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Disclaimer: I don't own The Selection Trilogy by Kiera Cass nor her characters.

My hands tremble as they hold the envelope.

It's made of good paper, the finest quality in all of Illea. I anxiously tear it open and pull out the letter. I hastily read all of it and run to the dining room. My mom is doing paperwork, and she hesitantly looks up when she hears me trample down the stairs. She knows how I get when my emotions are up. I start jumping up and down.

"Mom, mom, mom, it's the letter for the Selection!" I yell.

I am expecting her to roll her eyes; instead, she drops her pen and gasps. In a quick but graceful move, she snatches the letter out of my hands like an expert robber. It takes her a moment to read it then read it again. Suddenly, she is the epitome of calm, like a river flows over her face and the worry washes away. She sets it down on the counter in such a mundane way I am instantly confused.

"Mom, what should I do?"

She picks up her pen and looks me in the eye. "Tess, you know how your father and I feel about the monarchy." My parents tell me they're indifferent, but I know they despise how they run the country . Don't get them started on the castes. "Even though King Maxon and Queen America has done a good job of improving it, we know that you can make it even better," she continues.

"So what should I do?" I ask again.

"Go do what you want with it. I know you're capable of handling situations like these and I'll support you no matter what you choose to do."

I nod and run back up to my room. I push my textbooks and extra credit literature books aside and grab my favorite fountain pen. I fill the application in my neatest handwriting.

Full name: Teresa Francesca Renaldi

Age: Eighteen

Caste: Three

Province: Midston

Job: Student at the University of Midston

I fill the rest of the application and smile when I reach the part where it says "Talents." I list down theater, symphony orchestra, and vocal ensemble. Even though I'm a Three, my parents have always been diligent to make me well-rounded. The questions are easy to answer, but I know these aren't at random. So many girls think the Selection is a lottery. As if.

Do they really think some nobody Five is going to show up at the palace? Queen America is quite talented. She can sing and play music well. Based on that fact, it is obvious that the competition is no coincidence for a talented girl to win.

I list I can speak five languages: English, Italian, Spanish, French, and Chinese. Again, my parents made sure of this. We have family ties in Italy, and my parents are adamant I learn more than Italian and English. I come from an intelligent family; it would be shocking if I didn't speak more than two dialects.

I finish the rest of the application and get dressed. It's only four o'clock so I might as well turn the form in (yes, my mother cooks dinner at four o'clock; it takes her that long.) I've heard from school that officials will be there to take your pictures as a part of the application process. I want to look my best, but not too over the top I look superficial. I put on a sleeveless cerulean collared shirt on and match it with a lacy white skirt. I slip on my navy blue flats; I think I'm tall enough at five-six that I don't see the need to wear heels. I let my black hair cascade in waves down my left shoulder. I hate wearing makeup, so I simply apply some pink lip gloss and then add blush to my olive-toned skin.

Once I believe I'm ready, I head down with the application and tell Mom I'm going to drive to the Province of Midston Services Office. She offers to come with me and I accept. I quickly grab an apple from the basket on the counter.

It's a gorgeous sunny day as we drive our silver car down the road. It looks like one of those scenes in a movie where a random woman starts singing. That's how beautiful it looks. But the brightness of the day is rained on by the starving Eights on the street. They are haggard and bone thin.

"Mom, stop the car."

She moves the car to the curb and looks at me strangely. I step out of the car with my apple in hand. I walk to a little boy who is probably as old as my little sister; I feel like a brat just looking at them.

"Hi there," I say. The boy tenuously looks up at me. His eyes are sunken and I wonder how many days, weeks, years it has been since he has eaten a proper meal. I hold out the apple and he plucks it from my hands. He gets a big bite from it and then he runs away behind a chain link fence. I see him give it to another hand—a girl's by the looks of it—and he comes back to me.

"Thank you," he says. I smile, feeling appreciated for my good deed. I walk back to my car and drive on. I park the car a block away from the building and walk the rest of the way.

I am not surprised when I see the long queue of girls. I try to distinguish their castes by how they are dressed. A Five is wearing a paint-splattered apron and hastily takes it off when she looks around. There are many wearing elegant dresses; some have so much makeup on their face I am surprised they haven't turned two-dimensional from the weight. It would take me months to get the gunk off my face.

I line up behind a tall blonde girl—no doubt a Two—and wait for my turn. I stare at a spot on the ground when a person taps me on the shoulder. I turn and smile when I see Isabelle Day, my best friend. We chat a little and I am vaguely listening to her when I hear, "Next."

I walk up and sign at the window to confirm that everything on my application is true. I sit in the chair and make sure not a hair is out-of-place. I smile, hoping that my face doesn't look like it's having a seizure.