Carla and I flank Neve on the stiff-backed cream damask settee while the bureaucrats sit in fan-backed armchairs. Headmistress Moyle sits opposite them, the antique, maple-paneled radio centered between them. Conrad and CJ stand on the perimeter of the room as a girl from Conrad’s next batch of beneficiaries prepares a bottle of champagne and glasses, invisible to everyone but me. I wonder if she’s heard the announcement before, if she feels a flutter of hope for a bright future that will likely never happen. I miss that hope. It faded after Tatiana was chosen, dimmed further after Neve. But now, today, my fate will be sealed.
“Greetings to all,” the broadcast begins, “and welcome to the Announcement of Candidates for the National Women’s Institute.”
“Whose voice is that?” Headmistress Moyle asks, giving voice to the surprise we all feel.
“Edina St. James, dean of the institute,” says the taller of the bureaucrats, casting a knowing wink in our direction.
“Why isn’t the minister making the announcement?” Carla asks, evoking biting glares from Conrad and the headmistress. Neve’s shoulders deflate, but her practiced smile never falters. The bureaucrats both smile with the warmth of doting uncles.
“Just shaking it up this year,” the short one says. He wears a pin on his shirt between the second and third buttons. It’s a silver four-point star, a dark blue stone set in the belly of it. The other wears the same thing, and it strikes me as odd that I’ve never seen this accessory on the peninsula.
Triumphant fanfare plays in the background, and I bite my tongue to keep from laughing at the tin-can pompousness of it all.
“Stop fidgeting,” Neve says through her teeth, not sacrificing her perfectly painted smile. I smooth my features into a tranquil, practiced mask and do my best to focus on the speech tumbling from the radio.
“This is the institute’s thirty-ninth year, and we continue to see our graduates’ remarkable effect. The original charter called for a program where Nordanian women would achieve the confidence, intelligence, and foreign policy prowess to best any man—or woman—in the world, and our program has become a shining beacon to inspire others like it around the globe.” I tap the rhythm of those last words against the back of Neve’s hand, pressed close against my own, and Neve bites her lip. I expect another admonishment, but instead, she squeezes my hand. I smile softly to myself.
“Our first class had only eighteen applicants, and all were admitted. They performed admirably and have gone on to represent Nordania in the highest levels of government, business, and law. Our graduates ensure the future success of the institute, as guaranteed by the charter, as well as that of Nordania at large. This success is the torch we bear, the shining star we strive for each year, and this year’s candidates give me tremendous hope we will further surpass the high bar set by the original eighteen.”
More triumphant fanfare, followed by a warbly rendition of the national anthem sung by a recent graduate. Neve beams through the entire thing, and CJ shifts to stand behind the bureaucrats. He smirks when he catches my eye and makes a lewd gesture. Already the victor, he’s toying with me, a tomcat dangling a captured mouse over his mouth.
“We received forty-two applicants this year, and of those, have selected a supremely talented class of eighteen. In the interest of saving time, we will not read the complete list of applicants.” CJ’s face falls, and he scowls at the radio. I bite my lip to keep from flashing a victorious smile. It won’t change the outcome, but at least my humiliation won’t tarnish Neve’s day. “That said, we will post the names in all local newspapers, so they may be honored for the pluck and courage it took to apply, despite being rejected for this year’s class.”
“Oh, this is it?” Neve says, her voice breathy. This is it. This is the moment Neve’s life changes for the better, and Carla and I become something else, something forgotten, nothing. Carla’s head bobs up and down with barely contained excitement, and she squeezes Neve into a hug. Neve takes each of our hands in hers and together, we wait.
“And now, the moment we have all been waiting for. I present to you, this year’s class: Fiona Abramson, Avery Ashford, Anna Brown, Deena Carle, Gracie Beth Emerson, Molly Freed, Winona Jenkins, Laurel Johanson, Rosie McDuff.”
I’m only barely listening, the cadence of each name hammering through me, final as a coffin nail. Resignation tingles up the back of my neck, and fear churns in my gut. With Neve’s hand clutched in my own, I keep a forced smile on my face and resolutely avoid CJ’s gaze. I won’t let him see the panic I feel. Today is about Neve. Only Neve.
“That’s halfway, ladies and gentlemen,” the dean says, and Neve lets out a long, shaky breath. Her last name is Ruiz. We’re getting close.
“Moving on: Zerah Miller, Hannah Neeld, Trina Nelson, Ophelia Norris, Greta Olis, Mara Reed, Tara Simmons—” Neve tenses, spine stiff as her eyes fall, but the smile doesn’t leave her face.
“What . . . what happened?” she says quietly as the dean reads on.
“Flora Terrelle, and last but not least, Arden Thatcher.”