Don't Run Away

Chapter 6.

The trees rush by in flashes of green.

I pass by the stable with the crazy horse lady, the one convenience store that isn't really convenient since it is eight miles away from our house, and the province office, where I got myself into this whole mess. I debate giving the dull off-white building the finger, but I don't think that's very "Lady Francesca" of me.

The nearest province to where I live is Kent, which is where I'm assuming we're headed. The man driving the Limo doesn't say much, but surprisingly the silence is anything but awkward. I debated asking him where were going, but I didn't want to disturb the peace.

I decide to look around the back of the limo instead, y'know... since I have all to myself! There's a variety of snacks and drinks in the compartment directly behind the driver, but I don't grab anything. I'm far too nervous, and the last thing I want to do is hurl all over all these girls I have to meet today. I glance over to the other side of the limo and my eyes lock on caramel-colored eyes.

There is an abundance of Selection-related magazines behind the passenger's seat. I can't stop my hand as it reaches over and plucks one out of its pocket. My eyes scan the cover. I notice it's different than the one my mom bought for me but the cover looks pretty similar. It's another photo of the Prince, almost identical to the one on the previous cover, just panned farther out so you can see most of his frame... and gawd dayum. His muscles pull the fabric of his perfectly tailored suit taught... and leaning against the wall, he looks like he was sculpted by a Greek god. I can totally understand why the girl in line in front of me had to check her reflection a thousand times. If I knew I was taking a picture for him, I would be doing the same thing.

I peel open the cover of the magazine and scan its contents. It has a scattering of ads, a couple more articles about Prince Stephan and the royal family, and finally "The Selected". I totally forgot that since I got Selected, the country actually knows who I am. I immediately flip to the section regarding the Selected Girls. The page is filled with each of our headshots and as I glance over them, my heart immediately sinks.

I fully understand how the drawing of girls is rigged now. I am not of the lowest caste out of all the girls, nor am I the "least interesting". You can see a list of skills underneath each picture, and even though I thought up a list of 'vanilla' skills, they are in no way boring compared to some of the others.

I was very clearly hand-plucked for my looks.

I stand out like a sore thumb next to all these girls. With their perfectly tame hair and beautiful smiles, I look like a donkey next to a bunch of beautiful unicorns. My frizzy braid is hanging limply over my right shoulder, my freckles look muddled and clumped together like a swarm of flies, and- wait, is one of my eyes half-closed?!

I was very clearly picked so that they could show all the girls of Illea that you don't need to be beautiful to be in the Selection. I'm practically advocating for a cause I didn't know existed until right now. The little self-esteem I do have just threw itself out the window of this luxury car.

I don't have time to dwell on my newfound issue because the limo begins to slow just as I'm putting the magazine back in its place behind the passenger seat.

As I predicted, we were in fact on our way to get the girl from Kent. The limo comes to a halt in front of a moderately sized house and I let out a sigh I didn't know I was holding in. I'm glad I don't have to suffer a long car ride with a Two. I'm not trying to create stereotypes but the only time I ever interacted with a Two didn't go so swell. If I had to take a guess this girl was most likely a Three.

The front door to the house opens and out steps an auburn-haired girl with a stout figure. As she walks closer to the car I take in more of her appearance. Her hair just reaches her shoulders and is filled with effortless curls. Her face appears to have some makeup, but nothing overbearing.

I wonder If I should have taken my appearance into consideration before I left.

I sprayed some water in my hair before brushing it this morning so that my hair wouldn't become a frizzy blonde pom-pom from Hell, but it didn't seem to do much. The humidity made it puff immediately back up. And regarding makeup, I didn't put any on, mainly because I don't own much.

The guy who came to my house and explained some rules for the Selection made me a list of things to do on the day I left for the palace. All it said I had to wear was black pants and a white shirt.

I ended up wearing the hand-me-down black skinny jeans I got from my cousin, but they had rips in the knees. As for shoes I decided to wear my tan lace-up sneakers.

It seems the girl from Kent had a similar plan as me when it came to our outfits. She is also wearing some comfortable-looking sneakers and black skinny jeans. To be fair, she looks absolutely stunning in her jeans. But hey, at least I'm not incredibly underdressed this time.

The driver takes her bag and opens the car door opposite me. She climbs in with an overly eager smile.

"Hi! I'm Paris!" she practically squeals.

Yeesh. I try not to wince at how high-pitched her voice is. "My name is Franki–Francesca" I stutter out, I'm still not sure if I'm allowed to use my nickname here or not.

"Oh, well nice to meet you Frank-Francesca!!" She says while sticking out her hand.

I choke out a laugh "Just Francesca." I shake her hand. "You're uh- you're hair is really pretty," I say, trying to break the awkward silence.

"Oh my gosh, thank you! I got it done yesterday just for this! I know that we are supposed to have a makeover at the palace but I thought I might as well be-"

I practically stopped listening after she said she got her hair done. I honestly couldn't care less. I didn't know we were going to be having a 'makeover' at the palace, however. That sounds like it will be a total blast.

"I like you're hair too Francesca!" she shouts, and then pauses, like she had an epiphany or something. "O.M.G. Could I braid your hair?!"

I turn my minor wince into a smile. "Sure."

~*~

After some rather bland conversations and some painful hair-pulling, my hair was neat and braided. We also stopped two more times to pick up the girls from Midston and Jammins. Laura, the girl from Jammins didn't talk much. She had a petite frame, and naturally platinum hair. However, the girl from Midston, Josephine was actually very pleasant. She had some crazy long black hair (Which of course, Paris couldn't wait to get her grubby little mitts on) and naturally very tan skin. She also told me she prefers to go by Josie, and so incidentally I told the rest of the car I go by Frankie. Josie said she actually really liked that name and thought that it suited me. But Paris had to get her two bits in about how she thought that it was a boy's name. Laura gave a small nod, not looking up from her magazine.

We sit in silence until I feel the car slowing and the flashes of cameras.