You Could Be So Pretty

I’ll never forget the sound of my mother’s scream.

It woke me with a shrillness that pierced my bones and I scrambled up in bed. I was initially too terrified to move, my heart a frantic hummingbird in my chest, until I heard a wail that soured the air of our house. I kicked my covers and teddies off, ran to the door and listened at the crack, waiting to hear intruders, but the house was still apart from my mother’s quiet sobbing. With shaking hands, I reached up to twist the doorknob and padded out into the corridor.

Mother? I whispered.

I found her in the corner of the bathroom. A huddled mess on the bath mat, bent over like a dropped doll.

Mother?

She flinched and looked up, the moonlight hitting her beautiful tear-streaked face. She reached out an arm, and I went to her instantly. My mother clutched me to her ribcage and wept onto my shoulder. Oh, Belle, she gasped.

I tried to pat her back. I didn’t know how to help. I was only seven years old.

Mother, I’m scared. What’s wrong?

I can’t…I can’t…Belle, what am I going to do? They’re going to…they’re going to make me an Invisible. She let me go and reached up, holding out a thin hair on her head. Do you see it? Oh, Belle… In the night’s shadows, it took a second to make out the source of her scream. There, in my mother’s manicured fingers, was one stray grey hair. It was the same pale colour as the moonlight glowing through the window. I took it between my fingers, not understanding at first. It felt different to the rest of my mother’s hairs. Wirier, denser, and stripped of all pigment. A howl erupted from her throat and she collapsed in on herself again.

I sniffed up my own tears, feeling the most desperate helplessness. I didn’t fully understand what an Invisible was yet. I wished my father was there, but he was never there. Always away, working, doing his part for the Industry. And even though I was young, I knew she wouldn’t allow herself to be like this if he was around. Then a solution occurred to me. I told my mother to wait and I ran into my room, raiding my desk drawer for my colouring pens. I returned and paused in the bathroom doorway. My mother was still crying, while holding out her strand of grey hair like it would contaminate the others.

Mother.

I sat cross-legged next to her and she seeped into my shoulder again.

I don’t want them to make me an Invisible, Belle. I can’t.

Mother, this might help.

I took the pen lid off with my teeth. She watched me take the offending strand between my pudgy fingers.

You’re not invisible, Mother, I told her, as I held the felt tip to the hair and started to colour.

It was an awkward job. The strand kept dropping from my fingers and I’d have to rummage to find it again. And it was a crude solution; the colour was hardly a perfect match. But the ink took to the hair surprisingly well, sinking into the porous texture, transforming it back to vitality, until it fell back, blended, into the other hairs.

There we are, all done, I said, using the voice she used on me when I grazed my knee and needed a plaster.

My mother gathered herself from the floor, slowly rising until she was level with the sink. She leaned towards the mirror, examining her reflection. Even with her tear stains, even in the bad light, even without her Mask on, she was so beautiful. She turned her head this way and that and then smiled before twisting back to me.

My beautiful girl, she said, bending down to scoop me up into a hug. I wrapped myself around her like a spider monkey. Thank you, she whispered into my hair. "Thank you, my beautiful, beautiful girl."

I clung to Mother’s leg while we both watched my father leave. She stood like a marble pillar, her eyes following him around the house, as he packed his things and told her all the reasons why she was disgusting and pathetic and how no one could blame him for leaving. His New One loitered by the front door, her arms crossed defiantly, shooting my mother looks of repulsion, her young, sculptured chin jutting out, all like, I don’t blame him either. But Mother stood resolute, her hand shaking on my shoulder, and gave him nothing back. It was safer that way. He might want to inflict one final blow as a parting gift.

She did flinch, however, when he slammed the door behind him, leaving us in an empty house. But she recovered, squeezed my shoulder and stood motionless again, waiting…waiting…

Only after half an hour did she trust he’d actually gone. Her legs caved and I fell to the floor with her. It’s going to be okay, she whispered, kissing my cheeks, stroking my hair. It’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay.

I started crying, relieved and yet missing him already, and she hugged me to her, rocking me until I was calm again. Then, out of nowhere, she stood resolutely, a look of determination carved into her face.

Mother?

She walked upstairs, and I followed at her feet like a hungry kitten, until we reached the bathroom. The floor was littered with bottles Father had flung down in his haste to leave his family. Mother located a vial of Mask Remover in the corner, emptied it onto some cotton, and I sat on the toilet as she slowly, carefully, wiped her Mask off. I gasped as unseen parts of her revealed themselves. My mouth dropped open as she wiped and wiped, until a pile of coloured cotton clogged the sink. Then, smiling at her reflection in the cabinet mirror, she opened the door and took out a pair of scissors.

