The Revealed (5 page)

With headphones in my ears and the Internet to keep me occupied, I drown out all thoughts. Knowing if I allow myself a second to think, it will be of inky black notes and silver symbols that promise my time is almost up.

Two days later, the house fills with so much activity I barely have time to take it all in. I’m grateful for the chaos because it keeps my mother from having time to further address my latest escape attempt.

My father arrives home just an hour before the party is about to start. My mother is already dressed, and I’m in my room doing my hair, down and curled. I don’t even hear him come inside.

“I’m home,” he sings, walking through my hallway.

Quickly, I set down the brush and run to the door. He must have gotten ready in the car because his dark hair is slicked back and styled. I see the hint of foundation on his cheeks, which makes me smirk. But Jet, my father’s publicist, insists it makes him look better on camera. He must not have had time to shave though, because there is the barest dark shadow playing on his jawbone.

“Dad!” I wrap my arms around him.

Hovering outside my room is a string of advisors and security. Jeremy nods at me from the doorway, his face blank. Behind him is my father’s publicist, a sharp-looking guy named Jet Roth. I don’t remember the last time I saw my father without Jet by his side. As usual, Jet is talking animatedly on the phone—something about a speech for my father. He’s really concerned about the wording when discussing funding for employment and job training programs.

“Hi Lil,” my dad says and chuckles. “Sorry I’m late.”

“What took you so long?”

“The usual,” he sighs. “It takes a lot of time and energy to win an election. What have you been doing?”

“Um, Mark,” Jet steps into the room and lowers the phone to speak to my father. “Winston is sending over the draft for the conference on Wednesday. Can you read through it and get back to him by Sunday?”

“Put it on my calendar for tomorrow,” my father says, nodding. Then he turns back to me. “Sorry Lil, what were you going to say?”

I wave my hand in the direction of the ballroom. “Just that this event is all Mom’s been able to talk about for a month.”

“I heard about your little getaway attempt,” he says.

“Mom called you, of course.”

He nods.

“I won’t stay locked up in this house for another eight months,” I say, turning back toward my mirror.

“Would you rather become one of the Taken Eighteen?”

“No, but if they want me they’ll take me whether I stay inside or not, won’t they?” I counter.

Talking so personally despite all of the people around has become normal for my father. This group is sworn to secrecy under all circumstances anyway.

Jeremy walks up to my father. “Sorry to interrupt, sir,” he says, “but I just got word that the press is getting restless. Mrs. Atwood is requesting you downstairs as soon as possible.”

My father checks his watch, then turns back to me.

“Keeping me in here isn’t going to stop them,” I add before I lose him to the party. “You want to see all the letters I’ve gotten? And most of them have been taped to my bedroom window.”

My father’s shoulders tighten in discomfort. “Unfortunately, right now I need to please your mother. We’ll talk more later. Enjoy yourself tonight, okay kiddo?” My father doesn’t like discussing the letters. Avoidance seems to be my parents’ favorite tactic whenever I bring up The Revealed. They just want me to stay inside and not argue about it. That’s what other rich eighteen-year-olds do, after all.

“I’ll try,” I say grudgingly.

He leaves with his entourage close at his heels, and I turn back to getting ready. I slip off my robe, grab my dress off the hanger, and pull it on. I trace my hand over the shimmery material as I zip up the back. I glance at myself for a long while in the full-length mirror, trying to make the look feel right on me. I turn to the side, then the other side, then face front.

I look like a doll. A pretty doll, but a doll nonetheless.

I pout my lips and lean toward the mirror like it’s a camera. I furl my hair and twirl around. Still, I look breakable. I wish I were fierce and powerful. When people saw me they would know I was someone important.

But that isn’t real.

I’m a snob
, I remind myself. The sting of the words makes my throat constrict. I bite my lip against the memory, but other unpleasant thoughts invade my mind. I’m eighteen years old and stuck inside a house twenty-four hours a day. Not very glamorous. The media tries to paint my life that way. They will all be here tonight, showering me with questions about where my dress is from and what I plan on doing when I turn nineteen and how I’ll feel if my father wins the presidency.

I walk onto the balcony outside my room, watching people stream in through the doors below.

Rows of limos stretch down the road. The valets work quickly to make sure none of these people wait. They are the most-powerful people in the world. They wait for no one.

A red carpet is unrolled down the walkway, and soft light keeps the setting intimate and alluring. Inside, guests are led through the foyer, pausing for the photographers and reporters, and into the ballroom, which is lined with round tables and red-and-gold accents. A live orchestra plays soothing music, and I can hear laughter and the hum of conversation from my balcony.

No doubt my father will make his appearance in a matter of minutes.

I smooth out my dress, not ready to become a spectacle yet. Ever since turning eighteen, I am somewhat of a focal point during conversations. It’s hardly a secret that I’ve become a big target for The Revealed. People are even betting on the Internet, guessing the date I’ll be taken.

Two hundred and fifty days until I’m nineteen.

“Lily?”

I jump. Rory stands in the doorway.

“Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.” I smile sheepishly at her.

“I’m supposed to be working but had to see your dress.” She runs toward me and grazes her hands over the material. “Oh my God, you look like something out of
Vogue
! Too bad it isn’t still around or they would have died over your dress. They would have wanted you on the front cover.” Rory is always too complimentary of me. It’s embarrassing and only makes me turn crimson. Not a flattering color against the gold.

I shake my head, “It looks ridiculous. I look ridiculous.”

“Shut up, babe.” She rolls her eyes. “You’re perfect. And get downstairs. You’re missing the biggest party of the year.”

“So are you,” I remind her.

