The Things We Cannot Say

“You’ll go to Fleur’s Dress Shop and purchase a lavish rogue pink gown. When they ask for a name, tell them it’s for Miss Holmes.” 

I’m not allowed to choose. This is one of the things the government has taken from me; my right to decide and take on responsibilities that I see fit. The president sent Miss Holmes to me on my sixteenth birthday. As if I don’t have a brain, or my own thoughts for that matter, Miss Holmes has taken away my right to speak in public, decide for myself, and take on challenges or responsibilities. 

“Yes, ma’am,” I answer as I carefully rise from the sofa, keeping my chin up. My hands flatten the bulky build of the blue gown Miss Holmes chose for me. I want to look my best before I leave the house with the money she has given me, crumpled in the fabric of my white lace gloves. This is probably the only task I’ll ever complete without an Overseer for a long time. 

The heavy door clicks closed behind me and I am left with the quiet of the morning, the rays from the sun peeking through the extravagant manors that line Bourbon Avenue. As I walk down the paved paths that line the ends of the driveways I count the bills Miss Holmes had given me. It’s nothing much, really. Ten of the hundred dollar bills with a crumpled piece of parchment folded into the money. I stuff the bills in the pocket of my dress, and pull away at the folds and wrinkles in the paper. In a loopy handwriting, the address of Fleur’s Dress Shop and a note to the man who runs the boutique sends a misty presence over my eyes. As if I will forget where the shop is, I tsk to myself as I walk down the lane. She thinks I’m a foolish girl who knows nothing, especially what’s best for myself. 

I get to the end of the pavement, to where a quiet road intersects Bourbon. Marilyn Street. It reminds me of my mother. Her name was Marilyn. I cross the intersection gracefully like I was taught, my chin up with one foot on the ground at all times. The shoes click on the pavement as I walk. I’ve learned to get used to the heels and the pain from the sores on my feet. I got my first pair of heels at the Becoming Ceremony. All the seventeen year old girls received a beautiful pair that fit too perfectly.

Perfect. It’s a word I’ve learned to despise. We’re viewed as stupid girls, women are. It’s practically unfair how the men can run free in the streets playing ball and deciding: what they eat, what they wear, and when they die. 

That’s another thing about Andye. Women’s deaths are chosen for them by the officials of each compound, though we aren’t supposed to know how or when, most of us figure it out eventually. There has been talk in the town that the beautiful librarian, Lucy Thomas is scheduled for a public massacre on the twentieth of June. Only three days away. I’m sure she knows though. She just has to! Parting with the Earth to never say goodbye to the ones she loves?  

I seem to be the only girl who doesn’t know the time and cause of my death. Miss Holmes, already being so strict of a woman, would never let something like that slip from her lips. I’m her assignment, her only chance to show the men that she is capable of something greater. She was chosen and pressured to go against her own people, but the men don’t care. They laugh and enjoy the pain in the eyes of the Overseers when they’re forced to go against their own kind, and I’ve seen it. I saw it in the eyes of my mother’s Overseer when she was forced to kill the one who raised me to be strong in a world that strived to make us weak. I watched her take away my only hope. 

“Sorry, sir,” I bump into a man hustling down the sidewalk and then, my instinct tells me to correct myself, so I say, “I shall not disrupt the man’s life, for it is far too important than mine.” 

The man scoffs, “Far too important, eh?” 

I force myself to look down at my shoes at the pavement that separates them, then I step back into the grass, the heel of my shoes squelching into the mud. To my horror the man grabs my wrist, holding up my whitelaced hand that clings to the bills as if he just won a trophy. 

“What have I found here?” his  breath is hot against my face, smelling strongly of liquor. “I’ll just take that.” 

He unfurls my fingers, and I let him. “Half for me, and half,” he pauses and takes a couple bills, closing my fist again, “half for you.” 

With my heart thrumming madly in my chest, I watch him walk away with five hundred dollars. This is the one of the only laws that put restrictions on the men. They are only allowed to take half from a woman, no more and no less. The fact that they are even allowed to steal; it just makes me furious. 

