Under Ground (2 page)

I stumble into the street and look
around to admire the view. We rarely come here because our town is
located in the Catskills further North. It takes about an hour to
get here from our neighborhood, and Mother hates public
transportation.

The crowd is rushing through the
streets, pushing me along. I have to keep up. The streetcars honk
their horns as their drivers scowl at the pedestrians. A few
scattered electric cars ride along the avenues. Their passengers
belong to the elite, to the richest members of our
society.

Someone bumps into my shoulder.
I'm not moving fast enough. I catch up with Mother. Her posture is
assured, proud. I wish I could say the same about mine, but
everything here is overpowering me. My mind is blown by so much
life and energy. Mother stops suddenly; I almost crash into her. I
look up in wonder. The bridal store is right in front of us. This
is the second time I've been here, and yet the beauty of its façade
still takes my breath away.

I take in the windows facing the
avenue and swallow hard as excitement takes flight inside me like
butterflies. Behind the glass, exquisite dresses are displayed on
mannequins surrounded by velvet curtains and lights illuminating
the gowns from below.

Mother pulls me out of my trance
and shakes her head at my lack of composure. She pushes the
entrance door open and drags me into the store. We step into a room
so big that I can't even make out the end of it. The inside is
magnificent. A winding marble staircase stands in the middle,
giving easy access to the upper levels. Dresses are nicely arranged
on models throughout the store or hanging from different racks.
Each outfit is more gorgeous than the next, making it close to
impossible to pick one. Upper-class girls from the whole state come
to this establishment to choose their wedding gowns. This store is
owned by one of the richest families in Eboracum City; it's
renowned for its extravagance.

When we first came here,
everything was so mind-boggling that I was enthralled with it all.
My parents gave me permission to choose my own outfit. For once in
my life, I got to make a decision for myself. Despite my profound
anxiety, I was thrilled when the seamstress called yesterday to say
that my wedding dress was ready for try-on. I was allowed to pick
the color, shape, and fabric I wanted. I decided upon a light
purple silky gown in the same style I had seen in history books.
It’s long, with a crinoline in the back.

The dressmaker, whose tag reads
“Sofia,” walks straight to us as we enter. She’s dressed well, but
with modesty. She’s pretty, with a style that catches the eye. Her
hair is red and long, falling in loose curls over her shoulders.
She's of average height, and her face is pale and freckled. She’s
wearing a green dress made of silk, cut below her knees. She greets
us by name and heads to the back of the store. I'm nervous. I hope
the gown looks as good on me as the sample did. It has to be
perfect, without a blemish or flaw.

Sofia comes back with my dress
wrapped in plastic. She puts it on the counter and unzips the bag
around it. Then she slides it out gently and holds it in front of
me. I gasp in wonder. The dress is so beautiful it brings tears to
my eyes.

I try to hide my emotions, but
when I look at Mother, I see a flicker of pride and awe crossing
her face. She’s quick to recover herself though. I sometimes forget
that my mother is human just like me. She most certainly has
feelings; it’s often hard to believe. She spends so much time
hiding them.

Sofia beckons me to a mirror and
holds the dress in front of me. For the first time in my life, I
feel beautiful. The purple shade of the gown is radiant and bright,
shining against the raven darkness of my hair, bringing out the
sparkling light reflected in my anthracite eyes. For once, my pale
skin does not look sallow and sickly, but merely fragile and
spotless, like porcelain.

Sofia snaps me out of my trance by
taking the gown away. She leads us to a grand dressing room and
asks me to undress. I flush, my cheeks burning with heat rising
from my chest to my face as I take off my outfit. I stand in my
underwear in front of Sofia and my mother. I want to hold my hands
in front of my body, to hide as much of it as possible, but instead
I stand as tall as I can and try to hide my
embarrassment.

"Let's put the crinoline on
first," Sofia says. She holds it in front of me. "Please, step into
it."

