The Selection ✓

four - welcome to posh central

The forms were pretty easy to overcome, just incredibly boring. My initial thoughts were already set to an absolutely fantastic standard, can't you tell? 

There were only a few, simple guidelines that were necessary, and a long list of rules I needed to store in my head at all costs. Such as, don't do this, or anything remotely near that. All I did was nod my head anyway, besides the sudden urge to simply walk out of the room and vent. Consider this training, I told myself.

But the exciting part came only after all the forms were secure, and little miss Silvia was out of the door. Suddenly, I was being surrounded by the most beautiful pieces of fabric I had ever seen in my lifetime. A man equipped with nothing more than a measuring tape and a few billion pieces of cloth welcomed me into his workshop as he worked his way around measuring my size for practically anything. "You'll be prepared for anything," he muttered every few seconds while continuing his process.

I shut my mouth and pretended not to notice.

Then he let me choose my preferred style, which I was more than happy to comply with. Given a background of performance, I had to know what looked good, bad and decent on me to master my craft and was able to give a decent amount of feedback to his requests. We were both satisfied by the end of the day.

"Your maids will be making your dresses," he noted in his French accent, "I am just here to make sure your measurements are correct, and what you prefer to wear. M'lady." I smiled before making my way out.

Then came the beautiful blizzard of packing. Consisting of an empty bag that contained nothing more than a family photo and my favorite pair of ballet flats, one that clearly doesn't fit me anymore but for the sake of memories, stayed clutched between my fingers as I stuffed it into my duffel bag.

My white top was tight around my waist and flowed perfectly against my figure, likewise my black leggings. In the end, I was proud of my image. If I wasn't going home in style, at least I would be entering the competition in style.

My sandals were barely noticeable, and I didn't mind. That was how I had wanted it to be. Heels were my worst nightmare anyway.

You say goodbye to your sanity once you enter.

"Bye." I cast one final glance at my room, then turned my back and strode out the door, where my family would drive me to the port. The Queen, thankfully, had scrapped the portion where girls stood on a stage, appearing as if they were being auctioned off into the world of the royal, bouquets being thrown at their feet and kisses shot into the sky. 

Simpler was better. And the simpler it was, the less publicity. This was a good as it was going to get.

Mom was crying. I held her in my arms, but she refused and wrapped me in the tightest hug ever, "Mom, I'll be home soon," I whispered, "There's no need to be soppy."

"You'll always be a princess to me, oh, and do win the selection, who wouldn't love a 'fine' man like that?"

I rolled my eyes, "Bye, mom." 

And with that, I entered the port, to my own nightmare. I had studied and had gotten all the names memorized and playing back softly last night, but when I saw the mesmerizing girls standing before me, I realized how much of a competition this really was for them. 

Callista was the first I saw looking as extra as she could be. Eyelash extensions, bathed in makeup, the usual nitch that I had grown accustomed to, she cast a small glance in my direction before turning away.

I swallowed my irritation and approached her, "Look Callista, Cal, Calli, whatever phase you're in right now, it's fair game. Castes aside, we're equal, and entering the selection." her expression remained neutral, "We've known each other years, and backstabbing, our teenage obsession, has been closed for good. So, for the sake of the competition, I propose we be allies. We're not here to fight till death, just survive. No backstabbing. No fighti-"