyonne says, eyeing the yolk as it dribbles into the skillet. “You don’t even have to cook for yourself if you don’t want to.”
“I need to learn how to use this… thing.” I gesture at the machine. “You know, so I can be domestic.”
“You really think your husband’s going to make you do all the cooking and cleaning?”
“He’s going to be working in the fields all day. He’ll want to come home to a clean house, a nice dinner. I mean… it’s the least I can do for him, considering he’s going to be supporting us.”
“Have you heard where you’re going to live?”
“It isn’t going to be here,” I say.
“I hope we’re not too awfully far away from each other,” Ceyonne replies.
“Do you not know what’s going to happen with you?”
“I haven’t met my husband yet,” she replies. “Well, my husband-to-be, anyway.”
“They must still be searching for him then,” I say, the sizzling yolk drawing my attention in a different direction—to a time and place in which I will still be myself but with the company of someone else at my side. The thought causes me to grimace, but I hide it well enough by reaching back to rub my neck, as if I have suddenly been stricken with pain.
“You do like him?” Ceyonne asks a few moments later. “Your husband-to-be, I mean.”
“I barely know him.”
“But your first impression was… what, exactly?”
“That he was nice. Caring. Considerate. He… seemed nervous, though, about this whole thing. Just like me.”
“He was picked out of a pool just like we were, Kel. Of course he’s going to be nervous.”
Was he, though? We’re taught, as children, that men are the ones who are supposed to be sure, supposed to never cry, supposed to have all the answers. In a society where there are so few of them present, however, the ability to read them is lost on most, especially in the younger generations. The only man I personally knew well was my father, and even then, I barely saw him but for a few days every year.
Rather than say anything to Ceyonne, I turn the stove off, flip the egg onto a plate, and begin to eat it without salt, all the while wondering just what it was that Daniel Cross thought that night and what he is currently thinking now. The idea that he could be just as rattled about this wedding as me is enough to give me a twisted sense of comfort, for at least I’m not the only one suffering in the lead up to this marriage.
“Ceyonne,” I say a second after I take the third bite of my egg.
“Yeah?” she asks.
“Do you think…” I pause. “Do you think everything’s going to be okay?”
“I think everything’s going to be fine,” she replies. “We have to hope for that, otherwise… otherwise… what else is there to do but live in fear?”
I nod.
With that said, I continue to eat—and think, with hope in my heart, that things will work out for the best.
Thirteen
My wedding day is fast approaching. With only a few days left before I don my dress and make my way to the Dome, Revered Mother Terra is adamant that I begin all the necessary preparations now, before things become too complicated.
“We need to take you down to wardrobe and makeup,” she says.
“Is my dress ready?” I ask.
“No. Not yet. We’ll need to take additional measurements before it can be properly fitted to your frame.”
With a nod, I turn from my place at the dresser to consider the Revered Mother and offer a smile which I hope won’t seem too fake. Mother Terra doesn’t even consider it, however, and instead gestures me forward by waving two fingers. “Come,” she says.
I follow, though reluctantly at that.
As we make our way down the hall and then into the elevator, past the windows that look out at the city and everything that lies and lives within it, I am struck with a profound sense of loss. Though I’ve attempted to tell myself time and time again that I still have some control over my life, that idea is slowly slipping away—like sand through an hourglass that has been turned wrong-side up.
What will I do, I wonder, as I slide into that mock-up dress?
How will I feel, I contemplate, when Stylus designs my makeup for the big day?
And who will hold me, I dare to think, as everything comes crashing down?
The Revered Mother remains silent as we descend to the first floor—her eyes set, her lips pursed and her demeanor all but calm. It is as though she does not sense the chaos flowing through my veins, across my heart and into my mind; and though I understand that I can’t depend on her for everything, it was she who once said that I could depend on her for nearly anything. She wa
s my staunchest ally, she claimed, in this old world, in this new place, and though she stands sentinel ready to answer any question I could possibly have, I don’t dare speak them.
No.
Mother Terra is just like the rest of the people in the capitol—cold, calculated, and completely and utterly devoid of emotion. She is like a statue in this place, cold and yet still alive, and though she moves and breathes as if she operates in flesh, I know that she is simply a pawn in this cruel and twisted game of theirs.
