FIRSTLY, THANK YOU FOR THE SUPPORT I HAVE RECEIVED ON THIS STORY. ONLY ABOUT 15 SPOTS LEFT- I LOOK FORWARD TO SEEING THEM GET FILLED! Secondly, apologies for posting it so late- FanFiction wasn't letting me log in but it works now so yay I'm good.

Apologies; this chapter isn't very long and I found it to be a bit rushed, so I hope it's okay for you guys.

Longer author's note is at that bottom.

I don't own the Selection series. This character is Ivelisse Faye Whittley-Patters by Ryaspirit. She's awesome! Thanks!


I stare into the mirror.

A girl gazes at me, her light brown eyes boring into mine. She is fairly plain- not unattractive, per se, but plain. Her hair is a dull red, like a spark slowly beginning to burn out, and it is atop her head in a messy bun. Stray pieces hang out, dangling along the sides of her face, framing her gentle traits. Her facial features are small and have just a hint of a cocky expression- she has a tiny, prim little mouth is slightly upturned at the corners and her eyebrows are naturally raised, taunting and challenging anyone and everyone about nothing in particular. The entirety of the mirror girl's physiognomy is covered with a smattering of freckles- well, more than a smattering; a bounteous amount of freckles- that conceal her cheeks, nose, forehead and chin.

The mirror girl wears a comfy grey sweater with some sort of hockey logo on it; her Dad cheers for them, not her, and he bought her the sweater when they once went to a game. She also wears navy blue skinny jeans with stylistically frayed material near her hips. All the same, she appears very comfortable in her nonchalant choice of clothing.

The corners of my smirking mouth pull up into a genuine grin, and the mirror girl matches my bright smile. Deeming myself ready for another day at school- only two more months until I could escape the hell once and for all!- I headed out of the bathroom, dragging my fingers across the full body mirror as I went. My fingers meet that of the mirror girl, and we exchange one more quiet smile before she disappears and I continue on alone.

The stairs to go down to the main floor of the house are right outside the bathroom door, and head directly down into the kitchen (convenient for midnight snacks, breakfast in bed and sleepy teenagers who are starving half to death). My hand clutches the honey coloured banister as I slowly set out down the steps, relishing the feeling of my feet sinking into the white shag carpet.

As soon as I get downstairs, my senses are overwhelmed with the rich aroma of bacon sizzling on the stove. I can hear the crackling of the fat, and can sense my already-huge appetite drastically rising. It isn't often that one of my fathers or I will get up early to cook such an extravagant breakfast, so when they do, we luxuriate in the opportunity. Piles of pancakes, a bowl of fruit salad and breakfast sausage are already on the counters, just waiting to be served and eaten.

"Breakfast!" my Dad sings, whirling around from where he was attending the bacon to look at me. "My, my, Ivy, you made it in perfect time. The bacon was ready at the exact moment you got down here!"

I give my Dad an easy grin, laughing inwardly at his perkiness. My first father, Cal, is constantly peppy and energetic, despite working long hours as a chef. He's the more easygoing of my two dads and is also much better at waking up early than my other father, Diego. I assume he must have the morning off today; most of the time he's gone for work by now.

"Sixth sense," I tease, helping myself to three of the fatty strips of meat. As soon as I bite into the first piece, I'm instantly in heaven; Dad works as a assistant sous chef in a fairly prestigious restaurants in northeastern Ottaro, and to be graced with his splendiferous cooking each day is a treat that my small family thrives in.

Dad adds a scoop of fruit salad and a pancake onto my plate, and I instantly douse them in maple syrup. I dip the strips of bacon into the sweet, candy-like liquid as well, enjoying the way the flavours melded together. The pancake is sweet, light and fluffy, and the fruit is juicy (if not a bit underripe). I relish the exquisite meal, lost in thought as Dad reads the newspaper and sips his coffee. These tranquil moments of peace are nice, offering me an inner sense of balance and peace that often escapes me during the stress of the school day.

"Oh, honey, you should go," Dad says after about ten minutes, casting a worried glance at the clock. "Wouldn't want you to be late for school. Do you need a ride, or are you fine walking?" He places the last of the pancakes he was cooking onto a plate, arranging them in a small tower and topping it with butter, fresh fruit and syrup in what is a most decidedly expertise and over-the-top arrangement.

"I can walk," I assure him. "Thanks for cooking breakfast." Striding up beside him, I plant a kiss on his cheek and put my plate in the dishwasher before running out the door, heading for school.


The class can't focus today.

Ms. Brenning fixes the class with her trademark eagle-eyed glare, pausing her long lecture on Shakespeare's Sonnet 18. Her dark eyes search the class for the chatty perpetrators who dare disrupt her lesson, causing most of the class to shrivel back into their seats and wait for her to continue with her oration before resuming their confabulations.

She drones on for about ten more minutes and I valiantly try to take notes, but the girls on either side of my desk are talking increasingly loudly and I can't focus. Deciding that trying to continue to listening to the lesson was a lost cause, I tuck the sheet of notes in my binder and turn to Britney, a nice girl who sits beside me in almost of all my classes. I don't hang out with her and we aren't in the same 'social clique,' but she's friendly enough, I guess.

