How's high school? Oh, ya know, whipping my ass like a wet noodle. Okay, you smart kids out there be like high school is a piece of cake. Well, I'm just not used to the world being so...high-maintenance. Like, teachers, I write four fanfictions and I've written five songs. Can I not write your essay? Sigh. People these days.
Polls are set up, so whoever wants to go vote and crap is free to do so! Democracy is greatly appreciated. And, oh! I'm an American citizen now! Woooo!
Alrighty, let's get the show on the highway.
Love ya!- AcademicGirl
Chapter 9—Esther
I'm not a fan of public speaking. I'd much rather sing the national anthem on live television. Which, by the way, is the wrong thing to say to the mayor as an attempt of verbal irony when he will do anything to get me onstage and vocalize.
I mentally sigh as I take a deep breath for the first note.
I've always thought national anthems were significant in more ways than one would think. It represents an entire country, symbolizes one's past.
Meaning, if I mess up a word, I'm basically desecrating the entire nation. Yay for politics.
As I sing, trying to conjure up as much emotion and enthusiasm as I can (because I've been told I lack a bit of that when I perform), I think of the plane ride. They just take forever sometimes. Maybe if I could watch a movie or something on the trip I'd ride willingly, but since one cannot combine entertainment and transportation, I'll have to bring a book. I've read pre-Illea books so many times before I can barely keep it in track.
Books are words that touch your soul. Literature digs deep inside your mind and coaxes out general truths about life.
But life plays a big part in...well, life. If this was a story, life would be its own main character. It wouldn't be life; it would be Life, with a capital L. Maybe I'm being ridiculous, and maybe I'm trying too hard to be poetic with my burgeoning prose, but I will never stop trying to work my sesquipedalian words into everyday vocabulary. However, one can only do and say so much with words.
I finish the anthem with both my hands around the microphone. I never know what to do with my hands. That's why all my hobbies are hand-related. Instruments, writing, reading; we all need hands to do these tasks. Being empty-handed is my biggest fear almost. I just don't know where to put these things.
My liaison leads me to the limousine. I think she mentioned her name being Anna, but I wouldn't remember. I simply don't have the attention span for those extraneous details.
The plane ride is rather uneventful at first. I wait in a lumpy seat with the smell of stale coffee lingering in the cabin. I was never too fond of that smell. I did, however, have somewhat of a coffee fetish. I'd marry it if I could.
A girl sits across the aisle from me, sitting up straight, looking rather uncomfortable. I offer a smile, since I'm just so friendly.
"Hi," I say, smiling. "I'm Esther Reyes from Midston."
The girl twists her long blond hair until it's roped around her fist. Then she lets go. "I'm Clarity Hart from Paloma."
"Paloma?" I say, only partly making an effort to sound interested. "I think I've been there once. It's beautiful."
Clarity laughs, wrinkling her nose in the process. "Nah, not really. My part of town is kind of a dump, but it's home to me."
I like this girl already. I move to sit next to her. "So," I say. "Prince Elliott. What do you think of him?"
She swoons. "Where to begin? He's cute, always happy, super nice to children."
I laugh, nodding my head in agreement. "I totally get what you mean. His blue eyes are just so..." I trail off when I notice that everyone is on board. There are three other girls here—one has long black hair, another has choppy brown hair in a messy bun, and the third has short brown hair, neat and tidy. The third one catches my eye, and she smirks a bit before turning back to her new friends/competition.
Woo. Competition.
"That's Alice Henley," Clarity whispers behind her hand.
Of course. No wonder she looked familiar. Actually, no, she doesn't. Again, no attention span left to remember average faces. I do remember the name, though; this is the ruthless girl Rene's been talking about.
"I heard she's quite the character," I say numbly.
"She kicks ass in soccer," Clarity says, slumping in her seat. "We nearly beat them by a point, but everyone's saying that girls are tripping other girls."
"Oh, really now?" How intriguing. I wonder if she'll trip any of us in the Selection, literally and figuratively.
I catch Alice's eye again, holding my unwavering gaze for about five seconds before she talks to the others. "So why did you join the Selection?" Clarity asks, breaking my thoughts.
I blink at her. "Um, I kind of just wanted to?"