“Yeah, but no one cares about me.” She shoos me out the door with a light smack on my rear to get me going. I squeal and head into the hallway. She scampers past me with a wink, and starts off for the back stairs that lead to the kitchen and servants’ quarters.

As I make my way down the hall to the main stairway, I can hear the ballroom music, and a muffled undertone of voices and movement.

There are a lot of people here.

I remind myself to take deep breaths and move slowly as I walk down the sweeping staircase into the grand foyer.

As if on cue, all the cameras turn in my direction.

“Lily!” they yell, “Lily, look here!”

I keep a smile plastered to my face. Even the guests’ heads turn. I’m the center of attention. It’s a rare opportunity for people to look at me since I never leave the property. I glance toward the doors, wondering if I can make a break for it if need be.

“Lily, have you received any more messages from The Revealed?”

“Lily, do you think your father will be able to save you?”

“Lily, how much time do you think you have left?”

Jeremy comes up beside me and takes my arm. He steadily leads me through the line of press, recorders, and television cameras shoved in my face. I don’t answer any of their questions. My goal is to simply make it through the night gracefully. But the media are like bloodhounds on the trail. They follow me, while Jeremy attempts to block their path. “Give her some space folks,” he says, holding out a protective hand. “Back behind the media line, please.”

One good thing about staying inside is it keeps me away from the cameras. They can’t get inside the fence surrounding the house, though a few certainly try. To them, I’m just another sideshow to boost ratings. Not a real person with feelings.

“Thanks Jeremy,” I mumble.

My mother floats over and kisses my cheek and then goes about tucking my hair behind my ears. “There,” she says with this warm, motherly smile I only see when we’re in front of the cameras. She holds out my hand, being sure to tilt our faces toward the lenses. She loves the attention. A few flashes of light, then she shifts her attention to Marg Lancing, a congresswoman from Pennsylvania. She and Marg have been friends for years; they’re both social climbers, obsessed with their appearance and social standing.

I move through the crowd toward an empty table.

“Watch out!” Rory shuffles by in her pressed black trousers and white blouse, holding a plate of hors d’oeuvres. I see the neatly arranged salmon with lemon-pepper mousse dotted on top. If only I could be helping Ilan now instead of standing in this ballroom.

“Rory,” I say, standing to talk to her, “need some help?”

I wouldn’t mind sneaking back to the kitchen.

She keeps walking. “Of course not!” She flaps the end of her dishtowel to keep me away. “You’re supposed to be having fun. But I gotta go serve these! See ya later.” She grins, and I lose her in the swarm.

I sit back down at the table and stare at the guests around me.

Fun. Right.

Really, my presence here is just for show. This is how the Atwood family proves to the outside world we love each other. We make appearances together and support my father’s campaigning efforts on his political bulldozer to the presidency.

“You look like you could use a dance.”

I turn around in my chair. Instantly, my expression melts into shock, and I feel the danger of the situation creep into my spine. I glance around the room to see if any cameras are pointing my way. “Mr. Westerfield.” I stand up, trying to remain pleasant and polite.

The man in front of me looks carved from stone. Everything about his features is sharp, from the cut of his jaw to his dark brow. One eyebrow is raised just slightly, as if he’s amused. He is always playing a game. Each conversation is a test to concoct ways to manipulate.

Roderick Westerfield is not a friend. He’s the competition. But it isn’t polls I’m concerned with. That isn’t my problem with this man. Westerfield has always made me uncomfortable. Since his wife’s death, Westerfield’s sole purpose has been to win the presidency. This man doesn’t fool anyone, either. His radical policies aren’t a secret. He wants to renegotiate the border lines and isolate the North American Sector from any country that doesn’t agree with our trade standards. Doesn’t he realize that’s what got us in to this mess in the first place? But in a time where people are paranoid about their own neighbor, they seem to want a leader who will fight if need be. The war brought out the fear and violence in a lot of people.

If Westerfield is elected president of the North American Sector, who knows what the new nation will get itself into in the name of security.

Westerfield’s gray eyes sparkle, but with cunning, not good spirit.

“Ms. Atwood,” he extends his hand, “you look as beautiful as ever.”

I don’t take it, glancing nervously at the crowd, ready to get out of the situation at the first opportunity.

“What are you doing here?” My eyes narrow.

“I was invited, naturally.” He’s playing with me.

Westerfield seems to be enjoying my discomfort. For appearance’s sake, I can’t be bluntly rude, but all I want to do is run. Westerfield still holds out his hand. He’s taunting me, but I don’t know what the game is yet. There must be something he’s playing at.

“I’m sorry.” I take a step back.

He laughs, loudly enough that it catches the attention of those around us. “I insist.”

What does he want? A dance? He must be drunk. I stare at the thick golden drink in his hand.

“I said no. If you are trying to cause a press scandal, I’m not buying,” I say in a low voice. “Save it for my father. Your competition is with him.”

“Who says I’m competing tonight?” he responds, louder than I’m comfortable with, putting a hand on my shoulder.

I cringe from his touch. His skin is just as slimy as his words. How this man can deceive the public into thinking he is a level choice for president is beyond me. I’m seriously considering making a run for it. The exit doors aren’t far. I pull up my dress so that he can’t touch me again, but by now people are beginning to look at us. Presidential candidates are never in the shadows at functions like this, especially when they are talking to the opposition’s daughter.

“I heard a rumor from a journalist friend that you were recently spotted out for an afternoon on the town, making quite the scene.” Westerfield leans comfortably on the back of a chair.

The color drains from my face as I remember stealing my father’s car.

“Your father’s Aston Martin, huh?” He smirks, knowing he’s got me pinned under his thumb. “Good choice.”