Only Ever Yours (10 page)

“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 The public vote will now be rescinded.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 way 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.”

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t speak to me like that, freida,” megan mutters, still facing toward the front of the classroom.

“That’s big of you,” I say, keeping an eye on chastity-theresa.

“You’re obviously under a lot of stress. And who can blame you?”

“If you have something to say to me, megan, just say it to my face.” I sound a lot braver than I feel.

“I wasn’t talking about you. There is no need to be so sensitive.”

“Who were you talking about then?”

“isabel. Surely when I said ‘lacking in self-control’ you could have guessed.” She and the twins snicker, coughing loudly to cover it as chastity-theresa looks up.

“isabel has been trying to be good,” I say quietly, pretending to scan through images on-screen.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Has she
really
been trying, would you say?”

Everyone else has put their earbuds in as if they’re listening to music or watching digi-vids, but I know they’re all eavesdropping, afraid to miss out on any drama.

“She’s committed to getting back to target weight.”

“That’s not what I heard,” megan says in a sing-song voice, slicking some baby hairs at the nape of her neck into her bun.

“Oh, megan. Always so cryptic.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” I reply, giddy with daring. “No need to be
so sensitive
.”

“Well, if you don’t believe me . . .” she says. “You have that video, don’t you, liz?”

“Sure.” liz pulls her fone from her pocket. There is an outbreak of muffled beeps in bags, flashes of light, the buzzing of eFones vibrating against wooden desks.

“liz,” megan says, “I meant for you to send it to freida only.”

“Sorry?” liz smirks, a conspiratorial look flashing between them.

I fumble for my fone with shaking hands, a chill prickling the back of my neck as I see everyone else in the class doing the same.

It’s a digi-vid, about three minutes long. I watch as chastity-bernadette leaves the chastities’ quarters, hands wagging fussily, forgetting to secure the gates. And there’s isabel, sneaking in behind her, still wearing that black dress over her gym leggings, stringy hair clinging to her head. The camera cuts to the chastities’ office. There is a large tray on the desk, containing triangle sandwiches with the crusts cut off. The camera zooms in on isabel’s face as she stuffs the food into her mouth. She gags slightly, bringing up a chunky fluid, some of it spraying onto her leggings. She doesn’t seem to notice, she just keeps shoving food in, even swallowing back down vomit-encrusted bread. Disgusted groans fill the classroom. Where did megan get this footage?