Rebels (19 page)

My body may be languid, but my mind is speeding.

I look beautiful, of this I'm sure, Marius and Governess having lavished me with endless praise; even more, I have seen my own startling reflection.

I don't know this girl
, I thought, considering the stranger before me. A Proper Young Woman, to be sure. The dress every shade of blue, trailing in long and filmy waves, shimmering like the simulated ocean. Skin flawlessly creamy, lips rose pink. Every inch of her fretted over and perfected, every flaw deliberated over and eliminated, each hair glossed and painstakingly coiled.

Proper Young Women are built.

It takes more than a day, it takes a lifetime.

In terms of competition, there is none. I am immaculate, all except for my thoughts.

Below, the guests observe me with alarming intensity. Not all of Upper Indra, of course, but their eyes make me feel that way. “A record turnout in Emergence Ball history,” Marius informed me, moments before my grand reveal. “Remember, my love, tonight is the night for you to have everything you've ever wanted. Do your best, for me, for your parents. Just look at you. You'll take their breath away.”

When the music began, the room hushed. The curtains parted from around me, the invitees giving their requisite intake of breath, and I began my slow ascent upward.

Faces rapt, they watched me rise.

Now, they watch me spin.

◊  ◊  ◊

“Do not show pain,” said Etiquette Tutor. “Nor discomfort. Nothing is less appealing to a Proper Young Man than a woman lacking in
endurance. Clear your head of needless concerns and focus on the task at hand.”

The truth is far less simple. I'd heard the frightful tales during Pleasant Interaction, whispered recounts brimming with nervousness. With our debuts growing closer, little else seemed worthy of discussion. Clearing our heads was easier said than done.

“Yes, an utter debacle,” Mica told the others, too willing to recount the details of disastrous debuts and reputations never to recover, never failing to throw a glance in my direction. “She proved herself an utter fool.”

I'd been Chosen Girl for so long I couldn't imagine being unchosen. Since the moment I succeeded in staying on that platform sixty feet in the air, Mica had stopped speaking to me, not even for a Pleasant Interaction.

Mica hadn't spoken to me, but she spoke about me plenty.

That day and every day following, I was relegated to pleasantly interacting with Cybele. Despite have grown into a lovely Young Woman, she'd never shaken Etiquette Tutor's curse, destined to be “of unappealing physical appearance.” Yet even she seemed disturbed at having to speak with me. Of course, I made little effort to change her mind.

“The weather is lovely, do you not agree?”

“If you say so,” I responded.

“Very mild, I have noticed, with the slightest of breeze.”

“As mild as yesterday and the day before,” I said. “As mild as it will remain, every day until eternity, as so dictated by the Aero-Crown.”

She sighed, never losing the strained smile. We went on like this for some time, I all the while catching the whispers of Mica's still-exclusive circle. They told the same few stories, growing more horrific with each retelling, but always came back to their favorite. “The Girl Who Fell,” according to Mica, happened two debut cycles ago.

“Six foot two and from excellent genetic stock, graced with a delightful
bone structure and pleasant manner. She collapsed on the platform,” she told them, “and was lowered immediately. Slapped her until she regained consciousness, lifted right back up. She finished the rotation, but never once ceased her incessant sobbing. Turning and turning, all eyes on her, tears streaking down her face. Could not even wipe her running nose for fear of breaking the poses.

“In the end,” Mica said, voice bursting with foreboding, “the only cohabitant available was under six feet! Even worse, he secretly preferred the company of other Young Men to her own! Now she is left alone on her estate, as he spends his days on a faraway one frolicking away the time with another Young Man of similar interests.”

In the old world, before the Great Catastrophe, this kind of life choice was considered acceptable. You were free to love who you pleased and spend your life with the mate of your choosing. And yet, somehow we have regressed in Indra because of the IHC's pursuit of perfecting our population through controlled procreation. For all the warnings of the world before the Great Catastrophe, I often question whether they were more evolved than us in some capacities.