The knowledge that I am alone causes me an immense amount of grief. I am literally trapped in this new and upsetting situation, and I seize with panic. My chest tightens and my lungs throb as my throat seems to swell shut. It feels impossible to draw air into my body.
“Kelendra?” Mother Terra asks. “Is something wrong?”
“Nuh-No,” I manage through the ragged breaths coming in through and escaping out my throat. “Nothing’s ruh-wrong.”
“Kelendra Elizabeth Byron! Control yourself!”
I inhale a deep breath and hold it for several long moments in the hopes that it will stop the fit. Thankfully, it seems to work, because a mere moment before the elevator door opens, I’m able to breathe normally again.
“Good,” Mother Terra says. “Now come on. We don’t have time for distractions.”
I couldn’t have kept myself from laughing if I tried.
As the woman turns to glare at me, I draw in a quick breath and say, “You think I’m distracted?”
“You’re letting your nerves get the best of you,” the Revered Mother replies. “You need to control yourself. This isn’t even your wedding day.”
“It’s close enough.”
The Gentlewoman glares at me for several long moments before gesturing me forward with two fingers once more. “Come,” she says.
I obey, this time without a shred of outward defiance.
Though I want nothing more than to turn and run—to make my way from this horrendous and godforsaken place back to my home in the Sandstone Hills—I know I can’t. I’m bound here, by political reason, to ensure the beautiful longevity of the gene pool.
Besides, my consciousness is quick to add, you’d never make it on foot.
Just how far have we come? Hundreds, if not over a thousand miles?
I shake my head as we enter through the golden double doors and into the hair and wardrobe room.
As it was when I was previously here, there are few people meandering about the insides. Only Stylus and another young black woman stand at the ready—preparing not only the frame of a dress that is not yet complete, but makeup brushes and the palettes that will be used to create a stunning look.
“Revered Mother Terra!” Stylus says as he comes forward. “What a pleasure it is to—”
“Quit sucking up, Stylus. The girl is nervous and needs a little assurance that everything is going to be just fine.”
The young man stops to look at me, then says, “Oh honey, there’s nothing to worry about. You’re among friends. Right, Harmony?”
“Right,” the young black woman says. She’s currently immersed in her work on the corset that I imagine I’ll be wearing beneath my dress and doesn’t appear to realize what she’s just acknowledged.
Mother Terra takes a step back and says, “Guide her through the process, Stylus.”
“It’s really quite simple,” the young man says as he gestures me to walk toward the corset. “What we really need to focus on right now is designing you a look that will grab the attention of the entire city. Think lights, cameras, action! Like a movie!”
“A what?” I ask.
Stylus rolls his eyes and continues by saying, “Never mind that. Think glamorous. Think extravagant. Think—”
“Beautiful,” I say.
“Right,” Stylus says, then nods. “Exactly.” He gestures to the girl named Harmony, who can’t be much older than I am. “Harmony. All you really need right now is to see if she can fit into the corset, right?”
“Right,” Harmony says. “The dress is going to be built around this, so we need to ensure that it fits properly. My measurements for you have been taken from the previous dresses you wore—particularly the green one that you walked on the red carpet in. Don’t worry, though—it will be beautiful, and it will be white.”
I couldn’t imagine it any other way. White has always been a sign of purity, innocence, goodness and light. Even during the war, those fortunate enough to have in their possession white silk or fabrics fashioned their wedding dresses, as ramshackle as they’d happened to be, out of the material. It was a style built on tradition—and, I now understand, was carried over to the Glittering City as well.
With a nod, I reach down, pull my shirt up over my head, and step forward to allow the woman to adjust my brassiere. “This will only take a moment,” she says.
The corset, as it is slid around my midsection and chest, is like an escape from a world that was once known, and a passage into another that is even beyond my own. As it’s tightened, its strings drawn taut and knotted into place, I feel an immense pressure that at first is disconcerting. I draw in a breath, and it is at this moment that Harmony tightens it even more, causing me to gasp in surprise and even pain.