I do as she says. She pulls on the
drawstrings to hold it in place around my waist. I feel minuscule.
My petite frame stands out under this massive accessory, and its
discomfort does nothing to help silence my insecurities. I inhale
when Sofia finally puts the gown over my head and pulls it down.
She comes to stand behind me and pulls the zipper up. When the
bodice is tight around my torso, holding the gown in place, I whirl
around and the skirt flows all around me. The smooth texture of the
fabric catches the light when I move. I almost giggle, but I catch
myself quickly. I stop, stand straight, and look at Mother. Her
face is hard, as always, but I could swear that her eyes creased
with tiny laugh lines for just one second.

"Please turn around, Miss Clay,"
Sofia says.

She traps my chest in an iris
mauve corset. Its lace is refined, intricate, woven by hand. Its
color complements the wine berry shade of the skirt. Sofia pulls on
the strings; I can hardly breathe. The corset brings up my bosom
somehow, making it look much bigger than it truly is.

"I will fix the bottom now. I just
need to adjust the length with pins." It takes but a few minutes
for Sofia to complete the job. When she’s done, she looks at my
mother. "What do you think, Mrs. Clay?"

Mother comes to stand by my side.
Her arms are crossed over her chest, but a flicker of pride crosses
her eyes quickly. She approves, and this is all it takes for my
heart to leap so hard that my chest burns.

Mother nods her head; Sofia may
put everything away now. She releases the corset first and pulls me
out of my gown slowly, without dropping any pins. Then she takes
off my crinoline and walks away to hang the dress from a rack. I
get back into my usual attire and hurry to cover my half-naked body
as quickly as possible.

“It will be ready for pick-up in a
week," Sofia says. "I’ll call you when it’s done.”

We go to the counter, where Mother
has to pay an additional deposit to help cover the last
completions. When we walk out of the store, the masses overtake me,
pushing me forward as I try to look around one last time. I may not
be allowed to come back here to pick up my dress. I want to absorb
as much of the beauty of the place as possible.

We force our way through the
throng of people, and when we enter the station, I can finally calm
down and breathe. Mother and I look for a bench and wait. The train
arrives. We get in and find our reserved compartment. We sit next
to each other without a word. I should be thankful that Mother
hasn't found anything to hassle me about yet, but I'm waiting for a
compliment from her, for a miracle I know will never happen. I
can't read her thoughts or tell how satisfied she is with me today.
She sits up straight, with her chin held high, ignoring me as
always. When the train passes by the store, I steal one last glance
at it. I look at the skyscrapers and the crowd scurrying through
the street.

The city disappears as the train
enters the slums surrounding it. My heart flutters. The beautiful
buildings of the metropolis clash with the structures housing the
poor—a place falling apart and crumbling down under the weight of
our tumbling economy. Tears well up in my eyes at the sight, and
deep sadness replaces the flimsy euphoria I felt upon seeing my
beautiful dress.

I blink back my sudden grief, turn
to Mother instead, and marvel at her profile. I’ve always been in
awe of her. She’s gorgeous—tall, with long black hair that is
always fluid and loose over her shoulders. Her eyes are dark blue
and her nose is straight. Her skin has a sweet olive tint to it,
tanned and yet not wrinkled by the sun, and everything about her
face is symmetrical. She has an intense beauty that most people
find difficult to look away from.

I wish I were as beautiful and
confident as she is. If I were pretty, I'd feel more at ease with
this wedding. Then there would be more guarantees that William and
his family would accept me. But everything I've inherited from my
mother somehow doesn’t look as good on me. I’m not outstanding. My
black hair is long and curly, reaching my elbows, but instead of
falling perfectly upon my shoulders the way my mother's does, mine
is always untamed. It has to be pinned down to be controlled. I’m
short. I have a fair complexion that often makes me look sickly,
and my nose, like my dad’s, is a bit too long.

