Chapter 5
Clover
There’s no time to be lonely on the day of the auction.
My day starts with breakfast. I barely finish what’s on my plate before there’s a knock at my door and it swings open before I can stand up.
A woman walks in pushing a cart filled with various cosmetic items. I recognize a few of them, but not everything. The tubes of lipstick definitely stand out, mainly because they’re much more vibrant than the simple shades I’ve read about.
“Good morning, Clover,” the woman says cheerfully. “My name is Axelina, and I’ll be your personal stylist today.”
“Oh, um, good morning,” I say, rising from my chair. “Stylist?”
“Yep, we need to make sure you’re pretty as a picture when you take the stage tonight,” she explains. “I won’t be doing anything yet. I just need to see what I’m working with. Sit back down. You’re fine where you are.”
“Okay,” I say apprehensively, lowering myself back into my chair.
Axelina is wearing a dress that looks too fancy for work, but I guess styling hair and doing makeup isn’t as taxing as working in the fields all day.
Her hair is an unnatural shade of silvery blonde, piled high on her head in elaborate curls that don’t move when she walks, like they’ve been glued into place.
Her makeup is so thick I can see the line where the foundation ends at her jawline, creating a stark contrast with her neck.
Her eyebrows are drawn on in thin, strange arches that make her look perpetually surprised, and her eyelashes are so long and spidery they look like they might scurry away if she blinks too hard.
The lipstick she’s wearing is a bright purple that clashes with the orange undertones of her foundation and artificial tan.
When she smiles, I see a smear of purple on her teeth as well.
She looks like a painting of a person, rather than an actual person. Everything seems exaggerated and synthetic in a way that makes me uncomfortable. Is this what they consider beautiful in Concord City? If so, I’m not sure I want to look pretty as a picture for the auction.
“Hmm,” Axelina hums, circling me like I’m livestock at a market.
She tilts my chin up with two fingers, turning my face from side to side.
“Well, the sun damage is extensive, but that’s to be expected from someone who grew up in Troona.
At least I can tell you didn’t spend much time in those cactus fields. ”
“How can you tell that?” I ask, frowning slightly.
“Your skin, dear. It’s very weathered, but I can tell you weren’t in the sun all the time, which is a good thing,” she answers. “But those saltwater baths certainly didn’t help things. I’m sure you’ve never moisturized, have you?”
“I don’t know what that means,” I admit.
“Of course you don’t. Why would anyone ever make my job easier?
” she sighs, making a note on a small tablet lying on her cart.
“Well, we’ll start with a deep exfoliation, then a hydrating mask.
That should help some with your complexion.
It’ll at least give me a better canvas to work with, but once I’m done, I’m sure you’ll fetch a high price at the auction. ”
“Okay,” I mumble.
She leans closer, peering at my face. “We’ll need a heavy concealer for your eyes.
Your lips are quite chapped, so we’ll do a scrub and apply a conditioning treatment before the lipstick.
Can’t have it peeling off while you’re on the stage.
” She moves to my hair, running her fingers through it and clicking her tongue in a disapproving sound.
“When was the last time you washed this?”
“Yesterday when I arrived,” I say, surprised it’s so unpresentable since it looks better than it has in years, even after sleeping without a ponytail all night. “I took a shower and used the shampoo and conditioner. First time for all three.”
“It’s still very coarse. And brittle. All this exposure to salt and sun,” she tuts. “We’ll need to do a deep conditioning treatment, then we’ll add some highlights to brighten it up. It’ll make you look more alive.”
“I don’t know if I want to change my hair color,” I say apprehensively.
“Not change, just accentuate, dear,” she says in a cheerful tone that doesn’t quite match her words. “We want you to look your absolute best, don’t we? The better you look, the more bids you’ll get. That means more money for your family back home.”
I swallow hard. As much as I hate to admit it, she’s right. That’s what this is all about, even if I don’t like how she’s talking about me like I’m a project that needs fixing.
“Now, let me see your hands,” she continues, and I reluctantly hold them out.
She lets out an immediate gasp. The sound is way too dramatic for something as meaningless as the condition of my nails.
“Oh my. Those will need a lot of work. I’ll file them down and shape them properly.
A nice manicure will do wonders. Then a soft pink polish, I think.
