Before the Pageant
Susan Fodor
AUTUMN, 2066
“Ambrose, you can’t dump me,” Oliver stated, his brown eyes teasing. His brown-sugar-coloured hair was spiked, and even in his casual gold tracksuit pants and singlet he looked billboard-ready. “You do this before every announcement of the ranks. Don’t worry; we’ll still be wearing gold on the first of next month. With rumours of an imminent retirement, we will both be in The Pageant soon and then we will be number one for life.”
He crossed the room to put his arms around me, but I batted them away.
“I don’t care if I’m a number one, and I don’t care about wearing gold,” I replied, my voice strong and clear.
“What is going on with you?” he asked, his eyes clouding. For more than a year we’d been working on making it into The Pageant, my words had glanced across his ears like heresy.
“I’m telling you that I don’t want to date you anymore, not publicly or privately or in any way,” I replied, looking into his eyes and searching for understanding.
Oliver stared at me, his eyes unseeing. My heart was beating so loud in the silence I was sure he could hear it.
The mirror beside me showed a slim girl pinching the skin between her thumb and forefinger. She was tall and golden-haired with large, blue doe eyes and pale skin—traditionally beautiful. My eyes were drawn to the couple in the mirror, so visually compatible, but so wrong for one another.
The digital clock over Oliver’s desk clicked over another minute. He continued to stare at me, uncomprehending. My gaze drifted to the window near Oliver’s bed, which overlooked Tealé. The silver city shone in the afternoon sunshine.
Oliver’s plan had always been for us to compete in The Pageant, a live TV show where ten boys and ten girls ranked number one from the ten cities would compete to become the reigning couple of one city. Traditionally there would be five leadership challenges and eliminations till one couple would be named Potentates.
Oliver was completely unfit to be Potentate; selfish and lazy, he would drive a city into ruin.
Another minute ticked over on the clock. I was waiting for him to say something, to grant me permission to leave. When another minute had passed, I turned toward the door.
“Ok. Bye,” I said. Three steps to the door. Freedom was beckoning. I had to get out of Oliver’s room.
“Stop,” he said, his voice low and menacing.
I had to keep moving. My hand slipped on the door handle. Oliver grabbed my arm and spun me to face him.
“We can fix this,” he crooned. I’d heard it all before: his empty promises and lame explanations. He was exactly what my fraternal twin sister, Tamsin, had said: “An attractive empty dish.”
“There’s nothing to fix,” I replied. “I just don’t want to be with you.” It was heartless, but I had to get away from the drama he was about to perform.
“Is there someone else?” he demanded.
I rolled my eyes. “I know all about Celeste,” I responded.
“Celeste was a number two in the Lakes district. Our summer fling raised her status,” Oliver explained. His way of assuring me that I was his main interest, provided I remained number one.
“She’s still a number two,” I replied, sarcastically.
“Don’t be like that,” he scowled. “Rank matters. We’ve always agreed our rank united us.”
He was right; being number one had mattered, but that was before my family had spent the summer in the country on my uncle’s farm. Meeting Liam had turned my thoughts inside out. His easy smile made me brave, which was a real achievement after being scared my whole life: scared of falling below number one, scared that Oliver would dump me, scared that I wouldn’t find a place to belong ever . . . I had to break free of the fear, so I could have a future with Liam.
Suddenly, all Tamsin’s complaining about the ranking system brainwashing people to breed began to make sense. Since the New United States had reformed after the war, only ten cities had survived. Population growth was our greatest challenge, due to latent radiation. Babies were more important than fidelity, and monogamy was an ideal people loved to espouse but few practiced.
“I don’t care about Celeste.” I sighed, my hands shaking. “Let’s just make this as amicable as possible.”
“If you want to commit social suicide, that’s your choice,” he warned. “Without me, you’re a number seven at best. Then what kind of job or a future can you hope for? You won’t be getting a news anchor position like your mother, or doing publicity like your father. You’ll just be a secretary, answering phones and making coffee.”
It was the argument that had kept me chained to him, despite my waning affection. He knew how to manipulate people and I'd been an easy target. Now his arguments were futile. "Milo, Μama's co-anchor, was ranked number seventeen," I responded. "Talent floats to the top. I'm not sure I even want to be a news anchor."
"No one tunes in to see Milo," Oliver replied, trying to downplay the truth. "What do you mean you don't want to be a news anchor?"
"That was what you thought I should be," I said, putting my hands on my hips. "I don't know what I want to do, but I do know that I don't want to do it with you."
His eyes darkened. "Where is this coming from? Is that delinquent sister of yours getting to you?"
"There is nothing wrong with Tamsin," I snapped.
"She's ranked in the thousands; she's got to be a secretary's bastard," he scoffed.
I raised my hand to slap him, but he plucked it from the air. "Face it." He smirked. "Breaking up with me will dump you right beside her in matching undyed outfits."
"I can't wait," I spat through clenched teeth. My whole body shook with fear as he continued to grasp my arm. His hold had me staring into his handsome face. Oliver's features were chiseled to perfection, masculine and strong. There had been a time I'd found him intoxicating, but now the emptiness of his eyes repulsed me.
"I can see you need some time to think," Oliver dismissed me, releasing my hand. "I'll see you in the morning to drive you to school."
"No thanks," I replied, grabbing the door handle. "Now that we're broken up I don't want to ride to school with you, or spend any unnecessary time together."
"We're not breaking up," he insisted, his lips curling into a confident smile. "By morning you'll be over your PMS and things will be back to normal."
The weight of him constantly dismissing my actions pushed the air from my lungs. In the time we’d been dating he’d never cherished me, or treated me like an equal. Being seventeen years and eleven months old meant I had thirteen months to still qualify for The Pageant. But Oliver was six months from being nineteen, The Pageant’s cut off age. The mean part of me hoped he’d never be in a Pageant; he deserved to be a former number-one on reality TV trying to maintain his status.
My eyes met his. The protein shake I'd drunk after school was threatening to repeat on me, but I forged ahead. "Oliver I'm seeing someone else, and now that I've been with a real man I can't be with a boy anymore. Don't call me. I won't call you. Goodbye."
Oliver's mouth swung open. The way he looked at me, like I was a stranger, renewed my courage. I smirked at him, feeling truly seen for the first time.
“You’ll never get into The Pageant without me,” he squeaked.
“I guess we’ll see,” I replied, turning the doorknob and leaving his room forever.