“Good morning.” chastity-anne briefly peeks up from her apothecary table. She looks similar to chastity-ruth, both clad in the all-encompassing black chastity robes.
“I have VoiceNotes of your morning weigh-in.” She fumbles in the drawer, searching for the test tube with my foto burned onto it. “I’ve been instructed to up your dosage of BeautyTabs. Hopefully the extra collagen will repair some of the damage caused by your continuing resistance to SleepSound.” She glares at me, as if I’m deliberately metabolizing my meds incorrectly. “The usual VitC, Zinc, Mag, Aloe, Flax, Chlorophyll, Q10, Multi-Omegas, Lipoic, Carnosine, Acetyl-L-Carnitine Arginate, COX-2 and 5-LOX and DHEA.” She lowers her voice. “And your anti-womenstruation meds are included, of course.”
She rattles this speech off every morning. I think it makes her feel important, although we all know she’s just a glorified drug dispenser, doing whatever the Doctors in the Euro-Zone tell her to.
“Has isabel collected her meds yet?” I ask. “She wasn’t at gym this morning so I was just wondering if . . .”
She shoves the test tube of meds at me and gestures at me to move on. If chastity-ruth thinks about us in terms of design numbers, chastity-anne differentiates us by our med prescriptions. She could tell you the exact day and time that I first received my curse, but I doubt she remembers my name most of the time.
The Nutrition Center seems to expand as I turn around to search for isabel, beams of light shining from the hundreds of light bulbs planted in the mirrored walls and ceilings. Row after row of mirror-plated desks, occupied by faceless girls. Where is she? We agreed to sit together. Although why I agreed to do so is beyond me; yet another uncomfortable meal to endure, each unspoken word a brick in the growing wall between us.
“freida. Over here.”
“Hi, girls,” I say, relieved that someone has claimed me as their friend, that I don’t look like a total loner.
The unholy trinity, all carefully tousled hair and bee-stung lips, are in their usual seats by the food distribution counter so megan can monitor our food choices, note who is being a good girl or a bad girl. She’s taking her role as #1 eve very seriously.
“What an extraordinary outfit, freida,” megan says, her gaze traveling from the crown of my head to my toes as I fight the urge to adjust my clothes, to cut off my hair, to ask if I can apply for a complete redesign.
“Um, thanks. I like your outfit too! Black suits you!”
“It’s navy.” She arches an eyebrow at my enthusiasm and the tips of my ears start to burn.
“Do you want to sit with us?” liz and jessie chorus, wearing matching turquoise bustier dresses today, the chunky metal straps cutting into their shoulders, their hair set in loose waves.
“I’d love to, but I told isabel I’d eat with her.” The twins lose interest at once, drawing circles in blueberry-speckled porridge with their spoons. “But maybe we can both join you?”
“isabel?” megan says slowly, cocking her head to one side. She’s even more gorgeous up close, her dark looks accentuated by the bland prettiness of the twins.
“Yes. isabel,” I repeat myself, swallowing twice in case excess saliva is making me slur.
“Isn’t that isabel at the Fatgirl buffet?”
And it is. Dressed in a loose black tank over gray leggings, she is the only one there, steam from the hot bar curling around her face, obscuring her features. Seemingly oblivious to the girls in the BeBetter line openly pointing at her, she loads her plate with fried chick-chick and noodles, white bread rolls, soup, and pasta. She dispenses a hot chocco from the silver beverage tap and covers it with mounds of whipped kream, sprinkling chocco flakes generously over the top until she’s buckling under the weight of her laden tray. I turn away, knowing that she will return to chastity-anne’s desk to pick up a portion of ipecac syrup, and I don’t want to see it. I sit down at once, banging my tray on the mirrored desktop.
“I can’t believe she’s eating Fatgirl food again. Who eats from the buffet? Everyone knows it’s only there to tempt the weak.” megan doesn’t bother to lower her voice. Unlike the rest of us, she’s not afraid of being overheard.