I'm sure they didn't spin on platforms for audiences brought in to judge them. At least, unless that was of their own choosing.

Of course, saying such things would be considered Anti-Indrithian Hate Speech and is highly illegal. But how can the High Council control my thoughts, when even
I
can't?

“Her own fault,” the others would say to Mica's every retelling of the story, voices rising in a chorus of pity. “Perhaps she never took etiquette lessons seriously.”

It seemed odd, Mica choosing this story. After all, she had fallen off the platform that day herself and many times after until she had perfected it. And yet, these rules of logic didn't apply to her as they did to others. Just as Mica's failure was never mentioned, my ousting from her circle went unquestioned.

At some point, I repeated the tale of “The Girl Who Fell” to Marius,
and then waited for the confirmation it was only gossip. Instead, she shook her head tragically. “I saw the whole unfortunate event, the poor thing. I only wished I could pass her a handkerchief.”

She needn't elaborate further. Besides, Mica had already been successful: I was suitably terrified. This platform spin would be far worse than the one Etiquette Tutor had given us, of that I was certain.

◊  ◊  ◊

After only a few spins, becoming the new Girl Who Fell seems a distinct possibility. It is one thing to keep yourself balanced on a spinning platform in class, but doing so while holding elegant poses and pretending a hundred sets of eyes aren't blazing into you? That is entirely different.

“You'll take their breath away,” Marius told me. Yet the cincher that Governess insisted on is pulled so tight, I am gasping for my own.

I rotate, comforted by the knowledge my Debut Spin will take less than an hour, yet knowing that at any moment the cincher might cease my breathing altogether. The dress, weighted down with countless layers and intricate beading, is threatening to pull me to my knees. I feel as though I've embarked on a battle with my own attire, and the gown might well prove the victor.

And then there are the stares. The eyes burning into me, the mock whispers behind fans echoing upward, little being done to hide them. Are these not the most proper of Proper Indrithians?

The worst offender? Mica, of course. Surrounded by her gaggle of adoring admirers.

Not inviting her would've been disastrous for my reputation, Governess had warned me, not giving me a choice in the matter. But having her watch me is equally horrific.

Strangely enough, she doesn't say a word. She simply stares, I feel her urging me to fail.

This is an Emergence Ball, after all, and serves a single purpose: for the gathered crowd to come to judgment as to the quality of the goods set out before them. The goods, in this case, being Livia Cosmo.

Even from this high up, their voices carry. It's something Etiquette Tutor never prepared us for. The acoustics of the Grand Ballroom assault my heightened senses with incessant whispers.

“Well, there is the name, of course. The Cosmo legacy. That alone ups her value. . . .”

“. . . and the estate is magnificent, you must agree on that. Could do with a more attentive garden crew, but still, the possibilities. If the cohabitant relocates here, perhaps he will see to these details. . . .”

“I have heard it said she is rather defiant. Pity, seeing as she is pleasing to the eye. Perhaps if she never spoke! Terribly wicked of me to say, I know, but there are procedures . . .”

I listen to their babble, their predictions for my future, all the time focused on steadying my breathing. I'm aware of my every last twitch. I can't lose control of myself.

I know what's expected: spin as to appear motionless, stare as into nothingness.

Keep movements slow and measured and nearly imperceptible.
Let this end
, I think, inching from one position to another.

Below, the Young Men are meant to be memorizing my poses. This is only tradition; every Proper Young Man was taught the Courting Dance in childhood.

Later, if later ever arrives, I will repeat this dance with each of them. There are so many, it will take hours and hours.

At least they cannot touch me.

“They will try to get close,” Etiquette Tutor warned us. “As close as they can. And here is the secret: if you find one of them to be utterly unappealing, force him to touch you. This must appear accidental, of course, or you might incite scandal. But if carried out
correctly, the Young Man will face immediate expulsion. In the case of Young Men to which you are drawn, those you would not mind touching you, never be overtly forward. Be available, yet withdrawn. Alluring, yet modest. Show too much interest and you will send the wrong message.”