“Are you all right?” she asks.
I nod regardless of her dismissive tone. This, for her, is little more than procedure. She likely doesn’t care if I’m in pain.
“How does it fit?” Mother Terra asks.
“Tight,” I manage through gritted teeth.
“You look perfect,” Stylus says. “It gives you that perfect hourglass figure.”
How I could have an hourglass figure when I’m so thin I can’t be sure, but as I turn my head to glance at myself in the mirror, I find that he’s right. My breasts have been pushed up, my waistline exaggerated, my hips made to appear wider than they normally are. I look nothing like myself, which I find to be a complete contradiction to how my body normally is, but they appear to think is gorgeous. For that reason, I keep my mouth shut and instead nod and say, “Thank you.”
“The corset fits perfectly,” Harmony says. “Now I can fit the dress around it and you’ll be more than ready to go.”
“My turn, my turn!” Stylus says, literally jumping with excitement.
“Let me get her out of the corset first,” Harmony replies.
“Oh, she’ll be fine.” Stylus takes hold of me and drags me forward. “Besides—she’ll need to learn how to sit in it.”
He plants me into the stool situated before the mirror with enough force to nearly knock the breath from my lungs.
“There we go,” Stylus says with a smile. “Now then. Do you have any ideas on what we should do with your makeup?”
“What do you normally do?” I ask, still struggling to regain my breath. “I mean, for someone who’s getting married in this setting?”
“We make them glamorous.”
The young man turns, then, and begins to survey the variety of makeup palettes before him, his well-trained eyes examining each and every feature. From dazzling greens, to stunning reds, to awe-inspiring purples, oranges, yellows and pinks, he leaves no stone unturned as he tries to determine what, exactly, he will do with me. He seems to take ages to decide, but finally seems to settle on something, as soon after, he lifts a finger to an air and says, “Aha!”
“Aha… what?” I ask.
He lifts a concealing wand and draws the applicator out of its tube. “We will make you wonderful,” he says. “Something that has never been seen before, something that no one could ever describe. We’ll make you… The Sunset Belle.”
“What does that—”
“Ah ah!” he says, pressing a single finger to my lips. “You will see soon enough. Now, remain silent so I can do your makeup.”
I glance past the young man and into the mirror to find Mother Terra observing with her usual grace, her arms crossed and her eyes set on the proceedings at hand. There’s no way to tell what she�
�s thinking, given her statuesque demeanor, and though I want nothing more than to ask her what she thinks of what Stylus is doing, I remain silent and concentrate on keeping my features still for the young man currently painting me into what he describes as The Sunset Belle.
To transform me into this vision of beauty that has not been seen before, he applies the concealer and then powders my face accordingly, leaving no crevice untouched. Once that is done, he pulls highlighters and begins to accent the bridge of my nose, the apples of my cheeks, my temples, even my jawline. He then, with skill I can only dream of possessing, shadows my face in the same manner, crafting it into an image of godly perfection that seems blasphemous in its talent, before turning and considering the makeup palettes once more.
“One red,” he says, “one yellow, one pink, one purple.”
He dabs them onto my eyes simply, but with meticulous attention to detail, starting first in one corner, then branching out into the other. He blends efficiently and quickly, adding one color, then the next, creating an image of the skies upon a warm evening, kissed by the darkness of the purple night.
When finally he finishes, he pulls back and says, “Look.”
I stare, stunned.
My eyes are a perfect representation of a southern sunset. Beautiful in its appearance, tranquil in its reflection, it causes my face to take on a scene of nature that is so often witnessed in the heavens but never on one of her children themselves.
I want to cry—not only because I am so beautiful, but because I am one step closer to participating in an event that I am unsure I can fully comprehend.
“Stunning,” is all Stylus can say.
“She looks beautiful,” Mother Terra says upon her approach. “You will be an image of perfection come time the wedding takes place.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, almost too low for anyone to hear.
Stylus smiles, then, and turns to Harmony, who is watching nearby. “I think,” he says, “we should forgo tradition.”
“What do you mean?” the black woman asks.
“I mean,” the man continues, spinning my stool so I can face Harmony directly, “we need to emulate this.”