The Thirty Six Selected

One

"Lumina! Letter for you!" called Dad from the front door. I rose and hurried out of the room. I never got mail, besides the yearly check-in to make sure I was in health. It was an effective way of keeping epidemics at bay. Since I was only sixteen, I was only just starting to go on jobs without my mother or father's guidance. No one in Illéa cared how young a Six was-only that they didn't forget to dust on the mantel.

Dad was tired, completely worn by the day of cleaning things. I adjusted my too-small overalls that were worn in more places than I could count, which were covered in dust, and brushed my hair out of my eyes. It was a thick, cream-colored heavy paper that had my name printed on it, Lumina Sweeper.

I slit open the letter messily. My nerves were quickly rising. Mail meant bad news. Mail meant you were in trouble.

To the House of Sweeper,

The recent census has confirmed that a single woman between the ages of sixteen and twenty currently resides in your home. We would like to make you aware of an upcoming opportunity to honor the great nation of Illéa.

Our beloved Prince, Travon Schreave, has come of age this month. As he ventures into this new part of his life, he hopes to move forward with a partner, to marry a true Daughter of Illéa. If your daughter, sister, or charge is interested in possibly becoming the bride of Prince Travon and the adored princess of Illéa, please fill out the enclosed form and return it to your local Province Services Office. One woman from each province will be drawn at random to meet the prince.

Participants will be housed in the lovely Illéa Palace in Angeles for the duration of their stay, and the families of each participant will be generously compensated for their service to the royal family.

Best

Advisors of Illéa

My brow furrowed. "Selection?"

"It's how Illéa traditionally chooses the Queen," said Dad. "I remember when the queen was chosen. Your mother wanted to go. Thirty-four other women go, and the Prince slowly eliminates them. It's supposed to be a morale boost for all of us."

"Oh."

Our family's old clunker of a television that broadcasted The Report showed Travon occasionally, mostly sitting off to the side while the King and or the Queen gave speeches. I suppose he was attractive, with waves of light brown hair. But I'd never really seen his face up close. However, there were other girls, Twos and Threes, that were loads prettier and more charismatic than I would ever be.

"Sweetie, I want you to consider entering The Selection," said Mom, not even an hour later at dinner. We had all inhaled what food there was. Dinner mainly consisted of flavorless brown mush, a result of the few ingredients we were able to get. It left everyone feeling hungry, but there was nothing to do about that. Sixes had it better than the Sevens, but we still couldn't afford much.

"Why?" I asked, even though I knew why.

"Sweetie, I heard from Loretta that there is money sent home to the families of the Selected girls," said Mom.

"Why?" I asked again. Weren't they paying for girls to go off and be the Prince's girlfriends?

"Because, especially with the lower castes, the girls are relied on to work. The money is compensation for the girl's inability to work while they're away," said Dad, scraping the very last crumbs off of his plate. My family was Sixes. That meant we were supposed to be silent cleaners for our entire lives. I hated the little-paid labor more than anything, but I had to remind myself that things could be worse. I'd seen worse. I'd been worse.

"That's fair..." I said, contemplating. "But don't you guys see how demeaning this is? What if The Prince doesn't like any of the girls? Then do they bring in another thirty-five, or does he just pick the prettiest one?"

"I'm not sure. But I hear they give you some money just for applying. It would help us out." Mom said, then glanced at Dad, as if to say you owe this to him.

"And what if I get chosen? Then I'll have to go and live in Angeles, and-"

"Oh, yes, how horrible that you'll get to eat enough food and sleep in a comfortable bed every night," said Mom angrily.

"And I won't be able to work!"

"It won't matter, because we'll be receiving checks. Sweetie, I don't see why you shouldn't."

"Fine," I said, standing up to clean my plate. "But I'm not getting Selected, he'll never choose me, and I'm not Princess material." To demonstrate, I licked the remains off of my plate.

The form was made of the same heavy paper that the letter had been. I entered my name: Lumina Sweeper, my age, sixteen, and my height, one hundred and fifty centimeters, my caste, Six. But there was more information that they wanted from me. How many languages did I speak? One. How many instruments did I play? Zero. At least, not anymore. As a Six, there was no reason for me to know how to play an instrument, or speak a different language. All I needed to know was how to use different cleaning materials.

I folded up the form and walked out of my house. My Province Office closed at nine 'o'clock, but I wasn't expecting a big line. The Selection had been announced a week ago, which I figured meant anyone who wanted to enter had already dropped off their form.

It was one of the most gorgeous buildings in Likely. Likely Province Office was emblazoned across the top of the doors, which were made of dark wood. It still seemed like every girl in Likely was entering, but I didn't care. It wasn't like I was going to get Selected anyway. The only annoying thing about the line was that I could tell it was going to take a while to wait.

I handed my form to the man that was taking them. He was wearing half-moon spectacles that were rimmed with gold, something I could never afford. However, as I turned to leave, he stopped me. "Miss, you haven't taken your picture yet." said the man.

I stopped. "Picture?"

He sighed exasperatedly. "Yes, picture. Every Selected needs a picture. Step over here."

A team was standing, holding cameras and large sticks with lights on the end. I sat on the stool in the middle, completely lost.
"Three, two, one," the guy holding the biggest camera shouted, and I attempted to sweep my hair out of my eyes again.

"Thank you for your participation." spectacles said. "Here is your payment for your trouble. We're out of checks, so please accept a cash payment." and he handed me the money.

The sun had sunk completely when I stepped outside the office. A sky of stars glittered above, and I breathed in the cool evening air. I stopped under a streetlight, shuffling the bills giddily. There were four twenty-five dollar bills. One hundred dollars! That was how much I made in three weeks! I clutched the neat, not wrinkled bills that looked like they might have been brand new.

I walked home excitedly, ready to show my parents the money that could keep us out of hunger for the next two weeks. However, a figure caught my eye. She looked like she was old, slumped up against the wall, wearing nothing but what looked like a threadbare shawl over holed pants. An Eight. The homeless. The wandering. Her face was wrinkled, her hair matted. She moaned like she was in pain.

I hurried over to her. "Miss, are you alright?"

She didn't answer. Her eyes were blank. She might have been blind.

Without thinking, I handed her all the money in my hand.

"Take this to the Province Office, offer your work. Then you can live as a Seven." I said, hoping that she wasn't a criminal. Criminals couldn't climb.

"Young lady," spoke the Eight. "I wasn't born like this. I broke the law."

"Then buy yourself food. Do something. Just take the money."

"Thank you." whispered the Eight. But before I could respond, something slammed into me from the side.