Betrothed

Chapter One

My mother stands behind me, a hot curling iron gripped in her hand. I stare down at my feet, I don’t want to see the girly monster she’s turning me into.

       “Larken,” she nags from behind me, “Look up, I’m trying to do your hair!” I look into the mirror to see layers upon layers of loose curls sitting on my head. I groan, “I look ridiculous!”

       “You look beautiful, now go put your dress on. I laid it on the bed,” she speaks to me as if I’m a child even though tonight I turn eighteen, but I guess when you only get one chance at the perfect child, you tend to hold on until you know they can be perfect on their own. Despite this, I can't stand it.

       “Mom! I’ll be eighteen in less than an hour,” I scream, “Stop treating me like a baby!” I storm out of my dressing room and into my bedroom; I see the frilly white and pink polka dot dress laying on my bed. “I’m not wearing this, I’m putting on jeans and a tank top and then I’ll come out!”

       “Larken, you can’t wear that. This is an important night!” my mom complains through my locked door. She starts fidgeting with the door knob, and I know it will open soon. The locks on a child's door are made so that they can be opened by parents; this way they could know what the child was doing. They are made different for each house so that an intruder can’t get into to your room. The door finally opens and my mom busts in. Her makeup is slightly smudged and her face is bright red, she has been crying, “Please put the dress on, its 11:30 now so I have to go down to greet your guests. Tiffany will do your makeup and make sure you're downstairs by midnight.” She says everything calmly then walks away.

       Tiffany stands in my dressing room. She is my mom’s favorite servant and she is the only one paid for her service. Tiffany has long blonde hair with sea blue eyes. She is tall and thin with tan skin; I wish I looked like her.

       “Larken, why do you treat your mother like that?” Tiffany asks while she lines my eyes in white. I know she doesn't want me to answer, she just wants to talk; she always does this when she does my makeup. “She has no choice but to control you, it’s the law.”

       “But why is it?” I ask, turning, which causes her to get mascara on my eye lid. She licks her thumb and wipes it off.

       “Don’t talk,” she scolds, “It’s the law because hundreds of years ago society got out of control with marriages and divorces and teenage pregnancy and abortion. Our leaders believe this is what caused the end. They believe God sent the floods and earthquakes as a way to tell us to get our act together. So now your parents can unlock your locked door to prevent any teen pregnancies, they arrange your marriage for you and that’s the only chance you get at love to prevent divorce, and you can only have one child to prevent abortion.” She finishes the last of my eye shadow then turns me to face the mirror.

       “Ugh, look at me,” I say in disgust, “I look beautiful.” Tiffany frowns at my mocking tone and sweeps back my revolting curls. Then, she picks up a hair band and ties them into a controlled ponytail. She smiles at me as if to say There, now stop complaining.

       I look at the clock on the wall, its 11:38. I walk into my room and pull on the dress my mother insisted I wear. Then I search through my closet for the box of shoes marked 3/22 18th year. They have been sitting in my closet since I was fourteen and my feet stopped growing. My mom bought them for me to wear as my last fifteen minutes of childhood shoes before I have to switch to high heels in front of everybody. I open the box and inside sit a pair of pink flats and a note that reads, I know you don’t like all these transitions and have to dress up and be all girly, but you're the only chance I got and I love you. But if this isn't the life you want, there is a fake I.D. and 5,000 planks to get a plane ticket and get out of here. I love you so much.