Fast-Tracked (9 page)

I looked down at the watch. It was only a minute past eight o’clock. “The letter said to report at eight,” I foolishly responded.

“Well you should have followed those directions. Between you and the yet-to-be-found girl, our whole day will be behind schedule.” She walked forward and began circling around me. Her beady little eyes squinted above her hooked nose as she scrutinized me. The way her stiffly sculpted blonde hair jutted out from her head reminded me of ruffled bird feathers. If she were to raise her arms out like wings she might have been able to take flight.

I jumped back as she thrust her face into mine, pulled my mouth open and began inspecting my teeth.

“Well at least you attempted to look halfway decent, but much too kitsch. We’ll definitely need to do something about that. But at least the starting material is decent.”She prattled on, talking to herself as if I wasn’t even there, brazenly running her hands as she did along my arms, back, and waist as if I weren’t a person but a prize racehorse.

When she cupped my butt and squeezed, commenting on its firmness, I had had enough. “Do you mind?” I snarled in a tone that unexpectedly sounded haughty.

My response for some reason seemed to excite her.
Raising
her eyebrows up at me and giving me what I think was supposed to be a smile, she said, “Well, well. I might finally have a girl with real fast-track potential.” She continued smiling at me while her hips and the rest of her body started wagging back in forth in a weird sort of way. “You’re Alexandria, right?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I said in a tone that I meant to be polite, but the previous haughtiness bled through a little.

“Well the name is the first thing that will have to go.
Too much of a mouthful.
Maybe Alex?”
I crumpled my face in disgust.
“No, much too masculine.
Maybe Andria?”

Not any happier with Andria, I interjected, “My closest friends call me
Lexi
.”

“Oh no.
Definitely not.
Much too cutesy.
Oooh
-ooh, I got it.
Zandria
.”
She stood back and smugly scrutinized me. I cringed just imagining what she would try to change next on me. I was about to suggest using my middle name Paige, but I never got the chance. The elevator doors opened and deposited the disheveled and winded sixth member of our group.

“I’m sorry I’m late. I got lost. It’s my first time being in a city,” the girl explained between panting breaths. The poor thing must have run the entire way here: she was sweating and her clothes were all askew.

Mrs.
Glabough
somehow managed to give her a more disdainful look than I had received. Her face crumpled up as if someone had just placed a pile of poop under it.

“Well at least we can finally begin.” She turned her back on the frightened looking girl and addressed the rest of us. “For those of you that don’t already know, I’m Mrs.
Glabough
. I am the supervisor for new female fast-trackers. I have been given the challenging job of molding the six of you into presentable ladies deserving of the fast-tracker honor with which you have been bestowed. From this day until the day you decide your career, you are my responsibility. Be warned: I will not tolerate any embarrassing behavior from any of you. My rules are to be followed without question or complaint. Understand?” She bellowed the last word: we all jumped. “Well?”

“We understand,” I replied and the rest of the group joined in.

“Good. Now follow me.” Waddling her butt back and forth, she
click-clacked
her way over to the elevator in too-tall and too-pointy shoes. I never realized I could feel such an instant loathing for a person.

She led us to a large room on the seventh floor. My jaw dropped. The letter said housing would be provided. I had imagined it would be a bit more than six cots lined up in an empty room.

“You don’t expect us to live here?” a girl with long blond hair balked.

Almost sounding apologetic Mrs.
Glabough
responded, “No.
No, of course not.
Your rooms won’t be ready until the end of the week.” Then she paused, gathered herself and snapped, “Enough whining. Drop your stuff on a cot and follow me.” Without another glance in our direction, Mrs.
Glabough
headed out of the room.
 

We spent the rest of the day in a classroom listening to Mrs.
Glabough
explain the hierarchy of fast-tracker life. The overall message was clear: unlike other class levels, not all fast-trackers are created equal. As newbie fast-trackers we had no power or money of our own – the ample allowance we’d be receiving would be considered a joke by real fast-trackers. We were the lowest of our class, not really even considered fast-trackers by the rest. Mrs.
Glabough
made no attempt to even hide her own level of loathing for us.

Lunch that day consisted of a strained silence. We were all too wrapped up in our own confused emotions and thoughts to hold any sort of conversation. The other girls all just looked perpetually shocked. Clearly this was not the fairytale beginning of fast-tracker life that they had envisioned. Most likely I would have held the same expression if it weren’t for the fact that my fairytale dreams had already crumbled days before I had arrived here.

At the end of the day we finally began to talk. Each girl took her turn telling the group where they were from and what level their parents had been. Nola and Myra were both purple and were from Maine and Vermont respectively.

Haddie
was from Connecticut. Her dad had been blue, but her mom was purple. When she was little she had lived in a purple housing section, but her entire family had been socially ostracized for her dad’s blue level. Eventually they moved to blue level housing, where they were more welcomed and her mother’s purple level wasn’t an issue.

Trisha, the last girl to arrive, was from New Hampshire and was the lowest level among us – brown.
So that was the real reason Mrs.
Glabough
treated her so poorly – lateness had nothing to do with it.

Vera had grown up in New York and was from the highest level out of all of us – gray. She seemed more than a little smug about that fact. I got the distinct impression that she expected special treatment from us. That wasn’t about to happen – at least not from me.

The girls kept chatting animatedly throughout the rest of dinner. The shock and confusion had worn off and they were once again excited and happy about the incredible future they had been handed. I sat quietly and listened. Excited and happy were two emotions that were now alien to me. It was all I could do to not sit there and sulk at the group. But even just listening proved to be interesting.