“She’s sitting right by the Vomitorium. It must smell so bad,” jessie says, craning her neck for a better view.
“It would put me off my food.” liz shudders, pushing her bowl away.
“It would take more than that to put isabel off,” jessie snickers as I lift the lid off my breakfast, finding a glass full of a lurid pink liquid underneath.
“I don’t know why she is even bothering to use ipecac,” megan says. “It’s not working. She must have gained at least twenty pounds.” She stares at me intently. “What do you think, freida? How much weight has she gained?” She reaches out to touch my hand and I want to pull away. If I pull away, will she be insulted? “It must be so difficult for you, freida, watching a friend degrade herself like that. I mean, she’s eating pasta.” She grimaces. “Has she said anything to you? What was her weigh-in like today? She wasn’t in gym so she must be on probation, right?”
I wish she would tell me what she wants to hear. I’ll say it. I’ll say whatever she wants if she’ll just stop. I drop my gaze, pretending to fix my hair in the desk before stirring the strawberrie SlimShake with my straw.
“Maybe you could give her some dietary advice, freida. She clearly needs help. That’s what friends are for, right?” megan continues sweetly.
“Yeah,” jessie says. “If anyone needed to try some SlimShakes, it’s that fat bitch. Am I right, girls?” She cackles, her voice corroding my will to live.
“But what do you think, freida?”
There’s an ugly silence. I meet megan’s eyes and see the challenge there. She’s drawing a line in the sand and it’s my decision which side I want to be on.
“I guess you’re right,” I answer, the betrayal tasting like bile in my mouth, and she smiles at me.
“I should be more understanding,” she sighs. “I have such a fast metabolism I actually struggle to maintain regulation weight.”
I look at the barely touched eggies on her tray. For someone who struggles to maintain weight, she certainly has an aversion to eating full portions. She and the twins start to fotogram their food, bickering about cassie and carrie’s latest adventures on Chilling with the Carmichaels as they upload the fotos. I rack my brain for something witty to say, something that will make them think that I’m interesting and funny, that will make them want to invite me to sit with them again but my brain is frozen, as if I’ve gulped down an iced slushee too quickly. I’m itching to find isabel’s reflection in the wall beside me. I want to make sure that she’s okay, that she’s not going back for second helpings and thirds and more.
I throw the meds into my mouth and take a sip of SlimShake to force them along. They slip down my throat, falling into this black hole inside me. I know they’re making me better. Even if they taste of emptiness. Even if they taste of my weakness.
Chapter 4
I leave the Nutrition Center early, hoping to find isabel so I can speak with her in private, but the classroom is empty when I arrive. I sit and wait, wondering what I’ll say to her, trying to remember when I first had to start planning our conversations in advance.
“Where’s isabel?” cara asks, sitting next to me.
“She wasn’t at the gym so I’m guessing probation.”
“Did she get the chamber?”
“I’m not sure. I haven’t seen her since breakfast.”
“I saw her at breakfast too. I think everyone saw her at breakfast. If she’s on probation, why was she eating from the Fatgirl buffet?”
“Ipecac syrup.” I give her an inane smile, putting both thumbs up like the girl in the TV ad does. “For easy, predictable regurgitation!”
“After every meal?” cara wrinkles her upturned nose while taking her eFone from her neon-yellow satchel. “MyFace foto?”
Without waiting for an answer, she extends the digi-cam to arm’s length
, pressing her head against mine as we both smile, our foto faces always ready. She taps twice on the mirrored tabletop and scans the digi-cam barcode.
“Upload and tag.”
The image develops onto my desk as well, cara’s dark blond hair and thick eyebrows complimenting my tanned skin and delicate features nicely. Moving my thumb and forefinger apart on the screen, I zoom in, making the dark circles around my eyes even more obvious. Is she prettier than me? Blondes tend to rank higher, megan being the exception of course. I close down the image. It feels like fat cells are swelling like blisters on my body, growing and growing, ready to burst. I pull at the waistband of my skirt, loathing breaking out like goosebumps across my skin.
