Isabella Foster
I like a look of agony
because I know it's true
A
t every one of these parties, with every fake smile, I can feel pieces of myself breaking, breaking off into the hands of my family for them to hold, I am only perfection when I have entirely fallen apart. Kneecap. Teeth. Jawbone. Cheekbone.I remember that first time I ever felt it, the falling apart, the way I felt like an imposter and that I was lying every time I introduced myself. I started to panic, I could not breath. ‘Be normal now,” she had bit at me. “What?” I said, but wanted to cry. “Because you are and you can be.” I had stopped my movement, but there was still such a deep chasm of panic over my face, settling there. “Don't cause a scene,” my mother had whispered. “Stand up tall and breathe.” I did what she asked as soon as I was able to, just as I had always done, and still do.
Neither one of us seem adequate enough at conversation, although, where this should send a sting of awkwardness down my spine, and the flush warmth of shame to my cheeks, I feel neither. I feel only the cool sense of comfort by finding someone who is almost like me in a way. Does the Commander too feel as though she were a fraud at these parties? Or does she come in with a practiced ease that try as I might, I can never manage to make feel genuine, only phony.
I feel eyes press into us, they stare from the outside, some want to come forward, think better of it. I can feel her eyes cutting into me, like stones, and maybe I would frightened if the eyes she stares into were not as strong as stone as well. She says the magic word though and all my focus, all my attention falls into her. Halcyon. It sounds different coming from her mouth than the lips of my mother when she tells me a tale. “I enjoyed the history lessons of Vespir and Cleopatra.” (for in the Foster family we never have stories, just lessons) “What do you think happened to them? Do you think Cicero and Seneca really killed them?” The stories go that they went out for a patrol and never returned, that they were killed by Cicero and Seneca, but no bodies were found. I used to pretend I went out exploring and found them, huddled in a cave, plotting and scheming. They applauded my efforts and I became a cadet. I laugh at it now, a Foster Halcyon, the idea is ridiculous enough to be ludicrous, but I believed it then.
I don’t know of the effect I give her by such a little compliment. I expect her to receive such a comment often. Marisol is stunning, if not for the sheer fact of her strong and steady presence, but for the way she leads Terrastella in such an awe inspiring display. “You’re welcome,” I say with that practiced politeness back, not wanting those silly childhood fantasies to blossom on my face.
She offers her a hollow smile that does not quite reach her eyes. “I would say we have expanded our reach to other Courts,” I say. “Studying, gathering more information,” I add with a strange monotone. “Fosters do not like secrets, unless they are our own.”
picture colored by Elidhu
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