The commercial break ends and Renata Chancellor returns, smiling into the camera but at a reasonable distance this time. Her impeccable brown hair falls in perfect curls around her shoulders and she’s wearing a short, deep-blue dress that seems to shimmer like water whenever she moves. It’s a hologram dress. I suppress a pang of jealousy.
“Welcome back to this two-hour special of Good Evening, Astria! I am here with Mr. Davies, the chief technical coordinator on this project.” There’s lukewarm applause. “Now, Mr. Davies, tell us what happens after the lottery participants have filled out their forms.”
The camera pans over to a small orange seat next to Renata’s to show a bald, important-looking man with heavy underbite and the shiniest forehead I’ve ever seen.
“Well, Renata, the initial selection will eliminate all but 240 women — that’s ten per province — and although I can’t disclose any specifics, the first ‘pickings,’ so to speak, will, in fact, be done by a virtual intelligence.”
Automatic filtering by way of virtual intelligence means someone programmed an algorithm which would reject unacceptable factors in potential contestants. No human interaction with the elimination process means a lot of women will be dismissed based purely on factors outside of their control. Which I guess is one way to narrow thousands down to 240.
“And what happens after that, when the lucky 240 are picked?” Renata asks with a tilt of her head.
“That’s when the personal interviews will begin. Each girl will be called to meet with a few people and tell them about herself. These people know the prince’s preferences and will further narrow it down to …” The important Mr. Davies makes a dramatic pause, as if nobody understands math or knows the amount of provinces in the country, “To twenty-four contestants.”
The audience gasps for some reason.
“Your chances are, like, slightly better than winning the actual lottery,” Sheri says without looking up from her books.
“Did you tell Mom that before she bought the ticket?” I wonder.
“I tried.”
“Good. At least someone has some sense when I’m absent.” I give my parents a stern look that they both pretend not to notice. The fact that a child is more sensible than they are makes me both sad and disappointed. It’s not like we’re swimming in money; what were they thinking wasting it on crap like this?
“Now, I did say you wouldn’t like the idea,” Dad says defensively. “But you know your mother. Once she sets her sights on something, not a single power in the world could stop her.”
“Sounds like someone didn’t bother trying,” I reply.
“Don’t talk about me like I’m not here!” Mom says. “Besides, it wasn’t expensive at all.”
“How much was it?”
She rolls her eyes but is also clearly trying not to look guilty, “Not much.”
I sigh and activate the screen in my arm to find out the hard way.
My heart drops to my stomach. 1200 cygnets. That’s almost two weeks of work, more than that. Thrown to the wind. It would’ve served us better if we used the bills as toilet paper.
Suddenly I’m not so hungry anymore. I push the plate away and stand up, breathing deeply. I’ll work overtime. Take more shifts. It’s only two weeks. How can it feel like so much and yet so little at once?
Mom stands up as well and takes a tentative step closer.
“Kit, I’m sorry, I know I should’ve asked, but I knew you’d say no and I really think you —”
“Can we return it? The ticket?”
She rolls her lips, “It said no refunds.”
“Can we resell it?”
“That would be scalping, wouldn’t it?”
I sigh. She closes her mouth, still wearing that pleading look on her face.
“Fine. Let’s do it.”
Her face breaks into a naive smile, like she thinks I’m accepting her wild scheme. Which I suppose I am, but not for the reasons she thinks: if I make a token effort, at least the money won’t be completely wasted.
I make myself comfortable on the couch once everyone else but Mom have gone to bed. She’s wearing her tattered nightgown and produces something shiny from one of its pockets. She ceremoniously hands it over to me with a proud grin, as if I’ve already won the lottery and married the prince. I squint in the light from the muted TV.
It’s a pair of gold tubes made to look like one of those scrolls in fantasy movies. I carefully pull the ends apart and blink as a bright screen unfolds to life, trying not to think of that time we went without warm water for three months because the landlord couldn’t be bothered to fix the pipes.
“This is a lot of effort for a fake chance at the throne,” I mutter.
“Maybe it’s not so fake after all, hmm?” Mom replies triumphantly.
“It’s a lot of effort for a fake chance, but not enough effort for a real chance.”
It’s pretty obvious the royals won’t just let some backwater schmuck buy herself into their ranks by spending a, to them, tiny amount of money. One of them could piss in a cup and sell that for more. Mom knows that too — or at least I hope she does — so I don’t know what exactly she’s hoping this will accomplish.
The screen asks to scan my fingerprint and I tentatively press my pointer finger against the smooth surface. It lights up green, saying CONTESTANT QUALIFIED — ENTRY GRANTED, and moves onto the next section. Swirly, barely readable cursive spells out KATRIEN SULLIVAN against a gold background.
“Cool font,” I scoff.
My name fades before being slowly replaced by an alarming question:
ALLOW ACCESS TO CRIMINAL RECORD?
