The Only-Live-Once Society | Book 2

Chapter Fifteen

When it's finally my turn, Madame D'aureville ushers me in, measures me up and in French tells me she has the perfect dress for my complexion.

"Are you sure?" I ask back, also in French, but she spins out of the little dressing room faster than sonic does for coins.

She comes back in with a sage green, floor length, gown. It's got a slit down the right side and a criss-cross back. I have to admit, it's pretty perfect.

"With your dark hair and light eyes, this will make you shine." She tells me, thrusting it in my hands. "Try it on, and tell me when you are ready."

I do as I'm told, quickly slipping into the dress. I gasp when I catch myself in the mirror. It cinches in at the waist and flares over my stomach down to the floor, the slit exposing my leg up to my mid-thigh. It fits beautifully.

Madame D'aureville draws in a breath when she reenters the little changing room. "C'est parfait!"

"Yes," I whisper. I suddenly have the urge to cry. "It is."

"Take it off." She instructs. "You are to take this with you now, no one else must try this dress on. It is yours."

"Oh," I say, blown away by the whirlwind of it all.

She leaves and I whip it off, putting it back in it's little bag and carrying with me like it's as delicate as a bomb. When I get back to our room I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the bag, confused by the tornado of emotions coursing through me.

This school might have taught me many things, but how to carry myself in a ballgown and heels it has not.

By the next morning, the day of the ball, I'm actually worried about the state of the girls in my year. All anyone can talk about is jewelry and makeup, the best razors and how to wax.

It's scary how quickly they can go from talking about how to correctly punch someone in the throat, to what colour eyebrow pencil they should be using. One conversation will be in Farsi about dropzones, and then they'll switch to Mandarin to talk about different lip kits.

"How are you doing your hair?" Grace asks me. She's sat on her bed, reading a textbook. But clearly the ball isn't far from her mind either.

I shrug, "I was just going to curl it. What about you?"

"I might have it up," She grins. "Given that I'm going to be in a tux."

"Can I see the tux?"

"Not until it's on."

We've been given the day to 'prepare'. I know that prep work is intrinsic to spy life, but I'm not sure giving a hoard of girls and entire day to get ready is productive. The screams and yells coming from the bathroom sound like something from a SAW film.

By the time I start on my makeup there are full blown fights breaking out. There's a limited number of hair straighteners and everyone is volleying for the best one. I don't think seeing girls casually do parkour down a corridor over something as trivial as hair products will ever seem normal to me.

Grace stands behind me, meticulously curling my hair into loose waves.

"Do you think we're going to be tested on every subject, like, ever?"

I shrug, "Yeah, probably."

She nods and then falls back into silence. "What do you think the boys are doing right now?"

I don't want to think about it. The idea of Elijah seeing me in the gown is making me want to die, nerves settle into my stomach. "Probably nothing, just sitting, playing games."

"Yeah," Grace says, then pauses whilst she concentrates on a particularly stubborn piece of hair. "I can't imagine their hall has been anything like ours today."

"No." I say. "Definitely not."

"Hardly seems fair, does it?"

"No."

By seven thirty almost everyone is ready, the hall smells of an extreme amount of perfume and burnt hair.  I can hear heels click-clacking up and down, and last minute attempts to make sure perfection is reached.

The air feels heavy, and I do not feel ready for any kind of test, let alone one in heels and a gown. My stomach is churning and I'm nervously biting my lip.

"You ready?" Grace asks.

She looks wonderful. Her long blonde hair is elegantly swept to the side, she's wearing a baby pink suit that has a deep v-neck, almost down to her bellybutton. She somehow oozes masculinity and femininity at the same time. A wonderful display of how a person can do both.

I, on the other hand, look like Bambi on ice. Though the dress is beautiful, and makes me look like I have a perfectly proportionate body (my head has always been a little too big), I can't walk comfortably in the heels.

"I look like an idiot."

"You look incredible." Grace tells me. She gives me another second to collect myself. "Ready now?"

"I guess so."

We head down together, arms interlinked as I cling onto her like she's my only lifeline.