What's the wrong message?
I had wanted to ask.
That you actually like them? Is that not the point of the whole miserable evening?

It seems unfair that Proper Young Men don't have debut balls. Instead, they come to ours and watch us spin with smirks on their faces. We have the power, I've been told, for we may choose the Proper Young Man we like best. At the same time, they're allowed to reject us.

It makes little sense to me, the whole occasion. Choose a man you hardly know and await his acceptance or rejection? Yet on what basis is he accepting you? How well you turn in circles?

Another spin, another pose.

A few minutes pass. A few more.

The perspiration drips down my flesh, torturing me, the gown growing heavier with each passing moment. The cincher squeezes, my pain steadily intensifying.

My whole body aches; my insides are screaming.
Focus, Livia
.

Circle and pose. Circle and pose.

My future spins below me.

I try not to look down.

◊  ◊  ◊

With the time it takes for the platform to lower, my admirers still silently pray for me to fall. But it is once the platform has secured me to the ground that the real torture begins.

There are so many Young Men they begin to blend together. I want to see all of them fail.

Some I have seen before, on the rare occasions of a required
Socialization Club mixer. Then there are the strangers. Young Men from the farthest islands, alternate education clusters. Many have come from across all of Indra simply to witness me.

Not
me
, of course. The idea of me.

The famous geneticist's daughter with a vast estate and legendary name.

The Cosmo Airess.

I am Livia
, I want to tell them.
And I am strange and confused and prefer my horse to any person
.

Of course, I cannot say this, or little else of importance. I am well versed in the List of Acceptable Topics for Emergence Ball Conversation.

Hours off the revolving platform and I'm still spinning. It's unclear where I begin and the music ends.

I keep waiting to feel something. “A flame of passion,” Etiquette Tutor calls it.

At this point, I would settle for even a weak spark.

As soon as one Young Man exits, another replaces him, immediately taking the Courting Dance initial position. At least I need not offer much in the way of conversation; they are happy to speak for the both of us. They only have a short time with me, and they're not about to waste it.

They tell me I'm beautiful. They love Helix Island. This is the best Emergence Ball they have ever seen. They love the color scheme, for white is their favorite color.

They try to impress me with their range of talents. Speak of their leisure pastimes. The numerous targets they hit in archery, the extraordinary lengths they throw the discus. They tell me how important their family is, how big their estate, how vast their wealth, how very much they matter.

Please say something interesting
, I think.

An hour passes. And another. I'm exhausted, every muscle aching,
the cincher still biting into my flesh. It has eaten more than I have.

The same answers, the same questions. The same musical refrain and poses.

“The party? Absolutely divine. Discus throw? How fascinating. You don't say! Is that so? Isn't that lovely. Wonderful. Intoxicating. Exhilarating. Yes, I'm having a lovely time. Yes, you are fascinating.”

Yes, I want to die of boredom.

“I respect your legacy,” this Proper Young Man says. “Your father was a genius. And might I add, blue is a color in which you are especially fetching.”

You know my father as little as I do
.

They fight to catch my glance between poses. Gaze intensely, trying to convey silent messages:
I am deeply sensitive, Livia. I understand you, Livia. I am the one for you, do you not see?

All I see is the Ending. Of anything that ever mattered to me.

“My favorite flower sonnet is ‘The Petunia,' ” he says.

I smile so hard my jaw hurts.

Then something stops me. Someone.

“You despise every moment of this,” he says. “Me included.”

Hands in the air, palm facing palm.

“I do not . . . know you,” I say, caught off guard.

“That makes little difference.”

“I do not understand your meaning,” I say.

“I mean
you hate this
. The ball, the attention. The whole
core-low
thing. I can tell. I can tell a lot of things about you.”