I hope William won't find me
plain. I met him a few years ago. I haven’t seen him again since
then, but he was quite attractive at the time. He was tall and
lean, with short blond hair. His eyes were green, and he had
dimples in his cheeks even without smiling. He didn’t seem the type
of person to smile, actually. I’m sure most girls would think
William to be breathtaking, but there was a profound coldness to
him that was unappealing, and the way he looked at me made me so
uncomfortable that I squirmed under his gaze.

He’s still really young, only
eighteen years old, which is quite lucky for me, I guess. I should
deem myself fortunate that my parents didn't try to marry me to an
older man, but I can't seem to be grateful for such "good fortune."
I still hold this insane hope that William might treat me well, but
I should know better. I have been raised to accept that no man will
ever see me as an equal or treat me as such.

Chapter 2

At eight
a.m.,
our maid Emily walks in and opens the blinds. I groan
and pull a pillow over my face. I hardly slept last night, and the
little time I spent in slumber was filled with nightmares about the
wedding. Someone had stolen my gown and exchanged it with another
dress. The replacement was made of plaid, and as I walked down the
aisle, the guests started whistling and booing me. Mother gave me a
disapproving look, and William walked away, calling the wedding a
ridiculous masquerade. I was petrified. I woke up earlier than I
normally do, covered in sweat. It had only been a dream, but I
couldn't go back to sleep after that.

When the light comes streaming in
through the window, I pull a second pillow over my eyes and try to
suppress the pain already pounding inside my head. The sharp ache
hammering at my skull will last all day because Mother limits how
much medication I'm allowed to take. She claims the system won't
allow her to get certain pills or medical supplies. I know it's a
lie. Mother probably doesn't deem pain significant enough to
"waste" my father's salary on. For sure, my parents' rank gives
them access to all kinds of medicine. We are all well aware that
people from different classes get different rations of food,
medication, and resources. The authorities view it as a good way to
force the civilians to strive for a better position in society.
Despite our upper-class status, Mother insists that my family is
counting on me to help them reach an even higher standard of
living. I personally view my parents' attitude as greed, but I
would never dare voice my opinion out loud.

When Emily comes to stand by my
bed and glares at me, I push the covers away and sigh heavily.
Today is Monday, a school day. I always prepare myself quickly in
the morning. Every day the exact same routine. I start with a short
shower. Then I put on my school uniform—black pants, a black shirt
and white tie. The result is extremely manly, an effect sought by
the school on purpose. School is not a beauty contest; it’s a place
where young girls learn how to become proper ladies willing to
stand by their husbands without ever showing the slightest amount
of wit. They call it "education." I tend to think of it as
brainwashing bigotry, though speaking my mind on the matter would
be unwelcome, not to say costly.

Boys attend different schools of
their own, lest our proximity trigger shameful desires or feelings.
We hardly ever see them, except during outings, in the streets, or
for social events. Besides my father and brother, William is the
only boy I've ever had a true encounter with, and I hardly spoke to
him for fear of saying something insignificant, stupid, or
boring.

Once I'm dressed, I have
breakfast—always on my own—while Emily hovers in my space to make
sure I don't waste any food. When I'm done, I join Walter—our
butler—on the front porch. It's his job to ensure I get to school
safely. After all, it is quite unbecoming of a proper young girl to
wander the streets on her own. Walter and I never talk on the way
to or from school. I hardly know anything about him. I've tried to
engage him in a few conversations, but to no avail.

"It is kind of you to care, Miss
Thia," he once told me. "But you should not sympathize with the
lower class. It's dangerous and frowned upon. Commoners like me
really don't matter."

I've always disagreed. I'm curious
about his life, but after that discussion, I stopped asking
questions. I don't want to get him in trouble.

Walter seems to be in his late
fifties, with a head full of gray hair. His eyes are light baby
blue, and he has a big nose and strong jaw. He lives with the rest
of our staff in a small house next to ours. He's especially devoted
to my mother, at her beck and call all day and night. If he has a
family, I know nothing about it.