Chosen (The Selection fanfiction)

One.

This book is being slowly edited.

"Places! The show is about to start!" My ever-so elegant mother clapped, her hands turning a subtle rouge. The simple but effective gesture triggered a chain reaction of panic as everyone rushed around to get to their places behind the curtain. Models, makeup artists, hair stylists and me. Me being as noticeable as a fly on wall glammed up in sweaty overalls.

"Remember girls, this one is aired live," my aunt sang reminding the line of fashion models whilst straightening out a girls dress, adjusting the sequins so it was perfect. Perfect was a word used religiously in our household, if that rug wasn't positioned perfectly when suitors arrived our door then I would never get the perfect husband.

"Paris, I need my lipgloss pronto!" That ever-so elegant voice belonged to my sister, who persisted to strain it constantly to scream demands at me.

"Coming," I called out grabbing the first lipgloss I could lay my eyes on, which unfortunately was situated in my aunt's hand.

I peeked round the corner to my sisters dressing room to see her consuming the room with her position on the ottoman that took centre room. She wore a racy red embellished with teardrop shaped sequins (presumably to represent the teardrops of her enemies). Her hair fell in loose curls down her back, giving the illusion that it was natural but I can assure you, from personal experience, her hair did not fall natural in glamorous curls.

Snatching the gloss from my hand, inspecting the label, and finally letting out a satisfied hum at the designer label she proceeded to dismiss me by the simple flick of her wrist.

I would've participated but I wasn't a model. Actually when I was born my mother was convinced that I wasn't hers (a lovely woman, I know). The rest of the family had tan, olive skin with black hair whilst I opposed them with my unruly blonde curls and pasty complexion. As I grew older they realised I was different, I used to be self conscious about it, key word being 'used'.

"Paris, pay attention!" My mother clicked her fingers in front of my eyes breaking my gaze. "Now about the Selection-"

I immediately rolled my eyes. My mother had been persistent about the Selection from the moment I took my first breath. London was their first born but she had been a year too old to enter so lucky me has the precious opportunity to 'honour' my family. When the King and Queen announced their pregnancy tithe country my mother 'conveniently' fell pregnant a few months later with the knowledge that her first born would be too old for the Selection. Essentially, I was born to enter the Selection.

"Mum I told you I didn't want to enter some stupid competition and-"

"I already entered you."

"What? How'd you get a picture?"

"Remember that photoshoot last week? I sent in a picture saying that you were 'ill'."

"Mum! I didn't want to enter!"

"Don't worry you probably won't even get to the palace. Sweetie, your just not pretty."

And that, my friends, is my dear, sweet mother for you. I bit back the retort that half of my genetic makeup had come from her.

+++

Getting pushed off the couch wasn't the most graceful way to impress your parents but I didn't think the pusher really cared.

"As you all know, the girls picked for the selection were hand picked this year by her majesty herself. Queen America has faith in all these 35 girls to do well. Here they are." The presenter flicked his hand to the big screen averting the cameras attention to the screen. I crossed my finger behind my back praying that my face would show up.

A range of fives and sixes appeared on the screen, no surprise there. Nobody liked a two. Apparently we were stuck up, self centred and just horrible. I would honestly beg to differ.

Suddenly my face popped up on the screen, "Paris Marie, two."

Some from the audience booed lowering my self-confidence just a bit. My family just sat there in silence. My mum sat there with a grin clear to her face, my dad's nose remained glued to the newspaper, my younger brother shoved his finger up his nose and my older sister scoffed rolling her eyes at the revelation that her pathetic excuse for her sister had managed to be picked.

"Huh, we have no connections," my mother pondered stroking her chin.

This was going to be a long night.

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Hey so this just a little something that I felt like writing...

I would appreciate constructive criticism so go judge me now.

I'm so awkward.

-Louisa