"Brit," I hiss, trying to keep my voice low to avoid catching Ms. Brenning's evil eye. "What are they all talking about?"

The blonde flicks her head towards me. I notice she's wearing more makeup than normal, and her hair is curled in oddly precise waves. She wears a bright pink shirt with long sleeves and a deep neck that crosses up from her midsection to her neck. Her attire seems oddly seductive and fancy for a plain old high school, even for her.

"Haven't you heard?" Britney's voice was more enthusiastic and upbeat than normal; she speaks so quickly I can barely understand her. "The Selection. There has been a ton of breakups, and everyone's applying for it. Jack and Kylie, Aiysha and Aerowyn, Trent and Blaire, Claudette and Moore- all split, because they went to all enter the Selection. All the girls have been talking about what they're going to wear and what they're going to put on their applications the whole day." Brit's brown eyes glitter with cold enthusiasm, and she straightens her shirt so that the deep v-neck reveals more of her chest and abdomen.

I don't really care for gossip, but hearing about the Selection surprises me. I'd forgotten all about it- with all that had gone on in the past few weeks, I'd focused more on keeping thoughts more out of my head as opposed to letting them in. At the time of when the news came out- Friday night at the Report- I hadn't even considered the news; I didn't think I was ready then. Now that I think about it, I'm not so sure.

I open my mouth to respond, but Ms. Brenning beats me to it.

"One more word out of anyone and it's detention for you all!" she shouts, her voice carrying through the now-silent classroom. Looking behind, I can see the meek gazes of my classmates and pray that they don't land us in trouble.

Class ends with the shrieking of the bell, and the noisy hordes of hormonal teenagers grabs their things and file out into the hall, where the lunchtime rush begins. Clumps of sweaty bodies progress through the wide straightaway towards the cafeteria, making it difficult to move through the mass of bodies proceeding towards the cafeteria. I catch a strong whiff of body odour and plug my nose as I make my way to my locker, being careful not to drop my textbooks or binder.

A tall, thickset body slams into me, and I drop my binder on the floor. Lined paper and class notes spill out of it, sliding along the cool flecked tile. I look on in despair as I watch my papers kicked and stepped on, my neat and organized notes now torn and covered in footprints.

My biggest regret was looking up.

Above me, lip curling with contempt, I see a sickly familiar face. Lydia- damn, Lydia of all people- brushes back a lock of auburn hair and sneers at me, though I'm pretty sure I catch a ghost of a frown on her pointed physiognomy. As soon as I recognize her, I shrink back, crouching my head and firmly ignoring her presence. I want to say something, but I'm not sure what- either way, my throat has gone dry. I shut my eyes and grab my papers, then race to my locker, flinging my stuff inside before running down the crowded hallway to the bathroom.

Time seems to go in equally fast and slow.

I focus on clearing my mind. I push out my thoughts and direct my cynosure towards nothing, picturing a pure white expanse in my mind. I do not paint the canvas or allow thoughts to blemish it. I hold the canvas in my mind, pushing away my emotions and my ideas and any notions regarding her, the person who I cannot allow myself to think about and tarnish any hope of happiness.

As soon as I get into the bathroom stall, my defense against thoughts crumbles and disappears.

Tears fall down my face, running down my freckled cheeks and then over the top of my lip. I lean against the wall of the stall, trying to breathe, trying to forget, but it's hard to forget something when it's the only thing you can remember. After a moment of controlled breathing, the tears stop and the memories flow.

I can picture her as clear as the day. Her porcelain skin, her auburn hair, and her blue eyes- so charming, so sweet, so deceiving. I can smell her fruity shampoo and her warm, cinnamon breath. I can hear her singsong voice- the voice that grew hard as stone when she was angry but melted into soft chocolate when she was sympathetic or in a good mood. The thought of her dry humour makes my eyes wet, but the thought of her betrayal makes me sob.

The memories are as vivid as though they happened yesterday, though they feel faded and outdated when I look back on those times, barely six weeks ago. Six long weeks ago, I was stuck inside the closet- only my parents knowing how I felt, and select few at a former school. My partial exit from the dark shadow of secrecy was not what I had hoped for, and quite decidedly the exact opposite of what I had hoped for and imagined.

Somehow, Chrome Walsh found out- thank the lord he didn't tell anyone- and he cornered me, doing things to me that I won't repeat and can't bear to describe. He tried to change me, tried force me to do things and to change things I had told no one ever before- using rather unorthodox and unethical methods that took me and spat me out in the lowest form possible. Lydia was there for me, so I confessed.

I am bisexual.

"Abnormal," I murmur to myself. "Freak."

I loved her. At least, I thought I did. The day I met her, I was interested. The first time I talked to her, I was intrigued. Once I got to know her, I was certain; I could just feel it: there was something special about us. Even the mere notion was more and everything and nothing that I could ever consider expecting. The only problem was that she was in a heterosexual relationship, and I was stuck in the closet.

