The Selection Stories Collection (10 page)

Getting into the car, I saw Celeste roll her eyes, but I didn’t care. I was still sort of in awe of how I’d adjusted so quickly to something that had frightened me only moments before. I had made it through my good-byes, meeting the first girls, my flight, and interacting with our mob of fans. All without doing anything embarrassing.

I thought about the cameras following me in the terminal and pictured my family watching my entrance on TV. I hoped they’d be proud.

E
VEN AFTER THE SUBSTANTIAL GREETING party at the airport, the roads leading up to the palace were lined with masses of people calling out their well-wishes. The sad thing was that we weren’t allowed to roll down the windows to acknowledge them. The guard in the front said to think of ourselves as extensions of the royal family. Many adored us, but there were people out there who wouldn’t be above hurting us to hurt the prince. Or the monarchy itself.

I was stuck next to Celeste in the car—a special one that had two rows of seats facing each other in the back and darkened windows—with Ashley and Marlee sitting together in front of us. Marlee beamed as she stared out the windows, and it was obvious why. Her name was on several of the signs. It would be impossible to count how many admirers she had.

Ashley’s name was sprinkled in there, too, almost as much as Celeste’s, and far more than mine. Ashley, ever the lady, took not being a runaway favorite in stride. Celeste, I could see, was irritated.

“What do you think she did?” Celeste whispered in my ear, as Marlee and Ashley spoke to each other of home.

“What do you mean?” I whispered back.

“To be so popular. You think she bribed someone?” Her cold eyes focused in on Marlee as if she was weighing her worth in her head.

“She’s a Four,” I said doubtfully. “She wouldn’t have the means to bribe someone.”

Celeste sucked her teeth. “Please. A girl has more than one way she can pay for what she wants,” she said, and pulled away to look out the window.

It took me a moment to understand what she was suggesting, and it didn’t sit well with me. Not because it was obvious that someone as innocent as Marlee would never think about sleeping with someone to get ahead—or even consider breaking a law—but because it was becoming clear that life at the palace might be more vicious than I had imagined.

I didn’t have a very good view coming up to the palace, but I noticed the walls. They were a pale yellow stucco and very, very high. Guards were placed on top at either side of the wide gate that swung open as we approached. Inside we were greeted with a long gravel drive that circled a fountain and led to the front doors, where officials waited to welcome us.

With barely more than a hello, two women took me by the arms and ushered me inside.

“So sorry to rush, miss, but your group is running late,” one said.

“Oh, I’m afraid that’s my fault. I got a little too chatty at the airport.”

“Talking to the crowds?” the other asked in surprise.

They exchanged a look I didn’t understand before they started calling out locations as we passed.

The dining room was to the right, they told me, and the Great Room was to the left. I caught a glimpse of sprawling gardens out the glass doors and wished I could stop. Before I could even process where we were going, they pulled me into a huge room full of bustling people.

A swarm parted, and I saw rows of mirrors with people working on girls’ hair and painting their nails. Clothes hung on racks, and people were shouting things like “I found the dye!” and “That makes her look pudgy.”

“Here they are!” I saw a woman coming up to us, clearly the person in charge. “I’m Silvia. We spoke on the phone,” she said as a means of introduction, then immediately went to work. “First things first. We need ‘before’ pictures. Come over here,” she commanded, pointing us to a chair in the corner in front of a backdrop. “Don’t mind the cameras, ladies. We’ll be doing a special on your makeovers, since every girl in Illéa’s going to want to look like you by the time we’re done today.”

Sure enough, teams of people with cameras were wandering around the room, zooming in on girls’ shoes, and interviewing them. Once the pictures were done, Silvia began shouting orders. “Take Lady Celeste to station four, Lady Ashley to five . . . and it looks like they just finished up at ten. Take Lady Marlee there, and Lady America to six.”

“So here’s the thing,” a short, dark-haired man said, pulling me over to a seat with a six on the back. “We need to talk about your image.” He was all business.

“My image?” Wasn’t I just me? Wasn’t that what got me here?

“How do we want to make you look? With that red hair, we can make you quite the temptress, but if you want to play that kind of thing down, we can work that out, too,” he said matter-of-factly.

“I’m not changing everything about me to cater to some guy I don’t even know.”
Or like
, I added in my head.

“Oh, my. Do we have an individual here?” he sang, as if I were a child.

“Aren’t we all?”

The man smiled at me. “Fine, then. We won’t change your image, we’ll just enhance it. I need to polish you up a bit, but your aversion to all things fake might just be your greatest asset here. Hold on to that, honey.” He patted me on the back and walked away, sending a group of women swarming my way.

I didn’t realize that when he said “polish,” he meant it literally. I had women scrub my body because I apparently couldn’t be trusted to do a good enough job on my own. Then every exposed bit of skin was covered with lotions and oils that left me smelling like vanilla, which according to the girl who applied them was one of Maxon’s favorite smells.

After they were done making me smooth and supple, attention was turned to my nails. They were trimmed and buffed and the tough little pieces of skin around them were miraculously smoothed away. I told them I’d prefer not to have my nails painted, but they looked so disappointed that I told them they could do my toes. The one girl picked a nice neutral shade, so it wasn’t too bad.

The team of people who worked on my nails left me for another girl, and I sat quietly in my chair, waiting for the next round of beautification. A camera crew came past, zooming in on my hands.

“Don’t move,” a woman ordered. She squinted at my hand. “Do you even have anything on your nails?”

“No.”

She sighed, got her shot, and moved on.

I heaved a heavy sigh myself. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a jerking motion just to my right. I looked and saw a girl staring into nowhere while her leg bounced up and down under a large cape they’d draped over her.