I try not to storm down the rest of the street and distract myself in the detailed store windows that show off new handbags, gowns, and typewriters. My feet lead me to my favorite shop, the book store. The owner of the shop, Mr. Lancastor changes the front window every week. This week he’s decorated the front window as he had on my fifteenth birthday, arranging blue pieces of parchment from old texts to make a wave. I’ve only read about oceans but sometimes I feel as if this window takes me into its depths, like I can hear the humpback whales that Mr. Lancastor showed me pictures of. 

Pushing open the door, I am immediately filled with the scent of crisp, new books and the sensation that I’m soaking in the wisdom from the tremendous volumes, the motifs, themes and lessons. I carefully wriggle my hands from my gloves, stuffing them, along with the crumpled bills and the note Miss Holmes wrote into the pocket of my dress. Reaching out, I let my fingers drag along the spines. 

“What brings you to my glorious book store?” 

I look up to find a rather tall, old man wearing khaki pants with a colorful sweater. The other men laugh at his style, especially in the warm month of June. I don’t. I’d never laugh at Mr. Lancastor. 

He chuckles, “Alone?”

“Well, as you may see,” I pull out a rather large volume from the shelf, “I’ve come to see if you have gotten the newest book in the series.” 

I place the heavy book into his hands, “Ah, yes. The Dynamic: The Lost At Sea.” 

“Have you read it yet?” 

“Heavens, no,” he brings a hand to his forehead, “Alice, you’re just too fast for an old man like me.” 

“You’re no old man,” I laugh.

He hands me the heavy volume, “A gift.” 

“Oh, no, I couldn’t.” 

“Really.” 

Books are expensive. Many of the great authors are dead. The women. If they’re still alive, their books have been burned, but Mr. Lancastor still has some of their greatest works. This is why I don’t understand why he hands me the new book, probably a hundred dollars, at least. And, this is the only book written by a woman that the government of Andye allows the publishing company to keep doing what they do. They’re only allowed to print ten copies per Compound, and now, Mr. Lancastor is offering me one of the ten copies assigned to our Compound. 

“Here,” I start to pull out a hundred dollar bill from my pocket. 

“What would Miss Holmes say?” He raises an eyebrow. 

“It’s fine,” I mutter, “I have already given half away.” 

I didn’t really give away the five hundred dollars, the man took it, but Mr. Lancastor knows what I mean. He knows the way of the government and the men that rule over the woman, treating them poorly. He hates it, but he knows his place, so he supports us in secret. 

A grave look sets upon his face and he presses the book into my arms, then, embracing me tightly, my arms stiff in front of me, caressing the book. “Read it fast,” his voice shakes when he whispers into my ear, then as if he never exchanged the loving gesture, he starts to push me from the book store. “Now, get a move on to,” he opens the door, “Fleur’s Dress Shop I presume?” 

“Yes, how-”

“Read the book fast, my dear,” he urges me. “Life is too short for foolishness-”

“The window,” I interrupt. “Only on my birthdays, but today?” 

His face turns white, his blue eyes flashing with something too familiar. Fear. “Go on.” 

He turns swiftly, and shuts the bookstore’s door, flipping the sign in the front window to say, closed. 

Hurt. It’s how I feel, yet Mr. Lancastor has never hurt me before. It was the way he treated me, I convince myself, but, as I walk to the end of the street to Fleur’s Dress Shop I can’t get rid of the feeling that he was trying to warn me. That’s what hurt the most. I never realized the restraints the government put on the men as well, the way Mr. Lancastor wanted to tell me something. He wanted to warn me, but he couldn’t. I wish I knew what it was that he wanted to tell me. 

A bell rings overhead when I step into the dress shop, the same boring layout with the expensive fabrics and glittering jewels that are sewn into the intricately designed gowns. I immediately walk to the front counter where a rather composed looking man watches me as if I’m going to break something. 

