Meredith McCardle - The Eighth Guardian

But the weird part—and I mean bizarre —is that half the table look like they’re waiting backstage before a community theater production. Zeta has on a brown coat, white tights, and a pair of short pants that puff out just after his knees. There’s a powdered wig sitting next to him on the table, which just seems unsanitary. Violet is wearing an electric-blue minidress with jelly shoes and a bunch of bangle bracelets. Her purple hair is teased so high it stands at least six inches above her head. Tyler—aka Blue—has on a suit with high-waisted pants and serious pinstriping. And Indigo is wearing drab gray pants with a vest and dress shoes, and these funny-looking black-and-white shoes. My mouth falls open as I scan the room.

“Yellow,” Alpha says with a serious voice as he pours a dab of cream into his coffee. “I thought I asked you to make sure Iris knew how to dress this morning.”

Yellow sits up straight in her chair. “I did, sir. I wrote her dress assignment on a piece of paper and hand delivered it this morning. I guess she ignored it.”

I blink. That folded note Yellow shoved into my hand is sitting untouched on my dresser.

“I was rushed for time this morning,” I say, then wince. I hate excuses. Detest them. If you make a mistake, own up, accept the consequences, and move on. Yet here I am, whining like a second grader. I wait for Alpha to call me out.

“You can change after breakfast,” he says. “Please sit.”

Is he mad? I can’t tell. I slide into the empty seat next to Indigo but keep my eyes trained on Tyler. He’s staring at his empty plate, but he has to feel me staring at him. Come on, Tyler, look up. I need to talk to him. I haven’t even fully scooted my chair in when the man with the coffee appears at my side. It smells like hazelnut. Gross. I hate flavored coffee. And not just because my mom loves it.

“No, thank you, I don’t really like . . . okay, never mind,” I say as he fills the cup all the way to the top. The woman with the orange juice pitcher pauses before the crystal goblet as if asking me whether I’d like some. It’s a nice gesture. “Yes, please.”

I pick up the juice and take a sip when I notice Yellow staring at me, a smug look on her face. She turns to Tyler on her left. “It’s shocking how much sugar is in orange juice, don’t you think?” she says. Her crystal goblet is empty.

Tyler shrugs and tosses his napkin into his lap.

I turn to Indigo. “This orange juice is a little tart. Would you kindly pass me the sugar?”

Indigo squeezes his lips shut as if he’s trying not to laugh and hands me the crystal sugar dish. I take the little sterling teaspoon and drop three spoonfuls into the juice. I take a sip.

“Well, that’s better,” I say.

It’s not better. It’s disgusting. But I make myself suck it down like it’s a chocolate milk shake.

Alpha clears his throat at the head of the table, and every neck in the room cranes toward him.

“You all have your assignments for the day, I take it?”

Every head in the room nods, with the exception of mine.

“Excellent,” he says. “Iris. You’ll be with Zeta, just as soon as you’ve changed into something a tad more appropriate.”

With those words the waiters bring out silver trays in batches and set them in the middle of the table. There are scrambled eggs on one platter and bacon on another. There’s also toast and potatoes and some sort of vegetable-looking thing that gets set right next to Alpha.

I’m freaking starving. I can’t remember the last time I ate anything of substance, so I load my plate with everything that’s passed around. There isn’t an inch of my plate that isn’t covered with food. I glance up to see Yellow staring at me in horror, then stab a potato with my fork and pop it into my mouth. I chew slowly while I stare right at her, savoring every bite.

When the waiters are taking away the plates, Alpha clears his throat. “Yellow, go help Iris get ready.”

Yellow and I both protest at the same time.

“What?” she says.

“I don’t need help,” I say.

Alpha holds up a hand. “It seems I can’t trust either of you to complete a simple task, so you do it together. Both of you, go. Ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes! I’m not a miracle worker,” Yellow says with a laugh. Then her face flushes, and she gets bug eyes, as if she can’t believe she just said that. “I mean, I’ll do my best.”

“Ten minutes,” Alpha repeats.

Yellow yanks me out of my chair and up the stairs. I pull my hand away because there is no way in hell I’m letting her hold it. I trudge up the stairs behind her. Yellow stops in front of my door.

“Key!” she demands, opening and closing the fingers of her outstretched hand in rapid succession.

I hand it over, and Yellow barges in. She doesn’t look around the room, doesn’t make a single comment about how messy it is, but bounds straight to the closet. She takes out all the clothes on the right-hand side—the stuff I thought was Violet’s leftovers—and tosses them on the bed.

“Where’s the note?” she asks.

I point to the dresser, and she raises her eyebrows.

“What, you don’t know how to read?”

I have a good six, seven inches and like fifty pounds on this girl. I could snap her in half easily, even if she does have some combat training. I let that image play in my mind for a second, then walk over to the dresser and unfold the note. It says,

NUMBER FOUR

“Number four,” I tell her. “Don’t you already know what it says? I thought you handwrote it yourself.” I try to match the brownnosy, singsongy voice she used with Alpha.

Yellow narrows her eyes at me and starts rifling through the clothes. As items go flying, I see that every hanger is numbered. One, Two, and Three get tossed on the floor, and Yellow holds up a scoop-neck dress made from yards upon yards of brocade fabric.

“There’s no way this is going to fit.” She eyes the small dress, then looks at my midsection.

I snatch the dress from her hands and throw it onto the bed.

“Shut up,” I spit at her. “I’m athletic and I’m muscular and I’m strong. Stop trying to make me feel self-conscious.”

Yellow’s eyebrows shoot up, and she gives me a look of genuine shock. She actually raises her arms in defense.

“Hey,” she says. “I wasn’t trying to do that. Just pointing out that all your clothes were tailored based on measurements we received ahead of time; and since the black dress clearly didn’t fit, none of these will either. They’ll fix them; but for today, I’ll just pull the corset tighter.”

She seems genuinely sorry. Maybe I overreacted just a tad. But then Yellow holds up a different hanger, one that contains an ivory, whalebone torture device.

“I’m not wearing a corset,” I tell her.

“Yes, you are. We’re wasting time. I need a blow dryer and a curling iron. Do you have those?”

“I have a blow dryer.” I point to the one I’ve had since sixth grade, which is dangling on the side of the pedestal sink.

Yellow glances into my bathroom and gives me a disgusted look. “Mine’s better. Hang on.”

She’s out the door in a flash. I touch the corset. It’s stiff and unbreathable, and there’s no way in hell I’m wearing it. Women rebelled against corsets for a reason, and then gave birth to girls who wore pants, who then gave birth to girls who burned their bras. I would personally be undoing hundreds of years of progress by wearing that thing.

Yellow’s back only a few seconds later. She’s holding a blow dryer, a curling iron, and the biggest makeup bag I’ve ever seen.

“Sit,” she commands as she plugs the curling iron into an outlet by the bed. “We only have seven minutes.” She yanks out my bun, runs her fingers through my damp, wavy hair, and flicks on the dryer. She turns it off after only a few seconds.