Chapter 25
REGULATION WHITE
It’s supposed to be a reward.
That’s what Mister M says, bright as the sun itself as he saunters into the common room, two crisp white boxes balanced on his arms. Brielle lights up instantly, but something about the masked cruelty cracking his features freezes me to my seat.
“Special delivery,” he beams. “Approved by the Board this morning. Recognition for notable progress and top-tier performance. Fresh stitching, custom fit, aptitude aligned.” He pulls dresses out one by one, pointing out their features.
Brielle’s dress is blush pink, trimmed in silver thread with a tiny microphone pin glittering at the collar.
June’s is a striking storm blue with a lightning bolt stitched over her shoulder—the symbol for movement attitudes.
Unfitting, considering she barely scraped by in drills last week.
Ivy’s is pale green, her name barely visible in a looping, polite script above the breast pocket.
She runs a hand along it like she doesn’t believe it’s real.
They’re beautiful. Real dresses that could be worn by real girls. Made to be seen and admired.
“And of course,” Mister M purrs, reaching for the second box. “I didn’t forget about our wildcard.”
Wildcard. What a strange sentiment coming from the man who’s spent months calling me boring.
He lifts a single dress and lets it drop. Plastic-wrapped and regulation white. Entirely plain save for a pin of my number, clipped haphazardly on the chest.
“I wasn’t quite sure what to choose. Without an evaluation, I’m not sure where you fit.” He offers me a smile that’s anything but sympathetic.
The room goes deathly still. Heat crackles up my spine, flushing my cheeks scarlet with humiliation. My mouth opens before I can think better of it.
“That’s not fair.” My words are soft, but he hears me.
Mister M pauses, long enough to make it clear that I’ve done something wrong.
He doesn’t need to inform me; I’m sure talking back to my “perfect mentor” breaks at least five protocols.
I should shut up, but my heart is pounding at me, screaming that I can’t take this silently.
I stagger forward, keeping my eyes on the dress. “I never got an evaluation.”
He inclines his head, amused. “Oh?”
“I was scheduled, then pulled for no reason. You fought to keep me out.”
The other girls shift uncomfortably behind him. Brielle clutches her dress like a shield.
Mister M exhales like I’ve said something adorable. “Darling, you weren’t ready. It would’ve been cruel to let you fail so publicly. I did you a favor.”
“I would’ve passed,” I say, louder this time. “I’ve done every drill. Aced every practice. I haven’t slipped up once. I’ve been perfect, you said so yourself—”
“There she goes again, the little star. You’re being a bit entitled, wouldn’t you say?
” Mister M’s voice dips, bitter. He gestures toward the dresses with the flick of his wrist. “You’ve been here for months.
You think a few good rehearsals render you deserving of this?
” My fist clenches so hard I might draw blood.
He steps closer, inches from my face. Overpowering cologne assaults my nostrils as he towers over me.
“Let me be clear,” he says, sharp as a dagger coated in honey. “This isn’t about fairness. The Board doesn’t care who almost earned it. They care who performs. And you—” He tilts my chin up with one finger. “Didn’t.”
I bend to pick up the dress. The plastic crunches against my fingers, loud and patronizing. Even through the bag I can tell how stiff it is. My eyes find his again. He’s still looming over me, an expectant look twisting his face.
I bite the words out. “Thank you, Mister M.”
He bristles, cocking his head. “Say that again.”
“What?”
“Say it properly. Say it like you mean it.”
I don’t mean it. I’ll never mean it when it comes to him. But he’s still not moving.
Fine. I plaster on a fake smile and bow my head in resignation. “Thank you, Mister M.”
“That’s better.” The smile that graces his face is equally fake. “Go get changed. I don’t want to hear any more drama from you.” He turns, already brushing his hands over Brielle’s sleeves and whispering niceties he never would’ve wasted on anyone besides Avery.
Bri’s eyes catch mine as I turn away, and I can see the guilt that tugs at the edge of her lips. I offer her the barest smile before slipping into my room.
By the time I finally work up the courage to change, I’m already on the verge of tears.
The dress doesn’t fit—not a surprise in the slightest. The waist is too tight. The hem sits at least two inches higher than regulation. The rough fabric is so thin that it’s practically translucent. It scratches my ribs and clings wrong at the shoulders. The sleeves don’t even match in length.
