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Chapter 2—Esther

In the beginning, God created Heaven and Earth.

Or so I've been told.

I've been going to a Catholic private school since I was in kindergarten. Religion classes about God are part of my daily Life, even when I'm not in school. I mean, even my name is Biblical. Just trust my parents to name me after a queen from the Old Testament.

I quite like my name, to be honest. My little sister has taken to calling me "Esthie", but she and my parents are the only ones I allow to call me by a nickname. There's just something meaningful and profound when people say my entire name. I love it when they say "That's beautiful and unique." I want to be beautiful and unique, like a yellow bird or a lavender rose.

But I guess those things are mythical. Nothing can be beautiful and unique, especially not me.

No, I'm not a fucking Mary Sue. I guess I'm pretty, but I'm really not beautiful in the way I want guys to think. I mean, maybe I'd be called cute but I don't want to be cute. Cute is for children or babies, not eighteen-year-old girls who actually want a love Life.

It's pathetic. Even more so when I'm ecstatic to see a letter in the mail for me. It's crisp and white, unlike the clouds looming in the sky like threatening giants.

The weather is so weird. It's going to rain. I think back to a time when my mother once told me that it's raining because God and all the saints and angels are having a party. Why does God get to have a party when we get rain? Yeah, no answer to that. I was seven, but I worked it out within five seconds that it isn't true. Do they even have bodies in Heaven? Or are they just happy souls who live in ceaseless bliss?

Why the hell can't anyone tell me the answer to these things?!

Oh, yeah, they're dead.

I drop the stack of mail for my parents on the counter, and I hop onto the stool. The envelope is thick with the papers inside it. I immediately know what it is without having to look at the return address.

"Mother," I say, trying to suppress my excitement. The kitchen smells of oil (probably extra virgin olive oil) and tofu. I do love tofu.

She whips her head for half a second, then returns to her cooking. "What?" she says.

"The letter for the Selection is here." Part of what I say to her is a mix of New Asian and English (it's not really called New Asian, as the country has several dialects depending which country you're from, but I digress).

Her luminous smile meets my eyes. Mother always smiles and laughs, and it brightens up every day. "Already? Go open it!"

I try and carefully rip the envelope at the flap, but my letter-opening skills have never been that great. The envelope has little rips and tears on it, and my sister passes by me. "Good job, Esthie," she says, the sarcasm as blatant as a direct insult.

"Catherine, don't even," I warn, laughing through it. I manage to rip the top off completely, and the beautiful envelope is defaced. Eh, I'll get more right? I daintily pull the letter out by the edges. Several papers are inside. I read the first, the words vaguely processing in my mind. My attention span doesn't last very long, but I know that it's for the Selection.

My mother finishes her dish and asks me to set the table. "Wait, Mama," I say, shoving the letter to her. "Read this first."

She does, and she shakes her head. "Esthie, you know how we feel about your joining the Selection. It's just politics and drama...Your grandfather was running for vice mayor once, and the entire family was so against it. We prayed, and his entire party ended up losing."

I laugh just to satisfy her. "Mama, please," I beg. "I just want to apply. It's not like I'll get accepted anyways. There are millions of girls in the country. I just want to do it for the sake of applying. I love filling out applications for things." It's true; there's a certain satisfaction I get when I fill out an application. It's great to know someone wants to know your talents and hobbies. I can list every talent on there, and it wouldn't be bragging.

"But what if you get chosen, huh?" Mother says. Leniency on matters like these isn't a personality trait of hers. "You just want to apply because of the prince, right? You want to display yourself."

"Mother!" I say, aghast. She's always like this when it comes to boys. "I'm eighteen, and I'm in college. Let me do my own decisions."

"Just let her apply, Lin," Daddy says, coming from the basement. We always eat dinner together. "She's right; she's eighteen, and she can do her own thing."

"Alan, please," Mother persists. "She just wants to be at the palace."

"Then let her!" Papa says, sitting down across from me.

"Thank you," I say, putting the application on the empty seat next to me. Our table is square, each side able to seat two people.

We bless the food, and we eat. I usually take my time when it comes to my mom's cooking, but tonight, I inhale all of it. I wash my plate and my glass, then run upstairs to my room with the application in hand. The paper got a little wrinkled in the process of my sprinting up the stairs, but I smooth out the creases and it looks as flat as it did. Sort of. Oh, well.

I pluck the fountain pen out of the red plastic cup where I put all of my writing implements. Okay, full name: Esther Rose Reyes. Age: Eighteen years old. Nationality: New Asian.

Shit, the N isn't perfect enough. I try to fix it by rewriting the N repeatedly, until it looks just the way I want it.

Talents...

"Daddy?" I yell downstairs. He doesn't respond (he never does when I shout) so I lean over the banister of the stairs. "Daddy, does burping on command count as a talent?"