Mother, no!

She ignored me and stared ahead as she hacked off all her hair, letting it fall on top of the stained cotton.

When she was done, my mother’s new face turned to me and everything about her was different. It wasn’t just the lines I could now see that I hadn’t before, or the shape of her skull through her new haircut…but her eyes…they were bright and dancing.

She brought me in for a kiss, and there was a lightness in her touch. A fresh way of holding herself, like she’d lost stones of Sin.

We’re free, Joni, she whispered to me. Now we are free.

I wake up how I wake every day – exhausted and hungry, with the ghost of my mother’s scream vibrating around my head.

Belle? she calls up the stairs – happy and energized and not screaming on the bath mat. Are we doing Body Prayer together or not?

Coming. I allow myself thirty more seconds to lie back and fully rid myself of my recurrent nightmare. I hate waking up. Sleep’s my only distraction from the gnawing in my stomach. I imagine a breakfast of scrambled egg, yellow and rich with melted butter seeping into thick white bread. Then I chastise myself. I am so greedy, so disgusting. I should not desire such things.

Belle? Come on. You need as much time to Mask today as possible.

I’m so grateful to my mother for keeping me in line. I jump out of my bed and into my Body Prayer clothes. I sync my Device to the Ranking as I run downstairs, so everyone can see how much Sin I burn. It’s particularly important to post today, it being the Selection and all. There are only eight weeks of lessons left before the Ceremony, and today at school everyone is voting to select the shortlist of potential winners. As Mother has reminded me for months – years, even – this is the most important day of my life. I feel light-headed as I jump off the last step and clutch the banister for a second. Sometimes I eat a banana before Body Prayer, but it’s such a waste to do that when you can burn off more Sin on an empty stomach.

Honestly, Belle, come on.

My mother marches into the hallway, her arms crossed over her hard torso.

I said I’m coming.

She smiles and strokes my cheek, softening. Sorry, my Bella Donna. I just want to make sure today goes perfectly for you. Remember, I’ve turned down two Mask appointments so I can focus solely on you today.

I know, I know, thank you. Like I had any choice in that.

Come on, let’s sweat out that Sin. It’s the most important day of your life to date.

I know.

She picks the hardest intensity prayer and, as the world wakes up around us, Mother and I fall into perfect synchrony, the spring air seeping through the open windows. Sweat pours from my skin until I’m slippery with it. My legs burn like fires are raging inside of them. We jump so far and so high that the house shakes and it’s just as well Father isn’t here, like he usually isn’t. He’s constantly away, driving long distances to help the Industry. Once our Sin has been suitably burned, we turn to Muscle Pulling, leaning over in an array of stretches to yank our sinews as lean and long as possible.

Have you picked your final Look? Mother asks, reaching down to touch her toes.

I think so. It’s a bit warm for the denim but I reckon I can pull it off.

She flips herself upright, takes me in and smiles again, touching my cheek once more. Oh, I’m so excited for you. I’d do anything to relive my Just Right years.

Let’s just hope I get Nominated.

I ride another nausea wave at the thought of not getting enough votes today and failing to fulfil the Doctrine’s destiny for me. I must win the Ceremony. I must be the Prettiest. I must Have It All.

Of course you will. You’re my daughter after all. She wrinkles her nose. But you can never be too careful. Come on, I’ll let you shower first.

Everyone always wants to know my morning ritual so they can copy it, but, as today is so busy, I’ll explain briefly. I wake up, I do my Body Prayer, I wash, scrape off my top layer of skin, then scythe off any new bodily growths. I strip my hair, apply colour balance and nourishment mask, then rinse. After drying myself off, I brush my body to stop Sin Dimples forming, then I apply my creams. There’s the compression one, then the nourishment one, and finally I apply skin camouflage. While they’re settling in, it’s time for my face. I pour acid onto my fingers and dab it on, then face nourisher, then light-blocker, before adding a pre-Mask. Then it’s back to my hair, which takes another forty-five minutes to sculpt perfectly around my face. Mother comes in to do my Mask today. She blends three different colours of face camouflage and begins to artfully dab it on, painting a new face over mine, and adding illuminator so I glow out light. Then it’s onto my eyes and eye framers, rosy cheeks, more illuminator. We will do lips after we’ve had breakfast. God, I’m so hungry. After a small meal that hardly touches the sides of my stomach, I get into my chosen Look, set up the Halo and let Mother take photos for the Ranking. It’s the Selection Day, so I have to get my poses perfect. I squeeze every muscle in my body so they’re taut, and then arch my back, point my toe forward, hold my breath till I’m practically blue, and ensure my hand is on my hip with my arm bent away from my body. The Doctrine insists this must look effortless, so I arrange my Masked face into a relaxed smile and look off to the side, hiding my wince of discomfort. We finally upload, deleting any visible Sin that crept in, then we sit together on my bed and refresh our Devices, seeing the Validation come in, counting it up, working out if I’m getting the most. Very quickly it’s clear we’ve totally smashed it. I’m Number One in my class’s ranking so far, and very far ahead. Vanessa, my best friend, hasn’t uploaded her Selection Day Look yet, but it would take a lot to beat me.