“You look cute!” cara says, staring at her desktop.
I don’t even want to imagine how awful I must look the rest of the time if that’s what I look like when I’m “cute.” The others begin to arrive, throwing their bags on the ground with a clatter.
“I know I’ve gained about twenty pounds since breakfast.”
“I’m not going to eat anything for the rest of the day.”
“I’m not going to eat anything else for the rest of the week.”
“Settle down, girls,” chastity-theresa grumbles, the black robes swamping her skinny frame as she ushers the remaining girls into the classroom. She sighs heavily. “Your personal data from this morning’s weigh-in has been analyzed,” she begins, but chastity-ruth’s voice blares over the intercom, interrupting her.
“Attention, all 16th years. Please note that two of your classmates are on probation. #727 has gained five pounds in the last two weeks. She now weighs 125 pounds.”
125 pounds. None of us has ever been that heavy before. christy, sitting in the second row on the other side of the steps, blushes furiously, embarrassment bleeding into her skin.
“And isabel is also on probation,” chastity-ruth finishes, the intercom breaking up into a high-pitched, tinny screech.
“But what’s her weight?” I hear megan demand as the door scrapes open, the old timber frame groaning loudly.
“isabel,” chastity-theresa says. “Please take your seat, dear.”
She doesn’t move, standing at the door looking at us looking back at her, all of us weighing her as accurately as any body scanner. She pulls her tank down to cover her thighs and hurries in, heaving herself into a free seat at the front. liz and jessie aim their eFones at her, stifling snorts of laughter, and within seconds a wave of beeps breaks out throughout the classroom.
“If you’re quite finished behaving like 10th years,” chastity-theresa says, her dark skin flushing with frustration. “Put that away, liz. You too, jessie.” I think they’re about to ignore her until megan shakes her head at them in warning and they reluctantly put their fones into their bags.
“Today instead of our usual Social Graces instruction,” the chastity says, “I’m pleased to announce that the Father of the Euro-Zone has released a Public Address for final-year students.”
At the mention of the Father the silence is instant. We haven’t had a Public Address since His annual School visit on our design-date in July, just before the holidays. chastity-theresa taps the mirror-board behind her to reveal the computer screen. “Upload the digi-vid.”
I grab lip gloss from my clutch and apply it generously, inspecting myself in my desk. This is ridiculous, as the Father can’t even see us. The video was probably prerecorded days ago. But I’m not alone. The rest of the class is preening manically too, almost falling into their mirrors. The only person unmoved is isabel, color leaching from her cheeks as she hunches over her desk. She looks as if she wants to disappear.
“Quiet, girls.” chastity-theresa dims the lights. I breathe in deeply, rubbing my palms against my knees. The strobe lighting explodes and then disappears, and our faces are swallowed by the darkness.
The clashing cymbals and drum roll of the Euro-Zone anthem rips through the room. The screen burns to life, showing the symbol of the thirds, the triquetra, three triangles woven together. The ivory of the companions, the scarlet of the concubines, the ebony of the chastity robes. Separate entities, but inextricably linked. The screen flashes with images.
A girl. A girl. A girl. A girl.
Fotos of the #1-ranked girls from the last ten years rush onto the screen, one girl quickly replaced by another, and another, always a newer, better version to follow. A foto of the best legs winner, long, perfectly shaped, clad in the highest of high heels. The screen on our desktops splits in two, a foto of the perfect legs to the left, a foto of our own legs appearing to the right of our respective screens. A voice roars from the ceiling, “ROOM FOR IMPROVEMENT.”
I massage my thighs violently, wanting to tear strips off them as I feel the skin dimpling underneath my fingers. The room is inky black and I am glad. I am glad. I don’t want the others to see me, to see how wrong I am. The screen flashes again, the strobe lighting skewering my vision. kate, the legendary #1 from seven years ago, so perfect she was awarded her own TV show, What kate Did Next. Her hair is wet, slicked back from that delicate face, cheekbones popping. Her image emerges on the left of my desktop, my MyFace profile foto appearing alongside for easy comparison. The voice roars again, but this time it’s inside me, speaking in my bones. Room for Improvement. Room for Improvement. Room for Improvement.
