Hey everyone! Sorry for taking so long, I had sleepaway cam like two days after I posted my last chapter and I just got home a few hours ago, so I busted this out for ya! Hope you enjoy.
I just want to say a quick thanks to SelectionRoyalty13, Cookiedoodles168, Happygreenbirdy, Awkward Kartoffel, MastaGamerita, IllusionistDream, Booki (guest), XOStarbrightXO, and Monotonic Rainbow for reviewing, JenHen48, UltimateMaxmericaShipper, rysaspirit, Monotonic Rainbow, IllusionistDream, Awkward Kartoffel, CarrieReeRay, Hofund, alexiaroosenhaan, The Pocketwatch Ripper, and XOStarbrightXO for submitting, 4Love4Love4, GalifreyanCat, Happygreenbirdy, IllusionistDream, alexiaroosenhaan, anaklusmos26, and rysaspirit for favoriting (not technically a word, I know), and 4Love4Love4, Awkward Kartoffel, CarrieReeRay, Happygreenbirdy, IllusionistDream, Jcuret98, MastaGamerita, XOStarbrightXO, alexiaroosenhaan, anaklusmos26, and rysaspirit for following! Definitely do all four of those stuff-things! Yup!
This chapter features some of the OCs you've sent me! Hope you guys enjoy it! The characters are Evelyn Clause by 4Love4Love4 and Emberly Saffron by UltimateMaxmericaShipper
My long fingers tightly grip the mahogany arms of my desk chair, near the verge of insanity. I decide humorlessly that if I had to create a scale of dangerous minds, at this current moment I'd rank somewhere between Adolf Hitler and an enraged mountain lion. Seriously, if I had to fill out another College Application, I was going to maim someone with one of the several needle-sharp number two pencils that my parents so graciously stocked my study with.
They had me filling out forms all morning, and at this point, not only was I exhausted and frustrated, I felt like my hand was going to fall off.
"Evie?" My mother asks from the doorway, before granting herself permission to enter. Dressed in a charcoal pencil skirt and a matching blazer, I can't decide whether she's coming home from a meeting with her editorial staff or about to head off to one. "I have your tea. I know you didn't have a cup when you woke up this morning, and you're going to need your full attention and alertness if you're going to keep filling out your forms-especially the admissions essays."
"Goodie…" I mumble under my breath, relieving the steaming porcelain mug of earl grey (milk, no sugar) from her hands.
"How are your applications coming?" My mother ponders, trying to fill the silence. "I found a few more for you downstairs on the kitchen table. I think they just came today in the mail."
I sigh; hoping that I can hold off on my mental breakdown until my mother was gone. "They're fine," I answer dryly. My mother waits expectantly for elaboration. "My hand hurts." She chuckles politely in response.
"Ah, well, any great writer will mourn their times of hand cramps. I'm afraid it's not something you'll be able to stop." I remain silent, though now tense. I guess you can say that writing is a…. sore subject for me.
Five generations of Pulitzer Prize winning novelists in my family and somehow I had to be the one to miss out on the writer gene. How did I wind up being the disappointment? It wasn't like I was interested in waiting tables or singing, and I liked things that could become serious career paths if I could just decide what I wanted to do the most, but none of the things I wanted in life had to do with literature. I don't even like reading (hold your gasps, please), without even mentioning writing, which is even worse. Needless to say, I'm damned if I do and damned if I don't.
Regardless, by this time next year, I was expected to either be jumping headfirst into a respectable occupation or enrolled in one of the various elite schools I was currently writing applications for, so that I could take classes to further my knowledge of whatever career I intended to pursue. That means that by next year, my entire life had to be mapped out to the tee, and just this morning I almost cried because I didn't know if I wanted eggs or cereal for breakfast (granted, I hadn't had my tea, as my mother previously suggested, and I think this is a fine example of how I'm unable to function without my morning pick-me-up). There's no such thing as sabbatical for a three. Since we're the most densely populated of the upper castes, every job is a competition, and every second not acutely devoted to reaching a goal is a waste of time.
Speaking of wastes, I chose eggs. As a reformed vegan, it would be a misuse the right to eat animal byproducts by not choosing eggs over cereal. But wait-I'd have to use milk for that anyways, and that's an animal byproduct too…
Never mind. I'm delirious. I take another sip of tea, trying to get my thoughts sorted.
"You need to focus, Evie. Clause's conform to a specific standard of excellence, and I will not tolerate half-effort on these forms! Not getting into a good school could affect the entire course of your future! Don't you want to be as successful as Shannon, when you're her age?"