We did it! I shriek, feeling the familiar mixture of relief and self-esteem flood through me. I am the Prettiest. I got it right today. I have the crown for another twenty-four hours, and these twenty-four hours are the most vital.

My mother high-fives me, jubilance radiating from her face – or maybe that’s just the Halo I’ve left on. A team effort. I have no doubt you’ll be selected for the Ceremony today, but still…it’s always better to smash it. She strokes the curl flowing down across my forehead. You’re so lucky, she sighs. Her face falls – though only metaphorically, due to all the Immobilizer in it. So young still. I used to have hair this silky, before I had to start covering it…

My stomach twists under my cropped top, tugging out last night’s nightmare.

…but, hey, your mother still hasn’t become an Invisible, has she?

I shake my head. You’re still the most beautiful mother in town.

And we hug delicately so as not to ruin each other’s hair.

I start the torturous process of walking to school in my Selection-worthy shoes. Mother offers to drive me in on her way to appointments, but agrees that would make my Look seem too high-maintenance. Walking is taking much longer than usual though, as I can only take tiny steps in these high heels.

My Device goes and I pause for a moment, leaning against someone’s garden wall, resting my feet.

Damian:

DAMN GIRL, your upload this morning was HOT

Blue Balls Belle strikes again

Just casually editing the pics so your mouth is open…

Xxx

I feel an initial ripple of discomfort before I remind myself this is a compliment. The Doctrine says I am lucky to receive such attention. Especially from Damian, especially on Selection Day.

Belle:

You are too gross

He sends back a tweaked version of my Look with a penis leading to my mouth. I should be flattered. The Doctrine says I should be flattered. I am flattered. I check nobody is looking and then bend down to rub my aching feet. I must get my reply just right. Unoffended, up for it, a laugh, carefree, fun, sexy, not too serious.

Belle:

I feel sorry for you that Deep Fakes are your only sexual outlet.

Damian:

BURNNNNN. YOU’RE SO SMOKIN’ HOT YOU BURN GIRL.

I smile at myself. That seems to have done the trick. Just as I’m about to keep walking, a notification pings in. Vanessa’s just released her Look to the Ranking. Dammit. Not bad. She looks amazing. I feel a funny mixture of rageful fear that she’ll outperform me, combined with joy because she’s my best friend and I want her to get Nominated too. I send off my Validation and put my Device back in my bag, eager to get to school to see the Selection all play out. People simply must Nominate me when they see me in real life.

Ergh. Joni’s walking ahead of me, on the other side of the road. She doesn’t walk, that girl, she lollops. Her arms swinging, legs open, her disgusting rucksack jiggling. I find the disrespect she shows herself and the Doctrine so repulsive. It’s also quite scary, like she’s a contaminant. Lollop lollop lollop. If there’s one thing I can count on today, it’s that Joni’s NOT going to be Selected. She’ll claim not to care, of course. Along with the rest of the pathetic Objectionables. All Joni cares about, it seems, is beating me to the Scholarship, which I don’t have time to worry about until next month as I’m so preoccupied with the Selection. She’s got a good chance at beating me too, with all that spare time she has due to her lack of personal grooming, wandering about, walking like a man who just sat on a cactus.

It’s her choice, I remind myself, as rage blooms through me.

I repeat the Doctrine’s mantra until it calms me down to the bones.

It’s her choice. It’s her choice. It’s her choice.

I am so grateful to the Doctrine, for helping me navigate this world now the Bad Times are over. For giving us these Rules to help us acclimatize to our freedom. But they are only guidelines, I remind myself. If someone as repugnant as Joni wants to waste her freedom by rejecting them, that’s her choice, and I must celebrate her choice because we are so lucky to have all these choices. I just wish she could respect MY choices a bit more, rather than always making wild claims at school that we’re all brainwashed if we don’t want to be as disgusting as her.

I sigh and let the anger evaporate off my skin, soothed by the Doctrine. I totter along, excited to see Vanessa and scream at each other’s appearances. In fact, I’m so calm, I don’t initially notice the car that’s slowed down next to me.