She blinks several times before laughing. "You 'wanted to?'"
"Um, kind of."
She laughs again, this time sounding more like a scoff. "Esther," she says, "I joined because I need money to pay for college."
"How old did you say you were?"
"I didn't, and I'm eighteen."
"Ah, right."
"So, yeah, I'm, like, screwed if I don't scrounge up enough money to help pay for college. I'm on loans right now." Clarity rubs her chin. "My parents already paid for my brother; there's no way in hell they can pay for me."
It astounds me how much she's letting me in her life. It's almost funny.
"I'm on scholarship," I say. "I don't think I'd be going to college at all if I didn't have a scholarship."
"Well, I guess we all have our struggles in life."
Yet somehow I knew our struggles would seem like blessings to other people.
The plane lands a bit after six hours. The sky is a clear blue, and it matches Clarity's eyes. "Hey," I say, grabbing my blue backpack I brought from home, "thanks. For, you know, talking to me."
Clarity smiles, her eyes laughing. "You just talked to a person who wouldn't talk to people otherwise. I should be the one thanking you."
"No problem, Clarity," I say, grinning.
She wrinkles her nose again, standing up. "Call me Clare. Clarity's a bit of a mouthful."
I chuckle as we walk to the airport. The terminal is clogged and congested. It's raining lights and flashes and clicking cameras. I make a face to Clare, and she laughs, albeit a bit nervously. We attempt to smile for the cameras, and we end up laughing at each other, both probably thinking how weird and strange all of this is. I suddenly notice her black canvas sneakers, and I laugh when I see my own, only gray.
I notice some people holding up signs, and I smile when I see my name scattered among the crowd like stratus clouds in a sky. Some people even ask for my autograph, and I gladly sign the notebooks, posters, papers, even arms.
By the end of the line, Clare and I are giggling to each other.
"That was so bizarre," she says, stepping into the limo.
I grin. "I know, right?"
The ruthless girl Alice turns to us, frowning. "You should probably get used to it. This is going to be the rest of your life."
It somehow seems so rude yet so purely factual that I don't quite know what to say. Kill them with kindness my mother says. "I'm Esther," I say, holding out my hand.
Alice takes it, shaking it firmly. "Alice from Kent. You're that girl from Midston, right?"
I nod. "Yeah, that's me."
"Ever heard of a girl named Rene?"
I frown then straighten my face. "Um, yeah, she's one of my best friends."
The corner of the girl's lips quirks up for a millisecond. "Interesting."
Oh, interesting indeed.
The palace is not anything I expected.
Sure, I expected magnificence and all its sparkling glory, but not like this.
The high yellow walls surround the palace like a pretentious protector. As we pull up the circle driveway, I admire the sparkling fountain and the marble pillars. We're ushered quickly to a room to get our makeovers done. I wave a little goodbye to Clare as she goes to her own station.
Makeovers are always something I looked forward to, and I'm not quite sure why. Maybe it was the fact that I could look different and still be myself.
"Honey," the man says in his high-pitched, slightly feminine voice, "what to do with your ebony locks." He twists a piece of my hair around his finger. "We could put highlights in it."
"No," I say quickly. "Um, could you maybe add layers so it's not so..."
"Two-dimensional?" he supplies, grinning.
"Yeah," I say.
"I'm sure we can make something work."
Minutes later my hair is layered and an inch shorter so that it reaches my shoulder blades. "It's lovely," I say. "Thank you."
"No problem, honey."
That is such a weird title for someone you just met.
The makeup artists come with their frosting and decoration of cosmetics. The mascara wands and pencils are pulled from kits, and I find myself stopping them before they start.
"Please keep it light," I plead. I never where makeup, nor do I see any reason to.
The lady shrugs and starts to put foundation on my face. Thankfully, she listens to what I have said, only applying foundation, a bit of mascara, a hint of blush, and a quick swipe of lip gloss. They paint my nails next, and they're shocked when they hear I don't paint my nails either. They paint it a nude color that almost matches my skin tone. The next part is the worse: waxing. They wax my legs until I'm bare and yelping, but the pain is quickly soothed when they apply vanilla lotion.
"Vanilla is Prince Elliott's favorite scent!" a lady gushes.