Nothing too bold. Need you looking innocent and fresh,” she explains, still examining my hands like they’re foreign objects she doesn’t want to actually touch.
“And your cuticles are a disaster, but we’ll get them sorted out. ”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” I say, squeezing my hands shut.
She takes a step back, looking me over from head to toe. “Stand up for a moment, dear.”
I stand, and she circles me again, making more notes on her tablet.
“You’re quite thin,” she observes. “But that’s common in the outer settlements like Troona. Not much to work with but with the right dress, we can create a nice illusion. Maybe a corset for your waist. Something that won’t be too difficult for your buyer to remove later.”
The casual way she mentions it makes my blood run cold. Like it’s a foregone conclusion that whoever I’m sold to will be undressing me. So quickly that what I wear when I walk across the stage shouldn’t interfere with their convenient access.
“Okay, I’ve got all I need. I’ll be back later to help you get ready for the auction,” she says cheerfully.
“It’s tonight, right?” I ask.
“Yes, early tonight,” she says. “Less than nine hours from now, so you’ve got a very busy day ahead of you.”
I don’t get a chance to ask what else I should expect before she leaves, but it doesn’t take long for me to find out.
A doctor arrives who checks my vitals and draws blood but doesn’t explain why.
A man shows up with a tablet and orders me to take an aptitude test. I’m not even sure what an aptitude test is, but I take it anyway.
I don’t get a grade or a score that tells me if I passed or failed.
Once I’m finished, he collects the tablet and leaves.
Lunch arrives, but I’m still full after breakfast, and so nervous about the auction, I don’t eat anything. More wasted food. More than my family would normally eat in a week, likely tossed in the trash as soon as it’s wheeled out of my suite.
I try to keep track of time, but there’s no clock.
Not on the walls. Not on the Concord Assistant.
Not even on any of the television stations.
I’m not sure how they tell time here, but clearly, they don’t think I need to keep up with it.
In Troona, we track time with the sun. I can’t even do that here, because it disappears out of sight shortly after midday.
I should have paid closer attention when my father was explaining how to track time with shadows.
Eventually, Axelina returns, bringing several assistants with her. One of them is carrying a dress draped across her arms like she’s afraid it will break if she isn’t careful. After spending at least four hours doing my hair, makeup, nails, I finally get to see it.
“Wow,” I say as Axelina’s assistant holds it up.
“Corset first, then the dress,” Axelina says, snapping her fingers at one of her assistants.
I suffer through them stuffing me into a corset, then they help me put on my dress.
It could be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
The fabric is a deep emerald green that seems to shift in the light, catching hints of gold and blue, depending on the angle.
It’s made out of silk, which is a lot different from the rough cotton and scratchy burlap I’m used to wearing.
The bodice is fitted with delicate beading that creates an intricate pattern of vines and leaves, each tiny bead catching the light like a dewdrop.
The neckline is modest, but elegant, designed to sit just off my shoulders.
The skirt flows from the waist in layers of fabric that look like they floats with every step. It’s not overly full like some of the ball gowns I’ve seen in old books, but it has enough volume to make me feel like something out of a fairy tale.
It’s stunning. It’s perfect. And it makes me want to cry, because I know exactly why they’re dressing me up like this. I’m not a girl going to a ball. I’m a product being packaged for sale.
“Do you like it?” Axelina asks, mistaking my silence for awe as the crushing weight of everything settles on my shoulders and into the pit of my stomach.
“Yes, it’s incredible,” I manage to say, wishing I was wearing this dress for literally any other reason.
“Green brings out your eyes,” she explains, gesturing for her assistant to touch up my lipstick. “The beading adds just enough sparkle without being too ostentatious. You want to look valuable, not gaudy. Elegant. Refined. Like something worth investing in.”
And there it is again. Another reminder that I won’t be a person tonight when I walk out on that stage. I’m not just a product, I’m an investment.
Axelina inspects me again after her assistant is done.
She circles me several times, adjusting my hair, pointing out another spot on my lips that needs a dab, and tugging my dress into place so that it hugs my curves to her satisfaction.
I’m grateful I’m wearing flat shoes, instead of heels like Axelina and her assistants are wearing.
I think I would fall over if I tried to walk in those.