I wake up feeling gloriously well rested. It’s late. I should probably have set my alarm for half an hour earlier, but who cares? Sleep is so wonderful and restful. Long live sleep, that’s what I say. I smell slightly, so I take a shower but can’t be bothered stripping my hair. I’m sure the Doctrine will cope with one more day. Well, actually, the Doctrine can’t cope at all with such things. If Belle turned up today with Day Three hair, I think everyone would pass out with shock. But everyone will be looking at the Pretties today – exclusively so. Literally nobody is going to notice me on Selection Day.

You’re going to be late, Mother says as I thunder down the stairs. She’s sitting at our kitchen table, which is covered with placards and other protest paraphernalia.

I’m never late. I’ve timed it perfectly. I plant a kiss in her wiry hair and grab two slices of white bread and shove them into the toaster. Then I lean against the counter and point at the pile of signs. What’s the fight against today?

She sighed. There’s still no regulation at the Empowerment Centre. Anyone can call themselves a technician and carve someone up. I heard they agreed to see a twelve-year-old last week.

"Twelve? Jeez."

With parental consent. Which all the brainwashed Pretties will happily give, of course.

Twelve is… I try to remember myself at twelve. I hadn’t even started my bleedings yet. …quite an extreme age.

"But it’s their choice, remember?" Mother puts on her Doctrine voice.

"But of course." I laugh. Totally. Can’t go around questioning logic like that.

She stands up and kisses the top of my head. That’s my girl.

I eat my toast and watch Mother whirlwind around the house, clutching her activism leaflets, before finally leaving with a rushed goodbye.

Enjoy Selection Day, she calls on her way out. Or, should I say, endure it?

I laugh out some toast crumbs. Only eight weeks left until I can hopefully get the Scholarship and escape.

Exactly. Getting into the Education is the only Selection that matters, remember? Right. Time. I must go.

The house is eerily quiet once the door closes, and I inhale it, enjoying the calm. Living with my mother is like living with a constantly combusting firework – beautiful, but noisy and exhausting. Despite myself, I use the quiet to run through the likely Selection that day, placing silent bets on who’ll get through. I hate that part of me’s still vaguely interested. I hate that I’m tempted to check my Device and see what’s happening on the Ranking. I wish I could be stronger like Mother. But, then again, Mother isn’t seventeen. She reminds me of this often.

It will be much easier once you’re out of your ‘Just Right’ years, she’s said countless times, when the Doctrine gets too much. The noise will never be louder than it is now.

I bring my empty plate to the sink, wash it, check the time on my Device, and realize I could actually be late if I’m not careful. I dash upstairs and clean my teeth, not bothering to check the mirror, and then close up the house and make my way into school.

I think about Mother as I rush along. She seems so strong, so certain, so unbothered by it all. I wonder if she gets moments of doubt, like me. Or if she really, truly doesn’t mind being so hated. The Society generally tolerates and ignores Invisibles until they try to be seen and heard. Then it hates them. No decorum in that. Our whole town despises Mother and her ilk. She faces daily disgust. I’ve heard her be called an abomination of a woman and yet she claims it’s funny. How? Maybe she’s right. Maybe it will get easier for me in time.

My musings are interrupted by an annoying clip-clop sound behind me. After a while, I turn around to see if I’m being stalked by a horse, but no, it’s Belle of all people. She’s teetering to school in the world’s most ridiculous heels. She does it vaguely effortlessly. Everything about Belle appears annoyingly effortless. She’s lost in her Device as she clops along, no doubt triple-refreshing the Ranking as the Looks come in, worrying if she’s Masked enough to fulfil her true life’s purpose. I wrinkle my nose and keep walking. It’s good for me that she looks so Pretty. Any moment she’s committing herself to the Doctrine is a moment she’s not studying for the Scholarship. Because she’s annoyingly smart, Belle, as well as being annoyingly beautiful. I have to put up with her in all my First Set classes. Not content with being the Prettiest Pretty, she’s determined to get into the Education too. She hardly needs to sleep, from what I can tell. Totally superhuman. How else does she find time to get such good marks in school while looking like that?

I plod on, checking the time on my Device again, wondering if I’m going to make the first bell, when I notice the clip-clopping has slowed almost to a stop. I turn back to see a car inching along beside Belle. Her face has changed. She’s no longer absorbed in her Device but is smiling nervously at the driver. Honestly, thank you but I’m happy to walk, I overhear her saying in a diabetically sweet voice. I slow and wait for the car to drive off, but it doesn’t. It keeps kerb-crawling and Belle’s trot is a wobble now. Honestly, you’re being very generous, but I want to walk. I hear her say it a little louder this time.