I smooth the skirt once to keep my hands busy, though it does nothing for the wrinkles. I bite my lip to choke back tears I want to spill so desperately.
He knows I’ve been working harder than any other girl in that room. If he would’ve put me in front of an audience, I would’ve done well.
And still, it wasn’t enough.
I look at the number pin again. It’s the same one I was wearing when I first arrived in the advancement program.
A symbol that I had been saved, that whatever the organization decided was wrong with me before had been wiped clean.
It was a marker so Mister M could tell us apart long before he decided on names.
A marker that was supposed to be temporary, now being used to take what little dignity I had left.
Poise. Obedience. Purpose.
My fingers curl into fists. I have to blink rapidly to keep from seeing red. Again.
Poise. Obedience. Purpose.
I force the words through gritted teeth. This is for the best. It’s for my own good. It must be, because I’m not sure I can bear the alternative.
Poise. Obedience. Purpose.
I center myself. Repeat it one more time. Then I force my hands to unclench, straighten my spine, and walk out of the room like I belong here.
Even if I’m the only one who still has to prove it.
Colt is waiting at the pod door, leaning back against the wall like this is some casual stroll and not the aftermath of my public humiliation. He offers a little wave when I appear.
“Ah,” he says with a smirk, eyeing the disaster of a uniform. “Back to the classic. White goes with everything, y’know.” He pushes off the wall, eyes glued to my face. “We’re headed up to the practice suites. You have a private lesson, I think?”
I nod meekly. “It’s with him.” I don’t bother saying his name. Colt pats my arm.
“Don’t worry about it. I’m sure this is routine.” He’s lying, but it’s enough to fizzle out a drop of the anxiety bubbling in my chest. I kick at a seam in the tile, not caring if it scuffs my flats.
“If it helps,” he says lightly, “I’ve seen worse uniforms.”
I glance at him. “You have?”
“No. But I thought it could help.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it. Real and small and lovely. I stop, turning my full attention to him.
“Why do you think Mister M kept me out?”
“I don’t know,” he admits with a soft shrug of his shoulders. “He keeps going on and on about your attitude. It sounds like a load of nonsense to me.”
Attitude?
Mister M has hardly been around since Avery left for her “specialized review.” When he is present, he spends his time barking orders or insulting anything and everything he can tear apart.
He won’t speak to anyone in the dining hall, and if he shows up to morning inspection, he’s already seconds away from blowing a gasket.
So yeah, I’m not sure I’m the one with an attitude problem.
In fact, the only private conversation we’ve had in the last two weeks was when I asked him if I could practice piano more often. After I told him about Mister V taking us to the practice suites, he waved me off with a terse speech about wasting his time.
There’s no way he would’ve pulled me for that…right?
What kind of psychopathic behavior is that? How on earth would that be what’s “best” for me?
Colt clears his throat. “Apparently, he’s not the only one you’ve got riled up.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask as he pulls us into a side alcove, out of view from the cameras and roaming eyes.
“Ryder said you caused a meltdown,” he starts, a smirk playing at his lips. “After Mister V heard you play, he stormed right into Carr’s office.”
“He what?”
“Yeah. Rumor has it he stayed there for the better part of an hour. And now—boom. Private instruction. Ralston says he’s never seen Carr approve something that fast without a fight.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What do you think happened?”
“I think you’re good. Real good. And I think he saw something in you they didn’t prepare him for.” Something blooms in my chest, caught between pride and horror. I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.
My gaze falls to my shoes, but he clears his throat. “Hey, Mays.”
I can’t bring myself to respond. Heat crawls up my cheeks, but I meet his eyes in the smallest gesture of acknowledgement.
“You look great,” he says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Don’t stress it, yeah?”
Something in me snaps. My shoulders fall, and suddenly I can breathe again. I hadn’t realized how badly I needed to hear that.
“Okay,” I say quietly, finally mustering up the confidence to meet his eyes. There’s so much warmth there, so much glittering honesty that things almost feel okay. He gestures to the practice suite door.
“Be brave, oh musical one.” he says, giving me a little two-finger salute. I slip into a mock bow, chest still fluttering with nervous energy. I’m still not sure what private instruction even means.
But I guess it’s time to find out.