“You okay?” I asked.

My voice shocked her out of her trance. She sighed. “They want to dye my hair blond. They said it would look better with my skin tone. I’m just nervous, I guess.”

She gave me a tight smile, and I returned it. “You’re Sosie, right?”

“Yeah.” She smiled in earnest then. “And you’re America?” I nodded. “I heard you came in with that Celeste girl. She’s terrible!”

I rolled my eyes. Since we’d arrived, every few minutes the entire room could hear Celeste yelling at some poor maid to bring her something or to get out of her way.

“You have no idea,” I muttered, and we both giggled. “Listen, I think your hair’s very pretty.” It was, too. Not too dark, not too light, and very full.

“Thanks.”

“If you don’t want to change it, you shouldn’t have to.”

Sosie smiled, but I could tell she wasn’t completely sure if I was trying to be friendly or hold her back. Before she could say anything, teams of people came to work on us, directing one another so loudly there was no way for us to finish talking.

My hair was washed, conditioned, hydrated, and smoothed. It was long and all one length when I came in—my mom usually cut it, and that was the best she could do—but by the time they were done, it was several inches shorter and had layers. I liked those; they made my hair catch the light in interesting ways. Some girls got things called highlights, and others, like Sosie, had the color changed completely. But my attendants and I all agreed that mine should go untouched in that department.

A very pretty-looking girl did my makeup. I instructed her to go light, and it was nice. Lots of the other girls looked a little older or younger or just nicer after the makeup. I still looked like me when I was done. Of course, so did Celeste, since she insisted upon piling it on.

I’d gone through most of this process in a robe, and once they were done fixing me up, I was led over to the racks of clothes. My name was hanging above a bar holding a week’s worth of dresses. I guessed princesses-in-training didn’t wear pants.

The one I ended up in was a cream color. It fell off my shoulders, fit snugly at my waist, and hit just at my knees. The girl helping me into it called it a day dress. She told me that my evening dresses were already in my room, and the rest of these would go up there as well. Then she placed a silver pin near the top of my dress. My name glittered across it. Finally she put me into shoes she called kitten heels and sent me back to the corner so I could take my “after” shot. From there I was ordered to one of four little stations lined up against the wall. Each had a chair with a backdrop and a camera sitting in front of it.

I sat down as instructed and waited. A woman came up with a clipboard of information in her hand and asked me to be patient while she found my papers.

“What’s this for?” I asked.

“The makeover special. We’ll be airing one about your arrivals tonight, the makeovers are on Wednesday, and then Friday you’ll do your first
Report
. People have seen your pictures and know a little bit about what was on your applications,” she said as she located her papers and placed them on the top of her clipboard. Then she laced her fingers together and continued. “But we want to make them really pull for you. And that won’t happen unless they can get to know you. So we’ll just do a little interview here, and you do your best on the
Reports
, and then don’t be shy when you see us around the palace. We aren’t here every day, but we’ll be around.”

“Okay,” I said meekly. I really didn’t want to talk to camera crews. It all felt so intrusive.

“So, America Singer, yes?” she asked just seconds after a red light lit up on the top of the camera.

“Yes.” I tried to push the nerves out of my voice.

“I have to be honest, you don’t look like you changed too much to me. Can you tell us what happened in your makeover today?”

I thought. “They put layers in my hair. I like that.” I ran my fingers through the red strands, feeling how soft my hair was after professional care. “And they covered me in vanilla lotion. I kind of smell like dessert,” I said, sniffing my arm.

She laughed. “It is lovely. And that dress really suits you.”

“Thanks,” I said, looking down at my new clothes. “I don’t typically wear a lot of dresses, so this is going to take a little getting used to.”

“That’s right,” my interviewer said. “You’re one of only three Fives in the Selection. How has this experience been so far?”

I searched my head for something that would describe how everything had felt today. From my disappointment in the square to the sensation of flying to the comfort of Marlee.

“Surprising,” I said.

“I imagine there will be more surprising days to come,” she commented.

“I hope they’re at least a little calmer than today,” I said with a sigh.

“How do you feel about your competition so far?”

I swallowed. “The girls are all really nice.” With one glaring exception.

“Mm-hmm,” she said, seeing through my answer. “So how do you feel about the way your makeover turned out? Worried about anyone else’s look?”

I considered that. To say no sounded snotty, to say yes sounded needy. “I think the staff has done a great job bringing out each girl’s individual beauty.”

She smiled and said, “All right, I think that’ll be enough.”

“That’s all?”

“We have to fit thirty-five of you into an hour and a half, so that will be plenty.”

“Okay.” That wasn’t so bad.

“Thank you for your time. You can head over to that couch over there, and you’ll be taken care of.”

I stood and went to sit on the large circular couch in the corner. Two girls I had yet to meet were sitting there, talking quietly. I looked around the room and saw someone announcing that the last batch was heading in. A new flurry began around the stations. I was focused on it and almost didn’t notice Marlee sit down beside me.

“Marlee! Look at your hair!”

“I know. They put extensions in it. Do you think Maxon will like it?” She looked genuinely worried.

“Of course! What guy doesn’t like a gorgeous blonde?” I said with a playful smile.

“America, you’re so nice. All those people at the airport loved you.”

“Oh, I was just being friendly. You met people, too,” I countered.

“Yeah, but not half as many as you.”

I lowered my head, a little embarrassed for being complimented over something that seemed so obvious. When I looked up, I turned to the other two girls sitting with us. Emmica Brass and Samantha Lowell and I hadn’t been introduced, but I knew who they were. I did a double take. They were looking at me funny. Before I had time to guess why, Silvia, the woman from earlier, approached us.