Then something changes. The car stops.

Stop being such an ungrateful slutty bitch, a man’s voice shouts from the window. And I’m running back, threading my house keys between my knuckles, joining Belle’s side.

Is everything okay here? I ask, trying to sound like my mother at her most scary. Belle?

Her eyes are wide. Maybe she’s shocked I’m here? I look into the driver’s window to see a youngish man with a red-tinted face, glaring at me with acute disgust.

Who ordered the monster? he asks.

Excuse me?

I wasn’t speaking to you, he says.

I turn back to Belle. Are you okay?

She’s shaking. I’m fine.

Hear that, you Objectionable mess? She’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with offering a Pretty girl a lift to school.

Unless she says no and then you won’t leave her alone.

"It’s a compliment, he says, quoting the Doctrine. Come on…into the car." I can’t believe it. The man’s taken off his seat belt and is walking around towards us. Belle grabs my hand and my body floods with adrenaline as he gets closer. I take in his rosy face. He’s calm. That’s what makes it worse. He’s going to drag Belle calmly into his car like that is a totally normal thing to do.

Honestly, Belle says, I just really feel like walking. I need the air… Belle can’t stop herself following the Rules and trying to appease him, even as he takes a step closer. I scan around to see if anyone’s going to help us, but the street’s empty. He lurches forward and grabs Belle’s waist with both hands. She shrieks, just as my fist flies out and I punch him in the eye, then sink my keys into his leg. He lets out an animal roar and staggers back against the car. I move forward and kick him hard in his groin and he lets out another howl and collapses onto the pavement, while Belle stares at me wide-eyed.

I turn to her. Run. Now.

But…but… She’s shaking. Frozen and shaking.

But what?

It’s…it’s…a compliment.

No, it’s not, it’s an attack. Run. Now!

I drag her with me, and it’s like she suddenly gets it. She grabs my arm and lets me lead her away, while a stream of abuse and threats erupts from the man’s mouth. I twist back and he’s trying to get himself up, staggering on the pavement, leaning against his car, clutching his groin. If he catches up with us, we’re doomed. I spy an alleyway and tug Belle towards it, but she’s slowing us down, hardly able to run in her stupid heels.

Lose your shoes, I shout as we start down the alleyway.

"What? No. They’re my—"

Do you want to actually die? Lose them now.

I crouch down and go to tug her heels off. She lets out a noise of surprise but then her survival instinct must override the Doctrine, and she bends over and whips them off herself. We leave them behind as we pelt along, fear pulsing through my blood.

I’m coming for you, he yells from somewhere behind us.

We have to get out of the alleyway or he’ll catch us up. Adrenaline’s made my brain quietly calm and I race through exit routes with strange clarity. If we jump over some fences, he may think we’ve run out the top of the alleyway, and we could lose him. I can’t hear his footsteps yet but there’s no man faster and stronger than a man angry at a girl. Belle’s slightly ahead of me now, her breath coming out in even pants. Of course she’s faster than me, she does Body Prayer every day.

We need to scale the fences, I gasp out.

What?

I point at the garden fences on either side. We need to climb over a few of these. He won’t think we’ve done that. Then we can hide in someone’s garden, wait for him to run past.

What? I can’t.

I hear his yell again closer behind us, coming towards the alleyway entrance. Where are you bitches?

Belle turns white under her Mask.

It will throw him off. It’s the only way.

Okay.

I easily scale the fence, but Belle can’t. She’s hardly able to lift her leg up in her skintight denim. I clamber back over and give her a leg-up, but she’s uselessly stiff. In the end I have to push her over, and hear her topple to the other side. I vault over too, landing in a bush beside her.

What the hell? she’s complaining, trying to get up, her clothes covered in mud. You just pushed me—

Shh, we need to keep going.

I scarcely take in the garden we’ve landed in. I’m too busy sizing up the height of the opposite fence. I’ll give you another leg-up.

Umm, no thanks.

You won’t get over it otherwise.

And she can’t argue. We race across the lawn and I give her another leg-up, pushing her over the next fence, and the next, before we collapse in a random rose bush – panting, scratched, terrified.

This is actually madness—

"Shh."

A few gardens away I hear his heavy footsteps thud down the alleyway. Belle grabs my hand and we stare at each other, suspended in total fear, as we listen to him grunt in pain and anger. Sick bubbles in my throat now that I’ve done all I can. How can this be happening? Why won’t he give up? How can I be eating toast and then, half an hour later, be about to be attacked by a total stranger? The footsteps pause. Has he figured