The lighting settles, the drumbeat calming and then petering out. I peek at isabel, the images on-screen flickering on her pale, sweating face. Her head sags, causing a little pocket of fat to bulge under her chin. A shameful relief slashes through me. I’m not the only one who isn’t perfect. I’m not the worst.
A trumpet sounds, drawing our attention back to the main screen, and like puppets we move in unison, crossing our feet at the ankles, hands resting gently in our laps. All that exists now is His face. His sharp blue eyes peering into my soul, His mouth opening, about to speak, about to fill my empty brain with His wisdom.
“Good morning.” His voice is strong and deep. He pauses, slicking His distinguished gray hair away from His pale face. “Once again it is time to give my Public Address to the eves of final year. I must impress upon all of you how crucial the coming months are to your future. This is the decisive moment, the moment you have spent the last sixteen years preparing for. It is time for you to make a contribution to the society that has created each of you, whether it be as a companion or a concubine.” There is an indistinct mumble off-camera, the Father’s forehead wrinkling in annoyance at the interruption. “Or a chastity of course. You must all play your equal part. Remember, you may be perfectly designed, but there is always room for Improvement.”
We blink feverishly as the lamps explode with light and the main screen returns to its mirrored state.
“Stop that!” chastity-theresa barks at us. “Squinting causes wrinkles.”
jessie’s hand jerks up instinctively to the skin around her eyes. She grabs a little tube from her clutch bag, squeezing pea-sized droplets of white foam onto her fingertips, and massages it into her eyelids.
“His Address was short, wasn’t it?” liu bites her lip so hard that she leaves an impression in the flesh. “He didn’t even mention when the Inheritants would be coming. Why was it so short?”
“The Father is a busy man,” the chastity says wearily. “He has more important things to do than recording lengthy sermons for your enjoyment.” liu slumps in her seat, a sheet of ebony hair covering her face. “Anyway, as the Father said, it is your duty to provide value for your existence, whichever third you may be assigned to. Of course I doubt there will be many eves with a vocation for the hallowed third of the chastities in this group.” Her gaze falls upon agyness and her mouth softens. “Well, maybe one.”
agyness blushes with inexplicable pride and megan makes a vomiting motion. I like agy, but we all know becoming a chastity isn’t a vocation. It’s just a way of dealing with any eves whom, for whatever reason, the men find unappealing but who haven’t done anything bad enou
gh to warrant being sent Underground. Inductions into the third of the chastities are so rare we don’t even receive instruction in School about chastity-life. The chastities have their uses, of course—the School could not run without them—but they are not wanted like the concubines are. They are not necessary like the companions.
I spend the rest of the class daydreaming, tuning out chastity-theresa’s lecture on the difference between the Social Graces required by the concubines and the companions. All I can see in my mind’s eye is the image of my face next to kate’s, a grid forming over the foto, breaking it down, showing my inadequacies in perfect detail. The bell’s ringing startles me and cara laughs and squeezes my shoulder blades, her hands cool on my perspiring skin.
“Don’t dawdle,” chastity-theresa says as she shepherds the other girls out, turning the lights off when she leaves.
I can barely make out her outline in the row opposite me. “What’s going on with you, isabel?”
“I’m on probation.”
“I heard. You can’t keep eating at the Fatgirl buffet. It’s making things worse.” My voice is rising. “If you keep gaining weight, you’ll never become a companion. You won’t even be good enough to be a concubine.”
No man likes a fat girl. We have been told this since design.
“Why are you getting so angry?” she asks. “It’s not your body.”
“I’m not angry,” I say, breathing to calm myself, to control these Unacceptable Emotions. “I’m afraid . . . I’m afraid for you.”
“Afraid of what?”
I can’t say the real words out loud so I just say, “I’m afraid they’ll make you become a chastity.”