We were friends. I shouldn't have been greedy or made her uncomfortable, even after I was harassed for my sexuality. I shouldn't have been so selfish to tell her, of all damn things- hell, what was I thinking?

I thought I had her under the palm of my hand. She was gone within a week.

"I like you too," she had said. "I'm just not ready for such a relationship."

As it turned out, she wasn't ready. She didn't like me- she just didn't want to hurt my feelings. And I pushed her. I got angry over something that was merely her concern for me, and I drove her away . She didn't come back.

I had wanted nothing more than for her to return to me and set things the way they used to be. However, I'd come to terms with the realization that it was no longer a possibility, so that left only one other option: to get over her.

"What're you going to wear for the Selection?" A giggle from the stall beside me hushes me instantly, and I cease my sniffling to prevent myself from attracting attention. I recognize the speaker to be Alena, a dark-haired girl with ice blue eyes- and then what she says clicks.

It was like the flicking of a light switch- I could see exactly what I had been missing before. I need to get over Lydia. I liked her, but I messed up; it wasn't a possibility anymore for us to be together. I needed to prove to myself that I was able to continue on, to live without her, to show myself that I was independent and could carry on without one little person. And I had one idea how to do that: The Selection.

The rest of the day continued without fault, but it seemed to drag on for a week. I could barely concentrate during class; all I could focus on was moving on and the notion of being free from the weight that was chained to my soul. Lydia's face continuously poked into my thoughts, her brilliant smile and whispered words trying to chase me away from what I was going to do. But I knew I was stronger, so I pushed through.

I am unsurprised to see that the house is empty when I arrive at home. Dad and Pa are still both at work, and I don't expect them to get home until much later. I drop my backpack at the foot of the stairs and race upstairs to my room. A newfound eagerness to rid myself of this burden encourages me. I immediately strip out of my school clothes, prying my skinny jeans off of my thighs and releasing my red hair from the messy bun.

I considered my outfit all through band (while I pretended to play the trumpet). Professional models always say that going with a simple but flattering outfit is the best, so I choose some simple-but-slightly-fancy clothes that I love. I begin with white skinny jeans- a staple of my wardrobe- and then select a jean-blue shirt with white buttons and rolled sleeves. I accent the whole outfit with a braided leather bracelet and a black necklace with a large gold-green pendant and pink flowers. The whole ensemble looks classy but casual, relaxed but flattering and appealing but with an impactful statement.

I find my Application in the mail, after sifting through large piles of bills and letters from friends. The parchment is of good quality, and my fingers lovingly caress it as I read the letter.

The recent census has confirmed that a single woman between the ages of sixteen and twenty currently resides in your home. We would like to make you aware of an upcoming opportunity to honor the great nation of Illéa. Our beloved prince, Ashton Schreave, is coming of age this month. As he ventures into this new part of his life, he hopes to move forward with a partner, to marry a true Daughter of Illéa. If your eligible daughter, sister, or charge is interested in possibly becoming the bride of Prince Ashton and the adored princess of Illéa, please fill out the enclosed form and return it to your local Province Services Office. One woman from each province will be drawn at random to meet the prince. Participants will be housed at the lovely Illéa Palace in Angeles for the duration of their stay. The families of each participant will be generously compensated for their service to the royal family.

Grabbing my fancy black pen, I immediately proceed to x out the letter. The questions are detailed but don't pry, and I don't really hesitate about any of the questions. I manage to get it done within ten minutes.

Name: Ivelisse Faye Whittley-Patters

Age: 16

Caste: 4

Height: 5'5"

Weight: 120 lbs

Hair Colour: Red

Eye Colour: Light Brown

Languages Spoken: English, French

Highest Completed Grade Level: Grade 10

Special Skills and Interests: Poetry, Astrology, Debates, Comedy Movies, Stars, Food, Soccer, Field Hockey, Football, Volleyball

I give my Application one last overview, and then, deciding it satisfactory, fold it in half and head out the door.


I don't know the girl in the picture.

A tiny screen overhead shows the picture that they took of me. But I swear, that girl in the picture must be someone else- she is a different Ivelisse than the Ivelisse I know and am. She doesn't look tired, and her eyes are alight- a brilliant change from the dull, lacklustre sight they once were. Her posture is straight and her head is held high- she doesn't look beaten down, guilty, or sad and ashamed. She looks confident and careless, and she has a cheeky grin that is both innocent but mischievous. The photo is nostalgic- I feel as though I know her from a time long before, and have only now rediscovered her presence within me.

When I walk away, I feel a million times lighter, like I could fly away if I wanted to. There's a sense of accomplishment mixed in with the freedom, and pure, undiluted satisfaction and emotional liberation flow through me.

I have let her go.


Anyways, thanks for reading! I hope you liked it!

Please note that I will no longer be accepting redheads. I will be aiming to get on top of things and finishing up adding to the lists and planning out my characters. My next chapter should be out in two weeks (I hope. You can never trust me with this sort of thing :)

As well, all applications must be longer than 1 PM or I won't accept it.

Anyways, thanks for all the submitters and it would be great if you sent a review or a character! Bye!