Folsom (End of Men, #1)(4)
“Your apartment,” she says, stopping at the only door.
It’s a massive wooden structure that hints at the size of what lies behind it. Too much space…empty, lonely space. I would prefer to be somewhere small, but I am their hope, and they shower me with luxury.
“I hope it’s suitable. The rest of your team will take smaller, practical apartments in the building. You’ll have two hours to rest from your journey before your arrival dinner,” she says, looking at her watch. “The Red Region is very excited to meet their End Man.”
I don’t wait for her to dismiss me. I step into my mansion, flinging my sunglasses onto a table and kicking the door closed.
“Welcome home,” I say to no one.
THREE
GWEN
The music is so loud in the streets I want to cover my ears. Though if I do, I’ll get another scathing look from my mother and sister. I watch mutely from my tiny square of the sidewalk as the parade slowly moves by. I would rather be at work…or at home…or anywhere except here. It is day one of Phallus, the festival that celebrates the arrival of our new End Man: a tradition established by the Society when they stepped in to save humanity. By day, women paint their naked bodies and dance through the streets like they did in the ancient civilizations, crass and vulgar with gyrating hips and loose wild hair. They dance predominantly around penis statues, which could be made out of anything from grass to beaten metal. In the evenings, these same women slip on expensive silk dresses and sip gently on champagne at parties that play classical music and celebrate how refined we are.
What I have learned in my lifetime of observing Phallus is that you can get really damn creative when you want to make a giant penis to worship. My favorite statue ever: a giant penis made out of thousands of tiny penes. Since I was a child, the festival has made me giggle uncontrollably. I make such a fool of myself at these things that my mother and sister have left me at home the last few years.
But not today. Today, I am a modicum of maturity, a respectful penis worshipper with everyone else.
When his car drives past, I stand on my tiptoes to catch a glimpse of the famous Folsom. Naturally his window is rolled down. He waves rather limply to the crowd, his mouth set in an unemotional line. I look around to see if anyone else has noticed, but they’re all waving back, screaming. My mother has a hand on each of her daughters’ backs. I step away from her touch, closer to the road and to Folsom. For a moment I think our eyes meet as his car edges by. He’s so close I can see the stubble on his cheeks, the dark sweep of eyelashes as he blinks. His features are hard, but his eyes are soft. I tilt my head trying to imagine what type of man lies underneath the skin. And then the car passes and I’m left staring after it.
“Let’s go, Gwen.” My sister’s voice cuts through my thoughts.
I glance wistfully toward the car as I follow them. I’ll know soon enough.
The first social event of Phallus is the Red Ball, where we’re all required to wear the color of our Region. I choose something simple in a tomato red, with long sleeves and a Peter Pan collar; the hemline ends modestly right below my knees. There are no frills, or bows, or elaborate decoration. It’s desperately out of fashion, but I like the way I feel when I wear it. My older sister, Sophia, has chosen a deep red dress with a waterfall skirt. Blond hair piled on top of her head, she looks like a goddess. For the first time she offers no cutting remarks on what I’m wearing, she’s too focused on the night ahead of us.
“Will we be able to talk to him?” Sophia asks my mother as she climbs into the car. “We should have priority since we have appointments with him.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works,” my mother says. “And I’m sure everyone will be fighting for his attention.” She sits in the middle and I scoot in after her.
Folsom Donahue is the most prominent of the twelve End Men. The first. The other men treat him with respect, as do we. Images of the men are sent among the Regions and handled with reverence. As a young girl, I collected trading cards with their information written across the back. Folsom was always my favorite: serious looking; his eyebrows angled in such a way that made him look both angry and wounded; full lips that never smiled. Not all of the End Men appeal to me, but regardless, they are gods and everyone wants their attention.
I want to tell Sophia that she probably won’t get a chance to talk to him tonight, but knowing Sophia, she will. I don’t want to dare her into something I’ll regret. My sister is both shallow and determined.
To offset the color of the Region, the room where the Ball is held is entirely white: mother of pearl floors that swirl beneath your feet, walls cut from salt rock, and a ceiling of flecked snow. The overall effect of the white is dizzying; add a thousand women dressed in red and you have a slaughterhouse of silk and taffeta. I’ve joked before that every Ball looks like a murder scene, but no one finds it funny. We take ourselves very seriously in the Red Region.
We walk into the Ball as the band is playing something slow—a love song, which is ironic since none of this is about love. My mother and sister flitter off to be social, leaving me standing awkwardly alone with a champagne flute in my hand. I look around for someone I know from work maybe, but everyone I know is as antisocial as I am. They’re probably all hiding in the bathroom. Good idea. I remember that the bathrooms are on the far wall, a trek away from where I’m standing. I’ll have to enter the sea of women to get there. I’m four steps into the throng of bodies when I remember that there’s a smaller bathroom on the second floor, one the staff uses on nights like tonight. I head there hoping it will be empty, but when I arrive, there is a sign on the door that says Out of Order. Glancing around, I make sure no one sees me before I push the door open and slip inside.