“And you are?” 

He spoke to me first, so now it’s safe for me to speak. “Miss Alice MyGlynn.” I place the book from Mr. Lancastor onto the counter and fumble with the bills in my pocket, dropping a few onto the warped wooden floor. I bend to pick them up, and quickly slide my lace gloves back onto my hands. When I stand up I place the bills onto the counter along with the note from Miss Holmes. 

The man peers over his spectacles, squinting his eyes to read Miss Holmes’s cursive. 

“Yes, I do recall,” there’s a door behind the counter which he pushes open. He leaves me in the shop, alone for only a moment’s time before he swings the door back open, this time with the beautiful rogue pink gown Miss Holmes requested. He pulls out a cylinder from his pocket and clicks the top. To my surprise a beam of a blue-ish sort of purple lights up the parchment and he studies the back of the paper as if there’s handwriting on it. 

“Technology,” I know I’m not permitted to speak like this, but all I’ve ever seen that’s similar to the advanced technology from the government cities are the cars that line the streets on the weekends. Even those are broken and old, the Compounds only receive the old junk the rich don’t want. Rumors have it that the wealthy government folk have machines that can make them supper. 

“A black light,” he says. The man clicks off the light rather suddenly and sneers, “A pair of shoes, for the kind lady.” 

He lays the gown on the counter, the plastic that protects its expensive fabric, crinkling. The man stuffs the note into his breast pocket, then grips my gloved hand tightly, bringing me towards the front of the shop where the shoes sit on display.

“You are,” he prompts. 

“Ninteen.” 

“Ah, yes, here we are.” 

He leads me to the shoes, to the heels that I’ve always wanted to wear when I was young, wanting to be like my mother, wanting to be seventeen like my older cousin Eleanor so I can wear the shoes like the princesses in the books. Now, looking at them, I’m filled with hatred. 

“Choose.” 

I look up, “Excuse me? I mean,” I pause and collect myself from his bold statement, “Pardon?” 

His face relaxes, “Choose a pair.”

This can’t be right but I don’t argue. I can’t remember the last time I’ve chosen something for myself, not listening to any rules or anything. Before I turned sixteen, I remind myself, my last decision was whether or not I wanted a husband. I slide a pair of black heels with a strap that goes around the ankle and a band that goes around the toes from the shelves, handing them to the man. 

“Please.” 

He nods and I follow him back up to the counter. His fingers click on the typewriter and I watch how they move, fast and without any hesitation. I’ve always wanted to use one of the machines, but women aren’t allowed to touch a typewriter, ever. The man doesn’t tell me the price. He just takes the money and hands me the shoes and the gown. We don’t say another word to each other. I just walk from the store, the wire dress hanger hanging from my index finger, my right arm holding the shoe box and the book from Mr. Lancastor. I pass his store to find the closed sign still up. His blinds now cover the windows so you can’t see the ocean themed display that always brought me so much joy. I walk the rest of the way home in confusion and hurt. 

“I didn’t approve,” Miss Holmes slams the book down on my nightstand. “You’ll return it to the man and apologize-”

“It was a gift.” 

She ties the back of the gown aggressively. 

“And the owner of the dress shop allowed me to choose,” I should shut up, but I add, “my own pair of heels.” 

There’s silence. Then, Miss Holmes adds, “I know.”

“You know?” 

“Yes,” she chokes the last few words and I feel her hands drop from her position of tying the dress. 

“Miss Holmes?” I turn around to find her eyes glossy. She swipes away a tear on her cheek. 

“Turn back around, not finished,” she murmurs. 

“Miss Holmes, what’s going on?” 

Fear. The fear that Mr. Lancaster tried to hide, the fear that Miss Holme’s tries to hide now, the fear that my mother showed me before the knife plunged into the flesh of her neck. 

It all makes sense. The book from Mr. Lancastor. My last. The shoes from the dress shop. My last decision. I feel the cool metal of the gun before I see the black.