Ah. Pulling the, "look at how amazing your older sister is" card. I see what you're doing, mother. "Shannon is attending an in-province university and has Bs in every class besides English and Drama."
My mother shuts her eyes, and I can tell that I'm testing her patience. As far as Shannon goes, my parents tend to overlook her flaws. "Just fill out the forms." My mother tries her hardest not to storm out of the room, but her steps may as well be stomps.
Now exasperated, and not feeling any joy from being right and winning that small battle against my mother, I tug a hand though my pure blonde hair and resist to the urge to start pulling it out. I also bite my finger to stop from screaming in pure agony, my temples throbbing and stress level around it max point.
And there's still more downstairs. A small voice inside my head shrieks. After you're done with these forms, you're not even finished. There's no such thing as finished, it's just going to be a continuous circle of filling out forms forever and ever and ever…
I have to get away. Out of this room, at the very least. My parents would kill me if I left the house.
So I venture to the kitchen, where my mother told me several new forms lay. I quickly sift through bills and publishers notes for envelopes addressed to Evelyn Clause, and find four. My insides feel like melting. Or maybe just my brain.
Shuffling through them as I stumble back down the hall to my study, I realize that one isn't like the others.
It's an entirely different color, first of all. While three of the letters are goose down white, the last is practically beige. It's thicker, as well. The address is in impeccable script that must have been the work of a skilled calligraphist, maybe hired by an older Ivy League school.
Tearing it open, I find that it's not from an Ivy at all.
How stupid could I be? It's for the Selection, of course. In my defense, I think that the deduction part of my brain is totaled.
I race upstairs to my room, where I have my pre-sharpened, needle-pointed pencils laid out for debut-novel writing (more pencil gifts from my parents). Gripping just one, I feel like I'm welding my world with my own two hands.
I jot down the straightforward portions in seconds.
Name: Evelyn Alessandra Bay Clause
Age: 17
Province: Ottaro
Caste: Three
Occupation: Student
Hair Color: Honey-beach blonde
Eye Color: Hazel: a mix of blue, green, and grey
Skin Tone: Peach
Height: 5'5"
Weight: 120 pounds
Languages Spoken: English, German, Italian, Arabic
I pause, however, at hobbies. I contemplate putting down reading and writing, thinking that my parents might see it at some point, but eventually decide against it.
Hobbies: Learning about ancient history, psychology, philosophy, neurology, architecture, astronomy, skiing, soccer
Do you understand my indecisiveness now? And on top of that, I couldn't find a way to put an interest in being a food or movie critic, or a pilot as hobbies, so they'd have to stay with me. Just reading all of the things I'd actually like to pursue makes me nauseous.
Deciding that I deserve a break before I'm sentenced back to trudging through never ending application-writing, I dress myself for the picture before I send off my form to whoever decides who's Selected.
I don't want to appear overdone, so I just change into denim jean shorts and a Britton Academy baseball t-shirt with mustard yellow elbow-length sleeves and the school's logo over the left breast. I figured that showing prestige from a school like that could only help my chances, and if they needed references, Shannon probably would be fair enough as to not ruin my chances. After debating between brown leather gladiator sandals and converse, I choose comfort over style, assuming that they (being whoever is sorting through applications) wont be able to see my feet. I have this weird thing about close-toed shoes; I can't stand wearing them. They make me claustrophobic, in some unexplainable way. And while the sun still shone as brightly as it did, and the air was warm enough for shorts, I would wear open-toed shoes. While I'm at it, I tousle my hair and perch my silver mirror aviators on the top of my head. I quickly apply eyeliner and mascara to my otherwise strait-out eyelashes, and a swipe of cherry Chap Stick over my lips, which weren't really dry at all. A spritz of perfume pronounces me "good enough".
It's a risk, sneaking downstairs with both of my parents floating around somewhere, but I tread as lightly as possible, skipping over stairs I know creak when they're stepped on.
And as I discreetly slip out the door, the barricade to the prison cell I'm doomed to spend the rest of my miserable life in, I can think of only one thing:
If you can pull this one off, Evie, you've escaped for good.
…
Even the strongest of people have their limitations. Vampires have the sun, Superman has kryptonite, and Atlas has a profound lack of intelligence. I'm lucky enough not to have any of these weaknesses, but that isn't to say that I don't have others.