He barks a laugh. "It's up to you."

I smile and return to the application.

Talents/skills: I can play five instruments—piano, violin, guitar (self-taught), ukulele, vocals, and xylophone. Other talents include writing short stories that have been published in several magazines and newspapers; photography; fluent in English, Spanish, and a dialect of New Asian; singer-songwriter, in orchestra for several plays, musicals, and films; can cook and bake with an adequate recipe.

Those are about the only skills I can think of.

Hobbies: Hobbies include playing music, writing, reading, studying, spending time with my family.

There are only twenty-four hours in a day, and that means a third of the day I'm asleep. Another hour and a half are reserved for eating meals (and probably chocolate in between). My point being, I basically do the same thing every single day, but in a different order and in a different way (meaning I play and learn different songs, but maybe I'm scrutinizing it more than I need to). There really isn't much to me. I'm like a robot, but with feelings and humane needs.

I finish the application, signing my signature at the end. I remember how I wanted an i in my name just so I could dot it with a heart. (I started thinking that was crap when I was about nine years old.) I do like making the E extremely big, and it basically looks like a flipped 3, and then making the rest of my name tiny in script. I always prided myself in my handwriting. Again, not impressive.

I dress in a teal lace, peplum top, which compliments my tan complexion, and jean shorts. I hear they want pictures, and it's just a head shot anyway. Ugh, I hate pictures. I can't smile properly. When I smile naturally, all of my teeth show, but you can easily tell it's a smile. I don't know; my mother always says I have to "practice" smiling. How the hell do you practice smiling? That's like practicing how to breathe.

God, my mother is so fussy sometimes. If there is one word to describe my family (other than loving) would be perfectionists. Everyone wants their way (or the "proper" way, depending on which one of us you want to have faith in).

I wear my favorite gray sneakers, along with my blue and yellow string bracelet that I wear everyday (just not at night, because it would probably untie and get lost in the sheets). I grab my car and house keys, and bid my parents goodbye.

"Don't forget to smile nicely!" Mother says.

I roll my eyes when my back is facing toward her and say, "I will. Bye, love you."

"Okay, love you too."

I jump up to my blue pick-up truck. I love this truck. So much. Words cannot describe how much this truck means to me. It's my sixteenth birthday present; it gets me through snowy winters; the steering wheel tolerates my palms when I'm angry, and I just want to fucking hit something; it gets me places. This truck is my everything. I've even taken to calling it Trusty Steed.

When I get to the Midston Services Office, I expect to see a long line, but it's late and almost curfew. The queue, as it is, consists of maybe six girls, give or take. I line up behind a girl, who is incessantly tapping her foot. Oh, my gosh, make it stop.

After about three minutes, I'm handing in my form to a snobby-looking lady. Ugh, we get it, you're an official lady, and you can't stand to see a teenage girl trying to be the princess.

The thing is, I don't want to be a princess or a wife. I know, right; then why the hell am I signing up? I want to show people that I'm capable of greatness, that people almost as good as the king believe in me enough to accept me. I just want to do it for the satisfaction of being accepted.

Yeah, I'm ridiculous. But I really don't care what anyone thinks of me. (That's what I always tell myself; I really care about people's opinions of me.)

"Stand on the X please!" the photographer says.

I stand on it, and my arms lay limp against my sides. I never quite know what to do with my arms when they're unoccupied. I try to relax my cheeks and pretend I'm listening to a funny story. My face breaks into a half-smile and a near laugh. My cousin always says I look like I'm in the middle of laughing when I show up in pictures.

I'd rather be behind the camera than in front of it. When I'm posing, I have to think of my limb placement, my smile, making sure I don't blink or sneeze. When I'm behind the camera, I have to think of the perfect lighting, the exposure, aperture, shutter speed, the ISO. It's more straightforward. Subject placement is easier than my own limb placement. Ah, there it is again; more evidence that I'm a robot. No creativity whatsoever.

I mentally sigh at myself as I hear the snap of the camera and the flashing of the lights. I love the sound of a camera click. It's just so fulfilling.

"Next," the photographer says, and I'm tempted to ask him what my picture looks like, but there's someone else after me and I don't want to embarrass myself by being needy.

I thank the photographer with a genuine smile and leave.

This one moment could change everything for me. If I get chosen, I will live my days at the palace. If I don't, this moment will be irrelevant (but it would latch on for a few days, reminding myself that someone better was picked).

God creates everything. It all leads back to God. If I am chosen, than I know that it's His will.

God, I really fucking hope You want me in the Selection.

Well, it turns out a week later, God does want me in the Selection. As I stare at my grinning face on the television screen, with my families yelling and telephones ringing in the background, I can only think one thing.

This is just the beginning.