Vanilla? My favorite scent is coffee and mint and freshly mowed grass, but I guess we all have our special tastes. Or I guess scents.
I stand, feeling so...new. My hair is pinned up elaborately in ways even my mother cannot fathom. They lead me to a rack of dresses and make me choose. Finally. Dress-up is more fun than makeup. I pick a dress with a lace collar that goes from my collarbone to the base of my throat. It's ivory, and it reaches my thighs. Dresses, skirts, and shorts are never too short on me; I am only five feet after all. But not for long after a lady makes me wear black strapped four-inch heels.
I do love high heels.
We take the tour, and I try to absorb every detail so as not to get lost. I find Clare at the end, and we sit together in the Women's Room.
"Esther, I love your hair," she says, and I smile.
"You look so different," I say in awe, and it's true. Her hair that had been dyed pink at the tips is now a single uniform color of blond. Her skin looks like she's glowing, and her blue eyes look even brighter with the dark mascara framing it. "You could definitely be a princess."
She rolls her eyes, grinning. "Thanks, though."
The TV turns on to show our send-offs. I dread seeing mine; I'm never comfortable seeing myself, save for when I'm looking at myself in a mirror. My voice sounds mildly decent at my impromptu performance, but I guess I get the girls' attention. Some glare at me, some look at me in awe, I guess.
"Esther, you're so good," Clare says, bumping my shoulder with hers.
I roll me eyes, like she did. "Thanks, though."
"Using my own words against me. Touche."
When the show is done, we head to our rooms. Mine is in between several, two on each side. Coincidentally, Clare's room is right across from mine. And guess what I have? Maids. I have freaking maids. What is this world? I'm suddenly a snooty lady with maids. I'm wearing a pretty dress and I look like a freaking cake and I have maids.
They look nice enough, and they don't seem to share my discomfort. The girl with black hair tells me her name is Lovely, and it is truly a lovely name. My other maid, Lovely's sister, is Ellen. They could pass off as twins, but alas, they are not. The third girl contrasts them, with her fair skin and platinum hair. One could take negatives of Lovely and Ellen and they would probably look like this girl, named Jocelyn.
They dress me for dinner, and surprisingly, they're easy to get along with. They gossip about palace happenings as they redo my makeup. The guards are particularly hot, they say, and the royal family is the nicest people in the world. Ellen has a daughter, coincidentally named Esther. I ask about her husband, and she quickly explains that she does not have one.
Oh.
Lovely has been a maid before Ellen was, and Jocelyn has been here since the beginning of King Maxon and Queen America's reign.
Then I'm whisked off to the Great Room.
Dinner ends up being this decadent time of day where everything just tastes wonderful. The filet mignon melts in my mouth like cotton candy, and I nearly swoon. The girls next to me look oddly unsatisfied, and I wonder what could be better than food. They poke the vegetables and stab the meat, not putting anything in their mouths. People are so odd.
The girl across from me, though, eats with much gusto. I wonder what her name is, but I don't want to bother with asking for her name. Too much work. Another face and name to remember.
I catch Clare's eye from the end of the table and she points at her food and gives me a thumbs up. I point to my own dish and mouth so damn good.
Too soon, we go to our rooms to sleep. I can never sleep at night. Insomnia haunts me like an omnipresent thought. It's nice, though, that I'm alone. I heard that before in the Selection, the girls had to have their maids sleep inside the room with them. Luckily, Queen America changed the rule so that we could have guards posted outside instead.
It's pitch black, and my pillow smells like the shampoo I used. My waxed legs feel barren against the soft sheets. I'm wearing a nightgown. A nightgown. Who the hell wears a nightgown? I wish I had my sweatpants instead, or my track shorts that I use at night. I wish I was wearing a t-shirt.
I wish I was home.
But then again, I'm glad I'm here. I am in the palace. How many girls get this opportunity?
It just sucks that I can't sleep.
I start to get nervous about meeting Prince Elliott. What if he's not who he portrays to be? What if he's a meaningless mercenary jerk? What if he ends up not choosing anybody?
I suddenly wonder if he's afraid.
Thoughts run around my head like reckless children, and I yawn. It's probably eleven o'clock, if not twelve. I shut my eyes and succumb to sleep.