"SPIDER!" I shriek, barely clutching the railing to the top bunk I had been sleeping in just moments ago as I threw myself backwards in a blinding state of fear. "OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY-" I run, barefoot, to the other side of the room, nearly tripping over the six sleeping boys scattered on the ground of our abandoned grocery store warehouse. A few of them laugh, a few look like they want to murder me for waking them up, and one, Zeke, gets up to kill it for me. "Be careful!" I warn him, clutching the outside of my skinny arms. "It could be poisonous and if it bites you, you could die or-"
"Seriously, Emmy, it's just a bug. Get over it." Zeke yawns, stumbling back to his sleeping bag after the deed is done.
I straiten the ratty t-shirt I had been sleeping in before the 'night attack of the spider', almost self-consciously. "Well excuse me for lasting this long and not wanting to be killed by 'just a bug'." I strut back over to my bunk, climb up the splintering pine ladder, and tuck myself snug into the bed sheets. In my near-death experience, however, I'm left irreversibly awake. Sucks. I don't have to be up for hours. It couldn't be any later than six, and the Likely Central Jail didn't even open until eleven for visitors. Even so, there was no doubt that somewhere, a few miles from where I lay baking in the lack of air conditioning, there was a prison yard already fully awake (though pumped with exhaustion) and stocked with burly muggers and scraggly thieves, all strictly avoiding Eugenie "Macho Man" Carachiolo.
Poor Gino. Born with all brawn and no brain, and a crippling stutter that wouldn't allow anyone to be afraid of him. Or, I guess they could be at first, but not after he speaks. Gino's stature got the twelve of us into almost as many fights as Dean's quick tongue. In fact, Gino's stature happened to be the thing that got him into jail. That, and some stupid gang across the city who decided that they needed to take us down a few pegs. As if we were emperors or something. Plus empress, for me.
Granted, sometimes it was tough being the only girl in a gang otherwise made up of only guys. I was the one responsible for bailing them out of jail (as I'd have to for Gino as soon as eleven strikes) and covering distractions as they looted gas stations and bed and breakfasts. The number of passes I've gotten from incoming members when they first met me is disgusting and insurmountable (hint: they quickly decided never to do that again after there was a split second difference between their remarks and a broken nose and wounded ego. I have a wicked uppercut and don't fancy being cat called), and there were many other gangs who decided to hate my guts, even if it was only because I'm a girl and they detest the fact that a member of "the weaker sex" could possibly be strong enough to make them afraid. Or intimidated, I guess is the better word.
But still, I'm respected enough to be third in charge, after Marco and Daveed. They also let me have a top bunk (but out of the three we have, I guess it would make sense for the leaders to each have one), even though I tried to create a rotation of some sort so the unlucky half wouldn't have to sleep on the floor every night. They kill spiders for me, even when I wake them up at dawn. I guess you could say they're the only family I could ever need. Or want.
I stare at the ceiling aimlessly, counting the cracks in the plaster, when I hear Marco shuffle off his bunk and wander to mine, apologizing quickly to Tony below me as he stands level to my head. "Ember? You alright?"
I sigh before turning to face him, my slippery waves falling into my eyes. For the leader of our gang, Marco has always been pretty considerate. "I'm fine."
"Alright-there's no spider-punk I need to beat up for you then? You guys hashed it out?" I smile at Marco's attempt at a joke, something he really hasn't done much of since Jasper's death. It hit us all in different ways. And though I missed him like mad, it was probably his little brother it hit the hardest.
"I think that Zeke already beat you to that, sorry." He grins lightly. "My apologies if a rival gang of spiders comes to avenge his death, feel free to sacrifice me as a peace offering."
"Nah, we'd never sacrifice our third in command."
"Speaking of which," Tony grumbles from below us. I throw my head over the edge of the bunk to catch him grabbing something from under his pillow. "I swiped this from some lady's purse yesterday while I was collecting money for Gino's bail." He produces a Manila envelope, addressed to some two who's name I don't bother looking at, and hands it specifically to me. He even swipes it away when Marco tries to take it.
It takes me a few seconds. Then it strikes me like lightning.
The Selection. Duh.
Marco and I stare at each other in silence, frankly both of us probably curious as to what I'll do. As an illegitimate, it made perfect sense that I couldn't be mailed a Selection form, even though I'm plenty eligible.
"Should I…?" Marco remains silent, maybe trying to choose the right words.
"Yes." Tony's voice is muffled by his pillow, which he promptly threw himself into when I didn't agree to sign up immediately. "The money is crazy. They've gotta spend like a bazillion dollars on this crap."