Despite Mrs.
Glabough’s
insistence that we were all considered nothing, the group of girls still seemed hopeful. Somehow they had gotten the impression that if they impressed Mrs.
Glabough
enough, she would introduce them to fast-tracker society. And if they accomplished that, then everything would be all right. Even Trisha seemed to buy into the idea, even though she thought she had a better chance of hell freezing over than impressing Mrs.
Glabough
.

I was dumbfounded by their interpretation of the day’s lecture. Was I so jaded by Byron’s fate that I heard different words? Or were the other girls so desperate to hold onto their wonderful futures that they had warped the words they heard to fit their own delusions? But it was five girls against one, so I guess it was just me.

Before bed, I tried to get some time alone with Trisha. I felt bad for the way Mrs.
Glabough
has been treating her. She couldn’t help what status her parents had been. But I also had an ulterior motive. As a brown level, she was the closet to Byron’s new status. I hoped she could shed some light on what his new life would be like, and maybe reassure me that it wouldn’t be all that bad.

Unfortunately, her former status made her sensitive. She thought I was trying to mock her with my questions. Instead of getting answers I had already made an enemy. She stormed away from me and for the rest of the evening she refused to even look in my direction.

The next morning Mrs.
Glabough
announced that we were heading out. She led us to the
Salon
d’Artiste
. She must have booked out the entire salon, because there wasn’t another customer in sight – but there were plenty of attendants who immediately began stripping us down in the middle of the salon floor.

“I’m perfectly capable of undressing myself,” I snapped as I slapped unwelcome hands away from me. I couldn’t believe their audacity and indifference to common modesty. “I prefer a bit of privacy. I don’t make a habit of baring myself to complete and total strangers.” I didn’t even bother to hide the disdain in my voice.

“Odin.
Remy.”
Mrs.
Glabough
snapped her fingers. “I want you to personally supervise Miss
Zandria’s
makeover today. Make sure she’s treated like the lady we know she is.”

They both gave Mrs.
Glabough
a nod that resembled a bow and motioned for me to follow. Nervously I obeyed, but I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of trouble my big mouth had gotten me into.

I was pleasantly surprised when they led me to a curtained changing room and handed me a fluffy white robe to change into. After changing they led me to the heavily perfumed showers. I watched as the other girls were roughly handled by attendants that scrubbed and rinsed them clean. But Odin and Remy simply pointed the shampoos out to me and advised me how, where, and when to use each one.

After showering, I dried and wrapped myself in another fluffy robe. Odin and Remy led me to a room where I was given a facial, manicure and pedicure simultaneously. Then they proceeded to laser every unwanted hair from my body. It stung. I winced.

“Don’t worry; one time over and you’ll never
have to worry about being a furry monkey again.” Remy ran a hand over his perfectly shaved face. Now I knew how Avery had looked so clean shaven. Then I rolled my eyes at being called a monkey.

Feeling rather sore, I changed into the simple white top and bottoms Remy handed me and followed them to a hairdressing chair.

Once again, Mrs.
Glabough
started circling me and scrutinizing me. “Well, first things first, we’ll have chop off all this extra weight, and then we’ll have to do something to liven the color.” I let out an audible huff. Once again she talked as if I wasn’t even there. “I’m thinking maybe this length.” Her hand brushed my shoulder and landed on my neck. That was more than half my hair she wanted to chop off. I couldn’t remember a time when it had ever been above my shoulders.

“No one is cutting or coloring my hair,” I growled at her.

Her beady little eyes narrowed on me and the thin line of her smile curled up at the corners. “Odin, why don’t you get Miss
Zandria
a hot
tea.
I think she needs to sit and think about what’s best for her for a while.” Her words sounded sweet and kind, but I couldn’t help but feel that there was some kind of underlying threat hidden within them.

Immediately Odin disappeared. He returned soon after, steaming mug poised in his grip. I wasn’t usually a tea drinker, but I decided to be polite and sipped some. It was delicious. He had used honey to sweeten the herb tea instead of sugar. The flavor of the tea was an irresistible mixture of apples, berries and cinnamon. Before I realized it I had drained the entire mug. The warm satisfying feel of it sitting in my belly made me feel sleepy, and I started to doze off.

When I awoke, Mrs.
Glabough
, Odin and Remy were staring down at me. “Well as usual, the two of you have done wonders.” Mrs.
Glabough
beamed.

Panic rushed through me and I bolted upright in my chair. I turned and looked in the mirror behind me. “You drugged me?” I whimpered as I saw the atrocity of my hair.

“It was just a little tranquilizer. Nothing to worry about really,” Mrs.
Glabough
said with a gleeful sneer on her face.

It took all my willpower not to cry. My beautiful long hair had been chopped off. I couldn’t tell just how short it really was, because the front had been slicked back, flat against my head, and then the back hair had been fanned out in the shape of a peacock’s feathers. If that wasn’t bad enough, blue highlights streaked through my hair. I looked absolutely ridiculous.

“I told you I will not tolerate any embarrassing behavior from any of you,” Mrs.
Glabough
menacingly whispered in my ear.

All I could do was whimper back, “Yes, ma’am.” I had learned my first important fast-tracker lesson: you could be as rude and condescending to anyone of lesser station of you, but never to anyone who was your equal or superior, and that definitely included Mrs.
Glabough
.

I had a hard time concentrating the rest of the day during classes. I know it’s just hair, but it was
my
hair. I felt so betrayed and violated by Mrs.
Glabough’s
actions. I hated her more than I thought it was possible to hate a person.

“Oh, get over yourself and stop moping over your dinner,” Vera snapped at me. “My hair is even shorter than yours, but you don’t see me complaining.”