I regretfully haven’t done any crimes, so I press yes. It takes two seconds to analyze the nonexistent records before it qualifies me for the next screen.
ALLOW ACCESS TO FINANCIAL AND EMPLOYMENT RECORDS?
I glance up at Mom. The confident smile she’d worn until now falters a bit, but she nods, “This is information the royal family are entitled to anyway. I think it’s more of a formality than anything else.”
I sigh and tap ALLOW. Another question pops up.
ALLOW ACCESS TO MEDICAL RECORDS?
“Why does it need my medical records?” I sputter so loudly Mom has to hush me. “What, are they afraid I’ll sneeze on the prince and infect him with poverty?”
“They probably don’t want a future queen with hereditary flaws, that’s all,” Mom says diplomatically.
I doubt it. It’s widely speculated the royal family build their babies in test tubes to ensure deluxe edition heirs, they’d easily be able to tinker with the DNA of the mother to make sure the next generation didn’t develop a bad case of, I dunno, freckles?
But Mom’s suggestion makes me realize why they need my medical records: even if the prince wouldn’t actually choose a princess, he’ll still be able to … sample the goods.
Ugh, I think I’m going to vomit. A couple of his ex-girlfriends have spoken about signing NDAs before entering into a relationship with the guy. This is probably their way of ensuring he doesn’t catch something.
I swallow my disgust and press ALLOW despite every braincell screaming at me not to.
A soft, feminine voice starts reading the legal babble on the following screen. I quickly turn the sound off and decide to skim through it.
There are some hefty things I’d have to sign up for just to be eligible to submit the form itself, aside from all the stuff I’ve already given them rights to. Private information disclosed in this form will be read and evaluated by select personnel, bla bla bla, while any information I find out about other contestants is to be kept strictly confidential. By signing this form I will enter a non-disclosure agreement (called it) with the prince and the Kingdom of Astria; anything private I find out about him is to be kept between him and me. Should I, once signed, act against the conditions specified in the agreement, I will be considered a guilty of treason and persecuted as an Enemy of the Crown, with punishments ranging from fines to a lifetime in prison.
Yikes. The more I read this thing, the more I think I’m signing my own death sentence. Literally.
Mom decides it’s time for bed and wishes me luck before leaving. Almost ten minutes after she’s left, Kat comes home and beelines for the fridge.
“Biker bae too stingy to buy you a burger?”
Kat grunts in response, her typical greeting. She throws a frozen TV dinner into the microwave and blasts it on the highest setting, picking at her dirty nails. She looks like she’s been in a fight with a monster truck.
“Did you wash your hands, at least?” I ask.
“Dirt makes my immune system stronger.” She glances down to the pad in my hands. “Mom roped you in, huh?”
“She did. Wait, you knew about this?”
Kat rolls her eyes at my tone, “Doesn’t make a difference. You know how she gets.”
“Could’ve warned me at least.”
She turns the microwave off a second before it pings and hisses at the hotness of the plate all the way over to the coffee table. While she’s burning her fingerprints off, I return back to the form and try to concentrate.
The first questions are basics. It asks about my birthplace, workplace, what languages I speak, how many family members I have, and other stuff that should technically already be known to whoever is collecting this information. Next are more intrusive questions about my mental health, my views of myself, my social life, my morality and ethics. After that we’re back to nonsense about my spending habits, my fashion sense, my favorite food …
Do they really need to know this or is this just a very elaborate piss-take? I’m inclined to believe the latter.
Once the form is finished (Thank you for your participation, and good luck!) I toss it aside and take a deep breath to regain some of the life that’s been sucked out of me. The apartment is silent, except for the sound of Kat’s nails clicking against her phone screen and my arm’s humming processor. According to the TV, it’s ten past eleven. I haul myself into the bathroom to brush my teeth and get ready for bed.
My face is paler and more gross-looking than usual, especially contrasted with my black hair pulled back like that. I hope it’s just the lighting. Although maybe the prince is into malnourished girls with missing limbs.
This whole thing is a bit demeaning even if it’s fake, isn’t it? The contestants will be parading around in pretty dresses, pretending to be interested in the prince while he and the whole country watch in amusement. Everyone will speculate about his True Feelings, the media will pretend this is all about Love, while he’s probably siring more bastards with any palace maid he can find.
I spit toothpaste foam into the sink.
Sometimes I wish I had Kat’s life. Where I could run away with my too-old-to-hang-out-with-me friends and tag abandoned buildings and pretend it’s making a difference in society. At least I’d have an outlet for these things. Instead, I’m stuck working six days of the week to repay a debt, sitting on my futile anger without being able to do anything about it.
I wipe my face dry and stare at my reflection. I try to convince the wide eyes staring back at me that even if I had all the free time in the world, I wouldn’t be able to change it. In fact, having all the free time would probably have made me one of the people who didn’t want to change the world because their lives are already perfect. This is how it’s always been. My anger is only good for giving me ulcers.
Comments (0)
See all