"Imagine that," scoffs Dean, who was apparently eavesdropping on our conversation. To anyone else, the Selection would be the thought constantly plaguing their minds. I hadn't even considered it. "Lady Ember, the Selected Daughter of Illéa from the province Likely." His voice is dripping with sarcasm and faux-sincerity, and if Marco wasn't blocking the only way out of my bunk, I might just have climbed down and shown him just how much of a lady I could be.
"I'm Miss Diamond, a socialite who summers in France." Eligh mocks in a high-pitched voice, maybe trying to sound like a girl, maybe trying to sound like he had a quarter lodged in his windpipe. Then he drops his voice to sound burlier, even though my tone cant be described as anything rougher than glassy. "I'm Ember, I'm a gang member who lives in the back of an abandoned grocery store. I also do tattoos, want one?" A few of the boys chuckle, but I refuse to give in. I mean, how dare they say that I can't be selected! I know that I'm pretty, I'm loyal, pretty compassionate, and I'll do whatever the hell I want to do!
"For your information, " I interrupt their boyish giggling. "It's Emberly." There's a chorus of "ooohhhhs" as everyone turns to Eligh and Dean.
"My mistake, Your Highness." There's more howling from those who were laughing at me in the first place, and Marco tells them all to shove it or they can sleep outside. The chatter wanes until the warehouse is once again almost silent.
"You can join if you want to, Ember." Marco leaves me with these depressed-sounding parting words as he traipses back to his bunk.
I turn though the application, considering thoughtfully. It's a pretty simple form, not to nosy or anything, and very straightforward. It wouldn't take me any more than three minutes to fill out-and only if I really took my time-and I'd need to get dolled up anyway for bailing Gino out, so it wouldn't be like I had to go out of my way to obviously care about getting Selected. Plus, the Services Office is probably right around the corner from the jail. In walking distance, at least. And there were so many pros to joining: if Tony was right, and you get some sort of compensation just for competing, it could mean a steady diet for all of them-maybe even a more upscale place to sleep, or at the very least actual beds. They couldn't need me to bail them out anymore, if they wouldn't be risking their necks in the first place. Plus, it would give Tony a taste at being in charge. I think he was waiting to be promoted for a while now.
But still, what if they get in trouble and I'm not there? Or they need someone to play the distraction? I don't know if I could bring myself to leave them.
I try to let go of those thoughts immediately. Ember, you're being selfish. They could eat three meals every day and you're worried about missing them? How do you even compare the pros and cons!
And in that moment I know I need to sign up. Screw the odds, I need to have a little faith and act on the assumption that I could get accepted. I cant' bear to think of what might happen if I don't. More fighting, more jail sentences. Worse case possible, more injuries, and someone gets seriously hurt. But if I can do something to stop that from happening… I'll do whatever it is.
I grab one of my favorite sketching pens and begin to fill out the form.
Name: Emberly Athalia Saffron
Age: 17
Province: Likely
Caste: 5
Occupation: Tattoo Artist
Hair Color: Honey
Eye Color: Blue
Skin Tone: Creamy tan
Height: 5'2"
Weight: 103 lbs
Languages Spoken: English and Spanish
Hobbies: Drawing, painting, car racing, dancing, singing, trying new things
After I look the form over and pronounce my work finished, I start to get ready. I brush my hair from it's tangled mess, reminding me that it's glossy when I do. I also gloss my lips a bit with a regular lip-colored lip-gloss and add some blush and mascara, so I can both convince the jail guard to help me bail Gino and look more appealing to the camera as I take my picture for my application. Changing out of my t-shirt (which didn't look or smell that great), I slip on the one and only dress I have: a near knee-length black skirt attached to a black and white sleeveless bodice (shows off my curves-or lack thereof, so it just shows off my ribs), along with my leather jacket and a beat up pair of formerly white tennis shoes. It goes along with the usual attire of someone who is tasked with charming her friends out of jail. That's another thing, I guess. I'm charming. All in all, I don't really think that I would make the worst queen in Illéan history, even if I'm not actually in this for the crown, or even the prince. Not yet, I suppose. We'll see.
Because some things hit hard. And though there's pleasure before you fall, I don't want to be the one with the broken ribs, the black eye, and the shattered heart ever again.
That's all for this one! Make sure to review and submit, guys! Still have a bunch of spaces left!
LOOOOOVE YOU ALL SO MUCH!
xx. Scarlett
