Page 36 of Pageant

“Hey, it’s the afterparty. I thought there’d be champagne.”

A few of the women laugh, and I feel the first genuine smile in days—weeks?—touch my lips. There hasn’t been much for me to smile about in a long time, but the sight of Deja hugging Klara and Shanae sends happiness bursting through me. We’ve almost made it through the first task. There’s just one woman left.

I turn my attention back to the two-way mirror and watch as the door on the far side of the judging room opens. A statuesque blonde wearing a red bikini and a Number Sixteen sash is pushed inside.

“Who’s this?” Olivia whispers, and Deja, the woman in the cage next to Number Sixteen’s, is the one to reply.

“Hedda. I think she’s Swedish. I’ve been trying to get to know her since she was put into her cell, but she doesn’t want to talk.”

I realize I’ve barely noticed this woman and I don’t remember her from earlier when everyone was getting ready. My heart lightens. Maybe she’s already mastered flying under the radar. We’re so close to this task being over and then maybe, just maybe, we can go back to our cages for the rest of the day without any broken bones or spilled blood.

Konstantin stares at Hedda for several minutes while the blonde woman studies the floor. “Hello, Number Sixteen. Tell me about yourself.”

Hedda lifts her chin and her eyes flash. “I’m not Number Sixteen. I’m Hedda.”

The bottom falls out of my stomach.

“Oh?” Konstantin asks, a delicate inflection to his accented voice. Kirill shifts forward in his seat. Our mirror-window is positioned a little behind the judges to one side. I can see some of Kirill’s profile and his bright, hungry expression makes my stomach knot even harder.

Hedda doesn’t say anything more, and I cross my fingers and I hope that she had one thoughtless moment of defiance.

“I told you to tell me about yourself, Number Sixteen. I won’t ask twice, but my friend here will be happy to take over for me.” He nods at Kirill.

Please, Hedda, say something bland like,I’m from Sweden and I like drawing birds.

But it seems like fear, exhaustion, and hunger have drained Hedda’s sense along with the color from her face. She swipes at her sweaty forehead with her wrist and snaps, “Tell you about myself? Like I care if I am the one to marry you? Go fuck yourself, you Russian pigs.”

The women around me gasp in shock.

“No, no, no,” I moan.

Kirill gets to his feet, rubbing his hands together in glee as Konstantin sits back. Konstantin has an air of resignation as if he doesn’t want this, but there’s a slight tilt to his mouth that tells me otherwise. He turns his head to the right and stares directly into my eyes through the glass. That’s what it feels like, anyway. I almost jerk back from that glacial gaze before I remember that he can’t see me.

I hope you’re all watching this, his expression seems to say.

Kirill slowly approaches Hedda, his towering height and his huge, muscular back dwarfing the slender blonde woman. She darts a quick look up at him and swallows nervously.

“What did you call us, Number Sixteen?” Kirill asks in his accented voice.

Fear flickers in Hedda’s eyes, but she replies in a defiant whisper, “Russian pigs. Where are the oth—”

The dark-haired man backhands Hedda, as fast and as vicious as lightning. She staggers and cries out, and when she straightens up, her palm is pressed to her reddened cheek.

Kirill smiles even wider, takes the baton that’s hanging from his belt, and gives it a flick. It lengthens with a deadlyshhcksound.

I leap to my feet and press my hands against the glass. Kirill advances slowly on Hedda as she backs away, and I’m reminded of the way he stalked me through the Lugovskayas’ apartment. He found that thrilling, and as he looms over Hedda, he seems to be inviting her to fight back.

Hedda glances past Kirill to where Konstantin lounges behind the desk. His amusement seems to stoke her fury. “You can’t keep me here! I’m from—”

Kirill grabs a fistful of her hair on the top of her head and slams the baton across her face. Blood explodes from Hedda’s nose.

“Stop that!” I scream, beating my fists on the glass. The thick material seems to absorb the sound no matter how hard I strike it. Even my screaming seems muffled, and I wonder if we’re in a soundproof room. When I run to the door and try the handle, it’s locked.

I don’t want to watch, but I feel like I have to. This is my fault because I didn’t draw enough of their fury down on me. I didn’t make sure that Hedda knew that making them angry was the worst thing she could do.

Hedda has both hands over her face, sobbing and retching at the same time. She backs against the wall and slides to the floor, her knees buckling and eyes glazed.

Kirill turns and looks over his shoulder at his boss.

---