The Glass Arrow(8)

On the coffee table in front of me is the leather-bound bodybook. I glare at it, knowing what will be within, but can’t help myself. I snatch it off the table as the Governess listens to the Pip recount what he knows of my fight.

I turn through the first few pages. There are color photos of each of the girls here, beginning with the First Rounders. Most of them have sparkling smiles, their faces glowing with glittery makeup and white powder. Beside some of their pictures are full body shots from market day, showcasing every inch of their costumed forms.

The Governess always themes our monthly appearances at market. Once the theme was “A Day in the Sun,” and we all had to wear skimpy swimsuits and bronze paint to make ourselves look like we’d spent the last week baking in an oven. Then we were waxed and plucked in the most disgusting places; just thinking about it is enough to make me shudder. They’d taken my body—my strong, healthy body—and turned me into a monster.

I turn to another page and see a girl I know as Violet dressed like a gardener to go along with the Garden theme. She’s wearing tight-fitting, see-through overalls, a floppy hat, and is holding a plastic spade. I’m feeling the urge to gag again, though not because of the blood.

I turn to the page I’m looking for. My page. There is only one picture here since I refuse to pose for the camera, and the sight of it burns me up. Still, I can’t help but stare, because it is the only photograph I know that exists of me.

It’s the picture of my capture, with the spear-wielding Magnate jerking my head back. Though my face is screwed up in pain in the picture, I look over my long-muscled form, my curly, long, raven-black hair, my deep brown eyes and thin lips drawn back in fury. I look menacing, even in that position, and this pleases me.

My finger traces absently over the penned scratches beneath my photograph that must say something about me. My previous scores on past market days. My stupid weed name. I wish I could read what has been written about me.

“CLOSE THAT!” wails the Governess, who seems to have only now noticed what I’m doing. “You’re bleeding all over it! I need that for the customers!” She makes a move to grab the book from me, but doesn’t want to get too close for fear that I’ll bleed on her. I snap the book shut, and toss it on the table, as though I was done anyway.

There is a scuffle outside, and I see that they’ve brought Sweetpea to the office too. My jaw tightens as I prepare for the next stage of my plan.

If the Governess knows I don’t want to go to market, she’ll do everything she can to get me there. I need to show her how upset I’d be to be left behind.

Only one Pip has ushered Sweetpea from the corner of the red yard. This doesn’t surprise me. At over a head above me and three times as thick, Sweetpea is easily the biggest girl here. But no one worries about her like they do about me.

“Is it true that you called Sweetpea hefty, Clover?” the Governess asks in her squeaky voice. My other Pip has returned, and he hastily shoves me a wad of tissue and a damp rag.

It also doesn’t surprise me that the Governess has immediately blamed me for the fight, even though I’m the one bleeding. She blames me for most of the trouble around here. She’s probably right to.

“I tink I called der thour-fathed Thweetpea.” I can barely get the words out because the blood is now jelly in my nostrils.

“Sweetpea is not sour-faced, she is … beautiful. In her own way. She will fetch a lofty price to any of our customers who are looking for a … a…” the Governess stammers, hands on her hips.

“A thour fathe?” I offer.

The Governess narrows her eyes at me. “We can fix Sweetpea’s hair with a wig, but there’s nothing we can do for your fat nose before market. You’ve done this on purpose, haven’t you?” She’s wagging her finger at me. “You’re just trying to avoid the auction tomorrow, and the theme is Body Paint, and it was going to be my best show ever!” She is on the brink of tears.

Body Paint? The Governess has reached a new all-time low.

I try to look hurt. “I can still do id!” I whine.

“No, you can’t!” she snaps. “Don’t play your games with me, Clover! This is just like that time when you mutilated your ear so I couldn’t put you on the stage!”

I touch the thin scar left from where I ripped my dangling beaded earring straight out of my flesh two auctions ago. I’d told her it got caught on my collar. It was painful, but I was able to avoid the meat market.

I feel my face flush against my will. It’s okay, I tell myself, let her see that I’m upset. I know it’s time to push a little harder.

“I didn’d do dat on burbose!” I object. “And dis eeder! Sweedpea starded id!”

“I did not!” counters Sweetpea.

“She did! She dold me thad I was neber going to ged chosen, and thad I’d be Unpromised foreber!” I open my eyes wide, trying to make them water.

I know that the Governess’s desire to punish me will prevent her from giving me what I want. So I pretend that what I want, more than anything, is to still go to market. Which we both know is impossible now that I look like I’ve just been kicked in the face by a horse.

“She’s the one that said that!” Sweetpea has begun to cry.

“Please!” I beg. “I hade it here! You know thad, Governess! Getting chosen is my only way oud!”